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Tommy is beginning to get on his nerves.
It’s not something unfamiliar, no, it’s just been a long time since annoyance was the main thing he felt staring at the boy.
Dream glares at him from across the cell (however short that space is, but Dream designed it for one purpose and that remains true still), Tommy still shouting for Sam to come back, to come get him, save him from Dream because oh it’s so terrible.
“Sam isn’t coming for you, Tommy,” Dream informs him.
Tommy whirls around, something stricken on his face at the prospect, and Dream just laughs. “Shut the fuck up,” Tommy spits with as much venom he can. It doesn’t land well, really, not with the sheer fear stuck to the words, that ever so lovely terror. Oh, how he’d missed that.
Rolling his eyes, Dream just motions for Tommy to sit down, patting a spot next to him as he speaks, “just move away from the lava before you get burned.”
There are already burns on Tommy’s skin from it.
Dream doesn’t mention that, just stares, and he thinks Tommy understands from the way he rubs a hand over the hot skin. Some of those burns aren’t from the lava, a remnant of a better time, a remnant of what should’ve been.
A remnant of a time where a prophet would worship his rightful god.
Tommy turns to him with a scowl and fire bubbling beneath his skin, and Dream almost wants to laugh at the display, like an angry cat puffing up. “You’re evil, you know that?” Tommy says such simple words for such a venomous tone.
Good thing Dream gave up caring whether he’s evil or not a long time ago, because gods can’t exactly be evil, can they?
They’re above morality. He’s above morality.
Sugar sweetness drips into his voice like a flytrap, “how am I any more evil than you are, dear prophet?”
The reaction is instant, the way Tommy’s shoulders go rigid and his breathing quickens and his prophet steps away from the lava to the other side of the room. Tommy tucks himself into a corner away from Dream. Really, he shouldn’t still feel so satisfied whenever that reaction happens, but it settles something deep inside Dream best left forgotten long term.
“You- You trapped me in this stupid fucking box, Dream, with nobody and- and nothing,” Tommy’s voice waves in it’s venom, liquid hurt and molten-silver tongue hardening into something malleable.
“You hurt me, but this hurts worse, Dream,” he says it like a confession.
Oh how he’d love to grant forgiveness for this transgression. Oh how he’d love for Tommy to pray for forgiveness for ever implying Dream wasn’t doing what was best for him.
Instead, Dream bitterly mutters, “we have each other.”
Something akin to a live wire jumps within Tommy’s skin, a violent flinch with nowhere further to go but buzzing beneath the skin, and Dream simply gives his best approximation of a smile. The missing parts of his mask really make the expression, he thinks.
Tommy looks disgusted.
“Aw, come on, Tommy, what’s so bad about that?”
It’s funny how fast the prophet’s breathing speeds up, how it stutters and gasps as if Dream is drawing the air out of his chest.
Tommy’s voice shakes as he speaks, a weak refutation, “you don’t have me, Dream, you have no one, you’re just the prisoner.” Certainty tries to find root in his voice, in his chest and his words and his mind, but it can’t stick, the surface too slick for adhesive.
Dream stands as Tommy speaks, moving closer, gradually, anger bubbling within his veins at the implication that he’s nothing more than a prisoner in a cage of his own making.
“You’re just a disgraced memory,” Tommy continues speaking, “and you aren’t a god.”
Hands find their way around a neck, gentle enough to not kill, not break or snap anything, and the sound of a body impacting with the wall is something so close to music in this cold cell it could make Dream cry. Tommy chokes, eyes wide and pale and terrified, pressed against the wall with his life in Dream’s hands.
Maybe a near death experience will hammer in the fact that Dream is his god.
Dream leans too close for comfort.
“I have more power than you do, outside these walls, than you will ever have, and I’ll make sure it stays that way,” Dream spits, “it is true, has been true and will remain true, I promise it will.”
Tommy struggles, Dream’s smile grows somewhere close to a grin, something manic within his visible eye.
Leaning ever closer, Dream whispers in Tommy’s ear, voice low and threatening, enough to get the point across to the boy, “you will never have power, Tommy, not while I’m alive, not while I’m still here. That’s the one thing you forget, just how much power I have over you, over everything. I control life and death, I control your life and death. Don’t forget that.”
Letting Tommy push him away, the grip he has on the prophet’s neck loosens, just enough to where he isn’t actively choking, but still pinned, trapped like a butterfly in glass.
That terror doesn’t quite leave.
