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Tommy doesn't know where he is, this is the first thing he notes as he blinks awake. His face is squished against grass, and his feet ache in a familiar way that indicates bleeding blisters. His whole body is sore, but that is nothing new.
He sits up, limbs protesting, and looks around, a pit growing in his stomach the more he stares and the more he recognizes nothing.
It grows worse when he finds a pond, looking at his reflection, and realizes he is not—
Tommy is used to sleepwalking, and while it mainly results in him walking into the sea, he’s familiar enough with roaming away from Logstedshire. He never wanders far and always in the same direction; as if some unknown force was trying to guide him away. But that ‘somewhere’ was dangerous, Dream explained with artificial kindness, his mask anything but gentle with its harsh empty stare. Warped, Tommy would describe to no one but himself, as he knew Dream could become malicious the second he deemed boredom.
“Cross those plains,” Dream continued, “And no one will find you.” He grabbed Tommy by his frail shoulders and roughly turned him around to face the very lands the teen had been tempted to escape to. “A vast land of nothingness. No villagers to help, no animals to kill. If dehydration or starvation doesn’t take you first, the mobs will.”
Tommy knew better than to run, by then. The risks were not worth it, not anymore. Logsted was safe, with Dream and his kindness and mercy, and with Mushroom Henry, Tommy could probably make a life out here.
Ghostbur, when he still visited, once asked what Tommy meant by this. “But what about L’Manburg?” He wasn't looking at Tommy, gaze far away as the waves crashed against the cold beach, seagulls distant as they too sensed the empty desolate land Tommy had to call home now. “You don’t really want to leave it behind, right? It’s your home! And what about Tubbo and—”
“Tubbo doesn’t matter,” Tommy snapped. “He doesn’t— no one cares, Ghostbur. No one, except Dream.” He was trembling, but from the cold, anger, or deep-rooted fear of punishment, Tommy didn't know. To this day, he still doesn’t. He finds it hard, now more than ever, to regulate his thoughts and emotions. He and Wilbur used to have a system to help whenever he got overwhelmed. But Ghostbur doesn't remember, and as much as Tommy trusts Dream, no way in Ender is he ever asking the masked man for help.
Ghostbur whispered, “You don’t mean that.” An unrecognizable look painted his face, and if Tommy didn’t know any better, he would say Ghostbur was aware. “You don’t even like Dream.”
Tommy did know better though, and said nothing. There would be no point in explaining, not when Ghostbur always forgets and runs off. Exhausted, he simply sagged and retired back to Tnret, a half-hearted goodnight leaving his mouth. He didn’t have the energy to explain that Dream was, despite everything, good for Tommy. He was teaching him how to be better: a better person, a better friend, a better brother. Dream cared for Tommy, came to visit him even when his schedule should’ve made it impossible. Dream did more for Tommy than anyone in L’Manburg ever did. If that meant Tommy got smacked around from time to time, or that he had to lose all his items, well. It was better than being all alone.
Tommy feared that sleep-walking would change his dynamic with Dream, if the masked man were to ever find out. Dream cared for Tommy, this he was certain of, just as he was certain that Dream was, in simple terms, extreme. His reactions, his punishments; they had to be extreme if someone like Tommy—the definition of difficult and ungrateful, were to ever learn. Even someone as patient and forgiving as Dream had his limits, and Tommy was always pushing, even if unintentional.
Dream didn’t make exceptions to his rules, except when he did. Tommy could never predict, Dream always changed the injunctions and expectations. But Tommy knew he wasn’t supposed to wander, it was hard enough with Dream present as he refused to let Tommy go far, an invisible line that only the masked man could see.
Tommy had no control over when he slept or where he would wake up. Tommy was not aware of this issue, not at the beginning. He would simply wake up in random places throughout Logsted, and at first, he thought nothing of it. He was prone to passing out, so he assumed that he simply fell asleep whenever his body crashed.
But then he started walking into the sea, waves gently lulling him deeper into the realm of sleepless peace, the freezing water jolting him into awareness. It rapidly got worse from there. He started to go deeper into the waters, fear paralyzing every time he awoke to water in his throat and his head under the waves.
Really, it is no surprise the day Dream discovered his predicament, because, at that point, Tommy stopped trying to swim up to the surface.
The sea was a pain of his entire existence, but it was also a calming presence for Tommy. Truly, he has to thank whatever possessed him to take these night-time swims, because otherwise he never would have appreciated such a simple thing.
