Just one thing that we have in common neither of us will be missed

Перевод песни Saint Bernard (Lincoln)

Saint Bernard

Сенбернар

Hung pictures of patron saints up on my wall
To remind me that I am a fool
Tell me where I came from, what I will always be:
Just a spoiled little kid
who went to Catholic school

When I am dead, I won’t join their ranks
Because they are both holy and free
And I’m in Ohio, satanic and chained up
And until the end, that’s how it’ll be

I said make me love myself,
so that I might love you
Don’t make me a liar, because I swear to God
When I said it, I thought it was true

Saint Calvin told me not to worry about you
But he’s got his own things to deal with
There’s really just one thing that we have in common:
Neither of us will be missed

Saint Bernard sits at the top of the driveway
You always said how you loved dogs
I don’t know if I count, but I’m trying my best
When I’m howling and barking these songs

Повесил картины святых покровителей себе на стену,
Чтобы напомнить себе, что я идиот.
Скажи мне, откуда я родом, кем я всегда буду:
Просто испорченным ребёнком,
который ходил в католическую школу.

Когда я умру, я не вступлю в их ряды,
Ведь они святы и свободны,
А я в Огайо, сатанист и закован в цепи,
И до конца так всё и будет.

Я сказал: «Заставь меня полюбить себя,
и я смогу полюбить тебя.
Не делай меня лжецом, потому что, клянусь Богу,
Когда я сказал это, я думал, что это правда».

Святой Кальвин велел мне не волноваться за тебя,
Но у него есть свои дела.
На самом деле у нас есть одна общая черта:
Ни по кому из нас не будут скучать.

Сенбернар сидит наверху дороги,
Ты всегда говорила, как любишь собак.
Я не знаю, считаюсь ли я, но я стараюсь, как могу,
Когда лаю и вою эти песни.

Перевод Lincoln – Saint Bernard

Текст :

Hung pictures of patron saints up on my wall
To remind me that I am a fool
Tell me where I came from, what I will always be:
Just a spoiled little kid who went to Catholic school

When I am dead, I won’t join their ranks
Because they are both holy and free
And I’m in Ohio, satanic and chained up

Перевод :

На моей стене висели картины покровителей
Напомнить мне, что я дурак
Скажи мне, откуда я, кем я всегда буду
Просто избалованный маленький ребенок, который ходил в католическую школу

Когда я умру, я не буду вступать в их ряды
Потому что они оба святы и свободны
И я в Огайо, сатанинский и прикованный

I said make me love myself, so that I might love you
Don’t make me a liar, because I swear to God
When I said it, I thought it was true

Saint Calvin told me not to worry about you
But he’s got his own things to deal with
There’s really just one thing that we have in common:

Saint Bernard sits at the top of the driveway
You always said how you loved dogs
I don’t know if I count, but I’m trying my best
When I’m howling and barking these songs

Я сказал, заставь меня любить себя, чтобы я мог любить тебя
Не делай меня лжецом, потому что я клянусь Богом
Когда я сказал это, я подумал, что это правда

Святой Кальвин сказал мне не беспокоиться о тебе
Но у него есть свои дела
На самом деле у нас есть только одна общая черта:

Сен-Бернар сидит на вершине дороги
Ты всегда говорил, как любишь собак
Я не знаю, считаю ли я, но я стараюсь изо всех сил
Когда я вою и лаю эти песни

Текст песни Saint Bernard (Lincoln) с переводом

Hung pictures of patron saints up on my wall

To remind me that I am a fool

Tell me where I came from, what I will always be:

Just a spoiled little kid who went to Catholic school

When I am dead, I won’t join their ranks

Because they are both holy and free

And I’m in Ohio, satanic and chained up

And until the end, that’s how it’ll be

I said make me love myself, so that I might love you

Don’t make me a liar, because I swear to God

When I said it, I thought it was true

Saint Calvin told me not to worry about you

But he’s got his own things to deal with

There’s really just one thing that we have in common:

Neither of us will be missed

Saint Bernard sits at the top of the driveway

You always said how you loved dogs

I don’t know if I count, but I’m trying my best

When I’m howling and barking these songs

Перевод песни Saint Bernard

Повесил на стену фотографии святых покровителей,

Чтобы напомнить мне, что я дурак.

Скажи мне, откуда я родом, кем я всегда буду:

Просто избалованным маленьким ребенком, который ходил в католическую школу,

Когда я умру, я не присоединюсь к их рядам,

Потому что они оба святые и свободные,

И я в Огайо, сатанинский и прикованный,

И до конца, вот как это будет.

