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Tommy twirls a blade of grass between two fingers, absentmindedly humming a tune under his breath. The breeze ruffles his hair, blowing long blond curls across the bruises that bloom on his pale face. Winter air sends chills across his body, but he pays them no mind. He sits with his legs crossed and his eyes closed, frosted lashes dusting his cheeks like a doll.
He would be content to sit and hum for a while, and feel the cold breeze on his face, but he feels his stomach start to growl and notices his hunger is low.
Annoyed, he tries to ignore the ache. Dream made him put his hunting supplies in the hole (for his own safety, of course, Dream wouldn’t want him to accidentally hurt himself with such dangerous weapons), and the crops he planted won’t be ready for another day or two. There is no food left.
Tommy doesn’t mind. A day or two without food won’t kill him, and soon Dream will come to keep him company and distract him from the pangs.
He goes back to his humming, swaying gently back and forth to the tune. The scent of the sea dances on the wind and enters Tommy’s nose. He breaths in and breaths out and-
The same dull ache at the pit of his stomach breaks through his gentle breathing. He can’t focus on the salty spray of the sea or the sound of the waves. He can’t focus on anything but his stomach.
Tommy grits his teeth and hums louder, as if willing the pain away. The song he hums is an old hymn, bringing him back to the l’manburg days when he would sing to rally spirits.
He thinks back to a cold winter during the independence war, where food was scarce. Tommy would wander through the fields of crops, singing the same hymn to them. He was just a naive child then, back when he thought plants would respond to his voice. Back when he thought anyone would respond to his voice…
Naive or not, when it was time to harvest, the crops were double the projected amount, and everyone ate well for the rest of the war. Tommy remembers how he and Tubbo ran through the fields on harvest night, with wide smiles and full bellies, whooping and singing at the top of their lungs. Wilbur, who was growing increasingly somber as the war dragged on, had taken the night off to dance and sing with the rest of the revolutionaries.
Tommy never told anyone about how he sang to the crops. Wilbur already liked to tease him about the times he caught Tommy singing to flowers, and Tommy didn’t want Wilbur thinking of him as a little kid. Still, a small, prideful part of Tommy believed his hymn played a part in the plentiful harvest. Like a small seed, Tommy’s faith in himself burrowed into his heart, and took root.
Singing became harder after the war. During the elections, Tommy was expected to maintain appearances, and singing to wildlife is not a job for a Vice President. The seed’s growth became abandoned in favor of long speeches and stuffy political dinners.
And yet it was all for nothing because they lost the election. In pogtopia Wilbur allowed no singing in the ravine. “Too distracting” he would say, “this is not a time for music.” Each day spent in pogtopia, the seed was buried further under piles of harsh words and ashes and smoke.
And now of course, Tommy knows singing to plants to make them grow is a ridiculous idea. He knows his immaturity is what got him into this mess, and he deserves to be punished for it. So now he will do the mature thing and sit quietly until Dream arrives.
But-
It’s so cold
And-
He’s so hungry
One song wouldn’t hurt…
Tommy slowly gets up and shuffles over to his small crop of plants. He kneels down awkwardly, placing his hands on the mounds of course dirt around the crops. 'This is so ridiculous,' he thinks to himself. But nonetheless, he takes a shaky breath and starts at the beginning of the hymn.
His voice is scratchy from constant smoke and lack of use. The words come out slow and trembling and quiet. Tommy stops.
A bird chirps somewhere in the distance, and the waves continue to crash along the shore. All else is silent.
Again, Tommy starts at the beginning of his hymn. His voice is stronger this time, filled with an emotion that is almost desperation, but not quite there. Bit by bit, his voice gathers strength until it is almost the same volume as it was in the old days.
A warm feeling enters his chest, squeezing his heart and returning the color to his face. The song takes over as Tommy closes his eyes and lets the familiar melody envelop his senses. The dirt under his hands feels suddenly soft and rich, unlike the crumbly texture it had before. And finally, after what felt like days of grey skies, the sun breaks out from behind the clouds, and Tommy feels its warm rays on its back.
He knows it’s impossible, he knows it’s childish and immature to even entertain the possibility, but for a moment Tommy truly believes that he is communicating with the nature around him. The little seed in his heart swells with pride and begins to grow, growing bigger and full of faith and joy and-
A hand, rough and firm, grabs onto Tommy’s shoulder, breaking him from his song. Flinching back, he lets out a small yelp and whirls around to face the hand’s owner.
Dream stares at Tommy from behind his mask, as composed as ever.
“What are you doing?” Dream cocks his head to the side. The question he asks is innocent, but there is an underlying tension underneath the simple words. Something in Dream’s voice tells Tommy to run. He does not run. Dream is his friend.
“I-“ Tommy hesitates. He doesn’t think singing is off limits, but he’s known Dream long enough to know when something is wrong. He decides to tell the truth, that always makes Dream happiest.
“I was singing”
Dream’s hands tighten around the handle of his axe.
“Why?”
Dream takes a step forward forcing Tommy to stumble back into his carefully plotted row of crops. Tommy silently mourns the loss of the plants he stepped on, but he doesn’t dare break eye contact with Dream.
“I was just… singing to my plants… so maybe they’d grow faster. Because.. well because see Dream I’m really hungry? And there’s not much food out here so uh I thought maybe if I sang? They would grow faster?” Tommy continues to ramble, his voice edging on desperate.
Dream cuts him off with a disgusted sigh.
“Here.” He takes a piece of steak out of his inventory and throws it carelessly at Tommy.
Tommy’s eyes widen and he devours the food in a heartbeat. As soon as Tommy finishes, Dream grabs him forcefully by the wrist.
“Tommy,” he starts, voice stern
Tommy flinches, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry it won’t happen again I’m really sorry Dream honestly I’m so-“
Dream tightens his grip on Tommy’s wrist, nails digging into skin.
“I don’t want to hear you singing again. It’s loud and it’s obnoxious and it’s childish. If you ever want to go home you need to outgrow such tendencies, ok?”
Dream lets go of Tommy’s wrist and instead rests his hand around his back, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“You know I only want the best for you right? I’m doing this to help you.”
Tommy’s gaze turns inward. He silently leans his shivering body into Dream’s embrace.
“I know. Thank you, Dream. You’re a good friend.”