the warmth of a sweater

*

friend is getting heavier and heavier. tommy can tell because puffy told him to take friend on walks like some kind of dog, and tommy knew that she knew that friend calmed him down, so he only made a few protests, but today friend had taken half a minute to get up compared to a couple of seconds. and his wool is shadowing his face a little. maybe that's why he couldn't get up; couldn't fucking see where he was, confused the sky with his own blue.

tommy brushes some of it out of friend's eyes, but it only falls back down. he frowns, glances around. they've stopped in the middle of the worn path they've taken walks down on, and no one else comes down here anyway. last time ranboo did, tommy had ran away with those wriggly jitters in his hands, thinking of the path they'd taken when they burned george's house down.

tommy doesn't know why. he doesn't know a lot of things about himself anymore.

and in the present, he muses out loud that maybe it's time friend got a haircut. friend bleats agreeably, he always does, though tommy only needs the reassurance some times. tommy opens his inventory, makes some shears-hesitates. stiffly, he takes the tool out, feels its weight in his palms. the sharp ends gleam in the afternoon sunlight.

puffy had said that tommy is kind. tommy had said he forgot how to be kind, had held a stick out to her to prove a point, had said that he thinks of it as a sword, could drive it into her heart at any moment. dream had taken all three of his lives, had created his fourth with his own dirty fucking hands-of course tommy would be dream's second coming.

she had asked why he hadn't done so-why tommy hadn't done what he said he could. dream would've, to prove a point-tommy knows that first-hand. and yet, tommy isn't.

tommy hadn't moved. it let puffy say this: tommy is kind. he just has to relearn it again-to accept it again.

it was quite embarrassing when he started crying.

but never mind that. puffy said that a good step was to trust himself with tools again. not a good first step, she'd said, but a good step. tommy had thought that there was no fucking difference in what step that shit was, which is why he's standing here, shears in a shaking hand, and going to shear friend's wool with it.

tommy's done it before, in older times, before the dream smp and the antarctic empire. he's done it a thousand times. he knows how to do this. he can do this. it's fine. it's-

friend butts his hand. tommy recoils, hand twitching. he reels in a stabbing motion before it happens, and thinks about it for a little longer.

tommy innit has never hesitated in doing shit. (but times have changed, haven't they? tommy is older, isn't he? tommy innit is not himself anymore, right?)

tommy innit has never hesitated in doing shit. and if he wants to be tommy innit again, he has to do this. (if tommy is kind, he will not hurt friend.)

so tommy doesn't waste any more time in shearing friend's wool. he doesn't think. feels like he doesn't breathe, like his entire being is focused on making sure he gets as much wool as possible. he keeps his eyes open, distantly noticing his reward falling in clumps all over the ground. tommy will not hurt one of his only friends.

and then it's done. it's-done. and tommy breathes, and puts his shears away, and picks up friend's wool, patting some of it on friend's back because he looks cold. and then they keep walking.

the trail ends, eventually. tommy strays off near the end, finds a tree. rests under it. takes more iron to make knitting needles, knitting being something puffy taught him as a way of comfort. the needles are sharp like the shears, but tommy looks at them, thinking that he did not hurt friend, and tommy is kind, and he thinks that he doesn't want to kill friend even though it'd be so easy to, and if tommy hurts himself in knitting he at least won't hurt friend. so tommy knits.

he makes a sweater. it's a little small at first glance, but tommy tugs the sides and feels his lips twitch when it stretches. (he doesn't smile. that's another thing puffy said tommy has to relearn, smiling. another thing among thousands.)

tommy shrugs the sweater on. it's warm, itchy, thick. reminds him of a hug. hugs, plural, smelling of a library and of the sky and of farming. if he closes his eyes, the world is colder, like ghostbur is fluttering around, wanting to hug him but not able to because his entire being is cold. dead. rotting.

and then tommy thinks of wilbur, ink on his hands, callouses from his guitar, smearing black all over tommy's cheek, nose, forehead, smiling; wearing a uniform, ordering armies, writing documents, smiling; breathing a cigarette in, exhaling all his sanity, ranting, smiling-

-phil grins at them, brushes his feathers over tommy's ink-stained face, compares the dark shades of not-color to each other, laughing; leaves with techno at his side, laughing; comes back with techno, right on time to war but too late for family, laughing; drives a sword through wilbur's gut, crying-

-techno chuffs, aiding wilbur's artistry, his eyes smiling; farms potatoes and potatoes and potatoes, leaves with phil at his side, his eyes smiling; comes back at the call of war, greets them with a deadpan tone, his eyes smiling; calls upon withers with maddening glee, tears streaming down his face, his eyes laughing-

dream, smiling.

tommy takes the sweater off, feels his skin crawl.

all of them were kind, too. could they have relearned it?

...does it matter when tommy is so kind he'd forgive them?

maybe not dream. maybe. he doesn't know.

tommy folds the sweater. friend settles next to him on the base of this tree, rests his head in tommy's lap. tommy hugs the sweater-pillow close, breathes in the remnants of a family, and thinks of nothing, there, a merciful sort of thing. he doesn't know what that means anymore, family, and he doesn't know what happiness means, what smiles mean, what laughter means.

but tommy is preoccupied in relearning kindness. and as he drifts off to sleep, he thinks that once he's dome with that, he could relearn happiness, too.