Я сказал: заставь меня любить себя, чтобы я мог любить тебя.

Не делай меня лжецом, потому что я клянусь Богом.

Когда я сказал Это, я подумал, что это правда.

Святой Кальвин велел мне не волноваться о тебе,

Но у него есть свои дела.

На самом деле, у нас есть только одно общее:

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there’s really just one thing that we have in common (neither of us will be missed)

lifetimeoflaughter

Summary:

The asshole takes another swig, flashing Jason a look. “Everywhere’s a fuckin’ shithole, kid.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You’re out of bourbon,” and the sound of a bottle being set down with more force than is strictly necessary, on the fucker’s other side where Jason can’t reach it.

The Red Hood runs into the Punisher.

April never was a good month for gun-toting, anti-hero vigilante types.

Notes:

hi there! welcome back to another installment of this DC/Marvel crossover where I totally know what I’m doing and am not making this up as I go along. As per usual, everything in both universes exists simultaneously, and New York is just superhero-central. This particular fic takes place after s1 of the Punisher and somewhere before the general shitshow that is DC Rebirth comics.

thank you to Aiza_60 for beta-ing.

Jason, predictably, does not go home. It’s only eight-thirty on a Saturday; peak crime-time didn’t start until eleven, and just because he was having a Bad Day didn’t mean he could take a night off.

Besides. What would he do at home? Sit in the dark? With his thoughts?

Yeah, he’s definitely better off patrolling.

The swampy April air clings to every part of him, dripping off his face and sticking to his leather jacket, thicker than Alfred’s Thanksgiving custard. Not for the first time, he regrets making this his regular get-up, but whenever he thinks of changing it he remembers the original Robin suit (Jesus Christ, Dick) and decides that he’s better off now, even if the summer months are hell sometimes.

The Robin suit. That god-forsaken suit, and the pride of place it holds in the Cave (Bruce’s heart). Sometimes Jason just wants to take a match and burn it all down; the Manor, the Cave, all of it. The shrine they have to the beloved son upstairs, and the one they have for the good soldier below. Both of them are inaccurate, really, he thinks, as he’s greeted by the cheerful chime of a bell from the entrance of the liquor store he just walked into.

Fuck Fake-New York-Batman. Fuck him. The fuck does he know?

He stops at the back of the store, a thousand little Jasons reflected back at him in the various bottles of bourbon and brandy and beer stacked neatly on the shelves. His eyes lazily scan the display, before he grabs two bottles of amber liquid and goes to the counter to pay.

“ID?” Jason scowls at the source of the voice, a middle-aged Indian man behind the counter.

“You’re not fooling anyone, son. I’m not in the business of selling to kids. ID. If you don’t have ID, put the bottles down and get out.”

Grumbling under his breath, Jason roots around in his pockets for his wallet and manages to come up with the fake ID Babs had made for him for his birthday last August. “Because everyone deserves to be able to take a drink on their twenty-first,” she had said. Jason had wondered if he was actually twenty-one all night after that, because what do you count six months of being dead as? A sabbatical from growing up?

“You don’t look twenty-one,” says the man suspiciously, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Babyface,” Jason replies bluntly, and the man shrugs and puts the bottles in a brown paper bag for Jason as he leaves the store.

He cracks one open as soon as he’s back on the street and takes a long swig, and it burns his throat going down but it’s a welcome distraction from the burning in his chest and his eyes. The air hasn’t gotten any less heavy, and the way his skin is slightly flushed isn’t helping matters either.

April. He just had to go and get himself killed in fucking April.

His phone is ringing. Some obnoxious Top40 tune, annoying by design to get his attention.

“ ‘sup, Dickiebird?” It’s a nonchalant reply, with a nickname that’s probably a multiversal constant.

Dick’s right. There are about eleven unread texts from him, five from Tim, a couple from Duke and Stephanie and even a curt, pointed message from Damian. They’re going to remain unread, for the foreseeable future.

“Oh yeah,” drawls Jason. “I guess there are.”

“Are you drunk?” Dick’s always been a good detective. “Do you need someone to come pick you up? I can send Cass or Steph with the Batmobile, if you want.”

“No,” he says slowly.

“No, as in you’re not drunk, or as in I shouldn’t send the car?”

“Both. Either. Neither. I don’t know, Dick,” and his voice breaks a little bit on that last word.

