Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dream doesn’t expect the day to be any different than every other day. He gets up, brushes his teeth, eats a frozen waffle (still frozen, he likes the crunch), gets dressed, and walks to school. It’s a good thirty minutes before the first bell, but that’s just his routine, and he likes his routine. He finds the usual spot in the shade of the school’s library and sits down on the curb, not having to wait long before the first of his group shows up.

Karl Jacobs, legendary librarian assistant and total kiss-ass to all the administrators. He’s got his favorite color block hoodie on and his messy dark brown covering most of his eyes.

‘What a cutie,’ Sapnap sighs dreamily.

‘Shut up,’ Dream says back.

“Hey, Dream!” Karl greets him with his wide smile and shiny teeth, taking a seat next to him on the curb. He pulls out a granola bar and offers it to Dream, and Dream respectfully declines like he always does, then opens the wrapper and starts eating.

Karl was the second person Dream talked to when he arrived in the seventh grade five years ago. Dream was always awkward around people, and tended to communicate nonverbally at every opportunity because words felt so meaningless, but Karl had sat next to him during their literature class and started talking. It was like they’d been friends for years, and it shocked Dream enough to let Sapnap respond. The two held their conversation for far longer than Dream could ever do on his own. He was annoyed at the time, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise. After all, he has friends now.

“Morning, Karl,” Dream replies, probably a minute later than socially acceptable, but that isn’t something either of them is bothered with.

His eyes skirt over the other boy with interest, without his intention. ‘D’ya think he got a new conditioner? His hair looks so soft… can you touch it? Just once, for me?’ Sapnap rambles in his head, the love-struck awe making it difficult to keep the smile off his face as he stares at him.

‘Stop being weird, weirdo,’ George chastises him.

‘Oh shut it, loser. At least I have a personality,’ Sapnap argues back, but it lacks any real malice. After all, it’s hard to hold resentment towards someone when you’re literally stuck with them forever.

“So, did you get started on the history project? Who’s in your group anyway?” Karl asks him, and Dream would’ve missed it if he didn’t tune back into reality at the right time. He curses internally at the other two for distracting him.

“Nah, we both know I’m not leading it. I’m just waiting for whoever takes charge to give me something to do,” Dream shrugs along with his answer. His group is full of people he’s never spoken to before and, given his track record, likely never will.

Karl laughs and the awe in the back of his head gets triggered again. “So true,” he agrees, nodding along when his eyes catch an approaching figure. “Oh, hey. Here’s Quackity.”

Dream looks to the side to see their tan friend sauntering up to them, his backpack half open and dangerously close to spilling all over the concrete. It would be a real mess too since Quackity never uses binders or folders or any tools of organization.  He relinquishes his bag from his shoulder and tosses it to the ground, sitting crosslegged and adjusting his navy blue beanie. He’s smiling something fierce, likely already planning some dastardly prank on their other friends, or better yet, some poor administrator. “Hola, amigos! I’ve got some real exciting news!”

“That can’t be good,” Dream comments, smirking when Karl giggles.

“Please don’t tell me you set another fire in the boys' locker room,” Karl jokes, “I mean literally, don’t tell me, I don’t wanna be implicated.”

“No, no, no, nothing like that!” Quackity waves away the accusations. “My cousin is back in town!”

Karl tilts his head after taking another bite of his granola bar, “MD got out of rehab?”

“Si, si, and he’s already back in business,” Quackity grins like a madman and pulls out a small brown bag from his backpack, it has a weird smell and looks entirely illegal.

“Dude!” Karl bats at his hand, shoving the bag out of sight, “You can’t just bring that shit to school!“ He whisper-yells, ducking his head to avoid suspicion.

“Bring what to school?” A newcomer announces their presence, startling both Karl and Quackity enough to make them jump, while Dream looks to them calmly. It’s Sam, standing with his forest green hair and creeper-patterned backpack, stance rigid as always. His gaze follows down to where Quackity’s got his hands shoved into his backpack, and he sighs disappointedly. “Please tell me that isn’t what I think it is.”

“What’s the big deal?” Quackity defends, “No one’s gonna know!”

“Seriously, dude. You gotta invest in an air-tight container, I could smell it all the way from the parking lot.”

Karl jumps to his feet, yelling, “What?!” He sniffs the air in an exaggerated fashion. “Are you serious?”

“No, but my point still stands,” Sam says, crossing his arms like a parent would when scolding their child.

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” Quackity dismisses the concern, zipping his bag closed and getting to his feet. Dream figures that they’re leaving so he stands up as well. “No one’s gonna know, no one’s give a fuck anyway.”

Sam sighs again, rolling his eyes before his gaze lands on Dream. “Oh, hey Dream, how are you?”

The formality makes him feel a bit awkward, but that’s just how Sam is. Dream shrugs, “Alright. Enjoying the show, mainly.”

Both Karl and Quackity take offense to that, but Sam just smiles. Sam is someone who Dream has grown to trust over the years, ever since he and his brother moved into town. His brother is a short fellow named Tubbo, with chubby cheeks and always full of optimism. He’s a bit annoying, but Sam cares for him like no other, so Dream wouldn’t dare say anything to upset either of them. In their introductions, after Dream naturally didn’t answer or respond to any prompting, Sam started waving his hands around as he talked. Dream thought he looked dumb doing that and spoke for the first time to ask what the hell he was doing. Sam explained that he had a friend who was deaf back home, so he learned ASL to keep up with him. He suspected maybe Dream was hard of hearing too.

But no. Dream is just a weirdo who doesn’t talk much. He turned down Sam’s offer to teach him, not needing another excuse to be an outcast. He appreciates the gesture now, though he wondered why anyone would try to meet him where he left them, rather than tell him to get over himself like everyone else.

They’re walking towards the entrance now, Karl and Quackity still bickering and pushing each other around, while Sam sticks beside Dream to make sure he doesn’t feel left out. Dream doesn’t mention it. He’s got his eyes locked on the playful banter of the two boys ahead of him, an uncomfortable yearning stationed in the back of his mind.

