Chapter Text
Tommy woke to a familiar ache in his bones and the mattress dipping beside him. He made a low noise of discomfort, squinting as Dream hung a lantern above his bed.
“Dream,” Tommy mumbled, turning to press his face against his foster parent’s leg in an effort to hide from the light. “Hurts.”
“I know.” Dream’s voice was smooth as he pressed his broad palm over Tommy’s forehead. “Not feeling good, huh?”
Tommy only groaned softly, swallowing the saliva that gathered under his tongue.
“I told you,” Dream said with gentle exasperation. “You’re not strong enough to be running around like you were yesterday. You need to be more careful.”
Tommy could only nod weakly. This was hardly a new phenomenon. He’d been a sickly kid for as long as he could remember, and even longer than that if Dream’s account was to be trusted. And of course it was. After all, Dream had raised him. The village hadn’t known what to do with an infant whose parents had died. The nearest orphanage was a hundred miles away, and they’d had no way of getting him there. Tommy still counted himself lucky that Dream— barely an adult then himself— had been willing to take him in all those years ago.
“I’ll get you your medicine,” Dream said, rubbing a soothing hand over his hair. “I think you’d better stay in bed for the next few days, huh?”
Tommy scrunched up his face, displeased, but he couldn’t deny how awful he felt. His bouts of illness always snuck up on him; one day, he’d be up and about, feeling on top of the world. The next, he’d be back in bed, a fever or some other malady keeping him down.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
Dream let out a breath through his nose. “It’s not your fault,” he said, and Tommy’s heart clenched at Dream’s kindness. He was beyond patient, even with all of Tommy’s faults. “I’ll always take care of you.”
Tommy let his eyes drift shut, pressing his forehead more firmly into Dream’s leg in silent gratitude.
“Don’t go back to sleep yet,” Dream said, patting his hair. “You need your medicine.”
Tommy made a disgruntled noise, but he didn’t fight it as Dream pulled away. It seemed he’d hardly blinked before Dream returned, a familiar bottle in hand. He was lucky his medicine didn’t taste bad, what with how often he had to drink it. Dream held him upright as he sipped at the small bottle. As he swallowed the last of it, the tug of sleep grew stronger than ever. His eyelids were too heavy to pry open and the moment Dream let him go, he collapsed back onto the bed.
“Sleep,” Dream said, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders. The last thing Tommy remembered was a steady thumb wiping away a lingering drop of medicine from his chin.
The next few days were swallowed by the haze of sleep. Tommy remembered little, save for Dream’s presence drifting in and out of his room, spooning broth into his mouth and monitoring his fever. When he finally woke long enough to register more than his own pain, Dream was at his bedside and sunlight was streaming in through the window.
“Dream?” His voice was hoarse with disuse. Despite the ache in his bones, he felt better than he had in ages.
“Tommy.” Dream’s voice was thick with relief. “Are you with me this time?”
Tommy nodded sluggishly, swallowing past the film of sleep.
“It’s been four days,” Dream said. His hand was heavy where it pressed to Tommy’s forehead. “You worried me, kid.”
“Sorry,” Tommy croaked. “Didn’t mean to.”
“I know, darling. I’m just glad I was here to take care of you.”
Tommy hummed in agreement. He didn’t know what he would do without Dream.
By the afternoon, he felt well enough to sit at the table and eat. His muscles still felt weak, but that was hardly a new sensation. His hand trembled as he spooned soup into his mouth under Dream’s watchful eye, but he was determined to do it himself. By the time he finished, he was utterly spent.
“We’re running low on supplies,” Dream said, clearing his bowl and moving to wash it. “So when you’re back on your feet, I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you for a few days.”
“Okay,” Tommy agreed. With only one parent, it was hardly unusual that he was left alone. He knew Dream felt bad about it, so he tried not to complain. Besides, he’d been lucky: so far, he’d never gotten sick while Dream was away.
Two days later, Dream was packed to leave.
