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Early morning fog rests over the world like a blanket, thick with the salt of the ocean. Tommy has grown accustomed towards the lack of sight, the beginning of dawn brings no comfort as he walks. Trees and long grass sway in the shoreside wind, branches have began the process of losing leaves, becoming bare with the September chill. Tree limbs reach out to the sky in prayer, thousands of tiny arms resting in the canopy, they extend in offer, in desperate pleas, rustling in the breeze. Tommy feels like there's eyes right at the back of his neck, he'll turn around and be met with a million things that want to kill him, it's a feeling that he's familiar with but that doesn't negate the discomfort it brings.
His skin feels tight in too many places, as if his body itself is telling him to turn around, that however far he is now is as far as he should go. His jaw is tense with uneasiness, rubbing his forearms in futile attempts to clear the gritty spray. Such an act was comforting, when his body was warming up by a fireplace or by the sun, when there were times that his entire body was warm instead of the frostbitten chill his bones continue to seep out into the tissues and blood.
Tommy forgets there's a world, a life far from this one, maybe one where Tubbo didn't exile him or one where he cared enough to visit, where Ranboo took the lack of letters (the letters he wrote became pleas of safety, of how he can make a home out of anything, the tent is small and he doesn't have food and Dream might show up) as a sign of danger instead of Tommy hates him, where he is not cold. It can't be this world though, because Tubbo exiled him and hates him (and part of Tommy is convinced that Tubbo does know because apparently him and Dream are buddy-buddy) and Ranboo has stopped sending letters. Tommy isn't alone, he's simply just now with anyone that cares for him.
The trees offer false protection as he walks further in his line away from his camp, a solider staying in formation, only straying from his path when something impassable rears its head. The plains morph into a deeper forest, the undergrowth offers the same protection towards anyone who walks through it as it does for him, intentions irrelevant. The blood that rushes into his heart, squeezed like a fist, pumped up into his skull, is audible in the early morning quiet. His teeth grind together, jaw tensed with enough pressure to feel his teeth ache between gums, it's not enough. His body clings to pain like a child clings to its mother, a terrifying unknown of when he'll hurt gets wiped clean with the cemented fact that there is no existence where Tommy does not hurt anymore.
His knuckles are bruised red and purple, cuts against the thin skin already swollen, fingers feel out of place with the dull sting of impact. He was angry earlier, wanted to crush Dream's skull (they think Tommy is weak and he knows they know that because Dream was dead fucking asleep when Tommy crawled out of the tent) into bits, he's been more angry since this exile began. It's not his fault, he tried to be nice and polite, he shoved gifts back at people because he didn't need pity, Tommy had done everything write to keep friends with him, and was rewarded with nothing. He wrote letters to friends that actually cared, ignored the friends that caused him to get into this mess, he only hits himself and not other people, Dream doesn't count as a person.
And yet, as the sun crawls past the horizon, he feels sick with guilt for leaving. There will be a point he turns around, before the sun gets overhead, but he still likes to consider this leaving. It makes him feel better about it all, he's not helpless, see? He's leaving, Tommy's crawling over ferns and bushes, pushing past thorns and trees, ducking underneath the low branches, he's capable, see? It's being proven to nobody that truly cares about his resilience, he knows Dream would much rather prefer if Tommy just stay put (but that's not true, right? Dream likes hunting Tommy down, he knows that they do, because if they really hated all of this, they'd just keep breaking his legs over and over) in the camp for the rest of the exile.
The ocean air stings more as he moves closer to the shore, his legs moving with little thought, the sand is flat and easy to see past the fog. His boots crunch, overlapping with the rhythmic sweeping of waves begging for Tommy to move a bit closer, to feel the chilly water, inhale, exhale, fill his lungs with the very thing that keeps everything alive. It's a tantalizing thought, swim out right here, a two hour walk from camp, become a bloated body with no way of identification. He wouldn't be found soon enough to be saved, Dream wouldn't be able to search every shore in their line of sight soon enough to drag him out, it'd be a perfect death. Maybe his body, frothy at the mouth and distended at the stomach, would find it's way to L'manburg. Tubbo could be the first person to find his dead best friend, he could get to rot in the guilt that he was practically a murderer, find all of his better friends to cry about just how sad he is Tommy's gone.
