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When Tommy walked out of the prison, stumbling slightly, his eyes weren’t focused. He barely remembers the walk from the cell that he was stuck in, to the locker room where he picked up his stuff, to the outside world. Everything was blurry. He barely even registered Sam’s presence.
It was day out, when he was freed from the prison. The sun was so bright, and the sky was so blue, and it hurt to look at. He blinked slowly, and looked around. Looking but not seeing. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. He heard the sound of footsteps and it hit him. He was out.
He fell, his legs giving out, and he ended up on the grass. His knees ached as he leaned all his weight on him, and his hands clutched at the grass. He was out. He was free.
He was free. Wasn’t he? He had thought he was free last time. Maybe he’s not free. Maybe he is. He’s not sure.
“-Tommy?”
Tommy slowly looked up, his eyes still unfocused but the sight of a tall man in green filled his vision. Panic flooded him, but it was slow, still not registering fast enough. The panic lessened as he caught sight of the gas mask the man was wearing. Sam, then. Awesamdude.
“Sam,” the blonde croaked, and he ripped a blade of grass from the ground. “Sam. Sam, please.”
Sam stared at the boy on the ground, looking up at him. Guilt, sadness, anger filled the creeper hybrid, and he lowered himself down to the boy.
“Tommy.” This was his fault, wasn’t it? He had let Tommy stay in there, waiver or not. He held onto the part of his brain that told him security issues were not something he could help. “Tommy, you’re out. It’s okay.”
“Sam,” and oh, the kid’s voice was so broken. Like he had stopped using it a while ago. “Sam, I’m so tired.”
And he looked tired. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. That was entirely possible, Sam thought.
“What, lazing around for a week wasn’t enough rest for you, was it?”
Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed, and it took a moment for the words to register with meaning. Someone else was here. Huh. He hadn’t noticed. The voice sounded familiar. He looked up from the grass.
Jack Manifold was looking at him, arms crossed. Tommy blinked.
“What?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong with you, ey?”
Tommy didn’t understand the question. He stared at Jack for a moment, still blinking slowly, and turned his gaze to where Sam was still looking at him.
“Are you okay, Tommy?” That was a new voice. Another person was here.
Wait. Tommy knew that voice.
“Tubbo?” And gods, he sounded so confused.
“Tommy,” the seventeen year old dropped to the ground next to his friend. “Tommy.”
“Are you real?”
Everyone’s breath caught, the implications of the question not going unheard. Tommy had been hallucinating. Tubbo’s eyes filled with tears, and he brushed Tommy’s hair from his eyes.
Tommy flinched.
“Okay, so not fake,” Tommy said, and it was hard to force humor into his voice. “Tubbo, I’m tired.”
“What the fuck is wrong with him?”
Why were there so many people?
Tommy looked up again. He might as well keep looking up, he thought it himself, seems like there are a lot of people wanting to talk to him. He looked around, his vision finally clearing up some. Oh. Sapnap and Quackity were here too. So was Puffy. Huh.
The man with the white headband was looking at him, a glare akin to disgust and horror towards someone not present visible in his eyes. So he was the one to talk. Okay then.
“Tommy?” Tommy turned to Sam. Why did people keep saying his name like that?
“Tommy, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he tried to smile, but his eyes closed and he breathed a slow breath instead. “I’m out,” he exhaled. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Sam, I’m out. I’m out.”
“Yeah, bud. You are.”
Tommy tugged at his white sleeves, keeping them gripped between his hands and the grass he was grabbing at. “Sam, I thought I was going to die,” he whispered, like it was something forbidden. “He.. it was like exile, Sam.” He paused, eyes widening fractionally. “Oh, gods. It was like exile.”
Hadn’t that been what Dream had said from the beginning, when he was first trapped in the cell with him? It was just like exile. Dream had said it, and it was true. Tommy’s eyes screwed shut, and he let out a shuddering breath. He was dizzy. Why was he dizzy?
His pants and shirt were getting grass stains, but he didn't care. He didn't think he’d ever see grass again, much less be able to sit down and thread his fingers through the blades of green.