“I’ll be gone a week at most,” Dream repeated for what had to be the fourth time. “You know the rules. Don’t go into my study, don’t use the stove, and stay inside the house. I don’t want you talking to anyone in the village.”
Tommy nodded. He was intimately familiar with this spiel of Dream’s. “I’m fifteen now,” he said. “I’ll be good, I promise. You don’t have to worry.”
Dream’s lips thinned pensively and he pressed a heavy hand to Tommy’s head. “I’ll be back. A week, tops.”
Dream left in the morning. By the afternoon, Tommy’s head was pounding. He needed his medicine, but the only store of it was in Dream’s study, where he was forbidden to set foot.
But if Dream knew he was sick, he would surely want him to take his medicine, Tommy reasoned.
The door to Dream’s study was heavy, thicker than any other door in the little house. It wasn’t locked. Tommy practically preened at the implication: Dream trusted him. He knew he would never disobey him unless it was an emergency. Therefore, he felt no need to lock up his study.
Tommy quickly located his medicine in the small room, but all that remained was a half-full vial sitting on a low shelf. It would have to do, Tommy supposed. He could only hope that it would be enough to cure whatever bug he’d caught. When Dream came home, he could get him more.
He downed it. He was halfway through rinsing out the bottle when a familiar rush of weakness came over him. It was all he could do to drag himself to bed before he passed out.
His medicine was working like it always did.
***
Sleep clung to Tommy like a tree’s thick sap, sticking to itself and trapping him in its all-encompassing hold. It took too long to pry his eyes open. When he finally did, the morning sun shone on him through his bedroom window.
Had it already been a day? Two, maybe? His mouth was unbearably dry. His head pounded. He groaned, reaching up a trembling hand to press it to his temple. The medicine hadn’t been enough. If anything, he felt worse.
“Dream?” His throat burned as it protested. He was met with silence. So Dream hadn’t come home yet, and the house was empty of medicine. Tommy needed help. He forced his sluggish mind to focus. Where did Dream get his medicine? He never talked about it, but surely it was from the witches’ shop on the other side of the village. The three witches that resided there were trusted by the village, Tommy knew, and they could brew up most anything.
Still, apprehension stirred in his stomach. He knew the rules well, and he knew Dream likely wouldn’t be happy to learn that Tommy was leaving the house. But just like going into Dream’s study yesterday, it was for an emergency. Dream wouldn’t want him to feel so sick if there was something he could do about it. Besides, Tommy reasoned, Dream only said not to talk to anyone in the village. The witches lived just beyond the village, in the shadow of the forest, so technically, he wasn’t breaking any rules. Besides, his head and throat felt worse than any guilt ever could.
So, with his head pulsing and his throat on fire, he stuffed on his shoes and grabbed one of Dream’s jackets. As a measure of caution, he wrapped a bandana around his nose and mouth. With his weak immune system, it was dangerous for him to be around others’ germs, so covering his mouth and nose seemed like the best precaution. Beyond that, he would just have to do his best to avoid touching people.
Their village was small, so it was easy to skirt around the edges of it to get to the other side. Tommy found himself in front of the witches’ shop in less than fifteen minutes. Like most places in the village, the building functioned both as a business and a home. He climbed the steps to the porch, noting the ‘Open’ sign hanging on the door. He twisted the door handle and pushed it open. A bell rang as he did so, startling him. He peered into the shop. “Hello?”
“Hello?”
Tommy bit back a shriek, jerking back hard enough to slam his elbow into the thick wooden door. That was going to bruise, he recognized distantly.
A crow perched on the counter, its head tilted. “Hello?” it echoed again, its voice shrill.
Tommy blinked at it. “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck?”
Tommy was too distracted by the talking bird to notice the curtain behind the counter opening.
“Hi there!”
Tommy startled again, pressing a hand to his chest as he took in the man now standing behind the counter. “Jesus.”
The man winced. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s—” Tommy blinked and tried to refocus. “It’s fine. I’m Tommy.”
“Philza,” the blonde said warmly. The crow flapped its wings, soaring briefly in the shop’s small space before settling on Philza’s shoulder. Philza scratched under its chin affectionately. “This is Chat.”
