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Tommy knew that longing and loneliness could mess with one’s perception of reality.
He’d lost count of the number of times something appeared at the edges of his vision only to vanish as soon as he turned around. He’d been visited by specters of his past self and his loved ones on the desolate shores of Logstedshire that were far too intangible to be anything concrete like Ghostbur often enough that it had started to worry Dream. And at times, he struggled to distinguish whether the hoards of mobs attacking him at night were landing their blows because they were there or because he kept stumbling in a blind panic and crashing against the surrounding trees.
However, that morning as he woke up to a world that suddenly felt taller, stuffier, and warmer than he’d experienced it in years, he knew that there was something more going on than his mind succumbing to a particularly intricate delusion.
White walls were closing him in on all sides. He was sitting at a heavy desk, papers stained with dried ink and drool spread across it in irregular patterns, a quill was resting on one end of the table, a quarter of a block away from a spilled ink vial. Even beyond the desk, the room was in complete disarray. Cigarette buds lay spent all around like crumbs fed to birds, and yet the smoke that had once come from them hadn’t dissipated yet, making it hard for Tommy to breathe. There was a chessboard with barely any pieces left on it on a small, scratched-up table by the door. And shelves full of pristine and dusty books lined the wall to his left, as if trying to give that study a more legitimate appearance, and yet failing to do that due to their state of disuse.
Plenty of clues were neatly laid out in front of him, and yet Tommy’s fatigued mind was struggling to connect the dots.
That was, until a disgruntled-looking Quackity marched in to slam a fresh pile of paper down in front of him. “Sam dropped by to give you the blueprints for the Guardian Farm and some drafts for a contract of use regarding it. Will you let me help you with it, or will you stubbornly insist on reading them yourself and then slobber all over them once you collapse on top of them again?”. It was the first time in Tommy’s life that he heard the duck hybrid sound so irritated without the topic of Dream or Schlatt being brought up. And it was exactly what he needed for everything he’d taken in so far to click into place.
As one final piece of confirmation, he looked down at his hands. One of them was small but callous and tough. A sure indication of a life of battles and hardships. The nails on it were well-maintained and manicured, as if to try and paint over it a mask of respectability that didn’t fit it. The other was covered in burn marks, still surprisingly fresh and painful despite having been partially fixed by death. Those hands didn’t belong to Tommy, even if there were plenty of similarities between them and his own.
He was in Tubbo’s body.
Tubbo couldn’t read but was too stubborn to ever admit to it and ask for help, which was why Tommy had once learned to just do things for him without asking. Apologizing when his help wasn’t wanted or needed had always felt easier than just letting his friend flounder. And he’d found that his aid was usually welcome when he did so subtly. Still, Quackity, who hadn’t spent years studying the inner machinations of his President, wouldn’t have known all the tricks to handle him best, and that must have been what led to his frustration.
Having figured all of that out gave Tommy a momentary sense of relief. One that vanished as soon as he realized that he had no clue how to proceed from there.
Heck, he didn’t even know how he’d gotten to where he was! Magic was confined to alchemy and summonings. There was no such thing as body swapping. Most even cast doubts on the power of prayers, with Tommy being among them. He was a believer of Prime, but he never bought the idea that all he needed to do to receive everything he’d ever wanted was ask for it. It felt too easy. He would never have been happy owning something he hadn’t earned one way or another, be it through stealing, deceit, or the rare bouts of hard work he’d seldom embark upon. So, given that he wasn’t dreaming, which he doubted due to how vividly he could smell the tobacco in the air, what was going on? Had a god played a prank on him? Was that one of Drista’s mischievous antics?
Time was a luxury he was hardly ever given, and that situation wasn’t an exception.
Quackity huffed, irritated by a lack of response, and stormed off muttering about how he had more important matters to attend to and he refused to babysit a country leader again. Even without Tubbo’s soul currently inhabiting that body, a pang of hurt shot through his heart at that comment. As if trauma and pain were instincts so ingrained in his muscles that they’d become inescapable.