‘Are you going to act like that all day?’ Dream mutters in his thoughts, growing tired of Sapnap’s unyielding obsession with the other boys.

‘It’s not my fault they’re just so damn cute! I really wish you’d join in on the fun for once.’ Sapnap whines in reply.

‘Right, we both know Dream would sooner ram his head into a brick wall than be sociable,’ George mocks.

Now, Dream knows this to be true, but he doesn’t like the way George says it. ‘I could, I totally could, I just choose not to,’ he defends.

‘Sure,’ George says sarcastically, ‘and I’m the queen of England.’

Before Dream can manage a retort, the four of them approach the school entrance, stopping when they hear a familiar person calling out behind them. “Hey, wait up!”

Dream spins around to see Wilbur approaching them, his twin brother and a mysterious child following a short distance behind. “Wilbur!” Quackity greets him with a fist bump, while Karl and Sam just wave.

“Hey man, what’s up?” Karl asks, peering around Wilbur’s tall frame to see the other two. “Who’s that?”

Dream doesn’t care much for strangers, but Wilbur’s father is known to take in stragglers every once in a while, fostering kids too young to age out of the system but older than any normal foster would want to adopt. Wilbur and his twin Techno have their own troubled backstory, but even with their deeply engrained distrust in adults Phil still wormed his way into their hearts at a record speed.

When his eyes take in the young boy, something in his mind is awoken, and he knows for a fact it’s not stemming from either George or Sapnap. He can’t figure out what it is exactly, but it’s strange, foreign to him, real in a way that other emotions aren’t. The boy looks like a dream to him, which is ironic considering his name, about a head shorter than Wilbur, with shining golden hair and wide blue eyes that spell mischief. His face is hollow, just like the rest of him, his appendages long and lanky. He doesn’t look anything special, maybe not to anyone else, but to Dream, he’s something entirely new.

He can hardly stay focused during the introductions, lost in his miles-away stare that looks straight through the kid. No one tries to snap him out of it, taking his silence as one of his normal bouts of mutism. He just can’t break his attention from the boy, locked into a dissociated state where the only thing he can conjure is the boy’s image, taking every feature to memory, feeling more than he’s ever felt in his life, so much that he doesn’t know what to do. George and Sapnap are trying to talk to him, but he’s underwater, drowning in the kid’s eyes, frozen in blue, blue, blue-

“Dream? Dream. Hey buddy, ya with me?” Someone is shaking his shoulder, and that’s the contact that breaks his stupor, blinking his eyes rapidly and looking at his surroundings. The person who aroused him is Techno, peering through his gold-rimmed glasses at him with a confused suspicion. Dream sees that the rest of the group is already through the main entrance, having left without him. Except for Techno, of course. While his attention is back in reality, the rest of him still feels trapped beneath a wave, but his eye contact with Techno is enough to assure the pink-haired teen that he’s alive and well. “There you are, lost ya for a minute there. Everything alright?” Techno removes the hand from his shoulder, smiling playfully.

Dream shrugs, still incapable of finding his voice.

‘What the hell was that about?’ Sapnap asks, bewildered.

‘And here I thought Sapnap was the crazy one…’ George follows.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, waiting for whatever Techno has to say next. The other teen looks at him for a moment, probably understanding that Dream isn’t telling him the whole story (or anything at all), then he sighs and steps around him. “Well, cmon, the others have gone off to find Tubbo and Ranboo. I’m sure Tommy will love some new poor souls to annoy,” Techno explains, a look of fondness in his eyes at the mention of his new foster brother.

Tommy. That must be his name. Tommy. What a boring name for an extraordinary human. Even if Dream can’t decipher why his brain thinks so highly of the kid, it feels like a flaw to have something like ‘Tommy’ describe him. Dream follows after Techno on autopilot, the simple name repeating like a mantra in his head. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. What was wrong with him? Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. He’s never felt this way before. Tommy. Tommy. And nothing this intense. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy. It feels like his body is unraveling at the seams, stuck in a loop of blue eyes and gaunt cheeks. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy.

Dream stopped walking, and it takes a moment for Techno to catch on. Once the pink-haired teen spins around, George clears his throat and gestures in some nonspecific direction, “Gotta take a piss, I’ll catch up later.” He speaks with half-mumbled words, trying his best to imitate an American accent. Techno raises a brow, but ultimately nods and turns back to his original route.

Sapnap gives directions to the restroom at the back of the school, one he knows no one ever wants to use, since George never bothered to learn the layout. In fact, George hardly ever pays attention unless it’s during a few very specific classes, but he reckons Dream would hate it if they let him have a breakdown in the center of the main foyer. He can’t walk with the same laxness that Dream has, but he’s certain no one will know the difference. No one other than his friends ever bothers him anyway.

Dream is still muttering nonsense in the back of his head and Sapnap would be pacing if he could, more concerned for the other than ever before. ‘Dude,’ he says, ‘What’s wrong with Dream? What do we do?’

‘I don’t know, Sapnap. We have to get somewhere quiet and make him calm down,’ George sighs, already feeling tired despite only walking for a few minutes now. He wishes he just let Sapnap take over, but it’ll be easier to initiate the switch once they’re somewhere away from prying eyes.

He ducks into the restroom, locking himself in the biggest stall and sitting on the floor against the wall. George leans his head back and takes a deep breath. He knows this isn’t the same as an episode of overstimulation, but he supposes the grounding techniques are worth a try anyway. He breathes and forces their thoughts to calm. ‘It’s okay, Dream. Everything is fine,’ he whispers in a soft manner.

Dream has stopped his weird mantra, sitting idly and confused, a little dazed. He still feels a strange intensity underneath his skin, but it’s subsided enough to allow him to think clearly.

‘Mind sharing what the heck that was?’ Sapnap presses, confused as well but sounding jovial.

