#it would solidify his patheticness and lack of appeal to everyone. like he likes EVERYONE and no one likes him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

karlnapity · 3 years

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Rejoice, Rejoice, God’s Ears are Stitches

“Drop your things in the hole,” Tommy says, and Dream feels his stomach drop. He slowly undoes the clasps on his chest plate while his eyes scour the crowd, from Punz’s fierce expression to Puffy’s tear-streaked face. Something deep and dark jolts in his chest, but he casts it aside same as his chest plate. It makes a clang! as it hits the bottom of the hole, and Tommy jumps satisfyingly.

He takes his time removing his armor, relishing in the way the crowd shuffles uncomfortably. Eventually Tommy lets out an indignant “hurry up!” and he can barely keep himself from chuckling.

Once he’s finished, they stand there in a tense silence for a few seconds before Tommy says, “All your armor, Dream.”

He tilts his head to the side. “What d’you mean?”

He has a sneaking suspicion that lets tendrils of something akin to nerves creep up his spine. They only solidify when Tommy points his sword at Dream’s face.

“Your mask. Put it in the hole.”

For a second, he considers refusing. But he imagines being held down, the mask forced off his face, and he shivers. He reaches to the clasp, hand stuttering. When was the last time he’d taken it off?

Tommy huffs. He undoes the clasp.

The mask shatters as it hits the helmet still resting on the top of the pile. He watches the shards bounce.

The audience has gone very silent. He refuses to look at them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Tommy scrutinize his face. He does not look at him.

“You’re an ugly motherfucker, you know that?” There’s little bite in Tommy’s words. He may have the upper hand right now, but he’s still only grasping at straws against Dream. He is. Dream still sneers. Low blow, to poke at the various scars littering his face, hardly leaving an unmarred spot. He opens and closes his fist where he’d usually be grasping a weapon.

Sam and Punz step forward, each of them grabbing an arm. He’s led to the elevator as he listens to the sounds of the crowd celebrating. He does not look at them. He won’t give them the satisfaction.

As the elevator rises, Sam’s hand only tightens around his arm. He wonders why, at first, but it becomes obvious as he starts to ache.

Mining fatigue. Fuck.

He focuses his attention on simply remaining upright. The bruises and cuts and the knee Tommy had almost knocked out of its socket suddenly make themselves known, and with a vengeance. He shuffles, trying to keep his legs from giving out.

Punz coughs a laugh from beside him. Dream can’t stop his eyes from straying, but it doesn’t help. He can’t read his expression.

“It’s weird being able to see what you’re thinking,” Punz says quietly. Dream quickly schools his expression. He does not respond.

The fatigue becomes almost overwhelming as they come to a stop. The two lead him out of the elevator and through the prison. He passes by more walls, doors, than he can remember. He tries to catalog information as it comes, but his mind is just as tired as his body, and black spots dance in his vision. He will not let these people see him weak, though, so he keeps his attention on keeping his expression neutral, keep his legs moving.

He watches the lava part, and his heart stutters to a stop in his chest. This is it.

He does not look at the two as he’s left alone.

He jolts awake, his breath catching. As he gasps on the floor he notices the heavy air, the way his hair is stuck to his face. The heat is almost scalding, and as he sits up he feels woozy. He almost laughs at himself. He’s only on his first day (or is it?) of his imprisonment and he’s already falling apart. He lets out a chuckle, coughing from dehydration.

His stomach churns from a combination of the overwhelming mining fatigue and the heat from the lava. He brushes back his hair as best as he can, ties it up, suddenly glad Sam had only let him keep a t-shirt.

He examines the cell, still dizzy but acclimating as best he can. Thankfully there’s what seems to be a dispenser in a corner, leaving him with a bottle of water and a raw potato. Not the best food, and it doesn’t help replenish any health, but he takes what he can get. He stops himself from chugging the water as much as he wants to. He doesn’t know when Sam will next leave him food, and he needs to, at the very least, stay conscious. Dying from dehydration won’t do him any good.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, and for a second he considers crushing it. He wonders, if he does, if Sam will come replace it.

He can’t risk it. The noise is loud in his ears, the only other thing in this godforsaken place aside from the sound of the lava bubbling.

He feels tears mounting in his eyes and pushes them down. No. He won’t, can’t be weak. That would mean accepting defeat, and he will leave this place. He will win.

He doesn’t feel particularly victorious with his hands over his ears, trying to block out the ticking sound of the clock.

It’s impossible to tell how long he’s been here, and he can feel it already prying at his mind. The clock tells him whether it’s day or night, but not much more than that, and it doesn’t make much difference to him when the only light he gets is from the lava.

He started trembling a few days ago, and he’s not even sure where it comes from. It makes it hard to do much of anything, and it’s not even like there’s much to do. He alternates dunking his head in the cauldron of water in a pitiful attempt to cool himself off, struggling to write in the books he’s been given, and laying on the floor and listening to the clock.

