Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy knows that he is broken.

He knows it from the lack of sound coming from his throat when Dream is not around. He knows it from the fact that he thinks he deserves the beatings. He knows it from the stillness in his hands, the missing energy running like a rushing current in his heart.

And he knows the most that he is broken when Dream visits and he smiles a big, genuine smile and practically melts into the attention he receives (anything is better than those initial weeks, when he’d been locked in a smaller cell somewhere tucked away and he counted the days without human contact by cutting tallies in his skin with his own nails). The fractures that run beneath the surface spiderweb when Dream pulls out an enderchest and he does not lunge towards it, does not make some stupid, brash, bold grasp at the freedom his very soul begs for.

Yet every time Dream strokes his hair, laughs with him, lets him listen to his music, the cracks are forgotten and suddenly it’s just him and Dream, his friend, and the dry promises of a paradise outside of the box. Every hug, touch, speck of human company is like a blessing from the gods. Dream is a blessing from the gods.

He is a nightmare and a curse and he makes Tommy want to take his pain and cut it all out.

When those on his side of the prison (never the ones he yearns for the most, but it is someone) call his name, tell him it is his turn to speak and shout for any of the others in their block, he stays silent. At this point, they know he will, but they still call his name and leave the offer hanging in the stale air for a few moments. Perhaps it is that small gift, that small sign that anyone other than Dream cares, that allows him to hold on the final, terminal shard of who he once was. That’s the part of him that lashes out, that earns him the beatings and once another solitary confinement (Dream didn’t come see him for two weeks and never let guards by. He didn’t talk to Dream for a while after he finally let him back to his normal room). It keeps him from eating food, from going on a hunger strike for as long as he can until some animalistic survival instinct kicks in and he whispers pleas for lots of food to the guards.

Tommy quite honestly thought he was going to relinquish that part of himself, at some point. After exile, then this; the world was too cruel and too twisted for him to do anything but force himself to change for it, for Dream. With his friend visiting him and taking care of him, why did he still hold onto that old bit of self? He has no need for who he was. Everyone he knows knew is here, too, but they are not good to Dream.

He hates them sometimes.

However, there is some sense of unity that slides beneath the cracks in the iron bars. Even though Dream is the only one who visits (and really, if exile taught him anything, it feels as though Dream is the only one who cares, in his own way), there is something tethering him to the other cells. Even when Dream becomes his world, he still misses Tubbo so much he thinks his chest will cave in. He whispers Phil’s name when the nightmares scream him awake. He hums Wilbur’s songs, even though he has no clue what has become of Ghostbur. He throws his punches like Technoblade taught him to on those rare occasions when he cannot stop himself from lashing out.

Dream is winning. Tommy is still and silent and bruised, so he behaves. Morale is at the floor; the disc he is given provides him a sole moment of comfort, but ultimately that warmth disintegrates into thoughts of what was lost and what might have been. Sapnap and George reunite, and every single cell is jealous and not at the same time; the inhabitants would kill to see one another, but no one is sure if they could stand the torture of being separated once more. The months stretch on, and each treasured, infrequent visit between Sapnap and George hangs heavily in the air. No one knows when it will be revoked.

Dream lets him play Cat and Mellohi one day, and Tommy thinks he hears sobbing.

Things are worse and better and all over for a long time.

He wonders what color his eyes are now.

Things change, though. One day, Dream calls Tommy selfish when he asks a little too quickly to listen to the music again; it’s the word that sets him off. And Tommy has nothing to put in the hole and nothing to lose so he lashes out, a fist that lands surprisingly hard as it half-hits Dream’s shoulder. The man steps back, and all the old terror that lays buried under his skin rises up and chokes him as the mask shakes, disappointed.

The beating, like his own weak and pathetic attack, hits harder than he expected. Dream was frustrated when he came in; mumbling words of a George who was paying him fake, poisonous smiles in return for a handful of minutes every few weeks to see Sapnap. So he gets carried away smashing Tommy down, and after a few knocks followed by words of stinging dissatisfaction Dream grabs his hair and slams the blonde’s head into the obsidian floor. Suddenly the cold stone is wet and warm, and Tommy’s vision flickers like a broken lightbulb before fading out.

If anyone was watching, they’d see Dream take off his mask, stare at his bloodied fists in awe, then surprise. They’d watch his rich green eyes widen and land on Tommy’s prone form, take in the bruises and the crimson pooling on the floor, staining his hair red.

But no one was watching; they could not, for they were locked away. But they listened: they heard Tommy’s sudden and angry words as he snapped for a second, the frustrated mumble and brutal slamming from Dream, and the hellish silence that followed.

Everyone heard Dream’s shout for help.

Too many pairs of eyes follow the stretcher from behind bars as Sam and Dream hurriedly rush Tommy to the med bay room that isn’t full of infected patients. Tommy is hardly conscious at all, his eyes rolled back and the pain making his stomach sway with nausea.

He deserves it, he tells himself. He deserves it.