He answers honestly, ‘I don’t know,’ and resumes control, blinking a few times as George drifts back to his usual spot in the rear of his skull. Both he and Sapnap are comforting in their own ways, a solid yet intangible presence that weighs on his brain. ‘I’m not sure why I reacted so strongly, I’ve never felt that way before.’ Even now, distant thoughts of his own echo the boy’s name and flashes of his appearance, his smile, his eyes, those blond curls. He can’t understand what’s happening in his brain, not that he ever has before.

‘No one has ever had that effect on you before,’ George speculates, ‘I’m tempted to say it’s similar to Sapnap’s crush on Karl and Quackity but…’

‘The kid is like 12, dude. That’s fucking weird,’ Sapnap finishes his thought. And he’s right, Dream knows he’s right. Sapnap’s feelings towards those two are annoying, sure, but at least they’re peers. It’s not unwarranted to crush on other people his age. But, to be 17 and feeling that way for a 12-year-old? That’s way too far.

‘No,’ Dream refutes the comparison, ‘No, that can’t be it, it’s nothing like that. I don’t want to like, date him or anything, no. I just, I can’t get him out of my head.’ The thought of having a romantic interest in anyone is enough to make Dream nauseous, let alone a child. He’s never had a crush on anyone, hell, he doesn’t think he’s capable of it. He’s heard the term ‘asexual’ before, it’s come up with the various conversations that are bound to arise since so many of his friends are LGBTQ+, and that’s as close a label he’s ever identified with.

This isn’t an attraction, he knows, it’s an unwarranted obsession. How the hell is he supposed to cope with that?

‘Another reason to go to a therapist, I guess,’ George reasons.

“Absolutely not,” Dream mutters under his breath, feeling alright enough to get back on his feet. There’s thankfully no one else in the bathroom, so he continues his thought out loud, “I’m not getting locked up for some dumb intrusive thoughts.” Besides, it’s all fine now. He’s walking and talking, aware of his surroundings, the minor breakdown a thing of the past. He’ll keep a handle on it, like always.

‘One therapy session isn’t going to get you thrown in a ward, Dream,’ George argues.

‘I’m not taking that chance,’ Dream says with a tone of finality. He leaves the bathroom and looks around to figure out where he is. The warning bell rings then, so he decides to just head straight to class.

Neither of his headmates bother him the rest of the morning. George is all withdrawn as he normally is after fronting for a period of time, and Sapnap is keeping quiet to let Dream focus on school. He manages to keep the obsessive thoughts at bay, taking notes and absorbing the lectures without a problem. Though sometimes he’ll glance at another blond teen in his class and get snapshots of Tommy, but he just shakes his head and trudges onward.

Soon enough, it’s time for lunch.

There’s a long table near the fire exit that his friends always gravitate towards, it’s become customary to gather there to fit the whole group of misfits. Dream isn’t close with all of them, but he knows them all by name. There’s of course Karl, Quackity, Wilbur and Techno, and Sam at one end, then the other has Niki, Puffy, Charlie, Schlatt, and Jack. Niki is an ex of Wilbur’s, having known him since grade school, and is now dating Puffy. Charlie and Schlatt are two wild personalities in a constant state of homoerotic tension. And Jack Manifold claims to have crawled out of hell itself. The latter half are just mutuals, he’s only talked to Charlie and Niki on occasion, but they’ll still wave at him if they see him, and won’t take offense if he doesn’t wave back.

He shares a class with Jack, and despite having never spoken to him, the other will still offer to be his voice if the need arises, and more than once has he asked a question to the teacher that Dream wrote down. He’s a loud guy, without an ounce of shame. Dream can respect that.

It’s a miracle that all of them have the same lunch period this year, which makes for quite the sociable thirty minutes, all of them rambunctious and talkative in their own right. Barring Dream, of course, but deep down he enjoys the company. He likes to sit at the far end of the table, usually next to either Sam or Techno and across from Karl and Quackity. Today he’s got Techno next to him, facing Karl with Quackity by his side. Half the table is empty, scattering in the lunch lines to receive their sub-quality grub, the rest packing from home or skipping like Dream. He doesn’t eat because it’s routine for the soccer team to head out to a fast food place after school, to stock up on calories before practice. He would rather wait for that than stomach the lunch food, and can’t really afford to bring anything from home (but he’ll never admit that part).

He eases into the noise easy enough, content to have the roar of the cafeteria fill his thoughts rather than some boring teacher’s rambling. He’s half-listening to Karl and Quackity’s never-ending bickering and letting the sounds wash over him. That is until someone's arrival breaks his concentration.

“Sup bitches!”

Dream’s stomach drops like he’s eaten lead, staring in invisible terror as Tommy pulls up a chair to the edge of the table, right next to Dream. He feels his heart stop, the cyclical thoughts seeping back into the forefront of his mind as if they’d never left.

“Ah, the gremlin arrives,” Techno drawls, but he’s obviously kidding, Dream can hear the smile in his voice.

“Heyyy! Tommyyy!” Quackity’s grinning as well, throwing a careless arm over Karl’s shoulder, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here!”

“Well I would’ve sat with Tubbo and boob boy but some fucker decided to put them in a different lunch,” Tommy sulks, but even his brooding holds the same energy and passion as everything else he says.

“That’s a shame man, lunch with friends is always better,” Karl agrees, taking a bite from his sandwich, continuing to speak through his chewing, “We gotta start a petition or some shit. They can’t keep getting away with this.” Quackity makes a face and takes his arm back, grossed out by Karl’s food-stuffed mouth.

“That’s fucking disgusting, man, swallow that shit first,” he says.

Karl rolls his eyes, “Yeah, I bet you would like me to swallow first-“

“Karl,” Techno warns, giving him a stern look, “Not in front of the child.”

“Hey, fuck you!” Tommy yells, and their half of the table breaks out in laughter. Except for Dream of course, still caught in his stare and gripping the table like his life depended on it. No one else seems fazed by his silence, but Tommy definitely notices that he isn’t laughing. The kid looks to his brother, pointing at Dream with his thumb and asking, “What’s with this guy?”

“This is Dream,” Techno answers, gesturing towards him but not touching him, thankfully. “You probably won’t hear from him for a while. He doesn’t talk much.”

