Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Maybe, Punz thinks as they stare at the message on their communicator, it should have been expected.

Maybe they should have expected it would turn out like this the moment the mask fell and Dream’s secret was exposed to the world. Maybe he should have expected it the moment he saw the messages from Dream’s time in prison.

Maybe.

But after their conversations, after the last time they spoke— they didn’t expect it anymore. Simple as that.

(Only it’s never that simple.)

[Dream fell from a high place.]

He truly thought things could get better, truly thought Dream was willing wanted to get better. He had truly thought their words had gotten through to Dream, had made him realize that this is never the solution even if it seems this way. Even if it feels like it is.

Death is never the answer. Never. But maybe they had been far too late for Dream to understand. If someone if they had just helped earlier, if someone had felt the need to do something, if—

It’s too late now, isn’t it? No one they didn’t helped. No one did anything. No one even felt like they were responsible.

And when they did, Dream was out of prison again, no mask covering his face anymore, no false age protecting his past, no way to make them realize that Dream’s age wasn’t what they should have focused on.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

The day Punz unmuted Dream should have been the day to realize that Dream’s age came second, that the consequences of the prison—of raw potatoes and solitary confinement, of lava and dripping obsidian, of a child soldier’s life filled with abuse and death and loneliness—should have been their main focus. That this would have been the only way to truly help Dream, to make him understand that they wanted to help, that it wasn’t only about him being a child.

But— but they don’t know what they should have changed, what they should’ve done. What was needed to prevent this.

Could they have prevented it? Could they have stopped him? Could they?

If Hope hadn’t been able to stop Dream, could have Punz?

It’s easy to say they couldn’t. That it would have been impossible. That Dream had made up his mind a long time ago and there had been nothing able to stop him, but— but that’s not the full truth, is it?

The last time they spoke— Punz can’t say for sure, will never be able to say it with confidence, will never be able to actually believe it, but they had thought—

It’s easy to say that nothing would have been able to prevent Dream from killing himself jumping. It’s easy to say. It’s easy to say—and it’s a lie. A lie he long stopped being able to believe.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

No one ever is unsavable. Even Dream especially Dream?, even if Dream didn’t think so. Even if no one thought so.

He could have been saved. He could have been helped. He could. But they didn’t. They didn’t in a way that would have meant something. That would have effected something.

But could they? Could they?

Dream didn’t want their help, didn’t want anyone’s help. Not Sapnap’s or Puffy’s, not Bad’s or George’s or Phil’s.

No one’s. (How could they have helped him?)

But why? Why did he jump now? Why did he decide to end his life?

He’s had Hope, he could have left the SMP, could have begun a new life with a better future— he had Hope. There’s a lot Punz doesn’t know about Dream, a lot they know they will never understand, but Dream wouldn’t have left Hope all alone. He wouldn’t.

There’s not a lot Punz can say for sure, this though— there has to be another reason. There has—

No. There’s no need for another reason, for something that Punz had no control over.

Maybe he’s just trying to make himself believe something that doesn’t exist. Something that isn’t true. Something that will make them believe that no matter their amount of help, they couldn’t have prevented it.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

Just another easy way out. Just another way of saying they’re not to blame for anything. Just another way to convince themself that their help would have not worked even though they had tried everything.

They know, they know they’re not at fault for Dream’s death, that Dream is his own person making his own decisions—and sometimes they end like this. With prisons and wars and disunity. With death.

But they could have helped more, no? They could have done more than they did. Could have checked up on Dream more often, could have spent more time with him, could have offered more than hoodies and a hug.

Maybe they should have offered jumping worlds with Dream, should have offered coming with him, finding new worlds and new Universes, should have taken Dream by the hand and ran when they still could. When Dream was still alive, when Dream wasn’t dead—

He could have visited, could have ignored Dream’s orders, could have at least not mute Dream like he wanted them to do. Could have—

There’s nothing they can do now. Nothing they can change. They’re no admin, they can’t bring people back from the dead. (Not that they would. Not after everything that has happened. Not after it’s so obvious what Dream has wanted, what his final goal has been.)

They’re no admin and they’re no time traveler. They can’t travel back in time, can’t stop the King’s Army or the Independence War, can’t stop the building of the prison or the breaking up of the Dream Team. Punz can’t. He can’t.

There’s nothing they can change. Not anymore. Not in this life, not in this timeline.

But, Gods, do they wish they could.

Gods do they wish they could change things now after they failed. After they failed Dream while he was still alive.

The truth isn’t that there was nothing they could have done—no matter how much easier it would be to believe. The truth isn’t that Dream was unsavable, doomed to die alone in the server he had meant to be for his family.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

The truth is that they could have helped. And that they failed. That they failed and failed and failed.

It should be easy. It shouldn’t be anything confusing. It should be straight forward and nothing else.

It should be easy. He hates Dream. He hates the white mask with the smile on it. He hates the color green even if it isn’t related to Dream. He hates the SMP’s name because it reminds him of Dream tyrant and abuser and manipulator, once a friend. (TommyInnit SMP would be a better name anyway.)

He’s always thought that he’d be happy once Dream is dead—prison was good, prison made it easier to forgot about Dream, but prison had always meant that Dream is still here, that he’s still on the server, that he’s still capable of hurting people.

And then when Dream’s real age was revealed, he got out of prison and suddenly prison had been the best thing to ever happen. Because prison had meant that Dream didn’t walk around the SMP, prison had meant that Tommy wouldn’t have to fear seeing him again, prison had meant that for once Tommy had been free.

He’s always thought death would solve everything but isn’t death too kind? Shouldn’t Dream hurt just like all of them?.

And now—

When he came visiting Dream that day, his plan hadn’t been killing the cat. He hadn’t even known that the cat existed until he saw her. He’s still not sure why he did it, but something in him had snapped when he had spotted her, rubbing her head against Dream’s legs, trusting and sweet and something Dream hadn’t deserved.

Maybe it was anger that Dream had an attachment when Tommy suffered and suffered and suffered because of his.

Maybe it was anger that Dream got away scot-free after everything he’s done solely because of something he hadn’t even wanted them to know.

