in the ruins of the nation thrice broken, where he was born in, was raised in, was hurt in, stands the ghost of his father’s brother.
fundy does not know when tommy had died. the last time he saw the boy was under the scrutiny of inevitable destruction. three people wielding the power of god, damning their home with explosives and monsters that scraped the skies. after that, tommy was just a passing glance, with everyone moving on to find their own refuge away from the crater of what used to be l’manburg.
tommy’s ghost does not do justice to his memory. there is no sunshine on his cheeks, or gold in his hair or a sparkle in his eye. he does not move with a confident swoop nor does he speak like the world had to listen.
“how did you die?” fundy would ask him.
“as i’ve always died,” the ghost of tommy would answer. his back was straight as it never was and the l’manburg uniform was worn with the weight it truly carried.
“afraid,” he’d say as his voice tapers off into a whisper.
death holds tommy differently than she does wilbur. his memories do not fail him and he still sees the world with a sharp clarity the other ghost never had, but what he keeps in his mind he loses in heart. there is no happiness to be found in him, only truth. the phantom had the penchant to be brutally honest about everything . it was uncomfortable and talking to him guaranteed guilt rising like bile at the back of your throat.
fundy finds himself making conversation multiple times.
“i heard you were opening a hotel,” fundy would start, “what happened to that?”
“i died,” tommy would respond, “i did not make the grand opening,”
“it does not matter anymore i suppose,” the ghost would continue wistfully, his voice like a hum akin to his treasured discs, “nobody i invited showed up anyways,”
in the presence of truth on tommy’s tongue, fundy finds himself seeking answers the boy would have never responded to in his life. because tommy is smarter than he let on, being a soldier to wars, a strategist to battles, a general’s right hand man. and fundy was suddenly privy to all this information and more. but he soon realises that what he sought for was different than what he thought he wanted.
so instead, fundy would ask, “as wilbur’s brother, what did you think of me, truly?”
“wilbur’s little champion,” tommy’s ghost would say, “you are an exceptional pianist,”
fundy’s eyebrows would shoot up in confusion, not being the answer he was expecting.
the phantom would smile, the first bit of positive emotion he’d show after all their conversations together.
“wilbur’s a shit pianist,” he’d say, “but you wanted to play, so tubbo and i had fo figure out a way to teach you,”
“and you were phenomenal,”
tommy would grin and wave his arm out as the light of the setting sun catches his hair and for a moment he’d looked truly alive.
later, when the sun dips and the ghost fades from another day gone by, fundy would think about the abandoned piano collecting dust in his old house and reconsider what truly is important.
tommy always had the knack for making the little things matter.
fundy doesn’t really know what he’s looking for when talking to the ghost of tommyinnit. but there are always conversations to be had and moments to be remembered. so maybe he can think about that in another day. for now, he can sit at the edge of the crater of their once home and talk to the embodiment of what could have been, what should have been, and what they failed to be.
until then, the world keeps turning. until then, the flowers will grow. until then, fundy would blow the dust off his old piano and play.
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