“Doesn’t talk, eh?”

“Yep, you could learn a thing or two from him, gremlin,” Techno teases.

“Oi, fuck off!” Tommy takes the bait, slamming his hands on the table. “I refuse to be silenced!” The others laugh again, and this time Tommy looks directly at Dream to gauge his reaction, like he’s trying to get him to rouse something from his specifically. The attention makes Dream tense even harder, feeling like the air is getting sucked from his lungs like a vacuum. He forces himself to break away, instead gazing out of a nearby window, trying to calm his heartbeat.

‘Fuck, dude, I don’t know if I can do this,’ Dream begs in his thoughts. ‘It’s like I’m under some sort of spell.’

‘He could be a witch?’ Sapnap suggests.

‘He’s not a fucking witch,’ George deadpans. ‘Do you need one of us to take over?’

‘Oh! Can I? Can I please? I wanna talk to the cute boys!’ Sapnap says, sounding like a toddler begging for a treat. As much as Dream wants to let someone else handle it, he’s still overcome with a bone-chilling dread, the idea that someone will figure out his secret if he lets either of the others interact.

‘No,’ Dream decides, ‘I can do this. I just need to ignore him.’ Sapnap sighs dejectedly but Dream ignores that too. He can tell in his peripherals that his table mates are continuing to chat with Tommy, which is good. The less attention on him the better. He focuses instead on the other end of the table, where Puffy and Schlatt seem very engaged in a heated conversation. He can’t hear them over the general loudness of the environment, but they don’t appear angered, just playing around like usual. He catches a few mouthed words like “slime” and “sandwiches” but nothing coherent. Puffy has a palm up on the table with fingers intertwined with Niki’s. Charlie excitedly interrupts their argument, most likely with some innocuous pun, and half the group laughs while the other half scorns the teen. Schlatt lunges to slap Charlie’s head but the other ducks away out of reach.

He’s still observing their antics when he notices Techno reach across in front of him, not close enough to touch but he can see that he passing something to Tommy. He doesn’t show any signs that he noticed.

What does catch his attention, however, is the sight of half a cookie held out in front of him. He can tell by the thin fingers alone who’s holding it, and the tension that had been slowly fading sparks up again. Slowly, Dream turns his gaze, following the length of the pale arm where it connects to Tommy’s shoulder, a red sleeve with a white body, which somehow makes his eyes glow from the contrast. Tommy is looking at him, his face betraying a soft curiosity, as he offers Dream the cookie half, the other half on a napkin before him. That must be what Techno handed to him earlier, but why is he giving part of it to Dream?

Dream is taking the cookie from his delicate hand before he registers it, giving a nod of thanks to the boy and pulling the small treat close to his chest. His heart is fluttering in his chest, the gears of his head spinning wildly as he tries to make sense of what the hell just happened. The action was so menial, it shouldn’t be having this effect on him, it’s just a cookie. Do normal people feel this way all the time? Why is this act of kindness different than any time his friends have shown him grace?

“That was… really sweet of you, Tommy,” Techno sounds like he’s just as surprised as Dream.

“Yeah, don’t fuckin’ mention it,” Tommy waves him off, eating his half of the cookie in a single bite. After swallowing, he sobers significantly and says, “It’s a habit from the orphanage. Though I usually don’t share with older kids.”

“Aww!” Quackity coos, lightly shoving Dream’s arm, “You hear that, Dream? Tommy thinks you’re special~” An unfamiliar heat erupts under his eyes, it feels like it’s burning a hole through his cheeks.

Karl hits Quackity’s shoulder with a bit more force, “Don’t tease him! Look, you made him blush!” They all laugh again, but this time, Dream feels undeniably frozen in place. It’s teasing, it’s just playing around, it’s just laughing at him instead of around him. But the attention makes his chest feel like it’s imploding, too many emotions sprinting through his mind to identify. Too many and far too much.

He stands abruptly, dropping the half cookie in the wake of grabbing the handle of his backpack, turning and walking at a frenzied pace to get out of there, away from their laughter, away from their eyes and words and that boy.

“Wait, Dream!” Karl calls out behind him.

“Fuck, shit, sorry-“ Quackity curses, but Dream is already gone. Their words chase after him but he doesn’t hear anyone follow.

His breathing is still too fast and he can hear his headmates trying to calm him, he’s looking in every direction for an escape. He spots the nearest exit and bolts out of the door, not caring that it locks behind him.

There’s a parking lot in front of him, where the busses sit and wait until the end of the school day. He heads to the far side where there’s a fence after the curb, weaving between two busses to sit in the small strip of grass. Past the fence continues an open field until it reaches a neighboring elementary school. He spots a small class of children playing on the playground, oblivious to his panic. He puts his back to the school, crossing his legs and hugging his bag to his chest, and finally ducks his head to smoosh into the rough fabric.

It’s an awful texture, his backpack. It’s grating against his skin and probably making him feel worse than intended, but the outside air and no one around is enough to calm him down.

‘Hey, hey, it’s okay, they didn’t mean it.’ Sapnap says gently. He’s been entirely too soft today, normally he’s an annoying asshole, making snide comments alongside George as Dream goes about his day. It’s weird, Dream hates feeling like this.

He hates that he had to make a scene like that. He hates that Tommy has such an effect on him. He hates how easily he gets overwhelmed and how fucking weird he is. It’s a wonder that anyone can tolerate him, and it’s no wonder that his two closest friends are people who exist solely inside his head. He can’t remember the last time he cried, probably never, he’s never been vulnerable enough to, never felt the need- but he can feel the moisture gathering in his tear ducts anyway. He grips his backpack tighter, willing away the tears and shuddering, every muscle in his body tending in tandem.

At least George is in character, staying quiet while Dream works through his episode. He knows it’s not healthy to shove everything down instead of letting himself feel like his brain obviously wants him to, but that’s just how Dream operates. He knows he can’t do anything to stop it.