Alone once more, the dread of being somewhere he shouldn’t be finally hit him in full force.
Tommy had been trying to find some clever subterfuge to sneak back into L’Manburg unnoticed for the first few weeks of his exile. Then the days on that island turned into months, the visits of his friends that had, at first, been almost a regular occurrence dwindled, and he finally accepted that there was no coming back for him. His crappy tent with enough rips in the fabric to render it almost pointless as a refuge was his home, and Dream, his jailer and oldest enemy, was his only friend.
There was no escape from that Hell, or, at the very least, not one he would survive.
The Nether, with its endless seas of lava and its promise of a quick, if excruciating end, had become a forbidden temptation for him for a reason. And so had the murky depths of the ocean beyond the shallow shores of his seaside prison. They didn’t whisper to him through the lips of his old friends like many of his more morbid visions did, but they were tantalizing in their quiet finality nonetheless.
And yet, one way or another, he was back in L’Manburg now. Or New L’Manburg, as Tubbo had oh-so originally renamed it in his inauguration speech. His body wasn’t there, but his soul was.
Did that break the terms of his exile? Was it better if he came clean about it sooner rather than later? Would anybody even believe him if he swore that he had nothing to do with whatever brought him back, or would they just cast doubt over his words as they always did? Would they come up with a harsher punishment if he confessed or if they figured everything out on their own? And who would get to make the final decision on his fate? It couldn’t be Tubbo, could it? Not when his existence was just as fractured and splintered as Tommy’s own at the moment. In a way, his old friend had betrayed his word just as much as Tommy had when his body, knowingly or not, had been turned into a Trojan Horse.
Quickly, he discarded telling the truth as an option.
It would have led to the fairest outcome for him, but he didn’t want to drag Tubbo into one of his messes again. Even if he wasn’t sure that he could prevent it now that they were merged as one.
Besides, he wasn’t sure he could handle an even bleaker and more precarious situation than the one he’d been confined to. That was a bit of a selfish desire on his part, but he wanted a kinder outcome for himself as well. And, hopefully, that wouldn’t backfire horribly on him.
So… what was there left for him to do?
He could pretend to be Tubbo and stubbornly stare at the stack of papers in front of him until Quackity came back to scold him, or Ranboo pranced in to talk about whatever gay shit those two had going on (he had only heard a little bit from Dream about how they’d been growing close, and, while he wasn’t jealous or bitter about it at all, he did routinely hope the lanky bastard would stab his toes daily for stealing who was once his best friend), but how long could he keep the act going? He had no clue about how to govern a country. He barely knew anything about L’Manburg since, despite being one of the five founders of it, he’d spent most of his time away from it, either hunkered down underground with his spiraling older brother or in a beautiful but remote location, out of the sight and mind of its residents.
Let alone that, if Dream decided to visit, he was sure to see right through Tommy’s mask, and all of his efforts would end up pointless anyway. His friend always had a keen sense of observation, especially when it came to him. Some called it creepy, while he personally had a very neutral opinion on the man’s obsession. Usually, it offered him a certain sense of comfort to know that there was at least one person who would never leave his side. That wasn’t one of those instances, as he knew that his best friend’s hands were tied and he would need to shoot him down if he found him breaking the rules.
Would Tommy die too if Tubbo’s body was struck down? Would Tubbo? Or would his old friend remain trapped forever in a body he didn’t belong in, all because he’d been too foolish to take the right steps to ensure a better fate for him?
All the questions and doubts plaguing his mind left him paralyzed for a long time. Unable to leave the study, unable to call out for help, unable to just break down and write a confession with what little of the ink remained usable. It was a horrible Limbo of indecision.
His stasis was finally broken by Ghostbur, merrily floating in through one of the walls, carelessly knocking down a few of the dusty books that had been arranged there in such an aesthetically pleasing way. It had been months since Tommy had seen the friendly ghost. Their last encounter had ended with the other promising he’d be delivering the invites to his beach party, something that Dream swore he’d done, only to then vanish for good. Never stepping foot in Logstedshire again. The prick had abandoned him with a useless promise just like his alive counterpart had done before him. Liars the both of them.
