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It's been weeks since he's eaten. Or maybe it was only a few days; he lost count a long time ago.
The hunger is eating him alive. It's raw, sharp, and biting, gnawing on his insides until he was numb to the feeling of it.
He isn't sure if it's worse than the cold, but he thinks it might be. The cold is brutal and unforgiving, stinging his scabbed skin. His hunger, however, is more internal- a heartbeat in and of itself, borderline living, feasting on his insides and chewing him hollow. It's maddening, never-ending.
Tommy had never felt hunger as serious as this before. He might even dare consider it to be worse than the food shortages during the revolution. Meals never came easy during the war, especially not after the wildlife had seen the effects of mankind’s brutality. Whatever prey animals that were foolish enough to stay behind were slaughtered mercilessly and thrown to the plates of rich men like Sapnap, George, and Dream.
Dream. Oh yes, Dream. Dream brought Tommy his meals; maybe he would finally lift Tommy’s punishment today, and he could have something to eat at last.
It’s been so long, he doesn't even really remember what he got in trouble for in the first place. Flipping off Dream? Cursing at him? Collecting resources he was banned from? Those were the most likely reasons; exile’s rules were harsh and new to him.
That was okay, though. They were in place for a reason. That's what Dream taught him. He wouldn't be in exile at all if he didn't deserve it, far from his friends, far from Tubbo. They must be doing so much better without him.
He hasn't seen them in, what, months? His heart yearns for Tubbo. His best friend hasn't visited even once since he departed from L’manburg. Not a day passes where he doesn't miss his best friend, the president.
The sooner I get better, the sooner I can see Tubbo.
Tommy’s stomach growls. It demanded a supplement for the fourth time that day and it was only just past morning. He didn't sleep the night before; the rumbling of his stomach kept him awake, staring at the thin white cloth of his lousy tent and imagining it as rabbit hide or polar bear or anything edible. Gods, he didn’t care what it was at this point, he was just so fucking hungry.
Dream did not like it when he hunted for himself. That involved weaponry, and Tommy was not permitted to have weapons. Too many incidents occurred in which Dream nearly lost a finger or a limb because of Tommy’s recklessness. Instead, Dream preferred to bring Tommy his food himself. Caught and cooked already, Tommy never minded.
That was before he got in trouble, though. That was days ago. That was the last time Tommy ate.
He sees Dream now, across the fields of Logsted. Blending in with the soft landscape of fragile fern fronds and dead, frostbitten grass, he’s easy to miss. His back leaned up against the wall of the shelter Ghostbur had crafted and his legs stretched out in front of him, he looked comfortable.
Tommy, emerging from his feeble home, approaches Dream cautiously. He must walk on eggshells around the man if he wants to earn a meal today. He wasn't sure he could take another minute of this sickening starvation.
He sits on a blanket of snow, a red and rusted shovel at his side with white flakes piling up on green and black clothes. He was nearly cloaked completely in it- he must have been sitting there for a long time.
Tommy paints a strained grin on his face. Dream had planted the idea in his head that he should always present himself positively to his friends- friends, as in just Dream. His other friends were long gone now.
He settles next to Dream, crossing his legs in a formal manner. Dream does not like him to look careless or as though he had no regard for his friend of much respect. He always taught Tommy to take care of his image- though he wasn't exactly allowed to seek clean clothes from anyone or make them himself, so he can't really see the logic behind that rule. He's been wearing the same outfit since the day of exile, all that time ago.
Whatever- it mattered none. Dream always had his reasons, and Tommy wouldn't be in this situation if he learned to listen and follow rules in the first place.
“Hi, Dream,” Tommy croaks, plastering a tight-lipped smile on his mouth as he turns his head to face Dream. Make eye contact. No one wants to hold a conversation with someone who can't even meet their eyes.
Tommy couldn't technically tell if Dream was making eye contact in return. He could usually feel it, even behind the white porcelain mask he always wore. It was on now, of course, though it looked different than he remembered it from the last time he saw Dream. It adorned several new bruises on its infrastructure, cracks running across its surface and chips broken off from the corners.