‘They’re gonna hate me,’ Dream says, rambling his anxieties, ‘They’re gonna leave me, they’ll never talk to me again. I should’ve stayed and taken it. I should’ve laughed too. It wasn’t a big deal. I made it a big deal for no reason.’

‘No, Dream, they’re not gonna do that. They care for you too much,’ Sapnap assures him, ‘It’ll blow over soon enough, no one will remember in a few hours, I promise.’

‘You don’t know that,’ Dream whimpers in his own mind, his breath catching on a sob that he pushes down in his chest, ‘You don’t know that.’

The rustle of nearby trees and the passing cars are the only sounds around him. He’s careful to stifle any noises out of his own mouth, muffling the shaky inhales and forced exhales with his backpack. It takes a few minutes for him to calm down completely, to a point where he can safely lift his face enough to look out the fence again. He was too busy covering his crying to hear the exit door open once more, because the next thing he knows, there’s someone approaching him from the side.

Dream darts his head to see who’s coming, then quickly puts his gaze back on the playground in the distance. Of course it’s Tommy. Of course the one person who causes the most internal distress for Dream is the one who came to check on him. The universe must hate him as much as he hates himself.

The boy takes a careful seat on the grass beside him, giving him a good foot of space between them. While looking in the same direction, not at him, he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Dream couldn’t answer even if he wanted to, putting too much effort toward breathing normally. Sapnap is cautiously pushing for a switch, but Dream can’t do that either.

“Your friends are sorry too,” Tommy continues as if expecting the lack of reply. “They wanted me to tell you. You’ll likely hear it later as well.”

The fact that Tommy is speaking so carefully, picking and choosing his words, feels off, somehow. Everything he’s seen from the boy has been bursts of energy and talking without thinking. It’s weird that he’s treating Dream this way, like he’s consoling an injured animal.

The silence between them lasts a little while longer, until Dream sees Tommy turn his head to look at him. He can’t help but meet his gaze. The earnestness in the other’s eyes is making his heart thud uncomfortably again, but he can’t look away. At least Tommy appears to be flustered too, unable to find a point to focus on, darting between Dream’s backpack, to his hair, to his eyes. “You, uh,” he stumbles over his words, “You don’t gotta say anything, if you don’t want to.” Dream blinks, getting the feeling that there’s more the kid wants to say. “And,” Tommy continues, “if you don’t want me to be around anymore, I get it. Just like, flick me off or something, and I’m gone.”

Well, fuck. Dream doesn’t want that. The problem is that he wants the opposite. He wants Tommy to be ingrained in everything around him, he never wants him out of his sight, he wants to keep him close and never let go. And that feeling scares him.

There’s a similar fear in Tommy’s stare as he waits for the sign. It’s as clear as day on his face, the expectation to be rejected. He must be familiar with the idea, and of course he is. He’s a 12-year-old orphan, who knows how many people have invited him into their lives just to throw him out at the first inconvenience? Dream doesn’t feel empathy for others that often, but the feeling of never being good enough, of thinking every single mistake will be the last straw, it’s so painfully relatable.

Dream reaches out, despite his nerves screaming at him, and places a hand on the young boy’s head, patting him and ruffling his hair. Holy shit, Dream touched him. He actually did it. It doesn’t feel like it’s him, but it couldn’t be anyone else. His hair is softer than he imagined, floating like a nest of silk, each golden stand springing under his fingers and wrapping around him. He never ever wants to let go, knowing he’ll never feel anything as comforting ever again, but he can’t be too weird. The gesture itself is odd enough, he can’t ruin the moment by touching him for too long.

Once his hand returns to his lap, Dream finds a smile on his own face, something genuine, not the mask he usually wears to appease everyone else. It’s the first time he’s ever felt truly connected to another person. The twisted emotions in his brain have died down into a pleasant lightness, now that Dream has made contact with the object of his obsession. Maybe it’ll return later, once the boy is out of sight, but for now, he’s content. The words leave his mouth by their own accord, the first words he’s ever spoken to Tommy, “You’re alright.”

Hearing him speak alights Tommy’s features as the boy smiles wide, feeling gleeful to see this part of Dream. “Of course I am!” Tommy replies, “I’m incredible! The biggest man!” He puffs out his chest to complete the gesture, holding his fists at his sides like a superhero’s stance. His delight only heightens when Dream chuckles in response.

They can hear the bell signaling the end of the lunch period then, so they stand to go back into the building. Once through the busses, Dream sees how Tommy put his backpack between the door and its frame, preventing it from locking behind him. He’s surprised by the ingenuity but doesn’t say anything, not wanting to inflate the kid’s ego any more than he already has. 

Karl and Quackity are sitting in the hallway, talking in low voices to each other, but they spring to their feet as soon as the door opens. Apologies spill from their mouths, it’s a bit overwhelming but Dream feels grateful to know they still care about him. He gives them a good punch to each of their shoulders as thanks.

The warmth in his chest doesn’t fade during the rest of the day, and while he walks home, Dream finds himself for once in his life eager for school tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“Alright, team. Very important question,” the tall, dark-haired teen with circular glasses announces to their small group of desks pushed together, some twenty minutes before the end of class. George had been working quietly on a school-designated laptop, typing out notes while holding a library book in his lap. He glances up as the guy- his name is Ted, but he couldn’t care less, honestly- continues with his very important question. “You ready? Okay, would you rather fight a wolf with your bare hands, or fight a gorilla with a baseball bat? Both fights are to the death,” he says with complete seriousness.

George just goes back to his work as his group members burst into conversation, arguing over logistics and grasping onto the distraction for dear life after a full hour of working. He doesn’t know the names of the other guys, but he figures learning the name of the one who assigned himself team leader was the least he could do. He doesn’t really care for meaningless banter though, so he just turns the page he’s reading and ignores them.

Ted talks over their reasonings, “Okay, but really think about it,” and then, “Is that your final answer?” and, “Alright, that’s two for gorilla, one for wolf. Me? I’d be inclined to say the gorilla but, I mean, have you seen how big they are? Those claws could rip your throat out!” It’s all very juvenile, and while George doesn’t have any trouble blocking them out, he just hopes they don’t shove whatever work they’re avoiding onto him later.