Maybe it was anger that Dream was able to walk around the SMP and do everything he wanted, that people visited him at the Community House, that he was free without anyone threatening him, that he could collect items without the fear of losing them, that he—

Tommy breathes in.

It should be easy. It should be easy considering the amount of hate and anger and frustration Tommy feels (Dream’s the reason why Tubbo and Tommy have fought, why they’re still not back to what they used to be, that they’re more strangers than friends and brothers). It should be easy.

But now that Tommy stares at the message on his communicator, things aren’t as easy anymore.

Dream is dead. Dream fell from a high place. Dream probably killed himself after Tommy killed his cat.

He should feel satisfaction, he should feel free. No tyrant, no abuser, no manipulator, no one who will take his things and burn them. No one who will hurt him like that ever again.

Dream’s dead, and Tommy should feel free.

And yet he can’t get rid of the guilt gnawing on him. (He hadn’t wanted Dream to die like this. He’s staring at lava, a heavy hand on his shoulder. He had wanted Dream to suffer and understand what he did to Tommy, how he hurt him and everyone else, what he did wrong.)

He hadn’t wanted Dream to kill himself.

He doesn’t feel guilty about Dream’s two lives he took. They were justified no weapons, no armor, nothing to defend himself. They were justified. But this? If he had just killed Dream that day, if he had killed Dream instead of Hope, he wouldn’t be here.

He wouldn’t feel guilty, and his hands wouldn’t tremble every time he stares at the communicator. Maybe he would’ve had the courage to go to Tubbo and talk things out. Talk about their friendship and their misunderstandings and the fact that they will always be brothers no matter what.

Maybe.

Now though?

He killed a cat. He killed Dream’s pet. He made the same mistake again.

Pets were the reasons why the first wars existed. Pets were the reason why the exile happened in the end. Pets— Dream’s pets led to Tommy’s exile and to Dream’s death. (Dream’s pets led to the worst time of Tommy’s life and to an easy way out for Dream.)

Pets. And he’s done it again even though he should know better.

He presses his lips together, looking down on his communicator. His knuckles have turned white, he realizes. He doesn’t remember how long he’s been sitting here—how long it’s been since he got the death message that Dream fell, since he checked the server list and the green bastard is nowhere to be seen.

He didn’t leave which means he’s dead.

Tommy wishes he could feel satisfaction, wishes he could feel free, wishes he could finally get the peace he’s wanted ever since the exile and move on. Move on from this server and Dream and the wars. Move on from everything that’s weighing him down.

He wishes he could go back to the time when they were still a family. When it was them—Phil and Wilbur, Techno and Tubbo and him and no one else. When Wilbur hadn’t gone crazy with power yet, when he was still Tommy’s brother who played the guitar for them. When Techno wasn’t an anarchist, trying to take everything down all of them had fought for, when he was still Tommy’s brother who taught them how to fight. When Tubbo wasn’t ex-president who had exiled him, when Tubbo didn’t have a new family yet, when he was still Tommy’s brother who was so easily excitable, friendlier than anyone Tommy knew, always forgiving everyone no matter what they did.

But all of them moved on. All of them moved on, and Tommy couldn’t because of one fucking person.

And now that Dream’s dead, he should finally be able to do it. (It doesn’t feel like he can. Even now that Dream’s dead, now that Dream’s gone forever, now that Dream’s stuck in the Void without anyone ever bringing him back, it doesn’t feel like he can move on. Doesn’t feel like he can forget all of this, doesn’t feel like his life will ever return to normal, will ever be what he wants it to be.)

He hates Dream, that’s the easy part.

Dream’s dead, and he should feel free. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and he knows Tubbo won’t come back to him solely because Dream’s dead. Solely because they’re finally free. Solely because there’s no one to manipulate and abuse and threaten them anymore.

He flexes his hands. The green bastard is dead, but things won’t get better anyway (and he still feels so, so guilty).

George knows, he knows that he logically speaking he shouldn’t feel like this, shouldn’t stare at the death message of one of his closest friends and feel…nothing. He knows he should be sad, should choke on tears, should feel like the world’s ending with no morning coming.

But he doesn’t. He’s not crying, he doesn’t feel particularly sad when looking at the message. There’s no anger like he knows will be eating on Sapnap, there’s no resentment. He doesn’t feel guilty or regretful.

There’s just nothing. There’s nothing but the question why. (Why now? Why this way? Why didn’t he come to them? Why why why why why why why—)

Maybe he feels empty. Maybe he feels numb. Maybe the emotions will crash down on him later when he’s truly realized what has happened, when there’s more than static in his ears, when he looks at the message on his communicator and truly understands what it means. (That Dream’s dead. That he’s not coming back. That it’s too late. That it’s always been too late?)

Maybe.

Dream’s dead and what now? This is Dream’s world, this has always been Dream’s world and no matter what the others say, it has never changed. Even now that Dream is dead now that Dream killed himself, it’s still his. It’s still his world. His little world he’s created for them. (For a family. For a home. For safety.)

Do they stay? Do they leave? What will happen now? The world shouldn’t crumble—the gates to the End are still closed, the dragon is alive. Dream’s death shouldn’t have a lasting effect on the world.

Phil can step up as the Admin of this world for the first few weeks and then—

And then what? Does George even want to stay here? Does Sapnap want to stay here? Does anyone of them want to stay in a world that will forever remind them of Dream and their failures, their regrets, the lives they could’ve lived, the people they could’ve been?

George doesn’t know.

And really, it shouldn’t be what he focuses on. It shouldn’t be. He should be mourning, he should by crying, he should think about the ways he could’ve prevented it. (There’s no doubt in him that later it will happen. That he will crumble in his own room in the base that should’ve been a home for all of them. That only then he will understand, will comprehend this situation.)

He should be doing all of these things, but here he is—thinking about futures, about a server that should have been his home and became this instead.

In all honesty though is it truly surprising? He’s never been the most emotional person, has never been as emotional as Dream, as Sapnap. (Most people seem to forget it. Seem to forget that Dream has a big heart, that he cries easily, that under the mask of a hardened warrior, a merciless fighter, a power-hungfy tyrant, there’s a person who wants to love and who wants to be loved. Seem to forget that Sapnap’s temperament, his fast-burning rage doesn’t mean his love will be any less real, that he will stop loving them quicker—and if George is honest, Sapnap’s love has always been the most fervent of them all.)

