a/n : it's tommy time, baby !

(plus some other stuff)

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Clay was awake before George arrived to drag him out of bed, for once. It was early – still dark outside, though the sky was slowly starting to lighten in the east. Clay pushed his blankets off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, where he sat for a long moment, staring into space.

His dream from last night played on a loop in his head.

It was a recurring dream he had been having for years. More of a series of images and words than anything. There was golden light all around, and the feeling of warmth, total warmth and security.

His mother was there, though he couldn't see her face. It was always either hidden behind her waves of blonde hair or obscured in the glare of the sun, as though her face was the source of the light itself. When she spoke, her voice sounded like a woman's voice, but it also sounded like the wind, or maybe the sound of a harp.

"You will be a great knight, Clay, and a greater King," she had said, as she always did, and he had felt the ghost of a touch on his head, on his cheek. "So long as you always follow the true path, and not the easy one."

"How will I know which is which?" he heard himself ask, his voice wavering and unsure, both a child and himself at the same time.

"You know truth," she responded simply. "It is your gift. Trust it." There were a few more lovely sounds he could never make out – like wind chimes. And then the light fell away.

She spoke no more than a few dozen words. He had committed them all to heart many years ago. He thought it must be a memory of his mother. It was the only way to explain the consistency – how the scene never changed. Yet when he tried to conjure up the memory in his head, independent of the abstract unreality of the dream, it slipped away elusively.

It was so different from what always followed.

The second part of the dream, the bad part, was undoubtedly a memory. Clay knew because he could see it in detail by closing his eyes, even while awake. Himself, a child, cowering in a closet, holding his breath so as not to make a sound, peeking through the cracks in the door. His mother, slammed against the wall by some unseen force. The sorcerer, a dark-haired woman dressed in black, demanding something from her. Her refusal. And then...

Clay shook the vision from his head and rubbed his face, bringing himself back to reality. The dream didn't scare him anymore, like it had the first few times. But it did still give him a strange, deep feeling in his chest. A pulling, or a calling towards something. It was difficult to articulate, though he felt it more clearly every day. That dream held the key to something. It was a clue pointing him towards the feeling in his chest that never left, the feeling he was never able to fully explain.

His purpose. He had one, even though he didn't know what it was. It felt secret and unspeakable, too personal to tell anyone, too vague to even try. It was more than the fact that he would be King. It was something he felt sure nobody would understand.

It was why he had taken so long to speak to George about his feelings regarding the Tournament. His friend had ultimately taken it well, all things considered. Clay knew his reasoning wasn't sound – that his motives weren't purely logical. But he felt convicted, sure that he had to prove himself today without aid, even if meant knowingly entering an unfair fight. It was an act which held greater importance to him than he could properly explain.

He wished he had the words, he thought, bunching his bedsheets in his hands in frustration. He wished he could communicate to George directly. Just place his friend inside of his head and show him the way he felt, the way this big, enormous thing just sat inside of his head and chest and screamed for attention. But he couldn't. And if he tried to say it out loud... he didn't think George would understand. Mostly because he could barely understand it himself. There was probably nobody else in the world, actually, who could understand.

Except, perhaps, his mother. She saw that pulling, that purpose in him before he saw it in himself. That's what the dream meant, he thought. It was a reminder.

You're not the only one who sees it. She saw it, too.

If only she were here, he thought for the millionth time, and felt the wave of grief roll over him, as sharp and breathtaking as it was the day he watched her die.

When he felt like he could breathe again, he picked himself up and walked towards the armor set out for him on his table. Engraved onto his shield was his family's crest.

Seeing the symbol made pride start to swell in his chest, slowly taking the place of his grief. This crest was his heritage signified. His mother and father had combined their family crests at their marriage. On the right side, his father's crest sported a roaring bear, representing the ferocity and strength of Daniel's lineage. It was juxtaposed with the animal from his mother's crest on the left: a phoenix, its wings spread, caught aflame. It fit perfectly with Camelot's colors: red and gold.

Clay was still looking at the shield as he heard the door behind him open and close. It was George. He knew without turning around, knew the way George moved, the way he changed the air in a room. He heard George walk to the table, setting down breakfast.

"You're up early," George said quietly.

Clay turned. George looked serious, lacking his usual jovial morning demeanor. He was looking at Clay closely, but when they made eye contact, George glanced away.

"Just getting ready," Clay responded, and to his relief, his voice came out clearly. He took a deep breath and set the shield down. "Let's eat."

The two of them sat at the table together and started eating from the tray of food George had brought from the kitchen, a meal-sharing ritual that happened often, even though it probably wasn't very proper. Outside, the sun was rising, shedding rays through the windows. Already, Clay could hear commotion from villagers and noble spectators starting to arrive, filling in the stands that would be packed by the time the tournament began in a few hours. He took a deep breath, putting down a piece of bread unfinished. George had stopped eating, too. He looked lost in his thoughts.

