Archive of Our Own

love could be labeled poison but we’d drink it anyways
—atticus

0.

Theseus is eleven years old when he first attends and witnesses an obsequy. Although most of his childhood is a blur—pretty colors and joyous laughter, bittersweet nostalgia and broken glass, bits and pieces of things he doesn’t allow himself to grasp—he can still close his eyes and remember with striking clarity of the day he first understood the meaning of gray.

Theseus is eleven years old when he comes to the realization—albeit fractured and unclear—that everything changed on that day. The day he experienced what the word loss meant. (Loss. Such a small word for such a big thing.) A slow but sure descent into what would eventually become isolation and loneliness, hidden behind an impeccable facade.

Theseus is eleven years old when he is shattered into a thousand pieces and strewn across the floor in an ugly mosaic of grief and anger and confusion. He is eleven years old when he screams, stricken with frenzied anguish, until his throat tears at the force and he becomes familiar with the taste of iron and ash. He is eleven years old when he crumbles like a suit of armor with no stand, like a palace built on sand, like a flower buried beneath layers of snow and wishing fervently to become one with the earth again.

Theseus is eleven years old when someone leaves him and eleven years old when he attempts to leave someone. He is eleven years old when he wonders: Is it easier to be the one to leave or easier to be the one left behind?

Theseus is eleven years old—

Please, please, please, father, please look at me, please.

—when he feels a tickle in his throat.

(He is seventeen when his family replaces him with commoner. He is seventeen when the first petal falls from his lips. He is seventeen when he sleeps through a valediction.)

i.

Theseus stands. He always has been standing, always has been someone just there in the back even after he had been crowned.

Through the duties he has to fulfill for the empire, through the opinions of the other many nobles around him, through the (flowering pain every time he looks at his father and brothers tend to that commoner, all consuming and blinding) current wrath the rightful crown prince always has, his body moves forward while he himself stays behind like a looming reaper of souls. But he is just a simple child, yearning for something nobody can give him anymore, so he grows cold and people now say he was carved out of stone.

Yet, it never means that he was unaffected by what his family’s ignorance, or the insensitive rumors others murmur about.

He works and works his hardest; he needs, and is, perfect. For the crown, for the empire, and for his father who spares him no second of affection or even a glance. The emperor sees him as good enough that he has nothing to criticize him for in his works, but similarly, not enough to earn any praise he desperately craves like a wounded pup.

He had done his part, and continued playing by this wretched family’s harmonious tunes, in the hopes that he could prove that he was still a better crown prince, better and far greater than his traitor of a brother, securing his own position without anyone intervening or objecting. In hopes that, his father finally gives him approval, because even caring gestures are now a scarcity, and cold glances with rigid upper lips are all he’s been greeted with now

“Don’t we have anything more important to talk about, your majesty?” he then says, asking with restrained apprehension, the irritation evident in his voice, expecting something else. The anger and jealousy that drips in company is something he won’t, and will never, acknowledge.

Emperor Philza does not like that. Instead of moving on, or taking it calmly, he grows mad.

Tommy tries again, claiming that he is trying, oh-so trying, to respect his choice of bringing in another charity work; to ignore the commoner, the rat, taking everything he’s been working and struggling to achieve; to blind himself of how his family, his father and two liars he barely considers brothers, are paying Ranboo more attention than they ever have to him for years; to be considerate, to be kind, to be caring, to be someone he is not, because nobody has treated him that way for years, and his hands only scars and calluses, and showing any lighthearted care seems impossible now.

The emperor, his father not in that moment—not his father in any moment—doesn’t believe any truth of his struggles.

He tries again.

Emperor Philza, in all his accursed glory, blinding his child self and burning his current self, would rather believe the words of a liar and a rat over the truths of the son who’s given everything for him. The realization shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it aches his chest, his insides, even the linings of his throat.

When pain crashes into his veins, the emperor snaps.

He yells. 

The emperor that never praises, that never scolds, yells—at him, at the crown prince who is willing enough to carve open his heart for a scrap of love, for the first time as far as he remembers. Tells him that he should be sympathetic, that he has told him everything he wishes to and he expects Theseus, a fallen star and a child burning alive, to return to the party.

He orders him to apologize, not even considering to listen and understand his explanations, and that as the crown prince, as the son he cares the least now, Theseus should be regretful enough to properly accept Ranboo as someone who will take his place. Though the words are not the same, rewritten and continuing to ring in his ears, the implications and message remains a dagger embedded into his gut.

Tommy, the child, and Theseus, the prince, does not understand why his father prefers a random peasant, or even slave if taking into account how atrocious his mannerism is, over his own youngest son. The same son he’s forced into his shadow, into his crown prince with a weighted, silver crown bestowed upon his golden curls. Everything that is his, rightfully and legally, is being given away like a hand-me-down to a rat who doesn’t even understand their worth, nor will know how to appreciate the treasures Tommy would cherish until his grave.

Always, his mind echoes his cries; Why him, why not me? What does he have that I don’t? And every time, each moment he dwells further into his damning thoughts, it makes…

It makes the tickle in his throat grow more bothering, incessant and pestering. With anger, he defies. The fear is nothing compared to the pain anger he gains from those words uttered alone. So he defies, pulling on golden chains he never realized he consented to be shackled with.

And the emperor pays back in kind.

Tears mean weakness, they always do, and he does not care about what the emperor thinks of his weakness. Yet with his little and insignificant pride, at that moment, he turns his tail and runs. Runs to a safe haven nobody will ever see the same way he does, where nobody can find him and ridicule him; where he could weep, sobbing like a child missing their mother, who departed far too quickly and far too painfully.

(And most importantly, where he can let out the series of strangling coughs that rip their way out of his throat, jaw aching at the force of it, until the sky bleeds into midnight and small drops of crimson decorate the otherwise unmarred greenhouse floor.)

ii.

Technoblade’s words keep haunting Theseus in his slumber, and even as he takes a stroll down the halls with a cloak clasped over his shoulders—it reminds him of the days he’d wear Techno’s cape, but those days are far long gone; even the moments of their youth, where the sun could melt any tension between their family and they could enjoy picnic without any underlying hatred. His voice continues to hammer at the back of the crown-prince's head.