He ripped out another handful of grass, and stuck his hand back down and gripped once more.
The blonde felt a hand on his head, and he flinched, letting out an involuntary whine. Dream had done that; play with his hair when he was acting nice. Thread his fingers through his hair when he comforted him after punishing him, a sickeningly sweet tone that told him everything was his fault. Ruffle his hair when he applauded his actions, praises said in an offhanded tone that elated him even though he knew it shouldn't.
The hand in his hair froze, and Tommy hated himself for leaning into it.
“Tommy, why is there blood in your hair?” Maybe that’s why he was dizzy.
He ignored Sam’s question, much more focused on the very careful hand sorting through his hair. How long has it been since touch wasn't a threat? Even before the prison, he didn’t get much physical affection. That was his fault, wasn’t it? For pushing people away. For making people not even want to be near him. How long has he been touch-starved?
“Are you hurt, Tom?” Only one person called him ‘Tom’ on this server after Wilbur died.
He wrenched his eyes open,-- when did he close them?-- and stares at his best friend.
“Why are you hurt? Why are you bleeding?” Sam repeats his question, and Tommy looks away from Tubbo as he pulls his hand back, seeing Sam’s fingertips coated with red. Tommy tries to smile, and he’s sure it comes out dazed.
“Didn’t have much of a shower in there, did I?” He laughs a little at his own joke, his eyes half-lidded.
“Tom,” and gods, does Tubbo sound horrified, his soft voice a little higher than usual pitch. “Tommy, what happened?”
Tommy’s mind froze. It had been the fifth day stuck, and Tommy had talked back. Dream had said, “ See, Tommy, I told you I’d always be here for you. Just look at you right now, once again, you'd be completely alone if not for me. You really should be thanking me. ” Tommy was fading, he could admit. But Dream had overestimated his abilities in controlling him. Tommy was used to his manipulation, he was constantly trying to protect his mind from Dream’s words. Five days stuck with him was not going to break him, not like it once had. All Dream had to do was wait another day, and it probably would've worked.
Another day, and Tommy wouldn’t have lashed out. He wouldn't have whispered and insult, and Dream wouldn't have asked him to speak up in such a condescending tone. He wouldn't have yelled back, and Dream wouldn't have grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and slammed his back against the obsidian wall. He wouldn't have hit his head, and he wouldn't have had to listen to Dream berated him in such an angry voice. He wouldn't have had to deal with the slow flowing blood that poured from the small cut on his skull for the past two days.
Tommy looked to Tubbo, and moved from sitting with his knees underneath them until they were spread out in front of him. He closed his eyes and laid down on the grass, focusing on his breath intake. Tubbo repeated his question, his worry for the blonde growing.
“I talked back. He didn’t like it very much,” the boy laying on the grass said, keeping his voice level and sounding almost bored. He draped an arm over his eyes. “Gods, I am so tired.”
He keeps repeating it, the others realize. Tommy doesn't.
Sapnap looks at Tommy with undisguised anger, though his eyes show a considerable amount of hurt. He held onto Quackity’s hand tightly, his knuckles turning white. His best friend.. ex-best friend did this. Quackity felt the arsonist’s hand tighten around his, and he didn’t say anything. He remembers Jack telling him about Tommy’s imprisonment, but he didn’t know it wasn’t purposeful. He didn’t know it was because of security issues. Now, looking at Tommy, he sees the boy is far more gone than he was in exile, during the one time he visited.
Captain Puffy sees a child laying on the grass, his khaki covered knees stained green and dirt clinging to the fabric. Puffy sees a child with blood coating strands of his blonde hair, his t-shirt slightly torn. She sees Tommy, looking so lost. Looking as if he hadn’t expected to make it out of the prison cell alive. The kid in the grass was covering his eyes, but she saw how dull they were when he first entered the daylight again. He was finally getting his blue back, and now they were as grey as ever.
