Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dream stood there, the flickering light of the lava wall dancing across his cracked mask and orange jumpsuit. His one visible eye seemed to glow green in the moving light, a twisted smile on his face as Tommy's blood dripped from his hand. The boy lay slumped over on the ground, staring up at the man with a dazed expression on his face. Tommy stirred slightly, trying to sit up; Dream stepped forward, one foot resting on Tommy's sternum, keeping him down. The younger boy opened his mouth to speak, but Dream's hand wrapped tightly around his throat, and his breath turned to a wheeze.

"You should have kept quiet, Tommy," the masked man snarled before lifting Tommy and slamming him against the wall.

A cry escaped his lips as his head connected with the thick, obsidian wall, causing him to see stars. He could feel sticky, warm blood dripping down the back of his head, and panic gripped him. He seemed to realize with sudden clarity that he was not going to make it out of that prison alive, not without fighting back. His hands came up to try and pry Dream's fingers away from his throat, but the prisoner just squeezed harder until black spots danced before his eyes. Coughing, he felt something warm and wet trail from the corner of his mouth.

Weakly Tommy managed to wheeze out a response. "F-fuck you, bitch. TommyInnit bows to n-no man."

Dream chuckled, a cold, hollow sound that seemed to echo in the room. "Then you will kneel before a God."

And then he threw Tommy across the room.

The boy tumbled as he fell, landing in a heap with his back pressed against the wall. He struggled to sit up, fingers trembling, only to be kicked in the chest, crying out when he heard bones crack. His vision was incredibly blurry. He could barely make out the man standing before him, but he was certain that he had that stupid smirk stretched from cheek to cheek. Tommy wishes that he could wipe it off his face, but he doesn't even think he has the energy to lift his head, much less fight back. He feels helpless. He hates it.

"Any last words?" Dream asked, tilting his head slightly.

Groaning, Tommy managed to push himself into an upright position, leaning heavily on the wall behind him. He gritted his teeth, his breath rattling in his throat. He said something, but it was too soft for Dream to make out. The older man leaned down.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that."

"I said burn in hell," Tommy spat, raking his fingers across Dream's exposed face.

For a moment, everything was silent. Dream stood there, almost as if in shock, blood trailing down his cheek and congealing in the collar of his shirt. His face was expressionless as his eyes flickered to Tommy, the boy sitting there with a satisfied grin on his face. If he died now, at least it couldn't be said that he went down without a fight.

Tommy reeled back as the prisoner punched him in the face. His jaw ached and he coughed, spitting out blood. Before he even had time to blink, a flurry of punches landed all over his body, bruising his arms, battering his already broken ribs, and he raised his arms as a poor excuse for a shield. Even under the barrage of painful strikes, the smile never left his face. He knew he was winning. Dream had cracked.

The masked man was furious that his puppet, his plaything, dared to fight back. He had broken the boy. He left him to die. Why wouldn't he just die?!

The onslaught of attacks left Tommy dazed. He couldn't see anything besides blurs of colors. He couldn't feel anything other than dull aches. His own body seemed foreign to him, too far away for anything to truly register, but close enough that he knew, deep down, he was dying. He was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

For some reason, this didn't scare Tommy like he knew it should. He was just a kid, after all. A sixteen year old boy with his whole life ahead of him. He should be crying, screaming, begging for mercy, but instead? He just sat there. Unphased. Accepting of his fate. Tommy was no stranger to pain. He was as close to him as a brother. He knew death. They were an old friend. He was familiar to despair. At one point, she had been his lover. And yet, a small part of him was whispering to fight back. In his delirious state, he could have sworn it sounded like Wilbur.

Wilbur, his big brother. Tommy wasn't ashamed to say that he missed him. The man had practically raised him, with Phil and Techno being so busy on their adventures. Tommy felt a soft smile come to his face. He would get to see Will again soon. He wondered, distantly, if the man would be proud of him, or if he would be ashamed of all the times he had fucked up. Tommy figured that if the Wilbur he met in the afterlife was anything like the Wilbur he had been when he died, it would be the latter. That was okay. Tommy knew Wilbur didn't mean it. He had forgiven him long ago.