Sapnap’s love has always been loud, always something to show off. It’s loud laughter and tight hugs. Dream’s love is quieter, less obvious. It showed in small presents and reassurance.

George’s is the quietest of them all—barely visible, barely noticeable. He’s never truly felt like it is a necessity. That he has to show it for it to be true. It’s never made it any less real, never made it less than it is, but maybe, maybe looking at this, it makes sense.

Maybe it makes sense his first reaction will be this, won’t be breakdowns and never-ending tears, won’t be anger and revenge. Maybe. He doesn’t know.

Dream’s dead. There’s no doubt, no question. Nowhere to be found in this world, not showing up on the server list anymore. And other than his death message, there’s no other explanation for his disappearance.

Dream’s dead. Easy as that.

Dream’s dead, and George barely feels anything when this has been one of his oldest, one of his best friends, when he should feel—what? Enraged? Sad? Guilty? Regretful

(When did he start seeing Dream as a friend again? When did Dream become something in his mind that’s more than acquaintance, more than traitor, more than a former friend who left them? He doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Has it ever mattered?)

He knows things could’ve been different, if even the slightest thing had changed. If the dethroning had turned out differently, if he had just ignored the burned down building, if Tommy hadn’t knocked Dream’s mask off, if the focus of all of them hadn’t been on Dream’s age, his past, his guilt. II things had been just the tiniest bit differently.

But there’s no use thinking about this, is there? There’s no use. It won’t help George, it won’t help Sapnap, it certainly won’t help Dream now. All they can do is accept that they were wrong too, that they fucked up as well, that they did things wrong and wrong again and again and again, that all of them are at fault and not a single person to be blamed for everything.

All they can do is realize that while things can’t be changed in the past now, they can make sure that it won’t ever happen again. That they won’t repeat the same mistakes. That they learn from it. From their wrongdoings and their failures.

From Dream’s death.

His hands tighten into fists. He doesn’t know where Sapnap is, hasn’t seen him since last evening, but there’s no doubt that Sapnap has already seen it. That he heard the ping, that he saw the message—it’s too late for George to save one of his friends, the least he can do is make sure that his other friend is still okay.

It’s the least thing he can do. It’s the last thing left for him.

Bad is woken up by a ping in the middle of the night which isn’t really surprising. It has happened before—multiple times. Death messages, chat messages, DMs. Only that it had always happened when there was a war, when there was some sort of danger, when there was an explanation for panicked texts and multiple deaths. There’s a reason why he’s never muted his communicator even when he’s asleep.

But now with the Egg gone, with L’Manberg destroyed, with no tyrant and dictator trying to take power by force, there hadn’t been any emergencies, any reasons for him to be woken up in the middle of the night.

Except if there’s some problem with Dream. (He remembers waking up to a number of texts from Sapnap, all in capital letters, about Dream missing, about the fear that something might have happened to him, that he’s planning something, that they won’t ever see him alive again.)

He forces himself to sit up, to take the communicator. It would be easier to just ignore it, to close his eyes and fall asleep again. To look at the message in the morning when he’s fully rested, but…there wouldn’t be a message now if everything was alright, no?

It’s been too long since he’s gotten a message during the night to ignore it, so he takes the communicator, turns it on—and lets it fall into his lap.

He hasn’t read the full message, had only caught a glimpse of it, but it had been enough. It had been enough—

There’s no way. It can’t be. It can’t. He’d gotten better. He’d talked to him, to Punz. Sam had told him that Dream didn’t turn him away, that he’d accepted the apology! Punz had said Dream hadn’t hated the idea of therapy, had seemed like he’d think about it. Hope—

He’d been better! Bad’s ability to read emotions and get into people’s heads to understand them had never been the best, had never been as finetuned as Dream’s, most of the time it had felt like even George was better at it than Bad, but there’s no way, no way that he misread the situation this badly.

There’s no way.

A slight misjudgment? Maybe. But a misreading this badly? It can’t. It can’t. (Because if he had killed himself because of the prison, because of its consequences, he wouldn’t have waited this long, would he? It’s been weeks since they let him out of prison—)

It can’t.

Why would Dream— why now? Why on the night of his sixteenth birthday? Why when he had Hope, when he had Bad and Punz who he had, at the very least, tolerated?

Why?

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t. It just doesn’t.

His hands are trembling when he picks up his communicator again, when he turns it on once more, when his eyes keep being stuck on the death message.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

It’s almost ironic how often Bad has seen this message. During their manhunts, during one of Dream’s ridiculous practices, during the earlier days of the SMP. But it has never been more than just death messages that didn’t mean anything.

And now…and now— he wishes he could say that it’s just one more of these meaningless deaths, but it’s not. It’s not—it can’t be—if he can’t find Dream in the server list, if there’s no message that he’s left his world.

Dream’s dead. Dream fell. Dream wasn’t able to catch himself. Bad wishes he could laugh about it. It would make this situation easier.

Dream’s dead, and there’s no doubt in Bad that it’s not an accident. That this isn’t just Dream tripping and falling. That this has been wanted and has been planned, that this is anything but a mistake.

There’s no doubt in Bad that Dream killed himself. Not that it explains anything. Not really. Not after their last conversation, not after what Punz told him, not after Hope.

Dream wouldn’t leave his cat alone, would he? He’d always been too attached to them to leave them behind. There’s no way he would kill himself with Hope still roaming around, but that would mean—

It would explain it, wouldn’t it? It would explain this sudden, unexpected, surprising death. It would explain now that the initial first shock and the second and third of Dream’s age reveal has worn off, now that people have slowly started accepting it, now that people have started trying to move on. Now that it seemed like even Dream was willing to try.

(Would it have changed anything? Would it have delayed the inevitable? Was this always supposed to be the outcome no matter what?)

His hands are still trembling while he’s trying to forget the fact that he wanted to visit Dream today, bring him a cake from Niki’s bakery she reopened a few weeks ago. It would’ve been Dream’s first birthday in almost a decade that his real age had been written on the cake. It would’ve been the first birthday in almost a decade without a war.

