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His hands are shaking again, his hands usually seem to be shaking these days.
Ever since his revival, his death, his hands haven’t stopped. Even before that though damage from explosions and axes made them unsteady and weak, making everyday life just that dash more difficult. It’s been so much worse since the prison though, his hands moving and shaking constantly against his will, he can barely even keep hold of a sword or a shield without the items clattering against the ground, rendering them useless. Much like he himself now is, Tommy supposes.
It’s been a while since his months-long foray into the life-after-life, and he can’t say it’s been going too spectacularly. The long weeks (or months, time’s become so hard to tell, hours and days merging into one meaningless stretch of time) since his return had been spent mostly confined to solitude within his hovel of a dirt shack, not that he needed anyone, of course, he was mature and independent and the biggest goddam man around… but the isolation was starting to grate.
People usually meant pain anyway, and it was better to be alone than with someone that would hurt him, use him, toy with him like a puppet hanging by frayed strings, he promises to never again let himself be that.
Tubbo and Ranboo still come over every now and then to check on him, to make sure he’s still alive , but they’ve got their own shit to deal with now, a commune and a marriage and a fucking kid apparently! They're so busy and happy that he doesn’t want to bother them, to intrude on his friend’s new lives and ruin it like he ruins fucking everything, it’s not like he should matter enough for them to care anyway.
So when they visit he smiles and shouts, putting on the old routine and persona like a pair of ill-fitting gloves, all the while trying to stop his hands from shaking and the tears from gathering in the corners of his eyes. He tells them he’s fine and that he’s doing perfectly okay on his own thank you very much , eventually shooing them back Snowchester.
He’s okay with these cold and barren dirt walls, with the constant ache of loneliness in his still-beating heart, even with the violent tremors that travel through the length of his arms and fingers.
...He probably deserves it anyway.
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He’s sewing again, he usually seems to be sewing these days.
It’s almost impossible to do now, along with knitting and crocheting and any form of delicate work, but he’s certainly not going to stop. They’re the only things that bring him joy and comfort now, slowly calming and clearing his thoughts enough so that he doesn’t get caught in his own mind’s tangled web, wrapping around his neck and robbing him of the precious air he needs to breathe, to continue living. When it gets too much he can’t help to scratch his nails against his still tender skin, to attack in the desperate hope that he can break the hands’ grip that’s trying to strangle the life out of him once again...
...So yeah, he’s definitely going to continue sewing! Even if everything he made looked wonky and lopsided like its creator was some complete amateur that doesn’t know a back stitch from a basting stitch. Or potentially like a drunkard father who spent all of the money meant for their kid’s birthday presents on booze instead and was desperately trying to make up for it while still being heavily inebriated. Either way, he really fuckin hated it.
It was meant to be his thing, sewing and creating with varying wools and cloths, his private way to unwind and contribute, to create instead of destroy , to give instead of taking once again. Uniforms and flags, sweaters and scarves, embroidery and patches, capes and shirts, blankets and plushes, woolen hugs, and inspiring designs. Things others would actually like to own.
Nowadays, it seems all he’s capable of is ruining what once was so good, and now he can’t even properly compensate for what he’s done, what he’ll inevitably fuck up in the future. Tubbo still graciously takes the small bee plushes he crochets for him, and Ranboo seemed pleased with the Allium he asked to be stitched onto his suit, they even thank him for the slightly absurd amount of blankets he’s made for Michael. But it’s not enough (and it never will be).
He knows they’re all insufficient gifts for the shit he’s put them through, the stitches are uneven and jagged, woolen loops large and sloppily done. They’re both so absolutely amazing friends for putting up with all his endless bullshit, they deserve so much more than his messy work, they deserve so much more than him.
So on he pushes through aching hands, sore eyes, and raw skin, for the server’s own personal fool doesn’t know what’ll happen if he stops. The needle pricks his finger again.
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He’s bleeding again, he usually seems to be bleeding these days.
He watches despondently as the unpleasant bead of liquid rolls sluggishly down his thumb, reminding him of the times he had seen such similar sights before. His blood is darker than it should be, thicker than it should be, running down the crevasses and slashed marks of his hand like a tainted molasses smelling of decay and rot.
Even after only two days in the afterlife, his entire frame is marred by the marks of death. With skin dry and stretched painfully over too visible bone, and new scars spanning his gaunt and sunken features, his joints still stiff from rigor mortis. He destroyed every mirror in his ownership the first day back in his shitty little abode.
The slight pain is comforting in a way, numbed by the excruciating after-effects of resurrection as it is. At least he was the cause of it, not Wilbur or Dream , he was the one in control and he got to decide if he hurt or not. It was calming to, gave him something to focus on when even the repetitive motions of creating couldn’t keep the thoughts, the voices, out.
He made sure not to take it too far, Tubbo would probably be sad if he ever found out, maybe even hate him for spitting in the face of his love and care, of putting up with him for so long. Just another reason on the list of why Tommy is such a shit friend.
Tubbo had already faced such an unfair amount of pain, either them together or on his own, it’s truly disgraceful that he now puts himself through it voluntarily, that he risks putting his best friend through even more emotional pain. He doesn’t even really deserve to call Tubbo (who’s so kind and understanding even after everything that’s happened) his best friend. Not when he’s such an fucking idiotic, disgusting, ungrateful, and pathetic little welp who doesn’t even deserve to fucking liv-)
Some of his first memories are of hunger pangs from being a starving street rat, hands nicked and scraped desperately clutching onto stolen food, memories of how he’s been so intimately tethered to pain from such a young age, before the server and Wilbur, before even Tubbo .
Of course, it only got worse once he joined the SMP, the starvation only temporarily avoided. Instead, it was traded for an enchanted sword through his neck and torso, an arrow directly through his heart, axe swings raining down against his arm’s as he begs for mercy, electricity coursing through his body burning and ruining all in its path, a hand firmly wrapped around his neck and a fist colliding against his head again, and again , and again , until his skull finally, inevitably , collapses inward. They all leave horrible, permanent scars, reminders of times not so long ago that he oh so desperately wishes could be forgotten.
Even so, with a history of such torment and bloodshed, he can find comfort and even enjoyment from pain, at least when it isn’t given by someone else. It’s calming, helps him focus on the here and now, and not get lost in the terrors of the past or the anxiety of the future. It feels a bit like coming home, a bit like this is all he’s ever known, and that at least pain itself hasn’t changed so fundamentally that it’s barely recognizable. Like he has something to hold onto.
And so, under the numerous dirty bandages that will only ever be taken off in assured privacy, lie dozens upon dozens of thin white lines crisscrossing across his fragile skin. Never too deep, never intended to kill (limbo was a hell he’d never prefer to experience again).
No, instead they’re careful cuts presenting themselves along his arms like a testament to what little power he still possesses over himself, shouting a twisted symbolism as they mingle and intertwine with the numerous scars forcefully given by others.
They all blend in so well with the sharp and forceful lines on his trembling arms.
The stark and jagged lightning pattern of excruciating but instant electrocution.
The spanning sweep across his torso, still tasting bitterly of betrayal.
The inconspicuous indent mournfully lingered over his barely-beating heart.
The starbursts, pot marks, and burns that sporadically cover his entire being.
His discolored, misshapen face holding a now slightly milky and unseeing eye.
It’s all tragically beautiful in a way, or sickeningly ironic.
It’s probably better this way...
He’s fine, he’ll be fine.
He’s used to it.
...Maybe he should go knit another blanket for Michael.