MCYT Oneshots And Other Random Stuff

Disgrace

I wrote this before Logstedshire blew up and Tommy ran off. So, the circumstances are a little different.

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Tommy was crying.

It was the dead of the night, and instead of the Logsted campsite, Tommy was sitting "Tnret," his faithful plain white tent. His shoulders were shaking, quiet sobs slipping from his mouth and cold tears sliding down his cheeks. He could have gone to Ghostbur. If there was anyone who could cheer him up, it was the ever-optimistic ghost of Wilbur Soot.

But Tommy deserved to suffer.

It was all he could ever do to put on a brave face during the daylight hours. He would grin as he always had, ball his hands into fists, refuse to let Dream bully him too much.

But he was nothing but a liar. Tommy felt no confidence. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt confident— truly confident. It had to be the day he burned George's house down.

Thoughts he would never allow to taint his mind during the day began to seep in, dark with self-doubt. Maybe if I wasn't always so confident I wouldn't get in so much trouble, Tommy thought despairingly, feeling his shirt grow wet with salty tears.

Maybe if I'd listened to Tubbo for once, I would still be by his side. Even probation had to be better than this, surely...

Dream's voice echoed in his head. The real reason Dream had puppeteered Tubbo into exiling Tommy. It was because Tommy didn't listen to Dream. It was because Tommy had never let Dream control him. And Dream had disposed of him easily.

Tubbo was right. War against Dream was impossible. The only winner in every possible outcome was Dream. Every soldier was a puppet and Dream was the master.

Tommy deserved this. He was selfish. He had wanted L'Manburg to fight on his behalf. He wanted his friends, his family, to risk their lives, and for what? Discs?

Tommy knew what Tubbo would say about that. He'd already heard it, and he couldn't get the echo out of his head, the words like a record on repeat.

"THE DISCS DON'T MATTER!"

But the discs did matter. They were the only thing that mattered. They were all Tommy wanted, all he needed, all he'd ever wished for. Or so he thought.

He had been wrong. He'd always been wrong. Wrong about the discs, wrong about war, wrong about Wilbur, wrong about everything. There were things that mattered much, much more than the discs.

Tommy remembered his words to Technoblade on November sixteenth: All I ever wanted was L'Manburg.

A lie. Tommy knew, deep in his heart, the real thing he'd always wished for. All Tommy ever truly wanted was Tubbo's friendship. And he'd had it for the longest time. And Tommy had complained.

He'd called Tubbo clingy. He'd said he'd rather hang out with Wilbur. All just banter; all just levity and jokes. Tommy had assumed he'd have forever to prove to Tubbo how much he enjoyed his friend's company. Only once the connection was gone did Tommy realize just how precious it had been to him.

His eyes drifted to the photo of the Dream SMP christmas tree he'd tacked to the tentpost. Ghostbur had taken the photo for him. There was another picture back in the Logsted campsite, but Tommy didn't like looking at that one as much.

This one was just a tree. The other photo was of New L'Manburg itself— wooden platforms and buildings with Chinese lanterns floating above. It made Tommy far too homesick for his liking.

Well, he was already hunched over in the cold, his one remaining shirt soaked through with tears. He might as well punish himself to his full extent. Tommy closed his eyes, allowing the image of his country to float through his mind.

Almost instantly, Tommy felt a sharp, almost unbearable pang of heartache. Good.

He imagined his feet standing solidly on the boards of the marketplace. He could almost smell potions from Ghostbur's sewer and hear Fundy trying to scam someone down by the docks. He could almost see a silhouette, fluffy hair and navy suit. Tubbo.

The thought of Tubbo made Tommy want to race back to L'Manburg right away, no matter the consequence. All the memories. Every moment on their bench. Every laugh and hug and smile.

Tommy didn't need to strain his imagination to envision Tubbo; it was practically second nature. Eyes bluer than sadness and brighter than hope. Hair brown like dark oak. And a smile as sparkly as a wish come true.

If only Tommy was worthy of him. Then maybe they'd still be together.

Tommy put his hand in his pocket and fingered the smooth metal of the Your Tubbo compass Ghostbur had gifted him. Maybe one day he'd follow it home.

But until then, he knew he was nothing but a disgrace.