god and a half @daydreamnightmares - Tumblr Blog

elucubrare

necromancy is literally fine

elucubrare

necromancy is literally fine

glumby

I love the concept of exile. like dude just get out

glumby

I love the concept of exile. like dude just get out

Let's go home, Tom.

-- Wilbur

alright??????? youd better fucking explain what the fuck youre on about on the way wil youre not making sense

Tommy's words buzz and whine and if Wilbur wasn't before his god, he might've tried to run. But he knows better. He's been asked to stay.

Look at me!

Tommy grabs him and he doesn't fight, just closes his eyes. He ignores Tommy scream and beg him to be a heretic. Wilbur knows better. He chose his god.

Why did you do it?

He opens his eyes again and looks at his god. "It was the right thing to do," he replies, voice flat, "it had to be done."

Dream's voice cuts through the haze, the smoke, the ringing in his ears. It always has.

"You're my god."

It's the only thing he feels even remotely alive saying.

"You're my god," he repeats, even though he shouldn't, because that taste of life, of fresh air, is beautiful, "you're my god."

A flaming sword plunges through his lungs. A firework burns out his eyes. Even after all this time, he's still at the edge of this fucking pillar on this fucking beach with Wilbur fucking Soot, who can do nothing but shove him right off the edge without even the care to watch him fall.

He is nothing to Wilbur, isn't he? Not even dirt that Wilbur can't even walk on, because he's fucking dead!

Tommy drops Wilbur's arm like a corpse. Whatever this is, it isn't Wilbur. Wilbur died with an arrow through his back in the silt and with bloody shoulder blades and severed bone and feathers on the ground. Wilbur was the one who taught him how to roll up his trousers to catch fish in the rivers and how to wrap his fists to stop his knuckles from cracking. Wilbur would never bow to Dream in fucking worship.

Wilbur is dead. Tommy is alive, if his war drum heartbeat is anything to go by. He needs to get the fuck out of here--or, really he needed to have left about an hour ago, but now is the next best alternative.

"I'm not letting you keep me here with whatever fucked up god shit you're talking about." He takes a step back towards his boat and hopes so fucking hard that his legs don't decide to faceplant him into the sand. "That's, like, blasphemy, alright? You can't make me a part of it. I'm leaving."

Somnius snorts, shaking his head.

He can't keep the grin off his face, that wide, wretched thing that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Oh, don't worry, Tommy, that's... that's not something you'll have to worry about," he says. It's the truth, for once. It's the complete, utter truth.

It isn't. Tommy will be an admin, will be above, but he won't be a god.

But he won't be free. Somnius steps forward, catching Tommy's wrist in an almost bruising grip. Tommy won't be leaving anytime soon, no, he'll stay here until he's fixed.

"Wilbur, do take the boat away."

"Yes, sir." Wilbur turns away from Dream and steps back into the boat. He rows away without so much as a look over his shoulder.

He aches, but he wouldn't ever leave without a dismissal. He'll hide the boat and walk back to his god. He has not been dismissed. There may be a use for him.

Tommy struggles to wrench his arm from the green bastard's grip as Wilbur rows his only escape away. No matter how much time has passed or how much stronger he pretends to be, he still isn't strong enough. He's alone on the beach and Dream is going to take away his tools and armor and blow them up and-- and Tommy has tools and armor this time. Tommy can fight back.

The sword materializes clumsily in his left hand. He swings the netherite blade down on Dream's wrist.

"Dont you fucking dare," Tommy snarls, aiming again for the crack between the arm guards. "Real winners quit, you know that? You failed once, so you should just fucking leave us alone and go be awful somewhere else, like Ohio."

Somnius lets Tommy go on the first blow, hissing slightly from the impact, but nothing breaks, nothing gets through. Just a shock. "Tommy," he bites, warning. If he doesn't behave, then there's corrective measures. Tommy knows what expect, mostly, just not how much to expect, and Somnius isn't taking the time to be nice and diplomatic this time around. No, he has a goal, and he will get what he wants. And Tommy tries to slash at him again, the blade's edge just barely catching his skin through the crack, and he catches it with a gloved hand. There's a shovel in his other, anger on his face, and the ground isn't too hard to make a hole in. "Everything in. Now."

