SBI - His Curse of Binding

2

With hindsight, Tommy regretted falling asleep in jeans. It was bad enough that he woke up in a cold sweat, thanks to Dream and his nightmare fuelling mask, but waking up and not being able to feel his legs was where he drew the line.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Tommy sat up and grabbed his notebook. Every time Dream visited, he updated his file on him. From the numerous visits he had with him, the prominent notes he always wrote down each time were:

Dream's still an asshole who exploits his Godhood to annoy me. He still wears that stupid mask.

He didn't get why Dream wore that mask. He had seen his real face, and boy was he glad Dream covered it up. He wasn't ugly or anything (he kinda was) but it was more what his face represented, what that humanised person did to him in his first life, when Tommy was at his absolute lowest, hoping for someone to just care for him and- nope. No, it was because Dream was ugly underneath it. That was why he was glad. No other reason.

Anyway, despite how Tommy would usually write that, he didn't this time. For once in the void, Dream wasn't an asshole. But he wasn't nice either. It was creepy, how Dream seemed excited, almost happy at Tommy's recent predicament.

Dream said this life would be more fun. He didn't specify who it would be fun for, me or him.
But he kept laughing. It scared me. He must like the myth he picked for me.

Tommy stopped writing and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was late morning. He'd rather not start the day with writing any more bullshit about the green bastard.

Ignoring the aches in his legs, Tommy headed towards the bathroom, the sign saying 'shitters be shitting' on the door made it clear. The door opened and a tall body bumped into him.

"Oh, uh good morning," Wilbur said.

"Morning," he replied. He waited for Wilbur to move away from the bathroom, but he didn't.

"I don't exactly know how to deal with children." If Tommy wasn't so tired, he would've beaten the shit out of him—and won, obviously—but that was just another thing to blame Dream for.

"I'm not a fucking child."

"Exhibit A."

"Shut up." Wilbur appeared amused at this entire thing. "Can you get out of the way so I can take a shit, or would you prefer watching me do it? Because if you take the second option, that's a bit weird of you—"

"Exhibit B."

It was too early for this shit. His stomach quenched in hunger. Maybe Wilbur could be useful.

"Is your family the type to force everyone to sit down and have breakfast or can I just take food and eat it upstairs?" he asked, not caring at Wilbur's surprise at the conversation change.

"We used to have family meals," Wilbur thread his hands through his hair, "But yeah, I guess it would be convenient to have them again. Come downstairs in a bit, we can have breakfast."

"Cool." Wilbur took that as his leave and finally moved away from the bathroom.

After Tommy finished his time in the bathroom, he walked down the stairs. They noticed his arrival in the kitchen. Phil greeted him as he made toast, wearing the greenest dressing gown Tommy had ever seen before, and Wilbur, unbothered, continued to grab jams from the top cupboard. He supposed the table with a cereal bowl in front of one of the chairs was the chosen table today. Fucking Tories and their two different types of dining tables.

He didn't know if this family had a hierarchy of who sat in each chair, but he didn't care. He was sitting at the head of the table and no one could do anything about it. His tiredness sabotaged his normal self-preservation.