Tommy should have known better than to assume that any goodbye could ever be temporary with his brother.
The happy ghost started blabbering something about Ranboo, sewers, and his dad, but Tommy didn’t listen to a single word of it. Ghostbur’s vacant stare and jovial demeanor did nothing but piss him off. They were a reminder of his flaky attitude and his lack of loyalty.
Where Tommy would have followed any version of his brother to the end of the Earth, neither of them could be bothered to be there for him when he needed them most. He let that anger simmer for a few moments and then bloom into the motivation he needed to spring into action.
Without even a greeting in the ghost’s direction, he got up, shrugged off the uncomfortable suit jacket two sizes too big that Tubbo insisted on wearing, and marched out of the White House. His destination was the only place he could freely exist in without the threat of execution looming over his head: Logstedshire. It wasn’t somewhere he felt safe in, and wasn’t somewhere he actively wanted to be, but he was sure to find his other half there, and he figured that, if there was any way of putting things back to how they were supposed to be, they would have had a better chance at figuring it out together.
Nervousness accompanied him while traversing the piers New L’Manburg was built upon; whatever rage seeing the spectral remains of his brother had managed to dredge out of him wasn’t strong enough to suppress it. However, keeping his head down and his mouth shut, he managed to go mostly unseen, and he reached the Nether portal he’d been forbidden from traversing ever again unharmed.
All that remained for him to do was hope that Tubbo had been able to handle everything as well as he had, if not better.
---
Waking up with water in his lungs was supposed to be the worst part of Tubbo’s day. That was until he was pulled ashore by surprisingly strong arms and forced to vomit everything he had in him, which turned out not to be very much, on the sand.
Before he could even get a grip on himself and assess what had just happened, Dream’s creepy ass porcelain mask covered his entire field of view as the man screamed at him about how irresponsible it had been for him to not lock himself in Ghostbur’s little shack when he knew that he was prone to drowning himself at night which left him more confused than he’d ever been before. And that was saying a lot when he’d stumbled around on stage the day of his inauguration as president of New L’Manburg while stuttering through a speech he hadn’t prepared and looking out to a sea of people who seemed mostly too embarrassed by having already had two people sidestep the responsibility of leading them to boo him off stage.
As was his usual when under pressure, he shut down and stared stone-faced at Dream, letting his words wash over his battered skin and doing everything in his power to keep them from sinking in. Back when Schlatt had been alive still, he’d appreciated Tubbo’s apathetic outer appearance whenever he went on his drunken tirades. It was the only thing about him that he had ever respected or admired. Whenever he shut down his emotions, he became a perfect representation of the stoic masculinity that the old dictator always aspired to embody, so maybe that was why he was adamant about keeping him around for as long as he did.
Dream was nowhere near as impressed by his stone-cold facade as his old boss had been, however. As a matter of fact, he stopped in the middle of his angry tirade to just stare at him. His emotions were inscrutable due to the mask concealing his face, but it was obvious that he seemed to think that something about Tubbo was… off.
After what felt like hours of stalemate but was probably only a couple of minutes, Dream let go of him and took a step back. He stood up straighter, relaxed his shoulders, and forcibly turned his friendliness up a notch. It was unsettling to see how well he could pull that kind of manipulation off on command. It felt as if Tubbo wasn’t even looking at a real person, but at a puppet instead. The masked man’s movement felt rehearsed, as if he was just pulling each piece of himself along on the same strings he used on everybody else, reducing himself to as much of a spectator to his theatrics as everyone else was.
Tubbo had never seen that side of him before.
He wished he had the time to think about it and let that new piece of information sink in before being whisked along to the next scene in their play, but, alas, he wasn’t the one in control.
