Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Happy Birthday dear Instructions—Happy Birthday to you!”

Cheers, celebrations. The curtains are drawn, and the Craft household dining room is lit only by warm-toned candles. Tubbo is giddy at the sight of the cake. It’s full of in-season berries and whipped cream mountains (each with a large cherry on top), with the words ‘Happy 2nd Birthday Instructions!’ written on top.

Instructions is a band named to represent their need to find a ‘how to’ guide to start a band—or, as they told their fans, named as a cry for help. “If only we could find some fucking instructions to make some mainstream music—or at the very least how to properly name a band,” Tommy had off-handedly mentioned when they were deciding on a name. Somehow, it stuck.

All three band members (Tommy, Ranboo and Tubbo) blow the candles out. The wisps float up as they slice the cake, passing plates to their Tommy’s family and some immediate friends. It is an intimate, perfect party to celebrate the band, its astounding success, and everyone who made it happen.

After eating, they play a few rounds of loud karaoke. Tiny Dancer, at the end of the night, is Tubbo’s highlight. As the group sings the chorus—Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer—with screeching pitches and vivid laughter, Tubbo feels on top of the moon. Surrounded by everyone he cares about, squeezed between Ranboo and Tommy with a microphone clutched in his hands, hearing so many voices come together, he thinks this is living.

…

TOMMY INNES-CRAFT, LEAD SINGER OF BAND INSTRUCTIONS, PASSES AWAY

24/7 NEWS

Tommy Innes-Craft passed away unexpectedly late Monday at the age of eighteen, the Band’s Instagram post says.

“None of us know what to say. Tommy, you were a constant beacon of kindness to everyone around you. You will be deeply missed.”

Innes-Craft sung on Instructions’ bestselling album oh no! oh dear! which features TikTok sensation Piss, a song Innes-Craft recently admitted to 24/7 NEWS was named because “it’d be really f***ing funny if it won a Grammy and the presenter [had to] announce that Piss won the best song of the year.”

At this time, both his family and fellow band members Ranboo and Tubbo Underscore are asking for privacy from fans as they reconcile with what happened. They have asked that fans ‘[do not] speculate about the cause of his death’ and that they will ‘reveal it when we are ready.’

In the comments of the post, Ranboo confirmed it was not due to mental health, and repeats the request for privacy. He posted a polaroid picture on his own Instagram with the caption “would you lie with me and just forget the world?” (a reference to Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars.)

…

It did not feel real.

The news article burns into Tubbo’s eyes like an imprint from the sun. Every blink is a reminder: TOMMY INNES IS DEAD AT EIGHTEEN. He curls his hands around his cold phone, squeezing the screen with his hand. His lip wobbles. His tummy is tight. He wants to cry but can’t quite get there.

Even now, he’s in Tommy’s garage—it’s where the three of them (Tubbo, Ranboo and Tommy) first started making music. The garage is a living kid’s drawing, like the ones at restaurants in old colouring books. Unfinished. Messy. He’s tucked into the comfy, stained-yellow couch the three sat on when they weren’t actually creating. His feet rest on the second-hand coffee table. They’d play games of Cards Against Humanity and waste away the hours in a roar of laughter so great it could silence a thunderstorm.

A half-decorated Christmas tree rots away in the corner of the room. Tommy always liked little things like that. He got them singing Mariah Carey and then Nat King Cole, and they had plans for their own Christmas song to wrap up the year. Tubbo’s pretty sure Ranboo finished the chorus and verses, but they couldn’t find a good bridge to tie it together.

Not that any of it matters now. Tommy’s dead. Just like that.

Tubbo is still expecting Tommy to burst through the front door, as happy as a blue bird, and exclaim that it was a prank. He’d slap Tubbo on the shoulder and mention that he was sorry for making him worry so much. Tommy’s eyes would twinkle, his heart would beat, and everything would be well.

“Tubbo?”