He always assumed, though, Dream was making eye contact back. Why preach an ideal you did not follow yourself?
So now, though Tommy could not feel the force of the warlord’s piercing gaze behind his veil, he dared not question him. There were more pressing matters he came for anyway.
“I was thinking,” Tommy begins, correcting his tone to be less carefree and more suggestive, less begging and more calmly asking. “It’s- it’s been a while since you brought me anything to eat. I’m truly sorry about the other day, it was an accident.”
Dream does not respond. There was something cold about the air around him, and not just because of the winter wind. He stares forward blankly, body stiff and unwavering. Gods, he must be freezing. Blanketed beneath all that snow, Tommy fought the urge to brush it from his clothes. Dream would absolutely kill him if Tommy so much as lifted a finger in his direction.
“It won't happen again, I promise,” Tommy urges, growing rapidly more urgent under his own mask of composure. “It was my fault. I’m just so hungry, Dream.”
Again, Dream does not answer. He looks on with a placid stare, likely brooding up in that dark brain of his. Tommy would give so much just to have a sample of what his thoughts might be like.
Tommy licks his chapped lips, blackened with dried aftermath from biting them until they bled. He often did that when the weather was cold, and his lips grew dry; he lusted after the feeling of ripping the dead skin away with hungry teeth, giving way to delicate new flesh. Though they would sting painfully for hours afterward, he was simply pleased to be rid of the dry sensation every time his lips were clamped together.
Clearing his throat again, Tommy decides to give it one more shot. Maybe his throat was too raspy for so long without clean water, his primary water source being the ocean separating him from the mainland- but it took ages to drain the salt to make it sanitary enough to swallow. Speaking up could help, and Dream might hear him properly then.
“I’ll do anything for a proper meal, Dream,” Tommy wavers dangerously close to begging, yet another restriction that was drilled into Tommy’s new internal ruleset. The hunger is driving him mad, clouding his thoughts with a thick haze. It was all he could think about now.
“Dream,” Tommy pesters. “Come on, what’s wrong?” He dares to nudge him with a cautious hand. “Are you feeling alright?”
Gods. Tommy must have royally fucked up. He didn't really remember what he did to warrant the cold shoulder, but it must have been serious. No, it wasn't uncommon for Dream to blatantly ignore him after a rough dispute, but Tommy’s rationale is lost on his throbbing appetite.
He leans back, disappointed. If Dream would not talk to him, there was nothing he could do. He could wait for the starvation to claim him, perhaps. He might not be so ravenous then.
Tommy flops back into the snow. He lets the cold snow soak the thin, wet cloth of the back of his shirt. It was a little big when he first got it handed down to him from Wilbur, but it almost fit now. He doesn't know whether he should be happy or sad about that fact.
Snowflakes gather in his blond hair, a bright contrast to the white hill. He stares upward with a squint, the pale blue sky a hazard to his sensitive eyes, nearly the same shade of azure.
Birds circle high overhead. Ravens? Crows? Vultures? He can't be quite sure. All birds look the same to him, with their beady black eyes that judge his every motion and noisy beaks that never stop squawking.
They reminded him of his dad of Phil. Feathers the same shade of black and eyes as unforgiving as he stares you down, sword in your brother’s heart , they are identical.
He thinks of Ghostbur at that moment. He hasn't seen the friendly phantom for exceptionally long; he hopes the spirit of his late brother is doing alright. He knows his chest wound still leaked blue blood, still aching from time to time. Death must not be as freeing as it was claimed to be if Ghostbur still hurt fairly often.
If Tommy lay there in the barren fields, wracked by intense hunger and frigid weather, was he doomed to an afterlife of the circumstances he passed in? Would he be doomed to be cold and hungry forever?
Craving throbs violently in his empty stomach.
He thinks it would not be much different.
-
When Dream continues to disregard his presence for the entire day, Tommy impulsively makes the executive decision that he needs to eat something.