‘I think the baseball bat is the key here, there’s no way you could take on a wolf without a weapon,’ Sapnap, of course, joins in on the thought experiment. George sighs, disappointed that even his own headmates would fall victim to this dumbass conversation.

‘Well what kind of bat we talking here? A metal one or wood? And what species of gorilla? We need more information to really come to a solid answer,’ Dream adds, and George cannot fathom why they’re taking this so seriously.

‘I mean, if you could get on the wolf’s back somehow, maybe you could use your legs to break its neck or something. How big are wolves again?’ Sapnap continues.

‘Fucking big, dude. Though, like I said, it really depends on the type of wolf and what region it’s from.’ Dream says.

‘God, will you two shut the fuck up?’ George feels a headache coming on, only reaching his breaking point when he finds himself reading the same line six times in a row. ‘It doesn’t matter. It literally does not matter at all.’

‘Wow, okay Officer George of the Fun Police, fancy meeting a pig here,’ Sapnap mutters sarcastically.

“Dream?”

George jerks his head up, finding his group’s eyes all on him, Ted looking like he’s been attempting to get his attention for a little while now. He tilts his head to ask why.

“I wanted to know your answer,” Ted says with a playful grin, “Wolf or gorilla?”

They all wait for him to answer, which is dumb because he’s never uttered a word around any of them before. Worse yet, he doesn’t care, not in the least. His eyes gaze over the room and the other groups, searching for someone who can give him an out. He sees Karl and Wilbur laughing, and resents the fact that they got to group together while he’s here with a bunch of strangers. At another table are Schlatt and Niki, also engrossed in conversation, and that’s the last of his allies in this class.

He looks back to Ted, who seems a little confused with a face similar to that of a kicked puppy. Shit, George didn’t really plan on being a killjoy, he just wants to work on his damn assignment. He could just raise a finger or two, but then he’s certain they’d prompt him for an explanation, just like the others gave in their answers.  He hates this, he hates this so much.

Despite the stares, he sighs and looks back down at his book, resigning himself to continue working on the project and hoping that Ted gets the message.

“Don’t worry about him, Ted,” one of the nameless students tells him, “He’s a fuckin’ weirdo.”

“Probably thinks he’s better than all of us,” another adds. “What kind of name is Dream anyway?”

“Sucks we got him in our group, I hate dealing with him.”

“Right? We’d be better off getting a lame rock as a fifth member.”

To his credit, George doesn’t hear Ted add to their bitter remarks at all, but he doesn’t try to defend him either. But that’s fine, George expects this type of treatment, he just keeps his head down and pretends to work until the bell rings.

And when it does, he stays in his seat until the majority of the class is already gone, and only then does he stand up, pack his bag, and return the laptop to the charging station. To his surprise, the moment he steps through the doorway, Ted gets his attention, giving him a wave but keeping some distance.

“Sorry, dude,” Ted apologizes, sounding sincere, “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”

George is stunned to see this kind of compassion, but he keeps his face uncaring and shrugs. He’s used to it, it doesn’t really faze him.

“Those other guys are assholes,” Ted keeps going, frowning, “You’re allowed to say or not say whatever you want, that doesn’t make you less than anyone else.”

George just blinks at him, not knowing how to respond even if he wanted to. He expects everyone aside from his small group of friends to be dicks and that’s that, but it looks like some strangers can be kind too.

Even without a reply, Ted continues, “You’re friends with Schlatt, right? I know him and Charlie from way back, I couldn’t transfer until this month, though,” he explains and George doesn’t really know why he’s telling him this. “So, what I’m saying is, you’ll probably see me around, so…” and it’s strange to George because he’s mainly only heard Ted speak with confidence, even when he rambles about stuff that doesn’t make sense, but now he’s flustered, nervous. Because of him? Why?

Ted looks at him as if he finished his thought instead of trailing off into nothing. George doesn’t know what he wants, but he nods, waiting for his cue to leave. Ted nods back, the frown replaced with a pleasant smile, then turns to walk away.

‘Well, that was strange,’ Dream comments as George watches Ted disappear into the crowded hall.

‘He seems cool,’ Sapnap says. George feels too tired to come to any conclusions, also a little weirded out that they keep getting these apologies without deserving them. Sure, it’s only happened twice in the last week, but that’s still way out of the ordinary.

Oh well. Dream switches in for their next class, so George relaxes in the backseat and lets the others handle the rest of the day.

…

Sapnap huffs in the warm air of early autumn, the breeze coasting through his hair as he dribbles the ball toward the goal. His feet move in a delicate balance of speed and control, kicking the soccer ball so it stays within range, dodging his teammates donned in red jerseys. He’s got a smile on his face, as he always does when he plays. He just feels so free, with the turf soft under his cleats and air rushing past him, lungs burning from the effort and legs feeling strong. He loves this. This sport is the one thing that makes him feel the most alive, like an actual person, his own host. His only other passion is setting things on fire, but Dream doesn’t let him do that anymore. Apparently, it’s ‘too dangerous’ and ‘very illegal’ but Sapnap thinks Dream just hates having fun.

He can hear Quackity sprinting at the other side of the field, keeping his pace and calling out to let him know he’s open. And Karl in the bleachers cheering them on. It’s just a scrimmage, half the team in jerseys and the other half in plain clothes, but it’s thrilling nonetheless. Someone charges towards him as he reaches the line about ten yards from the goal, so he fakes him out and passes to Quackity, who gets a clear shot into the net, the goalie rolling in the grass after his failed block. Sapnap yells out a cheer, running up to Quackity to high-five him. His head is fuzzy and his calves feel like jelly but he’s ecstatic, wanting nothing more than to pull Quackity in for a hug and kiss him on the mouth but Dream shuts down that idea as soon as it conjures in his mind.

