Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tommy had always avoided fire like the plague. He always ate food that didn’t need to be cooked or he asked others for cooked food. He traveled in or through the nether extremely rarely. He didn’t go near campfires or any fire enchantments. It wasn’t because he was scared of fire, really. Quite the opposite.

He’d learnt at a young age that it wasn’t normal to be able to touch fire, or eat fire, or hear fire talking to you. By the time he’d landed in Hypixel’s “foster” system (where he was forced to fight to survive), he’d learnt to hold his tongue. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and don’t mention anything about fire; especially that it talks to you. You don’t want to end up like the others; you don’t want to end up dead.

He slowly grew out of the rotten “foster” system he was in. Instead of continuing to fight constantly for a home he never really grew attached to, he decided to travel the universe. See where his legs could take him. He’d expand his knowledge through experience and travel.

He met many people during his travels, even eventually finding a family to return home to. Although not conventional, it was somewhere he was told he could live. A large home owned by a magpie hybrid, much too big for him on his own, but travelers are constantly coming and going. He grew to love this place, and he truly did call it home.

Tommy had met a famous fighter, a legend that aged out of the same system he abandoned. He was surprised to find that he was part wooly mammoth; quite a rare breed. How old was this man? To be so heavily influenced by the mammoth appearance, he must be only a few generations down in his bloodline; wooly mammoths had died out hundreds of years ago and the hybrids he knew of which carried their blood were very distantly related. No matter. Even considering how old the man likely was, he knew how to fight, and fight well.

Tommy met a young Christmas Beetle hybrid, just barely a year older than him, who begins to travel with him. He likes to talk to himself, in clicks and chitter-like sounds. Tommy can’t understand a word of it, but he can feel the hum of nature from the boy, so he doesn’t shrug the other off. Eventually, Tommy learns to understand the clicks and chitters, as the other learns to understand his spoken word. Eventually, they both speak in a language of their own; clicks and chitters and english mixed together, as well as grunts and huffs and hums.

Tommy had met a man who smelt of the sea with an aura of sadness that surrounded him. He had sung of feelings Tommy had never felt with all of his heart. His eyes held a power, a lust for ruin and a hope for something more. His skin was always somewhat damp, and sung with the power of the ocean; not that anyone mentioned such a taboo thing. He took Tommy and his beetle travel partner to the home he lived in with the fighter and the magpie, and they all grew closer. Tommy felt that they were truly a family.

Eventually, though, like most good things, it came to an end.

The magpie took flight, the fighter went to war, and the three born of elements were left to rot.

They refused to rot.

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You do not awaken with a start. It takes you quite a while to wake up, the body heat surrounding you lulling you back to sleep. You snuggle into it, comforted by the rise and fall of Tubbos chest. The duvet on top of you is heavy in a comforting way, easing you into the idea of waking up. You’re still opposed to it, but you don’t mind the idea, now. You slowly open your eyes, looking at Tubbo, still sleeping soundly. He has a bruise on his chin from where he fell out of a tree last Tuesday. You giggle just a little at the memory.

You carefully pull yourself away from Tubbo, moving away enough to stretch. Wilbur always compares your morning stretching to that of a cat, all long limbs. You don’t think of yourself as a cat at all, and you’ve got no cat blood in you, as far as you know. The stretching just helps you wake up, helps your joints settle back in.

You look over at the still asleep Tubbo, who stirs slightly at your movements but stays asleep. His antennae twitch slightly but other than that there’s no indicator that he’s going to wake. You huff a sigh of relief and pull on your slippers before slinking out of the door to find Wilbur.

You walk slowly down the cold hallway, bathed in light from the rising sun. Your toes are freezing even in your slippers. When thinking of where Wilbur could be, you think of very few locations. 

You first check the study; at first glance, nothing seems amiss. His chair is at his desk, his paperwork piled high, the computer in the corner off. His chair is barely pushed in, and there’s a few books on the floor. The room looks the same as when you last saw it.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot the thing that’s different; the empty guitar stand.

