Blue met blue, the stormy recesses of sky cracked open to witness the empty sea speckled with froth. Only yesterday had the day been a startling void of light, the clouds much too thick. It was a day he'd thought would persist and flood an entire week with gloom and rain.
It only seemed to have swallowed one.
He managed a grin, it seemed as if at least one good thing would happen today.
Rain was so aggrivating- he could never hang out with Shroud whenever the transparent droplets splattered.
The spider would cower and shy away from any attempts at comfort whenver he heard that first drop of cooled liquid.
Something was wrong.
There was no Shroud, no black ball curled into his side or hanging from the dirt roof of his home that seemed to have vanished.
Then he noticed... them.
Collected in the corners of vision, ignored earlier for the glory of a bright sky, were worried? (Since when was anyone worried for him) people.
One of them absorbed his interest and shock immediately.
Niki, the woman who'd hoped his return to limbo, who only offered only sneers with no offers of the sweets that once been often donated to Tommy's gaping stomach, was one of them, concerned and letting him lie on whatever mattress sat beneath his limp body.
"Niki?" His voice wavered, slightly higher then it had been hours ago.
"Bossman! You're okay!"
And a Tubbo, face blank of burns, now owned his attention. His cheek was decorated with the same bee design that Tommy had face painted during their earlier days in the server.
He- he must've been in some sort of... fucking dream.
A dream. A taunt from his subconscious brain, that's all it had to be.
"Yeah..." his voice trailed as he noticed something... odd. "Where's Wil?"
"Who?"
He didn't hate the bitch enough to eradicate him from fucking dreams the last time he checked.
"The fish fucker?"
"The what?" And there was Fundy, Wilbur's son, as furry as he always was.
"Your dad?"
"I don't have one? Tommy are you okay?" The fox's fur seemed ruffled now that he'd gotten the chance to stare, more ruffled and tangled then Wilbur and his constant fussing would allow.
This dream seemed pretty detailed. He could even smell faint smoke.
He decided to shrug it off, thinking of it as a salty decision of his mind, still upset that Wilbur had left.
He decided to play it off, saying that he'd had a weird dream. Even though THIS was the strange concoction his brain brewed.
He noticed‐ as time passed without him being freed from this rather lucid state of sleep- that Niki seemed to fit the role of Wilbur, the dream apparently being a rather odd echo of the day L'manberg declared independence.
And then he went to sleep, within his sleep.
He didn't awake to his time, his reality.
He awoke still in this version of conjured reality.
Which made him feel iffy...
This was way too fucking realistic, too long, for it to be a dream... but he already knew the events that weren't dreams.
The ones with Wilbur were real.
When he pressed his concerns to the false replication? of Tubbo, he laughed it off. He told Tommy that he'd hit his head into a tree and had been out in a coma for almost hours, brought outside to see if fresh air could help- most likely obtaining memory issues Tubbo noted.
He also told Tommy that Wilbur was Tommy's old pet moth.
This dream was certainly wild.
But it wasn't a dream- lacking ones absurdity, and detachment.
It felt so real, much realer even the the life he left behind that had been sparked with that same absurdity he'd attribute to a dream.
Yet Wilbur was real.
The brother, the musician, the politician.
but now... Tommy wasn't sure.
Perhaps he was affected by that tree- perhaps he did lose his memories and his mind panicked and tried to replace them.
Perhaps... perhaps Wilbur was the dream.
But nothing was sure.
Nothing was real.
But everything seemed to be.