But as his stretcher is rushed from one end of the prison, he hears a lot of noise. It sounds like screaming and shouting, but his mind has screamed and shouted at him enough that he ignores it. The glowstone lights shine through his eyelids. His head is foggy and he’s in agony. The only thought in his mind is that I’m such a fuck up this is all my fault I deserved the beating Dream is my only friend and I hurt him and I am the worst I am a piece of shit but Dream hates it when I curse I am a disaster I am nothing I—

“TOMMY! TOMMY! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!? TOMMY!!!”

It’s not the voice of the president, the cold, sophisticated, serious verbiage that threw him out of his home and ripped him from his life permanently. It’s the voice of his best friend, of the Tubbo who chases bees and laughs gently and pulls shenanigans and gives the warmest hugs. It’s the only cry that strikes through the haze and electrifies his very soul because someone still cares.

He spends a few days slipping in and out of the world in the med bay. The next time he wakes up, he’s back in his cell, and he is alone. But the fear the solitude and silence slowly bleeds away into a speck of hope. It’s not the bubbling, artificial kind he feels when Dream visits. It hurts and it burns but Tommy feels more deeply than he has since the fateful day Dream locked him in their new ‘home.’

Dream half-apologizes for it, and Tommy himself nods fervently and begs for forgiveness eagerly; it’s haunting how easy it is for him to slip into the dynamic again, and the cobwebs of the confusing emotions around Dream still cling to him but he’s slowly cutting a path out. Dream still treats him in the same and he still can’t help his giant grin from spreading when Dream enters the cell (he’d do anything for human contact) but this time around, something new emerges from it all: distrust. Dream had lied about Tubbo not caring and that means he could have lied about everything, lied about their paradise village and about letting Tommy out and—

He could have lied about being Tommy’s friend. The idea is what makes the shift happen.

That’s the thing: when you break a toy, it starts working differently.

Tommy had stepped oh so close to true death in that cell, cushioned by a pond of his own blood. His eyes had met Wilbur’s, the real Wilbur’s, for a split second through a haze of white and gray before being ripped back to reality with the taste of true freedom on his tongue. Tubbo’s scream rings in his ears long after it managed to break through his unconscious mind.

The world outside his cell suddenly exists. He cannot drag himself from the thought that Dream is his friend but he can bring himself to know that he wants to get out, more than anything. He misses the sun and sky and his family and Tubbo no matter what they’ve done to him.

It took him a few days to pull his mind and body back together. Dream’s visits were still more sporadic, and the loneliness still has the power to make him snap. People call out to him when Dream isn’t around, asking, begging him to confirm he is okay. He isn’t for a while, but the distrust rolling through him helps him sit up one day and sit as close to the bars as he dares.

A short conversation dies out, its echoes ringing hollowly against the obsidian and fading against blackstone. A tired, creaky, hopeless voice (he doesn’t acknowledge that he can’t quite figure out whose voice it is) calls expecting no response:

“Tommy, if… if you’re there, it’s your turn to talk.”

The quiet settles, and there’s a disappointed yet unsurprised sighing. Then a moment of apprehension and shock as a few crackling coughs emit from Tommy’s cell.

“T-Tommy? Tommy!!! Hello??”

His voice sounds flat and dead but he’s talking. “Hey.”

Chapter Text

Sapnap is the one who hears it.

The placement of the cells is close enough that the inhabitants can speak to one person on their right and one on their left, with very loud shout. From his walks on visiting days, Sapnap has gathered that there are three or four blocks in total, keeping everyone separated. George is on the opposite side of the prison from him, and the short visits monitored by Dream are getting more and more painful; getting ripped away from each other hurts more and more every time. The only cells close enough for the occupants to hear are Fundy’s, and Tommy’s. Tommy never talked, so Sapnap mostly spoke to Fundy and sometimes to the person right of Fundy when the fox hybrid acted as a messenger, Purpled. If Sapnap was being honest, Fundy and Purpled we’re people he hadn’t had many interactions with until the—well, until they were all locked up. He supposes it’s some strategic plot of Dream’s to keep everyone away from the people they really want to talk to.

It’s more effective than he’d like to admit. Fundy was closer to him than Purpled, and he and the former were chatting idly. For a while, he could shout to Purpled, but ever since Dream found out about these conversations and started installing soundproofing lining on the walls, he could only really hear Fundy these days. The only things to talk about anymore, really, was how much they wanted to get out and what they’d do if—no, when they all got out.

They talked about killing Dream quite a bit. It’s the only thing, apart from seeing George, keeping Sapnap going.

Tommy wasn’t the same; he was, as far as Sapnap knew, the one who had... changed the most in the prison. The only time his voice, desperate and pleading and horrifically hopeful, ever floated loudly through the prison was when Dream visited him. Sapnap was the only one close enough (and the cells were rather far apart) to hear the times when Dream got angry and hit him; otherwise, Tommy was so still, so quiet. The only sign of life the prison had from him was the notes of the discs he cherished so much danced through the corridors. A lot of them could hear the music.