It's a thought that Tommy relishes in, the idea that Tubbo would have to live on knowing that he was the killer, he was the head of the home, he told Dream that Tommy was exiled and then Tommy dies. It'd be like a movie, maybe like one of those sad radio dramas that Tubbo listens to at his big fancy desk stolen from Schlatt, a tale of how someone's idea of the best choice ends up being the worst outcome, maybe Tubbo dies too, he finds out Tommy's gone (and it's his fault, it's his actions that killed Tubbo because Dream is bad but Tubbo pretended that he'd never hurt Tommy and then sends him off to Dream) and decides the best option is to eat the muzzle of a sawed-up shotgun, barely aware of the irony of blowing up his face a second time because he's in that much excruciating ruin. It's a selfish thought, Tommy tries to shake out the entire idea, deciding on a nicer way on why he's on the shore.
If someone, anybody in the world, tried to confront Tommy now it would be seen. The forest, even when leaves are littering the ground, provide protection for each body that traverses through it. If someone wanted to throw an ender pearl, shoot an arrow, block his path, move towards him — he'd see it. Tommy would be able to see it, he would be able to hear it, he can predict it, he can plan around it. He'll know when someone is trying to hurt him, to kill him, he'll be well aware of eyes that stare at him. This does not mean safety, his muscles remain flexed as if they are speaking to him, his safety is not based in how well he can predict, because no matter what down the line, he will be hurting, he will be dead.
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It's well past noon when he begins to recognize the hills and plains that he calls home, his neck is red, his ears are burnt from the sun beating down on him. His hair is whipping into his face, the wind picking up as he continues back to the small home he's made, it gets into his eyes and he's constantly trying to adjust the scraps of a headband he made from an old shirt. His hair does not care for these attempts of being reigned in, tangling itself even further into his fingers, frustration overshadowing the attempt. What began as strands of white turned into parts, then the blonde that used to be there simply wasn't. Dream says it's because he's in the sun so much, enjoying the beach weather, laughs as if they're the funniest thing Tommy's witnessed. It has to be stress, Tommy's reasoned this a million times before to himself, if not stress, then Dream is right — that stresses Tommy out, so the hair is stress related either way (which makes Tommy technically right no matter what, but Dream won't like saying that).
Bingo, problem solved, life fixed. Another problem arises as the campfire is already in full burn, logs tossed into the pit with what can only be anger. Something was found, this cements into Tommy's stomach right next to the fear as his steps falter. There's no point in trying to hide, Dream is already up, which means they're already aware that Tommy is gone, which means it'll be much worse if he goes to his tent and keeps himself still under the covers, like a child. A part of his mind gnaws at the thought that Dream hadn't even moved ten feet from where they were this morning, there's no worry in their posture as Tommy draws nearer.
It's like they knew he was going to come back.
That should be gross. That thought right there should be the most horrific shit Tommy has ever thought, it should be making him sick to any remains of food and spit that are left in his stomach, it should be so much worse than how he feels. He can think the thought, think how he should respond, and then only feel disconnected (there's shame, there's a bitter gross emotion that Tommy refuses to say, he's mad that Dream doesn't care) to the idea. He knows he wouldn't think like this before last year, but that doesn't do anything except loop into that disconnect. Is Tommy ever going to be the same? If he does go back to L'manburg, if he manages to find out there's a compromise between Dream and Tubbo, if something magical happens and Dream dies by blowing themselves up or some stupid shit like that, would people like him? Would he go back? If his friends spat right in the face of everything Tommy went through, says they don't love him anymore because he's so much more angry now, so much more closed off, so much less fun, what would he do?