“Chat,” Tommy repeated weakly. “Your bird talks.”
Philza laughed, the sound bright. “We’re witches, mate. She’s hardly the strangest thing in this house.”
Tommy felt slightly ridiculous at that reminder.
“So,” Philza said, leaning on the counter. “What can I do for you, Tommy?”
Right. Tommy took a deep breath and refocused. “I need a potion.”
“You’re going to want Technoblade then,” Philza said. “He’s our potion master.” He turned, drawing back the curtain that led from the shop to the house, and called, “Techno! Got a customer for you!”
He turned back to Tommy, winking. “He’ll be right down.”
Tommy fidgeted as he waited. Fortunately, Philza was right: It didn’t take long before the curtain was opening again. However, to Tommy’s surprise, rather than one person, two people emerged from behind it. The first was broad with pink hair falling over his shoulders. The second was infuriatingly tall, with a self-assured expression set on his face. Tommy decided he despised him.
“Techno,” Philza said, addressing the pink-haired man. “Tommy here needs your services.”
Technoblade’s eyes shifted to Tommy. Tommy squirmed under his unblinking gaze.
“I’m Tommy,” Tommy repeated. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the vague direction of home. “I live—”
“We know who you are,” Technoblade interrupted flatly. “You’re Dream’s kid.”
Tommy brightened marginally. “Yeah,” he said, wincing as his throat burned with the strain of speech. “He’s away, but I need potions. Whatever he usually gets me is fine.”
Philza’s brow wrinkled. “Dream doesn’t come to us for potions.”
Confusion crawled sluggishly through Tommy’s aching brain. “He doesn’t?”
Technoblade shook his head. “Some people mix home remedies themselves,” he explained. “It’s not as precise a science as potion-making and it rarely achieves equal effects, but it’s not dangerous if you know what you’re doing.”
“Dream knows what he’s doing,” Tommy said confidently. “If he’s not been buying my medicine from you, then he’s been making it since I was little.”
Technoblade hummed, the sound neutral. “Well, I don’t know what he’s been giving you exactly, but I should still be able to give you something that’ll help. So, you’re sick?”
Tommy nodded. “Sore throat, headache.” He gestured vaguely. “And I just feel really weak. Nothing unusual for me, but with Dream gone, I’m afraid I’ll end up too sick to take care of myself.”
“All right,” Technoblade said, his expression pensive. “I can help you out. Anyway, it would reflect badly on my business if I sent you home still sick. Does a regeneration potion sound okay?”
Tommy nodded. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was Dream usually gave him, but something with regenerative properties couldn’t hurt.
“Come on back,” Technoblade said, waving him towards the curtain. “You can sit while I whip one up.”
With Philza and the other witch taking up the rear, Tommy followed Technoblade behind the curtain.
“Whoa.” Tommy couldn’t help his noise of amazement as he stared in wonder at the eclectic sight. The front of the shop had been interesting, with its dozens of carefully labeled products for sale. Each glowed with a tinge of magic, of course, but it was nothing overwhelmingly tangible.
But this… This room simply teemed with magic.
Plants were everywhere, some stretching freely across the ceiling and walls, while others were kept dried in glass cases. In the corner, a large brewing stand stood, heat emanating from it. Every flat surface was stacked with books, or littered with papers, or covered with glass jars of ingredients.
Even behind the bandana that covered his mouth, Tommy could taste the magic.
“Sorry for the mess,” Technoblade said, waving haphazardly.
Tommy was too stunned to respond. Philza cleared a place for him on the couch and he sat with a thud. He hadn’t realized how weak his knees felt until he sat down; the walk here had really taken it out of him.
Technoblade had already started mixing ingredients, while Philza worked on straightening the room up. The third witch perched on the arm of a chair in the corner, a guitar resting loosely in his grip, and studied Tommy with a tilted head.
“I’m Wilbur,” he offered. His accent was lofty.
Tommy eyed him shrewdly. “Why are you so tall? It makes you look like a clown.”
