It was nighttime in the park.
Tommy breathed out sharply, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Tubbo nodded at him from where they stood, listening to the stand-up comedy routine of the Phantom girl that stands before them.
He wished he hadn't watched the home videos that Puffy had recorded with a broad smile of him learning to fly. He saw himself, younger, covering the camera, embarrassed at his low score he'd gotten on the simulator—though looking back, a two-hundred and ten for a six-year-old was extremely good. He heard Sam's laugh in the background, and his heart hurt.
There were hundreds of these videos stored in Clementine's archives. Some of them were like this—of him and the other crew, doing what they did—and others of mission reports. They were boring mission reports, some of them, but he'd listened to one or two—just to hear their voices again.
In the older ones, there were videos of his mother. She had his blue eyes and red hair and a wicked grin—he knew where he'd gotten his recklessness; why Sam had loved the Avian called Clara.
He could only stomach a few minutes of it before turning it off.
He hadn't touched the videos addressed to him. He couldn't stomach that either—maybe he was a coward, but he could barely watch the ones of his younger self. That was a whole other can of worms. They had been made with laughter and the knowledge that when he was older, they would watch them together and reflect on his growth.
He would be alone when he watched them. He would feel the spaces of his family on his sides, and he would be in more pain than ever—and so Tommy shoved them down and did not touch them.
Tubbo nudged him slightly, and Tommy blinked, distantly hearing the roaring crowd as the Phantom girl gave a small, nervous bow and the curtains shut so that the stage crew could promptly redesign the stage.
Tommy knelt down and opened the violin case, his fingers shaking slightly as he exhaled. He would be fine.
This was fine.
They had practically not talked to anybody for three days so they could practice—over and over and over and over. It wasn't perfect, but three-day practices never were.
Tommy watched as the stage crew quickly put together a grand piano—Gods knew how much fucking practice they had with that, but fortunately, they didn't have to fucking carry it onto the stage—what with it being the modern era and all that.
The stage crew exited the stage, one of them giving the thumbs up that they were ready and done. Tubbo nodded as the crowd settled down and the curtains opened, the Shulker padding over to the piano. Off the wings of the stage, Tommy could barely see the dozens—hundreds?—of people sitting on blankets in the late-spring park, watching the talent that the Fleet school students had.
It was dark, except for the single spotlight that lid up the seat of the piano Tubbo now sat at. As per the plan, Tommy stayed off to the side, waiting for his musical cue.
He recognized one of the judges to be Ant and felt slightly sour right then and there—as Phil had been the ones to go to his coaches and tell them that he'd quit track. But—he hadn't been able to handle it, couldn't be able to handle it.
The violin in his hands with Sniff's initials on it suddenly felt heavier than the weight of the world combined, and Tommy almost—almost walked away.
No, Tubbo was right.
He was Tommy-fucking-Innes, and he could do this. He'd been through worse than a stupid performance, after all.
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The Childrens Rebellion
قصص الهواةthis fanfic is not mine it belongs to @Aria_Cinbun on Ao3 His name was Tommy Innes, and he was born to touch the stars. Of course, touching the stars was going to have to wait, because he'd lost that dream the moment his parents had died when he was...
