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You don't really think the end of the world is possible.
It's a funny thing to think about sometimes, a world-shattering idea that pops up inside of your brain every now and then - a brief series of flashes filled with torment and screaming; filled with waves of disasters and that sinking feeling deep inside of your aching chest.
But you never push a single lick of truth towards it, towards a scenario that seems so impossible and farfetched. (Why would you?)
'The end of the world,' 'the end of everything,' 'the end of life as we know it.'
The end.
It all sounds quite dramatic when you do indulge in it. Because surely, surely not everything would be ruined, not everything would be gone and shattered, turned into dust within your shaking hands that you can't seem to keep ahold of no matter how hard you try.
The fabric of the sky isn't going to split apart, the ground beneath your feet isn't going to quiver and tremble, and your entire being isn't suddenly going to be struck with a fear that's so, so cold - so icy and harsh and dripping with a resentful realisation, that you can't take even a single deep breath.
Ridiculous. Improbable. Fanciful.
Words, adjectives, descriptive phrases that your tongue rolls over as they leave your cracked lips around a joyful laugh. You clap at your horned friend's small shoulder, nudge against an exceedingly tall teenager in a suit. 'You're being stupid!' You chuckle, because the idea of anything so extreme happening is just… wrong.
Your world is peaceful now. You're healing, growing stronger, finally able to take feeble steps outside of your dirt shack without that shiver to your skin; without that looming fear of something that might be right around the corner; without that hissing, tight coil of a feverish agony that leaves you waking up from nightmare after bleeding nightmare.
Life is well. Life is good. You are good, so there's no need to senselessly worry about the 'what ifs' and the 'maybes' and then everything in between, too.
Well.
Well.
That had been Tommy's plan, his defiance and his resistance against the anxiety plaguing his mind, against the panic and the alarm that wore him down until only hollow bones selfishly remained.
That had been his plan, until the end of the world really was happening, and he found himself right in the middle of it all.
.
.
Tommy stretched upwards, frail arms arching over his head and his toes lifting him somewhat where he stood. It was a deserved stretch, a needed release of the ache that had slowly spread across his strained muscles and weary features.
He still wasn't exactly used to too much physical strain, not after his body had been beaten and bruised, burnt to the core and turned to ash and then viciously strung together once more. But he was getting better with it.
A walk here and there along the prime path to relieve growing tension; a fast-paced stroll through his home, down to his mines and then back up again; a little time spent in the harvestable fields blooming right outside his home- well, shack, really.
Which was where he was right then, actually - a day well-spent and a bag of thick, juicy carrots laying beside his feet that he was so, so ready to get home to absolutely chow down on.
(A part of him would have once preferred potatoes, would have once preferred the rich taste and the soft insides against his flicking tongue, but… Not now, not after everything, and certainly not after Tubbo and Ranboo had already made an effort to retrieve them all from the ground to use elsewhere.)
"Fuckin' hell," the teen finally murmured, voice vaguely croaky from slight misuse. He could definitely use some water right then, or a cold bucket of milk; huh, maybe he could convince Henry to-
A downcast gaze, that bitter, stinging reminder that dug deep into his weeping heart and held on tight. It was a constricting sort of feeling, one that had his throat closing up, his hands clenching.
Memories hurt. They hurt a lot. More than Tommy could ever begin to explain with his own, twisted tongue. They just…
"Henry, c'mon! C'mon, man, don't all cows have udders? Stop being so stingy!"
Mooing and mooing, the sound of it tinged with a slight hint of amusement (if that was even possible from a rather deadpan cow.) Slow blinking, chewing on grass and wheat and whatever else Tommy had tried to 'tempt' him with.
"I'm thirsty, Henry! Parched! I'm gonna die of dehydration at this point, bloody hell-"
A quivering, dirt-smeared hand pressed against a sweaty forehead - laying there for a brief moment, before it was slamming down against the wrinkled skin there.
Repetitive, forceful motions, ones that elicited fully-body shakes and crashing winces, but motions that seemed to be unstoppable once started: a slam, a hit, a press of his palm against a sensitive area.
It stung, it did, but Tommy hated- hated letting his memories overtake him. It didn't matter how fond they were - it didn't matter if they were flashes of Wilbur's hands rubbing soothingly over his back or reminders of Dream's doting laughter as the two of them built a thriving church together.
He needed it to hurt so that he could forget about everything good.
Pain was normal, pain was constant, pain kept him grounded. Pain kept Tommy okay - kept him from spiralling down into a fit of uncontrollable frenzy.