He's been making maps in the back of his head as he walked in a million single directions throughout his months in exile, there was little else to do, it made him feel like he wasn't just a sitting duck. Tommy made his own code, scribbled between pages of journals and bark of trees, he's taught himself how to track something down by footprints, how to move through dense trees, cold snow, blazing heat. If he didn't try to leave, that means he's accepting what's going on, Tommy can't do that. Tommy doesn't like what's happening, he doesn't need Dream to go back and tell Tubbo all about some bullshit about how they're just the best of friends now.
The maps span as far as he's ran, walked, crawled. Pages and lines reach between the edges of paper, margins of books, dirt, grime, blood if he has it spilled, spit if Dream takes everything away, restless sleep if there's really no other options for him. Tommy understands the incomprehensible shapes and lines and arrows, colored, dark, barely there, erased and remade. He knows that Dream doesn't understand what's being written, what's being marked, why circles are one color and then erased and fixed, but it's a long standing project. Dream would probably say something how it's proof Tommy's planning something, how it's just a ticking bomb to do something destructive, and then Dream pushed him to that point and Dream blames him all the same! It's not fair.
"You're not supposed to leave Logstedshire without me." Like Dream cares, like it's actually leaving if Tommy came back. That's what he wants to say, wants to spit that if he comes back it's not really leaving, it's more of just a walk, unless they plan on banning Tommy on walking. His mouth doesn't get the memo his brain's sending, because it tenses itself to keep it from opening, dry with shame that's swallowed into his stomach.
"You're hiding things from me," Dream continues, they're not even looking at Tommy, the stupid fucking mask is just facing towards the fire like it has every answer there could ever be, the words sound almost saddened by the fact, "That's okay."
"It's hard to be your friend, y'know? Like, you think I'm evil, which whatever, you can think that- but it's really hard to be your friend, Tommy. I wish you could see the effort I put in. This isn't a short trip for me, you haven't seen any nether portals nearby, yeah? I don't build any. You'll get into it, like a, a rat or something. You know how they end up in places they're not supposed to?" Tommy does not feel comforted by the leisurely way they're speaking to him. In fact, there are only a few things that are keeping him tethered right where he's at. Some thirty odd yards from the treeline, maybe three yards from Dream and the campfire they've been tending to in Tommy's absence. The things go as followed; Dream is faster than him, Dream has an axe strapped to their back, Dream is already mad, Tommy doesn't want to hurt, Tommy doesn't really have the energy to run, Dream sounds almost genuine.
The maps, or what remain of them, are kicked into the roaring flame. Leather peels off of the covers, binding glue melts between the heat, the mask is burning against their face and it almost makes the anger cease. Almost.
At first, Dream wanted to be cordial, wanted to be polite, give Tommy the benefit of the doubt! They didn't have to, there was plenty of pages that Dream was willing to keep intact for their friend. But no, it was nearly ten in the morning when they had finally decided to leave the firepit to wake Tommy up, and there was nothing. An empty bed, a mockery of everything Dream was going to hold back on. So, they rummaged, they grabbed nearly every piece of cloth and paper and bark, open armfuls feeding the fire.
It hadn't eased the feeling, the thrum underneath their chest, hands wringing each other out like a rag. No, there wasn't anything to sate the actual anger, nothing to snap back at it, keep it in check. Tommy only half steps back when Dream, in a flurry of spiked armor and muttering, grabs his arm. That's progress, and the thought enrages Dream more, needlessly digging nails into already bruised skin. Whatever. Whatever. What was about to happen was going to be worse than bruises, whatever Tommy wants to make as an excuse will be ripped apart like the books he's filled bitching.
The shove is measured, everything they do is measured, this isn't about some mindless violence without reason, it's a lesson, a teaching moment. There was so much progress that was spat on by the boy in the corner of their vision — there's less defiance which means he's learning, he's barely trying to fight back, and the only reason he tries to catch his fall is pure human instinct. Dream can work with a framework, Dream can work with the automatic movements of something trying to live.