Bad and Punz had wanted to visit, he had tried to convince Sapnap and George to come with him, to at least congratulate Dream. (They’re not friends anymore, Bad knows it, knows it far too well, but it would’ve been a step in the right direction, no? A peace offering of some sorts. A way to show that they had meant what they said, that they’re not just going to drop Dream again.)

But now. Bad covers his face. He’s not crying. Not yet. (But he knows it won’t stay like this. It’s still too fresh, still too far away to properly grasp it, maybe the initial surprise still hasn’t left him.)

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. What he’s supposed to do next.

Move on? Ignore everything that has happened and focus on a future without one of his closest friends? A friend he’s not truly failed, but not truly helped either.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. (Why can’t they just be alright? All of them? Every single one of them?)

It doesn’t happen often that the voices wake him up. Usually, they’re subdued during the night—still as annoying but less loud. Sometimes it makes him think that even the voices in his head have to sleep although there’s always a continuous stream of words.

But normally, normally it’s not so bad he can’t sleep or they wake him up (after all he can’t spill blood if he’s not properly rested, and Chat had to learn it the hard way after they refused to listen to him).

Now though it almost feels like they’re screaming. And he doesn’t think they’re going to stop any time soon. The headache is already killing him.

what happened? i’m so confused, just woke up

WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE

calm down everyone, maybe it was just a normal death

Yeah, we can’t know if it’s a permadeath as long as it’s not confirmed.

OKAY BUT STILL WTF??? DREAM JUST DOESN’T DIE BY FALLING

yall acting as if hes some god, dream can obviously die by falling like any other person as well

Techno groans, rubbing his forehead. “What’s goin’ on, Chat?”

Someone died, that much is obvious, but who? Dream? Somehow he can’t quite believe it even after everything that has happened, even after everything he’s learned, after everything he knows of.

Dream’s a survivalist. Him not wanting to live just doesn’t seem real. (As if his skills mean anything when it comes to his mental health.)

DREAMS DEAD HE JUMPED OFF A TOWER AND WE THINK ITS A PERMADEATH????

we don’t know anything yet, all of you calm down, seriously. this is not helping.

Yes, listen to them. Freaking out only does so much.

theres no way hes not dead though

wdym of course theres a way, dont you remember how often he died in the prison

“Shut up, Chat,” Techno grumbles, burying his head in his hands. Chat is as useless as ever, but that’s not really something new, is it? “Slow down, you all. I can’t keep up with it, and tone it down. No one likes voices screamin’ in their head.”

Dream’s dead apparently, that much he’s been able to pick out. And he died by falling from a high place?

He sighs, getting up. He should get his communicator. (He doesn’t usually have it by his side. If he’s asleep and someone has a problem, it’s not his to solve. And if it’s truly something bad, Chat will notify him, will spam so long until Techno finally wakes up and takes care of the situation.)

Check the communicator, Techno. It will explain why Chat’s freaking out.

you say that as if youre not part of chat yourself

Sure, whatever.

“Chat, seriously. Shut up,” Techno says before anything can evolve into an argument. It’s night, he should be sleeping, the headache is worse than any headache he’s had because of Chat before and he still doesn’t have any answers. If anyone gets on his nerves, he can’t promise anything. And he can’t promise that it won’t be Chat’s blood that will be spilled tonight.

The communicator weighs heavy in his hand. It’s cold and turned off, and somehow Techno has a bad feeling about this. He doesn’t even want to turn it on and look at the message that Chat’s freaking out about.

He sighs and turns it on anyway. Chat would be screaming at him even more if he hadn’t done it—

[Dream fell from a high place.]

Well, he thinks, his fingers curl around the communicator, that certainly explains Chat’s behavior. Dream died, and—he checks the server list—it appears it’s been a permadeath.

He can’t have left the server because there would’ve been a message notifying them of that—it’s a small server after all, a server meant for family and friends, so it makes sense that this function would be enabled.

But if he hasn’t left the server, there’s only one explanation for Dream missing on the server list.

Dream’s dead.

so he really is dead huh

Wouldn’t have thought to see Dream go like this.

WHAT THE FUCK YOU MEAN THIS IS REAL I HAVE TO BE DREAMING THERES NO WAY WHAT THE FUCK

But…why?

Because of a lot of different things. There had to be a last straw for him though to finally finish it.

hope—

Hope?

Dream’s cat

Why are you talking about Hope???

shes dead, died shortly before dream

you mean—?

Okay. Dream is dead.

Techno breathes in. Dream is dead and what now? The server won’t die as long as the ender dragon is still alive, and with Phil as an Admin, he could replace Dream to make sure everything is alright.

And then? The server will survive. The people will be able to continue living here. And Dream is dead. There’s nothing to do about it.

Techno won’t let Phil take the risk of bringing Dream back as bad as he feels. (Phil is still his father, one of the only people he trusts, the only person he knows won’t betray him. Even if Dream is his rival, his sparring partner. His friend. He won’t let his father take the risk when it’s not even sure that he can succeed.)

Dream’s dead and now what? Do they continue living on as if nothing has ever happened?

(Dream’s dead and Techno didn’t do anything to help him, to stop it from happening, but that’s always been this way, hasn’t it? He’s always part of the aftermath, never truly part of the event, of the situation itself. He’s always just there to see the consequences, to make sure things won’t get even worse.)

Dream’s dead. Dream’s dead, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Dream’s dead, and he won’t let anyone bring a person back from the dead who wants to be dead. (He should’ve left Wilbur alone as well. He should’ve never agreed to bringing Wilbur back. He should—)

Dream’s dead. He puts the communicator back down.

It shouldn’t be possible. It shouldn’t be a thing. It shouldn’t be.

Maybe it’s just a weird dream, maybe nothing more than that. Techno pinches himself. He doesn’t wake up. He’s still here, staring at the communicator in his hands. There’s nothing else. No explanation, no answers, nothing.

Dream is dead, and Techno doesn’t know what to do now.

Chapter Text

No matter how long she stares at the message on her communicator, it stays the same. It doesn’t flicker, it doesn’t change, it doesn’t disappear. It’s still the same six words that can’t be true. That shouldn’t be true?

