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It was the same old routine every single day. Sam would come by the cell with oranges, those damned oranges. Tommy wished that he would give them something other than oranges. He’d take raw potatoes, stale bread, hell, even another fruit. But he’d think that Dream would find another way to make him suffer regardless.
Sam leaves. Dream takes the oranges, juggling them for a few seconds like a court jester before eventually handing the biggest one of the two to a reluctant Tommy. Just by looking at the fruit, the teenager can feel his stomach churn. The tangy taste of oranges films his tongue before even beginning to peel the skin off.
Dream doesn’t touch his orange, not yet. Not until the daily routine is over. Not until Tommy eats his.
Feebly, Tommy carefully digs his dirtied nails into the orange, peeling the bitter skin off and tossing it into the toilet, the only toilet in the cell. The obsidian room starts to fill with the overwhelming scent of orange as the boy manages to get the fruit completely bare.
And then the routine begins. Dream watches Tommy as he quietly and weakly eats the orange, the juice spilling onto his green bandana, the only thing that reminded him of how good life was outside of the prison. If the teen ever tried to prolong the schedule, it was another bruise added to his pale skin. If Tommy tried to fight back or refuse, he would be shattered, worn down until he eventually crumbled. His rib was already broken.
All that was heard in the cell was the sounds of hot lava bubbling, the clock on the wall ticking--taunting the two--and Tommy’s speedy chewing. He was hesitant, yes, but he had to comply so his other rib could stay intact.
Tommy finishes. He knows what’s next. But he can’t stop it. Dream grabs Tommy roughly by the hair, the length nearly reaching his shoulders. He kicks Tommy. Right in the stomach. Hard, only once. Tommy bites his lip and gnashes his teeth to prevent from crying out. His rib aches.
Tommy is guided to the toilet. Dream makes him kneel, pushing him down whilst still having a rough hold on his hair.
One second, two. Dream waits.
Three, four. Silence fills the room once again.
Five, six. Any moment now.
Seven. Eight. Nine–
Tommy throws it all up.
Dream praises Tommy with a taunting smile on his unshaven face, watching the poor boy choke on his own puke. It tastes so bad. The tangy hurl burns Tommy’s scratchy throat, his stomach emptying everything he has in him. It doesn’t matter if Tommy didn’t eat anything. It doesn’t matter if he rid himself of it inside of the toilet the regular way. It doesn’t matter. He’d throw it all up anyway.
Dream would compare their little routine to exile, of all things. Tommy would gather things to utilize and thrive, but Dream would come along and ruin all of his progress. He’d force the teen to give him everything, and he did it with a sickening, psychopathic grin.
Tommy coughs, chokes, gurgles on his own waste, forces it out of him no matter how badly it hurts him. The toilet is filled with the orange contents, and only keeps going. Dream will tell him when to stop. Tears stream down Tommy’s face, and sometimes his cries could be heard amid the wet sounds of coughing. Dream doesn’t like that. One strong punch to the back. Tommy jerks forward as an unhealthy amount of throw up floods out of his mouth. Tommy whimpers in pain.
Normally, Dream would bask in his helplessness, but he wanted to let the boy know that his pain was not only entertainment, but it also meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. Dream kicks Tommy right in the legs as he’s knelt, shoving his head down further near the toilet. Tommy gags, beginning to slow down. By now he actually feels nauseous.
A few seconds pass. Tommy’s eyes sting, filled with tears of pain and sickness. His skin is gray and blue, new wounds forming rapidly. His limbs ache and feel like they might give out if he tries to stand up. He feels dead.
Dream finally tells Tommy that he’s done. There’s no relief. There’s no saving grace. Tommy knows he has to deal with this torture tomorrow. The masked man releases his harsh grip on Tommy, letting the boy catch his breath. Not because he cares, but because he needs him alive. Death would give him an escape from this hell, from his hell. Dream doesn’t want Tommy dead. Not yet.
And then Tommy starts to cry. While the teen sobs into his bandana, Dream stands over him, sifting his large hand through his blond hair, long and dirty. There’s no malice in the gesture. It’s genuine, it’s fatherly. He soothes Tommy, murmuring things such as “you did such a good job” and “I’m proud of you”.
Tommy breaks down. He crumples into Dream’s frame, deathly skinny, shoulders shaking, frail body wracked with anguished cries of agonizing pain. Dream can hear him utter Phil’s name in between his gasps for air, Sam’s name, Wilbur’s. But nobody is coming for him. And he knows that. They both know that.
After a few minutes, Dream leaves Tommy, making him stand upright. The boy tries to hide his silent tears, knowing the consequences of being a burden well enough now. He doesn’t want to anger Dream. Is it out of respect or fear at this point? Tommy cannot tell.
Dream walks over to his chest. He takes out a book and quill, silently scribbling down something on the pages. Tommy fixates on the lava outside. He is numb.
Minutes pass. It is 3:00. Tommy tries not to look at the clock. Dream reaches for his orange, grasping it gingerly in his veiny hands. He peels it, quickly, skillfully. In a matter of seconds, Dream has the fruit cleanly skinned, the peels cast aside. But he doesn’t bite into it. Dream splits the orange in half, an even amount of slices on each half. Juice secretes from the fruit and drips all over his hands.
Footsteps. Dream travels across the cell. He stops when he reaches Tommy, standing in front of him. Tommy doesn’t look at Dream. He doesn't dare look at the man, dread filling the sharp emptiness in his stomach.
Wordlessly, Dream holds out half of the orange. It’s in perfect condition. This time, it’s for Tommy.
And he takes it.