Tubbo whips around, a pump of adrenaline bursting him to life. In the doorway, half-covered in shadows, is Tommy’s older brother Wilbur. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He pauses. “Oh, Tubbo.”

When Wilbur wraps his arms around Tubbo from behind the yellow couch, and rests his chin on Tubbo’s head, it feels like he’s safe to let it all out. Tears start choking out between sniffles and a desperate eye squeeze.

“Hey, hey,” Wilbur starts, then trails off. He sounds like he’s trying to comfort a wounded animal, which isn’t too far off, considering the ugly, breathless noises Tubbo’s making. It sounds so foreign, but it aches like a snake, slithering into something familiar – this experience is going to be Tubbo’s normal. “I get it. I really do.”

Tubbo’s smile is weak. He and Wilbur have never talked often, despite the influence he had on the band, and the many hours they spent in the same room. They had lifted a certain yellow-stained couch from Wilbur’s room to the family’s garage together (because Tommy was lifting the table and Ranboo broke his arm), but that doesn’t mean Tubbo knows his favourite colour. Wilbur is Tommy’s brother, not Tubbo’s friend. Therefore, seeing Tommy’s brother being so comforting feels wrong—it is one more reminder of who isn’t there.

“I found out right after it happened, right? But seeing those articles, knowing people are wondering ‘What’s Tubbo gonna say about it?’ and about the band…” He hasn’t talked to Ranboo about it. About the future. There’s too much else to think about instead. “It makes it all real.”

Wilbur stands up again, pacing and fiddling with different objects (straightening a photo, putting away a book) like he’s hesitating to speak. Finally, he looks directly at Tubbo. Fatigue has run rampant all over his face, making four days look like four years. “You don’t owe them anything, not one message. Fuck, I feel like the biggest hypocrite saying this but it’s okay to take time for yourself and put yourself first, especially in something like this.”

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Tubbo says slowly, like he’s poking a hornet’s nest with every word. “And I do appreciate it, bossman. However, is it okay if you just listen and don’t offer any advice? That’s what I need.”

Wilbur sinks into the couch next to him, his head leaning back. Mouth open, he shakes his head. “I don’t—let me restart. I know I gave you a different impression, but I can’t handle any venting right now.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Wilbur repeats.

The tears have dried, but they did not wash away the unidentifiable, intimate feelings of his grief. He is in pieces. It is physically impossible to smile or to look around the room without thinking of Tommy. Wilbur’s dorky curls are the same shape. That damned half-decorated Christmas tree. Photos on the wall, instruments and cords and lyrics.

There is nothing else to say.

…

Cold concrete is everywhere in the Craft garage. When they were making music, the members of Instructions would place blankets or old sheets and walk on those in bare feet. Those have now been sanitised and either folded away or on someone’s bed, so there is nothing to stave off the coldness anymore.

Tubbo and Ranboo sit together, huddled like sorrowful penguins, flipping through the three full photo-albums they managed to fill together. They haven’t said much since arriving—a quick greeting, a quick hug. It feels like there will be a quick goodbye too, if Tubbo can read the room correctly, for Ranboo looks incredibly uncomfortable.

Phil has been so kind with his hospitality. He gives the grieving kids space in their safest spot, allows them to play hide and seek with the rest of the world as they look at their photographs and process everything and try to fi

Tubbo rests his head on Ranboo’s shoulder. He looks up at a calendar a fan gifted them with handmade drawings, at a random page of poetry Ranboo stuck on the wall, at bits of old blu tack and spots where pins once were. He looks up and sees memories, looks back at the photos and sees memories, looks at Ranboo and sees only memories of what was.

He takes a deep breath, musing over every word before he says them. “I don’t want to look at anymore pictures, Ranboo. He’s dead. They won’t change anything.” The pictures are nice, but they don’t help. It’s too soon.

