T.S. & T._. ( A clingyduo story )

"𝙷𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚢."

The beginning of exile was brief- tolerable even, and Tommy learned to let days pass quietly,

because his hope of return still burned so brightly that it could survive weeks . But those weeks did pass, and there was no return. The nights melted into shapeless skies, and dried tears as the cold flap of ocean wind flicked sand and ocean salt over his skin. Tommy would just sit thinking. He has so much, and so little.

And he would remember the hours spent curled next to a fire as a kid, the silhouette of his big brother sat beside him, poking fun at ancient stories, carved by myths and tragedies.

Technoblade , the brother with the books and the words, not the guitar or the dreams. He can still feel his shadow beside him, but it's no longer safe.

He'd shed tears for him once, for the both of them, now he wishes he never did.

And through the fading memory, he can hear Technoblade's faint, daunting voice that used to be drowned in so much warmth.

"I know how men in exile feed on dreams"

It was from an old book, Aeschylus- the Greek Tragedian, Techno read a lot of him, once.

Tommy remembers.

He thinks it would be easier if he forgot.

______

Halfway through the second month Tommy accidentally creates blue ink when he messes up a potion, out of anger he breaks the glass and watches the dark silky liquid seep through the cracks in his fingers, dripping down to the ground where it puddles and mixes with dirt. And there's something strangely cathartic about the way it seeps into the ground, forever gone.

Another day passes and Tommy gets an idea, it's brief and shallow but he can't let it go. So he tries again and another bottle of ink is created, this time it's black.

And Tommy knows how to make paper, Philza taught him as a kid, so he gathers what he can find and blends and mixes, presses and pulls, then hangs out to dry until the first 10 sheets are created. They're not perfect in shape, not entirely white, and have cracks in a few places, but Tommy can write on them.

And he's shy at first, there are hesitation marks at the beginning of the lines because he doesn't know what will come of them. And truly, they start out as nothing really, a few big words he remembers Wilbur telling him, Stupid doodles that he crosses out anyway. But then a line forms, then the next, and once he starts he can't stop, his quill dips faster  as his mind picks up and some stray drops escape onto paper, his handwriting is smooth and free, jagged at moments, but he doesn't care.

And yes, Tommy found solace with ink and paper, the beginning of truth that spilled from his eyes and onto his palms, as his fingers dared to keep up with his mind. And the poems began to form, most of them for Tubbo, or about him. And he created piles, words poured in a flood onto parchment, and the lines of his tent flap, he found them starting in the margins of the few books Dream allowed him to have. And he didn't care if they were good, or horrible, they were just for himself.

And it gave him an escape, one so distant yet so clear, he never wanted to leave, or stop. because they brought back all the broken pieces of himself, of Tubbo and Wilbur, that he missed, dearly. And at nights Tommy would hold the shattered pieces in his hands, while solitude carried his weeping out to sea, and he would feed on dreams.

______

And there were so many poems, the young ones, that didn't make it past the first line, he wasn't quite ready to let those take flight, and there were also the poems that flew too far , too fast, that dove deep into his chest and left feathers spilling from his heart. Those were the poems that he let die, scribbled over in dark ink, or burned to ashes. With nothing left to show but the memory of the smell of smoke and dried tear marks on ruined paper. Some were painful, some too soft to let the tears sting, but they all stayed with him, and he knew they always would.