“Oh, Little Wing,” Dick’s voice softens over the phone. It almost leans into pity, but not quite. “Do you want me to come find you? I can be there in ten minutes, Jay. Just tell me where you are.”

“It’s okay, Dick. I’m fine.”

“If not me, then someone else. Please. Don’t spend today alone, Jase. I understand if you don’t want me around, but someone. Anyone. Just. ” Dick trails off, and there’s an empty silence on both sides of the line that neither man can fill and it’s weighty like the surrounding April air, like the man-from-the-bar’s stare, heavy like the door of the coffin that should’ve stayed shut.

How do you tell your brother who thinks you hate him that yeah, you want company but you don’t know how to ask for it? How do you say that no, you don’t want anyone to see you this angry but you still want someone close by? How do you say I’m sorry for trying to kill your kid brother because I was insane or you weren’t as bad a brother as you think you were or it really hurt when you ‘died’ but I don’t hate you because it’s too hard to not be relieved that you’re alive or I wish we could be brothers like we used to be, but better. How do you speak when everything you want to say is like a stone on your chest and you’re drowning in green battery-acid bathwater?

“I’m fine, Dick. I’m- I’ll be fine,” he manages to croak out.

Jason swallows hard. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Yeah.”

“And don’t drink and drive. Please.”

My fight’s not with you, thinks Jason, and he says “Yeah,” before cutting the call.

He’s not sure how he got here, but it’s not in a I’m-going-to-jump kinda way, more like a I-needed-space-to-clear-my-head kinda way. It’s not advisable in his state, because he’s gotten steadily (ha!) unsteady since leaving the bar. The bourbon in the first bottle is almost finished, and as he sits there with his legs swinging idly over the edge he can almost hear Dick saying I told you to be careful! accompanied by the strangely comforting image of slipping and falling off the building. Maybe he’d land flat on his back and he can lie in the garbage-water on the black asphalt and stargaze from his spot smack in the center of Crime Alley.

Or maybe he’d just crack his head open again. It would actually be his fault this time.

It would be a little funny, he thinks, a second gravestone. What would the marker even say now? Beloved. what? brother? Grandson? A second funeral, where everyone stands around shaking their heads sadly because he tripped off a three-story building throwing himself a pity party.

Bruce did always say his sense of humour was fucked. Well, he used to say wacked out because Alfred would’ve had his head if he heard Bruce cursing around Jason.

He reaches for the second bottle in the paper bag and twists off the cap. His knuckles are white around its neck, and he stares unseeingly at the few stars spattered across the reddish-purple sky. Every time he thinks of Bruce, the green at the corners of his corneas threatens to make everything look like it’s been doused in nuclear waste, so he lifts the bottle to his mouth once more.

Nothing from Bruce.

He mourns that little boy too. As a kid, he’d wanted nothing more than to be someone’s son. Anyone’s son. He mourns the grandson that spent Sundays with Alfred in the kitchen, and the boy who spent Friday nights with Bruce on the rooftops or at Saturday afternoon ball games. Hell, he even mourns being the little brother who hung out with Dick when he wasn’t fighting with Bruce. He mourns the life he could’ve had, the person he could’ve been. He mourns being someone’s something, because no matter how hard he tries, he’s outgrown the son-shaped-space in Bruce’s heart.

Sometimes, there’s no choice but to move forward. To outgrow things. It’s a part of living, after all, and he is alive. He can’t fit into the hoodies left behind in that mausoleum of a childhood bedroom the same way he doesn’t quite fit into Alfred’s label of Master Jason anymore. He’s too old now to be blushing-and-crushing on his older brother’s girlfriends when they ruffle his hair and too tall to be anyone’s Little Wing.

Sometimes he hates who he’s become, hates that he outgrew those last vestiges of childhood innocence because it feels like the Joker stripped away everything that made him better than his base instincts and laid the ugliness of his anger bare for the world. Maybe it would have happened even without him dying, but he’ll never know.

— sometimes he wishes he hadn’t outgrown the love he was told he deserved. He. he had deserved it, right?

— and then other times he wants to scream in Bruce’s face that he did! That I outgrew all of it and I’m here! I came back! I’m ALIVE, STOP MOURNING ME!

What was it that Mary Elizabeth Frye wrote? Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there. I do not sleep.

Bruce would hate that he was drinking.

