They were kicked out of the Starbucks at 9:30.

Tommy wondered what the college-aged girl thought when she saw two full-grown men with untouched coffees searching for a cupcake shop on Google Maps.

But now they stood in the empty parking lot, not wanting to stay and not wanting to go either.

It was common courtesy, a sense of duty, that made Tommy offer to go to his house.

So Tommy brushed off the napkins and receipts from the passenger's seat, and Tubbo climbed in.

No cars were on the street.

Maybe, if this happened when that bond between them was still unbreakable, they would do something crazy, raise their hands out of the car windows maybe, pump music into the night.

Did they really have that type of bond, akin to soulmates, once upon a time?

Tommy wonders if maybe it's just a dream.

The car ride back was awkward.

And silent.

Tommy had half the mind to be embarrassed by the state of his house.

Clothes piled in heaps. Takeout food and Coke cans.

Tubbo looked like he was about to say something, but he didn't.

Tommy missed the easy way they joked around.

Tubbo sat down at the table and got to work.

Tommy went over to the ice box.

"Beer?" Tommy asked.

"I don't drink," Tubbo responded gruffly. "Because of my dad."

"Oh," Tommy said guiltily. "I forgot."

"I didn't."

---

Tommy still remembered the night Tubbo had run away.

It would be the first of many times.

And he would always run to Tommy.

And for some reason, that comforted him more than anything.

That he was needed.

Tubbo was throwing pinecones against his window.

He always said that he would do that if he was in trouble, because, he reasoned, rocks would break the window, and Tommy's dad would be mad.

As if that mattered.

As if it mattered if Tubbo was in trouble.

It didn't.

It never would.

His aim was horrible.

Tommy opened up the window.

Tubbo was tearful, Tommy could even see that from his bedroom window. Snot and tears were running down his face, chest rising up and down with panic in his striped pajamas. He looked so small, standing on the wet grass.

They were 12.

"Dad's been drinking again," was all he said.

"I'm going down. Stay there."

Tommy remembered darting about, grabbing blankets, bandages he didn't know what to do with, grapes from the kitchen. His feet pitter-pattered quickly down the stairs, navy pants swishing.

The clock on the oven read 11:23.

Tommy still remembered that number so clearly.

He wondered why.

When Tommy burst out the back door, Tubbo was still standing in the same place dutifully.

As always, Tommy spoke first.

"Hey, hey, are you cold? I've got blankets, I've got bandages, grapes-"

"Mom left," Tubbo blubbered out, tears bursting out of his eyes. They always came easily. But Tommy could never call him a crybaby. "Mom took the car and left me-"

"It's ok, it's ok, Tubs, don't cry, wipe your face, there you go-" Tommy wanted to cry too, for some reason, even though he knew he had no reason. "Your Dad's a prick, a fucking prick, you know that-"

"That's a bad word, Tommy, don't say that," Tubbo's voice was muffled from underneath the blanket.

Tommy's feet were muddy and the grass itched his ankles.

"He's a bad person."

"He's not, he's not, people don't work that way." Tubbo was always that way. Tubbo always forgave people.

Tommy did not.

Maybe it was balance.

Maybe it wasn't.

"He loves me, but..."

It is that fault in Tubbo's eyes, in his voice, that kills Tommy.

Because Tubbo deserved love without a fault, without a jagged crack down the middle.

Crisp, cool, clear.

It was a muggy night.

The rain had already come and went.

Lights with wings buzzed around.

Maybe if it was another night, Tubbo would've said.

Oh, look.

Fireflies.

But it was not another night.

So they climbed up and up and up to escape.

Maybe if they climbed high enough, they would be like the stars.

Dazzling.

When Tubbo was 15, his mom left his dad.

Unlike that night, she took Tubbo with her. Even so, Tommy did not forgive her.

His dad lost custody.

They sold the house with the bunk beds.

Tubbo's mom sent him to therapy.

---

"He died a few years back, you know," Tubbo says out of the blue. "My dad."

Tommy's eyebrows go up. "How?"

"Heart failure."

The silence is thicker than wine.

Blood should've been thicker than wine.

Blood should've been thicker than water.

Tommy should've been a huge torrent, a river.

He should've washed all that blood off.

"I'm sorry," Tommy says.

And it is not enough.

It is not enough.

Tubbo doesn't say anything.

Tommy never liked it when he was silent.

"Did you feel relieved?" Tommy blurts out.

Tubbo looks at him, the first eye contact they've made since the coffee shop. It's embarrassing and striking and it's a downright call-out.

"No, Tommy," He says plainly. "He was my dad."

"I cried."

And Tommy's silence said:

I should've been there.

And Tubbo's said:

But you weren't.

---

There once was a father that had found a lake of nectar meant to be served to the gods.

The father gazed at it in wonder. He had never seen anything as rich or golden before.

"Just one sip," said the man. "I just want to taste it."

But one sip turned into two, then three, then 100, the father coming back to the lake every day, as sure as the Earth spins around its axis.

The nectar was bubbly, and it filled him with desire, pleasure, and youth.

But one day the gods found him.

"Repent," They said. "Or your son will face the consequences."

"No!" The father cried. "Please do not punish him, for he is just a boy!"

Because the father loved his son, that was true.

But he also loved the nectar.

And though you love someone, it doesn't mean that you can't hurt them.

And still, he went back to that lake and he sipped, sipped, sipped.

But he found out too late that the gods had turned the nectar to fire.

And while it burned up his body

It burned up his son's soul.