Tommy heard someone cry out. It didn't sound like Dream, and he didn't think it was himself. He wondered if Sam had come at last to check on them. He felt bad that the man would have to witness his death. Sam already held the weight of the world on his shoulders. He didn't need a child's death added to that load. Tommy heard rather than saw levers and buttons being pressed, the mechanics for the lava wall stuttering into action. He could hear Sam's voice in the distance, cursing the slowness of the machine and begging Tommy to stay with him, but he knew that he'd be dead long before the guard managed to reach him.

He could see Dream standing over him with that sinister smile, feel his hand grabbing his face, preparing to slam his head against the wall one final time. Tommy smiled, whispering an apology to Sam, Tubbo, Jack, and all the people he was leaving behind. He hated that he had to go, but he knew they would be fine without him. They would have each other, and hopefully, that would be enough. This was the way it had to be. This was the way it was always going to be. Tommy, slain at the hands of his abuser. Not a death befitting of a hero, but of a victim, because Tommy had never really been the hero, anyway.

I'll see you soon, Will, Tommy thought, before Dream slammed his head against the wall and it all faded to black.

Chapter Text

Wilbur quite liked the afterlife.

Sure, it wasn't what one would picture when they first think of being dead. There are certain images that would come to mind when visualizing the afterlife. Typically, one would imagine Heaven or Hell. Perhaps even Purgatory, if one were educated enough. This wasn't that.

Instead, Wilbur found himself standing in a large, open field. It was a sea of golden wheat, dancing in the gentle, cool breeze that seemed to come and go in waves, making the stalks rustle softly. It was a nice spring day, just as it always was in this strange limbo, and the air was warm and fresh, not hot and stifling or cold and bitter. Instead, it was incredibly comfortable and just slightly crisp, suggesting that they might be on the top of a mountain, although Wilbur had never explored the area enough to know for sure. He was far too content standing in the field and letting the wind tease his hair and ruffle his clothes, or sitting under the lone oak tree and strum his guitar to see much else.

Wilbur closed his eyes, tilting his head back and letting the sun soak into his skin, his red beanie nearly slipping off his head. He readjusted his hat before rolling up his sleeves, allowing for more of the delicious warmth to fill him with the sleepy contentment that had recently become his new normal. When he had asked Phil to kill him, he hadn't expected such a wonderful ending for himself after he lost his final life. In fact, he had quite realistically expected the opposite; fire, brimstone, and the devil himself should have greeted him after such a dreadful life as his. He had hurt so many people, caused so much pain and misery, and yet, fate had been kind to him. He supposes he should be grateful, but oftentimes, when he was sitting under the tree absentmindedly playing his guitar, Wilbur's mind tended to wander and he began to question whether he was worthy of such pleasure after all he had done. But he couldn't really do anything about it, and he didn't really care to anyway, so he let the universe have mercy on him, just this once.

Although, he supposed that if fate had truly been so kind, it would have removed the bloody red stain on his favorite yellow sweater, and the dull pain that accompanied the scar that fell right where his heart was, or rather, where the remains of it were. All that was left was the severed halves, but Wilbur swears sometimes it felt like it was still beating. It wasn't truly painful, just annoying. It was like the phantom pains of a man who had lost an arm, and Wilbur honestly was growing quite tired of the random aches that would sometimes rear their ugly heads. Again, there was nothing he could do, but he still liked to grumble and complain about them to the tree when he was feeling particularly irritable.

Today, though, Wilbur was feeling quite content. It was a nice day, just like every other day. Or had it just been one day this whole time? The sun never truly set, so Wilbur couldn't be quite sure. Still, he could feel time moving, albeit slowly. How long had he been here again? He wasn't sure about that either. He knew that a decent length of time had passed. Occasionally, he would get a brief vision of what was going on in the SMP, and he knew that a good few months had passed since his death. He wasn't sure how long, only that it had been long enough for everyone to move on and cease their mourning, and for that, Wilbur was thankful. He wasn't really worth mourning anyway.

Either way, it was a nice day, and Wilbur was feeling better than he had in a long time. He was more than just content; he was optimistic! He had a feeling something interesting would happen today. It had been so long since he had seen Schlatt. Maybe he would come to visit. Or maybe that odd man- what did he say his name was- Mexican Dream? Perhaps he would spend some time with him. Wilbur had been aching for some company. He had a feeling he just might get his wish today.