Jason sits there in the dark, quietly, listening to all the sounds of the city around him. Maybe he should have gone home, like knock-off Midnighter said to. The stars and the distant city lights all whirl together as his eyes blur with saltwater and he knows he should call Dick to come pick him up but he can’t stop crying so he just sits there instead, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. Lava-hot tear-tracks make their way down his face and a choked, strangled noise works its way out of his throat, raw and animalistic.

“I thought I told you to go home before you couldn’t, kid.”

Ah. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. That was how it went, right? Jason takes a deep, shuddering breath and does not turn around. “What,” he snarls, trying to rein in his shaking shoulders, “do you want?”

Fake-Batman says nothing. And then:

“You been taking drinking lessons from Jones or something, kid?”

“Who the fuck is Jones,” he seethes. Fake-Bats-Nighter takes this as an invitation to sit next to him, and take his fucking bottle.

After a long gulp, he finally responds. “Jessica Jones, P.I. with a kick. She handles her liquor much like you do.”

Jason scrubs at his face with the cuff of his leather jacket and turns to face him. Same mournful expression, head still tipped back. He’s wearing some kind of bullet-proof vest, now, under his coat. Belatedly, Jason realises that there’s an AK-47 slung across his back. And then it hits him.

“You’re the Punisher,” he says, a delayed sense of awe filling his words. The decal on his vest is hard to identify because Jason’s up close, but he has no doubt that the man’s victims see that symbol and know it as the harbinger of their tragic end.

“And you,” says the Punisher, leaning into Jason’s personal space to shove two fingers at the red bat on his chest, “are the Red Hood.”

Jason’s blood freezes in his veins. “You’re in my territory,” he growls warningly, “what’s your business?”

The Punisher takes a moment to consider his words before saying, “Spillover from New York. Tracked a couple of guys from Irish Mob to here.” Jason’s not getting his drink back anytime soon. “Waitin’ for them to show their ugly faces.”

Jason snorts and rolls his eyes. “You’ll never find them here. You know that, right? Gotham’s good for disappearin’ in. ‘S really all it’s good for,» he adds quietly.

He doesn’t seem to hear Jason. “I’ll find ‘em,” he says, voice hard and cold like the stone of an eons-old mountain. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

The asshole takes another swig, flashing Jason a look. “Everywhere’s a fuckin’ shithole, kid.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

There’s a pause. Then: “You’re out of bourbon,” and the sound of a bottle being set down with more force than is strictly necessary, on the fucker’s other side where Jason can’t reach it.

He’d been sitting the way Jason was, legs off the edge of the building. His elbows rest on his thighs, and his anger-(or sadness?) doesn’t show anywhere else, but now his fingers are interlocked so tightly that Jason’s pretty sure all the blood circulation in his hands has been permanently cut off.

Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in for real now, but if Jason wasn’t scared before, he definitely is now. When the Punisher turns his head to face Jason, he feels an unmistakable thrill of fear run down his spine, seeing the moonlight deepen every shadow on his face and the mournful tilt of his mouth make him look like some detachedly remorseful angel of death, come to drag Jason back to the grave.

“They killed my family.” His voice is hoarse, backlit by a deep, echoing anger. “My wife. My daughter,” he says, tombstones grinding themselves into dust, “my son.” Jason feels his mouth go dry. “They had to pay.”

The only thing that exists in the next moment is the Punisher’s erratic, shaky breaths, and Jason’s heartbeat thudding hard beneath his body armor. He can feel the blood rushing in every artery, and all he can think is, is this what Bruce felt when I died?

“What-what would’ve happened,” Jason croaks out, an eternity later, “if your son. came back to life. What if your son came back to life, all fucked up in the head from being raised from the fucking dead, would you have sliced his neck open, f’r, f’r wantin’ you ta’ avenge-”

In an instant, the front of Jason’s jacket is scrunched up in one of the Punisher’s meaty hands and he can’t breathe. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he seethes, his broken nose half an inch from Jason’s own, “Don’t you even dare think that.” The thick scar tissue on Jason’s neck aches with the memory of the batarang slicing through skin when Bruce-his father-had picked that monster over him.

A beat. Then the Punisher lets go.

Jason stays quiet, mouth twisted in an effort to keep back tears.

The Punisher looks off into the distance, and his expression unchanging. “So all that shit you said before, about getting blown up and killed already, you were tellin’ the truth?”

Jason nods. Wishes he still had something to dull the edges of his anger.

“Shit, kid,” says the Punisher gruffly.