It was memorizing, being underwater. The way the waves rocked him, reminded him of his childhood. He used to sit with Phil, on a rocking chair, or sometimes with Techno. They used to read to him, and if Tommy closed his eyes, sometimes he could make out their voices reading an old book, calling out for him occasionally. But they haven’t read to him for a long time, longer since they last called him family, longer since they last comforted him instead of being the reason he needed comfort.
Opening his eyes, he watched as his vision became distorted, blurry, and unfocused as he looked up at the sky. Bubbles floated around him from the creatures existing under him, and a familiar dreary gray transformed into something serene.
He was alone, repeated in his head as his lungs continued to burn, desperate for air. He closed his eyes again, content to rest until he reached the bottom of the sandy floor, a desire to never resurface again stronger than any innate instinct to survive.
A splash, then hands grasped his upper arm, tugging him mercilessly to the surface. He took a breath of air and gagged as water rushed into his mouth, coughing harshly as he struggled to stay afloat.
Next thing he knew he was on the beach, laying on his side as something harshly patted his back, the last of the water forced out as harsh coughs rattled his chest.
“Tommy,” Dream growls the moment Tommy gasps, gray eyes snapping open and fleeing to face him. Dream didn’t give Tommy a moment to protest as he dragged him back to Tnret, the teen stumbling and whining as the soreness from past injuries and exhaustion intensified. His throat burned, or maybe that was his lungs, and Tommy shivered as tears leaked through absent eyes. He hoped they blended with the water still dripping off him, just to save the embarrassment of Dream noticing.
Tommy stumbles and falls as Dream shoves him, letting out a sharp yelp. Dream barely twitched at the noise, but Tommy knows his head tilt is his way of saying sorry. Dream doesn't verbalize apologies, but Tommy is an expert at reading his body language by now. At least, he thinks he is. Sometimes it’s still hard to read the hooded man, masked in more ways than the white smiling face plastered on.
“What the hell, Tommy!” Dream berates. “Are you going to explain why I just found you drowning? Away from Lostegdshire? Do you have any idea what that just looked like!?”
Focusing on the sand beneath him, grip tight even with a stray drock digging his palm, Tommy averts his eyes, head hanging low. “I-I don’t,” he stutters. “I don’t know! It just, it just happens!”
Dream tenses at his words, and Tommy winces as black eyes zero on him, a predator to its prey. “Happens,” Dream repeats calmly, but the way his hands gravitate towards his enchanted axe was anything but. Tommy tenses at the sight, it wouldn’t be the first time Dream has used Nightmare against him, and it won’t be the last. “What do you mean by happens? Are you trying to leave?” Dream accuses.
“. . . what,” Tommy blinks dimly. “I’m not—I’m not running away!” The words, ‘Don’t you trust me?’ don’t leave his mouth, because Tommy knows as much as Dream claims to, he does not and will never trust Tommy. He’s broken too many promises to be trusted.
Dream crowds over Tommy, and Tommy’s breathing stutters. He commands, “Explain.”
“I sleep-walk!” Tommy rushes out, subtly trying to shift away only to freeze when Dream follows. “I–I’ve been, I’ve been sleepwalking and it’s, it's getting worse!”
Dream leans away, crossing his arms and tilting his head, studying Tommy. The latter only exhales, as this means that while Dream is still upset, he’s also willing to indulge in Tommy’s explanations.
“At first it was nothing! Just— I would wake up outside Tnret, but never far!” Tommy remembers one time he woke up next to Mushroom Henry, her warm body shielding him from the night, heavy breaths a guide for his smaller racing heart. Another time, he awoke curled up against the Prime Log, bloody hand—scratched with cuts and open blisters—resting on the bell. He remembers not liking the idea of going to Lady Prime even when unconscious because he already knows he’s unworthy of Her help. Weeks asking for guidance only to be left unanswered. It was then he knew all he had was Dream, he just had to learn to accept the truth.
Tommy shifts to grip his wrist, blunt nails digging into fragile skin, relishing in the pinpricks of blood. “I’m not sure when I started sleepwalking into the sea, but it’s been getting worse and—”
“Ok.”
“Wha-- ok??”
Dream nodded. “So you’re incompetent even when asleep, no surprise there.” Tommy shifted his eyes, unable to mask his hurt at the words even if he agreed with them. “Lucky for you, I know how to make sure you stay.”
Tommy had thought Dream’s plan was working, and was happy with their arrangement even when Ghostbur looked at him sadly, mumbling about how wrong this all was. But it was such a simple solution, and Tommy felt shame that he never came up with it himself.
