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Tommy hates the sound of lava.
He hates everything about it, actually. The way it hisses and bubbles and will randomly crackle like flames and make him jump. The heat of it, the suffocating burn that seems to burrow under his clothes and inside his skin and boil his blood like a soup. The smell, the thick, pungent scent of sulfur and wet stone and something harsh and disgusting, like hard boiled eggs. The way it glows so brightly that he can't help but see it even when he faces the obsidian walls and squeezes his eyes shut so tightly it gives him a headache, the way it casts everything in his field of vision in a fiery, red-orange light. The way the taste of gunpowder and salt catches on his tongue and makes his eyes water.
The way it makes his head spin with bad, bad thoughts - intrusive thoughts, Sam had called them the one time Tommy had casually mentioned them - and put things into his head that he'd rather weren't there.
He hates the way the walls close in on him. Cracked, midnight obsidian, with grooves of glowing purple cutting through the stone and dripping hot liquid to the floor repetitively. The way it cuts his bare palms and he can't shift without pain. The way he can't lay down anywhere without his head aching with discomfort. He hates how dark and endless it is, how unbreakable, how scary.
He hates the hunger. Hates the way his stomach aches hollowly with the desperate need for something other than hard, grainy potatoes to fill it, the way that the prison's mining fatigue sets in like a chill in his bones that weighs him down and won't let him move. Pinned like an animal caught in a trap that was meticulously set up just to hurt it. Hates the way nausea claws up his dry throat, but there is nothing to come up when he retches and even if it did, he doesn't have the strength to sit up so he could be sick. He hates the way his body is wracked with shivers despite the overwhelming blanket of suffocating heat, hates the way he hasn't stopped shaking in hours because of it.
He hates the panic. He hates the way it digs into his brain, filling it with a thousand thoughts at once that are too loud to process, hates the way it grips him and snaps him into a state of fight or flight when he can't do either. Hates the way it makes him cold and hot at the same time, hates the way it stings the backs of his eyes with hot tears, hates the way that sobs get caught in his throat and he had to choke them down to regain some sliver of pride, some tiny shred of self respect. Hates the way that traitorous little whimpers escape past his lips, hates the way he can't help but raise his head slightly and call for Phil, Tubbo, Techno, Wilbur, just anyone to come rescue him. Hates the way he trembles as he buries his face into his knees to hide his crying like a child.
But most of all, he hates him. That smiling porcelain mask that he's only ever seen behind once, hates everything behind it, hates everything it stands for. Hates the way the man hums and taps cheery tunes on his knees, hates the way he bobs his head back and forth, hates the way there's no expression to judge what he's thinking from. Hates the way he sprawls across the broken floor like a cat, bathing in the boiling heat of the magma waterfall surrounding them. Hates the way he moves so suddenly, to sit up or to shift positions or to even stand sometimes, stretching and whistling songs to himself as he does so. Hates the way Tommy finds himself flinching or hugging himself or tearing up every time such a movement takes place. Hates himself, hates himself for still being so fucking weak, so small, so powerless despite everything.
I was getting better. I thought I was getting better.
"You're still shaking," comes a voice, and Tommy yelps in shock and fear, a shuddering breath catching as he digs his nails into his arms to ground himself. Dream laughs, the same painted black smile laughing with him. "Don't be so jumpy, Tommy, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm just pointing out that you look a little unwell. You've gone quite pale, and you've been trembling for a couple hours now. Are you sick?"
Dream knows fine well why Tommy's shaking. The boy curls up and doesn't respond, biting down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and taste copper in his mouth.
"It's rude to ignore someone when they're concerned about your health," Dream says nonchalantly. There's a smile in his voice. "Come on, Toms… you're not scared of me, are you?"
Only Wilbur and Tubbo can call me that. Don't you dare call me that. "Like I'd be afraid of a fuckin' homeless prison inmate," Tommy scoffs instead of saying what he's thinking. Don't let him know he's getting to you. "You're pathetic. Pathetic and green and gross. When did you last shower, Dream, eh, cause you fuckin' stink like a wild animal, act like one too -"
Dream sighs and raises his arms above his head to stretch. He launches into another fit of giggles at the way Tommy's body jolts at the movement and a startled squeak leaves him, and Tommy's face burns with humiliation at how easily scared he is. How pathetic. "Unfair," he says, hyperaware of how his voice shakes, trying to sound light and jokey like he always does. "That - that was unfair, you bastard, you're using cheap tactics -"
"Am I?" Dream says, amusement evident in his smooth tone, and tilts his head in the way he always did right before he said or did something Tommy wouldn't like. "Pfft, alright then. Hey, are you hungry? I sure am. Haven't eaten since just before you came to visit, and that was… three hours ago? Maybe? No clock to know for sure. Welp, time flies when you're having fun, anyway."
He stands, and Tommy is proud of how still he manages to keep himself even as Dream comes close enough for his cloak to cast warm air in front of him. The entity pulls two potatoes from his scratched wooden chest, holding them in the air successfully - then tosses one at Tommy without warning. The boy flinches violently, expecting pain for a brief, panicked moment, then fills with embarrassment as the potato smacks against his leg and he has to grab it before it rolls into the lava. "Eat up," Dream calls, plopping back down against the wall opposite Tommy, crossing his legs and holding the spud in both hands childishly. He himself doesn't eat a thing. Tommy knows why. Tommy knows what's under Dream's mask, and he'd rather not ever see it again if he can help it.
Tommy hesitates. It's weird that the potato is uncooked yet so warm, because nothing in this stuffy, cramped cell is ever even remotely cool. He briefly wonders if he could manage to cook it. He's about to take a bite when he glances up at Dream again. He's staring. Just staring. Tommy hates that mask of his, hates how he can't see where he's looking but knows based off how the goosebumps crawl up his skin, raising hairs on the back of his neck where his Lives counter is. He's very aware of the fact that two of the inked hearts are broken and black, only one left red and full. "What?" he snaps, nails digging into the tough skin of the potato. "Stop looking at me like that, you fucking creep."
To his surprise, Dream only giggles. "No, I was just wondering something," he says lightly, and leans forward on his fist as he stares intently. "Don't you worry your little head about it."
He shouldn't give Dream any attention. Shouldn't give him what he wants. But he's scared and wants to know because it will eat him alive if he doesn't. "What is it?" he asks warily, voice low. "What are you wondering?"
Dream shifts forward. He drags himself across the obsidian floor, legs still crossed, like an eager child with a secret to share. Tommy is paralyzed as the entity closes in on him, close enough that his knees touch Tommy's ankles from where he has his legs pulled up to his chest. Dream smiles, as he always does, always, painted across his face, and whispers something very, very close to Tommy's ear.
"I was just wondering," he giggles, "if I could dig a hole in this floor right now - if I told you to throw that potato in, would you do it?"
Tommy suddenly isn't hungry anymore.
The lava cracks like a whip, the sound hanging in the space between them.