Chapter Text
Everyone knows the old wives' tale about revival; sacred rituals meant to celebrate life being twisted to bring life back from Death's domain. They were warned against, for good reason, as revivals go wrong a majority of the time. All those moving, wiggling pieces, being tied to a dead body, with the soul being shoved into a body it's already abandoned, and the shattering of a soul bond from death often never recovers, even with the revival. Making sure the broken pieces align where they were when they had died, ensuring that everything was the same. Broken soul bonds are no joke, and revival forces them back together unnaturally, almost as unnaturally as when death takes them and dissolves them into the abyss, for them to be reincarnated and reformed naturally.
Sometimes, when he was a child, he would idle about, and wonder. Wonder about the rituals known as revival, and the shattering of soul bonds. What they felt like as they snapped, what they felt like the following days, months, years after. After all, Tommy had four soul bonds. Four precious, invisible strings that tied him to the most important people in his life. And he was the youngest, so he only thought it fair that he be concerned enough to think of it so much.
Death, as a concept, wasn't foreign to him, but the death of his family was. And so, he wondered about death and broken soul bonds.
(When he lost Wilbur's, he almost killed himself. Watching his big brother, insane and unloving, walking around fine while Tommy felt and looked like he was dying was a whole different kind of loss that he had never imagined. Feeling the hatred his brother held for him, the bitterness and fury, the feeling of his palm on Tommy's face, hands on his shoulders as he shoved Tommy into closets and covered holes was nigh unbearable. He loved his brother so much, and reached out for him at every turn, only to be hit with the sweltering hatred on his brother's face and the burning numbness that had taken over his body.)
He stares up at the dirt ceiling of his home, his chest shaking with every inhale.
(After... after, when he saw himself in the mirror for the first time, wrapped in his brother's bloody, too big coat, he realized that his eyes were like storming skies, no sign of the supernaturally bright blue that he had always prided himself on having. He wondered if it was from his soulmates, or from shock that his eyes lost their light. He wondered if the new shakiness in his hands was from Phil; Phil, who had dug a sword into his brother's body and fled into the night with Technoblade, who's ringing, derisive laughter echoed in his ears. Phil and Techno, who in one fell swoop, had killed the only person Tommy could truly cling to in his messed up family, and left Tommy alone.)
Time had passed in blurs, since his revival. He can't remember what day it was, much less when he last ate a full meal. He doesn't care. The numbness invading his body had made even completing a simple task like sitting up near impossible.
(Loneliness felt like what he imagined death to be.
He was right, in the end.)
His chest rattles with a cough, and he lurches as iron hits his mouth. He turns his head and spits into the garbage can that he had barely been able to drag to the bedside when he was able to move more than a few inches at once.
(He knew that the arrhythmia in his heart was from Tubbo's cold words, his turned back and the protests of Quackity and Fundy as Tubbo abandoned him to Dream, against all odds and promises and plans that the two had made to each other, for each other. As Dream rowed him farther from Tubbo than he'd ever been since they bonded, he wondered what the cold, unforgiving ocean felt like.)
Seeing Tubbo so happy, even though it was with Ranboo and not with him, had made the pain worse. He knew then, that he was never going to recover what he had lost. Sometimes, he can even find himself okay with it. Ranboo is anything and everything that Tommy wasn't, and that was good. It was good for Tubbo, for Techno and Philza, for everyone on the server. They all had implied it, when they left him alone when Dream had revived him. When they had left him alone for Dream to kill. That he wasn't, and maybe never was, needed. Not for L'Manberg, not for Snowchester, and definitely not for those that he had allowed himself to bond to so recklessly, so childish in his search for family and love and loyalty.
(He found out, even though the desire was something born of confusion, of betrayal, of his heart not feeling right in his chest anymore. The cold waves, counteracting the fiery, painful confusion that Dream brought him, the sinister words as Dream encouraged him to scrutinize his bonds, his attachments, and realize that no one would ever come for him. It hurt, but Dream was right.)
Dream was right. Tommy hated to admit it, but he was, and his words seem to describe his entire life, not just his exile. Nobody would ever come for him, and it was his fault.
