Archive of Our Own

Tommy isn’t fond of walking through the Nether.

It was hot as balls and the nether-floor was almost squishy whenever his sneakers toed across it. Now, though, he was using the conveniently-placed stone bridges and pathways. They looked precarious, which did nothing to ease Tommy’s hissing nerves, and his heart still felt like it was going to beat out of his chest from his encounter only a few hours prior.

Yeah, the main reason he hated the Nether was the heat. The warmth was nauseating on every inhale and exhale, subtly firing off his panic-nerves whenever he woke up with stuffy lungs in the nightmare that was Pandora’s Vault.

He didn’t really like thinking about it— of his stay in the cell, occasionally laying against Dream because it was the softest thing in there. And Dream was always nice, especially when Sam wasn’t watching, which were subtle reminders of Tommy’s time in Exile.

It felt ever weirder now that he had told Wilbur.

Wilbur, his big brother, the man he was so terrified of bringing back— of seeing and hearing again— listened to him. With wide eyes and carefully blank expression, Wilbur listened and he understood and he did everything he could to make sure Dream stayed away.

Tommy knows that this wasn’t the perfect outcome. He also knows that the fake-discs wouldn’t keep Dream away forever. Wilbur scared him half to death with his performance of the century, and Tommy had never been particularly overjoyed at Wilbur’s abilities to play-up the dramatics. However, Wilbur was insanely good at following along with Tommy’s more dastardly antics, and his talented acting was super useful in those long-ago pranks in a long-abandoned L’manburg.

He sighs, peering ahead at the giant portal that seemed to have been constructed over night. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a build so grand— maybe when he first caught glimpses of the early stages of his Big Innit Hotel, or the foundations of the Bank, or even the prison when it first appeared on the horizon— but he was immediately drawn to the structure. Gold and ore glitter from afar, lit up by dangling glow lanterns on the Nether’s ceiling.

A good thing to steal, Tommy thinks wryly, and he searches his inventory for a pickaxe before starting towards the portal. He ignores the way old stone bricks crumble slightly underneath his feet, only held up by too-rickety stilts and the insane gravity that makes itself home on every server.

Finally, he arrives at the path that the builder responsible seems to be working on. It’s way more stable and way more pretty, and Tommy walks along it with a slight pep in his step. He’s got a moment to breathe, of all things, and he intends to treasure it for as long as he can.

He can feel the suction that radiates from the portal’s magic barrier, eyeing curious particles that touch the skin of his outstretched palm before fading into obscurity. He wonders where those particles go— or are they like snowflakes? If he absorbs too much, will he become some weird, lanky thing like Ranboo?

He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought of Ranboo. Red-green blood on enchanted netherite enters his mind’s eye, of a kind gaze who checks him over while Tommy can only shoot the man a long, lengthy scowl. The man does not linger long, shambling away like some kind of zombie as Tommy only regards him with all of the distaste in the universe.

He was second place on Tommy’s “most hated” list, which wasn’t a congratulatory thing.

“Well,” Tommy huffs, forcing himself to remain upbeat. “I’ve got some ore to collect!”

He twirls his pickaxe in his hand and walks off to begin mining out a good chunk of netherrack so he can build his way to the portal’s top, where the blocks of gold reside.

“Who’s silly enough to leave ore out in the open, ripe for the takening?” Tommy laughs, scooping up dislodged blocks and watching as they fill his inventory, one by one. He hums some silly tune— there wasn’t anything that could beat his mood, right now— and continues until he’s certain he has enough to climb up and down without much fuss. It wouldn’t take too long, and he had to be quick, just in case the mysterious builder emerged from the portal and chased him off with scorn.

He can only think of one builder who’s put together such grand things, but he decides not to think about it. Because, well— if he thinks about it too long, it starts to hurt that wickedly soft part of his heart.

When he returns to the portal, he readies the netherrack to begin his escapade. He only places one block down, though, when footsteps emerge from the portal’s opening, and Tommy’s raccoon-ears flick towards the sound of someone appearing through.

He quickly retracts the one block of netherrack from the floor, hiding his pickaxe behind his back so that he could behave inconspicuously at whoever was approaching (just in case it was the mystery-builder); instead, the sight he sees just makes his mouth go dry.