Something, anything- he doesn't care what it will be. He doesn't have weapons, but he’ll hunt something down and kill it with his bare hands if he had to.
He knows Dream will be displeased with him. He was not meant to break orders, especially ones that have been branded into his brain time and time again so that he never forgets. Despite those lessons, his hunger has a particular way of erasing his memory.
Dusk came as a harsh reminder of another day with no friends, no food. Dream clearly had not yet forgiven him, and Tommy’s hunger grew worse. The cold sun certainly did not help, if not only made things worse. It would drive any local wild prey further into their hollows, if there had been any nearby to begin with.
Pale blue swaths into strokes of deep indigo and starlit twilight. The cold sun dips beneath distant hills, too far off to determine where the peaks separate. Cold air turns colder, sunshine giving way to chilled rays of moonlight.
Clouds of air huff from Tommy’s slightly parted lips, crystallized from the negative degree weather. They're already coming to be chapped once more, and he finds himself digging his teeth into the delicate skin all over again.
The chill has crept its way into his bones. There is no sun, no fire to keep him warm. What sunlight is left bleeds into the sky, turning it a rainbow of scarlet and blood orange. He can't make out the difference between the pink of his numb hands and the deep ruby rays painting the atmosphere.
He stares down at his hands. These hands would be used to kill soon if he wanted to avoid his own death.
Tommy treks towards the shoreline. Maybe he could fish, if the water didn't turn his hands to ice. Or perhaps he could find a rabbit by the water. Anything would do. He would eat the sugarcane until he was sick if he must.
The wind chisels into vulnerable flesh. Old scars sting, both physical and emotional. He did not like the ocean much anymore. It reminded him of the distance between him and his old friends, his family. The waves were violent, and the salt tended to make his wounds sting.
He tried to swim back to L’manburg himself twice, a long time ago, around the beginning of his exile. The first time, he made it only up to his chest before the water grew too cold and the pressure became too thick. He experienced the feeling of drowning without ever leaving the surface.
The second time, he had been too tired to care. He waded on against the unforgiving tide and set off into a determined stride through the vicious body of water. He had been upset that day, blinded by his anger so much that he ignored how the waves were angry that day, too. He had a good start, but he was never a good swimmer. He remembers faltering, beginning to panic. The taste of salt was bitter in his mouth as he choked on water that spilled into his agape lips, oxygen rapidly declining as he frivolously splashed around to no avail. Dream ended up catching the scene and had to swim out to get him and drag him to shore. He had not been very happy with the teen after that situation.
After that, Tommy personally swore to never go swimming again. He often had nightmares of that treacherous day, the sensation of drowning with water in his lungs and the taste of salt on his tongue.
That was unfortunate for someone whose current residence was not many feet off the shoreline.
Tommy looks over the dark sea. It looks angry and brooding, water black as the dusky sky hanging overhead tainted with horrid secrets.
He misses people.
Tommy weaves his way down the hill with no set destination in mind. He doesn't care what he finds or how long it takes. He just knows he doesn't want to return to his tent hungry for another night, lying awake and staring at the ceiling with a hollow cave in his stomach.
His legs are weak and can barely sustain the little weight he hasn't lost to starvation. He trembles, stumbling over every step he takes. Still, he marches onward, driven by his appetite.
He meets the shoreline after much struggle. The water glows red and thick as blood, a reflection of the dying sun. Despite its warm appearance, kicking a foot through a wave splashing towards him tells him it's far too cold to swim with the fish. Not that he would anyway- he was scarred after the first two times, and he was certain he would die within seconds if he plunged into the ocean in the dead of winter.
Tommy finds himself scanning the waters anyway. Ocean fishing was so much different than river fishing. Tommy would often sit on the riverbank by himself during the revolution, waiting for his dinner to appear in front of him as an easy catch. The fish must be smarter in the ocean, though, because they resided further out in the more powerful currents.