Tommy was the thing that was wrong with everything. He was too loud, too annoying, just too much for people to deal with, and he was selfish for expecting people to just deal with him. He was the one that ruined his family, that ruined Tubbo, and ruined Dream. It's fitting, he thinks numbly, that his punishment is something like this. Long, drawn out, punishment for all of his wrongdoings, punishment for being born.
(He had almost recovered, when Techno had helped him when he had escaped Dream. The hybrid's monotone affection, blunt fondness had seemed like it was soothing the cracks in his soul, like they were able to overcome the loss of one of their bonds and become stronger, closer for it. Then, Tommy learned of the favor. Then, Techno betrayed Tommy in a selfish, self-pitying excuse of anarchy while Tommy betrayed him for the only person who hadn't completely shredded their bond in pieces, who he trusted to protect him. And maybe he never told anyone, but as ashes and wither skulls fall around them, as he watched Techno's form, he wished he could run into his Tech’s arms again, smile at his father over Techno's shoulder as the hybrid cradled him as if he was precious.)
He deserved this, he thought as his stomach growls but expels the small bites of golden apples that he half-heartedly attempts. The dirt ceiling had become his only friend, sometimes visited by the dirt wall when his stomach and lungs decided that he needs a reminder on what he is allowed. The trashcan is filled with bloody bile, bloody spit, and tears. His stomach remains empty.
(For a short moment, he had felt okay. He and Tubbo were doing okay. Maybe not great, but the arrhythmia felt better than it ever did, ever since Tubbo had turned around, even when he was staying with Techno, and he was finally feeling happy again. Secure. Then, he went into that damned prison.)
He thinks he hears knocking.
(He went into that damned prison with a bond that was slowly repairing itself, and left with his head shattered, his life meaningless, and his bond being replaced by Tubbo marrying Ranboo and adopting a child while he was trapped. Trapped, with a man that had told him he would only amount to tragedy, that he would only destroy things that he had touched. A man that had examined him, and deemed him wanting. A man that killed him for entertainment, and revived him as an experiment. A man that had never cared for Tommy in the right ways, but was the only one that was right about Tommy, about what he really was.)
The knocking has turned into faint shouts. He dizzily wonders who it could be. They're strong enough to shake the dirt foundations, dusting him in a layer of dirt. His stomach rolls, and he is barely able to turn his head before he starts coughing, more iron flooding into his mouth as his lungs and throat seize.
(Dream was always right, in the end.)
He's finally able to barely breathe when the front door slams open. Blood is coating his mouth and chin, dripping steadily as he is barely able to hold himself over the garbage. He feels his arm shaking underneath him as he tries desperately to hold himself up. He can't even tell how many people are in his house, but he hopes that they're there to kill him.
(He still wondered why Phil had abandoned him, all those years ago. Had his father always known that Tommy was no good? If he did, he can't help but resent that he never let Wilbur know before Tommy killed him.)
He must've collapsed, head dropping into his disgusting pillow, blocking his vision. He wonders if that will make his death better. He can tell that the footsteps are getting louder. They're heavy, and accompanied by the inherently dangerous ring of netherite. If his eyes weren't buried in his pillow, his vision would swim at the noise, at how badly he desired for whatever weapon that was carefully forged with the material to kill him and fix what he did wrong.
(Even with Dream's lessons, his family's abandonment, and Tubbo's avoidance, he never really understood what he did wrong. Only that he was wrong, and needed to be fixed.)
The footsteps stop at the faux door before his bedroom. It wouldn't normally fool anyone, but he guesses they must be making sure that he's not hiding. It's not like he would, even if he had the energy for it. He needs to be punished and fixed, needs it deep in his bones.
He can't lift his head from the pillow. He wonders if they would be angry, at that. If they want to see his fear as they kill him. They would be disappointed either way, he thinks. He doesn't think he's afraid to die. And if he was, the sheer relief at the thought of dying is enough for him to push it to the back of his mind. He just hopes that they don't make it painful, because he's misbehaving.
(He's so tired.)
