Fower Boy

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺 ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Tommy was going soft.

That's what younger Tommy would've said.

Carrying a bundle of wood in a wheelbarrow, he had the sleeves of his red wool cardigan rolled up as he worked. It was oversized and comfy, a gift from the sheep hybrid Puffy, who he had accepted it from with some apprehension. He didn't want pity, didn't need it, but Puffy had convinced it in the end it was a gift. Plus, it was hard for him these days to wear his classic red and white tee. It reminded him of someone who he was not anymore. Someone who had more faith in the world and more blindness to tragedy. Someone who hadn't yet had to repair that shirt thousands of times over years of fighting and ripping and abuse. So for now, it lay carefully folded in one of his chest, like a baby blanket tucked away for memories down the line.

He still had his old tan pants and his trusty work boots he had snagged from Techno's. He still had the entire fit Techno had gifted him, the white ruffled shirt, blue insulated gloves and pants, and a dramatic blue gradient cape with furred edges, but he had long since lost his right to wear it proudly. Maybe he'd wear the gloves when it got cold again, and he still used the boots, and he still had the emerald earring in. It was a fond memory, the day Tommy convinced Techno to pierce his ear, and he hadn't had the strength to let the hole close yet.

He was carrying wood too and from the forest and his house, working hard for the last couple of days. His house had gotten to a point of disarray to where he could no longer use dirt to patch the sides of the hill. He took dirt from the hill, it was too destroyed and overused from repair after repair that it crumbled in his fingers like sand pebbles. No matter how much he tried to make sod, the dirt was so tired from explosion after fire after destruction that it was useless. And he couldn't take any dirt from the ground without the risk of causing a sinkhole from all the tunnels he had built, so he was forced into a corner. He couldn't abandon his home. After he fought so hard for it. It was the only land he had left. So, for the stability of the area and the lack of other options, he had given in and switched to wood.

A while ago it would've been easy to get wood. He could walk into his backyard and chop down a tree from thousands. But as time has come, nature has receded from civilization, and now it was a whole day's journey for wood. It was hard work, it required carts and planning and thinking. But Tommy had time now. Lots of time. Too much time. Too much time to think, too much time to get lost, too much time to be alone, so he welcomed the work. Just him and his un-enchanted axe, chopping and working for days on end, then him and his nails and hammers, using everything he had learned over the years to not only make something structurally sound, but something beautiful and to be proud of.

Yeah, past Tommy would've thought he'd gone soft. Past Tommy would've ridiculed work, would've tried to swindle some unsuspecting soul into being his 'employee' or something, most likely Tubbo who Tommy was almost 90% sure now was just playing along and not actually fooled. Past Tommy would've had something to say about the scars, maybe possibly admiration for them, for the shattered glass shaped scar that ran from the top of his right forehead at his part, that ran over his eye and down his face and lip, or maybe he'd have something to say about the scratch marks across his back or knife scars on his arm, asking about the battle stories he'd assume were victories. Maybe he'd frown at the terrible scarring on his right foot, frostbite almost claiming his entire leg and now he walked with a bit of a hobble and had to take more breaks while working. Maybe past Tommy would comment how his hair looked so much like their Father's now that it was longer and in a ponytail, or maybe he'd say something about how his white streaks made him look old and he wouldn't want to tear them out from his scalp like how Present Tommy had tried. Maybe he'd say something about the weight he'd gained, healthy weight that Tubbo and Ranboo had been encouraging him to gain, bless their souls they were working so hard despite how Tommy knew how much of an ass he could be. They would deliver meals even if he'd refuse and dump them out, and once they caught on they'd stay and make him eat. They didn't understand. They didn't understand he wasn't hungry. Like how he wasn't hungry on the front lines and the trenches when rations were scarce. How he wasn't hungry in Pogtopia before Techno came along, teaching them how to grow potatoes underground. How he wasn't hungry in exile, when Dream would only feed him when he deserved it and destroyed any farm he tried to set up. How he wasn't hungry in prison, when all he had was potatoes, potatoes that were once again in Dream's control, and he'd rather starve than be under that bastard's finger, and he'd throw the food into the lava. No, they didn't understand, but they made Tommy understand that they wouldn't leave him alone as long as he was starving himself. So Tommy had been gaining weight, good weight, happy weight (that's what Tubbo called it) and now as he worked, he started gaining muscles again. He could see the definition in his arms, definition he didn't have until about the very end of his stay with the Arctic empire where Techno was feeding him and training him and watching over him. Goodness, that was so long ago. And Tommy hated looking at his body, but when Ranboo and Tubbo looked at him pleased, it made him smile a bit.