Dream’s solution was to simply chain him to Tnret. “I don’t have the time to babysit you throughout the night,” Dream explained as he hammered a nail into a wooden stabilizer. “And it would defeat the purpose of my morning checkups if I stayed here.”
Tommy eyed the chain link in broken hands, a collar already on, and he felt something change at that moment: a piece of freedom gone, in a blink of an eye. He couldn’t recognize the shackle he put himself in, any fight left in him already long gone. What once would have been anger, now was comfort. He was safe, that’s all that mattered.
The chain worked, in a way. Tommy still sleepwalks, as evident from him waking up away from his cot and on the rare nights, outside from Tnret. Sometimes towards Mushroom Henry, sometimes the sea. One time he rested in a crater left over from that morning, the smell of smoke and gunpowder clinging to him. Another, it looked like he was headed in the direction of the abandoned party area, the decaying wooden chairs and empty table screaming to be destroyed, the simple cake still left rotting for critters to take.
But with the chain, he never traveled far, and more importantly, never in the sea.
Honestly, the chain wasn’t even that bad. He just had to ignore Ghostbur, and what sounded suspiciously like Mexican Dream. It meant Dream stayed longer, and sometimes, with Tommy restricted to his tent, Dream would cook him dinner. It was never good, always overcooked and tasting like rotten ingredients, but better that than Tommy having to waste his precious resources.
Ghostbur used to join them too, but that stopped after he realized the reason behind the new change of routine. He cried that it wasn’t right, wasn’t humane, but what other option was there? Tommy was endangering himself, Dream didn’t have the time to monitor Tommy more than he already was, and Ghostur was useless in anything dealing with Tommy.
Ghostbur stopped staying after Dream pointed out all this, and Tommy wished he was surprised, but he wasn’t. “They all leave,” Dream consoled when Tommy asked why the ghost of his older brother left. “But I never do.”
Tommy hated how he couldn’t even dispute the claim.
It was no secret that Tommy had hallucinations. Not that Tommy wanted Dream to know about them, but he had little choice in the manner when he literally had an episode in front of the man. Ender, Tommy was still embarrassed by that memory.
He was so confident Tubbo was really there, even Ghostbur confirmed he was! But no, Tommy’s mind was too cruel to remind him that Tubbo doesn’t care. Bad, someone whom Tommy was positive hated him for the amount of times Tommy pestered the demon and acted as the annoying pest the teen has always been known for, came to visit and gave him a gift- even if it was a pity gift. Even Sapnap, the guy Tommy was always starting wars and conflicts with, came to visit! It was unpleasant, him and Dream ganging up on Tommy, but at least Sapnap made the effort to check up on the ex-vice president.
But not Tubbo. Guess Dream was right about the new president: Tommy wasn’t good enough to be concerned about. Why would someone as perfect as Tubbo care for the walking disaster that was Tommy? Why did Tubbo ever care for him, when they both knew this—their separation, Tubbo’s resentment, and Tommy's recklessness—would happen?
Tommy gritted his teeth as Ghostbur’s voice floated through his head, a memory back when, back when Christmas passed. “I know what will make you happy!” Ghostbur chimed as he passed a box into Tommy’s trembling hands. He wasn’t aware Ghostbur knew how to grasp items, and briefly, he wondered when and how the specter figured it out. The words ‘Your Tubbo’ stared back at him, Ghostbur’s words not registering as an arrow stayed steady Westward, tears building in Tommy's frosty eyes.
The arrow stayed steady, like Tubbo’s presence once was.
Prime, he missed Tubbo so much, it hurt.
Tommy never realized how much worse his hallucinations were getting, or how drastic his behavior became during his banishment, days filled with no one but Dream and Mushroom Henry, the few seagulls making miserable company before flying off with Tommy’s items.
Jack’s screams echoed in his head, and his fingers tingled as he stared at a shouting Jack. He shivered, body cold despite the lava surrounding them, and everything felt distant, muffled. Jack felt real, this kept repeating as Tommy’s body shut down, frozen on the spot despite knowing the surrounding dangers. But he wasn’t real, can’t be real because Jack died, and now he’s screaming in Tommy’s face— but he’s not real.
But he felt real, a and that scared Tommy more than anything.
That night Tommy didn’t do anything but sit on his cot, knuckles white from his grip on the chain. The moment Dream stepped through the humming portal, Tommy scrambled to beg him to put it on, crying that he was scared. Scared of himself, scared of things getting worse, scared of not knowing what was and wasn’t real.