"-don't even understand what we're doing here, looks abandoned-"
"Don't tell- feel something wr- Ranboo eve-"
Tommy twitches as he hears voices come closer. The abrupt amount of noise just intensifies the nauseating, spinning sensation that assaults his senses. The voices come in and out of focus, swimming and nonsensical. The voices are familiar, but the urge to gag takes precedence in his mind. He doesn't necessarily want to draw their attention - it certainly seems as though they would be angry if they find Tommy. He doesn't like anger, and what people do to him when he causes it.
(A hand tight in his hair, slamming him over and over into the sharp, glassy obsidian as he shouted and begged and pleaded with a man who was never wrong, who was shouting back, yelling in his anger that Tommy had caused, bringing up every insecurity as he brutally beat him and it hurts it hurts iT HURTS-)
He can't fight the urge to gag anymore, and he finds the strength to lift his head again, hoping that he's over that trash as he gags, bile, blood, and fleshy bits of golden apple scratching his throat and ruining him, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. He vaguely processes that the voices have completely gone silent, that there were slow, cautious steps that stop just before his door.
He wonders if its lucky that his head collapses back into the pillow before the door is opened, creaking slowly as moonlight lit up the hidden room. There are no sounds of the night, just his staggering, muffled breaths into his pillow and the barely there breaths of whoever stands outside his bedroom door. He wonders if they're in shock, or maybe they're a ghost. Like Ghostbur... Ghostbur would be nice to see again. He hasn't heard lick of the ghost since he practically ran from him, Tubbo, and Ranboo.
Well. Ran from Tubbo. Ghostbur and Ranboo just happened to be accidental victims to his internal conflicts.
Suddenly, there are hurried steps rushing towards him, and he can finally decipher that there's two people. One with a heavy step that they must have used to hide the lighter one, perfectly practiced to ambush with no detection, something that he knows few think to do though, except for... He can only think of a few people that would bother learning. He ignores all of them.
Hands are hovering over him, and there's quiet whispers above him. He tries to pull himself back into the moment, but the excitement at somebody finally coming to kill him is euphoric, and he can barely slow his unsteady heart and breaths to listen.
Somebody touches him, featherlight and pulling away before he could process much more than the prick of nails (claws? talons?). He doesn't react. It always made Dream angry when he did, reacting involuntarily and impulsively whenever the man had moved towards Tommy. Dream has taught him to be better, now. He can't react until he knows what they want for him. A different hand comes, and it is much bigger and just as gentle. It reminds him of when Dream was especially angry. He was always gentle when he was angriest. He said that it made the punishment stick more into Tommy's mind; made it so that he would never act the same way if he knew what was good for him. He was dumb like that, Dream had always laughed, and needed to be encouraged more strongly than someone who was better than him. He didn't like it when Dream laughed at him, but Tommy laughed with him anyways. It's not like Dream was wrong.
(He never was.)
He blinks as the big-gentle hand nudges him back into reality. Away from Dream. "C'mon kid, roll over. Don't want you suffocatin'." The voice was anxious, and following it was an exasperated sigh. His voice vibrates through Tommy from where the hand was resting on his right side. Tommy blinks as the hand pushes him onto his back, still being painfully gentle. His vision swims, and his familiar dirt ceiling comes back into view. He feels more aware than he has in a little while. His body still is numb, with the only anchor being that big-gentle hand. It was warm. He didn't think he could feel warm anymore, not after waking from the dead surrounded by heat that felt mind-numbingly cold, and the world outside that blood-soaked obsidian box being that much colder. He doesn't deserve warmth anymore.
There are more whispers. He wonders why they're dragging it out so much; at this point, they're inconveniencing everyone by not outright killing him.
This time, it's a different voice that's speaking to him. "Tommy? C'mon mate, try and look at me, I know that you can do that for me Toms. Just look at me, okay? You don't have to say nothing if you can't mate, but I need you to look at me." Tommy wonders what he did to make him sound like that. Desperate and pleading, everything that nobody but Tommy should be. Usually, when people need something from him, they're cruel and demanding, because they are always stronger than him and nobody is willing to protect him. He doesn't know where to look, though.
"W-wh-" He coughs a little more, shoulders shaking as bloody spittle lands on his chin. "Where?"