Wilbur doesn’t usually play this early, so you suspect he never made it to bed. Since your dads left, it’s been a regular occurrence for your eldest brother to not make it to bed. It’s also been a regular occurrence for him to watch the horizon for hours at a time, as though doing such will make your parents come back. You know better than that and you’re sure he does too.

You wonder back into the hall, trying to work out where your brother’s playing today, or if he ended up passing out somewhere nearby. Usually he ends up on the porch, either in and out of sleep, or completely disassociated. He always comes out of it about an hour and a half after you first go and check in on him.

Quietly opening the front door, you pop your head out to see said tall and lanky child of the sea watching the horizon. You go over and sit next to him, setting your hand on his. He blinks a little, turning his head towards you and murmuring something that sounds like good morning, then returning to looking towards the horizon.

You give Wilburs hand a pat and return to the house, gathering the blanket right beside the door to lay it over him while he comes out of it. He hums his thanks, slouching into the comfort of the warmth the blanket provides.

You walk inside again, heading for the kitchen. You open the cabinet that holds the different teas and coffees you own, browsing through for whatever catches your eye. As usual, you’re doing things by eye - it’s a lot easier than making an informed decision. 

Your eyes stop on a container that isn’t labeled. Grabbing it and sniffing it, you assume that it’s some homeblend Phil had made when he was still around. You put it into the teapot’s little strainer part specifically for the looseleaf tea and add the hot water. 

Wilbur hands you a letter, with a seal of green wax. It’s addressed to the house, not anyone specific, which doesn’t usually happen anymore. Since Phil and Techno left, you’ve mostly just gotten letters for them.

“You’re cordially invited,” You read, “to the end of your life as you now know it.” Wilbur bursts out in laughter, the kind that shakes his body entirely.

Chapter Text

Tommy can hear the fire calling to him. And as he stood there being taunted by this fucking monster , he lets himself go. He lets the lava envelop his body, flooding his senses with nothing but heat and the need to get the other away. The need to be safe. And the calling of fire.

He’s never done this before, not really, but he’s talked with Sapnap about it.

“Sometimes when I get really angry, or emotional at all, it calls really loudly to me.” Sapnap had answered. They were sitting in a tree, their friends nearby but not bothered by their absence. “It whispers things, not in any words I can translate, but instinctively I know them.” Tommy knows the calling. Has heard it so many times that he probably could translate it to english, if he tried hard enough. “I can call back to it. I can ask for its aid, and it answers.” His eyes seem to light up at this admission. “God, Tommy, if you knew how it felt, you’d want to be able to use it much more often. It’s so freeing, and so fucking-” He stops, like he can’t put his finger on the word he wants. He shrugs. 

He was right. Tommy can hear the fire and he pleads for its help. And then, to his surprise, it answers . He breathes in flame and exhales smoke. His eyes seem nearly engulfed by smoke, too.

Dream looks scared. As he should, the fucking bastard. He was tormenting Tommy, just because he was bored. Because he was stuck, owning up to the fucking abuse he inflicted. He should be fucking scared.

Chapter Text

Tommy hates fire. This is a well-known fact, although most can’t tell you why correctly. They assume it’s because of the continuous explosions he’s been witness to, or involved in. They assume it’s because his brother blew up his own nation. They assume and assume and assume, but they never ask.

Tommy hates fire because it’s all that he is. If you were to boil him down to his bare essentials, he’s just a kid with fire in his veins. Literally.

Tommy doesn’t like listening to the flames. He hates the whispers that sink into his skull. He hates its call. And most of all, Tommy hates that its call reached his brother. Wilbur was a child of the sea, the opposite of fire. Its call shouldn’t have reached him. And yet it’s influence is the reason everyone is where they are now; collecting the pieces of a broken country.

Chapter Text

You don’t know what you had expected to find when you opened the door to the spare room. The tall, lanky body of the enderman-cat hybrid you’d let stay curled up, asleep? Or maybe him pacing, or reading. You’d left a copy of the novel you’d been reading in there for him, just in case he wanted to read it.

You didn’t expect to find him curled as small as he can be in the corner, breathing erratic and whimpers leaving his mouth.

He didn’t even turn his head when you opened the door, just continued to have his panic attack. You’re careful in approaching him, making sure to not get too close.