Dude this plot point is so outdated but I have nothing besides MCYT-ifying my favorite movies, so enjoy.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
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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.
Oh. It was him who had said it.
"So the child awakes," The deep voice said, coming closer. "No, not that Dream. It's Mexican Dream," it clarified.
"'Ey... Schlatt, man, you should really put down the tequila, man. That's no good for the mind, you know."
"I couldn't care less." The voice bit.
Mexican Dream and... Schlatt?
But they were dead.
Oh.
He was dead.
"Ugh," He groaned, finally gaining feeling in his limbs. They felt so stiff, so unused, like the muscles were deteriorating.
"Oh man, I remember that feeling, man," Mexican Dream lamented, shaking his head and causing the beads on his hat to jingle.
Tommy was able to open his eyes now, and his heart dropped as he looked around.
It was grey. Everything was grey.
It was gray under his feet, grey behind the heads of his new companions, grey as far as the eye could see.
The only colors were some flowers at his feet and their own reflections in the cold, shiny floor.
And, of course, the bright red spot in the middle of his shirt, sporting a rather large hole in the middle.
He touched it and his hands came away wet.
He began to panic.
"'Ey, man, chill out. You're not really bleeding, it's just like that. That's how death works, man. Suspends you in time, man."
"He smoked too much weed again," Schlatt sighed, coming to give Tommy a hand to help him up since Mexican Dream seemed content in his crouch on the floor.
"Hey, you look like shit," Tommy said. Schlatt snorted. It was true; he had deep eyebags and his suit was wrinkled and limp. His beard and hair were unkempt but the same length as Tommy had last seen. Of course, a dead body couldn't grow hair.
"You don't look much better."
He didn't doubt this was true.
"So... this is it?"
"Yep. This and my booze. Oh, and maybe some of the weed Mexican Dream has if he's in the mood to share."
"Man, I've told you this. I don't got weed on me, I'm just a philosophical person, man. A lot to think about in here."
Schlatt gave an unconvinced hum. "Well, I'm gonna go take a walk. I'll see you when I don't."
With that, he stumbled away, his figure slowly getting smaller until he disappeared into the grey.
"Hey, wanna see something loco?" Mexican Dream asked. "Pretty soon, he's gonna come walking in from that direction." He pointed in the direction directly opposite from the one Schlatt had gone. "It circles you back, man. Crazy how this place works."
Tommy nodded slowly, facts beginning to hit him.
"Also, there's one more thing."
"What?"
"Those flowers, the ones by your feet. They weren't here before you got here, man. Strange thing."
The flowers seemed to grow out of the mirror-like floor, colored only red and white as if to match his shirt.
"Well, I'll leave you here, then, man. Have fun with the flowers."
Mexican Dream jingled off into the grey, but Tommy suspected he'd see him coming back.
He lowered himself to a crouch, hands wrapped around his legs and chin resting on his knees.
Tommy had wondered about the afterlife a lot in his short existence. He wondered if the stories were real; if you went to a place where you were eternally happy, and the sun was always shining and you were surrounded by everyone you loved. He always doubted that story.
Wilbur would tell him there was nothing after, and when the heart stopped, the blood stopped pumping. When the blood stopped pumping, oxygen stopped coming to the brain. When oxygen stopped coming to the brain there was nothing to keep it going, and one's existence came to a screeching halt– or, rather, a quiet ending, where thoughts finally stopped. The body was put in a wooden box to rot until the worms and crawling things ate it up, or until the bones turned to dust.
He hated Wilbur's idea because it scared him, so long ago he had decided to believe something much nicer.
He preferred to think that when you died, you were brought back to the most pleasant, normal, happy memory of your life, one you relived over and over again forever and ever.
He had always loved this idea because when he made a happy memory he could imagine it being filed away in a cabinet labeled After.
Of all things, he would have taken anything over this. This was cold and empty and uncaring.
There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, nowhere to sleep. There was no comfort here, no day, no night, nothing but the clothes on your back and apparently the flowers at your feet.
There was no Wilbur here. There was no Tubbo. No Phil or Techno or Niki, not even Dream (Mexican Dream didn't count, obviously).
So what could he do? What was there to do?
He could cry. That was something he could do.
He did this for a while as bead jingles and uneven footsteps came and went, but he couldn't see through the blur of his tears.
He cried until a pressure built up in the front of his skull, until his voice went hoarse and his tear ducts dried up. Still, he hiccuped and gulped and sobbed, face red and blotchy.
But even that got boring after a while.
Being sad got boring, and standing up got boring, and even remembering got boring.
Talking with the others got boring, and eventually blinking got boring.
The only thing left for him to do was wait. Wait for a voice, a call, a train, anything.
So he tucked his head between his knees and his chest, pulled his feet a little closer, and waited.