"Good job Tom, that must've been hard," the voice says. His voice sounds less desperate, but there was still a scared shake to it. Tommy doesn't understand why. "To your left mate, you think you can do that for me Tommy? You must be so tired, but just keep trying for me, mate. Please."
He can do that, he thinks. If only because the voice sounds so relieved that he spoke. If only because most people hate it when he does speak. It goes slowly, but eventually, he's able to tilt his head left. Just enough so he can see who is here.
"Phil?"
He must be hallucinating again. That would be less painful than if Phil was actually here. Less painful, because if he was here it would mean that the man cared about him, just not more than he cared about Techno, about Wil. Not being cared about was easier than just not being important enough. Because it lets him ignore the feeling of abandonment that seems to permeate his very being; the curse that has swallowed him up and devoured anything in its way. So frankly, it had to be a hallucination that he was speaking to, that he was feeling, cause otherwise everything that he has pushed down since they arrived in this Gods forsaken Kingdom would come bubbling up and it scares him. He's so scared of what will happen to him if it does.
"Yeah, mate, it's Phil." The maybe-hallucination's voice is soft, and sends a pang of hurt into Tommy's chest. Phil doesn't talk to him like that, not anymore. It must be a fake, then. With a companion. Which, in and of itself is worrying, but he's far too gone to be worried about hallucinations; it's like child's play for him, at this point. "You've gotten yourself into a bit of trouble, haven't you? Who did this to you?"
Tommy shudders. It's hard to keep his eyes open. "What does it matter?" He murmurs. His eyes slip close. "You're just a hallucination. I'm jus' gonna wake up alone again." There are slow steps towards him and there's a gentle touch combing through his hair. He forces his eyes open. Maybe-Phil is standing there, and Tommy can't discern his expression.
"You aren't going to wake up alone," maybe-Phil says. "I won't let you wake up alone ever again, Tommy. I promise."
Tommy's eyes close as he lets out a weak laugh. "Wilbur said the same thing," he says, and then darkness consumes him.
Everything following that is blurry. He thinks he felt someone pick him up, gathering him into his arms as if he was precious. He hasn't been precious to anyone in a long time. He knows that he heard whispers, vaguely catching the conversation but everything was slipping away from him. He was wrapped in something soft and warm. They had gone outside at one point, and whatever he was wrapped in was pulled closer around him, covering his face more, and he was held closer to a chest.
He's never felt this comforted in the Kingdom.
He didn't feel anything, even as the environment changed dramatically, wind blowing at the wrap around him. He's been numb for so long, he wonders if he's forgotten what it's like to feel anything other than the blank apathy that forces itself into his mind. He wants to curse out Phil and Techno, for it has to be Techno who's holding him, Techno's cloak wrapped protectively around him like he was eight once again and wanting nothing more than to curl up to his brother and fathers and be comforted by the steady thrum of knowing that they were always going to be there, for who else would let Phil lead them like this? Who else would Phil trust with holding him but Techno? At least the hallucinations are consistent, if more convincing than anything he experienced in exile.
Really, it's getting harder to believe that he's hallucinating still, but he would rather that than whatever is happening now.
(They had trusted Dream, whether by believing that Tommy would be able to handle it or that the man wouldn't kick him while he's down. They're all fools, and he's the biggest fool of them all, for trusting them and being relieved that they thought he could handle Dream. Look at him now; the mere mention of the man causes him to lose face and embarrass himself with the pure terror and control that Dream has over him. It's disgusting.)
He can hear when they close in on Techno's cabin; he can hear Carl, hear the bears that he remembers Techno mentioning that he was going to train. He thinks that his father wanted them for therapy. It makes the pain ache in his chest, how different and yet how similar everything is to Before.
(He really is a disgusting creature, isn't he?)
Belatedly, Tommy realizes that they are inside the cabin now. He blinks as the cloak is loosened around him, and he is placed on something soft. He thinks that it must be a new couch; the last one, the one from Before, was well-loved but lumpy and hard. This one is softer, with less use to it. He stares at the ceiling. That is a comforting sight, he thinks, something familiar for him to latch onto. The changes that have happened the last few hours have been exhausting for him to keep up with, and he would appreciate for it to all be over. He will miss his dirt ceiling though.