"It's about that time," Clay finally said.

George nodded, breaking himself out of his trance. "Want to put your armor on?"

Clay nodded and rose, disappearing behind the partition to change into the linen clothes he would wear underneath his tournament armor. When he emerged, George was waiting to help get him into his armor like he had done a hundred times before. This time, though, the actions felt heavier, almost solemn. George started to help Clay put on each piece of chainmail and armor, tying each knot and fastening the straps to hold each piece in place. It was a job that needed a capable pair of hands. George had grown adept at it quickly.

Silence stretched between them as George worked, and Clay got the distinct impression they both had something they wanted to say to the other, but didn't know how. In his head were the words: I know you don't understand why I have to do this, but I think it's something bigger than myself...

George was standing behind Clay, tying the knots that laced up Clay's back, when he finally broke the silence.

"Dream," he started.

Clay couldn't help but smile at the nickname. George was the only one who still called him Dream. Sapnap and Bad had gotten a little too old, treated him a little too formally. But with George, he could still be Dream. He liked it that way.

"Last night, while I was leaving the stables, I saw that man again," George continued, his hands brushing against Dream's back as he worked meticulously. "The one with the tattoo. I think he recognized me."

Something lying dormant in Dream's chest started to wake up. "Did he threaten you?"

"No," George responded and Dream's protectiveness tentatively died down. "They're not here for me, Dream."

Dream heard the meaning in the words, took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. So we know for sure it's them, and that they'll be dangerous. It's good to know."

"There's still time to talk to your father, you know," George said, coming around to Dream's front, inspecting his work so far. He wasn't making eye contact with Dream, and his voice came off casual, as though he didn't have a stake in it. Taking Dream's left wrist in his hand, George started strapping his gauntlet onto his forearm. "He'd believe you."

"No," Dream said simply, although he understood his friend's need to try one more time. "We have to wait until they do something clearly malicious. Anything before that will disqualify me."

George's eyes stayed trained on his task, but his grip on Dream's wrist tightened almost imperceptibly, and his face betrayed his emotions.

"I know you don't totally understand, George, but just follow my lead on this, okay?" Dream said. George's eyes flickered up to Dream's face for a moment; he bit the inside of his cheek, obviously conflicted, but then nodded.

"It's your call, Dream," he said, grabbing Dream's right arm to fasten its gauntlet into place. "If this is what you think is right, then... I trust you."

The simple admission resonated in the meager space between them as George finished with Dream's armor, taking one last minute to test each knot and strap and ensure each was tightly fastened. He stepped back to look over his handiwork, and Dream spread his arms.

"How do I look?" Dream asked, raising his eyebrows.

George snorted and shook his head. "Well, you're no Prince Charming, but..."

Dream laughed, grateful to feel the anxious tension ease between them. "Oh, come on, I'm plenty charming," he argued back, turning to inspect himself in the mirror. His armor was spotless, the colors of his shield brilliant in the sunlight, and he quickly ruffled his light hair which had grown just long enough to reach his ears. "There's going to be all kinds of ladies there. You don't think I look handsome?"

He was joking, but when he looked back at George, his friend was sort of stammering. "No, you – you look... good," George said, and then went honest-to-god red in the face, which delighted Dream. He wheezed lightly with laughter and pushed George's shoulder, making his friend smile sheepishly, his face still red.

"I'm messing with you, George. Come on. Let's go find Sapnap and Bad."

They weren't hard to find.

"Prince Clay!" Sapnap's voice boomed even over the low roar of the crowd, and Clay and George saw him pushing through the crowd towards them with a gleeful grin, his arms lifted high in the air. "You ready to get your butt kicked?"

Clay laughed as he embraced Sapnap briefly. "Ready as I'll ever be."

Sapnap mussed up George's hair, causing him to squawk in protest. They stood just outside the gates of the Tournament, which were adorned with arrangements of flowers and colorful banners. On all sides of them filtered one of the biggest crowds ever seen in Camelot. Noblemen and ladies made their way to the shaded seats with an excellent view of the field, while villager children raced around the grounds, thrilled just to be within the outer castle walls.

As he watched the commotion, George saw Bad finally push through the crowd as well, jogging up to join them. Unlike Sapnap and Clay, who were both in their armor, Bad was dressed in his typical day clothes, having chosen not to enter the Tournament this year. He had been spending most of his time in his family's fiefdom to support his father after he had fallen ill. In typical Bad fashion, he was chipper and seemed utterly unbothered by his exclusion from the day's competition.

"I took a look at the lineup, and it is going to be an incredible day," he told Clay.

"I mean, we already know I'm going to beat you in jousting and hand-to-hand," Sapnap boasted at Clay, who crossed his arms, "but I think we can both agree the real highlight is gonna be our team-up during melee."

This broke a broad grin across Clay's face, and he clasped Sapnap's arm, nodding once. "Okay, that we can agree on."