(When he didn't have Ranboo whispering soothing, careful reminders into his awaiting ears; when he didn't have Tubbo gripping his hand and dragging him towards a new, rather radioactive distraction; when he didn't have Techno's heavy cloak pressing down against him, then Tommy's own self-destructive habits were all that he knew.
All that he could properly understand.)
Still...
Tommy dropped his hand. He sighed once more, the rush of air dripping from his cracked lips like leaking sap. What to do, what to do?
A squinted glance upwards, right into the beating sun, into the glaring light that was casting hot rays against his already stinging, heat-licked skin. Midday, probably. The peak of their hot temperatures, the time of the day that was meant for lounging around inside or sinking your toes into the cold of Snowchester.
Not harvesting carrots.
He should probably get going. But could he?
Well, okay, he could get going, realistically, but could he be bothered to do so? Moving seemed like a lot at that moment, like too much effort that Tommy didn't really want to deal with or put his mind towards.
Hm...
Maybe he should just stay there, stood up and a little slumped (his posture sinking deep into that relaxation, if a tad hunched.) He should just risk the growing sunburn and the crick that was sure to develop in his neck.
Plus, Tommy didn't get time like this too often anymore, not with how vigilant Tubbo and Ranboo had been towards him lately and how much time he'd been forced into some dumb therapy sessions with Puffy of all people.
There's a ringing in his ears.
So he should make the most of it, right?
It's growing louder with each passing second.
He should sit back down amongst the various crops, kick his feet up.
It's burning his insides, turning them to ash. It's loud.
Tommy should close his eyes, let a rare smile pull at his sullen features.
His ears hurt. They might be bleeding, red and oozing and-
He should-
The fabric of the sky was splitting apart; it was tearing at the seams - infested, crimson intestines spilling out across the screeching ground, hitting against the swaying trees and soaking into every inch of the ruined Earth.
The ground beneath his feet was ripping into two, cracking and cracking, trembling and shaking and breaking. Dirt flew into the air, grass was torn away, water flooded, and the Devil from deep below raised its mighty claws to the Heavens above - a callous declaration of war.
Tommy's body was momentarily shrouded with fear, struck down by a lightning bolt of paralysing panic that scorched across his pale, scarred skin and dug down into his crazed mind. Frozen.
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He couldn’t think.
Everything was screaming, screaming and grating and hissing against his throat; everything was spinning, spinning and turning and filling his stomach with waves of nausea; everything was slipping from his grasp, as loose as that now was, hitting the ground and running.
Tommy wanted to run, too. He wanted to run away from it all, to pick up his carrots, to grip onto his wavering idea of reality and head forward in a fixed direction. It didn't really matter where - be it a heated desert or a frosty tundra - as long as he was gone.
But if he couldn't even manage to take a gasping breath, then how was he supposed to escape from this? Escape from-
Escape-
Escape.
His head whipped around, fast and direct, and Gods, the ache that filled him, the agony and that burning paranoia that lit his skin on fire as his eyes caught against that dark, clouding feature that was infecting the blue of the sky.
Heaps of towering obsidian bunched together; cruel, heartless walls rising up, up, up; that smeared remembrance of pleading and screaming and death and-
The prison.
The prison, and Tommy's throat was closing up.
The prison, and Tommy's peace was splitting apart.
The prison, and Tommy knew exactly what was happening - exactly what had happened, and exactly what was going to happen.
A ringing screech, a repetitive groan, a warning sign to all of those that were in the vicinity, to anyone who might be near enough to hear. (Though Tommy assumed that with how loud it all was, the alarms were probably reaching far and wide, a thick cabin in the Tundra, a grand Kingdom in the desert.)
It seemed to be going on and on, a never-ending loop of dismay and misery, of darkened urgency and the sober reminder that you should flee - that you should pack your bags, tuck away your belongings, find safety in numbers.
Tommy wanted to drag his hands upwards to his ears, to unclench his fists, pull his nails from his palms. He wanted to block it all out until only the rush of blood, and his beating heart were left.
But he couldn't.
He couldn’t.
All he could do was stare.
Eyes wide and unblinking as they bore deep holes into the very place that he'd once lost a part of himself within - the very same box that he'd been helplessly trapped within, left with a man of psychopathic behaviour and the need to destroy. (Destroy, destroy, destroy.)
Tommy's soul had crumbled in there; it had withered away inside of him, a golden core tinted with a sweltering darkness and that maddening urge to dig his fingers into his flesh and pull, pull, pull.
Rip away at his hair, tug his teeth from their meaty holds, tear apart his intestines and spit festering crimson over a wobbling chin. Tommy had wanted to do it all; he'd wanted to, he'd-
Tommy had… he'd- he'd-
"Tommy?"