The music is a reminder that Tommy lost.

His proximity to the cell is why Sapnap hears it, he thinks. The muffled, strained argument coming from Tommy’s cell meant today was going to be a bad day (He doesn’t know what Dream does to Tommy to make him shut up on days like these). He can’t make out what they’re saying, but there’s an inflection when Tommy’s usually begging voice hardens, and then no one is talking so he can’t hear anything at all. If he moves to the front of his cell strains, he can hear the scuffling of Dream’s boots.

Then he hears it.

Crack.

The snapping, sickening thud, like something has just hit the obsidian hard. It sounds like canon fire. What?

He stumbles backwards and says nothing, quickly walking to his cot in case Dream were to come in. He waits for the slow gait to echo to his room, the smile to appear on the other side of the bars.

It does not come. A second later, there’s a shout. From the direction of Tommy’s cell. It’s Dream.

“Sam! Help!”

It resounds loudly through the prison, and he can hear indecipherable yells from the hallway to the right of their block. It’s a lot easier to hear voices in the hallway, especially shouts, so Dream as good as alerted the entire prison something was amiss.

Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid hope dares to flare in Sapnap’s chest. Did Tommy fight back? Is he trying to escape? Did he manage to hurt Dream?

Please. Please. Please.

The answer to all of his questions is no. Because after Sam comes racing past the cells, he has to run toward the infirmary for a moment. To get a stretcher.

Then Sam and Dream rush by, pushing it as fast as they can, and Sapnap sees the body.

He’s going to burn Dream to the fucking ground.

Dream’s alarmed shout does, in fact, travel across the walls. It’s heard by at least one person in each block, and then promptly shared in long message trains to the others.

Something is wrong! They say. Dream is in trouble! And the prison has never felt so hopeful, so alive. The prisoners wait to hear the crashing of withers outside, an explosion, wait for long-lost friends to burst down a hallway and free one another. They wait for someone to come in swinging a sword and drag the body of Dream down the halls, spilling warm blood on the cool obsidian floor. They wait for pickaxes to break through the floors, despite the mining fatigue.

These things never come.

A terrifyingly bruised, unconscious, and bloody teenager does, though. Wheeled as fast as possible on a stretcher by the warden and his master. The blood is bright, shocking after the only colors in the prison being black and dark purple and gray and that lime green for so long. But there is no color new enough, beautiful enough to justify the suffering they see.

Screams of horror shoot out from the cells; Dream has to pass each block to get to the infirmary that’s located towards the prison’s entrance.

As he’s seen, the prisoners react.

Sapnap shouts for Tommy, for him to wake up.

Fundy blanches, curling in on himself. He squeezes his arms so hard they bruise. 

Purpled hides in the corner of his cell, shaking.

Eret pleads, then paces the cell until his feet ache.

Niki cries silently.

Quackity bellows obscenities at Dream, punching the wall, even when his knuckles split.

Karl wishes for the millionth time that he could get to his books and time travel to a world where this never happened.

George glares at Dream with undiluted hatred.

Philza rages, rages, reaching his arms fruitlessly through the bars and setting of the alarms. He doesn’t care because that’s his son, you fucking monster, what have you done—

Technoblade says nothing, he just shakes his head, putting it in his hands, and does not move for a very long time. He tries not to think about the fact that, in the story, Hope never made it out of Pandora’s Box.

Tubbo screams so loudly he thinks his throat bleeds. He sobs for hours.

And Ghostbur, well, Ghostbur thinks that something isn’t quite right. He hasn’t seen Tommy look that bad since exile. After he finishes reading the book in his hands, he thinks he’ll listen to the urgent cry in his heart and phase through the walls to ask the others what’s going on. After all, Dream said everyone was safe and happy, so what the hell did he do to Tommy?

Until the next day, everyone thinks Tommy is dead.

And at the same time, they all wonder if it is better that way, because at least he’s finally free. At least he got out of this place.

But when morning comes and Dream visits and they demand answers, he tells them that Tommy is fine. He refuses to tell anyone what happened. He just says “There was an accident.”

No one believes Dream until they see Tommy. He’s bandaged around the head and wheeled back to his cell, still unconscious, but he has more color and he’s breathing. Tubbo screams for him.

Things lull back into rote dullness, with a few small changes.

Dream does not come into anyone’s cell anymore. No one is willing to let him.

He does not make George pretend to like him, because he tells him and Sapnap that they won’t be visiting one another for a while.

Tubbo is bereft; he does not play chess with Dream or engage in conversation. He throws his food tray at the wall each time it is pushed in. The only words he speaks are ones demanding to see Tommy.

Technoblade has not moved from where he sits against the wall of his cot since he saw Tommy the first time around. It scares Dream.

Niki has taken not only to not eating, but not speaking at all. She keeps her back to her door; Dream has to send Sam in to make her consume anything at all.

Ghostbur keeps thinking about Tommy and discovers that Tubbo’s cell is on the other side of the back wall of his home. Suddenly, Tubbo has started behaving again.