Neither of them say anything for a while after that. Jason is dimly aware that he should be down on the streets because so much could happen while he’s up here wallowing but he can’t bring himself to go down there because all his limbs feel like jelly and his eyes are sore and the anger in his stomach’s been replaced with a vacant sadness but everything’s still blurry and spinning and-

“Woah,” says the Punisher, and grabs Jason’s shoulder in one huge hand, stopping him from falling off the building. “You with me, kid?”

Maybe Jason did overdo it with the drinks tonight. He’s not about to admit that to the goddamn Punisher, especially not after he told Jason to go home and Jason refused to listen.

“You don’t usually drink this much, yeah?” Jason just closes his eyes and tries to hold still so that the spinning stops, before opening his mouth to reply. “I figure mourning y’rself deserves somethin’ grand, dontcha?”

There’s a light snort, and then one giant hand clasps like a vice on his shoulder. With the world twirling like a ballerina on an antique jewellery box the only thing still keeping him upright is the Punisher’s grip on him, keeping him from pitching over the edge and into a dumpster. “S’ okay,” the aforementioned vigilante says, somewhat gently, “April’s a hard time all ‘round.”

If Jason wasn’t feeling so wholly miserable, he would’ve laughed. The Punisher. Scourge of the Underworld. Angel of Death. Sittin’ here, making sure Jason’s sad ass doesn’t end up killing himself by accident. If Jason closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that it’s Bruce instead, sitting with him when he was. sick, maybe? Something about patrol, and. the rest is a blank space. You’re alright, Jaylad, says memory-Bruce in his head, but even that seems. hollow.

“You’re alright, kid,” says the mountain of a man next to him, stiltedly, staring up into the sky as he claps his hand on Jason’s back twice in an effort to be. comforting, Jason thinks. It’s unsettling. “You’re fine.”

“I think I should’ve stayed dead,” he blurts out, swiping at his face with his sleeve.

The Punisher flicks his eyes towards him, and then back towards the sky, his eyebrows arching in mild curiosity.

The Punisher doesn’t say anything. Instead he looks up at the sky, searching the sangria sky for stars that aren’t there, invisible to the naked eyes thanks to the endless spillage of light from downtown Gotham. “I had this friend,” he says, and then stops.

“I had this friend. Got caught up in some bad shit, real bad shit. And his family-his family doesn’t know jack shit about it. So he runs.

“He runs, and his family- his wife, and a son ‘n daughter, they all think he’s dead.” He tips his head back down and puts his face in his hand, considering what to say next. “So when I meet the guy, he asks me to go over to his house, ‘n make sure they’re alright.”

Belatedly, Jason realises that the weight on his shoulder is gone. The Punisher keeps his mouth tucked in his one hand, but now he’s using the other to gesture as he speaks and the stray thought of the Punisher at a small Italian restaurant, a napkin tucked into his skull-emblazoned vest going ay, where-a da meatballs-a, flashes in his mind threatening to make him burst out laughing hysterically.

“I started goin’ over more often, ya know? The kids. the daughter, she needed someone to stand up for her. Her brother needed someone ta, I don’t know, draw the lines. Their mom was lonely, jus’ wanted someone t’ talk to.” He turns to face Jason now, and Jason can see the grief written in every shadow, every line of his face, in the way the edges of his eyes squint and his mouth is a flat line carved into a cliffside. He can see it, because it’s the same face he sees in the mirror those nights he spends awake thinking and drinking and drinking and thinking.

He’s breathing hard enough now that Jason can see his massive shoulders going up-and-down, up-and-down, his fists curled in his lap, the pale skin on his scarred knuckles going even whiter with the force contained within them.

The Punisher’s face colors with real distaste now, and he angles his head up, looking at Jason with judgement and sympathy all wrapped into one distant emotion. “One thing’s for sure. I’d give anything for my kids to be alive again. Your dad’s a fuckin jackass for not seein’ how lucky he got.”

The Punisher goes silent. “. Is your dad the fuckin’ Batman or something?”

The smile that splits Jason’s face is cruel. The Punisher grimaces.“I know a guy like that back in New York. Thinks everyone deserves a second chance, or some shit.”

Jason considers this. “D’ya think if his son was killed he’d reconsider his stance?”

The Punisher snorts, and Jason feels an unreasonable mirth bubble up at the back of his throat. “Think he’s probably been kneed in the balls too much t’ever actually have a son.”

Laughter spills out of him. It’s not even that funny, but tonight’s been hell on his psyche, and the throaty chuckles echo in the alley below, reverberating between red brick walls and escaping into the din of the city. The Punisher huffs once, and looks away with a vaguely amused expression.