The world freezes over. There's frost covering his shoes, his hands, his heart and his lips. Everything spirals for a moment, swirling and whipping and dipping between his fingers as he tries to catch a desperate hold over reality.
Tommy can't shift his feet, he can't feel his chest, he can't stop shaking.
"Tommy?" A repeated murmur of his name. It's soft, a gentle tone, a fond mention that has the teen's stomach twisting into tight, immovable, constricting knots. "Are you okay?" The following question was even fonder, and Tommy wanted to vomit all over himself.
He should respond, too, though. A part of his brain was pestering him, hissing and spitting and demanding that he give up a response. He needed to; the desperation to follow orders and be good was practically ingrained within him.
But then-
But then, in a soothing tone, a thick accent that sounded especially akin to that of an Enderman's warble, a voice was pressing down against his worries, reminding Tommy that he was okay, that he was his own person and-
And then it was washed away again, the minute a calloused, familiar hand clamped harshly against his shoulder.
Tommy shook. Tommy shivered. Tommy dissolved into hiccuping breaths, and Dream sighed.
"Tommy," it was condescending now, the tone that is, a disappointed repetition that made the teenager's gut ache uncomfortably. "I asked you a question. Won't you answer me?"
He shouldn't be afraid. He shouldn't be scared; he shouldn't tremble. Tommy has grown, he's evolved and developed and found footing in a world that he'd so kindly been granted a life in once more.
But by the Gods above is he terrified.
“Dream.”
Choked, choked, choked.
“Tommy.”
Mocking, mocking, mocking.
Tommy wanted to sob; Dream burst into peals of uncontrollable laughter.
"I came back for you, Tommy," he joyfully gasped around chuckles filled with bubbling mirth. "I came back for you, see? I told you I wouldn't leave you behind; I wouldn't let you stay by yourself for too long!"
Why can't he be free? Why can't he be safe? Why can't he escape?
Dream's nails were piercing into Tommy's shoulders, digging through the thin material of his shirt and forming crescents against marred skin. It hurt. It hurt.
It hurt, and the alarm was still blaring, and Dream's laughter was ringing through his ears; it hurt, and Tommy's chest was squeezing, it was caving impossibly inwards; it hurt, and Tommy's whole world was splitting apart right in front of him, without any thought or mention of stopping.
"Tommy."
Fingers through his tangled hair, tugging and pressing, scratching ruthlessly at his scalp, burning into sensitive skin and ripping- ripping. It was all- he couldn't- Tommy couldn't-
"Tommy."
A harsh tone, a vibrating, grating hiss that edged towards that fine line of crumbling insanity. Put your armour in the hole, put your armour in the hole, put your armour in the hole. The voice wouldn't stop. It wouldn't stop.
“Tommy.”
Fists slamming into his delicate skin, battering against a malnourished body, breaking apart hollow bones and smearing blood against whimpering obsidian. He was falling away, shattering into unrepairable fragments. There was nothing left. He was nothing.
"Tommy!"
There were different voices now, different tones that sunk into his eardrums and made a home there - that garbled accent, that tinge of honey and green - a scent of pine and snow, of nuclear findings and grass blocks.
Carrots. Carrots.
Familiar, reassuring, kind.
Everything that he needed and more, but-
But Tommy couldn't. He couldn't - lost within his own mind, lost within the sound of the howling warnings and repetitive blares, everything and more.
He was sinking down, bony knees pushing into thick mounds of dirt, his cheek smeared against grime, his hands shaking, palms bleeding, and heart beating wildly around within his chest - a hysterical rabbit caught beneath its hunter's cage.
Gasping breaths and bleeding sobs.
Dream's hands were still there against his shoulders, less forceful, less piercing and cruel but oh-so reminiscent.
He's still there.
He won't go away.
"I told you that we'd always be together, Tommy." A manic grin, taunting laughter. Tommy was vomiting and convulsing and dying all over again. "We're friends Tommy, and friends don't leave each other behind."
The prison alarms rang out, even as a warden dug deep into a hidden tunnel and pointed a sword towards a hissing prisoner; the prison alarms rang out, even as a horned hybrid pressed his gloved hands over scratched, bloody ears; the prison alarms rang out, they went on, and on, and on.
On, and on.
Looping. Looping. Looping.
"I'll always be with you, Tommy." All he could feel was the life being ripped away from him, of his own blood choking him to breathlessness, that unrelenting grip as he was suddenly dragged back into life. "And I'll never let you go again."
As the world began to sink into darkness, as the Earth found a hollow mute and his body finally gave in to its crashing weariness, all Tommy could think was that-
That this time, maybe, just maybe, his world really was ending.
(All over again.)