Their coach blows the whistle, letting everyone know that practice is over and to not be late tomorrow. The team crowds around the benches on the sideline, packing up their gear and guzzling water like their lives depended on it.

Sapnap sighs after he downs the remainder of his water bottle, reaching over to give Quackity a hearty pat on the back. “Nice shot, dude! You’re a fucking legend, for real,” he praises, still high from the adrenaline rush.

Quackity grins back, and once again Sapnap has to physically hold himself back from smooching that beautiful face- as Dream makes a retching sound in their shared thoughts. “Thanks, man. Couldn’t have done it without you!” Quackity replies, returning the gesture with a shoulder pat of his own before turning around to catch Karl walking up to them. The brown-haired teen tosses each of them a small towel.

“Words cannot express how sexy that last goal was, boys!” Karl raves with a playful grin. “I’d give you guys a hug but you’re both sweaty and disgusting.”

Quackity takes that as a challenge, rushing the other in an attempt to wrap his arms around him. Karl shrieks and evades, tripping over his own feet to get away. Sapnap just laughs, overjoyed by his two crushes’ antics. He uses the towel Karl gave him to wipe at his face and neck, keeping it hung over his shoulder when he’s finished. By that point, Quackity’s got Karl in a bear hug with his arms tight to his chest and lifting him off the ground. It’s really funny because Karl is a lot taller than the other, so he’s squirming violently while Quackity arches his back, lifting him higher.

Sapnap laughs so hard his chest starts to hurt, his lungs still sore from exerting them during practice. Then there’s that painful yearning that sprinkles sadness into his gleeful moment, with how badly he wants to give himself to the two boys. Confessing his love, doing anything within his power to keep the smiles on their faces, setting fire to the whole world if they asked him. But Dream and George’s presence reminds him why he can’t do that.

But he’s still giggling uncontrollably, it’s just the tears forming in his eyes aren’t a result of the laughter. He wants to curl up into a ball and cry forever, but he’s gotta change clothes before Dream can step back in, or else he’s just asking for another breakdown. So he wills back the tears and takes some steady breaths, sitting on the ground to trade his cleats for his regular shoes. By the time he’s back on his feet, Karl has freed himself and whines about the moisture Quackity left on his back.

“You’re so gross! This is like, my favorite shirt!” Karl complains.

“And now it’s got my essence stained into it,” Quackity teases, sauntering over to where he left his own bag. “You’re welcome.”

“Sounds like a plus to me,” Sapnap adds with a smirk. “I could spit on it too if you’d like?”

For a moment, Sapnap thinks he took it too far because while Quackity bursts into laughter, Karl falls completely silent, wide-eyed and blushing madly. “Y-you would…” he mumbles with a dazed smile, “You’d do that for me?”

Sapnap can feel his own cheeks reddening, not expecting Karl to respond this way, completely blocking out Dream’s incessant complaining about how disgusting that is.

“Holy shit, you guys are fucking gay,” and fuck, Sapnap forgot that Jack is on their team as well. He looks over to see Jack watching the three of them, simultaneously humored and taken aback. Sapnap’s stomach drops, considering for the first time the consequences that his actions will have against Dream and his reputation.

‘Oh, so now you’re thinking about my image? You’re lucky I physically can’t kick your ass, Sapnap,’ Dream says, sounding incredibly disappointed.

Quackity doesn’t seem to notice his internal struggle, waving off Jack and responding, “Pssh, you forget that literally everyone is gay. It’s 2022, loser.”

“Yeah!” Karl joins, seemingly shaken off the fluster from before, “Cishet loser! Only pussies don’t kiss their homies and trans their genders!” He and Quackity cheer and high-five, looking smugly at Jack’s frown.

“Right,” Jack drawls sarcastically, “I’m going home now.” Then swiftly exits the confrontation.

“Pinche,” Quackity mutters, staring the teen down as he walks away. Then he turns his gaze to Sapnap, eyes warm with concern, “You okay?” Memories of the other day made him worry about upsetting his friend again.

The situation thoroughly defused, Sapnap allows himself to breathe again, planting a smile on his face and giving Quackity a nod. He figures a compromise is a good way to make it up to Dream for now, resolving himself to stay mute until they’re able to switch.

The others only look slightly saddened by this decision but know better than to bring it up. They walk Sapnap back to the locker rooms before heading home themselves, Karl following after Quackity with a promise to eat leftover homemade queso and play Call of Duty at his place. 

Sapnap enters the boys’ locker room, only slightly surprised by the bustling noise until he remembers the lacrosse team still had their practice after the soccer team finished. No one bothers him as he goes to the locker where he left his backpack and extra change of clothes. He swiftly changes his shirt and shorts, pulling a hoodie overtop and heading to the bathroom stalls to let Dream come back into control. He settles in the back of their shared mind, pleasantly replaying the memories of fun with the two boys earlier, yearning for the next time he’ll get to be himself again.

Dream, though glad to be in clean clothes, still doesn’t appreciate the way his hair sticks to the nape of his neck, so he would really rather get home and shower as soon as possible. But like always, the universe has other plans for him.

Most of the locker room is cleared out, save for a few stragglers still applying deodorant and tying up their shoes. Dream pushes open the door, ready to make his way to the front of the school to his route home, but he’s stopped by someone greeting him.

Sitting in the shade of the building are his friends, Sam, Techno, and Schlatt, already donned in their practice clothes and doing some light stretches. Sam is the one who called him over, and despite needing that shower, Dream can’t find any other reason to ignore them.

“You just got finished with practice?” Sam converses, crossing his arm over his chest and pulling his shoulder while he counts under his breath. Dream nods, politely taking a seat in the empty space next to Techno.

“Yeah, we’re just waiting for coach now. Sure, he’d prefer us already running laps by the time he gets here, but I can’t be bothered,” Schlatt explains why they’re under the shade rather than huddled with the rest of their team over by the benches.

