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.

And Tommy almost wants to tell them, be careful, my touch is black and poisonous.

Go get him! They cheer. Valiant, beautiful hero.

And Tommy almost tells them, I am not beautiful. I am tragic.

Is that beautiful to you?

But the cameras flash, and Tommy spreads out his arms.

And his heart screams: Love me, love me, love me.

He sees flames licking a car that has crashed, beautifully shattered against the building.

He knows Wilbur's hands had steered and crashed it, the same hands that had pulled him down from the edge.

Someone emerges from behind it as Tommy basks in the light.

And Tommy sees a face that is not Wilbur.

It does not have red eyes.

It does not have sharp teeth.

It does not have long talons.

It's just a boy.

And this boy is scared and cold and confused in the rain, shoes too big for his feet placed unsurely on the asphalt, gun loaded in his hand like he was scared of it.

Tommy knows what happens next.

It's in the script.

The boy knows too.

He knows he will lose.

Because the hero always beats the villain.

But still, he charges forward.

The first punch comes, and Tommy falls out of the way. The boy swings and swings, just like the paper told Tommy he would.

Everything's going according to plan.

Tommy stands up, stopping the boy's fist in his palm.

It's warm.

Tommy looks up and notices that the boy has these blurry, brown eyes.

Blurry, brown eyes.

He spots a familiar word hanging off his badge, hung on his neck foolishly.

"Tubbo."

Tommy says, the word falling out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Like they had lived a thousand lives and he had called that name a thousand times.

"Your name is Tubbo."

And Tubbo isn't fighting anymore, he's just looking up with those brown eyes and Tommy can't place the expression on his face as he pulls his fist away.

He doesn't know why some part of him hopes that it is recognition.

Neither moves.

Tommy stares.

Tubbo stares.

They both see strangers.

And Tommy immediately wishes they weren't.

The cameras click and the thunder booms but Tommy can only see this villain in front of him.

And he knows he cannot hurt him.

Something deep inside his chest told him the absolute wrongness of hurting this boy, it rebelled and screamed and yelled at him to not do it.

Not him, his head screams. Anybody but him, you selfish hero.

And that's when Tommy realized, they were both looking at each other like the other was a monster.

But they were just confused, fucking tragic parallels.

Confused, fucking tragic children.

The world is not there.

It's just Tubbo and the ground and the sky.

Tommy inhales, and his breath is stuck in his throat.

Tubbo.

Tubbo.

Where has he heard that name?

His chest tightens.

He knew he must be sad.

But for what?

A stranger?

Yes, his heart says. A stranger.

And the tragedy of not being anything else but a stranger.

But Tommy wants to cry on this stranger's shoulder because his heart tells him that will be the most beautiful place to cry in.

Tommy wanted to cry, right now, sob like he could never again.

His heart hungers for warmth.

He feels everything at that moment, that singular moment, guilt, sadness, joy, washing over him like a tidal wave.

So Tommy's heart, dumbly, fondly, selfishly, steps forward.

All at once, the light of the cameras flashes white on his face, breaking the moment.

And Tubbo's eyes light up with fear, fear, fear.

And Tubbo knows he is not a villain, but yet he shoots.

Bang.

He stumbles backward.

The sound echoes through Tommy's ears.

Something punches him in the shoulder, hard.

It takes a second to realize that it's a bullet.

It takes a second to realize that it's not part of the script.

And it hurts. It hurts so much.

But oh, what hurts more is the blaring, bitter pain of betrayal that Tommy feels shooting through his chest.

Tubbo might as well have shot him in the chest, letting his lump of a heart fall out and flail about in its own blood, aching, aching, the taste of red, sloppy blood and failure.

It clatters and pumps slowly on the streets, the cameras catching every moment of it, illuminating it with light, millions watching hungrily, asking:

What will you do now, little hero, now that the villain has shot out your heart?

Somewhere, in another universe, Tubbo is helping him up, the distant echo of laughter swimming through Tommy's brain.

But here, right here, Tubbo drops the gun, and it clatters to the asphalt as he backs away, shaking.

KILL HIM! The voice screams as Tommy's hand clasps around the gun, his vision swimming with red.

You are a hero!

You are righteous!

You defeat the villains!

But Tommy looks at those brown eyes, and he can't.

He can't.

He just can't.

Everything hurts.

So much.

His heart hurts.

So much.

Someone, help me, please.

He looks at the thousands of people watching, and he knows none of them will save him.

And what's even worse is that Tubbo won't save him.

So he runs.

Tommy Innit runs.

Away from the cameras.

Away from the world.

Away from Tubbo.

Away from his beating heart.

He runs to the only place he knows.

Back to the foundation building.

He thinks he hears voices behind him and he runs even faster, tripping over his feet.

Black spots splotch his vision as his feet slap against the pavement.

It feels like an eternity, blood flooding out of his body as his legs struggled with his weight.

And his cheeks feel cold.

If he reaches up, he can feel warm tears.

Somehow, the guards let him in, and he wanders around the white hallways, feeling more tired by the second.

His eyes droop as he leans against the wall.

He does not think of heroes and villains at that moment.

He is dripping blood all over the white tile floors.

He thinks of Tubbo.

He thinks of brown eyes.

He thinks of Wilbur.

He thinks of warmth.

It suddenly occurs to him that he wants to die in someone's arms.

Maybe he would be beautiful then, if he went that way.

So he knocks on the door next to his and waits for death.