(Look at him, denying the attention that his family has finally decided he was worthy of. Dream always did say he was ungrateful and selfish. It's selfish of him to want to be back in his dirt hovel, staring at dirt ceilings as he slowly fades away into nothing. He can hear Dream's mocking, angry laughter. It makes him want to curl into a ball and sleep, to leave behind the sudden shift of his world as people who had abandoned him finally acknowledge him again.)
Tommy feels the hand in his hair first, when he pulls himself out of his thoughts. It invites more sensations to start coming back to him, some in a rush, and some slowly. His fingers tingle still with cold, while the pain in his chest announces its presence by forcing rough, body lurching coughs. He coughs and coughs, and when the pressure still doesn't release he lets out a choked gasp, and large hands are pulling him up and tapping on his back as he wheezes and whines, tears dripping down his face as finally, finally, he coughs and blood stains his mouth, his shoulders shaking and he would have fallen over if not for Techno, who pulled him close, laying Tommy's head in his lap. He shakes and shivers, and Techno adjusts the cloak again over Tommy, laying a plush blanket over them as well. His brother wipes Tommy's mouth with his cloak gently.
And his hand returns to Tommy's hair.
He's glad that tears are already dripping down his face, because the sheer comfort he feels just from the contact, with being allowed this close to Techno again, is overwhelming and so, so good. He missed the hybrid so much, the visceral pain almost enough to turn and run back to Techno when some days it felt like he was nothing but a shadow, in the days that followed Doomsday.
(But Techno was friends with Dream and worse; owed Dream a favor. Tommy didn't know how much Techno owed Dream, and so he couldn't allow himself to stay with his father. Not when there was the chance that Dream would ask for Tommy. And while Tommy knew that Techno was protective, he also paid back his debts in full, and Dream always asked for his due. If Dream determined that Tommy was the price of Techno's debt, that was the price Techno would pay. And Tommy would be helpless in it all, just a dusty antique to be traded away to whoever thinks they can repurpose it.)
"That sounded rough, mate," Phil murmurs as he kneels down next to Tommy's head. Tommy blinks slowly at his father. His face was pinched, and he looked older than the age his body was going to forever be. "I have some soup for you, let's try and eat it, okay? It should be easier than those gapples you were forcing down." Tommy stares and when Phil raises the spoon, he nods and obediently opens his mouth.
It's warm, but not unpleasantly so. It wasn't flavorful, but compared to the overwhelming sweetness of golden apples, it comes as a relief that it's not as strong. Mostly, he's just glad it's not potatoes.
"Where were you hiding this?" Techno grunts, his claws scratching lightly at Tommy's head. "I smell carrots. I can't believe the betrayal, cooking carrots in my home."
Phil just laughs, even if it doesn't sound very joyful. "Really, it's just boiled golden carrots in broth. Hopefully it'll help with that cough." Techno hums, and it's pleasant. Tommy takes the bites that Phil offers, but before they're even halfway done he cannot swallow anymore.
"Sorry," Tommy says. It comes out as a whisper, and he's ducking his head, waiting for the punishment. He was being ungrateful again, and Dream hated it, especially with food.
(Usually, it was because he was still so hungry, didn't Dream have anything else Tommy could have? Please? He's so hungry and it hurts so badly but now he can't even stomach soup and all he continues to be is useless-)
"No worries, mate. I'll just dump it back in the pot for later. The carrots keep it from spoiling quick, and are pretty effective at preventing whatever disease you have from contaminating the rest of the batch." Phil stands with a gentle smile and walks away, robes flowing around him as he rounds into the kitchen. Tommy, his head still down, watches in wonder. Wondering whether or not Phil was going to punish him, or if he was leaving that to Techno. Like a good cop, bad cop scenario. It's not an unusual game for them to play; Tommy has seen it many times while growing up. Usually directed towards someone else, but there always were occasions where he was in enough trouble to warrant the frustrating game.