That she knows are true. That she shouldn’t even be surprised about as bad as it might sound.

She’s seen the death messages of Dream’s time in prison. She’s heard him talk about it again and again and again. She’s been told about the mountains and the cliffs—

But it shouldn’t be true. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t be the way a fifteen-year-old’s life ends. (It shouldn’t be the way anyone’s life ends.)

Dead. Her duckling— Dream. Dead. It can’t be true. It can’t be—maybe she’s still asleep, maybe it’s just a dream, maybe she’s never been woken up by a ping in the middle of the night.

Maybe Dream’s still alive. Maybe he’s just peacefully sleeping in the Community House with Hope, his cat she’s heard of from Bad. There’s no other way. There’s no other possibility.

She’s just asleep, and Dream her duckling is still alive. Only…only she knows better.

She can feel the cold metal against her skin, she can feel her nails digging into the palm of her hand. She can feel tears on her face. (She doesn’t remember when she started crying.)

It shouldn’t hurt like this, she thinks, staring at the message that still hasn’t changed, that still hasn’t been replaced by a different message—by disbelief and sadness and anger. But she knows better, doesn’t she?

Even if she tried to put a wall between herself and Dream, she never fully succeeded. She never got to the point where she could close her eyes and just forget about him, where she didn’t feel the guilt anymore—the guilt that she hadn’t visited him in the prison, that she rejected him, that she replaced him, that she never gave him a second chance when he needed it more than anything else.

She never succeeded. Just like Dream never fully cut off all his attachments, all his relationships, all his emotions.

Like mother, like son.

Even after everything that has happened, after the vault and the blown-up Community House, after the prison and the exile, after his rejection, she’s never been able to move on. To not view him as her duckling anymore. To stop feeling like she’s his guardian.

She tried to ignore it so desperately and failed failed failed failed—

Nothing has ever truly changed her feelings, not even ignoring it, not even pushing it in the back of her mind (when she knew, when she knew it wouldn’t help, wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t be healthy for her or her relationship to Foolish).

She’s still his guardian, and he’s still her duckling, and it will ever stay like this. (It makes her wonder. Does it feel the same to Phil? That no matter how much his sons fuck up, they will always be that—his sons? (And she doesn’t even know Dream for that long. She first met him three years ago when he was nineteen thirteen. Thirteen.))

Only that it doesn’t matter anymore. Not to Dream. It will never matter to Dream ever again.

Dream’s dead. Dream’s dead.

She buries her face in her hands, not caring where her communicator lands. He’s dead, and she didn’t even make it right. She didn’t make it right when she had the possibility to do so. When she had multiple chances.

She’s tried to reason too long that Dream didn’t want it. That he didn’t even try to repair their relationship when she tried. (But Sam did it, no? Sam did it and succeeded. Succeeded in having a conversation with Dream, succeeded in apologizing for the things he did wrong, succeeded in swallowing his pride and understanding— understanding that both of them did so, so horrible, so, so wrong things.)

Dream did horrible things, there’s no denying it, but…he’s also been a person in need, a person who needed help, who she denied of help. Who came to her and who she turned away.

She knows she hasn’t been the best person, the best guardian, the best therapist. She hasn’t. But…it’s always been easier to ignore it, hasn’t it? It’s been easier to ignore it than acknowledging your wrongdoings, than stop making a person your scapegoat.

She’s never thought of herself as a very prideful person, but she can’t explain it otherwise. She can’t explain why she didn’t just go to Dream, sat him down and told him that she was wrong too when she couldn’t sleep at night, when she stared into the direction of the Community House for hours on end because it should’ve been something she should do—only to never do it. (Maybe she was ashamed, embarrassed instead of prideful. Maybe it was all of them.)

She left their relationship the way it was after her last visit, and then she never tried to fix it again like she should have. Even if it had just been a goodbye. Even if it had been a genuine apology. Even if it had been the last time they spoke to each other. (Everything would have been better than this.)

And now he’s dead. Now he’s dead, and she doesn’t have the possibility anymore to right her wrongs. If she ever even had it. If she ever had done it.

Now he’s dead. Three lives. A permanent death. No chance of resurrection. (They won’t bring him back, and maybe…maybe she agrees with it. Maybe resurrection should’ve never been a possibility—not for Wilbur and not for Dream. Maybe it will do more harm than good to force Dream back into a life he doesn’t want anymore.)

Now he’s dead, and while she hasn’t been drowned in death messages, this is so much worse than the first time. This is so much worse than the time she unmuted him. This is so much worse.

Her shoulders are shaking. She’s still crying. If she could turn back time, if she could, would she have done things differently? she would’ve…she would’ve—

She wishes she could say she would’ve apologized properly. Wishes she could say she would’ve said properly goodbye to Dream. Wishes she could say she would’ve been a better guardian. Wishes she could say she would’ve done things differently, wishes she could say she would’ve done things better.

She wishes she could say she would’ve been able to protect her family, wishes she wouldn’t have helped it destroy instead.

But she can’t.

Sam wakes up to a death message. He wakes up to a death message that’s been sitting in Sam’s notifications for hours now. A death message that feels so familiar and yet so foreign.

His first reaction is to turn off the communicator, close his eyes again. He’s seen Dream burn and bleed to death and drown—

He’s seen him die and die and die again (and he didn’t do anything about it. He closed his eyes and ignored the so obvious scream for help. He didn’t go to the prison for weeks at a time, didn’t restock the potatoes in the dispenser, let Dream starve, only to not be reminded of everything that’s going on, everything that he’s not tried to stop, everything he’s been to blame as well).

But this is not the prison anymore, and Sam isn’t the Warden. Sam isn’t the Warden and Dream isn’t his prisoner; there’s no reason for a death message. (There’s no reason—there shouldn’t be a reason—, and there’s no making sure Dream will live.)

When Sam was still the Warden, he didn’t care. He didn’t care because he knew Dream couldn’t die permanently, knew he would always respawn no matter how often he tried to swim in lava, no matter how often he starved to death, no matter.

But Sam isn’t the Warden, and Dream’s been out of prison for weeks—months?—now. There shouldn’t be a death message from Dream, there shouldn’t be the death message that he fell from a high place that he jumped. There should be his name in the server list, and yet there’s nothing.