He wasn’t in control, hadn’t been in a long time. But that’s fine, as long as Tommy had Dream, because Dream would help him, he would keep him safe. Dream cared for Tommy, he told Tommy directly that he wouldn’t abandon him, not when they’ve made so much progress.
Dream, being the good person he was, did as Tommy asked, even going as far as to comfort Tommy. Tommy never saw the smug smile behind the mask, burying his head against the man’s shoulders. If Ghostbur was there, though, he would have pointed it out: the manic energy, the joyish glint to deceiving eyes. But he wasn’t there, hadn’t for a long time. Tommy remained unaware as Dream’s experiment progressed in a way that could have never been anticipated and remained powerless to help himself, unable to escape for safety that was unknowingly so close.
It will never be close enough.
Even if it was Dream to deliver the killing blow, Tommy still sees Mexican Dream’s blood on his own hands, bruised up and scratched when he tried fighting off Dream. It was his fault that Mexican Dream died, after all, even if Mexican Dream was just a hallucination. Dream was so close to fixing Tommy, but Tommy has always been a deviant individual, and all it took was one hallucination for it to come crashing down.
In just one day, everything good about Logstedshire went wrong. Tommy was quiet, obedient, still. He was good. Dream was proud of him, even giving him treats and tools again!
But these Ender-damn hallucinations! Tommy hated them, hated the trouble they provided, the trouble he caused.
He can’t remember anything anymore, only the feeling of blood on his hands, sticky and thick, copper-smell rich as he covers his mouth to muffle his cries. He commits the memory of Mexican Dream trying to defend him, of Dream inflicting blow after blow, the silence that screamed blame as Dream corralled Tommy around Logsted. His grip was tight, and Tommy knew in an hour a huge bruise will wrap around the area. He deserved it though, he deserved any and all punishment after such a stunt.
“He’s not your owner man,” his hallucination had told him. “You have to know that’s not normal, right?” It was though, it was. Tommy needed Dream, needed him to tell him what to do, what to say, how to act. He didn’t trust himself anymore, but he could trust Dream. Who was Dream, if not the one to control him, to manage him? Who was Dream, the man who denies Tommy his right to die, if not his owner? Ghostbur would say a vile man and Mexican Dream would say un hombre malvado–- el diablo, but Tommy would say his savior, second only to Lady Prime Herself.
It’s been weeks since Dream left him chained to Tnret, weeks with only silence and hunger pangs, Mushroom Henry weekly calling from where she rested.
They both were too hungry, bones visible in a shameful way, and Tommy knew if Dream didn't return, they— he wouldn’t make it through the freezing night. He was a living skeleton, curled up and trembling as a soft blue blanket—one that Ghosbur made him for that lonely Christmas—lay a few feet away from him.
He was too weak to even attempt crawling towards it.
It wasn’t his time to die, all those hours sitting on a scorching bridge, heat beating down on him but nothing as worse as the glare on the back of his head. It wasn’t his time to die then, but maybe it was now.
Ghostbur didn’t know how to process the sight in front of him, he just knew that no amount of blue would help. There, rested Tommy. An empty husk of a body, more skeleton than living, more tragedy than comfort.
He rested a hand on his brother’s face, brushing a strand of matted dirty-blond hair away from hollow cheeks, streaks of dirt and blue following his movement. Already, he can feel Death make room for his brother. But where his soul would spawn remained a mystery. Would it be at L’Manburg? Or Pogtopia, like Ghostbur? Maybe it would be at Church Prime, or the assembly that Tommy made a home from. Maybe, Tommy wouldn’t even spawn on this server, if the longing in Tommy’s soul was any indication.
Ghostbur wasn’t sure what would become of him, now that his sole reason for staying was . . . gone. All he could hope for was the chance to continue following Tommy wherever he roamed, but Death, despite all Her attempts, was not kind. It was never meant to be kind.
….
His brother never has looked more peaceful.
Ghostbur trembled at the realization.
“What does death feel like?” Tommy asked. Was it cold? Lonely? Did Ghostbur even know he was dead, like Tommy does, or does he feel like he's dreaming?
Does he feel empty, like Tommy? There’s a hole in his chest, he thinks: dark and forlorn for the past Tommy craves. Does Ghostbur feel the same, or even through this are the two brothers different?
“Empty,” Ghostbur replies after a moment. “It feels empty.”