But, despite the lingering threat of punishment, Tommy feels exhausted. He relaxes further into Techno's lap. He can barely move his legs and arms to curl up the way he really wants to, so he settles for pushing his face into Techno's leg. The relaxing motion of Techno's claws scratching at his scalp, before moving to detangle his hair more, was mesmerizing.
He can feel Techno as he leans closer, feel his breaths over his ear. "Sleep, Theseus." Tommy hears the unspoken promise, the way he always did when he was suffering from a nightmare as a child and had ran to his father in search of his strength and stability, of protection from the scary unknowns of the world.
'I will watch over you.'
Strangely, the thought didn't scare him. And so, he falls asleep.
It is not a good sleep; it is endless and all-consuming.
He is surrounded by sweltering heat. It makes him groan and writhe as much as his weak body can, and there is no reprieve from the heat. He wonders if he had thrown himself into lava. Sometimes he wonders if he left the prison at all. He can feel people touching him, two different hands, both brief, cool relief from the sweltering pain that envelops his body. The cough that plagued him rips his lungs apart from the inside, and the only thing he tastes in his delirium is blood.
Sometimes, the numbness comes back and relieves him from the pain. That's usually when both hands are there, one in his hair and the other holding his hand, holding his face. He knows, somewhere instinctual, that this sickness is unnatural.
It is said to be instinctual to know when you are going to die.
He wonders if they know that he is dying too; if that is why they plead with unrecognizable words as soup, water, and potions are carefully dropped into his mouth, a careful hand sitting him up to help him swallow. If, when the numbness hides him from the heat, he can hear their quiet voices, their whispers and tears too quiet, not meant for anyone but themselves. He wishes he could give them the comfort that they crave, the assurances that he wouldn't die like this, no matter what the odds look like.
("Phil, he should be recovering, why aren't the potions working?" A soft hand brushing through his sweaty bangs. "I don't know, mate. I really don't." His father whispering different alterations to recipes, ways to boost potions of regeneration, of healing. A quiet confession, "Out of all of us, potions really were your specialty. Never quite got the hang of it the way you did. I don't think we ever told you that.
I don't think any of us told you that we were sorry, either. Would you accept it now, I wonder? You always were the best of us in those regards, too. Please. Just let me tell you, one time.")
They would be baseless, anyways, and his soulmates aren't ones for idle thoughts. As the days go on and the delirium takes him further, he fights harder. He wants to have one last word, one last proclamation for his family, his surviving fathers, something other than a fucking pathetic sorry.
(As the delirium takes over, he becomes more conscious, more aware of everything. He feels human again; not just an empty shell that supposedly housed his soul. He wonders if this is what final moments are supposed to be like, or if it was twisted like everything else. It makes him so unreasonably, undeniably angry. His family will have no memory of Tommy when he dies; what they will have is a memory of the puppet that Dream had cut one too many strings off of. The anger is comforting, compared to the apathy and fear from before. But what is it worth if he is dead?)
He doesn't know if his family would accept his death, either. They barely accepted Wilbur's, and he was much more important to Techno and Phil, to everyone, than Tommy ever was. But Phil was a vengeful man, and Techno was cruel to those that weren't his. And Tommy was theirs, whatever that meant to them in the end.
(In reality, he didn't know if he could be revived again, much less if he would be able to handle it better. The void is so encompassing with its darkness, with the silence and isolation. He doesn't want to be revived just to be crazy or an emotionless shell again. It would be better to be dead.)
Tommy doesn't know how long the delirium had overtaken him, but he knows the next time the numbness comes, he will not return. He claws his way to the forefront of his mind slowly and steadily, a way that he never knew how to when he was alive. Now that he has time to ponder, he knows. He knows things that he shouldn't, things that the living are forbidden from knowing, but he was never really alive again, not in the way that matters.
He opens his eyes. Techno must have moved him to a bedroom while he was unconscious; this was a new ceiling. He is glad that his dads are actually here. He knew that they had other responsibilities, had to pretend like everything was normal and like they weren't hiding him away from everyone else in the Kingdom. Phil's arms are crossed on the top of the bed, his head resting against his arms. Techno is beside him, likely cajoled into bed by Phil. Tommy can picture the exhaustion on his boar-like face, as he can see it clearly on the blond's. He wishes he could turn and look, but he has limited time, and already the heat and numbness are racing to drown him.