Stop acting like a child.

And the child in him weeps, because what if he is? For once, can’t he be Phil’s beloved son first before the empire's crown-prince?

Tommy swallows down the coughs clawing its way up his throat, like death’s insistent bony hands. He can’t, not with Wisp just a few steps away from him, ready to tattle to the world of his sickness. “With all due respect—” his voice grates his ears, “the general means well, but he turns a blind eye on the things he does not wish to acknowledge.”

A glare is sent the guard’s way as Tommy responds in a low warning tone, “Choose your words carefully.” There’s a festering wound inside him, protecting someone he’s no longer certain will protect him back. “What would your general do if he caught you bad mouthing about him?”

“Have my head, most certainly. Even though I only speak of what I see.”

Tommy chooses not to open his mouth, not only because of his sore throat, but because he realizes that he has no words to answer with. Wisp has seen it all. Technoblade’s love is as warm as it is fleeting.

Tommy cannot recount the times his brother was nowhere to be found when he needed him the most. Despite the way his lungs constricted at the memory, he still manages to defend his brother.

Because he’d do the same, right? And despite his brother’s seldom absence (he has a responsibility as general, stop being selfish selfish selfish—), Tommy longs to be by Techno’s side and makes his way to the stables.

But like a moth oblivious to the scorching heat of a flame, he, Prince Theseus, burns.

He recognizes the broad back and snow-white hair of his brother, and starts to walk towards him with newfound energy. Only for that feeling to be completely smothered by the familiar sight of a tall figure saddled on top of Carl. Techno’s name dies on Tommy’s tongue, and his mouth starts to taste like ash. The two continue to converse, but they are too far for him to be able to tell what the topic of discussion is.

And Techno—Techno smiles at Ranboo. He has always kept his guard up, always made sure he has no openings for any incoming attacks. He is the epitome of an impenetrable wall. He has only ever looked relaxed with Tommy, so why is he like this with that commoner? It should be him, only him.

(And he trembles, smothers the coughs that threaten to shake his very being, watches and pleads and reasons while the stems coil around his lungs, thorny vines tearing into his chest and squeezing.)

As if Techno had heard his brother’s pointedly shrouded cries, he whips his head to Tommy’s general direction. He’s fast enough to hide behind the walls, almost bumping into Wisp as he sways unsteadily on his feet. One hand clasps around an armored arm while the other moves to cover his mouth, not entirely muffling his coughs.

Wisp lowers them to the ground, eyeing Tommy, who continues to cough into his palm, with worried eyes.

“Your Highness, should I take you to the physician?” Wisp asks quietly, pressing a handkerchief into the palm of the hand clutching at his arm. Tommy accepts the embroidered fabric and presses it to his mouth, shaking his head vehemently while his body recovers from the violent onslaught of coughs. Dull blue eyes meet his with resignation.

Lying, wishing to hide, he says, “Just take me back to the palace. I must go…attend to some duties.” Wisp cannot directly disobey the crown prince’s orders, so he escorts Tommy back in silence. 

Once he is back in his quarters, Tommy makes a curt dash to the washroom. He inhales—and it’s wheezy, thin and wheezy like he is sick with a cold. But it can’t be a cold, it doesn’t feel like a cold. The intuition that has guided him for years tells him something is wrong. The coughs back at the stables had felt ticklish and wet. His lungs had burned, seething and acidulous. Something had wanted to get out.

Tommy is grateful to Wisp for the handkerchief. He did not, does not, want the guard to be alarmed by the blood and petals that pooled in his mouth. The weakness and fragility is preposterous, dangerous for the Empire.

Stop acting like a child. 

He winces at the memory of those words. Grits his teeth as he remembers the incident at the stables—would Techno ever tell Ranboo to stop acting like a child?—which makes his heart ache. As if sensing the distress, as if fueled by the distress, the tickle in his throat flares with great intensity. 

(Unbeknownst to him, the sensation will become something he is forced to bear a little longer.)

iii.

His brother is born a bard and an orator: the weaver of words, of prose, of dramatic gestures and riveting declarations as much as he is born a poet and a sonneteer: the maker of ink splattered scribes and hasty memories written late night. Although he is flamboyant at best and hysterical at worst, this is something that needs no further contemplation.

The Empire knows this. The Council knows this. Emperor Philza, who has raised his eldest child to an extent, knows this as well.

Tommy has not been with his brother for too long but he knows this too. 

He knows because he was once reverent to the intensity and charisma that his eldest brother breathes—that he sings of, as if the Empire is his stage and he is the enrapturing performer, as if he knows that he is the wordsmith who people cannot look away from once he starts forging. Wilbur knows what to say in every scenario. He plays each interaction to heed his beck and call. The cat never gets his tongue. The guillotine never comes down.

Tommy knows this. He knows this. 

He looks into those dark eyes, he hears every drawn out syllable, and he can see what is happening, can see through the honeyed lies and syrup thickness, saccharine sweet and muffling. Wilbur is like a butterfly—not beautiful or brittle or delicate like the ones in his mother’s garden. He’s a butterfly that will hatch in your ears and flutter alluringly until all you can see are colors. Before you know it, you’re stepping in the wrong places, dancing in line with the pawn, and in the monochrome haze of vast emptiness: you’ve bled your cards. 

(The thing in his chest—because there must be something, it can’t be him—knows as well. It writhes and claws with frenzied urgency, no longer the irksome tickle in the back of his throat that he can choose to ignore, and at the sight of his eldest brother, at each mocking twist of his lips, it hurts.)

But knowing doesn’t mean eluding. Tommy bears the weight of the crown on his head—one that signifies his power and authority over the people, one that represents hope and stability, one that comes with the responsibility of becoming a pillar, unfathomable, impeccable, perfect —but he is no king nor emperor yet.

Not with Wilbur.

With Wilbur, he is never the king. He is never dealt the better cards. He can do anything, but in the face of his eldest brother: the poet, the bard, the orator, the sonneteer, the wordsmith, he will forever remain the pawn. 

“I want you to add Ranboo to the guest list.”

