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Tommy groaned as his fingers finally found the sand, clawing at the ground to pull himself up and out of the water. When he managed to get himself all the way out of the shore, he sat back against the bank and trained his gaze directly into the eye of the sun. He paid no mind to the burning, his brain screaming at him that he was a fucking idiot for looking directly at a ball of fire, but he didn't care.
He was too god damned cold to care.
Sopping wet hair, drenched clothes; could it really get any worse? He was still stiff and aching from yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that day because he'd been too tired that night to properly sleepwalk himself into the ocean. No, everything just sucked, really.
Tommy's shirt felt like sand paper against his chest, and if it wasn't for the lack of sheep or wool or fucking anything on this god-forsaken piece of land, Tommy would've gotten rid of it long ago. The hundreds of small tears and rips in the fabric didn't help either. His pants weren't any better, the jeans having long since practically fused to his skin, refusing to come off. He essentially relented to it at this point, he couldn't build up enough strength to get them off, and it wasn't like he had any other pairs of pants anyway.
So, Tommy sat in the sand, and he let the tiny pebbles and rocks stick to his wrinkly, wet fingers, like a grandma’s old hand. He let the dust accumulate in his hair as he shifted and his limbs threw small globs of sand into the air. He let a sea shell he'd accidentally sat on continue digging into the bottom of his thigh no matter how much it hurt. He couldn't be bothered to get up.
(That was a lie, that was a huge lie. Tommy just wanted to get up and crawl straight back into bed, wanted to hide under a tree just to shrivel up and die. Wanted some place warm that wasn't scorching hot like the sun or ice cold like the tundra that haunted him anytime he looked towards the forest that rested behind everything he had.)
But, alas, things were to be done. Tommy may not have had a busy day ahead of him, but he wasn't going to sit in the sand and rot forever like an un-oiled machine no matter how much he wanted to. Dragging himself up, Tommy used the bank's edge to pull himself over the steep cliff-like incline despite his wet hands. He pulled fruitlessly at the dirt, kicking his wet sneakers at the edge of the hard ground, but it was no use. The mud accumulating from the water he'd dragged up onto the beach was too slippery for him to properly pull himself onto the grass. No matter how much he desperately pushed himself upwards and over the cliff, he kept falling backwards and into the sand once more.
Tommy sighed. Beach, thirty-two, Tommy, zero.
He was not getting up today. (Maybe letting himself rot to dust wouldn't be too bad.)
Tommy relented and sat right back in the sand, into the indent he’d made previously so that he was in the same spot, sitting on the same seashell and feeling the same number of rocks digging into his back from the edge of the bank. His eyes lazily watched the tide pull in and out of the sand, going further and further out each time only to reel itself right back in immediately afterwards.
Tommy watched as the ocean sparkled against the sun’s eye, as the shimmering rays caught onto the waves of the water and reflected a twinkling-like glow into his view. It almost reminded him of the night sky, in a way. He almost laughed to himself as he imagined Clara walking out of the water in her space suit, helmet in hand, telling him she’d decided to take up submarining instead.
“What are you doing, Tommy?” Clara asked. She towered over him, her shadow casting the sun away from his view and blocking any of the harsh light from reaching his eyes. He frowned.
“Sun-bathing,” Tommy replied nonchalantly, leaning to the side of Clara to try and see the sun without moving from his spot. He was able to catch a glimpse of it from beside Clara’s arm but she moved into his way almost immediately. Tommy scowled. “What the hell?”
“You look stupid,” Clara said, finally moved out of the way. She leaned back, taking the sun in along with Tommy. “Come on, we have stuff to do today.” As far as Tommy could remember, he didn’t have anything to do. He didn’t have armor or even any iron left for some for today; there was no leather around so even that was off the table. Mining was… too tiring. Tommy didn’t feel like making another pickaxe today. Not when he was so cold and his fingers felt so fried and stiff against his bones.
Tommy hummed, resting himself fully against the cliff as he propped his arms up behind his head like a makeshift pillow. He closed his eyes in content, an almost smirk-like expression sprouting on his face. “No, don’t think so,” he told Clara.
Tommy was going to just sit there and continue whatever the hell he was doing until a kick was sent spiraling into his stomach. He doubled over immediately in pain, grasping at the area and tugging clumps of his shirt into his lap as he rubbed furiously at the spot.
“What in the fuck?” Tommy shrieked, letting his shirt go. He shifted back into his spot, leaning back once more to let the rocks push into his back. “What was that fo— Oh,” he paused almost as soon as he started, letting his eyes catch back onto the figure still glancing at him from his peripherals.
Tommy tilted his head downwards, almost in a show of respect, as his fingers pulled sand into his growing fists.
“Sorry, Dream.”