“...Tommy?” The man asks, his voice as gentle as always. It held a slight rasp, too, with that tender sadness that Tommy had grown significantly used to. It was like the man was always mourning, his words hot with shame and guilt.

Yeah, he should be guilty. Tommy’s hands ball into fists, and he tightens his grip around the enchanted pickaxe in his hand.

“Sam,” Tommy greets lamely, and what he can see of Sam’s face flips through a bunch of emotions at once. Sam glances back to the portal, taking a step forward with raised hands while Tommy takes a couple of steps back.

Tommy bares his teeth, ears flat against his head, tucked into the curls of golden-blonde hair. “What are you doing here?”

It’s accusatory, and he can tell it makes Sam hurt in the way he flinches. Tommy can’t see his eyes— they’re hidden behind steampunk-looking goggles, and Tommy notices the irritated scab of a scar on his eye. The rest of his face is covered up by his signature gas mask, with the middle vent curved into the signature frown of the creeper mob.

“Tommy,” Sam says, more firm, head continuously flitting towards the portal’s opening. “You need to—”

“Oh! Tommy!” Another voice says, and Tommy watches as both he and Sam freeze up at the same time. 

Dream emerges from the portal, now, his hand trailing against the obsidian as he glances upward at the vast covering that’s been decorated around the portal itself. His face is covered by his mask, so Tommy can’t see the emotion on either Sam or Dream’s faces; luckily, though, he’d been around Dream enough that he could understand some of his body language. Sam, on the other hand, was a tiny bit trickier— but Tommy was pretty good at putting it together, most days.

“Dream—?” Tommy sputters, taking a couple more concentrated steps backwards. He glances to the netherrack floor below, and the distant bubbling of the magma-lake, and he swallows. This was a horrible place to be, especially now.

“We had a funny little run-in earlier today,” Dream says, his voice filled with grit, like he’s got sand between his teeth. He sounds amused, but it’s laced with that signature hostility. It was the one that Tommy had gotten so accustomed to hearing, because he was very good at tuning it out, and keeping up the lie.

You know, the lie that he was fine. That him and Dream were friends.

Sam stays impossibly still, like he’s willing himself to not start shaking. His face is dipped towards the floor, and Dream snaps his fingers to get Sam’s attention. “Are you even listening?”

“Yes, y-yes, I’m listening, Dream.” Sam responds with a jolt, and Tommy just stares at them weirdly. 

“Okay, good. Yeah, had a whole thing with Wilbur threatening to kill himself in front of me,” Dream huffs, like it was just some silly prank, or some practical joke. He waves his hand in front of his face, his entire demeanor condescending. He cocks out his hip and places his other armored hand on his waist, not even feeling the need to unequip the sword that’s strapped to his back. “Didn’t think I’d see little Tommy so soon, afterwards. Him and Wilbur decided to visit me at my base!”

Sam seems to not be fully present during the conversation, the stiffness to his body worse than when he was acting as the Warden. Tommy was observant— he couldn’t afford not to be.

The creeper-hybrid does seem to be staring at Dream more often than Tommy, though. He fidgets a lot, his movements nervous.

“Your… base? That’s not—” Tommy begins, but he’s quickly cut off by Dream’s flamboyant gestures.

“It is! Sam gave it to me. Didn’t you, Sam?” Dream turns his face to Sam, who’s fidgeting has only grown more restless. He nods somberly, a quick dip of his head that’s barely noticeable under his own, poignant shame.

Tommy is only growing more confused. “But, how—”

“I asked nicely, Tommy. Don’t you know you have to be nice to get what you want?”

He watches as Dream carefully takes his sword from the holder on his back, the enchantments glinting dangerously in the fire-gloom of the Nether. Sam looks like he wants to disappear. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tommy scowls, his brow furrowed with frustration. “Sam’s the Warden. Why would he give the keys to you? He doesn’t even like you!”

Tommy can hear the smile in Dream’s voice. “We’re friends, though. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

“What the hell do you mean, friends—?!”

There’s a long, drawn out silence; Sam looks as though he’s on the verge of combusting. “We’re friends.”

The netherite blade flashes in Dream’s hand as he adjusts his grip on the hilt. “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a while.”

