Work Text:
Tommy was sentimental. Sue him. He liked having objects that reminded him of experiences, places, and people; liked being able to physically sift through the memories and lay hands on what mattered most to him. Sentimentality was always a part of him, like it or not. It’s why controlling the disks meant so much to Dream, after all.
The discs were a symbol of happier times, untainted by conflict and war. They were from a time before TNT explosions damaged his hearing, before he lost his brother, before his best friend banished him from the nation he fought and died for. But the discs weren’t the only thing he was attached to like this. It would be silly to keep all of one's eggs in the same basket.
Tommy was sentimental, and this was nothing new. Knowing that, it would make sense how all of the trinkets in his chests or other “worthless” items had value unknown to those who noticed them in passing. For years, Tommy collected strange items in efforts to harvest memories; storing them as securly as he could in a chest by the foot of his bed.
He collected fishing hooks, from when Phil brought him along on his various trips. He has snapped guitar strings and worn-down picks from existing alongside Wilbur, picking them up from the ground or trash when he was told to ‘go away’. He has scrap metal and half-formed hunks of gold from Techno’s attempts on how to make own jewelry and potato-seed tins. He collected scrap pieces of fabric from Tubbo’s clothing that were torn off in their various adventures and tumbles around the biomes. He collected anything that he could from anyone he loved, with many of his collectibles completely invaluable to anyone but himself.
On bad days, he would carefully brush his fingers along each and every item, each happy memory; and savor the serene (naive, almost) joy it brought him. Nikki’s old hairpin. Fundy’s frayed shoelaces. Ranboo’s old faded tie. All of the items reminding him of the relationships that he had formed and currently enjoys. Enjoyed.
He had old leads and name tags for his pets too, with pictures of them or their own remains if nothing else remained. He kept Harold’s and Juorse’s leather, pictures of Harvey and Harold, and the small wooden bowl that mushroom Henry and him would share (with the tiny red mushroom he left behind tucked carefully inside and preserved).
After every fight, every conflict; Tommy had his trinkets, and so he was ok. It was only after Pogtopia that Tommy realized that keeping these objects in a chest far away from his person when he relied so heavily on them for comfort was a bad idea.
It was also at that time that Tommy figured out a new way to keep his loved ones close, regardless of physical distance. Friendship bracelets. Sure, it was childish and immature; but it wasn’t like he wasn’t called those names anyways. Might as well embrace it if it may help him.
Tommy managed to grab some of his treasured items when he saw Fundy constructing the new flag for Manburg. It wasn’t all of them, but Tommy stuffed as much as he could into any pocket or pouch he had and fled back to Pogtopia.
The damp, cool cavern welcomed him back. He dumped the items in a chest by his room and updated Wilbur on what he saw. It wasn’t too long before he was able to return to his room though, where the gears in his head began to turn.
He picks through his items, pulling aside the ones from people he doesn’t see frequently (Or won’t see again). He starts with residents of Manburg and his dad, pulling out a small variety of items that were viable for construction.
Some snipped fishing line seemed like a good base, and so Tommy began weaving the strands together to form a sturdy band. He began slipping on other trinkets while he was weaving. He slipped on warped and broken tools from Niki’s bakery while remembering the smell of fresh-baked bread. He attached a feather from Quackity, reflecting upon the day he noticed the other had wings and laughed so hard they puked. He threaded slightly charred beads from pranks gone wrong with Fundy. He added items from Punz, Ponk, and Jack too, even though they weren’t particularly close.
He knew he should savor what he had, while he had it. He ties the bracelet off, fashioning a quick button-like fastening from a small stone nearby and slips it on his wrist. He decides to not add his blood family this time. He has them right next to him, after all! They wouldn’t leave him.
They would, as he soon found out.
He wore the bracelet through everything, even as he watched Wilbur slowly lose his mind. He wore the bracelet as he was killed, twice. He wore the bracelet every day, the touch against his thin wrist comforting in the chaos of L’manburg daily life and demise.
He wore it as his best friend was killed in front of him by his own brother. And he wore it as his best friend exiled him, with nobody speaking up for him as happy memories of those same people comforting Tommy through it all.
He grabbed the rest of his items on the way out, feeling the kind of pain that only happens when one is hit at their core.
It is once he reaches Logsteadshire that he constructs his second bracelet, rapidly constructing a messy base and furnace for the project. This time, the base of the bracelet is an old guitar string of Wilbur’s, worn down from use until it was replaced. He fondly remembers some of the melodies composed with this string, among them being the L’Manburg anthem. The moment turns bittersweet, and he moves on. He decides to whittle a hole in a guitar pick too, threading it onto the string for yet another reminder of his brother.
He adds a tarnished gold earring to the cord for Technoblade, given to him after “earning” it by successfully farming a small field of potatoes. He was upset with him right now, obviously. For blowing up his home, and his friend. But he will always be his brother; and Tommy (like it or not) will always have some good memories associated with him. And so on to the bracelet the memory goes.
He weaves a large, dark feather into it for Phil, reflecting on the warm nights by the fire where Phil would wrap his wings around him and comfort him from nightmares. The memory was fuzzy from being so long ago. He adds a blunted fishing hook for good measure.
The piece of cloth was next on the bracelet, the small messily embroidered bee on the corner taking a prime position on it. Tommy gently rips out a thread from the fraying tie Ranboo gave him, and sews the small cloth around the cool metal of the string.
