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everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts.
or at least, nothing hurts. when he opens his eyes, he’s still in the prison, and dream is standing in the corner of the cell. he looks furious. alright, maybe tommy pushed him a bit too far, but that doesn’t justify beating him to the brink of death-
but if he’s on the brink of death, why does nothing hurt?
he looks down at his corpse. oh. his corpse. that’s why.
he’s dead.
dream still has blood on his hands. there’s dark red flecks splattering his face, his clothes, and his knuckles are bruised and bloody. and tommy is just staring, staring, staring, at the man that killed him for the first time, the second time, the last time. this is the man who murdered him, who abused him, who manipulated him, who he thought he had won against. he came here for closure, and oh, he got closure, in all the wrong senses of the word.
he does not want to be here. he does not want to be anywhere. in his last moments, he was telling dream to stop, and then he blacked out, and then there was nothing, and now there is this. everything is beautiful, and nothing hurts.
there’s a tugging on his gut, and then he’s gone. the cell falls away, the whole world disappears, and everything is white light. alright, afterlife time, let’s reunite with wilbur, he supposes. there is nothing, he is floating, and then before him appears something that looks like dream.
it’s not quite dream, though. it’s got wings, for one, and a glowing light that completely surrounds it. he supposes this is the infamous dream-ex-dee, the god of the world, he of swift justice and the mightiest luck. or something like that. he doesn’t really care. he just wants to go back.
tommy innit, this great beast says, and its mouth doesn’t move, and its void-filled eyes stare into his soul. you have lost your final life.
“right,” tommy says, and his voice comes out perfectly normal. right. normal. he doesn’t sound like he was just beaten to death, like he was just crying out for it all to end. he sounds normal. he sounds alive.
it is time, then, for you to move on.
“no,” he answers. “no, i don’t think so.”
this seems to take ex-dee aback. it stops, stares at him. is he the first to make a god stutter? is he the first to make a god pause in its words? it doesn’t matter if he is or not. he’s the one that did it. he’s the one in control. he may not have had control over his life, but he will have control over his death.
what... do you mean , no?
“i mean no. i’m not going to the afterlife.”
he’s not. he’s not. he’s not. he’s going to make things right.
but you’re… dead.
“haven’t you heard of unfinished business, big man? i’m not wilbur, i didn’t die all satisfied, ‘n shit. i’ve got stuff to do. people to haunt. you know?”
if he can’t make things right, well- he’ll make dream suffer. if dream thought a week in prison trapped with him was bad enough, how about all of eternity?
eternity. because who knows if dream can die, and tommy is going to haunt him until the end of his days. until the end of time, if it comes to that. the whole world could end and the void could consume them and tommy will remain, haunting the land, making sure that dream does not hurt anyone ever again.
i... suppose.
“good, then. send me back.”
to life?
“as a ghost, dumbass, come on.” alright, maybe he shouldn’t be insulting the all-powerful god of the world. the god, thankfully, seems to find it amusing.
of course, young one. i’ll send you back. but you won’t be the same, just like your brother.
“wilbur died satisfied, remember? he destroyed l’manberg, he achieved his goal. i-”
he cuts off, choked, and something pulls at his heart. he didn’t go out with a bang. he didn’t die a hero. he died begging for dream to stop, he died beaten to death by his abuser, he died, he died, he died-
you did not. i will send you back. but when you achieve your unfinished business-
“then i’ll come to the afterlife,” tommy declares. he knows it won’t be for a long time. his unfinished business is making sure dream never hurts anyone else, ever again. he comes to the afterlife when dream does.
there is a space here, tommy. someone was supposed to die soon. it was supposed to be tubbo. it was supposed to be you.
he’d be damned if he let tubbo die. he’d take his best friend’s place time and time again. and he will, someday- tubbo is going to live long and prosper, if he has anything to say about it. they all are, they all are, they’re all going to live, they’re going to live in the ways he didn’t get to- they’re going to be happy.
“just send me back,” he says, and his voice sounds so, so tired. he feels so, so tired. maybe he’s just disappointed. after everything, he went out like this?
yes. he went out like this. he went out like this, proving that everything is pointless, that none of it matters, that they can win and they will still lose. well, he’s going to prove otherwise. he doesn’t care if it was chance, he doesn’t care if it was fate, he’s going to show them that they are in control. not dream. never dream. never again.
very well.
and then the white light falls away and the world swims back into view, and then he’s in the cell hovering over his dead body and dream is just staring. there is still blood on his hands. tommy is holding a sword, and he looks down and sees that it is a long blade, curved, like nothing he’s ever seen before. he is the protector, the defender, he is here with unfinished business. his blood is on dream’s hands. his blood will be the last.
he is a phantom. he is a ghost. he is tommy innit, and he is dead, and he is not going to let anyone other than dream follow him.
“hey, big man,” tommy snarls, and he feels like a god. “you proud of yourself?”