Tommyinnit Oneshots

Decisions

Dude this plot point is so outdated but I have nothing besides MCYT-ifying my favorite movies, so enjoy. Also, Mexican Dream is dead in this one because I say so, even if I don't think it lines up canonically.

Go read rabiddog's DSMP collection on ao3, their stories are very well-written and are what inspired this idea.

Found art on Reddit, u/jazetallo

TW: Major character death, use of drugs and alcohol, swearing

---

Tommy knew he wasn't good at making decisions.

He was impulsive, driven by anger and passion and every intense emotion that was a byproduct of the stomach-rolling shitshow that was his life.

He had never had a father to teach him how to make good decisions, how to think before he spoke, how to quiet his emotions so he could carry out actions patiently, with his head and not his heart.

But what he did have was an older brother who was angry and sad and, sometimes, so intensely happy it would spill over and splash onto Tommy like the sun from behind a cloud or the mist of a waterfall.

Wilbur never once felt emotion in muted form; they always blared bright and proud and were dialed up to 100, and Tommy adopted this when he was young.

So it was fair to say that neither was the best decision-maker.

However, at this very moment, Tommy knew he had made the right decision; he knew this was the one time his impulsive action had paid off, because his brother was standing there, whole and unharmed. That's all that mattered.

"Tommy, what have you done?" Phil asked in a grave voice, eyes cast in shadow as they stared down at his son.

Tommy didn't care about what he'd done. Wilbur was okay. That's all that mattered.

"Tommy! Tommy, buddy, oh my god," Wilbur shouted as he rushed to catch his brother's body. "It's okay, you'll be okay. Wilby's here, I'll help you. You're okay."

But Tommy didn't think he was okay, because his stomach felt warm and his head felt fuzzy.

All he could do was slowly shake his head.

"You fucking idiot," Wilbur said quietly as his tears began to drip from his face onto Tommy's, rocking his body back and forth.

It didn't matter, because he was okay. It was fine if Wilbur was crying, just as long as he was okay. That's all that mattered.

It didn't matter that Philza Minecraft's blade, in an attack meant for Wilbur, was now nestled deeply in his abdomen, blooding seeping into his shirt from the wound. It was probably why he felt so light-headed. It was probably why he couldn't feel his hands, and it was definitely why Wilbur's glazed-honey eyes were fading to black.

-

"...oh, that's rough, man," A raspy voice said from somewhere to his left. He wanted to see who was speaking but when he cracked his eyes open they immediately shut from the brightness.

"It's not like he can even feel it anymore," A deeper voice said, and it seemed farther away.

A hand was shaking his shoulder.

"Hey, Tommy, man, you need to wake up," The rough voice said once more, continuing to gently push in on his shoulder.

"Fucker isn't waking up anytime soon," The other voice grunted. "Just leave him alone, Dream."

Dream. Tommy recognized that name. He had given Wilbur the TNT in the first place, which had started all this mess.

"Dream?" A voice said – a quiet, rough voice. His vocal chords itched after he heard it.