This time, he melts the two ends of the string together around his wrist using the heat of the furnace. He can’t bear to lose this ever, and having a permanent connection to the people that matter more than anything was the most important thing Tommy thinks he has ever done. He wraps the first bracelet around the new one, heat melting the two together in a spur-of-the-moment decision.
He expects people who were the newest additions to be the first to come around, with the people on the other bracelet soon after.
Too bad that the only people who came by didn’t even have a place on them at all.
When Dream first noticed the bracelets he tried to force them off of Tommy, before realizing that they were permanently a part of him, secured snugly around his wrist (like a handcuff). It was only natural that it captured Dream’s focus in return.
Tommy had exactly one form of comfort around his wrist. The only proof that there was anything felt towards him other than hate or intense neutrality. Tommy was his bracelets as much as they were extensions of himself, and the permanent bond of them welded on to his small, young wrist. The clunkiness of the items and decor made it impossible to not notice.
And Dream certainly noticed. But what could he do about it? He can’t just take it off, and stealing it through maiming it sure wouldn’t help with the whole ‘I’m-your-friend’ schtick. What if he tried to make it mean nothing? Nothing at all, with the attachments so useless that the bracelets were more of a hindrance than anything else.
And so, he did. A person can only reflect on a memory for so long before they begin to remember it wrong, after all. The theory of reconstructive memory was extremely solid, as it turns out. Dream suggests a beach party. Might as well start off strong. He manipulates Ghostbur into giving him the invitations, and as simple as that, he guarantees that nobody was going to be there. Other than him, of course.
Tommy was heartbroken when nobody showed up. He had spent hours pouring over dyes and notebooks to make customized invitations; pressing flowers and sealing them with seawater, weaving grasses together to make decorative chains and knick-knacks, smelting sand to make small beads to string together on spider’s silk. Each invitation had a small gift, a heartfelt message, and was wholly unique to the person.
Most of them had apologies too somewhere. Dream would know, he made sure to open every single invitation as soon as he got them; keeping the small trinkets for later use.
When the party was supposed to begin, all that Tommy was met with was the quiet lapping of the ocean at the shore and Dream’s voice saturated with a synthetic and sickly sweet sympathy.
He spent the rest of the evening with him, reluctantly. Why had nobody come? His thumb traces over his jewelry, making sure to touch a signifier for each person. It’ll be ok , he thought. Maybe I just wrote the wrong date? He knew he didn’t but left the decorations up just in case.
The following day he lingered nearby the decorations, fraying slightly in the wind, in hopes that anyone would come. They were his friends, right? Of course they would want to see him! Maybe his gifts weren’t as pricey as they could have been, but they were heartfelt! They knew that, right?
The decorations lingered. So did Tommy.
Days passed.
The decorations were soaked by the previous night’s storm, and the sight of dripping and torn paper crafts and flags was all that greeted Tommy when he woke up. He fights back tears at the sight of his once-vibrant decor. The colors are muted and dirty, blending together from how drenched they were. Something inside him cracked. Friends were supposed to stick together, weren’t they? So then why had not a single person shown up to see him? He didn’t do anything though to cause them not to! Right?
I mean, sure, he made mistakes; but so did everyone! And he apologised in the letters, he made sure of it. It may seem like he doesn’t care sometimes, but they have to understand that he would do anything for them, they have to . Maybe he shouldn’t have reminded them why they were mad at him. Why they h-
He stopped the thought. They didn’t really hate him, right? But if they were just mad, wouldn’t at least a single person have stopped by?
His eyes moved to his ringlet around his wrist. Wilbur. Techno. Niki. Tubbo. Fundy. Quackity. Phil. Punz. Jack. Ranboo. Ponk. Sam. Purpled.
Wilbur, Techno, Niki, Tubbo, Fundy, Quackity, Phil, Punz, Jack, Ranboo, Ponk, Sam, Purpled; not a single one of them had decided to even say hello, or ask if he was doing okay. They hadn’t missed his face, obviously, and likely not any conversations either or they might have decided to start one up. His communicator still worked. Dream messaged him almost every other day!
Days turned into weeks, turned into a month. His only consistent visitor was Dream. When he wasn’t there himself, there was always something of his lingering too. Random cloth that was in the same color of his hoodie (“Scraps”, he would justify), small leather cords from his weapon straps, or even just simple footprints in the sand.
Dream was the only one who kept him from being alone. Not even his own brother, or rather, his ghost of one, bothered to stop by with any frequency. And it was always in such a way that left him feeling like shit afterward, with careless words being thrown around, always finding a way to burrow beneath his skin and burning. Ghostbur left nothing but interactions in his wake, and it was hard to believe they happened at all. Even the blue that Tommy would have assumed would stick around had dried up with the sun and was blown away with the slightest sea breeze.
It would weigh on everybody's shoulders, eventually. No one could blame Tommy as he slowly gathered dirt, stone, wood, or any other material quietly. No one could blame Tommy as he used these materials to tower himself high into the sky on a pillar made of disappointment and anguish. And nobody could blame him as he stood silently swaying at the top of the world, simply pondering what to do next.
Nobody was there with him, for him. Not even the people desperately clasped around his wrist. And so nobody had the right to feel anything for his last choices.
...
..
.
..
…
The warped bracket was the only thing that was found that day, hidden in the grass at the base of a large pillar. Tommy was sentimental, but it was hard to see the value in cracked guitar picks, bent feathers, a single chipped and dented gold piece, and torn, dirtied cloth when the people they represent don’t see the value in him.