Philza burst into infectious laughter, and Tommy felt pride burn in his chest.
Wilbur scowled. “What’s with the mask? Trying to match Dream?”
Tommy flushed beneath the fabric, his shoulders hunching up near his ears. “I get sick easily,” he said, defensive. “So I have to be careful.”
“Smart,” Philza said, cutting Wilbur off before he could open his mouth again. “We’ll be careful then.” He pointed warning fingers at the other two. “Wash your hands extra thoroughly before you handle anything you’re going to give to him.”
Tommy was grateful for the man’s consideration. He didn’t want to catch a bug on top of the one he already had. He glared at Wilbur out of the corner of his eye before shifting his focus to Technoblade and the various magical items around him.
“I’ve seen that before,” he said, pointing at one of the dried vines hanging in a glass case. “What is it?”
Technoblade glanced over from where he was crushing ingredients in a mortar. “That? It’s a type of solanum. Poisonous. It’s only used in potions of weakness, harming, or slowness.”
Wilbur studied Tommy from the corner, where he perched with his guitar. “You’ve seen it before? I thought it didn’t grow around here. Techno, you always have to travel for a few days to collect it.”
Technoblade shrugged. “Maybe the kid’s traveled.”
Tommy hadn’t traveled. He knew that vine from the dried leaves of it Dream kept sealed in jars in his study. It was an ingredient, Dream said, the time Tommy had spotted him carrying some in.
Tommy was pulled away from his thoughts by the soft plucking of Wilbur’s guitar. The sound was penetrating, flooding the room with a sense of calm. But Tommy had already decided he didn’t like Wilbur, so he fought against it.
He eyed Wilbur with a thinly-veiled layer of disgust. “What do you do if Technoblade makes potions?”
Wilbur smirked. “I’m a musician.”
“No,” Tommy said, rolling his eyes. “What do you do? Like, magic-wise.”
Wilbur lifted his guitar slightly. “I make music. It’s how I channel magic.”
Tommy didn’t know what to say, so he scoffed instead. “That sounds dumb.”
Wilbur only laughed. “It doesn’t sound like much, I know, but I’ll show you if you want.”
Tommy decided that his dislike of Wilbur wasn’t quite as strong as his curiosity was, so he nodded.
“All right, watch that jar.” Wilbur pointed to a small jar sitting on the desk across the room. Tommy focused his gaze on it while Wilbur began to pluck a concentrated rhythm. The air thickened with magic and Tommy’s ears popped. Slowly, the jar began to rise, wobbling slightly in the air as Wilbur’s song prompted it upwards.
“Whoa,” Tommy breathed. He was transfixed, his gaze unmoving until Wilbur slowly brought it back down to rest on the desk again. He blinked, looking back at Wilbur who was watching him with an arched brow. “That’s pretty cool,” he admitted. He saved his pride just in time though by adding, “Still not as cool as Technoblade.”
Technoblade snorted, turning back towards him. “Thanks, kid. Your potion’s done, by the way.” He handed Tommy the bottle, pink liquid bubbling at the surface. “It tastes nasty, but it’ll do the trick.”
Tommy pulled down his mask, plugged his nose, and downed the potion. It didn’t go down easy, that was for sure. It was vile— nothing like the herbal teas and sweet syrups Dream made him. He made a face, already reaching for water as he swallowed. He was met with it, gentle hands pressing a glass of water into his hand. It was Philza, Tommy realized, catching a glimpse of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye as he downed the water.
“Easy,” Technoblade cautioned, pulling the glass down before Tommy could finish it in one gulp. “You gonna puke?”
“I…” Tommy blinked, startled at the unfamiliar lightness of his limbs. “I feel better.”
Technoblade arched his brow, amused. “I should think so. I know what I’m doing.”
Tommy was too stunned to craft a retort. He’d never felt repaired so instantly. Though the bitter aftertaste remained, he could feel its regenerative power thrumming in his veins. His bandana hung around his neck. He felt no need to pull it up to re-cover his mouth and nose.
