BLIND | DreamSMP

VIII - Father and Son

I know why you don't remember your own father's face.

The taunting voice slipped into his mind like an oil slick, each venomous word dealing a crushing blow to Tommy's already frail psyche.

It's because you don't pay attention to anyone who isn't yourself.

He knew it wasn't true, that the mocking voice only whispered lies and twisted half-truths, but the knowledge didn't prevent him from hearing the ugly comments.

You only care about yourself.

Shut up, Tommy thought back. Shut up shut up shut up.

It's your fault Wilbur is dead. If you had noticed the signs, had done something to--

You're not real. Tommy clenched his jaw, desperately trying to ignore the voice.You're not real and you can't hurt me, so stop talking and just go away!

You could have saved Tubbo.

The unanticipated words hit Tommy like a punch to the gut. It wasn't true; he knew it wasn't true, that there wasn't anything he could've done to stop Techno from firing that crossbow.

But maybe there was, the voice insisted. If you had pearled to the stage and freed Tubbo, or shot Schlatt when you had the chance, or--

The heavy tears that had been burning behind his eyes finally spilled, tracing smooth paths down his cheeks and dripping off his trembling chin, the salty liquid stinging his cuts and cracked lips.

Silence returned to his mind, the voice slithering away into a dark recess, but it was too late; the damage had been done, and though Tommy tried his best to stop the ensuing flood of tears, his shoulders wouldn't stop shaking and he couldn't stop sobbing, haunted by his memory. He pulled the blanket even closer around himself, attempting to block out the rest of the world.

He wanted to be alone.

Tommy sniffed, burying his face in his hands. He wished he had never come here.

Phil and Techno were probably staring at him, wondering why he was so upset. Maybe they thought he was weak for crying like this. They wouldn't be wrong.

He should have stayed with Dream-- Dream would have taken care of him. Running away was a bad idea. Tommy silently berated himself for leaving the safety of his tent and campsite, more tears dampening the blanket he clutched tightly.

Though the threat of loneliness had gloomed over almost every day of his exile, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be alone. Everyone he was close to he hurt; perhaps they would all be better off without him.

Tommy sniffed again loudly, fresh tears tumbling from his eyes as he squeezed then shut in a futile attempt to stop the crying.

And suddenly, the blanket wasn't the only thing wrapped around him; a pair of arms tightly embracing him as Phil adjusted his wings so they encircled Tommy, hiding him in the soft feathers, shielding him from the rest of the cruel world.

Tommy threw his arms around Phil,  crying into his chest, shoulders heaving.

Phil held his son until the loud and wretched sobs ebbed into quiet sniffles that lessened into faint erratic breaths, the pitiful sound interrupted by an occasional muffled hiccup.

Eventually he slightly loosened his wings from around Tommy, withdrawing so he could look at the puffy-eyed boy. Tommy rarely cried-- something must be seriously wrong.