Work Text:
After, Tommy opens the door to his cottage, feeling the rough wood under his calloused fingertips, its coldness, its firmness, feeling everything on his body and nothing inside.
He shuts it, the click of the lock sounding too loud in the empty room, and lays on the floor. On his back, the dirt crunching under his arms, his bare feet, cold and hard and unfeeling, staring at the dirt ceiling.
Perfect.
Above him, the corner where he used to watch him. He wishes he would’ve left it at watching.
He puts a hand on his stomach, pinches a bit of skin. Doesn’t hurt much because of the little bit of fat there. Moves it up to his protruding ribs, traces between the gaps, pinches. Still not enough. The feeling is kind of nice though. Just running his fingers - now the other hand as well - between them.
He wonders, letting his head fall to the side and closing his eyes, if there is still a soul in there. He probably would notice if it was gone right? People don’t just walk around without a soul and don’t notice.
His mask pops up behind his eyelids and he opens his eyes again.
No, Dream would have been thorough. He always is.
He would’ve rebuilt his soul - Tommy’s soul - from the ground up, touching all the strings attached to it, moving them in the right places, threading a needle painfully through patches that don’t fit and forcing them together, maybe sewing a little smiley face in it when he got bored. Just because he could.
He would’ve made sure it would no longer be Tommy’s.
Tommy feels sick. Sits up, his shirt falling down over his stomach again at the motion and crawls to the toilet. He can’t throw up. Sticks a finger, then a second down his throat and still can’t do more than gag. Settles on laying his cheek on his arm, closing his eyes, breathing.
Doesn’t know how long he stays like that, maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. Gets up at some time, going back to his bed, feeling sick when noticing that the sheets have been washed, tucked neatly into the frame.
There’s actually-
Actually there’s a flower laid on it. Allium.
It’s a bit wilted, it’s been three days after all, but it’s still a nice sentiment, considering Tommy was never meant to see it wilted, or see it at all for that matter.
He turns away from the bed, feeling like he’s intruding, which is ridiculous - it’s his bed and his house and actually his body too and why must everything be tainted now when he would really just like to go to sleep.
Always used to go up to his holiday home when feeling watched, cuddling with Henry- can’t do that anymore. Of course. Can’t go to Tubbo’s because the guy still thinks he’s- Wilbur is and has been for a long time now. Might as well. What’s he got to lose, really?
Doesn’t bother with a coat, although he knows he’ll be freezing, looking around anxiously before opening the door, looking over his shoulder constantly while making his way down Prime Path. Nothing there since he’s in the cell.
Still- Tommy’s heart squeezes nervously every time he rounds a corner, passes a cave, a tree, any potential hiding places. Goes through the portal and practically sprints over the bridge, forcing to look forward because if he doesn’t he might look down and he should never look down because if he does he might-
So he doesn’t look down and takes a desperate breath when he reaches the other portal, closing his eyes so he won’t get too nauseous from the teleportation. They sting from the cold when he opens them again. Wrapping his arms around his middle when a breeze passes through.
Takes a second to stand in the snow, already soaking through his shoes, feet stinging. The sky is clear and Tommy can make out every star. Could never in L’Manburg because of light pollution, couldn’t in the cell, obviously, only time he ever took the time to stargaze was in ex-
He shakes his head and trudges onward. His pants wet after a few steps, the cold stinging up to his knees now, nose running. Welcomes the feeling of the body going numb after a while. It’s a bad sign, he knows that.
Lights of the cabin illuminating the untouched snow stretching out in front of him. Whole body shivering, at some point too numb to even clutch at his shirt sleeves anymore, fingers stopping to cooperate.
Lungs burning as he steps onto the porch, can’t move his fingers so he calls his name shakily. After a while wondering if it was loud enough, feeling exhaustion at the thought of having to raise his voice when-
The door opens, Tommy’s vision goes black.