Philza berates Dream every time the man walks by.

George has resumed his silence.

Dream thinks that this is just a setback, they’ll all come around again. The only thing that really upsets him is that after all the work he did on Tommy, the kid didn’t talk to Dream the first few days of being in his cell. Now when he talks to Dream, still with that desperate desire for company, he is clearly terrified. He does not want to listen to the discs anymore. Getting to that paradise village will take longer than he thought.

After Tommy was brought back to his cell, Sapnap calls for him the minute Dream is not there. He doesn’t respond.

Until he does.

Chapter Text

Tommy has begged a lot, since coming back. Different from the silence that permeated the air for the first few days after he had woken up with the bandages wrapped around his head. Nowadays, he begged Dream to stay away, then to come in. It bothers Dream. He doesn’t really trust himself so much to go into the cell, especially since every single member of their family is pissed at him for what he did to Tommy.

He needs to reconsider the design of the cells; maybe allowing them bars that they can see through isn’t the best idea. So, so, so much progress was reset so fast.

Tommy’s… relatively the same; he’s still desperate, he still lights up when he sees Dream, he believes that he deserves his punishments, but now, well, he’s certainly much warier. Skittish. Afraid.

He still begs a lot.

It reminds Dream of how Sapnap begged to see George. How they beg to spend more time together. How now, they beg for their visiting privileges to be reinstated.

Each time Tommy pleaded, Dream would close his eyes and sigh.

Even if George begged him, too. They couldn’t, they haven’t come back from begging, but this sort of plea was fine. It didn’t matter if Tommy begged; he kept telling himself Tommy was no longer Tommy.

So he easily accepts Tommy’s apologies, even though Tommy's the one coated in bruises like watercolor and has white bandages around his skull. He agrees that Tommy shouldn’t have provoked him. The paradise, the paradise of his united family, is not yet lost.

His hope and expectancy for Tommy to remain the same as before the accident keeps him from noticing the darkness in the boy’s eyes, past the tremors in pale hands that tighten into fists when he isn’t looking.

All they need is time. That is what Dream tells himself. Time.

It’s a while after the incident when the coughing responds to his empty question. The end of Sapnap’s dull conversation with Fundy hangs in the air when Tommy speaks to the people outside his cell for the first time since arriving. The sound of his voice is so desolate, so bleak, so not like Tommy that Sapnap isn’t even sure that it’s the kid at all.

The weak “Hey” lulls through the hallway, not exactly quiet but rather flat. A beat passes, and Sapnap throws himself as close as he can to the bars without tripping a security alarm.

“Holy shit, Tommy, oh my god, everyone’s been worried sick, oh my—are you okay? How-how have you been dude? What the fuck happened?”

The words are strong, breathless, definitely audible with the obsidian for the sound to bounce off of. But Tommy doesn’t respond until a full minute later.

“I… made a mistake. Dream got, um, rightfully upset.”

Sapnap blinks, mind reeling. What the fuck does that mean? A slightly hysterical, relived laugh chokes its way out of his throat. “Well, geez, dude, I—we—everyone thought you were like, dead dead. I mean, considering the fact that we, uh, haven’t exactly heard anything from you in months, some people thought you were dead before you got all bloodied up, but man is it a relief to hear your voice.”

More strange silence. It is hesitant, fearful. Like the conversation they’re having is some unspeakable act of depravity, even though the prisoners have been having shouting conversations for months now. After another two full minutes passes without a peep from Tommy, Sapnap clears his throat soundly.

“I’m gonna—lemme tell Fundy that you’re okay, just real quick.”

A sudden shuffle, like someone has nervously skittered over to the iron bars of their cell. “Wait—Fundy? How…?”

Sapnap leans slightly back, anxiety crawling up his veins. Did Tommy really have so little awareness of what was going on outside his cell that he didn’t even know who was in his neighboring cells? After all these months? That’s…not right. Not that anything is right anymore. Not that anyone is right anymore.

.  

“Uh, yeah, he’s in the cell to the right of mine. You’re to my left. Purpled is all the way on Fundy’s right; I used to be able to hear him, once, but then they started trying to soundproof stuff, and it kinda worked ‘cause I can’t hear Purpled anymore or shout to him, but sometimes we pass messages through Fundy. As far as I know, I’m the only one close enough for you to hear.”

“Oh.” The thought is unfinished. Sapnap waits, again. He’ll spend all the time Tommy needs waiting; it’s been so long since he’s gotten to talk to a brand new voice, and even longer since anyone heard from the kid himself.

The next words, however, make his heart stutter. The fear he feels, despite being so present in Pandora’s Vault, is striking.

“S-sorry if this is, um, rude, but… who am I talking to right now?”

Well, fuck. That’s not good.

Tubbo really tried. For all those months, after the pain and guilt and heartbreak, to remain composed. Civil. To still be the president at heart, even if he was no longer in title.