He looked up, suddenly aware of the three sets of eyes on him. He swallowed, embarrassed, and stiffened his shoulders. “What do I owe you?” he asked, as if his pockets weren’t empty of coins.
Technoblade waved his hand, unconcerned. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Dream when he gets back and we can settle up then.”
Cold fear shot up Tommy’s spine, overpowering the warmth of the potion. “No,” he said, too quickly. At Technoblade’s arched brow and the sudden attention from Wilbur and Philza, he backtracked, blushing fiercely. “I mean, Dream doesn’t know I’m here.” He twisted his hands in his lap, picking at the edge of a nail until the bed filled pink with blood.
Wilbur had stopped picking at the strings of his guitar. Curious, he tilted his head, his brown eyes unnervingly piercing as he examined Tommy. Tommy shrank under his gaze. “Why is that?”
Despite his sudden anxiety, Tommy bristled at Wilbur’s honeyed voice. “None of your business, dickhead.”
Technoblade barked out a sharp laugh, and Tommy startled at the sound.
“Fair enough,” Technoblade said, seemingly unconcerned. “Then don’t worry about it, all right? It’s on the house.”
“No,” Tommy argued, his internal sense of justice rising within him. “That’s not right. I owe you.”
Technoblade considered that. “All right,” he said finally. “How about this? When you’re feeling better, you come back and help me clean up a little around here?”
Tommy jumped at the chance. “I’m good at cleaning.”
Technoblade nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then if you’re feeling well enough, come back tomorrow.”
“I will,” Tommy promised. Dream wouldn’t be home for at least another few days, so he was free to venture out until then.
“Do you want someone to walk you home?” Philza asked.
Tommy shook his head. “I’m okay.”
“Get home safely then, mate.”
Tommy waved as he left the shop. As he made his way home, he couldn’t keep from flexing his fingers in and out of fists. He’d never felt so strong. The magic of the potion thrummed through him, still repairing what faults it could find. Even the fingernail he’d picked at was scabbing over where he’d broken skin, and the bruise on his elbow from hitting the door was surely disappearing. He wondered at the fact that Dream had never given him one of these potions.
But Dream knew best, he reminded himself. Instantly, he was ashamed of his doubt. Dream wouldn’t do anything less than what was best for Tommy. Tommy put the doubt firmly out of his mind.
As he approached the front door of his house, a flippant shadow darted across the ground next to him. On instinct, Tommy glanced up. Chat greeted him with a caw, tipping her wings to swing lower before settling on the roof’s edge.
“Hey, Chat,” Tommy said. “I told them I didn’t need an escort home.”
“Home,” Chat echoed. “Home, home, home.”
Tommy huffed out a breath of laughter through his nose. “Yep.” He stared at the front door, thick and heavy where it stood as a barrier between the world and his loneliness. “Home.”
The rest of the day passed slowly, but Tommy kept busy, picking up around the house and even chopping some firewood in the back. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt well enough to do that.
And the next morning, he made good on his promise to return to the witches’ shop. It was the best day he’d had in his life. They fed him lunch halfway through the day, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard as he ate with them. He was almost disappointed when the day came to an end.
“All right,” Technoblade said, surveying the room. “Your debt is cleared.”
His study looked marginally better. Tommy had spent the day labeling and sorting various ingredients, categorizing books by magic type, and generally cleaning up, but it hadn’t felt like work for a single minute because Technoblade had allowed him to pester him with questions the entire time. His answers were unaffected but thorough, satisfying Tommy’s curiosity at least for the moment.
Tommy must have let his disappointment show at the dismissal though because Technoblade continued:
“But if you wanted to come back sometime, I guess I wouldn’t stop you.” His tone was uncaring, but Tommy held each of the words close to his chest, letting them warm his heart.
With Dream still gone, Tommy returned the next day. Through his talks with the witches, he learned the names of plants and their uses, the various types of magic, and the responsibilities of a witch. He learned that while Technoblade’s expertise lay in brewing and Wilbur’s magic was channeled through music, Philza’s magic came from pure study.
