Work Text:
Epilogue.
Tommy sat on the front porch. Their house is overlooking a cliff facing the sea, and from here, Tommy can see the waves splatter onto the sand. Normally this particular stretch of the beach would be crowded, but few people visit during this particular time of year.
Tommy tries to get rid of the memories of back when Dream and him would go to play beach ball when Tommy was young. He tries to get rid of the memory of Dream’s laugh, his smile, and the way Dream would pretend to be really bad at the game so that Tommy wins almost every time, and how, afterwards, they would often watch the sunset together. He tries to dispel the overwhelming feeling of grief.
He can’t, so he embraces those memories instead, feeling the bittersweetness of it all wash over him. He holds his breath, in, out. He could feel the emotions threaten to overwhelm him.
Tommy doesn’t let them.
Wilbur sits next to him, his guitar on his lap. He is humming a soft tune, and Tommy finds that he has heard Wilbur hum it enough times that he can follow along.
The relative quietness is nice for a change, and, for the first time in a long time, Tommy doesn’t see Dream in every rustle of the leaves, in every chirp of the birds.
It’s the first step towards healing, his therapist had said. It’ll take a long time for Tommy to recover from everything he’s been through, and Tommy may never be the person he once was, before all of this happened.
And Tommy was surprised to find that he is, truly, fine with that.
A particularly big wave washed over the beach. Tommy could hear the splashing of the water.
Tommy could hear Dream’s laugh, loud and happy.
Tommy could hear Dream’s laugh, cold and distant.
Tommy shook his head, shaking it all away.
They sat in silence for a while, Tommy and Wilbur, neither saying a word. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was actually just a few minutes, Tommy spoke.
“Dream wasn’t a bad person. Not really.” He said, his voice quiet, but he knew Wilbur had heard. Wilbur always hears.
“Tommy, he—“
Tommy interrupted him. “He wasn’t a good person. But I don’t think Dream was a bad person either. He was just a kid himself when our parents died, y’know? He had a lot on his plate too. I think Dream tried his best, Wilbur. His best may not have been enough, but it had been his best.”
Wilbur didn’t respond, at first. He reached absentmindedly for his guitar, and ran his hand across it, like he often does when he is deep in thought.
“He hurt you, Tommy. Dream hurt you.” Wilbur finally said, after a period of silence stretched between them.
“He did.” Tommy agreed. And he could see that, could clearly see the ways that Dream had hurt him, had abused him, had let him suffer.
But he could also never forget all the times when Dream had worked overtime to get Tommy a birthday present, the times when Dream took on more jobs than he already had to save up for a trip to Disneyland, the times Dream cheered him on and the times Dream told him he was proud of him.
It doesn’t change the fact that Dream abused him.
“Our father—Schlatt, I mean—he used to do the same to Dream.” Tommy said, suddenly, “worse, actually. I remember hiding in my room, and listening to him shout at Dream. Da—Schlatt would throw things, and Dream would warn me not to go down barefoot because there may be broken china in the carpet. Miss Puffy, my therapist, said that Dream was a ‘product of the environment’.”
Wilbur hummed, ponding over Tommy’s words. “And what do you think, Tommy?” He asked, after a moment.
Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll never know if Dream had truly cared for me until the very end, or if he really had wanted to hurt me.”
And that’s the truth. There were a lot of questions in Tommy’s mind that he wished he had asked Dream, lots of questions that Tommy wishes he had the answer to. But now it’s too late for that. Dream is dead, and Tommy isn’t sure if it’s for the better or for the worse.
Tommy thought about it for a while.
“But I don’t care anymore. I want to live my life, not the life that Dream, or any other person, expected me to live.” Tommy stood up suddenly, and turned as the sun sinks slowly below the horizon, colouring the sky in a palette of blue, pink and purple. Wilbur turned to look at Tommy, startled by his sudden movement.
“Let’s go inside. Techno’s soup should be ready, and Phil’s going to be home soon.”
Wilbur nodded, picking up his guitar and standing up.
Tommy took another look at the setting Sun, and remembered the countless nights spent watching the skies with Dream.
Dream, if you’re watching me, or if you’re listening, Tommy thought to the stars that had begun to become visible, I hope you have a good afterlife, if an afterlife exists.
I hope you can watch the stars from where you are. I hope you are reunited with Spirit, and I hope you are happy.
But I also hope that you feel sorry for your actions. I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you, Dream, or if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for the things you did. I think, I hope, that you really had good intentions behind your actions, and that you’ve made peace with your life. I really don’t wish to see you any time soon Dream, but when I do, we can give this another try, yeah?
Or maybe you truly wished to hurt me, that me thinking that you tried your best was just wishful thinking on my part.
In which case, fuck you , Dream, and I hope you rot.
“Tommy?” Wilbur called back to him, already inside and holding the door open, having already set his guitar on its stand by the wall.
Tommy turned back to face the house. His home. The lights were warm and inviting, the warm smell of soup making his stomach growl softly.
“I’m coming.”
THE END