For now, though, everything was quiet. Wilbur rolled his sleeves back down as he took a slow turn, his eyes still closed as he let the gentle spring breeze tousle his curly brown hair. He could hear the rustling of the wheat stalks in his ears like a melody, and his fingers itched for the feeling of his guitar in his hands. Maybe he would work on a new song today. As he pondered the possibility, trying to think of what he could write about, he felt something shift.

"Wilbur?"

His eyes shot open, everything suddenly going silent apart from the beating of his torn heart, which appeared abnormally loud in his ears. He recognized that voice, although it was far softer and more vulnerable than he was used to. Whirling around, Wilbur found himself taking in the form of his little brother, Tommy, although this wasn't really Tommy. It couldn't be Tommy. This pale, shivering, bloody, crying figure couldn't possibly be Wilbur's rebellious, loudmouth, energetic brother who so often stirred up trouble for him in the past. This boy was far too jumpy, far too anxious, far too quiet. It couldn't be Tommy, and yet it was.

Wilbur stared at his little brother, struggling to reconcile the boy he knew with the shell that had been left behind. Tommy was wearing his signature red and white shirt and a pair of khakis as per usual, but both were filled with tears, holes, and bloodstains from years of wear without replacement. He had his scuffed sperry's on, which appeared to be tearing apart at the seem, and the green bandanna around his neck appeared to have had better times in the past, judging by how faded it was. But that wasn't even the worst of it.

Tommy was covered in wounds, some worse than others. He had bandages peeking out from underneath the holes in his pants, as well as large, purple bruises that looked so dark compared to how pale his skin was. There were bandages wrapped around his arms, already stained with blood from his injuries, as well as bruises and burn marks littering his skin. There was a decent sized hole in the torso of his shirt, revealing a large swath of bandages wrapped around his chest and stomach, and they were already beginning to turn pink with blood. His face was the worst of it, however, with blood dripping down his temple from an open gash above his hairline, staining his wild blonde curls red. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as well, turning the grass below him scarlet. A bandaid was pasted over one of his cheeks, where no doubt another gaping wound stood, and cuts, bruises, and burn marks were scattered across his face, leaving him looking war-torn and ruined. He was covered in open wounds, no doubt from his death, but the thousands of already healed scars and wounds from previous days made Wilbur feel even sicker. What had Tommy been through to cause all this?

His eyes, though. That was truly the worst of it. They were faded, no longer the bright, vibrant blue that they used to be when he was younger, and they looked hollow. He didn't seem to look at Wilbur, but rather, through him, and it made the older man flinch back slightly. He watched as tears began to make tracks down Tommy's face, disturbing the streams of blood, and the boy hunched in on himself, wrapping his arms around his torso tightly and trembling.

Wilbur couldn't take it any longer. He rushed over to Tommy and pulled him into his arms. The boy clung to him desperately and sobbed, shaking so badly Wilbur was afraid that the boy would pass out. Holding Tommy all the more tightly, he sank to the ground, pulling Tommy down with him. The boy did so with no resistance, seemingly grateful to have something to hold onto. Pulling Tommy as close as he could, Wilbur rubbed gentle circles into Tommy's back as he murmured reassurances. Promises that nothing could hurt him anymore. Promises that he was safe and loved. Promises that it would all be okay. Wilbur had no idea what had been happening on the SMP, but it had destroyed his brother, leaving behind a shell shocked traumatized mess of a boy behind, and he didn't know how to make it better. That didn't mean he wouldn't try. This was his baby brother. He wouldn't fail him again.

After a while, Tommy's tears lessened and his breathing slowed, and he soon fell asleep in Wilbur's arms. His older brother gently laid him down with his head in his lap and ran his fingers through the boy's hair, trying to make Tommy as comfortable as possible. When he woke up, Wilbur wanted answers, but for now, he was content just to know that he and his brother were finally reunited. Tommy may be broken, but Wilbur was determined to pick up the pieces and help him rebuild. He would be there for Tommy like he had once upon a time, before insanity poisoned his mind, and he would never let him go. Tommy deserved to be happy, and Wilbur was going to make sure he got there, no matter how long it took. It was the least he could do for his baby brother.

Now, they were both free.