"No, no, no, no, no--"

Tommy's hands go up to protect his face as he flinches backwards because Dream sounds pissed, pissed as fuck, and a pissed Dream is not a good Dream, not good to be around at all, and it'll get better if he throws his stuff in the hole and the hole is there and fighting never works, does it? It's all wrong in his head because he wants to drop his sword and his helmet and his shield and his armor in the hole, because that's how it gets better, but he can't, he knows he can't. Dream is bad and wrong and he's being bad and wrong here and Tommy needs to leave.

"You're shit. You're fucked and you're shit, alright? You're shit, and you are awful, and I'm not playing your fucking games, alright? I'm not fucking gonna sit here with your fucking sandy holes--I don't like sand, not with-- not with-- not here."

Sand isn't exactly the easiest ground to run on, all rough and dragging him down. He tries anyway.

He doesn't chase Tommy. No, he'll let him run, give him false hope, let him think he can escape in the slightest bit. It's more fun that way, to crush hope over and over.

"I warned you, Tommy," is all Somnius says.

There's the click of a crossbow loading. Before Tommy can reach the boundary between sand and soil, even begin to dream of hiding in the trees, Somnius shoots right for the neck.

It's a good thing he's a good shot, in the end, as he slowly makes his way over.

Somnius crouches down, easing Tommy's helmet off to run a hand through his hair. His voice is much too soft, much too comforting, to be anything but poorly hidden anger sprinkled with sweetener to hide the taste of arsenic, "It's okay, this isn't forever. Alright? You'll be fine in just a moment."

Let's go home, Tom.

-- Wilbur

alright??????? youd better fucking explain what the fuck youre on about on the way wil youre not making sense

Tommy's words buzz and whine and if Wilbur wasn't before his god, he might've tried to run. But he knows better. He's been asked to stay.

Look at me!

Tommy grabs him and he doesn't fight, just closes his eyes. He ignores Tommy scream and beg him to be a heretic. Wilbur knows better. He chose his god.

Why did you do it?

He opens his eyes again and looks at his god. "It was the right thing to do," he replies, voice flat, "it had to be done."

Dream's voice cuts through the haze, the smoke, the ringing in his ears. It always has.

"You're my god."

It's the only thing he feels even remotely alive saying.

"You're my god," he repeats, even though he shouldn't, because that taste of life, of fresh air, is beautiful, "you're my god."

A flaming sword plunges through his lungs. A firework burns out his eyes. Even after all this time, he's still at the edge of this fucking pillar on this fucking beach with Wilbur fucking Soot, who can do nothing but shove him right off the edge without even the care to watch him fall.

He is nothing to Wilbur, isn't he? Not even dirt that Wilbur can't even walk on, because he's fucking dead!

Tommy drops Wilbur's arm like a corpse. Whatever this is, it isn't Wilbur. Wilbur died with an arrow through his back in the silt and with bloody shoulder blades and severed bone and feathers on the ground. Wilbur was the one who taught him how to roll up his trousers to catch fish in the rivers and how to wrap his fists to stop his knuckles from cracking. Wilbur would never bow to Dream in fucking worship.

Wilbur is dead. Tommy is alive, if his war drum heartbeat is anything to go by. He needs to get the fuck out of here--or, really he needed to have left about an hour ago, but now is the next best alternative.

"I'm not letting you keep me here with whatever fucked up god shit you're talking about." He takes a step back towards his boat and hopes so fucking hard that his legs don't decide to faceplant him into the sand. "That's, like, blasphemy, alright? You can't make me a part of it. I'm leaving."

Somnius snorts, shaking his head.

He can't keep the grin off his face, that wide, wretched thing that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Oh, don't worry, Tommy, that's... that's not something you'll have to worry about," he says. It's the truth, for once. It's the complete, utter truth.

