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If Dream had to summarize the past few months in one word, it would be devastating. How quickly the night changes from a simple life of camaraderie and harmless fun to the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now, staring Tommy in the eyes, holding a scrap of leather like some kind of trophy, he’s drawn back to those nights.
The lazy summer evenings in the pastures, laying in a bed of flowers with George after a long day of tending the fields. His shirt is still sullied with dirt, hands calloused from work, but he’s never looked more delicate. He could write pages upon pages of those days from memory, describing in great detail just what shade of light was reflecting off of George’s hair, how lily-white and radiant, like a god amongst men.
The sinking realization that those days are over has been eating away at him like rot in his bones. He’s been slow-cooking in his own delusion that somehow, everything will fall into place; somehow, he’ll return to a life with someone he never truly had.
So yes, when he sees Spirit’s hide in Tommy's hand, all he feels is devastation. He prays to some deity greater than himself that no one noticed the hitch in his breath.
You’ll never have that again. You never had it in the first place.
He stiffens his back, clenching his fist at his sides. Channeling the deep-seated rage of seeing George’s cottage in flames, seeing Tommy’s smarmy expression, Dream chews on his lip and smothers the helplessness with authority.
“Listen, you fucked up this time,” Dream spits out.
Tommy’s smile falters. Good.
“Dream. Dream, don’t swear please,” Tommy says. He can’t hide the tremble in his voice, not as well as Dream can.
“No, no, no. No. I don’t give a fuck about Spirit. I don’t give a fuck about anything, actually. I care about your discs. I care more about your discs than you do. That’s the only thing I care about on this server, actually,” Dream says.
That longing persists in his chest, adamant on being heard. George’s name is playing on loop in his head, and no amount of faux apathy can stop that. No amount of telling himself he doesn’t care will make it true.
“I don’t care about Spirit. Spirit was my horse, died ages ago,” Dream continues. A flash takes over of a midnight ride, taking George into the woods and watching the stars from the saddle. He noticed small things- George idly stroking their mane, leaning against them. He was always so fond of Spirit, back when their small family was all they had. When life was simple.
Now, he sees no recognition in George’s eyes. There’s no familiarity, no light. No amount of acting would ever allow Dream the same indifference that George so naturally displays.
In Tommy’s eyes, he sees a likeness in his fear that sits behind boisterous confidence. Tommy has the same devastation, as young and immature as he may be; he shares the fear of losing someone he thought he would have forever. He’s fighting for hope that Dream himself wishes he could put behind him.
Dream won’t allow himself sympathy for Tommy. No good can come from that.
“I care about your discs because that’s what gives me power over you, your friends, and everybody you care about. Because you care about your discs more than anyone else here. So if you are not exiled from L’manberg, I will build these walls until they’ve reached the limit. I will keep everybody inside, I will hire guards- Punz and Sapnap- to patrol all around the entire walls, keeping them inside. No trade, no one leaves, no armor while they get slaughtered inside,” Dream says, inching closer to Tommy with every word.
Tommy’s jaw is tight, eyebrows furrowed. He glances at Tubbo with every sentence. Tubbo isn’t even looking at him. He’s still holding on, despite Tubbo’s intentions being clear. Tommy insists on pursuing a fool’s errand.
“Don’t try and threaten me. I don’t care. I have lost all care for anything on the server,” Dream says.
“Really?" Tommy asks. "So if I burn Spirit right now-”
No. Dream's gut feels ice-cold.
“Burn Spirit, right in front of me! Right now!” Dream shouts in his face.
“Well, this is the only thing you’ve had attachment to this entire time. How do I know you’re not fuckin’ lying?” Tommy asks. A weight is lifted off his chest- he couldn't do it if he wanted to.
“I have attachment to your discs,” Dream says.
“What? Why- why would you- they’re my-”
“No Tommy. They’re my discs.”
There it is. The devastation. The hopelessness. With a few words, a simple reminder, Dream has crushed him. He doesn’t feel guilty, he doesn’t even feel good. It feels numb- and that’s better than heartache.
“Listen, Tubbo. You have three days. If you do not exile him in three days, I’ll do what I said."
“What does that entail? What the fuck does that mean?” Tommy asks.
“L’manberg can be independent. But L’manberg can’t be free,” Dream replies.
Before anyone can reply- though they were speechless anyway- he turns and leaves, scaling the obsidian wall and leaving them to stew in his ultimatum. As he’s walking away, he takes in the vast city of houses and shops, digging his nails into his palm at the memory of these rolling fields being empty and full of promise.