So, he’s truly dead?

The chat has been weirdly quiet even though Sam can’t imagine that he’s the first one to see the death message. Ever since the prison, ever since he got multiple pings a night, he had muted it, and although it’s been weeks since Dream was released, Sam never unmuted anything. Which also means that he didn’t get a notification of this death, but he knows, he knows that others should’ve gotten the ping, should’ve been notified of Dream’s death, should know that this is permanent.

They need time to comprehend this, no? The last time Sam spoke to Bad, it had sounded like things had been better, like things could get better. And Punz…didn’t Punz say something about a cat?

Dream has always been weirdly good with animals, and he’s never been one to abandon any of them.

Even the last time Sam spoke to Dream, when Dream told him to get rid of the mask— he had seemed better, more stable. Not fine, never fine, but better. He had seemed better.

Sam had thought Dream was better, or maybe he’s just never been good at reading people. His strength really isn’t emotions and support, there’s a reason why his focus has always been building and mechanics. He’s not good with emotions, sometimes it’s hard to even understand his own emotions (maybe that’s the reason why the prison went so wrong, why he didn’t understand what he had become until it was too late. Maybe).

And yet, he had thought that Dream could get better. Bad had thought so. Punz too. He’s not sure about Puffy—the last time they spoke had been after her failed attempt to talk to Dream.

He breathes in. He doesn’t even want to know how she feels. Sam at least has had the possibility to apologize, to make things as right as somehow possible even if things—obviously—can never be right again. (He can never make things fully right with Dream, just like Dream can’t make it right with Tommy.)

He’s apologized, he’s talked to Dream one last time that didn’t end in an argument or a fight (and he’s been able to sleep decidedly better ever since), but he knows Puffy wasn’t able to do it. Dream rejected her once again, and she had to accept it.

And now? Now it’s too late for her.

His hands tighten around the communicator. It just doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel right that Dream’s supposed to be dead. He’s been a constant in Sam’s life for years now, and even if it’s barely a fraction of Sam’s life they knew each other, even if distance to Dream had been Sam’s goal, it just feels wrong.

It just feels wrong and fake and not real.

But the message stays the same.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

And the server list is blank of Dream’s name.

He’s not left. He’s died.

Dream’s dead. It doesn’t sound right; it’s probably not going to sound right for a long time. Dream’s not easily killable, isn’t easy killable in the way he was during the final confrontation when he lost two canon lives.

Dream survived the King’s Army, survived the training, the life of a child soldier. He survived and escaped and built a new home. (A home they all helped to destroy in the end. Every single one of them. Including Sam. Including Dream.)

Dream survived and now he’s died because he fell from a high place? Because he fell willingly, knowingly, intentionally?

What happened? What made Dream do it? It’s hard to believe that Dream just woke up and decided to do it after being out of prison for weeks. Or maybe that’s just something that could always happen. Sam doesn’t know, he’s not a therapist, he’s not good with people and emotions and trauma. He’s just someone who likes to build, who likes redstone and a challenge. He should’ve never been the Warden of Dream’s inescapable prison.

Sam flexes his fingers. He should contact Punz and Bad, ask them how they’re doing, if they need someone to talk, if he can help them in any way. They’ve been the closest to Dream ever since the prison after all, and there’s no way they haven’t seen it yet. (It’s time to become a better friend.)

<You whisper to Punz> Hi Punz, I just saw the message. Are you alright?

<You whisper to BadBoyHalo> Hi Bad, how are you?

Every time Phil sees one of his kids, he wonders just how badly he failed them. He’s killed Wilbur, he chose Techno over Tubbo, he didn’t offer Tommy the support he knew Tommy needed. He doesn’t remember the last time he spoke to Tubbo, most of his sons don’t talk to each other, haven’t talked to each other in weeks, maybe months. (And it doesn’t seem like it will get better any time soon.)

He knows he should reach out as the parent, knows he should offer the support he offered Dream instead. He knows. But he’s not sure if he should. If Tubbo even wants to talk to him, if Tommy’s ready for this conversation that Phil hasn’t chosen Dream over him, but Phil still wanted, needed, had to help him. He’s not sure if he should reach out or if he lets them decide whether they want to contact him or not.

He’s just always thought he had done a good job at raising them. Thought it would be a good thing for them to become independent, he always thought they knew they could come to him if they needed help (but he turned one away in desperate need, he killed the next, he let one drown in his responsibility as the president of a long dead country).

And then he’s just made everything worse by letting Dream stay, by being so uncareful and forgetting that Tommy might visit, might see Dream, might talk to him, might think Phil’s choosing Dream over him.

In hindsight, it’s been stupid. In hindsight, he’s made so many mistakes. In hindsight, things are so much clearer than they ever were before. In hindsight, he thinks, maybe he should’ve been clearer, should’ve said it more often that he’ll always be by their side no matter what. In hindsight, he’s made so many mistakes he’s not sure he can ever make right again.

Maybe he’s truly failed all of his children, and maybe it’s been obvious that he’d fail Dream too.

Staring at the message doesn’t change anything. The words are dark against the light background.

Dream’s dead. Truly gone. If the server list hadn’t confirmed it, it would’ve been his ability as an Admin. Dream’s code has vanished from this server, and there’s no evidence that he’s still alive, that he’s just left the world, that he’s beginning a new life somewhere far away.

Dream’s dead. And Phil has failed another child.

(He knows they’re not children anymore, that all of them long stopped being children, that Wilbur and Techno are adults, that Tubbo and Tommy will soon turn eighteen, that they’ve all seen too much to still be children, he’ll always see them as that.)

And even though Dream’s not his, that Dream’s never been his and never will be, it still feels like he’s failed one of his. When Dream didn’t even want his help.

Sometimes he wonders if he should’ve always been able to see that Dream’s a troubled person, that there are problems and trauma and so many other things Phil doesn’t even want to think of, but then again. He’s not even been able to truly see through his own son he raised since his birth. When all the signs had been so clear, when it’s been so, so obvious.