The reeds quiver on the border between the land and water. Freezing wind slices right through the fragile fronds just as it does to him, the sensation similar to being impaled. It's howling in his ears, forcing him to clamp his hands tightly over them. A headache pounds in his skull, a synonymous sensation to that of his empty stomach.
Then, in the disarray, he hears a foreign sound. The warp of a portal, crunching of dead grass. Tommy’s eyes flutter open again, squinting in the direction of the obsidian contraction not built far from where he stands.
The nether portal is tall and looming, built of ragged black stones and a nauseating purple haze serving as the entrance and exit through the portal.
Tommy never sees anyone stepping out of it other than Dream now. It's the only way back to L’manburg other than the ocean, so Tommy himself has been strictly banned from ever touching it, of course. No visitors have ever come in and out, which has led him to wonder in the past if it truly worked in the first place- but Dream proved him wrong each time, and Tommy soon realized no one actually wanted to visit him at all.
So now, in the blight of his hunger and sleep deprivation, Tommy is convinced he must be hallucinating when Tubbo takes a precarious step out of the portal.
For a moment, Tommy just stares. His eyes must be playing tricks on him- it wouldn't be the first time he's hallucinated the image of Tubbo trying to communicate with him. One moment he would be there, then Tommy would blink, and he would be gone all over again.
Tubbo meets his startled gaze. He smooths out his suit, his new one- he didn't wear the one from Schlatt’s reign anymore. He was seventeen now and growing quickly.
His birthday must have passed already, Tommy discovers in a sudden click of realization. I missed it. I missed my best friend’s birthday.
“Tommy?” Tubbo takes a wavering step in his direction. The distance between them is cleared in seconds, Tubbo’s attention captured and Tommy too shocked to budge.
The president’s deep eyes rake over him, taking in his damaged appearance. Tommy didn't know it was damaged, of course- just the wrath of nature, he would say. But to the ordinary human eye, one look at his torn clothes and thin frame and the shadows under his eyes would be enough to tell you what you needed to know.
“Tubbo?” Tommy breathes in, a disbelieving smirk quirking the corners of his lips. This Tubbo looked different than the others. He didn't shimmer in his vision, didn't ignore his poor presentation.
“Tommy, it's me,” Tubbo approaches him slowly, as though a hurt dog cornered in an alley.
“Oh, my gods! Tubbo, I missed you!” Tommy wastes no time to bound forward, sand spraying from his feet when he leaps to throw his arms around Tubbo. He embraces him in the tightest hug he could muster, and Tubbo returns the embrace eagerly.
“It's been so long!” Tommy cries, emotions exaggerated by this strange appearance. “How have you been?”
Tubbo reels back, regaining his balance. He shudders under the force of the wind’s rage, cold and biting, though Tommy has grown too used to it to feel it anymore.
“I’ve been.. Fine,” Tubbo clears his throat, smoothing out the wrinkles in his fancy suit. “Holy shit, man. You’re.. Uh.. Slender.”
“Oh.” Tommy awkwardly brushes out his own clothes, wrinkled and torn- garbage in comparison to Tubbo’s. They did nothing to conceal his frightening condition. “Sorry.”
His stomach growls thunderously, and he is reminded of his goal. Had he not come down to the water for food, would he have still reunited with Tubbo?
“Did you bring food, by any chance?” Tommy nearly begs , though he's desperate to keep the strain out of his voice. Dream disliked it when he begged for anything, as though he had the right to do such a thing when Tommy had the privilege of living in the first place.
He waits for Tubbo’s response. The president regards him carefully, slowly, with caution. Anticipation for an answer turns Tommy sick.
Then, slowly, with a hesitant tongue, Tubbo says, “No, I didn't. Sorry.”
“Oh.” Tommy swallows back emotion. Gods, I’m so hungry. He plasters a facade of a placid smile over his lips. “That’s alright.”
“Tommy, are you.. Alright?” Tubbo cocks a skeptical brow. “You look ill.”
He raises a tentative hand to swipe crusted blood from the side of Tommy’s jaw. Tommy flinches at the raise of his hand, too used to seeing Dream’s in its place.