“What… what would you rather do, Tubbo?” Ranboo says. His voice is as even as a stick, the tone unchanging. There are tears in his eyes. “I mean… we can grab some food if you want?” Additionally, it’s the way he says things that kills Tubbo a little more.

“Want to go for a walk instead?”

Ranboo is a fun person to be around, and that will never change. Seeing him start pausing and thinking through his words is startling. It feels as though he’s trying to savour every moment with Tubbo but is only losing himself in the process. When he finally responds with a quiet “let’s do that,” he might as well have not said anything. It might hurt less that way.

They put on jackets; a scarf tucked around both of Ranboo’s ears. They shout goodbye to Phil as they leave. Tubbo’s boot crunches against dead leaves as they walk. There’s a small gust a wind that’s nearly uncomfortable, hissing and whooshing like a steam train in their ears. The street path is well-kept, with trees they pass under with every step, short grass. It smells of winter (an experience one must have to know.)

It still hurts. Tubbo doesn’t think it will ever stop hurting. But as they walk through the nearby streets together, wordlessly the first strand of healing appears in his heart when he sees a small Christmas tree at the entrance of the park and smiles.

…

He’s fucked up. So badly.

Wilbur had invited Tubbo into his room to look at some old lyrics from when he taught Tommy the basics of songwriting. They were in a cheap lined notebook, in graphite pencil and scrawly handwriting that was familiar in all the right ways. They both leaned over the pages, grinning through tears, reminiscing and talking about the ways random lyrics ended up popping up somewhere.

He doesn’t know how it happened. They were looking at Tommy’s first ever lyrics, and Wilbur is telling a story about how proud he was to see his little brother taking after him. One minute everything was dandy. The next minute the pages are drenched and completely ruined. Tubbo’s glass of water is on the floor. Wilbur’s face burns into this mind, the shock twisting into an angry red— Tubbo runs. He doesn’t know what else to do. He should’ve held the water, or drunk it, or done anything but leave it on the bed. Doesn’t matter how steady he thought it was, he was stupid. Wilbur should be mad.

Tubbo stumbles into the garage, regret and hurt and pain that’s swept away the colour in his eyes. His heart is crying out—and he doesn’t know where else to go but the safest place. Hence, the Craft family garage.

No one comes in after him. He can hear the muted tones of Wilbur yelling, though he can’t hear any replies.

It’s cold and dark. He sits on the guitar amplifier, near the corner of the room, because it’s the most uncomfortable place he can be. Tubbo tells himself he doesn’t deserve comfort. Not after that. “I’m so stupid.”

The murmured words are an admission of his guilt. The self-loathing is so great that he can’t sit, and instead starts pacing the little room. It’s still dark and cold. His feet skid over cords. His eyes glance over photos and lyrics and awards stuck on the walls. All of Phil and Techno’s actual garage things, in a heap to one side.

He trips. Over the chord for the amp. Tubbo cries out before he realises what he’s doing, clutching his right knee as the wave of physical pain washes over. It’s grazed. Not bleeding, although it wouldn’t really matter if he did.

Pushing himself up off the floor, tears streaming down his face, his legs shaking, Tubbo doesn’t think straight. His mind is a pot with boiling water in it, and all his emotions are spilling out. Tommy’s death. Wilbur’s face. Angry and hurt and in pain. All he knows is a need to do something, anything, to gain control of his feelings.

He grabs a big bauble off the half-decorated Christmas tree and squeezes as hard as he can. It doesn’t break. He throws it against the wall, with all the might he can muster, every inch of his hurt. It breaks.

It isn’t the only thing that breaks. After the first bauble, it’s a short but extremely slipperly slope as he throws and stomps and breaks, again and again. Passion and fury take charge of all the sadness and self-hatred, until Tubbo is a Hyde of his own creation. He exhausts himself, flopping onto the stained couch with a shattered Christmas Star in his hands. His eyes close. The tears still come.

