Work Text:
“Who are you?”
“I’m your best friend,” the man says with a smile, his lips the only thing visible under his cracked mask.
“Oh,” his translucent eyes grow distant, “I remember friends... Yeah! I do! I remember a boy... and a man who called me his brother. Are you my brother?”
The ghost looks at Dream, dumbly, waiting for a reply. He just shrugs.
“Well, I’m all that you have at least.”
“But that doesn’t answer my que-” then he notices something, slumped face first on the obsidian behind the man. Dark red liquid pools around it. The form looks frail, unrecognizable through all the red.
“Are you still with me, Tommy?”
Red like his shirt.
Is that a shirt?
It’s too red to tell.
“What is that?” he asks, the question echoing through the small dark chamber, pointing at the corpse.
“Oh, you don’t need that anymore,” he chuckles, “I’m sure glad you’re here. I was enjoying the quiet, but at the end of the day…” he steps slowly towards the body, lifting it gently by the back of it's neck, “A broken doll is no fun.”
Something dark courses through the ghost’s system.
Is this fear?
He wants to run, but he knows that’s silly. What does he have to be afraid of? His best friend is here.
“A doll?” his voice comes out like a squeak, “I don’t remember ever having one, I'm a big man and all. Why does it look like that? How did it break?”
The man chuckles. He knocks playfully on its skull, dark liquid staining his hand further, “Up here? Slowly, very slowly. It took a lot of work, but I think I did a good job, don’t you?”
“I don’t get it.”
“Eh, I don't expect you to,” his hands are stroking the thing’s wet hair, “The insides were slow, but the outsides were much quicker," if Tommy didn't know any better he'd think his best friend was doing this on purpose. This thing where he talks slow and almost taunting, bragging, "I think he looks better this way. No more stupid golden hair…I think he’d like it too. After all, his favorite color was red.”
The ghost nods, but he suddenly wishes his brother was holding his hand.
Oh, wait! He has a best friend for that. He reaches out towards the man, who peels his eyes away from the corpse at last. The eye contact leaves him stunned.
Why can’t I move?
“Do you need something?” he pulls out something from behind him, “Are you hungry?”
The thing in the man’s hand is ovular and fits comfortably in his fist as he holds it out. It’s wet and so, so red.
At first, Tommy thinks it’s a human heart.
He screams.
---
Tommy’s shaking, head to toe. He struggles for a moment to remember where he is.
Calm down, you idiot, it’s just a nightmare. Be a big man.
But it couldn’t be a nightmare. It’s the middle of the day and he is standing upright on the prime path listening to Tubbo chatter about…whatever the fuck Tubbo chatters about.
“Tommy?”
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
“Are you still with me, Tommy?”
“I’m fine, Tubso,” he laughs awkwardly, “I just get a little lost in my head sometimes these days, you know me.”
“How’s therapy coming along?”
“I’ve been big on my mindfulness, I have. Gettin’ big into the flung shay of things.”
“I don’t think that’s the right words,” comes a voice from behind.
Tommy jumps, “Jesus Christ, Ranboo, get a fucking bell on you or something!”
“Sorry!” he says before taking his usual spot at Tubbo’s side. Tubbo goes on his tip-toes to kiss his husband’s cheek and Tommy feigns disgust.
“It’s your fault that we rarely show PDA, you know!” Tubbo sighs, pouting light-heartedly at Tommy’s expression.
“Good,” he huffs, “It’s gross.”
“You should really get a girlfriend, Tommy.”
“And cheat on my numerous wives? How dare you suggest such a thing, they don’t call me the wife haver for nothing. You insult my title.”
“Didn’t you give yourself that title?” Ranboo asks.
“Shut up, Ranboob. Ha! Ranboob! There’s a title for you!”
“Oh, wow. I haven’t heard that one before.”
Tommy takes out a cigarette and begins to light it.
“Tommy!” Ranboo exclaims.
“What?”