It isn't. Tommy will be an admin, will be above, but he won't be a god.

But he won't be free. Somnius steps forward, catching Tommy's wrist in an almost bruising grip. Tommy won't be leaving anytime soon, no, he'll stay here until he's fixed.

"Wilbur, do take the boat away."

"Yes, sir." Wilbur turns away from Dream and steps back into the boat. He rows away without so much as a look over his shoulder.

He aches, but he wouldn't ever leave without a dismissal. He'll hide the boat and walk back to his god. He has not been dismissed. There may be a use for him.

Tommy struggles to wrench his arm from the green bastard's grip as Wilbur rows his only escape away. No matter how much time has passed or how much stronger he pretends to be, he still isn't strong enough. He's alone on the beach and Dream is going to take away his tools and armor and blow them up and-- and Tommy has tools and armor this time. Tommy can fight back.

The sword materializes clumsily in his left hand. He swings the netherite blade down on Dream's wrist.

"Dont you fucking dare," Tommy snarls, aiming again for the crack between the arm guards. "Real winners quit, you know that? You failed once, so you should just fucking leave us alone and go be awful somewhere else, like Ohio."

Somnius lets Tommy go on the first blow, hissing slightly from the impact, but nothing breaks, nothing gets through. Just a shock. "Tommy," he bites, warning. If he doesn't behave, then there's corrective measures. Tommy knows what expect, mostly, just not how much to expect, and Somnius isn't taking the time to be nice and diplomatic this time around. No, he has a goal, and he will get what he wants. And Tommy tries to slash at him again, the blade's edge just barely catching his skin through the crack, and he catches it with a gloved hand. There's a shovel in his other, anger on his face, and the ground isn't too hard to make a hole in. "Everything in. Now."

Let's go home, Tom.

-- Wilbur

alright??????? youd better fucking explain what the fuck youre on about on the way wil youre not making sense

Tommy's words buzz and whine and if Wilbur wasn't before his god, he might've tried to run. But he knows better. He's been asked to stay.

Look at me!

Tommy grabs him and he doesn't fight, just closes his eyes. He ignores Tommy scream and beg him to be a heretic. Wilbur knows better. He chose his god.

Why did you do it?

He opens his eyes again and looks at his god. "It was the right thing to do," he replies, voice flat, "it had to be done."

Dream's voice cuts through the haze, the smoke, the ringing in his ears. It always has.

"You're my god."

It's the only thing he feels even remotely alive saying.

"You're my god," he repeats, even though he shouldn't, because that taste of life, of fresh air, is beautiful, "you're my god."

A flaming sword plunges through his lungs. A firework burns out his eyes. Even after all this time, he's still at the edge of this fucking pillar on this fucking beach with Wilbur fucking Soot, who can do nothing but shove him right off the edge without even the care to watch him fall.

He is nothing to Wilbur, isn't he? Not even dirt that Wilbur can't even walk on, because he's fucking dead!

Tommy drops Wilbur's arm like a corpse. Whatever this is, it isn't Wilbur. Wilbur died with an arrow through his back in the silt and with bloody shoulder blades and severed bone and feathers on the ground. Wilbur was the one who taught him how to roll up his trousers to catch fish in the rivers and how to wrap his fists to stop his knuckles from cracking. Wilbur would never bow to Dream in fucking worship.

Wilbur is dead. Tommy is alive, if his war drum heartbeat is anything to go by. He needs to get the fuck out of here--or, really he needed to have left about an hour ago, but now is the next best alternative.

"I'm not letting you keep me here with whatever fucked up god shit you're talking about." He takes a step back towards his boat and hopes so fucking hard that his legs don't decide to faceplant him into the sand. "That's, like, blasphemy, alright? You can't make me a part of it. I'm leaving."

Somnius snorts, shaking his head.

He can't keep the grin off his face, that wide, wretched thing that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Oh, don't worry, Tommy, that's... that's not something you'll have to worry about," he says. It's the truth, for once. It's the complete, utter truth.

It isn't. Tommy will be an admin, will be above, but he won't be a god.