Every day he’d asked politely, calmly, to see Tommy when Dream visited. Week after week, the “Maybe soons,” “Not yets,” and “Sometime laters” pounded under his skin like nails in a coffin. And yet, he hadn’t snapped. He was never angry, never emotional apart from his first week.

It was like the time surrounding Tommy’s exile, almost ten months ago: maybe if Tubbo followed Dream’s demands, L’Manberg would be safe. Maybe if Tubbo let Quackity make a few decisions on his behalf, there would be no threats. Maybe if he stayed logical, played it smart, things would work out in the end.

While he never pretended to be happy to see Dream or appreciate the company, he did not reject the conversation. The games of chess. The short messages of ‘hello’ that came from other prisoners, except the one he needed to see the most.

He was good and he followed the rules and he hated it.

But the moment he sees his best friend rushed on a stretcher through the halls of the prison, pale as a corpse and his head dripping with blood, that carefully maintained order and calm inside of him fucking snapped.

The sound of wheels had tumbled closer and the very second his eyes landed on the crumpled body the screams ripped out of his throat like lightning, thunder breaking behind his eyes as he cried out for his best friend.

“TOMMY! TOMMY! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!? TOMMY!!!”

He sobbed, shrieked for hours after Dream, Sam, and Tommy disappeared towards the medbay. After what felt like years, the terror and pain shuddering through him finally ground to aching awareness and anger.

Dream tries to visit his cell the next day. Tubbo roars at him, spitting out hateful words and demanding questions. Dream does not offer to play chess, to chat, saying nothing but a tired response, “Tommy is fine, there was just an accident.”

Tubbo doesn’t believe that stupid fucking excuse for an answer. So he chucks his food tray at the wall with flames dancing in his chest and fixes the masked man with a gaze saturated in loathing.

The daily visits still continue. Dream tries for normal conversation, but Tubbo keeps his lips sealed, muttering only two requests.

“Tommy.”

“He’s fine, Tubbo, he’ll be back in his cell in no time.”

“When can I see him.”

“Not for a bit, I’m afraid.”

And just like that, he shuts off, the rage sweltering off of him in deep waves. Dream leaves, and Tubbo throws his food tray.

One day, though, things switch up.

“Tommy.”

“Better than ever and back in his cell.”

Tubbo’s eyebrows shoot up, and he loves and despises the way desperate hope patters in his heart.

“Can I see him?”

“Well, no—”

The splash of the tray narrowly misses Dream’s head from where he stands outside the bars of the cell. He isn’t allowed in.

A sigh emits from behind the mask. “Tubbo, if you don’t quit this whole hunger strike thing soon, we’re going to have to resort to extreme measures. You remember what we had to do to help keep Niki healthy.”

Tubbo flinches, chest heaving.

He hates the way he says that, like the only reason they might be unhealthy is because of a lack of food. He hates the way he says that, like he’s done anything to help anyone. Like what they did to Niki helped. The ashes of her screams still haunt the obsidian walls.

The white smile glints, and the brunette can practically see the hard line of Dream’s mouth behind the porcelain. “When we bring you food tomorrow, I expect you to eat it. If you don’t, there will be consequences."

He turns his back, heat rising behind his ears. Dream walks away, and steady silence buzzes over the echo of armored footsteps.

Fuck.

 His throat aches and he knows he’s on the verge of tears. His tired eyes trail up to the black ceiling above him, as if he can see the sky through the pinpricks between the stone. How long do I have to be powerless? Do I have to suffer the same ironies, over and over?

The weight of his mistakes and failures washes over him, thickening the air. He gasps for breath, fighting not to drown on his grief.

I just need something, anything, if any good god is listening—

Apparently, there is some higher power with its ear pressed to the door of his cell, because an answer comes floating in a moment later through the solid blackstone-and-obsidian wall in the form of a familiar shimmering spirit.

“Hello, Tubbo, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Tubbo’s head whips up so quickly he almost gets whiplash. It’s Ghostbur. It’s someone else in his cell. It’s someone who can go between cells. He gapes, and Ghostbur’s slightly worried expression dips into a confused frown.

“Were you expecting someone else? Because I can come back later—”

He shakes his head fervently: “No, no, oh my god, Ghostbur, I—how—oh my god—no, wait, I’m sorry for scaring you, please quiet down, they’ll hear you and make you get back into your cell, I’m sorry I—it’s just been so long since I’ve been able to see anyone but the guards.”

The ghost smiles, then his brow furrows. “Now that I think about it, Mr. President—” Tubbo winces, and his nails dig into his arms—“I haven’t seen very many people either. Oh! Except Dream. He always visits.”

Tubbo blinks hard. “Yeah, he does. But—Ghostbur, it’s been, like, months, how are you here now? What-what’s been going on with you?”

Drifting over and seating himself on Tubbo’s cot, Ghostbur looks around the room. “Well, my room is much nicer than yours, so offense Mr. President—” another cringe “—I’ve got lots of books, you see, and Dream gives me new ones so often that I kept forgetting to check in! But—hm, no, wait—yes, something happened recently, and I got very confused, and Dream said it was nothing but I can’t remember what I saw that’s made me so worried, I’m sure it was important—”

The ex-president’s heart skips a beat. “Was it Tommy? Did you see them rush him by? Have you heard from him?” The words are full of desperation.