Jack stood furthest from the rest, not fully comprehending what he was seeing. This isn’t the villain he was trying to kill. This isn’t the scam artist who he stole a hotel from. This isn’t the Tommy he was trying to get revenge on. No, he was looking at a kid who had lost so much, and was thrown into a situation that was out of his control once again. He was looking at a kid with trauma he couldn't begin to understand, and he had crawled out of Hell itself. He didn't understand. What had he missed?
Tommy moved his arms so that he could cover his face with both hands, pressing his fingertips onto his eyelids. He laughed, and those around him could just about hear the sob hidden in his voice. “I am so tired.”
He didn’t trust Dream, he wasn’t going to sleep with him in the same room. He only slept twice in the prison, and both times were involuntary. The first time was right after he was locked in; sent into a panic attack and yelled at Dream and for Sam for Phil and until he hyperventilated and blacked out. His internal clock said he was out for a few hours, but Tommy was never sure. The second time was on day four, when Dream had pushed him to the side and he was too weak to keep himself upright. He had gone over three days without sleeping at that point, and he wasn't getting a sufficient amount of food; he doesn't even remember hitting the floor.
Day three was when he started hallucinating. He’s assuming it was day three. It was hard to keep track of time when there was no clock.
“Fuck,” Tommy said, removing his hands from his face and pushing them up and into his hair. He stared at the sky, where the sun was high in the air. He kept his eyes focused right under it, watching the clouds move ever so slightly. “Fuck.” It was all hitting him so quick.
The blonde shot to his feet, somehow managing not to fall over. He needed to get out. He wanted to go home. He just wanted to sleep .
His vision blurred when he stood up, and he was reminded of the concussion he definitely had. It wasn't important. He just wanted to get home. Was this how Sam felt after begin saved from his capture by the Eggpire? When he and Puffy saved him? Maybe not. Tommy wasn't being possessed. Dealing with the long term effects of abusive and traumatic emotion manipulation? Maybe; but not possessed. A silent giggle escaped him at that thought, and he stumbled through the grass.
Voices called out for him, but he pays them no mind. He could deal with them tomorrow. He didn't expect anyone but Sam to be there when he was released, and even then, he assumed Sam would leave him on his own as soon as he was off prison territory. He wasn’t expecting Jack, or Puffy, or Quackity and Sapnap. He wasn’t expecting Tubbo either, though he knows he probably should’ve.
A hand grabbed his wrist, and his vision black momentarily. He wasn’t healthy enough to withstand pain, but he forced himself not to react. He looked up, seeing Sam holding onto him in an attempt to get him to slow down. The creeper-hybrid must have seen something in his expression, despite Tommy’s instinctive effort to hide the discomfort. His eyes trailed to where he was gripping the teen’s too-small wrist lightly, and gently turned Tommy’s hand over in his own.
Tommy’s white shirt sleeve crumpled a little at the grip, and showed a bit of his skin. Skin, that was discoloured. Sam pulled the sleeve up and revealed a large blue and purple bruise, the blood under the skin raised high enough that the colouration was almost black at the center. Tommy looked at his wrist, staring at the edges that looked too similar to fingerprints to be anything but.
Sam let go of his wrist, hand hovering a little, and looked the teen directly in the eyes. He tried to wordlessly convey his sorrow and apology. Tommy just stared back, and his eyes were blank. He looked lost, he looked tired. Sam’s hand fell back to his side, and Tommy took that as permission to leave he didn’t need permission. He didn’t.
He started walking home, relying on muscle memory to get him there. His eyes still won’t focus, but he knows where the bench is,-- he always will,-- and his home right next to it.
He knows Tubbo will follow him. Their friendship might be strained at the moment, they may have postponed their necessary talk a few times too many, but he knows Tubbo will seek him out sooner rather than later. They were there for each other, even when it seemed like they weren’t.
Yeah. He knows Tubbo will follow, and Tommy is going to let him. They’ll talk. But Tommy is so tired, and he knows Tubbo won’t mind waiting another day for the conversation they so desperately needed to have.
They waited this long, what’s one more day?