Tubbo hears the door to the garage open quickly. “Tubbo? I heard some noises and thought I’d…” The voice trails off. Footsteps come up to him. It’s deathly silent, except for the hiccups coming from Tubbo. He turns so his face is buried into the armrest, shielded from seeing Phil’s disappointed face.

He squeezes the broken star as Phil sits on the couch next to him. The springs croak. Neither one speaks, and Tubbo isn’t sure what to say or do. It’s Tommy’s Dad. Not Tubbo’s Dad.

“If you need to vent to someone, I’m here.”

Oh. Tubbo remembers when Wilbur said no the other day, the little spider of shame that crawled down his spine for assuming he could. Now, with permission, it is the fear of the spider returning that holds Tubbo’s tongue. Phil has given his permission, but what if he says no once Tubbo starts? What if he gets mad at him?

It takes a second to force a smile. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay, big man.”

What a deceptively simple phrase. Big man. It riles all the complicated, messy feelings that got Tubbo in this situation. Fuck, and this is the truth, he misses Tommy in a way he didn’t know was possible.

After that, Phil rambles about his irresponsible actions and how he’ll have to apologise and “make things right.”

It doesn’t matter. Tommy’s still dead – and nothing would make that right.

…

[Comment under YouTube video titled ‘Instructions OFFICIAL oh no! oh dear! Album’ uploaded on March 27th, 2022, by User Anonymous]

i have so many wonderful memories with you guys and your music. because of you three ive found a community full of people with similar interests, who have become my best friends. you’ve given me so much confidence and you’ve helped me massively.

tommy i’ll miss you. you being so open with your mental health and showing how you cope with different feelings has eased some of the hardest days in my life and im so incredibly thankful i got to witness your impact on this planet. i only wish there were instructions for how i’m feeling right now. you were my biggest inspiration. i looked up to you so so much.

thank you for connecting us. for bringing us together. it has been the most marvellous ride. may you rest easily and peacefully up there. fly high, king.

…

Christmas Day is in a week. It’s been nearly two since he died. Tubbo holds a Christmas bauble in his hand, running his fingers along the texture, feeling the glitter and the smooth surface. So much has happened.

He’s found moments, little bubbles in a big ocean of sadness, where his mind quiets and he can sit there, as peaceful as a newborn lamb, and forget all his woes. Although these moments are few and far between, it is the idea of them at all that brings the small comfort. It is a reminder to his burning heart that he can still find warmth and goodness in all the helplessness.

It is the words of the people, too, that bridge the gap between grief and living—thank you for connecting us. for bringing us together.

He misses Tommy. Dreadfully.

More than that, he misses Wilbur.

They haven’t talked since that night. Walking in the Craft household (which he still does regularly—his parents have been out of town, and he sleeps in their guest bedroom most nights, courtesy of Phil) is a mission. He falls silent every time he sees Wilbur, embarrassed and ashamed. He becomes a ghost still walking.

Phil says he should apologise but he doesn’t know how. The words don’t come out. Instead, they travel further and further away until the words “I’m sorry” feel so daunting his mouth can’t form the syllables, leaving him spluttering and red-faced.

thank you for connecting us. for bringing us together.

It startles Tubbo: death feels so far away until its right there. If Wilbur died tomorrow, he wouldn’t know how sorry Tubbo was.

This train of thought leads to a rushed knock-knock! on Wilbur’s door late at night. Tubbo waits in his plaid pyjamas, biting his nails like a rabbit nibbles on food, until it creaks open. He sees Wilbur’s eyes first. Brown. Mistrusting and wounded, like a wild animal. “Tubbo,” he says, the surprise leaking through his voice. “Uh—come in?”