“My, what a predicament. You’re not actually Tommy, are you? I mean, the body is his, but he would have been swearing at me by now” Dream’s tone was sickly sweet. It wrapped around Tubbo’s brain like molasses and left him trembling in a way that seemed exaggerated and alien to him. Although if the other man’s words were anything to go by, he was the out-of-place element there.
In an attempt at taking over the flow of the conversation, Tubbo didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he glanced down at his tattered clothes and his missing shoe. He took stock of all of the scars, old and new, that littered the body he once had known relatively well. It was impossible to spend years with a person, fighting side by side, often sharing the same breath in the cramped military barracks of their childhoods, without growing familiar with all aspects of them. And yet, he found very little of what he remembered. Tommy’s hair was long and brown with filth; his condition was worse than he’d seen it even back in Pogtopia when he hadn’t been allowed to see the sun for the better part of four years, and none of his sewing skills had been put to use to keep himself at least somewhat protected from the incredibly chilly winter air of that beach.
All of Dream’s assurances that his best friend had been doing well and was just unwilling to see him due to the hurt he’d caused him rang in his ears at once. Lies. They’d all been lies.
Maybe it was spite at that realization, or maybe it was the understanding that, for as long as Dream was unaware of his real identity, he had the upper hand, that stopped him from uttering his name. Instead, he squared his shoulders and glared up at the beady black eyes of Dream’s mask with all the ire of someone about to go on a rampage. “Fuck off” he uttered in his best impression of Tommy. He knew his pathetic attempt wouldn’t end up convincing the other, but he still wanted to pay homage to his best friend in some way.
If Tommy had managed to remain himself enough to swear up a storm any time Dream overstepped with him despite the pitiful conditions they’d all left him to rot in, then he could at least try to do the same for as long as it took him to come up with a plan.
Despite his best efforts, however, Dream was still unamused. He crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side just like a disappointed parent would have. Tubbo didn’t have much experience with one of those himself, but he’d seen Phil interact with Fundy enough to have at least a vague understanding of it. He’d also seen enough of Wilbur interacting with Fundy to get even more of an idea. Especially because the difference between how that wannabe commander treated his actual son and how he treated Tommy had always been quite staggering. Not that he envied the amount of responsibilities the deceased president put on his best friend… Thinking about it, even if they weren’t related by blood, Schlatt’s way of interacting with Fundy was also very reminiscent of the other two scenarios and of Dream’s attitude at that moment.
Poor Fundy… for as desperately as he craved approval, he always ended up drawing the short end of the stick with all of his parental figures, didn’t he?
“Listen, I’m a patient man” Dream started, lying out of his ass once more “But I take Tommy’s well-being very seriously, and I won’t hesitate to extract every piece of information I need from you in some less-than-pleasant ways if need be”. At that point, he let out a dramatic sigh, as if the threat of torture he’d just made was more of an inconvenience for him than it was a danger to Tubbo. He didn’t show a single ounce of care for him or dread at the idea of hurting another person. He just seemed bored and vaguely annoyed. “I would much prefer getting this over and done with quickly and amicably, though. Mr. President will be such a pain in the ass to deal with if you turn out to be one of his citizens”.
There was probably something that could be inferred by the way Dream so freely mentioned Tommy compared with his outright refusal to say Tubbo’s name, but he couldn’t tell what that was. Maybe the man was too focused on his role as a jailer to remember superfluous details about the world outside of that beach, like the name of the leader of the one country that consistently stood up to him. Or maybe it was a power play aimed at making him feel weak when even the assumed leader of his country was regarded as nothing more than a minor headache.
Either option left him feeling queasy.
The way Dream acted out there, away from the political scene, was deplorable. Tubbo didn’t know why he’d ever let himself be convinced that the other man was an honorable person acting in the interest of his nation and his friends and nothing more. At that point, he wasn’t even sure the other had any real friends… he acted as if he cared for Tommy, but was that just another facade?