“Since we were kids,” Sam says, his voice pathetically weak. Like speaking hurts.

Tommy’s face screws up, his nose wrinkled with distaste. “What the fuck.”

“We’re partners now,” Dream hums, twirling the sword in his hand and glancing back over to Sam. “Right?”

“Yes,” Sam answers, his replies becoming more timely, but less emotional. It reminded Tommy of some kind of programmed, robotic response.

“You—” Tommy starts, that ugly bubbling of rage already surging in his gut, “No. No, no, you can’t be partners. That’s not—”

“But we are,” Dream purrs, interrupting Tommy’s train of thought in a way that was intentionally meant to make him angry. Dream had figured out a long time ago how to push Tommy’s buttons.

Sam stands uncomfortably still, staring off at distant netherrack and bubbling lava. Tommy thinks that Sam almost yearns for the bottom of a magma pool.

“How. Long?” Tommy grits the word out through clamped-shut teeth.

Dream nudges Sam with an elbow, a laugh in his throat. “I mean, we worked on the prison together. Pandora’s Vault was all my idea, after all.”

During Exile, when Sam offered Tommy a place to say— somewhere safe.

Before the Hotel, where Sam treated Tommy like the kid he wanted to be; where Sam and Puffy never yelled, never shouted; where Sam talked to Tommy as though he were a human being, not some angry, traumatized thing.

“You…”

Before Tommy was trapped inside the prison’s walls, where he could hear desperate cries from across a lava wall as Tommy bled out on the cell’s floor.

“...you let me die?” Tommy asks, some pitiful, aching thing at the bottom of his heart. Hoping, maybe, that this is all just an elaborate joke. That Sam will take a step towards Tommy and tell him that Dream is just making stuff up, it’s okay, I’m here for you.

When he was angry, he blamed Sam for it all. But after some self-reflection and late nights of thinking of his time in the Vault, letting it run around his brain like some cracked-out hamster, he had come to realize it wasn’t really Sam’s fault. Something in him had hoped— prayed, even— that Sam would come to him and give him a full apology. That he’d ruffle his hair, give him a small, tight smile, and offer for them to go and bake some pumpkin pie.

“No, Tommy—” Sam begins, and Dream’s wrist twists as he glances down to his blade. Sam shuts up immediately.

“Don’t be a liar, Sam. You did let him die, didn’t you? Hm?” Dream asks, a certain kind of sternness to his voice that reminded Tommy of the Exile days— you know, the days that Dream sounded genuinely concerned for his well-being. The voice he’d use and the face he’d make whenever hostile mobs attacked him, or when unwanted visitors arose; Tommy shivers.

Sam looks like a fish out of water— at least, this is what Tommy can gather from his appearance. He clenches and unclenches his fists, glancing around in a sporadic way. Tommy had noticed his disheveled hair and the slight hunch to his shoulders, as if even gravity’s weight had become too much for him.

“I—” Sam stutters, again, and Dream turns his head sharply over to him.

Sam cowers, and there is no emotion to his voice as he admits,

“Yes. I let Tommy die.”

Sam hangs his head, shameful.

Tommy gawks, his mouth falling open as he ignores the way his eyes begin to tear up. The glossy sheen is irritating, and he immediately wipes at them, because Prime forbid Dream call him a crybaby right now.

“Yeah, he did. Call it… predetermination, or whatever. Why do you think Sam kept you in the cell in the first place?” Dream tilts his head, his voice light— the same kind of emphasis he’d use when talking to a child.

“Protocol,” Tommy answers, shakily. His breath is too-hot vapors.

“Protocol I wrote. Fitting, right?” 

Tommy looks to Sam, a silent plea for this just to be a funny prank.

This can’t be happening.

“He’s lying,” Tommy accuses, pointing a trembling hand Dream’s way. “Tell me he’s lying, Sam!”

Dream begins to snicker.

Sam continues to stare at the floor.

“Sam,” Tommy begs, the quivering in his fingertips turning into violent, full-body shakes. “Sam. Please.”

Sam does not look up.

“C’mon, Sam, tell the kid the truth,” Dream snickers, bringing his sword in front of him and pointing it towards his toes.

“It’s…” Sam breathes in, a quick, uneasy thing; “It’s his protocol.”