He’s too tired from the mining fatigue to be able to do much writing at all. His hands shake too much to hold the quill correctly, and his brain moves at a snail’s pace that annoys even him. So, instead, he lays on the floor, listens to the clock, and stares at the lava. His back hurts from the hard stone, and it holds the heat, but it’s not like he has much other choice.

Has it been a week? Two? He’s not sure. He hasn’t seen Sam since he was imprisoned. He hasn’t tried to escape. He hasn’t done anything but eat raw fucking potatoes and try not to get heatstroke. Sleeping is really the only agreeable possibility, and even then he wakes up choking on hot air.

His communicator buzzes, and he sits up so fast his head swims. All avenues have been cut off except Sam, so he knows it’s him immediately.

< You have a visitor today. >

He clambers to his feet. He hates the way his heart races at the thought. He shouldn’t be this excited for one of them to visit him. It was inevitable that, eventually, someone would. They wouldn’t be able to forget him. They need his help.

(It’s the only reason he’s alive.)

(He shakes that thought away.)

For the first time in over a week he tries to pull himself together. He fixes his ponytail, makes it as neat as possible, downs the rest of his water to try to garner some sort of energy. He’s already exhausted just from the excitement. Jesus Christ, what has this place done to him?

He sits on the lectern as he waits. Who will it be? One of his old friends? Punz? Tommy?

Soon enough, the lava starts to lower.

He makes direct eye contact with Tommy. The boy looks petrified. Good.

What will Tommy want? Will he want him to stay put together? Will he want him to be pitiful?

(Tommy will want a friend. Tommy will want soft.)

He’s not used to regulating his facial expressions. He’s had to time adjust to the lack of cover, the familiar feeling of it sitting on his skin lacking, but it’s new, having to looking people in the eye, having to appeal to them in this way. It frustrates him.

Soon enough, Tommy is facing him and the lava is already rising. He looks uncomfortable, pulling at his collar and shoving his hands in his pockets.

He looks better than Dream has seen him in a while. He looks happy enough, certainly healthier than he’s been. He wonders how pathetic he looks.

“Hey,” Tommy says, making the first move. Dream avoids his eyes.

“Hello.”

“What’ve you been up to?” Tommy asks, awkward as ever.

(Tommy will want a friend. Tommy will want him to be sorry.)

“I like watching the clock,” he answers, genuine. He keeps his voice quiet. “I’ve been going crazy in here.”

“Everyone hates you, you know?” Tommy says. That confuses him.

“Well, I’m in prison, now, so there’s no reason for anyone to hate me,” he refutes, frustration rising. That makes no sense. Why would they hate him now?

They beat him. Why would they hate him now?

“Hey, Dream, are you getting all sad? Watch this: I am your best friend, Dream, I am your friend, and I will come and visit you every day!” Tommy’s voice rises as he takes his clock off the wall, throws it in the water, turns back to him, angry as hell. “Does this remind you of anything?”

Dream stays quiet. What can he say to that?

“It’s just sad! You’ve been exiled, bitch! You’ve been imprisoned!” Tommy looks so satisfied, like he deserves this, like he’s proving a point.

It’s hard to take a deep breath when the air’s so heavy, but he has to. He clenches his hands in fists, turns around so Tommy can’t see his expression. Remember.

(Be Tommy’s friend. Be sorry.)

“Maybe I’ll be better, and then you’ll let me out,” he tries. Makes his voice as meek as possible. Makes himself smaller.

Tommy laughs. He tries harder.

“What if it’s a long time and I’m better?”

Tommy just looks at him. For the first time, his expression is unreadable. He looks stronger, now. He doesn’t look like a kid anymore.

“Tommy, I’m sorry.”

(It’s what he’s supposed to say.)

“Really?” Tommy looks genuinely taken aback, genuinely surprised. Something in his expression hurts, but he ignores it. “For what?”

He ransacks his brain for the right thing to say. He can’t think, he’s so tired.

(He wants Tommy to leave. He wants Tommy to stay.)

“Um. For everything I did to you.”

He says all the right things: I have no reason to lie. I’m glad you visited me. I’m sad.

Tommy gives him homework, and he complies obediently.

He lets Tommy make fun of him all he wants, lets Tommy laugh at him, and he doesn’t get angry.

Tommy promises he’ll be back. Dream can’t tell if he’s genuine.

“I lost my friends, and all my stuff, and my server. And you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. It’s not part of the routine. But it works: Tommy seems genuinely interested, then, doesn’t seem to take it as manipulation as much as everything else. He tries to pull himself together, but he’s so tired. His act is falling apart.

“Who do you miss the most?” Tommy asks.

Anger flares.

“I think you should go, Tommy.”

Tommy asks again, and Dream can’t do anything but yell for Sam. Tommy just keeps asking, and Dream just wants him to leave. He drives his fingernails into his palm and he doesn't look at him.

The clock is especially loud, that day.

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