“Fathers and sons, huh? What a mess.”

“Yeah,” says Jason. “Man, I wish you hadn’t finished my booze. Coulda toasted that.” Another giggle.

“To fathers and sons. Maybe it’ll stop being such a shitshow, someday,” he says quietly, and brings the flask to his lips.

More laughter floods out of him. “You’re a Saint Bernard,” he wheezes out, and in response to the Punisher’s quiet “What.” he says, “all sad-as-shit, humongous fuckin’ beasts, yeah, with those mopey eyes. You’re a Saint fuckin’ Bernard.”

The Punisher fixes him with a faintly amused, faintly perplexed glare, one eyebrow raised incredulously. “You should’ve gone home when I said, kid.”

Jason grins, feels the dried tear-tracks and his drier lips stretch and cracks.

The Punisher mumbles “There’s worse things to be,” and Jason can’t help it, but he dissolves into rib-aching chortling once more.

He wakes up on that same roof to his phone ringing that horrible song again, tucked in on his side against the tiny wall on the edge of the building. There’s a line of drool from the corner of his mouth staining the light grey cement a slightly darker shade.

“Mornin’ to you too, Dickie.”

A sigh. “I’ve been trying to call you since four a.m.”

“Sorry. I was a bit busy, uh, being passed out.”

He can almost hear Dick holding back a whole string of curses. “Are you hurt?”

“Depends on what you mean by hurt.”

Another sigh. “Whatever. Meet me at the diner on 5th and Somerset? Miss you, little brother. We haven’t had breakfast in a while.”

Jason’s tempted to deny him out of spite, but his stomach growls, voiding any opinion his voice could have put forward.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Fine. You’re paying,” he grunts.

“Fine by me. Just get your ass here.”

“Little Wing.” He can almost picture the look on Dick’s face, slightly exasperated, slightly fond, that sap.

Jason grins, for real. Shoots his grapple, and he’s off, leaving no trace behind except an empty bottle of bourbon lying on its side, glistening in the early morning light.

Notes:

fun fact: I wrote down «the Punisher, scourge of the underworld» because I couldn’t think of anything else and then I checked his wiki and it turns out that that is actually one of his monikers. we love to see it. ← Previous Work Part 4 of the counterparts. (alternatively, through the looking glass) series Next Work →

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there’s really just one thing that we have in common; neither of us will be missed

gentleangel

Summary:

While the older boy had more stamina and energy than his friend, the younger had wit and humour that kept them both enlightened despite the turmoil that the world was in. There had originally been three of them – the two young teens and an older, Jack. Jack was much more experienced in survival techniques than them, so the younger reluctantly allowed him to be the leader of their trio; unfortunately, he wasn’t with them now, he left their camp to search a seemingly abandoned building nearby and never returned – the older boy found him dead by the entrance, and quickly respectfully buried him. He never told the younger that Jack was dead, simply telling him that he was just missing, something which the blonde still didn’t take well. He cried and cried for hours that day, and the older decided that they shouldn’t continue until he had calmed down.

Now, three months after the eldest boy’s death, the younger was starting to lose hope and accept his fate as a wandering spirit in an already dead world. He didn’t know if he believed the older anymore.
—
tubbo and tommyinnit are just trying to survive, but one is losing hope quicker than expected.
title from saint bernard by lincoln

Notes:

Hi! This is my first oneshot/AU that I have written.

TWs // hurt, minor character death, major character death, emetophobia (vomiting), swearing, corpses/dead bodies

If I have missed any tws, then please let me know.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

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“C’mon, big man. We need to get going.” One young teen said to another, pulling him up from the muddy undergrowth that they had set up camp in. The older brunette boy had already packed away their remaining resources; now he just needed to get his younger friend going.

The two had met just after the apocalypse began, while the older was at the makeshift graves of his family. The younger spotted him, wanting to ask for resources, and instead finding a companion and ally.

“It all hurts, Tubs.” The younger boy croaked, leaning onto his companion for support as the two began to leave the canopy.

“I know, Toms…don’t worry, we’ll find safety soon, I promise.”

While the older boy had more stamina and energy than his friend, the younger had wit and humour that kept them both enlightened despite the turmoil that the world was in. There had originally been three of them – the two young teens and an older, Jack. Jack was much more experienced in survival techniques than them, so the younger reluctantly allowed him to be the leader of their trio; unfortunately, he wasn’t with them now, he left their camp to search a seemingly abandoned building nearby and never returned – the older boy found him dead by the entrance, and quickly and respectfully buried him. He never told the younger that Jack was dead, simply telling him that he was just missing, something which the blonde still didn’t take well. He cried and cried for hours that day, and the older decided that they shouldn’t continue until he had calmed down.

