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Tommy squinted and shrunk into himself a bit as the crying obsidian dripped onto his hair. He scrubbed it off of his face with a scowl, glaring down at the purple goop smeared across his hand like it had personally offended him. “…Fuckin’ hell.”
“Just move, Tommy.” Dream commented, sounding bored. Tommy wrinkled the bridge of his nose up.
“No. I’m not coming any closer to you and your gross potato smell.” Tommy stuck out his tongue impishly and Dream scoffed.
“I don’t smell that much like potatoes.”
“You definitely do.” Tommy cringed again as more goop hit him on the head and Dream sighed, unfolding himself and standing up. Tommy really cringed at that, pressing himself a bit more against the back of the cell as Dream approached. “Hey! What the fuck did I just say?? Stay awa—“
Dream caught him by the collar and half dragged, half threw him to the middle of the cell over his loud swearing in protest. The obsidian felt similar to the texture of asphalt, or maybe coarse glass, and it burned his shoulders. He managed to stumble onto his back, using his hands to kind of pull himself back in a panic. Dream didn’t attack him, simply retreated back to where he was sitting. “Oh, fuck you, dickhead! What was that even for??”
“You were going to get soaked.” Dream observed dryly. “And I don’t want you trying to wash your hair off in the same sink we get our drinking water from.”
“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want.” Tommy barked, desperate to be angry, not scared, and for his adrenaline to work towards the productive goal of being a nuisance.
“Can you go one sentence without saying fuck, or is that like… impossible for you?” Dream leaned back against the wall with a soft chuckle. It was weird seeing that motion without a mask in place, to see the upturned corners of Dream’s lips and his missing teeth. Tommy wanted to punch out more. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“I’m sure you’d rather I just didn’t talk at all, wouldn’t you?” Tommy drawled sarcastically, rubbing at the obsidian tears in his hair. Dream’s green eyes idly trailed the room, tracing over the corners like he hadn’t already looked at it a kazillion times.
“I don’t mind talking with you.” Dream shrugged indifferently, picking at one of his teeth. “When you can have a conversation without bringing up women, Tubbo, or screaming at me for no reason, which is rarely, I actually think you’re a fun person to talk to.”
“Well— What do you want to talk about, bitch?” Tommy huffed defensively. Dream laughed, clasping his hands and angling his chin up proudly.
“There it is. Anything, really, though. What’s on your mind?” Dream lowered his hands, watching him intently. Apparently no matter how many times he inspected it, Dream always found him to be the most entertaining thing in the cell.
“Purple goop.” Tommy furrowed his brows.
“That’s on your hair, idiot.” Dream wheezed. Tommy really didn’t think it was that funny, waiting for him to recover in annoyance. Dream managed to clarify after a second, “What’re you thinking about?”
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you.” Tommy decided, folding his arms and turning to face the wall. The fact all noise seemed to stop when he did sent every nerve in his body pricking and bracing itself in terror.
“Who else are you going to talk to?” Dream asked over his shoulder, voice quiet and factual. Tommy’s hand trailed to mess with the seam of his shirt, but he kept his gaze determinedly forward and brows furrowed.
“The wall. He’s a great listener, and knows how to shut the fuck up.” Tommy grinned and finally turned to face his roommate. Dream didn’t say anything, and had no visible reaction. After a moment of knowing silence, Tommy grumbled, “What’re you thinking?”
Dream smiled in praise. Tommy turned away again, unwilling to accept, but Dream continued anyway, “Do you remember in exile when you made those little friendship bracelets?”
Tommy’s stomach dropped. Splintered fingers twisting around stray strands of wool and fabric, soft swearing when they fumble and it comes undone, tying knots everywhere to free them from his stomach—
“No. That never fucking happened.”
“Tommy, Sam’s cameras don’t have speakers.” Dream’s voice lowered to gentle tones that made Tommy wish he had the strength to hold Dream down and rip out his vocal cords fold by fold until his throat was empty and raw. “You don’t have to try and keep your pride intact.”
“If it ever fucking did, I’d have burned your fucking bracelet by now, you fucking prick.” Tommy snarled, finally turning to face him. Dream was studying him with something that looked like sympathy, like worry, like… regret.
“That’s sad.” Dream stated simply. Tommy scoffed, underwhelmed completely. Dream clicked his tongue as he fidgeted with his sleeve, pulling it down. “Here, look. I still have yours. It wasn’t hard, you tied it too tight, remember?”