Could someone so ready to torture Tommy’s body for answers ever truly care about him? Could the torture even be effective? Would Tubbo feel it? He didn’t feel the pain of water flooding his lungs and clogging his windpipe earlier, but that could have been attributed to the shock and brevity of the moment.
Regardless, he didn’t have any intention of finding out.
Even if he didn’t end up facing any repercussions for his defiance, Tommy would. And a glance at the pitiful condition of the body he accidentally borrowed was enough of a reminder to him that he’d already let him pay enough for choices that weren’t his own.
Thankfully, he was saved from having to quickly come up with an escape plan on the spot, something he’d never been good at, by himself. Well, by whom he assumed to be Tommy piloting his body. Regardless, that momentary amalgamation stepped through the Nether portal a few blocks away from them, and the noise was enough to get his attention, but not Dream’s. The other man was probably going down the list of torture methods he knew; too happy about being able to get some practice on them after such a long period of peace to notice his surroundings.
Struck by what could have been either a moment of genius or folly, Tubbo pulled out the oldest trick he had in his book, the one that had allowed him to win many arguments against Wilbur Soot despite the man’s renowned silver tongue: he started to shake and, with added difficulty due to the dehydrated state of the body he was currently inhabiting, even shed a few tears. “Please, don’t hurt me anymore” he whimpered pathetically.
Dream let out a confused noise. “I didn’t even start” he pointed out flatly.
Tubbo ignored him fully. He wasn’t his intended audience anyway.
He could see Tommy’s confusion and uncertainty. Undoubtedly battling between his knowledge that the one in distress was Tubbo and the fact that he didn’t look like him. Eventually, however, his protective instincts kicked in. He summoned Tubbo’s enchanted netherite axe, one he’d stolen from Techno at some point, probably from that vault he’d given all of Pogtopia access to back when he was still pretending to be their ally, and silently stalked forward. Dream noticed him when it was already too late; he turned around fast enough to watch the blade of the axe glinting in the sunlight as it came down on his neck, but not quickly enough to block it.
It took an incredible amount of restraint on Tubbo’s part not to grin like an idiot when Dream’s headless body flopped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, but he knew he had to keep up appearances to help his friend avoid the guilt that was sure to follow such a violent act. Besides, at least one of them had to remain focused on deciding what to do going forward, and he knew he was better at thinking long-term.
Predictably, Tommy started to shake as he dropped the axe and hurried to hug Tubbo, holding onto him as his lifeline. Tubbo protectively wrapped his arms around him.
“Everything’s okay, everything’s okay-” he repeated a few times to convince both Tommy and himself. Dream wasn’t fully dead. As far as they all knew, he had another couple of lives to spare. He’d be fine. But they couldn’t stay there. It was too dangerous. Especially in their current predicament. So, after running out of empty reassurances, he made a decision. “Remember when we were thinking of running away? Back in Pogtopia?”. Tommy nodded; the memory was probably as vivid in his mind as it was in Tubbo’s. Maybe his friend even regretted saying no as much as he regretted not pushing him further. But remorse was useless; they both knew that Tommy would always be choosing his brother over anything and anyone, including himself. Thankfully, Wilbur Soot was dead now. They couldn't even hold onto his corpse since it had been blasted to smithereens. And Ghostbur was nothing like his alive counterpart, which meant that he hadn't had the time to find his own unique method of fucking Tommy over. “Let’s do it now. Let’s run. Let’s make a little cottage somewhere far from here. I know you have no reason to forgive me or to want to spend time with me, but… I’m sure you can also see how staying here is a death sentence. Especially with Dream seeing my face and knowing it was you who killed him. He’ll want revenge”.
Tommy, weak as he’d ever been to his family’s pleas, quietly acquiesced. Although, before doing so, he made sure to give Tubbo a knowing look.
Of course, his best friend would know… he’d grown so used to letting himself be controlled that he must have been able to see the strings hundreds of blocks away. And it meant something that, even knowing, even recognizing the game, he was still willing to play for as long as Tubbo was the one guiding him.