Dream, he’s come to the realization, has always been good at hiding his emotions, at least before the prison, when he still wore his mask and his words used to be pure poison. Tommy on the other hand has never been the best at that. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, easy to ignite, easy to annoy, it’s always only been a question of time until he’d explode and when he came to them, when he was still the same, but so, so different at the same time…

He should’ve been able to see through his own son, but he failed. (And he’s failed Tubbo too. It would be so much easier to say that his second youngest son also has always been quite good at hiding his emotions, but Phil used to always read him like an open book. And even during Tubbo’s presidency, when he became so much better at hiding and concealing, he’s always known that things weren’t right.)

But now Dream’s dead even though Phil knew about his problems, even though he’s seen the dozens hundreds of death message, even though he’s spoken to him and seen with his own eyes that Dream’s not okay, even though he’s heard it from Wilbur and Techno of all people.

Now Dream’s dead, and Phil can’t even explain why. He’s heard from Punz that Dream had gotten better, but after Dream’s stayed with them, after Phil failed to offer his help again, he’s not talked to Dream again. He’s not talked to Dream in the last weeks, and maybe that’s why he’s failed again. (He’s not shown Dream that he’s actually there, that he actually cares, that he’s not just doing it for his conscience and for his guilt, for his regrets. No wonder that Dream has never believed him.)

Now Dream’s dead, and it makes Phil wonder if he has just always been damned to fail and fail and fail every single one of his sons. (He’s not failed Techno yet, but maybe it’s just a question of time until he fails Techno too.)

He’s failed Wilbur, he’s failed Tommy, he’s failed Tubbo. Now he’s failed Dream after offering his help so goddamn vehemently.

He sets the communicator down. He’s failed Dream. Dream’s dead, and he can’t bring Dream back from the dead. He still doesn’t know how Dream did it, what Dream did. It’s only been legends he’s known of, he’s never tried it himself, and he knows he won’t—can’t—do it.

He can’t risk getting stuck in the Void when he’s just got Wilbur back, when his sons are finally all alive again, when he has the chance to make it right with them at least, when he finally has the possibility to be a better father.

(He knows he’ll never be able to make it right with Dream. Maybe that’s his biggest regret.)

It’s hard not feeling like he’d been able to prevent it when he’s been the last person to talk to Dream.

Obviously, Dream had his mind set. Obviously, Tubbo would’ve been able to do absolutely nothing to convince Dream from not doing it, and obviously, they’ve never been close enough for Tubbo to even dare try and talk Dream out of it, but—

But Tubbo still feels like he could have changed something, like he should’ve tried stopping Dream, like he should’ve been able to understand the implications instantly, like he should’ve not just been sitting on the block at the edge of the crater, wondering what Dream’s meant with it.

Looking back, it’s been so obvious. Looking back, he shouldn’t have stared at Dream dumbfounded. Looking back, every single word coming out of Dream’s mouth should’ve been suspicious and concerning and blatant.

Looking back, he feels like the stupidest person ever walking on the SMP.

He’s sure Wilbur would’ve known instantly what Dream implied with his words. Ranboo would’ve known as well; hell, even Tommy would’ve realized it.

But he didn’t. Or maybe he did. It doesn’t change in the end because he continued to sit on the block, staring at Dream like he’s suddenly grown two heads, not being able to move, not being able to even say something.

The moment, Dream said his goodbyes, Tubbo should’ve known. He should’ve known it would end like this.

Maybe he’s still so goddamn naïve. Maybe he’s still thought that this kind of goodbye could’ve meant anything but death. Maybe he’s just hoped that he’s misheard, that his intuition had been wrong. Maybe.

Tubbo doesn’t remember anymore.

Tubbo just knows that Dream’s dead. That he fell from a high place. That he’s no longer on this server. That is has to be a permadeath.

And Tubbo is not sure how he’s supposed to feel. He should feel happy, no? The biggest threat of their carefully built peace is gone. The chances that his small family will be destroyed are even slimmer now. Maybe he can even reconcile with Tommy, with Phil. With Techno.

But…but the Dream he’s got to know that night, had been so different from the tyrant and manipulator and abuser. He’d been nothing like it. Tubbo just remembers a boy his age who’s tried to protect his family.

He knows Tommy would mock him for that, would call him too naïve and trusting and a dumbass. That even though he’s gotten to know this side of Dream, Dream’s still dangerous, still the same person who threatened Tubbo, who collected all these things, all these attachments in his vault, who they put in prison. (And yet Tubbo’s not so sure about it anymore. Is Dream still the same? Has he ever been the person they think he’d been?)

Dream’s not a good person. He’s hurt them, but he’s not the villain Wilbur painted him as, just like Tommy isn’t the hero. And Tubbo can’t stop seeing Dream huddled together on the block at the crater, can’t stop forgetting about the apology, about the explanation, about his last words.

He doesn’t know how to feel. How he’s supposed to feel that Dream told him what he’d planned and that Tubbo didn’t do anything to stop it.

He knows he shouldn’t blame himself for it. He knows. It’s still hard not to do it.

He sighs, turning away from the window he’s been staring out of ever since he’s got the notification of Dream’s death. Ranboo’s still asleep, Tubbo doesn’t know how he’d been able to sleep through the ping, but if he’s honest, he’s glad about it.

As much as he adores his platonic husband, he doesn’t think he’d be able to talk about his feelings now. Or ever. (He’s still not talked to someone about the festival and the fireworks, and he knows he never will. Just like he won’t ever talk about this.)

The moon is as bright as the night he’s talked to Dream, he notices. If his own scar is as obvious in the moonlight as Dream’s have been?

He sighs again, leaning his head against the window. He doesn’t know what to do.

Dream’s dead, and maybe Tubbo could’ve done something to prevent it, but now it’s too late anyway. Now it’s already happened. Now Dream’s already dead. And life continues.

But what now? The Admin of this world is dead. Will they stay? Will they leave? (If Tubbo’s honest, he doesn’t want to leave. Even with all these memories of wars and deaths and betrayals and a family he used to have, it’s also where he got to know Ranboo, where they found Michael. He’s not sure if he’s able to move on yet.)

He should talk to Tommy. He should visit Wilbur. Maybe he should finally be able to have a conversation with Techno again, no matter how awkward it might be, and no matter how many executions are between them.