Tommy closes his eyes as the feeling in his chest jerks. He doesn’t know what irritates him more: the request itself or the startling lack of errant notes that he has grown used to, not for him but for the commoner. “You know I can’t. There are only twenty guests at the banquet, no less, no more.”

“Well, I already told people that Ranboo would be attending.”

The temperature of the room plummets and then spikes once again. Tommy has never considered himself intimidating, not when he is the son of Emperor Philza and the brother of both General Technoblade and the Orator Wilbur—but perhaps he has inherited more from his father than merely the face or the eyes, maybe he has seen and he has imitated; no matter how much his eldest brother acts nonchalant and confident, the impeccable facade and even more impeccable guise, there’s a tension when he shakes himself out of his stupor and leans, back and one ankle pinned against a wall. 

“You should’ve consulted me or His Majesty first.”

Wilbur’s face turns sour. What has been twisting in his chest settles ever so slightly. So he did talk to their father, then, and received quite the refusal. It’s good to know—the pleasant ripple spreads—that the Emperor has yet to completely lose his senses. Tommy appraises the brief lapse in etiquette and wants to throw his head back and laugh at his brother’s face, at his brother for assuming otherwise. 

“Surely there’s someone you can remove in place of Ranboo. Somebody not-so-important.”

“Well,” Tommy drawls as the feral vibrancy in his chest surges. “I could always cancel your invitation.”

It’s a lie. It’s a lie, and it drips from his tongue like poison. The Imperial family members are not included in the guest limit: Tommy can’t kick Wilbur out unless the Emperor commands for such, but the look on his face makes it worth a thousand rules broken and bent. Sweetly sickening satisfaction, the sharp tang of triumph, drips down his throat and makes him light-headed, as if he had just downed a glass of fine wine.

It’s addictive, and Tommy is drunk on resentment and revenge. The feeling in his chest, a looming pit overgrown by a mass of wild thorns hurts less over its pleasant fog. 

If Wilbur is allowed to misappropriate his name, why should he have to hold back?

You know, his mind sneers. 

He knows. (But he can never elude.)

Because Wilbur always has better cards. 

The realization comes too late, as soon as brown eyes flash crimson and regret rolls over his body, snuffing the hazy delight and victory-drunk euphoria out like a candle in a blizzard. The thing in his chest rumbles, an ugly dissonance, visceral and pathetic in the face of his blunder as Wilbur’s face stretches into a vast smile.

“Or,” Wilbur presses, tilting his head innocently. “You could give up your own place for Ranboo. Father and Techno clearly prefer him over you, anyway.”

Something inside his chest breaks. 

“Get out,” he grits through a clenched jaw, head ducked, nails digging into the hard wood of his desk. From the peripherals of his fogged vision, Tommy can see Wilbur smirking and pushing himself up from against the wall. 

“Aw,” he coos. “Why so aggressive—”

“GET OUT!” Tommy screams, grabbing an inkpot and hurling it at Wilbur. Wilbur ducks, and it shatters against the wall, glass shards and ink gushing all over him. When he straightens up, eyes wide and hands raised, there’s a stream of black liquid starting from his temple and flowing down his chin. Tommy isn’t appeased at the shock, at the flinch. His chest tightens.

“...Theseus?”

He’s not done. He’s not—he can’t, it burns and it thrashes and he can feel the thing, writhing and trembling and violent and blossoming in the expanse of his chest with a feral, irrepressible exuberance, fluttering and climbing up the back of his throat and his chest heaves, his ears ring: he grabs the next closest object on his desk and squeezes. Wilbur jerks away and stumbles out of the office.

Tommy’s gaze is riveted to where he threw himself out, breaths coming in short wheezes. 

It’s not true. Wilbur was just trying to upset him and it’s not true, it’s a lie because Wilbur is a liar, has always been a liar since he left, since he promised, since he lies, a liar liar liar liar liar—till death do them part.

Something unfurls within him and the bitter taste of humiliation and defeat and grief blossoms on his tongue. Tommy slaps a hand over his mouth, lurching forward, and collapses, knees hitting the ground with a sharp crack. He shudders, stills, shoves back the waves of nausea that follows—it’s nothing, it’s nothing, there’s nothing, stop stop stop—muttering under his breath as two people peek in from behind the door: Wisp and a vaguely familiar maid.

Tommy’s expression, truly intimidating at last, chases both away, and he is left to himself again, keeled over the floor like a pitiful, weeping child. Left to himself to stare, fixated on the ink stain sinking into the wallpaper and dripping onto the ground.

The longer his gaze lingers over it, the more it starts to look like Ranboo’s face—smirking, triumphant, smug, and so fucking happy.

A new surge of anger and frustration shudders through Tommy; he staggers to his feet, clenches his fingers into a fist and strikes the wall with a loud cry.

Crack.

Tommy howls, sinking back onto the ground with an ugly thud, cradling his right hand—broken knuckles covered in ink and blood—to his chest. Glass digs into his skin through the fabric of his pants. He barely feels it, head lolling forward and thudding against the wall. 

Pain and the sickness in him kills his anger until all that’s left of him is an empty shell and a quiet, broken sob. There’s something warm on his face. He uncurls a hand, the one that doesn't make his muscles spasm in agony, skims it over his cheek, swallows harshly, defiant against the thorns snagging at his lungs and—

Oh. He squeezes his eyes shut, head throbbing. He’ll need to put the concealer on again.

iv.

His chest aches, and without any restrain, Tommy pushes on the heels of his feet and charges at Ranboo, elbow immediately shoving into his airway. Why you? He doesn’t hear the wrenched sobs coming from Ranboo, uncaring of the mess his abrupt and illogical assault has made.

The consequences are for later, even when the sensible part of his mind begs to differ. For now, he’ll reap everything from the boy who has stolen everything. Why is it always you, when I’m the one sacrificing everything? His chest burns even more, and the rat’s screams of pain have turned irritating.

“Shut up!” Tommy grows indignant, grows more frustrated than he ever has; insides churn and carve out a pit being filled with tar-like hatred towards who he presses onto the cold, hard floor. Bundles of cloth, bright and colorful, like his past but a stark contrast to his present, are thrown around in the air, dragged along into the one-sided brawl he started. “You absolutely filthy piece of sewer trash,” Tommy grits out, and Ranboo’s frightened eyes, of green and red; of poison and blood, are focused solely on him. In fear, of course, but it’s exhilarating.