But he won't be free. Somnius steps forward, catching Tommy's wrist in an almost bruising grip. Tommy won't be leaving anytime soon, no, he'll stay here until he's fixed.

"Wilbur, do take the boat away."

Let's go home, Tom.

-- Wilbur

alright??????? youd better fucking explain what the fuck youre on about on the way wil youre not making sense

"It was my heart." Wilbur doesn't look at Tommy, doesn't spare him a glance as he floats next to him. "I killed the thing you loved and myself at the same time. I don't think I can care anymore."

So, they're talking about L'manburg now. Fucking fantastic.

"But you're saying you can care about Dream, are you? How can you even say that-- how can you say that we're not brothers? How can you say that to me?"

Where did Wilbur say they were going?There's nothing this way that Wilbur's leading him except woods and shit.

"The fuck are we going, anyway? Where's 'home.' Don't exactly have one of those anymore, do we?"

"You stopped being my brother a long time ago." When he'd decided he couldn't tell Tommy the truth, that's when they'd stopped being brothers.

"We're going home," he repeats, voice as dead as he is.

Leave it to Wilbur to take everything he loves and smash it brutally apart it with a word, or a button, or a sword. He really should be used to it by now. It shouldn't still make him feel like dropping to the ground and crying his eyes out and never getting up again.

"You can't just stop being someone's brother. You can't fucking do that--you can't say we aren't brothers because you want to run away, or whatever the fuck you think you're doing."

"Just tell me what you think is going on. What did Dream tell you? He's lying, he is. That's what be does, because hes a shit bastard. You can't fucking listen to him, alright?"

"I'm saying it because it's true."

Tommy didn't understand. Tommy could never understand. It didn't matter what it was, Tommy just kept on going like everything was fine. Like optimism could save him.

"We're going home. You won't have to worry anymore."

He ached being this far from the crater. It would be worth it.

"What the fuck has gotten into you, man? You're not always this much of a dickhead."

Tommy comes to a stop at the shore as Wilbur floats over the sea. Some home.

"The fuck are you expecting me to do? Swim to wherever the fuck this home of yours is?" Tommy huffs, reaching into his inventory to craft a boat. "This better be worth it, asshole. Can't you be more descriptive? You're a writer, aren't you? What happened to using your fucking words to describe shit?"

Wilbur doesn't grace Tommy with a response. He returns to the boat and sits in it, then takes the oars and pushes off.

"It's not my home," he refutes softly, "it's yours."

What even was home to him, anymore? His old embassy for a country that was smithereens? The fucking crater haunted by his dead brother? They certainly weren't going to either of those places.

"Why'd you do it, Wil?" Tommy asked uselessly. "You loved it, once. Why'd you decide that none of it fucking mattered?"

That none of us mattered, he didn't say.

"It was my heart," Wilbur repeats, because you never stop caring about your heart and it's all he can say, "and it mattered. It mattered too much. We were confused."

He sets the oars down at the boat grounds itself. He stands and offers a hand—but not his eyes—to Tommy.

"You were fucking confused! The rest of us knew exactly what we were doing! We could have had it all, man. We got L'manburg back! Schlatt wasn't bothering us--Dream wasn't even bothering us."

Dream.

"Speaking of, what the fuck do you think you're doing, listening to Dream of all people? He's nothing but a bastard, is what he is. He's like a spider that gets into your head and then suddenly you're choking to death and you don't even know."

Wilbur's face twists out of neutrality for the first time in the conversation and into a slight scowl. He drops his hand and walk through Tommy as if he isn't even there.

He knew where to go. Where he was expected. He ached like he was burning again, but he was needed here.

"I can't die. I'm dead."

Fucking rude. What kind of asshole walks through people, on a beach of all places no less. Tommy does not like beaches. Beaches are fucking awful, like, the worst type of place ever. Especially beaches with carpets and a jukebox and tables that used to have cake on them and--

Wait.

That fucking bastard.