“I’m alright, don't worry about me,” Tommy excuses, forcing out a bitter laugh to disguise his hurt.
“You’re frail,” Tubbo acknowledges, a frown spreading across his face. “Have you been living okay out here? Getting enough food and water?”
Tommy’s heart flutters. Tubbo wasn't upset, was he? He wasn't supposed to make people upset. He did too much of that in L’manburg, hence why he’s here in Logstedshire now.
“Of course,” Tommy purses his lips in a lie. Dream gives him what he deserves, and that's enough. “Would you like to see my tent? Come on, come on.”
“Tommy-” Tubbo begins, but Tommy is already scurrying off, ignoring the growing rumble in his stomach.
When did I get so hungry? A question rises in Tommy’s mind. I don't even remember Dream and I’s conversation. Why was he so angry to not bring me anything to eat?
Tommy makes the journey back up to his tent on shaky legs, unable to sustain himself for much longer. The hunger was twisting in his stomach and turning into something much more sickly. A bitter taste lingers on his tongue, iron staining his taste buds.
“Tommy, wait,” Tubbo gasps from behind him, catching up in a moment.
“This is my tent,” Tommy displays proudly, opening his palms to the sky with a confident gesture that said nothing of his internal battle. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“This.. Is barely a cloth,” Tubbo judges, pinching one of the lousy walls between his fingers.
“It’s fine. Warm, comfortable.” Tommy lies, forcing a laugh to be convincing while naming every adjective that wasn't true in the slightest. He licks the taste of pennies from his lips with a sour expression.
“Tommy, I came to find Dream,” Tubbo leaps straight to the point, a growing anxiety evident in his squeaky voice. “He usually comes to visit L’manburg at least every couple days or so. He tells us when he won't be visiting for whatever reason.”
“Well, clearly he likes me more than you.” Tommy boasts. The mention of Dream’s absence flies right over his head. “He visits me every day.”
Tubbo narrows his eyes. He calculates, reading Tommy’s body language.
“I thought you saw him quite often,” he hums, correct in his assumption. “Where is he?”
Tommy scratches the back of his neck, a bead of sweat dribbling down the side of his face. Even in the frost, his body feels like it's on fire.
He thinks he's going to be sick, throw up whatever poisonous contents still circulated his digestive system. Suddenly, he's not so hungry any more.
“Tommy?” Tubbo tilts his head. “What's wrong, bossman?”
“Tubbs, I don’t feel so good.” Tommy’s cheeks burn, and he holds his stomach weakly.
“Let’s find Dream. Maybe he can help,” Tubbo suggests, somewhat impatiently.
“Right, right. Dream always helps.” Tommy fervently agrees. “This way, Dream’s this way.”
Tommy trudges forward with what little strength he can muster, down the hill where Dream lay. He hasn't budged from his spot burrowed in the piles of snow and dead grass. Tubbo squints as he follows.
It occurs to Tommy that Dream might be upset with him for seeing Tubbo. He wasn't allowed to see any outsiders until Dream said so. But now, in the turmoil of Tommy’s insides, he can't seem to build an apology.
“Here he is,” Tommy gestures to the warlord crouched in the snow pocket. “He’s been ignoring me since we argued.”
Tubbo stares down at Dream as he catches up with Tommy. Tommy observes as Tubbo’s expression turns from joy to see his friend to raw horror, gulping back the words that refused to claw their way out of his throat.
Tubbo falls to his knees, clearing the snow out of the way. Tommy watches, wordless and confused. Why wasn’t Dream saying or doing anything?
Tubbo freezes. The snow he's pushed to the side blends from white to red, nearly black after drying for so long.
Tubbo glances up. He acknowledges the blood crusting Tommy’s jaw, the same shade as the snow dusted across Dream’s abdomen.
He takes a shuddering breath. Tommy registers his expression as an emotion he’s quite acquainted with: fear.
“Not only is Dream dead,” he whispers, breathless. His pupils are slanted, small. “You fucking ate him.”