And despite his initial grudge against Wilbur, Tommy found that the man wasn’t actually as infuriating as he’d initially appeared. While he could certainly be irritating, Tommy found himself laughing with him as much as bickering. They weren’t far apart in age either. At twenty years old, Wilbur was only five years older than Tommy. Though he would never admit it to the man, Wilbur was the closest thing Tommy had ever had to a friend in his life.
Philza was kind, but funny too. Tommy liked how he laughed when he and Wilbur made fun of each other, but even more than that, he liked the way he made sure none of them went hungry, loading up their plates at lunch before his own. He was gentle, the way Dream was when Tommy was sick, but softer somehow. Tommy liked just sitting quietly with him, dozing as Philza copied notes from a large text.
But of the three witches, it was Technoblade’s steady presence and grounding voice that Tommy found himself gravitating most strongly towards. He learned about the different ingredients, asking questions about the ones he’d caught a glimpse of during his foray into Dream’s study. Every so often, Technoblade’s gaze would linger on him after a question, but he always answered to Tommy’s satisfaction, so Tommy saw no need to stop asking.
“That regeneration potion you gave me,” Tommy began one afternoon. It had been four days since he’d taken the potion and it was still on his mind, so he ventured to ask: “It was really strong, wasn’t it? Like, stronger than normal?”
Technoblade didn’t pause from where he was categorizing and labeling jars. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I just…” Tommy hesitated. “I’ve never felt anything like that before. You know… just instantly better.”
Technoblade gave him a curious look out of the corner of his eye. “Dream’s never given you anything like that?”
Tommy shook his head.
“Even something similar, just weaker?”
“No. My medicine always makes me fall asleep, like really deep. It heals me while I rest.”
Technoblade’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Huh.”
Tommy shrugged. “It doesn’t feel great and I hate being so out of it for so long, but it’s worth it, I guess, if it makes me better in the long run.”
“Uh-huh,” Technoblade said slowly. “And… how long does it knock you out for?”
Tommy thought about it. “I’m not sure. I usually take multiple doses.”
Technoblade hummed neutrally. “Do you know what’s in it?”
Tommy shook his head. “I’m not allowed in Dream’s study.”
“Well,” Technoblade said, sounding more uncertain than Tommy had ever heard him. “If you ever need another regen potion, you can always come to us.”
Tommy’s chest was warm the whole way home, just thinking of Technoblade’s words. Tommy was happy. For the first time in his life, he had friends outside of Dream.
But eventually, Dream had to return. Tommy was ashamed of his own disappointment when he woke up the next morning to the front door opening. He was happy Dream was home, he was, but he couldn’t help but selfishly want the trips to the witches’ shop to remain a constant in his life. But Dream would never approve. Unless, Tommy considered: Unless he was no longer sick.
***
Tommy threw up dinner that night.
He couldn’t help but feel guilty, knowing that he’d ruined Dream’s homecoming dinner. Dream had even made it himself, despite Tommy’s protests. But of course, Tommy couldn’t stay well long enough to last the night. Fortunately, his guardian was ever-patient, only crooning softly as Tommy fell into bed, pushing his hair back from his sweat-slicked forehead and pressing a bottle of fresh medicine to his lips. Tommy tried to turn away, discomfort making him anxious, but Dream insisted.
Before he could drain even half the vial, Tommy dropped off into sleep.
***
It had been three days. Technoblade wasn’t worried, per say— that would be absurd, considering he’d known the kid less than a week— but Tommy’s absence didn’t exactly put him at ease.
Philza was the first to note his absence aloud:
“Tommy’s not been by in a while, huh?”
Technoblade grunted.
“Yeah,” Wilbur said, passing through the room on his way out to forage. “I can’t believe I’m saying it, but I miss the little gremlin.”
Technoblade grunted again. It was none of his business. Maybe Tommy was sick again. Maybe he just didn’t want to come back. Frankly, Technoblade didn’t care.
Two hours later, he found himself outside of Dream’s house, a fresh regeneration potion tucked into his bag.