The ichor coursing through his veins darkens with every accursed thought passing like a falling star, weighing his bones down, but he doesn’t let it slow him, everything burning with the flames of loathing.

“How dare you worm your way into my life, ruin the structures I’ve built up, and play a godforsaken victim?!” He screeches like a wounded animal, and the notion makes a sickening feeling overwhelm his senses. Ranboo only weeps and wails, akin to that of a petrified baby, finding a grim reaper looming over their crib; Tommy doesn’t care, and he’ll gladly brandish a scythe if it removes the pain swallowing his lungs and throat. He adds more pressure into the elbow digging into Ranboo’s throat. “You are nothing. Nothing if it weren’t for my father giving you favor—”

Both of them are dying, in different ways, at this very moment; one in asphyxiation, the other in unbridled anger that chars his tender insides to ash. Ranboo tries, desperate as he can, to release the elbow making him see black dots at the corner of his vision, but Tommy is relentless in his assault.

Suddenly, a dagger finds itself in his grasp, inching ever so closely to Ranboo’s cheek, tip inching nearer to prick the fragile skin. Draw blood, a ghost murmurs into his ear, while the rat’s expression underneath him cries the opposite: Please, don’t.

But he’s blinded, with frustration and resentment and endless, endless melancholy.

Tommy can’t understand, Why do people love you more? He can’t understand, Why am I the scapegoat for your happiness? He truly can’t process how easily he was thrown aside for a commoner, for a gutter rat who snuck into the palace walls. Why you? He questions again, unwilling to let the tears burning his retinas out, but for some reason, Ranboo’s eyes widen and the fear momentarily subsides. Instead, taking their place is pity, and seeing this plunges a sword into his gut, coated in poison and twisting its chipped blade.

He can’t accept this.

And thus, the dagger he holds rises above, framed by blinding lights, and it quickly descends before Ranboo can even weep another sob.

“I hate you—”

A hand wraps itself around his forearm, yanking him back before any irreparable damage can be done. Bitter and sour emotions overwhelm him, and Tommy groans after being tossed towards several mannequins, now headless with the impact. More cloth joins the air in a dance, falling with dull noises, cluttering the already messy room.

Incoherent cries then invade the suffocating quietude, and Tommy struggles to get back on his feet, staggering with blurry vision, until he notices the shade of ivory facing him, kneeling in front of a curled up Ranboo.

Tommy knows only one person in the entire Empire to have white hair, lengthy enough to grace the floor, and that is no other than his eldest brother—Technoblade, who focuses on the vermin instead of him, his younger brother, the one he broke promise after promise to.

Why, he keeps within his chest, knowing if he speaks, everything will crumble around him in his fury. Why him, why not me? He reaches a hand out, mouth voicing words he can’t hear, and what greets him is a ferocious glare. Technoblade, frowning at him. Why do you choose his side over mine?

His chest aches even more, and something fills up the empty space.

“What did you think you just did?” Technoblade grits out, vitriol dripping from every inch of his words, and Tommy doesn’t know how to respond. What can he say, when the evidence of his stupidity desires to be swallowed by the ground; Ranboo cradles himself with trembling arms, shaking enough that they may just fall off with the uncountable tremors.

But his tears have dried, now staring at Tommy with indecipherable eyes. “Theseus, what the fuck did you just do to Ranboo?” Technoblade continues, teeth gnashing together with his own wrath equaling burnt out suns.

And Tommy’s gaze leaves his brothers and moves to Ranboo. He doesn’t know why, but his thoughts whisper into his consciousness: What is that stare? The urge to get answers out of the pale-faced boy, a rat despite the clothes he wears, rips the veins carrying his blood into shreds.

For once, he sees the peasant who stole everything, who took his rightful place in his family. And Tommy, oh—Theseus despises the sorrow directed at him, as if the previous pity wasn’t enough. The itch to gouge out the bastard’s eyes, let the world see his tainted lineage, is all-encompassing.

“Theseus,” Technoblade stresses.

His eyes, red and violet and blue and red once more, glare him down with the same contempt their father did on the day of the banquet. Disdainful and disappointed, as if they expect better from him. As if his actions weren’t justified with their betrayals.

Ranboo hesitates to speak, but when Technoblade rises to his feet, preparing to confront Tommy with the fury of a general, Ranboo pushes all his reluctance and it fades like a flickering candle light, and that determination leaves Tommy breathless.

“I’m fine!” Ranboo lies, failing to ground himself with a limp that gives it away. The two brothers, maybe not right now, glance at him as if he was a fool. Tommy would agree, Technoblade would never. “It was just a small squabble…!”

When Technoblade turns around to look at Ranboo, his eyes are nothing but concerned. But affectionate, and when the realization that his brother hasn’t even graced him with such emotions for the past week, the envious monster locked inside his heart breaks free with a child’s screech for injustice.

His chest aches, more and more, and something rises up from his throat, and Tommy understands what has been growing in place of his misery.

Flowers, of golden shades, of azure hues; they are what he’s been finding surrounding his awakened form every early dawn, coughing fit only ceasing to short gasps when his exhausted eyes catch sight of the climbing sun.

Tommy feels death loom ever so closer, peering over his shoulder.

And when Technoblade spits out an order for him to stay where he stands, while also reaching out for Ranboo, lending a gloved hand for him to take Tommy does what he’s always wanted to do: run, like a coward, but cowardice has always been in their cursed blood. With their father, with Wilbur, even with Technoblade, and now him.

Pathetic imperials they are, but after years of masquerading around, they all have learned how to veil their own fear.

That mask falls, and Tommy, on shaking knees and rigid hands, runs away.

“Theseus!” Technoblade yells the second he notices, and Ranboo is quiet with frantic gestures when seeing the indignation flashed on the first prince’s face. There’s worry, for both himself and the boy he saw with reddened eyes, threatening tears to be shed. But he can’t do anything, merely watching as Tommy’s back disappears into the shadows and Technoblade hesitates in chasing after him. “Don’t just run from your responsibilities!”