"You took me--?" Tommy didn't know if he wanted to race after Wilbur or run the fuck away, and neither did his legs, so he did neither, apparently, because fuck him! "How could-- why would-- you brought me fucking here and called it a fucking home?"

Every time he thought Wilbur couldn't possibly hurt him again. He really needed to stop getting his hopes up.

"You're fucked. You're seriously so fucking fucked-- I trusted you, and you took me to the place where I got fucking exiled?"

This was not good, not good, not good, not good. He need to leave and he needed to leave now.

Somnius steps out, practised, easy, face placidly calm. A smile, small, gracing features where a mask should be, that easy display of trust Tommy held onto so much before he decided to leave their perfect place in the world.

And now, Tommy is back.

"It is home, Tommy."

The words are simple, obvious, spoken like the boy is stupid for even considering it isn't home in the first place.

For a moment, his focus flickers to the dead piece of a president, and he knows exactly what to do. He knows what will break Tommy enough to mould him again, to make the process so much easier for all of them.

Somnius cocks his head toward Wilbur, "kneel, ovis."

Wilbur kneels and, with all the simple, slow intentionality of an afternoon walk, puts his forehead to the ground then extends his wrists to Dream.

Yeah, of course Dream would be here. What's a living hell without a green bastard in it?

That's the only thing this can be: a living hell. One where Wilbur extends his wrists to Dream.

"Don't fucking do that! What the fuck is wrong with you," Tommy hisses, rushing to grab at Wilbur's shoulder and-- fuck if he knows. Pull him back? Block Dream from slashing his fucking wrists? "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you fucking-- fucking bastard? Why would you ever do that?"

"Get the fuck away from him." Tommy faces Dream with nothing, nothing, nothing. He raises his fists anyway. "I don't know what you did to him, but if you fucking touch him, I'll kill you. I'll kill you dead, you hear me?"

Somnius stays still, standing in front of Wilbur with that placid smile on his face (it's hard not to let it widen into a grin that won't meet his eyes).

He tuts when Tommy raises his fists, a shake of the head.

A laugh that sounds more like someone laughing at a dog's pathetic attempt at a trick than anything actually amused, "Really, Tommy? I thought I taught you not to threaten people."

Crouching in front of Wilbur, Somnius takes his wrists carefully, gently, humming.

He speaks in a whisper.

"You did well, Wilbur, so very well. Stay a little, then you can go back, I know it hurts to be so far, doesn't it? I'm sorry about that. When you do go back, though, you're not to speak a single word of this. Tommy is gone, to anyone who asks. Gone. Understood?"

He still keeps an eye on Tommy.

Tommy's words ring in his ears like the aftermath of his explosion. They don't mean anything.

Dream picks up his wrists. It doesn't stop the fire, but it makes him feel wanted. Useful.

"Yes, domine," he mutters, "thank you."

Tommy is gone.

"I thought I told you that you were a bitch and that you were going to rot in prison forever and you were never going to see me again. You can't fucking lie to me again, alright? You can't trap me here--I'm not a fucking idiot. I have people. Loads of them. Even more than all the women who adore me, that's how many I have."

He still does, doesn't he? He has Tubbo, and Ranboo, and someone, probably.

Tommy grabs Wilbur's arm and yanks him back.

"Look at me!" Tommy screams, shaking his shoulder. "Fucking look at me! Just fucking stop it! Stop listening to him, stop fucking bowing, stop-- stop it!"

Whatever is going on here is wrong, wrong like Wilbur's dead face and dead voice and the kneeling and the bowing and the submitting. Wrong like gunpowder and holes and wrong like waking up drowning.

"I'm right here, Wilbur," Tommy begged. "Why did-- why would-- why would you do that?"

"I didn't lie, Tommy. It's not a lie if it's just the truth, if it's just what people say when they think no-one's listening. I mean... Wilbur doesn't care about you, does he?"

Somnius hums, standing.

There's a certain satisfaction in the way that Tommy begs Wilbur to look at him, to just stop worshipping his rightful god. It's almost perfect, if not for the fact Tommy is still himself, is still more a person than an admin.