Just in case, he reasoned. Maybe Dream wasn’t home yet and Tommy had fallen ill again. Maybe he was stuck in bed, sweating out a dangerous fever. Or maybe he’d collapsed and hit his head and was now unconscious on the floor—
The front door swung open and Technoblade couldn’t help the curl of distaste on his lips as he was met with the eerie smile of Dream’s mask.
“Technoblade. Can I help you?”
“Dream. I was just…” Technoblade grimaced internally. Tommy didn’t want Dream to know he’d been out to see them. “I wanted to see if your kid was here. We’ve been looking for someone to help around the shop,” he lied.
Dream tilted his head. “Tommy’s a little under the weather right now.” Even with the mask, Technoblade could hear the tight smile in Dream’s voice. “He’s not up for visitors.”
Technoblade reached into his bag and withdrew a regeneration potion. “I thought that might be the case. This’ll help. It’s free of charge,” he added, hoping to avoid any possible refusal Dream could come up with.
But Dream wasn’t having it. “I appreciate it,” he said, his tone suggesting the opposite. “But Tommy’s immune system is very sensitive. I’d rather not introduce him to something new, with his risk of an allergic reaction so high.”
It was a lie. Technoblade didn’t need to be a witch to know that. But even with his gut screaming at him that something was wrong, he didn’t push.
“I hope he feels better,” he said, tucking the vial back into his bag. “Let me know if he’d be interested in working at the shop.”
Dream tilted his chin in affirmation. “We’ll see. Goodbye, Technoblade.”
Technoblade left without another word.
***
“You’re not to leave the house anymore.”
Tommy startled from where he sat at the table, leaning over a book Dream had brought back for him. “What?”
Dream didn’t turn to look at him as he said, “We had a visitor today. You’ve met him, right? Technoblade?”
Fear gripped Tommy’s spine in a cold fist. “Dream, that wasn’t—”
“I don’t care what it was or wasn’t,” Dream interrupted sharply, turning to face him from the counter. “I’m telling you now— I don’t want you leaving the house anymore. Look how sick you were when I came home from traveling.”
But I wasn’t sick, Tommy wanted to argue. I only got sick after eating with you.
Instead, he said, quietly, “Okay.”
“Good,” Dream said, satisfied. “Now you’re looking a little pale.” He tilted his head as he examined him. “I’ll make you some medicinal tea.”
Dread crawled slowly through Tommy’s veins. He was stiff as Dream heated the water before leaving for his study and returning with a jar full of familiar dried leaves. Solanum, Technoblade had said. Only used in potions of weakness, harming, or slowness. Tommy watched, numb, as Dream mixed the crushed solanum leaf into the tea before setting the mug in front of him.
“You want me to drink this.” It wasn’t a question, but Dream seemed to read it as one.
“Yes,” he said impatiently. He’d turned to clean up, his back to Tommy again, but he paused long enough to send him a sharp look over his shoulder. “It’ll help you feel better.”
“But I feel fine,” Tommy argued. The mug felt heavy with the weight of what he knew it contained.
“Tommy,” Dream said sharply. “What have I said about arguing with me?”
Tommy’s shoulders hunched up near his ears. “Sorry.”
With his heart in his throat, he lifted the mug to his lips and took a small sip.
“All of it,” Dream said. “Or else it won’t take.”
“It’s hot,” Tommy protested weakly, but despite his hesitance, he obediently drank the tea.
It burned going down and the heat spread like sludge through his veins. With wobbling arms, he lowered the mug to the table where it clattered lightly. Every inch of his body was weighted down, like he was moving underwater. His head felt thick, his brain sludge. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. Even to lift a finger took monumental effort. His body was not his own.
“Tired?” Dream’s voice was a gentle croon. Tommy wanted to shy away from it, but he couldn’t move, save to blink. “Let’s get you lying down.”
Distantly, he registered hands sliding under him, catching him as he slumped in his chair.
“Wait,” he tried to say, but his tongue was heavy in his mouth.
“Just sleep.”
Consciousness slipped from him like water through his fingers.