Ghost bur’s eyes light up. “Yes! That was it! You’re very smart Tubbo, have I ever told you that? Yes—well, I saw Tommy sleeping on a stretcher but he looked very red, you see, and no one would tell me what was going on, because no one leaves their rooms in our new home…”

Tubbo nearly throws up at the use of the word home, but he nods encouragingly.

“And I realized that I could just, I don’t know, phase through the wall to ask you! And now that I’m here I realize we haven’t seen one another for a really long time, and I’m very sorry I haven’t visited much, but—“

Tubbo tackles him with a hug, and the phantom has to flicker a few times before going fully corporeal for a few moments to return it.

“Oh. This is nice. Thank you, Tubbo.”

Tears silently trail down Tubbo’s gaunt cheeks; the hug isn’t warm or very steady but it’s a hug, he hasn’t had one of these in almost a year and it’s Wilbur—well, Ghostbur, but someone who he actually wants to see.

Suddenly, a thought strikes Tubbo so fiercely that he stumbles backward. Ghostbur stares at him in surprise. His hands tremble, and he has to pace the cell as it formulates.

“Ghostbur, a few things you need to know. And I know it’s hard for you to remember stuff, so please do me a really big favor and try to remember this one, okay?” The apparition nods, giving Tubbo a hesitant smile.

“One, this is not our home. This is Pandora’s Vault, a max-security prison that the entire server has been in for about ten months.” Ghostbur says nothing, but his face and form freezes, like he’s trying really hard to focus. After a minute, he clears his throat, looking stricken. “Um, okay… go on.”

“We’ve all been trapped here against our own wills. Dream has been doing terrible things to the rest of us, well, the people that I know of, throughout our stay. We’re… we’re all kind of going insane. He’s just waiting for us to bend. The other day, I think he hurt Tommy—who you saw, too—really badly. I haven’t—“ his voice breaks, and icy pain crashes through his chest. “I haven’t talked to Tommy this entire t-time, and I’m s-so worried about him, Ghostbur.”

Ghostbur stays silent, looking like he is struggling to take all the information in, but places a chilly hand on Tubbo’s shoulder. A sniffle escapes, then the kid continues. He has to keep thinking logically, carefully about what Ghostbur can do.

“But now that we’ve found out you can travel through walls, communication might actually be possible.” He doesn’t want to plant that seed of hope that suggests this might be a way for them to escape. Not yet. “You can, like, go between cells without being noticed; I take it Dream doesn’t know you can do this?”

“No, he doesn’t. He never asked. The only reason I hadn’t done this sooner is ‘cause I just…thought that this was our home. That we were all safe and happy here.” The words are desolate, lost. Tubbo can’t spend his precious minutes comforting him, though, so he barrels forward.

“I need you to go to the other cells, once the lights outside get real dim. I need you to tell them that you can carry messages, and that you WILL carry messages. Ghostbur, you cannot get caught by the guards. Dream is bad, so, so bad, and I don’t want to know what he’ll do to you—or any of us—if he finds out we’re communicating.”

A blink, a flicker. “Okay, Tubbo.”

A dangerous, all-consuming current of emotion swirls in the brunette’s chest. He stamps it down into sheer determination, letting it power the ticking in his brain that’s coming up with new ideas. “Most importantly, Ghostbur, you can’t forget, and you can’t tell anyone but the other prisoners in their cells. I-I know it’s very hard. But this, you, might be our only shot.”

“I have some books and quills in my own room; would it be helpful, Tubbo, if I wrote this down, and kept it in the pocket of my jumper? I can hide it there!”

“I didn’t know you could keep real things inside of your pockets, since you’re, um, dead.”

Ghostbur grins cheerfully. “Oh no, I can! It’s where I keep all my blue, and dye, and I’ve even got a couple pieces of food—” 

The plan is weaving itself into a tapestry in Tubbo’s mind. There’s so, so much possibility, now. To get resources, to communicate with his friends, to talk. Hope, they say, has always been more powerful than fear.

“Thank you, god, thank you Ghostbur. Please don’t forget. Please.”

The spirit nods seriously, and drifts into the back wall for a second before returning with a book and quill. They shimmer in his hands, but when he drops them onto the cot, they’re solid items again. Tubbo writes all the important things inside the book, leaving room for other prisoners to write. At the bottom of the first page, he scribbles in very rusty handwriting a very important message.

“Okay, Ghostbur, I need you to go bring this book to the next prisoner you see after the lights dim for night time. But,” he swallows. “what I really need you to do is find Tommy.”

