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Tommy didn't have to ask what was in the clear flask, shoved into his hands, cold skin meeting cold skin (Dream has skin and that's disgusting because it means they're human), heat sinks into his palms through the glass. He's wordless as his body cradles the potion between fingers, eyes pale, gaze no longer holding uncertainty. What remains confusing is monumentally smaller than they have started this exile, winter crawled it's way through into spring, summer went by uneventfully, for Dream at least.
Words haven't been spoken since Tommy was told there would be something to eat, on the additional term he had to promise to stop crying about it. It's phrased las if Tommy is being unreasonable in asking for food, as if this is just some benign request for comfort, and not—y'know— food. He's being treated like a child throwing a tantrum, the slight doesn't go unnoticed, scowling openly. Tommy can think whatever he'd like, Dream controls the food, and there only requirement was don't complain about the food. He can complain about the rest of pains, aches, ailments.
The thought of throwing the bottle at Dream, predictable and planned for, still greets his mind uninvited. The armor means it won't make a difference, just piss them off, make everything worse. Tommy would do it if the bottle definitely wasn't tempered as it was, or if Dream had less armor, or if he had actual food.
A reaction to something for once. An actual reaction, not the weird planned bullshit Dream does, trying to mimic real feeling into something believable. It's a shitty performance, they don't even care about keeping up the act in front of Tommy ninety percent of the time.
Deep red, sludgy, slowly following the directions in which it gets tilted, bubbling like it's undergoing fermentation, sharp stench. It's interruptive, demanding attention, his face continues to scrunch in displeasure. Dream's being distracting, near giddy with movement, hands wringing over and over and over. Repeated, constant, noise of skin over fabric over armor. It's fucking spazzing out, Tommy decides; his stomach copies the movement, twisting, starvation exchanged for dread of the near future.
Meal tainted with nothing but simple comprehension of what is being asked. Dinnertable decorated, porcelain plate, the nice ceramics being used, a celebration of nothing, a party that mocks each letter written with shaky hands. Sigils are drawn against flat slates of armor, scratched into, ink rising from nothing before being wiped clean as if nothing has been documented. It's a ritual, part of the routine, it's the three calls until the track goes hot, until this hurts.
Tommy doesn't need a signal, doesn't need a board going up, sideways, down; Tommy doesn't need a light that goes from red to white to green, doesn't need a horn or an alarm. His body understands it hurts, if it's not actively hurting, it will correct itself, active learning is what Dream calls it. A remodel, a reboot, a reset, anything that makes Tommy just a bit more uncomfortable with the body he exists in.
Simple deduction based on what he's seen informs that this will hurt. It doesn't matter that he understands this.
Dream doesn't work like that, doesn't understand the world like that.
If it's not theirs speaking, there's no credible voice. if it's vision doesn't get to bare witness, there was nobody there to have seen it. If something is told to them, it is false until proven otherwise, any result calms the energy underneath dusty purple armor enough to continue the process. The basics of scientific documentation whittle unrecognizable from the word torture, their mind remains as clear as the objective it sets.
The surface of their skin crawls with excitement, mind starving. Blood vessels wriggling into places they should be, like actors receiving their cue, curtain moving with each body that rushes behind it. Dream has not explained that part of it's existence, veins dark under exposed skin, Tommy hasn't asked yet. It likes to think that one day they will have a conversation about that, those little things that Tommy ignores. Jaws are clenched with resistant, nails are pressed into palms, all their own sensation. It melts into one, mind calming into that steady thrum of existence, lips pulled around teeth, smile unseen.
Tommy wants to say something, wants to mutter about how he hopes this sucks to clean up, because there's no question on what is being asked. His mouth can't find the way to move to make those words, swallowing air. Cold, crisp, this idea can almost make him ignore his stomach. It can't make him ignore the eyes on him, though. He's never seen the pupils or the color, never seen if they differ from his, but their gaze is heavy regardless. Following each thing that moves on Tommy, like hunting, like studying. Nothing looks at Tommy like this, he doesn't have a reference to compare it to, hopes the struggle of never finding words outweighs what it may be described as if he finds it again.
Tymbals chirp underneath armor, under masks, clothing, under the skin. Human. It has skin, it's human, rotting scent absence from them. Tommy doesn't know if he smells like rot, if he does, Dream doesn't point it out. Bugs like rot, don't they? He's answered with another cicadan tune, short, sharp, like a strike. Tommy refuses to believe it's anything except bugs.
Bugs. Yes. In the grass, hidden in the shadow of Dream, statue still. Tommy can convince himself to see their segmented bodies, legs crawling through, anywhere, everywhere he asks for them to be.
Okay. Simple steps to drinking potions. Even thick ones, Dream wouldn't be kind enough to water it down, that'd make Tommy be considered as something that feels discomfort — Dream considers it, just not in the right ways, not in a way that means anything to Tommy anymore. None of this means anything, right? There's going to be so many questions written that Tommy will get revived. That's a comfort now. Yup.