"He knows who to worship. It's okay, he'll learn to worship you, too, with time."

Reaching out, Somnius places a hand on Tommy's shoulder, expression too gentle, too genuine, too soothing. He doesn't regard Wilbur, not yet, staring at Tommy's eyes for a few moments before finally turning to Wilbur.

"I'm your true god, aren't I, Wilbur?"

Let's go home, Tom.

-- Wilbur

alright??????? youd better fucking explain what the fuck youre on about on the way wil youre not making sense

"It was my heart." Wilbur doesn't look at Tommy, doesn't spare him a glance as he floats next to him. "I killed the thing you loved and myself at the same time. I don't think I can care anymore."

So, they're talking about L'manburg now. Fucking fantastic.

"But you're saying you can care about Dream, are you? How can you even say that-- how can you say that we're not brothers? How can you say that to me?"

Where did Wilbur say they were going?There's nothing this way that Wilbur's leading him except woods and shit.

"The fuck are we going, anyway? Where's 'home.' Don't exactly have one of those anymore, do we?"

"You stopped being my brother a long time ago." When he'd decided he couldn't tell Tommy the truth, that's when they'd stopped being brothers.

"We're going home," he repeats, voice as dead as he is.

Leave it to Wilbur to take everything he loves and smash it brutally apart it with a word, or a button, or a sword. He really should be used to it by now. It shouldn't still make him feel like dropping to the ground and crying his eyes out and never getting up again.

"You can't just stop being someone's brother. You can't fucking do that--you can't say we aren't brothers because you want to run away, or whatever the fuck you think you're doing."

"Just tell me what you think is going on. What did Dream tell you? He's lying, he is. That's what be does, because hes a shit bastard. You can't fucking listen to him, alright?"

"I'm saying it because it's true."

Tommy didn't understand. Tommy could never understand. It didn't matter what it was, Tommy just kept on going like everything was fine. Like optimism could save him.

"We're going home. You won't have to worry anymore."

He ached being this far from the crater. It would be worth it.

"What the fuck has gotten into you, man? You're not always this much of a dickhead."

Tommy comes to a stop at the shore as Wilbur floats over the sea. Some home.

"The fuck are you expecting me to do? Swim to wherever the fuck this home of yours is?" Tommy huffs, reaching into his inventory to craft a boat. "This better be worth it, asshole. Can't you be more descriptive? You're a writer, aren't you? What happened to using your fucking words to describe shit?"

Wilbur doesn't grace Tommy with a response. He returns to the boat and sits in it, then takes the oars and pushes off.

"It's not my home," he refutes softly, "it's yours."

What even was home to him, anymore? His old embassy for a country that was smithereens? The fucking crater haunted by his dead brother? They certainly weren't going to either of those places.

"Why'd you do it, Wil?" Tommy asked uselessly. "You loved it, once. Why'd you decide that none of it fucking mattered?"

That none of us mattered, he didn't say.

"It was my heart," Wilbur repeats, because you never stop caring about your heart and it's all he can say, "and it mattered. It mattered too much. We were confused."

He sets the oars down at the boat grounds itself. He stands and offers a hand—but not his eyes—to Tommy.

"You were fucking confused! The rest of us knew exactly what we were doing! We could have had it all, man. We got L'manburg back! Schlatt wasn't bothering us--Dream wasn't even bothering us."

Dream.

"Speaking of, what the fuck do you think you're doing, listening to Dream of all people? He's nothing but a bastard, is what he is. He's like a spider that gets into your head and then suddenly you're choking to death and you don't even know."

Wilbur's face twists out of neutrality for the first time in the conversation and into a slight scowl. He drops his hand and walk through Tommy as if he isn't even there.

He knew where to go. Where he was expected. He ached like he was burning again, but he was needed here.

"I can't die. I'm dead."

Fucking rude. What kind of asshole walks through people, on a beach of all places no less. Tommy does not like beaches. Beaches are fucking awful, like, the worst type of place ever. Especially beaches with carpets and a jukebox and tables that used to have cake on them and--

Wait.