I have never done so in the past, he so desperately wishes to exclaim, to pour out every damning event in his life where Technoblade just stood by. The one who truly ran was Wilbur, and yet you’re here cursing me out.

Tommy nearly trips, but pure spite keeps him from crashing down into a sobbing mess, vaguely aware of the commotion happening inside the room when, he guesses, Aimsey enters and sees their items thrown about. He’ll compensate them later. For now, he’ll sulk and mull like the child he never got to be, the child he was never allowed to be.

And this child in particular clenches his fists so tight, red begins pouring out from crescent wounds. It’s reassuring and yet not as well, the pain, meaning everything is reality. But it’s not enough, like how everyone views him; never enough, a mere shadow, a simple dog raised and nurtured after his older brother abandoned his birthright, a rival to an emperor who resembles more an enemy in war than his own father.

Tommy isn’t sure who he is anymore, but he knows for certain, at least, that he’ll fall one day.

Like the person he is named after, Theseus.

Thus, he lets himself fall, just to ease the inevitable pain from the crash. He allows his hands to grip onto a wall, nails scraping against the textured surface, and doesn’t restrain a guttural cry from slipping.

His head finds itself connected to the wall, heavy and hard and extremely painful, and a resounding bang! echoes within the darkened hallway and his heart, ringing throughout every organ trapped inside.

Tommy focuses on the pain, because right now, he’s in control.

Not his logic, not his endless frustration, not his decade’s worth of sorrow.

Him, himself, and the child weeping inside his soul.

His throat constricts in response to the suffocating air entering with each breath he takes, and when he sucks a certain one, a cough wheezes past his lips. A single cough, turning into another, and then a third, suddenly a fourth—when the first petal lands on his scarred palms, bleeding red from his cuts and the lining of his neck, Tommy can only pathetically laugh.

More petals climb up, more flowers blossom inside his lungs and claw for the light above, thorns digging and roots burrowing into his skin.

More and more, until all Tommy can see are the colorful, but dirtied with ichor, flowers.

So vibrant, so bright, so radiant, but oh-so dull.

And when darkness creeps up into his vision, Tommy descends onto his knees, wounded forehead dragging an ugly trail of crimson on the wall, barely wincing when stray dust and dirt sneak into his injury. Wallowing in his own despair, knowing every time his heart gets hurt, his untimely demise quickens its pace.

But regardless, regardless of how dispirited and crestfallen he is, a living fire remains lighting up the part where he yearns for retribution. Yearns to return the pain he has experienced over the years, a hundred fold.

He will, soon, if the flowers don’t take him to the other side.

Then, like thunder during summer, a voice calls from behind him, “Thes, are you alright?”

It’s Dream.

+ i.

“You truly are a heartless prince.”

A death sentence, his father’s words sounds like one. Tommy staggers on his feet, shakily keeping himself grounded by piercing the palms of his hands, forming crescent wounds that nearly draw blood. But he stands, he breathes, even when a year’s worth of burden crashes onto his back like a dead corpse hauled over him. He questions his ears, but the only thing he can comprehend is the emperor’s, not his father’s, stone-cold glare.

He speaks, defending himself, though everything is a blur. His heart aches even more than his throat, where vines gradually creep up to spill all his woes out. There’s more anger than pain, more sadness than jealousy, and Tommy truly can’t understand why the world is currently against him.

“—get out, Prince Theseus.”

Tommy pauses, mouth slowly closing in disbelief, murmuring with a trembling voice, “…What?”

That can’t be true, he believes, in denial that his father would betray him like this. But then again, knives have already been driven through his back and gut—what’s one more? But you’re supposed to choose me, the flowers blooming in a dark room itch for sunlight, because I’m your son, not him.

“I said, get out of my eyes. I don't want to see you for the rest of the evening,” the emperor repeats, fury controlled, but the underlying contempt is clearer than how Tommy’s vision darkens.

There’s moments of pause, utter silence ringing around him despite the muted chattering of the unknowing nobles. Heavy stares land on him, scrutinizing and wondering about his mistakes and faults.

Tommy heaves a breath, knowing if he doesn’t steady his frustration, he’ll regret the consequences that shall befall upon him. His voice caught in the thorny barbs inside his throat, but regardless of his waiting for a sign the emperor regrets it, nothing reassures or comforts the blind rage coursing through his veins.

So, Tommy lets himself fall.

“I wish you a pleasant evening,” he bids a poisonous goodbye, the dying embers of his willpower and faith that the emperor, his father, will return to the warm man he once remembers going to nothing but ashes.

And as he walks down the stairs, sight clouded with unshed tears and inky splotches, a certain tender soreness trailing into his mouth, Tommy allows himself to descend even further.

A bouquet spills from his lips, and the crash happens: he stumbles down to the ground, eyes fluttering shut, crown thrown aside on the impact.

That is all he knows.

Upon his son hitting the floor, Phil can’t deny the panic swallowing his insides.

Theseus stood, he always stood, and never seems to waver under the pressure he’s either aware of or not. But, as he remains seated like the statue everyone rumors him to be on his throne, his thoughts can’t help but wander and dwell into a rotting corner: Why isn’t he standing up? Why now, out of all the other days, did he choose to crash and burn? To fall and not get up—there’s something wrong, with every second turning into a fleeting minute, a ceaseless silence descending upon the once boisterous ballroom.

Why didn’t I notice?

The crown prince does not get up, a ticking ringing into everyone’s ears when time slips through the heaven’s fingers like sand; not even twitch can be seen, nor a prompting of him getting back to his feet.

 The nobility are waiting with bated breath for the crown prince to stand up once more, to leave them with more poisonous gossip to murmur and relief that any fear slowly coating their senses is merely foolish. Ladies cover their painted lips with their fans, whispering their concerns, while lords lower their champagne glasses, bearing apprehensive gazes.

The crown prince, his son, but he’s aware he hasn’t treated the star-eyed boy like one for an uncountable amount of years, remains fallen.

“...Theseus?” Phil calls, uncertain and worried, using a tone the emperor never thought he’d hear again. Not after her death, buried with flowers to be mere fertilizer.