Untwist the top of the flask, step one. It's not really a bottle like they usually are, breath out as much as possible so you don't have to think when it actually has to go in your mouth. Step three, choke down what's in there, don't think about what steps come next because you won't remember it.
It's a plan, not good, not detailed, but it's a plan and that calms him down enough to think it over as a big photo. Tommy traces over the movements in his mind, what muscles will move to achieve the goal, what he'll see when he falls back from pain. Thinking too far ahead, he chastises himself as if his thoughts will change with the reprimand, what happens after he drinks this is not his choice. That's fine.
He hisses out his breath like it means anything. Dream knows he doesn't agree with this, nobody cares what is agreed on. It's only a problem if he doesn't do it. He doesn't want to, he reassures his mind, he doesn't want to do this. Tommy's palm rests against the glass, knuckles grips the cap, wrist turns with ease, his meal pops open without effort.
None of this will need effort. None of this needs thought.
His lungs feel empty, his stomach twists in anxious agony. His stomach is empty, that's the problem, that's how he's in this situation — his body is completely purged of what makes him alive. There's no food in his stomach, no sir in his lungs, blood is barely being held in.
One hand holds his nose shut, the other tilts the bottle back, pressing his own head back, neck overextended, dully aching. There's no taste as it falls down his throat, inhaling around the drink, slowly opening throat simply swallowing. It's nothing, then almost dirty to feel in his mouth; gritty against his teeth and earthy against his tongue, like dust from an explosive, like tar from a cigarette.
Spiced, Dream moves as if it's remembered that it can interact with this performance, his hands pull the bottle back and cold hands press the rim of the glass against Tommy's teeth, the pressure keeps his jaw open. The fingers are crushed underneath an excited grip, chittering stirring into something like a song. Like croaking, his disapproval groaning between vocal chords and a blocked epiglottis.
It feels like nothing. Tastes like pressure against his gums, then something makes contact in the wrecked nervous system. Like a shorting wire arcing, like a fuse that stalls, his mind remembers it's alive for now, eyes watering.
His body immediately tries to reject the potion, hands beating against the netherite armor fruitlessly. Instinct remains shattered, pain fills every gap between pieces, and Tommy remembers what it feels to fear pain.
His face is burning, worse than lava because it only sinks deeper, it burrows like a parasite, it's destructive maw ripping Tommy apart quicker than he can scream. He can feel his tongue shift from something solid, from muscle, into a thick liquid, his mouth begins the process of forced corrosion. Erosion of bodily systems, connections being tested against something that doesn't know how to stop. Tommy screams and blood splatters everything in front of him, he opens his mouth more, splits open at the corner like seams to a ripper.
The mosaic of primal reaction is chipped away, the pieces replaced with the feeling of his stomach burning, glass being pressed further into the cavity, thrown to the side when it slips past with ease, squelching between the body and the liquidation that's begun.
Tommy.
A doll with forcefully jammed joints. Bleeding is too little of a word, what could be spilling blood is, what follows is pus, plasma.
Dream plunges a hand in.
Oh gods, it's disgusting, Dream would throw up if it could. The only relief, anti nausea, the goddamn cure to it all is the way Tommy's body jerks. How the slivers of consciousness that he's clinging onto can recognize what's happening. It's like dipping it's arm in acid besides that little benefit, buzzing turning into a quiver. Armor tears flesh into nothing, pushing the potion further into his abdominal cavity, fingers stick through bone turning spongy. Heavy breaths are the only thing they can hear, false lungs still wishing to keep the facade, it can't feel anything.
Dream tightens the hold, half crouched like they hadn't expected what happen to have done so, beating excitement follows each inch of skin like a racing pulse. Nails dig into Tommy's shoulder, knees pressing into his sides, they're stabilizing each other, twisted like a death spiral. Tommy sitting on his knees against the dirt, Dream is balancing on the balls of their feet. They're balancing on each other, they're holding each other. If Dream reaches out, applies more pressure, they're almost sure it can rip through his back.
Dream is frantic, Tommy is dying.
His mind won't let him think of the pain, so he focuses on what he can see, what would Dream be able to see right now? Is Dream looking? Tommy doesn't want to know, but he also does, but he really really doesn't. His face is opening more, jaw peeling into the front of his throat, the gash is open widening reaching down into his chest.
Tommy can feel the things crawling under Dream's skin, he can feel the bugs, his hands (burning, burning, burning) want to reach in, claw them out, he knows Dream is rotting and he needs to have it proven. His mind is groggy with the lullaby of death, his eyes are fixed on the armor sinking into his stomach. It surely doesn't exist anymore, but his stomach still twists.
The sounds Tommy makes are disgusting, they make Dream wince between the chitter, wings buzz underneath the thick gurgles of suffocation. His flesh is falling off between intracoastal spaces, his organs attempt to squeeze out, blood fills every void it can reach. Wide eyed like a fawn, glazed over like he's never learnt how to blink, teary with suffocation. Dream is forcing itself, holding everything tight against themselves, to let Tommy suffer.