That fucking bastard.

"You took me--?" Tommy didn't know if he wanted to race after Wilbur or run the fuck away, and neither did his legs, so he did neither, apparently, because fuck him! "How could-- why would-- you brought me fucking here and called it a fucking home?"

Every time he thought Wilbur couldn't possibly hurt him again. He really needed to stop getting his hopes up.

"You're fucked. You're seriously so fucking fucked-- I trusted you, and you took me to the place where I got fucking exiled?"

This was not good, not good, not good, not good. He need to leave and he needed to leave now.

Somnius steps out, practised, easy, face placidly calm. A smile, small, gracing features where a mask should be, that easy display of trust Tommy held onto so much before he decided to leave their perfect place in the world.

And now, Tommy is back.

"It is home, Tommy."

The words are simple, obvious, spoken like the boy is stupid for even considering it isn't home in the first place.

For a moment, his focus flickers to the dead piece of a president, and he knows exactly what to do. He knows what will break Tommy enough to mould him again, to make the process so much easier for all of them.

Somnius cocks his head toward Wilbur, "kneel, ovis."

Wilbur kneels and, with all the simple, slow intentionality of an afternoon walk, puts his forehead to the ground then extends his wrists to Dream.

Yeah, of course Dream would be here. What's a living hell without a green bastard in it?

That's the only thing this can be: a living hell. One where Wilbur extends his wrists to Dream.

"Don't fucking do that! What the fuck is wrong with you," Tommy hisses, rushing to grab at Wilbur's shoulder and-- fuck if he knows. Pull him back? Block Dream from slashing his fucking wrists? "What the fuck do you think you're doing, you fucking-- fucking bastard? Why would you ever do that?"

"Get the fuck away from him." Tommy faces Dream with nothing, nothing, nothing. He raises his fists anyway. "I don't know what you did to him, but if you fucking touch him, I'll kill you. I'll kill you dead, you hear me?"

Somnius stays still, standing in front of Wilbur with that placid smile on his face (it's hard not to let it widen into a grin that won't meet his eyes).

He tuts when Tommy raises his fists, a shake of the head.

A laugh that sounds more like someone laughing at a dog's pathetic attempt at a trick than anything actually amused, "Really, Tommy? I thought I taught you not to threaten people."

Crouching in front of Wilbur, Somnius takes his wrists carefully, gently, humming.

He speaks in a whisper.

"You did well, Wilbur, so very well. Stay a little, then you can go back, I know it hurts to be so far, doesn't it? I'm sorry about that. When you do go back, though, you're not to speak a single word of this. Tommy is gone, to anyone who asks. Gone. Understood?"

He still keeps an eye on Tommy.

Let's go home, Tom.

-- Wilbur

alright??????? youd better fucking explain what the fuck youre on about on the way wil youre not making sense

"It was my heart." Wilbur doesn't look at Tommy, doesn't spare him a glance as he floats next to him. "I killed the thing you loved and myself at the same time. I don't think I can care anymore."

So, they're talking about L'manburg now. Fucking fantastic.

"But you're saying you can care about Dream, are you? How can you even say that-- how can you say that we're not brothers? How can you say that to me?"

Where did Wilbur say they were going?There's nothing this way that Wilbur's leading him except woods and shit.

"The fuck are we going, anyway? Where's 'home.' Don't exactly have one of those anymore, do we?"

"You stopped being my brother a long time ago." When he'd decided he couldn't tell Tommy the truth, that's when they'd stopped being brothers.

"We're going home," he repeats, voice as dead as he is.

Leave it to Wilbur to take everything he loves and smash it brutally apart it with a word, or a button, or a sword. He really should be used to it by now. It shouldn't still make him feel like dropping to the ground and crying his eyes out and never getting up again.

"You can't just stop being someone's brother. You can't fucking do that--you can't say we aren't brothers because you want to run away, or whatever the fuck you think you're doing."

"Just tell me what you think is going on. What did Dream tell you? He's lying, he is. That's what be does, because hes a shit bastard. You can't fucking listen to him, alright?"