He should talk to Phil as well. When did he last talk to Phil? At Techno’s failed execution? Or was it during Doomsday? It’s been more than half a year either way.

The glass is cold against his forehead, it’s weirdly grounding; he’s glad about it. At this point, he takes everything that helps him with not going mad. Gods.

Dream’s dead, he’s barely talked to any of his siblings—not even to Tommy—in weeks, he’s not talked to his dad in more than six months. He’s only ever felt this much like a failure during his presidency after he exiled Tommy, after he went against his cabinet, after he failed and did things wrong every single time he’s tried to do anything.

Why can’t things be easy for once? (Not that things were easy while Dream was still alive, were they? He still hadn’t talked to Tommy in weeks, he still hadn’t seen Techno or Phil in months, he still had only seen Wilbur a handful times ever since his resurrection. The only thing that had been different had been the fact that he hadn’t met Dream at the edge of the crater, that they hadn’t talked without either of them threatening or attacking the other, that Dream hadn’t apologized to him. That Dream had still been alive, and that Tubbo hadn’t known anything about his plans.)

His eyes burn. His eyes burn, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the tears he’s trying so desperately to hold back or if it’s because there’s anger burning in his stomach he can’t explain.

Maybe it’s both— no. It’s definitely both.

He can’t explain the anger, he shouldn’t be able to explain the tears, but…how could he not? How could he not after everything that has happened?

He’s angry—at himself, at Dream, maybe even at George. He’s angry, and he knows who he’s angry at, but he doesn’t know why. Or maybe that’s a lie. (It’s definitely a lie. He’s not been able to get rid of this anger since the mask fell, since Dream’s so carefully guarded secret was revealed, since his former best friend rejected his help again and again and again, since Sapnap realized just how much he had fucked up, how one stupid thing had destroyed their friendship—how believing Tommy over his own friend had led to this.)

He knows he shouldn’t be angry at Dream because…well, because Sapnap gets why Dream didn’t want his—any of their—help. Why he rejected them, why he left their base, why he didn’t properly talk to them. If…if he’d done things differently, if the focus hadn’t been on Dream’s age, if Sapnap had reached out just for the sake of reaching out instead of trying to force his help down Dream’s throat, would things have been differently?

Would he stand here now, the communicator in his hand, cracked glass and broken bits of plastic on the floor?

Not that these questions matter—not that all these ifs and woulds can actually change anything.

Dream’s gone. Dream’s gone forever.

Dream’s gone, and there’s no way of bringing him back. It’s impossible. But is it truly?

Dream’s dead. He’s died because he jumped down one of the towers in the Mainland. How ironic, truly, that this is the way Dream would die—would permanently die.

Back when they were friends, when they were brothers instead of enemies, when they trusted each other, when some gremlin’s words didn’t get in their ways, when it was them, George and Sapnap and Dream, against the rest of the world— Sapnap used to like to remember their manhunts, the laughter of his former friends, even the fact that it always felt like he had a heart attack every single time Dream jumped down a ridiculous high mountain or ravine.

And now…and now it’s just them, just George and Sapnap. Just them. They’ve stopped being the Dream Team long ago, but somehow it’s still hard to grasp for him, to realize, to accept. To understand.

He’s still not sure what went wrong, what happened that it ended here. He only knows that it was long before Dream’s age reveal, long before the prison, maybe even long before Dream dethroned George. When did he stop seeing Dream as his friend?

He doesn’t know what went wrong, when it happened, but maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it won’t keep it awake at night, maybe it’s just something inevitable that would have always happened.

(But that’s a lie, no? If he had just listened better, if he had just asked more, if he had followed Dream during those nights whenever he vanished, only coming back in the afternoons—limping, with shaky hands and never uttering a single word, if he hadn’t made that promise, if he had realized something was wrong during his visit…if he had just done any of these things, he wouldn’t be here.)

He looks at the display, but even with the cracked glass, even with pieces missing, the message glares back at him. Dark against the light background, impossible to miss.

[Dream fell from a high place.]

It shouldn’t be like this—it can’t be. Dream’s not supposed to be dead—Dream is supposed to be cocky and arrogant and a little shit who makes Sapnap’s life more difficult than it has to be, who always makes sure Sapnap’s eating right and George is not sleeping too long, who encourages them during whatever championship they’re part of this time, who couldn’t stop talking after the duel was announced, who’s just so easily excitable.

(Only that this Dream left them long before Dream died. Long before he climbed a tower and jumped. Long before Sapnap made a promise he would never be able to keep.)

And here he is now—tears in his eyes, not because of happiness, not because they found a new Universe, a better world, a better future a family. Not because they won MCC, not because Dream created a server just for them.

Here he is now—tears in his eyes because one of his oldest friends, one of his dearest friends, one of his only friends he knew would always have his back, died. Jumped off a tower. Killed himself because…because of what?

Because he didn’t want to go back to the prison? Because he was afraid they would force him back? Because he didn’t want to hear them talk about his age again? Because he knew death would be easier than whatever was expecting him?

Sapnap doesn’t know. He’s not sure if he will ever know it. (Or if he wants to know it.)

His eyes burn. His hand tightens around the communicator even more. If he breaks it, he will never have to look at it again. If he breaks it, he won’t be reminded of Dream’s death of his failure? again. If he—

There’s no use in doing that. Not really. He won’t forget. He will always remember—will remember a promise he made in a moment of stupidity, in a fit of anger, in a second of thinking he’d actually be able to do it. He will always remember a Community House and the desperate attempt at fixing something he broke.

He will always remember this naïve hope they could get back to the time before wars and L’Manberg and stupid disks after Dream was released from the prison.

He doesn’t know why he ever thought this way, why he thought it could actually happen. Foolish, naïve, stupid hope.

It should’ve been obvious how it would end that day in the cell. Should’ve obvious after he made this promise. He should’ve known when Dream didn’t accept his offer, didn’t accept any of their offers.

It really should have been obvious.

He wants to laugh, wants to scoff at something that couldn’t have been further away from the truth, wants to make fun of this stupid, stupid thought, but he can’t. He can’t.

His eyes burn.