“I could kill you, if I wanted to, the only reason you’re alive is revival,” the prophet spits, aiming to hurt.
Dream pulls him forward, slightly, then slams him back into the wall with maybe a little too much force if the sound Tommy makes is anything to go by. That bitten off, broken yelp of pain that he hasn’t heard since his prophet left.
“I will never use the book to help you, little blasphemer, not when your friends die; not while I’m still here,” the words feel better than any other truth.
Because, really, Dream still has the control here, still has all the winning cards.
He just has to play them right.
Tommy laughs, “I used to think you had all the power, before, but that’s not true, not now. I don’t think you even have the power to revive, not really, you just wanted to keep your last life.” He doesn’t sound scared, not really, more disbelieving and frustratingly confident in his words, as if he spoke the absolute truth.
It’s disgusting how much he denies his god.
“Are you calling me a liar?” The words are undeniably calm, a simple question with a simple calmness, yet Dream knows it sets Tommy on edge, even now.
Pure rage flashes beneath the surface of his skin, turning and swirling and folding in on itself like molten rock. Hot enough to remain solid, pushed past molten, and it burns and burns and burns. His hand tightens around Tommy’s neck.
Tommy is silent, still struggling, eyes wide and rightfully terrified.
Good, he should be scared of Dream.
“You can’t kill me, my prophet,” Dream’s voice is singsong and sugar sweet, a siren’s melody with far too much anger beneath it as he leans close enough to whisper, “but I can kill you. That makes me a god, with your life in my hands.”
A whimper, barely bitten back, is the only response Dream gets before he throws the first punch, something crackling delightfully beneath his fist.
He almost forgot what it was like to mould his prophet.
Tommy shouts, struggling away from his god, spitting words with fear and anger mixed into one, something relearned that will be erased once again, “I could kill you right now, if I wanted.”
The prophet drops to the ground, scrambling away.
Dream laughs, crouching down as he moves closer, reaching out to snag the prophet’s shirt, “but you won’t, and I will kill you. I can kill you right now.” His voice drops lower with each word, taunting, grating, threatening.
“Nononononono- Dream- Dream please, please, I’ll- I’ll do anything-” Tommy begs, desperate, but Dream is not a merciful god.
His hand drops the prophet’s shirt, moving up to cup his cheek tenderly, “I think we both know I deserve to kill you, Tommy, after everything you’ve taken from me. Your little trap was clever, reversing it on me, but you’ll never be free of me. I’m your god, you’d do best to remember that.”
The second punch cracks something beneath his fist, warm blood smattering onto his hand, his arm, and Dream grins.
He said he’d kill Tommy, he didn’t say it wouldn’t hurt, that he wouldn’t prolong his suffering like Tommy did to him. Everything wells up at once into glee and fury and excitement, losing track of his blows, just how much damage he’s doing.
It feels so fucking good to get his anger out like this.
To remind his prophet what it’s like to be moulded, who his creator, his sculptor, is. It’s a wonderful reminder, Dream thinks.
At some point, Tommy curls up into a ball, hands clasped together almost as if in prayer (really, he is praying, Dream knows he is, because he’s seen it a thousand times before), muttering some sort of plea for safety, for reprieve.
Dream grants him it, for a moment, running a hand through blood clogged hair, and whispers, “the gods don’t want you, prophet, but I do.”
Something of a shudder runs through the prophet, a whimper falling from between the prayers, and Dream lets go. He’s already done enough damage, with the blood coating his arms, his hands, his mask. Oh, how he’d kill to see just how much of Tommy he’s taken and painted himself with.
“I’ll see you soon, my prophet,” he says, his best attempt at something soothing, as if comforting someone on their deathbed.
Dream grasps Tommy’s face in his hand and bashes his head against the ground. Once and the prophet screams over his prayers, twice and he makes no sound this time, thrice and there is blood all over Dream and a dead boy in his hands, eyes glazed over.
A grin worms onto his face, a triumphant laugh, holding a battered corpse in his hands as if it were the most precious thing.
Something like a laugh bubbles up from his throat.
The blood doesn’t itch, only drips, coating everything it touches and painting the cell a myriad of shimmering reds. The perfect colour, the colour of his prophet, the colour of his godhood awaiting confirmation.
Except Dream is a god, will always be a god, and nothing can change that.
Tommy’s life is Dream’s, and nothing can change that. A hand presses against the boy’s bloodied forehead, swiping stray hairs from his eyes. Dream sighs, combing fingers through Tommy’s hair.
He’ll let Tommy stew for a few days.