"I'm saying it because it's true."

Tommy didn't understand. Tommy could never understand. It didn't matter what it was, Tommy just kept on going like everything was fine. Like optimism could save him.

"We're going home. You won't have to worry anymore."

He ached being this far from the crater. It would be worth it.

"What the fuck has gotten into you, man? You're not always this much of a dickhead."

Tommy comes to a stop at the shore as Wilbur floats over the sea. Some home.

"The fuck are you expecting me to do? Swim to wherever the fuck this home of yours is?" Tommy huffs, reaching into his inventory to craft a boat. "This better be worth it, asshole. Can't you be more descriptive? You're a writer, aren't you? What happened to using your fucking words to describe shit?"

Wilbur doesn't grace Tommy with a response. He returns to the boat and sits in it, then takes the oars and pushes off.

"It's not my home," he refutes softly, "it's yours."

What even was home to him, anymore? His old embassy for a country that was smithereens? The fucking crater haunted by his dead brother? They certainly weren't going to either of those places.

"Why'd you do it, Wil?" Tommy asked uselessly. "You loved it, once. Why'd you decide that none of it fucking mattered?"

That none of us mattered, he didn't say.

"It was my heart," Wilbur repeats, because you never stop caring about your heart and it's all he can say, "and it mattered. It mattered too much. We were confused."

He sets the oars down at the boat grounds itself. He stands and offers a hand—but not his eyes—to Tommy.

"You were fucking confused! The rest of us knew exactly what we were doing! We could have had it all, man. We got L'manburg back! Schlatt wasn't bothering us--Dream wasn't even bothering us."

Dream.

"Speaking of, what the fuck do you think you're doing, listening to Dream of all people? He's nothing but a bastard, is what he is. He's like a spider that gets into your head and then suddenly you're choking to death and you don't even know."

Wilbur's face twists out of neutrality for the first time in the conversation and into a slight scowl. He drops his hand and walk through Tommy as if he isn't even there.

He knew where to go. Where he was expected. He ached like he was burning again, but he was needed here.

"I can't die. I'm dead."

Fucking rude. What kind of asshole walks through people, on a beach of all places no less. Tommy does not like beaches. Beaches are fucking awful, like, the worst type of place ever. Especially beaches with carpets and a jukebox and tables that used to have cake on them and--

Wait.

That fucking bastard.

"You took me--?" Tommy didn't know if he wanted to race after Wilbur or run the fuck away, and neither did his legs, so he did neither, apparently, because fuck him! "How could-- why would-- you brought me fucking here and called it a fucking home?"

Every time he thought Wilbur couldn't possibly hurt him again. He really needed to stop getting his hopes up.

"You're fucked. You're seriously so fucking fucked-- I trusted you, and you took me to the place where I got fucking exiled?"

This was not good, not good, not good, not good. He need to leave and he needed to leave now.

Somnius steps out, practised, easy, face placidly calm. A smile, small, gracing features where a mask should be, that easy display of trust Tommy held onto so much before he decided to leave their perfect place in the world.

And now, Tommy is back.

"It is home, Tommy."

The words are simple, obvious, spoken like the boy is stupid for even considering it isn't home in the first place.

For a moment, his focus flickers to the dead piece of a president, and he knows exactly what to do. He knows what will break Tommy enough to mould him again, to make the process so much easier for all of them.

Somnius cocks his head toward Wilbur, "kneel, ovis."

#knowledge is worship #another false god #[translation: the dead stay as the same. the ram remains loyal. maybe he can lead the wayward lamb astray for you too.]

Numquam putavi me videre arietem ambulare ad interfectorem gratis.

-- Luvulat

((I never thought I'd see a ram go to the killer of its own volition.))

Idem manere mortuos. Aries fidelis manet. Fortasse tibi quoque agnam devium ducere possit.

Vere, mox eum deseras. Remittite eum ad litus merentis. - :)

(Really, you should just leave him. Send him back to the shore he deserves.)

Solus ambulat.