꧁sbi family oneshots꧂

⭐️🥀A boy who ceased to exist🥀⭐️

This was a request from a WHILE ago from non-other than.... I_stan_ur_mom

⸻

He went through with his promise.

"I'll just revive you and then I'll kill you again, and then I'll revive you and then kill you again, and then I'll revive you and then kill you again, and then I'll revive you and then kill you again!"

The words rang in Tommy's head constantly. It was so loud it hardly allowed him to think. Speaking was hell. And the world around him felt fake, muffled, and distant. Being dead was quiet. Being revived was noise. And now? Now he was just... here. In between.

He didn't cry anymore. He hadn't in a long time. It didn't occur to him to do so.

⸻

Phil noticed the white-haired boy first.

He had gone out on patrol—just a walk, really, to clear his head, to shake off the growing unease he refused to admit lived in his chest. But then, at the edge of the forest near the old battlefield, he saw him. A small figure sitting on a broken stone, still as the grave.

"...Tommy?"

The name slipped out before he could stop it. The boy looked up slowly. His eyes were pale, not from age or genetics, but from wear. Exhaustion, old beyond his years. His gaze didn't brighten at the sound of Phil's voice. It didn't flicker. He didn't move. He didn't even flinch.

Phil's blood ran cold.

The hair was the wrong color. Bone white. Not the usual messy golden blonde. And his face—God, his face—was thinner. Tired. Hollow. He looked like a photo left out in the sun too long. Faded.

Phil stepped closer, slowly. "Tommy, it's me. It's Dad."

The boy blinked.

"...Which one are you?" he asked softly. His voice was barely there. Brittle.

Phil's chest caved in.

⸻

Technoblade didn't believe it at first.

"You're lying," he muttered when Phil came back, pale and shaking. "Tommy's fine. He's in the house. He was in the kitchen this morning, stealing toast."

"He's not," Phil whispered. "Or... maybe he was. But this—this one's not him. Not anymore."

Wilbur insisted on seeing for himself. The three of them went back, hearts pounding, dread sinking in like molasses.

And there he was. Still sitting. Still silent.

Wilbur tried to joke. "Dude, what's with the old man hair?"

The boy didn't even smile.

Instead, he looked straight at Wilbur, eyes blank. "You died screaming," he said, calm as winter wind. "You bled out before Dream even meant to kill you."

Wilbur froze. His face went pale.

Phil instinctively stepped between them. "Tommy—"

"Not Tommy," he interrupted, voice flat. "He stopped being Tommy around the fiftieth time. After that it was just a name people yelled. He doesn't live here anymore."

Technoblade, who hadn't said a word, crouched in front of the boy.

"You remember me?" he asked.

The boy tilted his head slightly.

"You used to cry when I left. You don't anymore. You don't do much of anything."

Techno swallowed hard. "I'm sorry."