His hands are the first piece of skin to bury into the soft ashes, his wrists and forearms follow into the dry earth, crunching into dust between his fingers, and Tommy's nerves figure out the message they need to tell the brain.
Bile floods his mouth, sickness curls into his bones, reaching through every possible crevice that his body makes. He can't move from the fire fast enough, his body is far too slow with what it needs to do, pulling away with wide eyed fear. Everything underneath his elbows looks like crumpled paper, maybe bubblewrap, foaming, frothy — it looks like the waves that crash onto the sand. The ocean feels a million years away, his eyes can't seem to focus.
The pain follows and Tommy screams, his throat feels closed, the sound echoes into the empty beach, fire crackling between his ears. His skin is cracking along lines that he's never noticed until now, blood spills over into the fire, boiling and hissing into steam, joining the vomit leaving his mouth. The smell of iron surrounds him like miasma, stumbling up.
His skull is pounding, Tommy can't stop screaming, it feels like his entire body is on fire, and it won't stop. His skin feels like it's suffocating him, and then it feels like he's been peeled open, this is agony. His body struggles to continue the movement, standing half kneeled in front of Dream.
His heart is threading between so strong he can taste it in the back of his throat, with the blood and saltwater that feels permanently lodged into his esophagus, and then it gets so quiet he's convinced he's about to die. He's got to die from this? He hasn't had something this bad, right? He can't really remember, trying to think of anything besides how badly his arms hurt is useless. He can't grip onto anything because his fingers can't move, so then his arms are just sitting infront of his own vision as his body slowly crumples in on itself.
He looks at Dream, eyes watering, the mask offers fucking nothing, there's nothing there. It's like they're just looking at a bug, or a dying animal, is Tommy dying? Tommy has to be dying, right? Skin is falling off like sheets, like bark pulled off of trees, it's charred black on the edges, and then it's red with inflammation when it leaves him, and then it's dry and gross and Tommy can't stop looking at Dream. They're looking right past him, right past the screaming and crying, they can't stop looking at his wounds.
The pain doesn't feel like anything, Tommy realizes slowly, lungs empty from his own yelling. Behind his eyes, his mind struggles between each breath, he's tired. Is he dying?
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When Tommy wakes, his body is clammy with cold sweat. The fire is still flickering in the deep night, orange pours out in all directions from it, a dark shadow swallowing the light and reflecting back. Purple and blue gleams like scales of a fish, shimmering like the moon against the ocean, there's no moon out tonight. Ashes and remains of wood are moved over and over, a lullaby, a drone of sound. Tommy can't feel his arms from underneath the blanket he was set under, each heartbeat throbs through the skin, tight.
If Tommy were to sit up, he could see his own imprint of his body from where it fell onto the coals, Dream seemed to move the actual smoldering fire away from it, some sick power play. Something just to prove to Tommy this had happened, as if his arms don't hurt. As if his entire body doesn't twist on itself in disgust, as if he had any reason to believe it hadn't happened.
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Dream removes the bandages after two days, Tommy was practically spitting venom towards the idea, a raised hand (turned strike because Tommy didn't shut the hell up) turned to the arms of the boy. Covered hands, one holding his shoulder so tight Tommy's convinced they're going to break it, undo careful dressings.
The skin that's set over the injury looks, almost new.
There's some lines where the peeling had split, there's dark splotches on his hands, the skin looks like worn leather.
"That's not how skin's suppose to look." Tommy says it without thinking, because burns aren't supposed to heal in two days, and because he knows that he was burned, and Dream only snorts in the same way they always do when Tommy states something fucking obvious. As if he's stupid, as if Dream is somehow more aware of what skin is supposed to look like after a burn, as if Dream has any skin to fucking burn. Tommy won't be surprised if they're just secretly not human at all, something without skin.
"Obviously." Dream replies, an even tone as if they're really putting consideration into this wound undressing, Tommy waits for a continuation.
It's the only response, not saying he's wrong, not saying some smartass remark, simple an acknowledgement that bodies aren't supposed to do this.