Never has he sounded so broken, and the emperor questions his ears.

And as if it were a silent command, his two sons—oh, how old they are now, how tall and prideful they’ve become, towering over him, and how he forgot the small children once following each step he takes—and Prince Dream dashes forward, almost fighting one another to reach the fallen star before the other.

He can hear and feel the cawing of the crowns, even miles away, their death bells tolling throughout the chilled, night air. Phil can sense their presence in the corner of his eyes, shadows circling decaying corpses and wilting bouquets—but the flowers swallowing his vision are bright and vibrant and oh-so colorful.

The floodgates open, the panic devouring every inch of his drying anger and overflowing sadness, and the emperor stands from his throne, a place he thought he’d never leave if desired.

But now, he does, and nearly crashes to his knees while reaching for his son.

Wilbur embraces his son before him, the father, and it feels like a dagger to his gut. But Phil ignores such pain, hesitant in even touching Theseus’ form, continuing to stand while everyone else kneels to support the prince with flowers tainting the corners of his lips with—blood.

Oh, ichor coats the insides of his mouth, some trickling and painting the marble floor a horrid crimson. His second cradles his youngest’s cheek with a fragility never seen before, but glacial eyes don’t open in response to the warm hand caressing his skin.

Theseus remains fallen, remains a corpse.

And the emperor doesn’t know what to do, barking out orders while his sons, and he notes, Prince Dream, focuses on Theseus. He calls for medics, doctors, physicians; his chest heaves with every word wrenching out his throat. Barely, in his peripheral vision, he catches sight of a bewildered Ranboo, on the floor with shattered glass surrounding him, and the guilt slamming into him is that of a healthy horse knocking him down.

Only now is he more than aware of how foolish his sentiments are, concerning the boy taller but more brittle than him. Only now does he, Emperor Philza, wish he never noticed the unconscious commoner in the forest and instead his son.

If you were better, his doubt says, would his eyes open again—will he even smile at you after?

His wife must be cursing him from the skies.

His grandson nears, and words are exchanged. His son cradles the burnt out, fallen star even tighter, appearing to drown in his own thoughts. And he, the father who’s done every wrong and no right, with trembling fingers, dares to touch the crown prince’s pale skin. There, where there should be even the faintest of beats, is nothing but a horrid tranquility.

If the crows are chanting, there is only one meaning to this all; why his son is limp, why the prince has fallen, why the nobility know already what flowers shall be planted on his grave, why his second drags whoever he can to the darkened oceans with him—

Theseus has died.

And the last words he ever heard were akin to a command of a ruler towards a mere commoner.

Emperor Philza, no longer a father, for the first time in years, and the second time in his entire lifetime, cries.

A crown signifies one’s power and authority over the people; it also represents hope and stability, for the one who bears it on their head shall also bear the responsibility of serving the people as a pillar of strength. Being a pillar of power and authority means being burdened with the task to keep the country afloat to ease the people's hearts.

A crown means that the one who wears it shall display the epitome of grace, knowledge, and perfection—to lead with an iron fist as well as a compassionate heart.

Dream is no stranger to the weight of a crown; made of the lightest material adorned with the finest of gems   neatly sitting atop dark golden locks. Such diadem was tailored to fit perfectly and almost featherlike, yet seeing it on the crown prince of the Antarctic Empire feels as if it is too big, with a chin held high yet shoulders seemingly weighed down by something heavy.

A weight unseen, yet restricting all the same. 

Ever since he frequented in visiting the pale boy (he has become paler every time he visited, as if the life in him is slowly being drained), Dream has seen through what he thought was an impenetrable iron wall that was currently crumbling right before his eyes—behind the steely facade of the crown prince with ice cold glares was no other than a mere child who grew up too fast. He has been able to see the cracks in his mask, the times when he looked longingly at the Imperial Family members if only for just a second.

The crown-prince stands so close to them yet so, so far. How much he would have loved to give everything to the crown prince, but no luxury could ever outweigh the love Prince Theseus sought from his family.

He loved them unconditionally, but it will never be reciprocated.

Who knew that such yearning could form thorny vines to coil around his lungs that his breathing has become noticeably stunted and shallow, and roots to dig deep into his heart that has been aching for love for so long. Who knew such unrequited love could form into the most lush and vibrant of flowers from a boy too pale and now devoid of life—

Dream is quick to act when he sees the crown prince stagger and tip forward, knees hitting the ground as his arms find a collapsed Theseus, trying to get him closer, but a greedier hold snatches him away. Prince Wilbur, in all his damning glory, holds the fallen star with more love than Dream has ever seen him express.

And he’s drowning, he realizes, body slumping to his knees with every tremor running free underneath his skin. Both of them are.

The commotion catches the crowd’s attention, sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued, and they start to form a circle, whispering under their breaths, but Dream could care less about reputation. He’s too busy spiraling into a pit of hysteria when he notices the petals gathering onto his palms, bloody and vibrant and full of life.

—no, they’re not just measly petals and a flower or two; almost a whole bouquet of flowers litters the pristine marble tiles with hints of crimson here and there, the same vermilion shade coloring the crown prince’s lips. The blood splatters do not help alleviate his nerves as the boy in Prince Wilbur’s arms, who he pitifully grasps the wrist of, proceeds to vomit various types of flowers, enough that his sister would call it a garden, and the thought sickens him to the core.

There’s the shattering of glass, but he can’t focus on it; the emperor yells, but it’s mere buzzing in his ear.

For once, Dream is at a loss for what to do as Theseus gets paler and paler every second even when the brunet prince repeatedly whispers for him to not close his eyes with desperation never found before.

He can see Prince Technoblade be a fool in his younger brother’s last moments, and a wretched part of him wishes to grab the white-haired general by the throat and scream, There’s no turning back. Love him, love him in place of the years you’ve spent not.

But his voice isn’t found, and the prince with scarred hands appears the most scared out of all of them.

Dream accepts the churning of his gut, accepts the fact he’s helpless on this very day which changes everything.

Too late, some part of his mind croons. Too fucking late.