He coughs, and he feels Techno jerk. "Tommy? Relax, don't worry, we're here." His father rumbles, already reaching out and placing a hand on Tommy's head. It made him realize his hair is in a braid, and he knows but also doesn't know why that makes tears burn in his eyes.
"Tech," he croaks, and his father freezes. Suddenly Techno is off the bed, almost losing balance on the carpet as he comes around, shaking Phil on the shoulder as he stares wide-eyed at Tommy. "Hi, Tech'o," he says, and his throat burns, burns, but he can't stop, because he's going away soon, and maybe it makes him childish, for being scared and petulant that he has to leave so soon, but he doesn't ever want to leave his family again.
"Tommy," Techno repeats, again, and his voice is so soft, so pained, when his strongest protector, his Techno, should never sound like that. And Phil, Dad, is rousing from his sleep, looking at Tommy and there is fear and hope on his face and Tommy hates that he has to destroy whatever relief his family is feeling, for having to make this reunion short-lived.
"Toms?" His dad whispers, and suddenly it becomes more real and all he wants is his dad to hug him again, like when he was a kid and mobs had come too close to him, in his childish wonder and dreams to be exactly like his brother, to be someone his dad would look at with pride and affection that he felt was solely reserved for Techno and Wilbur.
"Dad," Tommy whimpers, and suddenly he is pulled into a firm, almost crushing hug as his dads hold him close, wings wrapped around them. He can tell that one of them is about to say something, so he cuts them off. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins, and it is worth staying awake, just for this moment.
"I'm going to die, Dad. He- Dream didn't-" His voice is choked and suddenly he wants to cry from frustration. "It's not fair, he broke me first and then brought me back wrong and now you're gonna hurt again but being barely alive, it hurts so bad Dad. It's not fair, I don't want to die again, please Dad, Tech, nothing is right anymore and everything is-" He sobs, and Phil shushes him gently, sweetly, pressing their foreheads together.
"My little Phoenix," Phil says, "Dream did this to you?" There is something in his tone that Tommy knows means that his dad doesn't need an answer, not if it would cause him more distress to say. Dream's damnation would be determined either way.
But still, he answers. "Yes."
But still, he fears. "I was brought back wrong, he thought he could get away with choosing what came back, please," Tommy begs, and it hurts him to beg, but he needs to have that reassurance, "please never bring me back broken, never let anyone else bring me back like that. I want to be whole again."
Techno joins, pressing a kiss against Tommy's temple. "Never again, Tommy."
"The Blood God's Apostle, Death's Angel, and a Madman's Phoenix." Tommy muses. He feels strangely nostalgic, pondering. The adrenaline is fading, now that he has let them know, let his fear and his pain leave him for the first time in months. "I wonder what Wilbur is. He should be a poet, he would enjoy that, way more than he enjoyed being a politician." He closes his eyes, and Phil catches him as he starts to slump, laying him back down in the pillows. "The Universe's Poem? It's fitting, for him." Phil climbs on the bed, gently moving behind Tommy, Techno following as they sit, shoulder to shoulder, Tommy's head resting in Phil's lap as Techno fixes the braid in Tommy's hair. "I love you both," he whispers, "so much more than I had ever let you know."
Phil smiles, even though there are tears making their way down his face. "And we love you, Tommy. Never doubt that, ever again."
Tommy hums his agreement, and then he nowhere and everywhere. There is a warm, feminine touch, and he leans into her, instinctually knowing that his mother is there, both Goddess of Death and Goddess of Family, and he feels her smile in the Universe. Then, the Universe is more than Void, it is concrete and a strumming guitar and an angry, muttering voice, and both he and Wilbur are finally swept into their Mother's embrace, away from the twisted limbo of Death that Dream had created in his false apotheosis.
He is swept into his Mother's domain, Wilbur next to him, sleeping, regaining who he once was, and as they rest against their Mother, Tommy lets himself relax, never again having to fear a maniac who will not hesitate to rip him into shreds.
And instinctively, he knows as his Mother shushes him into sleep, that one day, everything will be okay.