One step inside Wilbur’s bedroom and he’s closing his eyes, trying to hold back tears. It may be dramatic, but after fleeing, his heart didn’t know if he’d be allowed back. Tubbo has a weird way of always thinking of the worst possible outcome, even though the most that could happen is a shut door.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out quickly, loudly. Then, it spills out of his tongue like all those failed attempts finally come to surface in one musical crescendo. “Wilbur, I’m so, so sorry. Um. I can pay for a new one—so sorry, that was stupid. I know how much that book meant to you, and I didn’t mean to spill water all over it, it really was an accident and you DO have every right to be mad at me, but I’m sorry, I’m so, so—”

Wilbur cuts him off. “I get what you’re saying, Tubbo. And I’m sorry, too.”

“What?”

Wilbur’s dressing gown sways from side to side as he talks. “I have treated you like shit since the three of you started Instructions. Look, this isn’t easy to say, but I was jealous. Of you. You connected to my brother through music, after years of me failing to do the same. And who were you? You had just met him, for fuck’s sake! Why did you get to play guitar over me? And… Well, I would make shitty remarks to Phil and Tommy about you, things that are… so fucking awful to me now. I told Tommy that he should kick you out of the band. I regret that so much, but… that was the night he died.”

Tubbo’s world shatters.

There are no other words to describe the overwhelming feeling. He always tries to assume that people look for the best in him, that people like him and… not that. Tommy died because he was annoyed at Wilbur. Over Tubbo.

What are you meant to say to that?

“He left in a rage. And then… when it happened and we got the news, all I could think was that it was my fault. When you spilt water on the book, I took it as a fucking justification that bad things happen around me, and therefore I should not be around you. Even though I see how it’s affecting you. I know I have shit coping mechanisms and I’ve wronged you. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I’m sorry that he died, that it was my fault. I’m sorry for everything I said, both to him and to you. I’m fucking sorry for it all.”

Tubbo doesn’t say anything. Wilbur sits back on the bed. Tubbo sits next to him.

His world has slowed down to laboured, teary sounds, from both of them. All of Wilbur’s posters and instruments and books look at the pair in pity, like living statues who have witnessed everything.

Slowly, Tubbo rests his head on Wilbur’s shoulders. “What a pair we make,” he whispers. It hurts, to know what he does, but what Tubbo needs is not space, or time, or silence, or any of it.

Tubbo has always looked up to Wilbur. He’s the one who taught Tommy how to sing, how to write– he sometimes made pancakes in the morning, and he made sure Tubbo was okay after Tommy’s death. Sure, sometimes those pancakes were crispy and he did say some weird things, but that became a comfort.

Maybe he shouldn’t forgive Wilbur. Maybe he should run off to Phil, or bury himself under the duvet in his room.

He still does. It’s Tommy’s brother. They need to be together, not apart– and it is as simple and as complicated as that.

…

Tubbo wishes he could say Tommy had a Christmas gift wrapped for him before he died, but it doesn’t work like that. Tomorrow, Christmas Day, is going to be the hardest day of Tubbo’s life, a holiday without an Instructions manual on how to live, how to open gifts and celebrate when he would rather cry.

Still, it is also an opportunity.

The Craft family home is plump with decorations. Stockings and Christmas lights, and a few candles that make everything an oozing caramel colour. A Christmas Tree, that Tubbo helped make, with a picture of smiling Tommy in the very centre, wrapped in tinsel and colourful lights, surrounded with baubles. It is beautiful. There are many, many presents under the tree.

Tubbo’s parents (along with Ranboo’s) are going to spend Christmas Day with them, all together.

Although the Craft family may not be Tubbo’s by blood, they are family in every other way. Both Wilbur and Tubbo see the same therapist and regularly share stories about Tommy, remembering who he was as a person. Sometimes Ranboo and Phil join them.

Grief is not a straight-forward path. The story may be ending, but Tubbo will still struggle. There are days where he is unable to get out of bed, or little things that remind him of Tommy, which send him bawling. It is tough, but survivable.

When he falls asleep on Christmas Eve, it is a promise to the person who has had the biggest impact on his life.

A promise to keep living.

…

TWITTER.COM

Tubbo_

we miss you everyday king <3 merry christmas everyone!!

FIN.