Work Text:
Tommy always loved birds
Tommy was six and he was confused by the birds. Where did those sounds come from? Why did these feathers, despite being so like the ones on his father’s wings, look strange? He asked his questions and his brothers laughed, but still he was fascinated.
Tommy was nine and he listened to the birds. Waking up to their quiet chirps. Listening to their complex melodies as he played in the forest. The songs were beautiful.
Tommy was twelve and he watched the birds. Paying close attention to every flash of feathers, noting the colors. He watched the way the birds moved and acted, and learned to distinguish their calls.
Tommy was fourteen and the birds reminded him of home. L’Manburg was beautiful, and the chirping of birds made it all the better.
Tommy was fifteen and the birds brought him comfort. Few birds were left after the explosions. On a clear summers night, when he could sleep in the open, waking up to the blue sky and soft songs was worth the small risk of mobs. That blissful moment, pretending he was safe at home, where he could almost forget the smell of gunpowder and the scars.
Tommy was sixteen and there were no birds. The deep caves of pogtopia were too quiet, echoing only with footsteps, and the small squeaks of bats. Once, out on the surface, he spotted a bird. Pointing in excitement at a chirping sparrow, a wave of comfort washed over him. Only to drain away moments later, as Wilbur turned away angrily. All that was left was a lingering dread at what had happened to his brother.
Tommy was exiled and the birds were too much. Screeching when he wanted to sleep, and bringing bittersweet memories as they sang. Tommy threw rocks and screamed at them. Eventually the birds stopped coming, but the silence was worse.
Tommy was trapped and he missed the birds. Trapped in a dark box with Dream. Alone but for the man he hated, Tommy longed to lose himself in birdsong. But the birds were not there.
Tommy was alone and he missed his life. The birds song only reminded him of more things he wanted back. Each soft note a memory. Sitting with Tubbo as the last scraps of daylight faded, listening to nature long after a disc had stopped playing. Laughing in a clearing with his brothers, stopping to watch a circling hawk with wonder. Collecting feathers, weaving them into a multicolored necklace. Waking up slowly, side by side with his family. The warm embrace of his father. He didn’t want to remember anymore, they had left him. The people who were supposed to be his family left him alone. Even Tubbo abandoned him. The birds only served as reminder of all he had lost.
Tommy always hated birds.