His friend leaves silently after many quiet promises of doing as he’s told. Which leaves lots of quick thoughts and ideas to bounce in his head, his consciousness rushing by like a river. When Tubbo finally settles down enough in his waiting and planning to catch some sleep because god knows he’ll need it, he dreams of standing before the crater made by Wilbur’s explosion. For the first time in a long time he smiles. Flowers appear in his scarred hands. The gray wind he has not felt in ages ruffles his soft brown hair.

He lets the roses fall into the abyss and thanks the monsters who didn’t succeed in swallowing him alive. The emotions he cannot let out blaze like a forest fire, and he watches light dance on an unseen horizon. The damp gleam of hope appears in the core of the dead husk of the earth. It dazzles like a thousand stars and forms symphonies from within.

We’re going to get out.

Chapter Text

After Tommy couldn’t recognize the voice echoing outside of his cell, sounds started to turn to white noise in his ears and his own words clogged up in his throat. His head pounded. The person tried a few more times to get him to participate in conversation before giving up; he couldn’t understand their gentle words of parting, so he didn’t bother saying any back. Regret poured in like a waterfall—gods, when was the last time he’d seen one of those? —and he curled up on his cot as cotton compiled in his head. He shouldn’t have talked. They already hadn’t expected him to do so, anyway, and what was it the person said? Everyone thought he had really died? Huh. Maybe it was better that way.

The guy had mentioned Fundy; he must’ve been too far to hear their conversation. It should have been much more alarming than it was that Tommy took a minute to recall what the name meant to him. L’Manberg. Fox. Wilbur’s son. Didn’t want him exiled. Didn’t visit him in exile. Didn’t care. Oh well. Tommy doesn’t want to hear from him anyway and he still doesn’t doubt the fact that no one wants to see him, either. Dream is his friend, his only friend, and it won’t help to interact with the others again just because they’re bored. They don’t really care.

 As the thought crosses his head, the person’s voice echoes in his ears. “Holy shit, Tommy, oh my god, everyone’s been worried sick, oh my—are you okay? How-how have you been dude? What the fuck happened?”

He shakes it off. They’re just bored. Wanted to play with the toy they broke, that’s all. They’ve never asked before.

He drifts off.

A while later, he’s made his way onto the floor again, somehow. Dream is back, looking at him with a tilted head. He can’t remember the last time he didn’t spring up with delight to see Dream, heart bursting with glee. The masked man’s feet scruff against the floor and Tommy zones back in only then because it’s the first sound he’s been able to clearly make out in hours. Things have been really hard to focus on, lately, ever since Tommy made Dream hurt him.

“-ello? Tommy? Tommy?”

A hard blink. Ow, his head. “S-sorry, Big D, what was that?” He drags his eyes from where they’d been fixated for quite some time to rest on the familiar blank smile. As he does so, one of his hands seizes and squeezes into a fist. Instinct keeps it pressed into his side where Dream couldn’t spot it. The lights in the ceiling feel like they’re stinging his skin.

“I was just asking if you were okay? You didn’t say hi when I came in and you’ve just been lying on the floor. I know I haven’t come in your cell much recently, but you looked really out of it. I had to call your name, like, five times.”

Tommy scrambles to his feet, guilt biting into him. The desperate smile seamlessly spreads across his face. It’s almost painful. Now Dream’s gonna think you don’t value his friendship, he’s not gonna come back and he’s the last one who cares about you so you better clean up your fucking act. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Dream, I just, zoned out, or something, y’know how it is, I-I’m really sorry man—”

Dream raises his hands in a placating gesture. The leather of his fingerless gloves gleams. “No, no, it’s okay, I was just… surprised, that’s all. You usually greet me and I just wanted to make sure everything was fine.”

“Yeah, no, don’t worry ‘bout me, big man! Me ‘ead has just been real weird lately, but still, I'm so—”

He makes to apologize again, but then the words die on his lips as images flash in his eyes. His head, colliding with the floor. The merciless pounding of Dream’s fist. The warmth of his blood contrasting with the cold of the floor.

Tommy did not apologize again. His jaw clicks shut.

Dream studies him for another moment, and he shifts uncomfortably under the man’s scrutiny. He has to clench his fist tight to hold back that desperate need nestled deep inside himself. Finally, Dream asks, “Do you need more painkillers, or water? Your head shouldn’t be hurting anymore. I could get you another pillow or something, if that helps.”

Dream is such a good friend. You need to be better. You don’t deserve him. If you’re not appreciative, he’ll leave like they all did. “T-that, yes, yes, that’d be really great, Dream, damn. You’re really too nice, no one ever does stuff like that for me except you.” He glances up nervously. “I know I-I don’t deserve it, but thank you so much, dude. Thank you.”

Based on the way his shoulders shift, Dream seems satisfied. With a curt nod, he turns out the door. “I’ll go get them now.” When the smiley mask turns to face the door, it feels as though a spotlight has been removed from Tommy’s face.

The iron door slams shut with a clang.

Tommy jolts, reaching a skeletal hand up to his lips. Now that he really thinks about it, the apologies and thank-yous seem like a bit much. Huh.

. . .