Now, three months after the eldest boy’s death, the younger was starting to lose hope and accept his fate as a wandering spirit in an already dead world. He didn’t know if he believed the older anymore.

“Here, Tom, I picked these apples before you woke up – take one.”

“No, Tubbo, you have-“

“Tommy, I’m not taking no for an answer. Eat it, please. Maybe then we’ll have a better chance of making it to the next town.” The older, Tubbo, held the apple out, slightly off colour but still fresh enough, as the blonde scowled and snatched it from his hand, biting into it slowly as they continued.

“No problem, Toms. Now, I believe we’re quite close to the next town over, we should be there by the end of the day.” The younger, Tommy, nodded carefully while Tubbo began to plan a route.

Tommy didn’t enjoy rejecting Tubbo’s offers of food and water – he felt as though, as the self-proclaimed ‘big man’, he should be the one providing the brunette – but Tubbo’s persistence and annoyance grew as time went on. Tommy felt as though he no longer had the energy to deny – while he continued to reject, it used up too much of his vigour. Tubbo nudged the younger, passing him a dirt-covered water bottle with faded lines drawn across it in permanent marker – it showed the two boys how much water they were allowed to drink in one sitting, in order to preserve it.

“Tommy, it’s your turn. I don’t want to be the only one drinking this shitty pigging water. If I have to go through it, so do you. Please, for me.”

The blonde sighed, taking the bottle and taking a few small sips before attempting to hand it back.

“Nuh uh, not good enough big man. A bit more.”

Tommy huffed, taking a few large swigs until he had drunk about three quarters of his allowance.

Tubbo seemed to notice a bit of a spring in Tommy’s step and a change in attitude after that.

“Have I ever told you about my family?” Tubbo turned to Tommy as he set up their camp just inside of the next town’s walls. Tommy looked up from their small fire, where he was making some rations that they found in an empty shell of a house.

“I don’t think you did…I just saw their names in the dirt. Who were they?” Tubbo smiled, reminiscing about his life with the two of them.

“The grave on the left, with the allium flower on it?” Tommy nodded. “He was my husband. He loved to write stories that he would tell us, and the two of us loved to watch the stars at night, pointing out our favourite constellations. My favourite thing about him, though, was his laugh.”

“The other grave…that was our son. We adopted him after we found him, abandoned, outside of town. He loved hearing Boo’s stories and going on walks with us. I especially loved his little sounds that he made…he was a mostly mute kid.” Tubbo shook his head, setting up their tent and sitting with Tommy as he finished preparing their food.

“What about you, Toms? Did you have a family?” Tubbo took his portion of food from Tommy, as he sighed.

“I had two brothers, twins, and a dad biologically…Wilbur and Techno loved to fight a lot, it was quite amusing. Wilbur played guitar and wanted to make a band; Techno was much more of an athletic and physical man, he loved sparring with me. Our dad, Phil, was quite funny – we loved to call him old, much to his annoyance.”

“My brothers had friends that were practically like family…Wilbur had Niki, she was lovely and like a sister to me – she wanted to build a bakery just outside of town, that I wanted to visit every day. Techno had Dream, he wasn’t about as much but he liked to joke around and sing songs with Wil to annoy Tech…”

“They would have liked you, Tubs…you remind me of Wil and Niki a bit. They would have loved being in your company.” Tommy patted Tubbo’s leg and smiled.

“I’m sure Boo and Michael would have loved you too.” Tubbo smiled back, slightly teary eyed as he finished his small meal. “I’m gonna head to bed now. I’ll make breakfast in the morning.”

It was the next morning that changed everything.

Tubbo awoke near dawn, stretching and heading out of his tent to visit Tommy’s. When he got there, he noticed a scrawny note written onto the canvas – ‘saw an abandoned building, will be back soon – toms’. The boy gaped, harshly turning his head in all directions to see what building he could mean, spotting a small cabin across the street. Tubbo, without any other thought except for Tommy’s safety, ran and ran until he flung open the cabin door. And there, perched against a wall with fading strength, was the boy he now called his best friend.

“Toms!” He went to the boy, clutching his torso and pulling him to the floor. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?!”

Tommy didn’t say much, he simply extended his arm out to the side – a long and wide gash. Tubbo found it difficult to hold back his bile.