When Theseus falls, flowers bloom. Wilbur doesn’t know where they come from, nor does he wish to know, because he’s sure the answer will be unsatisfactory. What a bitter twist of irony, some part of him thinks, as his brother—and there’s jealousy, vitriolic jealousy because no, when was the last time they were brothers, since he has been considered something other than a pest?—crumbles and hits the ground with a terrible thud.

Flowers, as brilliant as they are, have never interested Theseus. (Far too vibrant and demanding, he once declared. Far too expressive and blinding to the eyes, something I can never have, Wilbur had read in between the lines, smirking sweetly.)

The crown that he has carried faithfully, since the very moment he lowered his head in front of the High Priest and accepted the weight he should have never been burdened with; majestic and bejeweled, heavy and exhausting, follows not soon later. It hits the ground with a ringing clink, rolling to a stop at Emperor Philza’s feet, a daunting yet lonely sight at its departure from the nest of golden curls.

And then—

Nothing.

No pained gasp, no embarrassed remarks, no rushed apology, no reddening cheeks in shame.

Something in his chest frays, trembling and taut, the length of a worn-out rope with no calloused hand. Whispers ripple through the crowd, baffled, delighted, concerned.

The crown prince does not get up. He does not move either.

As seconds tick by, as the silence, broken only by muffled conversations, drags on, there is no stirring. Wilbur’s breath hitches and he feels a strange—lies, you know what this is, you felt what this is, you—numbness trickles through his veins.

“...Theseus?”

The emperor’s uncertainty is the guillotine. Wilbur lurches forward, and he’s not the only one. As he staggers, disoriented, like a man just pulled out of a chilly river, dragged to an abyss he barely escaped out of pure spite, movement in his peripherals alert him of the fact that not far behind him, there is a wave of people—familiar people no less, rushing towards Theseus.

His little brother, cradled in Prince Dream’s arms, before the greediest part of his soul steals him away, like he should have, nights and years ago; his little brother… Who isn’t moving.

He’s not moving.

He’s not brea—

Firm resolve shutters over his face, drips through him until he’s sure his movements are stilted and ungraceful, sure his fingers and trembling and that he’s dithering like a fool under his breath. His chest burns with a fervent intensity, the low hum and crackling of fire and gasoline seeping through the cracks of his heart as he stares, tugs at his little brother’s body, praying for a miracle because he feels, he can just know.

His brother’s face is ashen yet unmarred, ghostly, as if—as if touched by something no one else can see. When he presses a gentle hand to his forehead, it’s startlingly hot.

Nothing.

There is nothing.

In the period of his concentrated resolve, pandemonium has erupted around him. The whispers have grown into sharp gasps and shaky inquiries, and as his sight warps, twisting and churning in violent fragments of the ugly bile he can feel rising in his throat, he grows keenly aware of the bodies pressing at his side, of the writhing mass and extended arms, of reassurances and pleads and sobs.

Distantly, he recognizes who is beside him. Techno, with his striking white hair, and Prince Dream, green eyes swallowed by horror and understanding. Distantly, he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does, he just needs to wake Theseus up, that’s the only thing he has to do, as a brother, as the older brother, it’s his job, it’s, it’s, it’s—

And then there is a voice, different from the rest, too small and broken to be—

“Uncle Theseus?”

“No,” Wilbur rasps hoarsely, throat bobbing shakily. “No, no, no, Fundy stop. Don’t look. Fundy, no, don’t look, look away Fundy, please—”

“Dad,” Fundy whispers, and he can feel a small body burrowing its way into his side, can feel small hands clawing at the hem of his shirt, nails digging into his skin.

Desperate, innocent, wishing, and undeniably foolish.

A youthful dream, one he and his brothers shall never receive nor experience ever again.

“Dad, please, what’s wrong with Uncle Theseus? Dad. Dad, why—why is Uncle Theseus lying on the ground. Dad!”

Wilbur has never been good at dealing with emotions. He drowns in them, allows them to cloud his throats and strangle all sense out of him, becomes a noose that he delights to shackle from. It explains many aspects of his behavior.

(His mother once said, fond and kind, that he feels too much, too strongly, and that it can be his greatest strength or greatest weakness. My son, she had hummed, arms cradling him in her embrace. I can see what you’ll go through. I can see that your heart has so many emotions, love, hate, happiness, anguish, to give out. You must remember that not everyone feels as much as you do, and that it can get overwhelming. Promise me, you’ll try.)

“Wilbur,” Techno croaks, pale. He’s shaking, lips parted as he pulls Theseus close, batting away the sea of hands reaching for the young prince, prying him away from the foreign prince who has no place. “Wilbur, he’s—”

And Wilbur is a drowning man. He does what every other drowning man does.

“No.”

He pulls the other down with him.

Techno’s standing, and then, in the next breathless breath, he hears the crash of his youngest brother descending from their father’s throne, crown pitifully out of his grasp. There’s a minute, and then two, with more fleeting seconds slipping away, and then Techno finally realizes that—“…Theseus?”—will not be getting up, will not open his eyes again, will not be able to laugh or smile or frown or whine or even cry after this.

And when he runs, a guillotine quickly after his next, he doesn’t even pay Ranboo a penny of his attention, crashing into his side which leaves the dual-haired boy toppling to the ground, glass shattering alongside Techno’s composure.

And when Wilbur snatches Theseus from Prince Dream’s arms, like a starved madman, Techno could do anything but reach out and tell if his dearest brother is gone.

He promised he’d protect Theseus, that he would become his sword and shield—and he has fulfilled those roles impeccably.

But from his pale skin, the crimson petals, and the dull sheen cast over his eyes, a slow and painful acknowledgement washes over him: he’s failed as a brother, and—He’s long gone, the cold, uncaring side of his curses out. He won’t ever come back now.

And Techno cries, but no one hears, and he cries and cries and never recovers while chaos swallows the entire ballroom.

The only thing keeping him grounded to reality is the realization that, Oh. He stares at his brother’s corpse. We need to prepare a funeral now, again.

In between one breath and another, Ranboo sees the crown prince talk with the emperor, the atmosphere the heaviest where the father and son are.

The next, the golden-haired boy seems the frailest he has ever been when falling down the short flight of stairs, silver crown following his descent, a deafening silence abruptly cutting into the noisy ballroom when Prince Theseus slumps onto the marble floor with a sharp thud.

