Make Me Behave Like An Animal

Tommy Has A Shit Time

Tommy stumbled slowly through Logsted; a weary smile plastered over his scarred, brutalised face. He turned to look at Dream, prompting the man to hit him in retaliation. The axe flew into Tommy, simultaneously instantly and over the period of a month, akin to the Logstedshire experience in general. Tommy barely noticed the pain as the axe came out blood-soaked, his stomach dripping with blood.

Tommy didn’t particularly mind, it was the tax of hanging out with Dream, a tax that was so, so worth it, as he’d learnt. He pulled his shirt around the wound, applying the necessary pressure he’d learnt to apply back during his pre-revolution medical training.

“Fuck you…” Tommy mumbled, missing his long-gone bravado.

Dream laughed, “Tommy, stop speaking. Haven’t you learnt your lesson? Your face is literally covered in patches- wait… Stop moving your mouth, you’ll tear.” Dream declared, leaving no room for defiance.

Tommy didn’t respond, much to Dream’s pleasure. Dream was so caring, always making sure Tommy didn’t hurt himself- Unless he needed it, of course, punishments were necessary, his ripped stomach could attest. He walked on, not looking back at his best friend.

“Good.” Dream declared simply.

They soon walked over to the more volatile part of Logsted, where the land was littered with Dream’s craters. Broken shrapnel was scattered about, old coats, broken water canisters, the ruins of precariously made weapons he’d made early on, before he and Dream had become friends…

Life before Dream was awful, as far as Tommy could remember, back when Dream was just the bastard who’d stolen his discs and Tommy was the annoying brat Tubbo had kicked out of L’manberg at the first opportunity. He’d come a long way since then: sometimes, Dream even thought him well-behaved enough to keep some of his inventory!

Dream pulled him back with a shove, catching Tommy before he fell. Tommy looked around at his surroundings, oh. They were there.

They both stared quietly at Tommy’s pile of fabric scraps and bent metal that might have been a tent many storms ago. Tommy didn’t remember, he’d been spacey since exile started, not that Dream appreciated it that much. Tommy understood, if he spent a bunch of time hanging out with a friend and all they did was stare off into space, he’d be mad too. Tommy was lucky Dream still hung out with him, very lucky.

“You haven’t been sleeping that well, have you?” Dream crooned softly.

Tommy shrank at the question, “N- “Tommy began, though the pain was too much, launching Tommy into a wheezy coughing fit. He turned to look up at Dream, who seemed to be okay with the pseudo-eye-contact.

“I- “Dream sighed, as if an exasperated parent. “Prime, Tommy. Don’t complain about a sore throat tomorrow, or one today, for that matter. It’s not like you aren’t doing this to yourself. Look at you, broken. How pathetic…” He remarked, his words cutting harder than his axe. It hurt more, Tommy thought, that such a comment was made in a disturbingly positive voice, as if Dream had simply wished him good morning. The way Dream said things, so horribly confusingly, twisted Tommy’s young mind like a carousel.

The blood from his stomach wound finally dropped on his bare feet, which clearly said something either about his health or how the wound was, or potentially both. Tommy wasn’t exactly doing the best, so it was probably both. Tommy pondered for a moment over whether or not it really mattered, after all, there were no doctors in Logstedshire, unless he counted Dream’s rarely-thrown golden apples, or Tommy’s measly wartime medical training. Neither were particularly good, though, nor was anything in Logsted, the place was hell on earth, just colder.