Ranboo looks at Tubbo for help, but he only shrugs.
“Let him be.”
Tommy wiggles his eyebrows, blowing smoke in the other teen’s eyes.
“You heard your husband.”
Neither of them catch the way Tommy’s fingers shake. When his eyes graze a distant hill, all he can see is the body and the red.
---
The thing in the masked man’s hand was not his heart. It was a potato, so unrecognizable and thick with blood that it might as well be a vital organ.
“I don’t think I can…eat.”
“Oh, right.”
He throws the potato in the lava so fast that it makes the ghost flinch. He watches it disintegrate in the glorious magma and he can’t help but be absolutely mesmerized.
“Is that the sun?”
“You don’t remember lava? Curious…” the man makes his way over to the lectern, carefully opening a book and dipping a quill in ink to write. He picks up the book and circles him, like a vulture circles it’s dead meal, “You’re a lot like Ghostbur, aren’t you?”
The ghost shrugs, looking down shyly, eyes glued to his levitating feet. The man’s hand shoots out to grab his chin and force him to meet his stare.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you! Don't be fucking rude, Tommy!”
The ghost only nods. The man’s thumb strokes his cheek softly and he can’t help but melt into the gesture. His cold skin feels good under the warm touch.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. After all, you’re not like him. You’re so naïve, so… stupid. You’d never leave me, would you?”
“Never!” he answers eagerly, “You’re my best friend!”
The man chuckles, “That’s what I like to hear.”
Then he hugs him so tightly you’d think he wanted to choke him. But of course, that’s absurd. He’s his best friend.
It’s not like he could die again, anyways.
---
Tommy stares at his ceiling for a long time after wishing Ranboo and Tubbo farewell. The second nightmare… hallucination? Whatever it was, it came while he was cooking himself dinner. He woke to the oh-so-familiar smell of smoke.
He left the burnt pot on the stove after tossing a bucket of water over the area and went to bed without eating.
Now he cracks his knuckles slowly and tries to think of anything else.
---
“What are you doing, Dream?”
“I’m thinking.”
---
No, Tommy thinks, Go away.
His nails dig hard into his palms.
---
“About what?”
“Nothing to worry your empty little head about, okay?”
---
He hardly registers breaking the skin. Sweat permeates his back and it feels too similar to red.
---
It’s been two days.
Two days with his best friend, Dream.
“Close your eyes, will you?.”
“Is this another game?" they've been playing games for hours. The "What did you see?" Game. The "What was it like?" Game. "I love games! I love music, too. Can we listen to music, Dream? Do you have any?”
He rolls his eyes and shushes him.
---
Tears roll down Tommy’s cheeks and seep into the pillow.
What the hell?
---
”What the fuck? Stop!”
“Why don't you stop moving so much, I need to get this perfect,” Dream begins to whisper something, his hands curling tighter around the ghost’s porcelain neck.
The words he murmurs aren’t English, they aren’t like anything the ghost has ever heard. Even as his windpipe cuts off, his eyes never open. Obedient as ever, because of course he is. He’s his best friend.
The ghost begins to cry.
“I-I do-n’t li-ke th-is! C-an we go b-ack-" he coughs, "t-to the questions-” he struggles to speak around those oppressive hands.
“Don't be a baby. You trust me, don’t you?”
But the ghost doesn’t like this game and those hands only tighten their grip.
“Why?” he tries to sob.
“You’re fun, but you’re not him. You're too," he takes a hand off his throat for a moment to gesture obscurely, but Tommy's breathing doesn't improve much, "You know what I'm trying to say. I think it’s time for you to go away now. You wouldn’t want to see me bored, right?”
And the ghost nods.
Because he’s his best friend.
And this is just another game.
After the twitching stops, the ghost seems to disappear into thin air. Dream reaches forward through some invisible veil to pull his Tommy back.
The one who’s fun.
---
Tommy thinks he’s going to be sick.