Dream leans over, resting an elbow on Sam’s shoulder. Sam just grunts, a statue amidst the fire.

Tommy’s heart burns.

And then, he falls apart.

“I TRUSTED YOU!” Tommy screams, bone-deep anger overtaking every muscle. He steps forward in a fury, forgetting Dream’s proximity as he shoves his hands against Sam’s armor. Sam stumbles, and the fact Tommy can’t see the expressions on his stupid, pathetic fucking face only enrages him further. “Are we even friends?! Huh? Huh!?”

Sam exhales once, twice; nervously, he flicks his chin towards Dream, but—

he turns his head away, ignoring them both.

A silent answer.

One that Sam will live to regret.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” Tommy beats his fists against Sam’s armored chestplate, ignoring the way he can feel the skin split. He pays no mind to the tears that pull from his eyes, clumping up blonde lashes; he lets himself feel, and Dream’s soft laughter nearby only fuels his rage.

“IT MEANT NOTHING!” Tommy continues, voice straining from the volume of his shouts. “I MEANT NOTHING TO YOU!”

Sam does not interrupt. It is like their own personal bubble, where Sam lets Tommy rip him apart.

Oh, gladly.

I’ll tear you to fucking shreds!

“I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU!” Tommy shrieks, barely giving himself a moment to take a breath. His chest heaves from the temper-tantrum, and he hopes that Sam’s ears bleed by the end. “I HATE YOUR STUPID REDSTONE! I HATE YOUR UGLY BUILDS! YOU’RE A MONSTER!”

Sam’s head hangs, chin tilted toward his sternum, and Tommy is baffled by the guilt. 

“I HOPE YOU DIE! I HOPE YOU DIE!!!”

“That can be arranged,” Dream hums, looking at his blade again.

Tommy scowls at him, feeling the anger-flush against his cheeks. He steps back, away from Sam, staring at the blood on the skin of his palms. He shakes, then squeezes his fists again.

“No,” Tommy grits out, venomous in every sense of the word. “He needs to do it.”

Dream perks up at the idea, genuinely intrigued by the prospect. “Oh?”

“Go and jump off that ugly fucking prison,” Tommy spits at him. “In fact, build a dirt tower. Go to the block limit. And then jump.”

Sam has not picked his eyes up from the ground. Dream squeezes Sam’s arm, digging into the metal with his own netherite claws sculpted onto the hands of Dream’s armor.

“What do you say when you’re given an order, Sam?”

Sam, wearily, lifts his head to give Tommy that kicked-dog look.

Tommy can’t find it in him to feel bad.

“Okay, Tommy,” Sam murmurs, and Dream scoffs.

“Speak up.”

“Yes, Tommy.”

After a brief moment of silence, only interrupted by the distant howl of ghasts and Tommy’s own, struggled breaths, Dream speaks up again.

“Well, if that’s all—”

“No. I want…” Tommy clenches and unclenches his teeth. “I want his armor.”

“Hmmm,” Dream glances to Tommy, then back to Sam. “You heard the boy.”

Dream taps his sword against the armor. With no fuss, Sam begins to strip down. He tosses each piece to the floor by his feet, and without asking, hands over his set of enchanted tools.

Tommy rushes over like a frightened mouse, gathering up all of the pieces and slotting them into his inventory. Immediately, he changes into the new set, the magic infused into them helping them fit to his body-shape automatically. Even then, it still felt a little too big.

“Monsters don’t deserve armor,” Tommy mumbles, shuffling backwards with his own sword in hand. He still shakes because of Dream, and Tommy is certain that Dream is reveling in it.

“Monsters don’t deserve anything,” he says with a shudder. “They don’t deserve hotels. They don’t deserve islands. They don’t deserve food. They don’t deserve respect. They don’t deserve friends. They don’t deserve a family. They don’t deserve me.”

His rambling has turned into incomprehensibility, but he’s just so hurt. He doesn’t want to think right now.

He just wants to be angry. That the person who was supposed to have his back, to be there for him, who consistently asked if he was okay—

and it was all just a trick. Another one of Dream’s elaborate plans, to get him to trust someone just to shatter him into a million pieces.

Not this time.

Never again.

“Go to Hell,” Tommy whispers, turning on his heel and leaving Sam and Dream behind.