𝖈𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖉𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 - a dream smp au

chapter 8 - i feel too much or i don't feel enough and i hate it

Tommy didn't know whether he should cry or not.

He didn't know why he felt a crushing feeling in his chest.

He slid down the white wall of his room, clothes heavy with rain.

I guess he knew, but he couldn't grasp it.

At 14, Tommy did not understand the concept of empathy.

At 14, Tommy pictured villains with red eyes and sharp talons.

At 14, he had only talked to one person.

It had not registered to him, the night before, that Wilbur was a villain, not with his warm hands and crinkles at his brow.

But now, full realization seemed to settle in, rooting its way down.

It seemed like they were different people, that night on the rooftop.

It seemed like they could pretend they were.

Tommy could not ever understand why Wilbur told him to stop, the days after.

And he told himself not to go up to that rooftop again and be weak and feel as weak as he did that night, vulnerable.

It occurred to him, late nights, that Wilbur had this version of him, this weak version of him, in his mind, and probably looked down on him for it.

Tommy couldn't let him look at him like that.

Because for fucks sake,

He was a hero.

He was righteous.

He defeated the villains.

He served the foundation.

Because the foundation made the world a better place.

But he was not.

The darkening in his chest got worse.

Why is that? His brain asks. Why are you being weak? Why do you feel? You promised you wouldn't.

But yet Tommy did.

And even though Wilbur was a villain, he wasn't a monster that Tommy paraded around in his mind to ease the guilt and accuse.

Wilbur was so unexplainably human, so human because he could see those human eyes and that human heart cracking when he left.

And the voice calls out:

Guilt, or no guilt? You think too much, hero.

Tommy tries to agree with it, and he stands up.

But inside, his heart cries and asks why why why why did we leave him?

And his brain replies: Because we don't deserve to be happy.

A folder is shoved under his door, and Tommy picks it up gingerly.

It's a script.

Tommy could laugh bitterly at the irony.

And he does, until he chokes and sputters as the guards lead him out of his room.

He continues to laugh, eyes blurry as it echoes around the elevators and the hallways.

He only stops when a shock bruises his back, and he falls silent.

He steps out into the streets, remains of the storm hanging in the air, and immediately cameras click and people cheer and reach out, trying to touch him.