The extra pillow does very little to help that night. No feather down cushion can combat the nightmares that hang in his head like cobwebs. He does not scream, he just wakes up (or does he?). The pills sit cushioned in Tommy’s fist; he can’t recall why he decided not to take them. Dream told him they were for pain, that they’d clear his head. Funny, for all the jokes he made about drugs… before, something tells him not to take them, not to trust them. The temptation is there, though, even if it’s fruitless. He does not think the pills will make the right type of pain go away. He stares at them before standing up from his cot and crushing them under his heel. The powder is bright against the obsidian.

For some reason, his face is wet. He takes a shuddering breath and fails to push back the storm of loneliness in his gut. For a moment, he thinks about the lava in the nether.

It was really pretty. His nails dig into his palms, making little red crescents. He kicks the remnants of the pills, watching the white dust scatter.

The sound of a new voice inside his cell sends lightning down his veins.

“Hi, Tommy! What’d you do that for?”

Tommy does scream when he whirls around and locks eyes with the ghost of his older brother. It's okay. It's not loud. He's not loud anymore.

Ranboo thinks the water is the worst of it.

It’s near impossible to get close to Pandora’s Vault without wading in the waves of the ankle-high water. It is cold and he can feel it through his boots, despite the waterproof enchantments. The sand creates hazy clouds as his feet send it swirling up.

The water isn’t the worst because he has to wade in it right now. It does not hurt him here. The memory does.

Ironic, that the bad-memory boy can remember the one thing he wants to forget.

The water is the worst part because each slosh reminds him of the trickle trickle trickle of purple tears and the sizzling sound that haunted his dreams.

He escaped his cell in the prison with nothing but pure luck. Actual, insane luck. The day he escaped was not what should have been a blur. That day was clearer than most of his memories. That day was bad. It was really, really bad. He couldn’t quite think of what led to it, if he was being honest. Maybe it was the fact that he truly felt like he had a spine for once or that he had pushed Dream’s boundaries a bit too hard. Because one thing about Ranboo is that even if he could be pushed around rather easily, he would not stand for the disgusting injustice he watched Dream perform.

The one day he did that something he couldn’t remember, Dream had given him a leaky roof and sound-proof windows between the cell bars.

The crying obsidian Dream put in the ceiling left purple spots on his arms and his face. No one heard the sobbing because the glass was thick. Dream had told him just for a few minutes, so you don’t accuse me of things like that again.

And through some crazy mishap someone like Technoblade would probably call a main-character magical power, Ranboo found out he could teleport. The amethyst drop of crying obsidian landed on his forehead, and vwoop, he was curled up on the grass outside the prison.

Ranboo had never run so fast in his entire life. He spent a month, after that, hiding and foraging for scraps, terrified of each shadow and his own reflection. That month was not good. Nope. Not good at all.

Then, one day, he came upon Skeppy hiding out in the sewers and tunnels that cris-crossed the underside of the entire server. Skeppy had never been captured because he’d been so infected that Dream never came to break him out of the Egg’s clutches. When no one came to satiate the Egg’s need to grow, to feed, it let him go. Ranboo had only been in there for six months before the incident, and Skeppy had spent every moment digging through Sam’s old base, collecting resources, looking for cracks in the Vault from a distance. With Ranboo, a could lot more could be done. They became friends very quickly.

Skeppy gets him a new memory book, and they spend a lot of their time worrying. Sometimes they’d talk and sometimes they would not. Skeppy had been alone for a lot longer than Ranboo, never having gone into the prison at all. The hybrid knows his friend hates hearing about the isolation, the screams, and the maniac Dream has become, but they have nothing else to talk about and it would help their mission, so they stay up late attempting to draw out his memories. It is hard. He breaks down into tears a lot. Skeppy is a little too quiet. They work harder.

The two had been operating in Dream’s old underground house, crumbled and broken up in the hillside. Perhaps, had the server been free, the area could have been cleaned up and a big new building could have replaced the wreckage, but, well. Nevertheless, the ‘hide in plain sight’ bit worked well, because Dream never visited the places that reminded him of his old self. Each night, they take turns going out for an hour or two to scout the prison, to see which parts had mining fatigue and how fast it sank into their bones. It is slow going, and very, very risky, but they don't give up. The two find out they can be quite careful and sneaky when they want to be.

Luckily, the security at the door to the prison and overhead was far stricter than underneath. No one expected the enderman hybrid to go swimming under the building or the Egg-addict to make battle strategies and wire explosives each waking hour.

One night, chipping away beneath the prison, Ranboo had let out a frustrated sigh. It would be nice if we could just get in contact with one person. To hear about the guards’ schedules, to hear about Dream’s rotation through the cells. All we know is that he goes in at sunrise, leaves for lunch, and has one more trip in and out by sunset. His heart stutters. He missed them. Just as he prepares to leave for the night and fill Skeppy in at their bunker, very much worried about making too much sound, the black surface over him ripples.

When Ghostbur pops his transparent head out of the solid rock, Ranboo has to bite back a bark of laughter. This would definitely work.