“It’s not infected…just a bit shit.” Tubbo turned the boy onto his back, resting him against his leg and observing for other wounds – there were a few cuts on his neck and blood seeping from his torso.

“You stupid child…Toms, I am never letting you out of my sight again.” Tubbo let out a watery chuckle, pressing his chin into the younger’s matted hair and exhaling.

He was alive; he was safe – but Tubbo didn’t know how much longer he would go on for.

“God, Tubs, you’re so clingy…” Tommy scoffed, as Tubbo sighed.

“But you still love me Toms…together for life, right?”

“Yeah, Tubs…however long that might be.”

Turns out, together for life only meant a few more days. Tommy’s condition was slowly deteriorating and, with a lack of medical supplies, there was nothing that Tubbo could do other than watch his partner slowly die.

“C’mon big man. Just a few more steps.”

“Look, Toms, there’s a field of flowers over there! We can make daisy crowns and just be kids again for a day.”

“Tubbo, please listen to me.”

Tubbo turned to his companion, his body getting heavier each step. Tommy gestured to the floor, to which Tubbo reluctantly sat down on. Tommy was laying on the cracked tarmac, sighing in relief.

“Tubbo, I’m…I’m sorry, for everything. For being a dick, for slowing you down, and for running off into that cabin. Forgive me, please?”

Tubbo smiled and rested his hand on Tommy’s cheek, tears beginning to form in his eyes. “Of course I do, Toms! You’re my best friend, I will always forgive you.”

“That’s good…’m sorry for giving up, too.” Tommy tried to crack a smile, which Tubbo responded to with a shake of his head.

“You don’t have to though, Tommy. We can get to that field and just be kids for a bit. You and me – together forever, yeah?” Tommy weakly nodded, placing his hand on Tubbo’s shoulder.

“Tell me about Boo. And Michael. Before I…Y’know.” Tubbo nodded, breathing out.

“Remember how I said Boo and I liked to point out our favourite constellations?” Tommy nodded. “Well, we also liked to name stars after heroes and gods of times long gone. My favourite one was called Portunes, after the Roman god of keys.” He chuckled. “Boo’s favourite was Pax, the Roman god of peace.”

Tommy relaxed a bit into Tubbo’s touch.

“He always used to say to me that, when we died, we would meet again as stars. He thought that I would be the one we called Mars; I thought he would be Zelus, after the Greek god of dedication.”

Tommy’s breathing was shallower now.

“He always said there was nothing to be afraid of…that once we died, we would finally be at peace.”

He could barely hear Tommy’s weak breaths.

“Do-do you think you’ll become a star, Toms?”

Tubbo felt numb from that point forward. It felt like days since Tommy had died, yet Tubbo was still sat in the same spot, clutching onto his body, their hands intertwined. He still liked to talk to Tommy, even though he got no answer.

“You remind me of Theseus. I hope that’s the star you became.”

“If you see Boo and Michael, can you make sure they’re okay? Just give me a sign.”

“I hope you can still hear me up there, Toms. It would be a shame if you couldn’t.”

Tubbo couldn’t even take care of himself anymore, spending every waking hour holding onto Tommy’s body, and every night laying beside him and pointing out the constellations, like Boo used to do.

It reached a point where he just couldn’t do it anymore.

He clutched onto Tommy’s cold palm, looking at his pale face.

“Don’t worry, Toms. I’ll be with you soon…get Boo and Michael for me, yeah?”

He looked up at the void of sky. There were no sounds anymore to keep him awake. He smiled – maybe this was the best way to go after all.

And though the boy had tears in his eyes, he didn’t weep – in fact, he smiled. He closed his eyes.

The world around him turned dark.

At least he wouldn’t have to see it again.

“Finally decided to show up, then?” Boo held him tightly, kissing the top of his head, Michael clutching his leg. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Jack smiled. “At least the trio are back together again.”

Tubbo turned in his direction, noticing another fluffy brown-haired man behind Jack, a similar height to Boo.

“You must be Tubbo…we are quite similar, ey?”

“C’mon, Tubs.” Tommy came up to Tubbo’s side, wrapping his arms around him. “There’s a big field of flowers over there! Let’s go, just you and me.”

Tubbo smiled as Tommy dragged him through the meadow that was limbo to the field.

“Like we’re kids again…us two, together forever, right?”

Notes:

I went through all of the emotions writing this oneshot.

I hope you enjoyed reading it, nonetheless.

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