"We're gonna crush it!" Sapnap crowed triumphantly, drawing some pointed glances from the people who were passing them on all sides. Bad and George shot each other semi-exasperated glances and fell in behind Clay and Sapnap as they started walking further into the tournament grounds.

"How have you been, George?" Bad asked, and George looked at his friend with a smile.

"I've been alright," he said, in what he supposed was honesty. He had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he had forgotten to look forward to the tournament itself, the chance to spend time with his friends. "How are you? How's your father?"

A small shadow crossed over Bad's face, and he seemed to respond honestly, too. "He's not doing well. I wish I could be here more often, but right now, I'm glad I'm there to help him."

George nodded and placed a hand on Bad's shoulder. "You're a really good person, Bad."

Bad shot him a grateful smile and then dipped his head towards Clay. "And how has our dear Royal Highness been?"

George snorted and looked at the back of Clay's head as the prince obliviously wheezed with laughter over something Sapnap had said. "He's been an idiot, overall, but I've managed to keep him alive somehow."

"Sounds about right," Bad laughed as the four of them reached the tents. Clay and Sapnap turned around, and the four of them made a familiar little circle.

"The first round starts in a few minutes," Sapnap said. "It's probably time for us to go."

"George and I will be cheering for you. We believe in you guys," Bad said earnestly, and Clay and Sapnap smiled at him genuinely.

"Yeah, and I promise only to throw a few tomatoes when you lose," George smirked, earning himself a punch on the shoulder from Sap.

George was about to follow Bad to the noble's stands, figuring he could sneak in pretty easily, but Clay grabbed his shoulder, stopping him with an apologetic look on his face.

"Sorry, George," he said, "but in case I need you... you have to sit in the servant's stands." He turned George in a 180 and pointed him towards a small, worn-down set of benches closest to the tents, where several dozen sullen-looking men dressed in servant's clothing watched the field with almost total disinterest.

"Yippee," George said flatly as Sapnap failed to hide his snicker.

"You'll be fine," Clay said, while Bad tried to cheer him up: "it'll be okay George, just make a new friend!"

Bad meant it genuinely, but it made Sapnap roar with laughter, and George shot him an exasperated glare as Bad protested: "what, what's so bad about that!"

"Sorry, Georgie," Sapnap said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're the best, man. I'm giving you my favor once I win, for sure."

George rolled his eyes, flushing with embarrassment at the thought of Sapnap throwing him his favor, the small token usually given to a lady who had caught the knight's eye during competition. Of course, his redness just made Sapnap laugh harder as he and Clay disappeared into the sea of competitors. Bad waved goodbye and headed in the opposite direction.

The servant's seats would be fine, George told himself as he neared them, despite the dour atmosphere standing in stark contrast to the festivities happening everywhere else in the stadium. Actually, it would probably be for the best. The servants had a very direct view of the field, they had close access to the tents, and the lack of distractions and attention around him would let him focus on what was happening – and keep a close eye on the pillagers, who he hadn't yet spotted.

George found a seat near the middle of the stands and sat down, getting as comfortable as he could and preparing himself for a long, mostly lonely tournament experience.

It didn't last long.

"Ello," came a bright voice as someone sat next to him – right next to him, uncomfortably close. It surprised George so much that he didn't even respond at first, just moved a few inches away from the boy who had sat down next to him with no concept of personal space. It was another servant, George figured; a kid, a few years younger than him, with a shock of unruly blonde hair and an oversized grin. He seemed to buzz with hyper energy, sort of like a puppy.

"Hello," George eventually said back, furrowing his brow.

"Name's Tommy," the child said immediately, sticking a hand out so far it nearly bumped into George's chest. "Pleased to meet ya."

George took Tommy's hand tentatively and the boy vigorously shook his arm up and down a few times before returning his focus to the field as though nothing had happened. "Nice... to meet you as well," he said in confusion. "I'm George."

He almost immediately regretted giving the kid any kind of information as Tommy sucked in air through his teeth, clicking his tongue a few times. "George, George, George, George, George, George, George..." he said. "Can't say I recognize it. We haven't met before?"

"No," George said, "definitely not." He would remember.

"Where you from?"

"Camelot."

"Ah, Camelot, love the place, grand old place," Tommy said with an air of worldliness. "Not as great as Mercia, mind you, that's where I'm from, you know, but decent, definitely, knows how to throw a great Tournament that's for sure..." His words steadily increased in speed as they went, like an avalanche of sound.

George just looked at him in bewilderment as the trumpets cut him off, calling attention to the center of the field as the spectators finally settled into their respective seats. Everyone's gazes focused on the men riding into the field on their horses: King Daniel led the charge, followed by his Knights. As Daniel reached the center of the field, he pulled his horse to a stop and the spectators quieted.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his voice effortlessly filling the stadium. "Welcome to our Tournament!"

The audience cheered and applauded; George clapped as Tommy let out a loud whoop of excitement.