Strands of green hoodie fibres, sheep wool that previously looked somewhat blue now stained a consistent yellow and brown, and a singular wooden bead grinned up at Tommy mockingly.
“I fucking hate you.” Tommy barked, standing defensively. Dream’s eyes flickered with something and the sympathy felt more mocking than before, more as if Tommy didn’t know what he was saying. “It’s not fucking ours, and it’s not fucking yours, and I never fucking did that.”
Dream stood wordlessly, and Tommy shrunk against the wall, hands tightening into fists. “No, we already fucking did this— Get the fuck away from—”
“Show me your wrist.” Dream simply sat closer to him, cross legged and comfortable, hand outstretched. Tommy’s mouth hung open in shock for about a fraction of a second.
“What?! No! What the fuck?” Tommy squawked, pulling his wrist to his chest defensively. Dream’s elbow fell to rest on his knee and he squeezed the bridge of his nose tiredly.
“It’s not like I’m trying to peer at your scars, Tommy.” Dream rolled his eyes, gesturing blandly Tommy’s direction. Tommy’s ribs felt like they collapsed in on his stomach and like the acid from his stomach had begun to rise up his oesophagus. “I just want to see the bracelet.”
“How the fuck do you sleep at night?! You fucking knew!? You knew the whole fucking time and you didn’t fucking do shit?” Tommy snarled. Dream didn’t reply right away, eyebrows furrowed, and Tommy took it as feigned ignorance, “No— You know what I’m fucking talking about! Don’t— Don’t try to lie your way out of it.”
“You weren’t exactly subtle about it, Tommy.” Dream laughed, carding his hand through his greasy hair and flattening it in one swoop. “You wanted attention. I wasn’t going to give it you. Then you would’ve just done it more, right?”
“I was fucking—” Tommy shook his head frantically. He wanted his hands around something. Breaking something, fighting, but the score of fights with Dream had left enough scars on his mind to keep his feet planted. “You don’t know how much shit I— No, you do, don’t you?! You knew I fucking hated myself and you knew why I was staring in that lava and you said nothing!”
“I didn’t say anything when you pretended to be asleep, either.” Dream scanned his ripped cuticles and bitten nails, all sympathy gone. “That one was easier to notice, too. You know, for future note, people don’t usually… tremble and sniff when they’re asleep.”
“Fuck you.” Tommy spat. Dream contemplatively flexed his hands for a moment. Finally, he looked up at Tommy, tilting his head slightly.
“I wish I had said something.”
“What?” Tommy replied immediately. Dream looked far from regretful anymore, just considerate. Like he was talking about an art piece he’d made a small mistake on.
“You know what I said.” Dream chuckled amusedly, tugging on the knot on his bracelet.
“Why? Because feeling that shitty helped me realise I needed to leave?” Tommy snarled, smirking a little. Dream didn’t have the decency to look foiled or surprised Tommy figured that out. He simply gestured Tommy over.
“No.” Dream shrugged indifferently. When he didn’t elaborate further than that, Tommy reluctantly moved to sit closer. Dream leaned in, lowering his voice. “Because I think if I did, it’d be easier for you to understand everything I do really does benefit you, whether you like it or not.”
“Oh, go fucking jump in the lava.” Tommy spat immediately, backing up. Dream did not move.
“You know I’m right.”
“You killed me!” Tommy shouted, gesturing wildly to the cell in general.
“And if that had separated you from Wilbur and destroyed L’Manburg, you wouldn’t have those.” Dream gestured to the burns on Tommy’s hands from brewing potions. Tommy clenched his fists. “Tubbo wouldn’t have died. You’d still have your discs—“
“You took those! You took them instead of—“
“Because you would’ve just made another country anyway.” Dream gently cut him off, placating. Like Tommy was a child. (And to hell if he was, Dream had never acknowledged it before, so he didn’t get to now). “At least with the discs, I have something over you. Something to make you see reason.”
“No, shut the fuck up. You tried to kill Tubbo, you wanted me alone so you could lock me in a little fucking box, just like you’re in right now.” Tommy shook his head bitterly, shoulders meeting the cool obsidian of the wall. “You can’t get in my fucking head anymore.”
“I can’t?” Dream asked breezily.
“No!” Tommy barked.
“Tommy…” Dream drew out his name, waving his hand lazily. “Look down.”
Tommy’s hands were trembling uncontrollably in his lap, one scratching idly at the spot a friendship bracelet had once been tied.