People await for the prince to return standing, ready to laugh behind his back when he rushes somewhere to hide after his humiliating stumble.

But he doesn’t.

And like a looming guillotine, a whole minute flies by—a dove watching all of them slowly gain realization about the gravity of the situation. Nobody breaths, agitated when nothing comes after; no whisper, no murmur, not even the sound of tears falling onto the ground.

And Ranboo sucks in a shuddering breath, nearly choking on the air, his hand clenched around a glass of colorful juice (so vibrant, so bright, like flowers on a deathbed) almost slipping and shattering to the ground.

He steadies himself, gathering his composure, suddenly hyper aware that the eyes previously burdening his shoulders moved from him to the prince’s fallen body. Eerily still, akin to that of a corpse, and Ranboo wonders how it’d feel to cradle the cold. Ash builds up in Ranboo’s lungs when the notion fills his thoughts, and even Niki’s words become muted in his senses, eyes only focused on the burnt out star taking the form of winter’s incarnation.

The prince during every unfortunate meeting of theirs bore a mask of disdain and contempt, and yet he feels guilty staying by the sidelines, the moon rising higher and higher into the night sky.

One day, the rock with stolen radiance will also fall, and that future leads Ranboo focusing on someone else other than the fallen prince—"…Theseus?" the emperor says, a whisper, but through the room’s collective silence, it’s as loud as a lion’s roar for a cub bleeding out after a hunt.

Ranboo shakily takes a step forward, a certain regret unknowingly barging into his chest, wrapping vines of self blame around every bone caging his steadily beating heart. Everything appears surreal, like a dream or one of his many, unavoidable nightmares—and Ranboo, seeing crimson coating rosy petals, wishes it is, and though he is naive, maybe even gullible, he’s more than acquaintances with death’s bony hands.

There’s a blur, and Ranboo crumbles to the floor, glass creating an ear-piercing noise when it crashes with him. Raising his gaze, heterochromia eyes widening even further when three figures, one he’s certain rammed into his side to reach Prince Theseus, huddle around the sleeping boy.

Please, the world pleads, be sleeping, and wake up again. Rest, as long as you want, but open your eyes after.

But the part of Ranboo, who’s suffered cuts and wounds and broken bones, already suspects the Empire’s fate just by the crimson framing the prince’s face, with crushed flowers underneath him before Prince Wilbur gathers him into his arms.

Orders are shouted, chaos ensues.

And then, through the wreckage, with Niki desperately trying to help him back to his feet—the prince is still fallen, so what right does he have to stand before him?—a child’s voice announces the verdicts of their crimes, cutting like a guillotine’s blade, “Uncles Theseus?”

Ranboo can’t breathe, wishing it’s all a nightmare. He may hate the prince, but he’d never want this; quietly, he wonders, with his throat restricted even tighter by the slipping time, Is this how Prince Theseus felt while suffocating on flowers?

v.

I would know him at the end of the world, Tubbo remembers thinking, not too long ago. It’s no lie. He has been with Theseus for years, and although time has not weathered all their deputes, the familiarity of the golden-haired boy resembles the constants in his life: the rise of the sun every morning, the chirps of the birds outside his window.

Companionship with the crown prince is easy. Falling in line beside him and chattering his way through walks is easy. Lazing together, shoulders pressed against each other in a half-hearted attempt to keep warm on the snow-ridden meadows is easy. Late nights under the candle-light, reluctant confessions and the glimpse into vulnerability is easy.

I know him, he will think as their gazes meet, something startlingly similar to mischief churning behind chilly glares.

I know him, he will say, when questioned excessively on the crown prince’s whereabouts.

I know him, he will mouth to himself as he watches his friend, his best friend turn away haughtily, grace and poise lining the slope of his shoulders. 

Tubbo knows Theseus. 

So why. Why doesn’t he know this? 

Theseus’ funeral is dreary, and Tubbo knows that the golden-haired boy must be aggravated at the sight.

("I don’t want a dismal send-off,” he had muttered.

“People will mourn you, of course it’ll be dismal,” Tubbo had replied.

“...You’re wrong.")

Hollow, mirthless chuckles rise from his throat. Oh, the irony. His fingers clench around the flower in his hands—there shall be no flowers at my funeral—and he looks up at the skies. It’s raining too, raining, not snowing: light drizzles that do little more than dampen his hair, as if the heavens themselves are mourning the death of the crown prince.

“I told you,” he murmurs, pretending not to feel the warmth trickling down the side of his face. “I’m never wrong. See? People are mourning you.”

“T—Tubbo?”

Tubbo inhales sharply, stifling the sobs that threaten to rise from his throat. “Sorry, give me a second.”

He strides forward, pushing his way past the small crowd of people that had been gathering at the foot of Theseus'—there was another name, there was something else—casket. Emperor Philza, Prince Wilbur, General Technoblade, and Prince Dream. Only the latter visibly notices his appearance, and the venomous narrowing of those vermillion eyes, sour and bitter and gleaming with thinly veiled malice, does not put him off.

He swallows, stares down at…at the body of his best friend. 

Theseus is pale. He is dressed in the finest of silks, but even the jewels and carcanets cannot hide the stricken grief and resignation of his last expression. Scattered around him, different colors and shapes and sizes, are flowers. Tubbo isn’t a florist, but he can identify some of the more well-known blossoms.

There are purple hyacinths, white carnations, spring crocuses, foxgloves, asters, alliums, snapdragons, and a single desert rose placed over his chest. Theseus coughed up morning glories, Tubbo remembers, flinching at the thought of the mysterious sickness, and of his friend dropping to the ground like a stone.

He stares at the flower in his own hands, which mildly resembles such. Bold, golden petals, ostentatious ruffles that demand for attention. 

Oh, he thinks, choked up with emotion. They really are alike. Tubbo really does know Theseus, until the very end. 

He gently lays a singular sunsprite on Theseus’ head, rests it in the dip of those golden curls, and cries.

In a faraway place where no mortals shall disrupt, a dark-haired specter opens her arms. “Welcome home, Tommy.”