“I just wish we didn’t have to stay so late,” Techno complains, tying his hair into a tighter braid so it doesn’t get in the way later, while he looks at the sun on its way to setting with disdain. That’s something Dream can agree on, so he nods to that as well. The soccer team can’t practice until the fall sports are done, first football then field hockey, then soccer, which is technically an all-year-round sport but takes off during winter, and only then can lacrosse have their practice, since they aren’t officially on until the spring. All that culminates in still being at school at 6-7 PM, which Dream thinks should be illegal.

‘Not like there’s anyone waiting on us at home,’ George reminds him.

Dream ignores him, especially when the conversation turns to something he was wondering about himself. Sam asks Techno, “Is Tommy interested in any sports?”

Techno gives a minute shrug but says, “He was against it at first but I think Tubbo and Ranboo being on the volleyball team made him change his mind.” He finishes off his braid with a blue hair tie and starts wrapping it into a bun. “They already had tryouts a few weeks ago, but they aren’t varsity or anything, I’m sure Tubbo can pull some strings.”

“Yeah,” Sam smiles at the mention of his little brother, “Sometimes I worry he’s too persuasive for his own good.”

“Afraid he’ll use his puppy-dog eyes for evil one day?” Schlatt jests, as if he himself hasn’t fallen victim to Tubbo’s charm before. Dream remembers a time when the kid convinced Schlatt to join his Minecraft server, simply because he said Schlatt could be the president of a country he formed. Schlatt literally didn’t have an account before that day, and even now it’s the only server he plays on.

“I know for sure Tommy’s influence isn’t going to help with that,” Techno adds. The others agree, and then he turns to Dream who’s been listening quietly. “You know, he still hasn’t stopped raving about you, Dream. He thinks he won the damn lottery just by getting you to say two words to him.”

“To be fair, he also got some head pats,” Schlatt reasons, only slightly teasing as Dream feels a blush coming on once more. He can’t believe that Tommy would brag about that weird interaction.

“Yeah, and screw you, by the way. He never lets me or Wilbur play with his hair,” Techno grumbles, narrowing his eyes with a jealous stare.

Dream raises his palms in a ‘hey don’t blame me’ type motion. He truly feels bad for Techno because Tommy’s hair was literally the softest thing he’s ever felt. He would say that, but he’s still a little hung up on Jack’s statement earlier, and can’t bring himself to leave his nonverbal bubble.

Sam chuckles, “Just wait until he finds out it took two whole months before Dream said anything to you,” he says to Techno.

“Hell, I still haven’t heard you speak!” Schlatt sounds exasperated, though in a joking kind of way, not disappointed. Still, Dream looks away, not wanting to take any chances to see resentment in his friends’ eyes. “I mean, that’s fine!” Schlatt notices his withdrawal, backtracking quickly. “I know you’re cool, I ain’t judging or nothing.”

“It’s not a problem at all,” Sam confirms, speaking with clarity and confidence. Dream lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding then, giving a nod to acknowledge their attempts to comfort him. They may not understand the extent of it but talking, or lack thereof, is a bit of a rough subject for him.

The three have to leave for practice after that, so Dream waves his goodbyes and sets off home. He doesn’t live very far from school, maybe ten or so minutes away, but so does most of the student population.

Their town isn’t big by any means. There’s a handful of elementary schools scattered around, but only one secondary school to accommodate the youth grades seven through twelve. There’s a shopping district on the other side of town, and if you don’t work there, then you work in the city 20 miles away. He doesn’t mind the size of his town, it makes the community a bit more tight-knit, where everybody knows everybody. But, then again, that still leaves Dream to be an outcast, since he never had the socialite parents that would drag him to events. Most of the people he knew either lived nearby or were in his grade. His neighbors were never very friendly, though. He thinks they’re resentful for how often he was dumped into their care during his childhood. He doesn’t blame them.

The key slides into the lock easily and Dream welcomes himself inside, still leaving his shoes by the door despite never having to worry about being scolded for doing otherwise. The house is empty, it’s been empty ever since he left that morning, and it will be empty when he leaves tomorrow. He would say he doesn’t mind the quiet, but he really doesn’t have a choice in the matter. There was a time when he would beg for company, scream at the empty walls and bang tiny fists against the floorboards, only to receive nothing but silence.

He takes a shower, makes casual conversation with George about their history project, and scolds Sapnap for his behavior after practice. It’s how he imagines siblings would interact after a long day of school, if he had any. George and Sapnap are the closest he’s ever had to family, and while he’s grateful to have them around, the disconnect between reality and his mind can be difficult to cope with. For instance, he only notices he’s spent far too long in the shower when the water runs cold, and he hasn’t even finished washing up. He’s just been staring at the white tiles as he spoke in his mind and listened for their responses. So, thoroughly dissatisfied, he finishes washing his body and rinsing out his hair and turns the water off.

‘Ugh, frozen dinner again?’ Sapnap groans as Dream prepares the plastic tray for the microwave.

‘Got any better ideas?’ Dream humors him, although he quite like the brand of frozen meals he gets. They do well to separate the different foods and it doesn’t taste too much like processed chemicals.

‘We should order something!’ Sapnap responds, growing excited at Dream’s prompting. ‘I’m thinking a nice pizza. Extra large, with pepperoni and olives and those spicy sausages they have. Oh! And we can get cheesy breadsticks with marinara! That should last a few meals, I think, really it’s just the better option. I know the best place to order from-‘

Dream cuts off Sapnap’s rambling with the loud shutter of the microwave door. He keys in the cooking time and grabs a glass for a drink while it hums. ‘Sorry, Sapnap. You know how it is,’ Dream says with a tired sigh. It’s an argument they have fairly often, with how limited their meal selection is, never straying from frozen breakfast and ready-made dinners, it’s just the cheapest option. He can’t spend too much on himself lest his mother ring him up with a scalding tone, telling him how he’s wasting her hard-earned money and should be more frugal and considerate. And he fucking hates those phone calls, so he’ll do literally anything to keep her attention off him. Even if that means eating the same shitty food day after day after day.

‘Man, fuck her. You know she’s rich anyway, why can’t she just let you live?’ Sapnap complains.

‘My theory is that simply being reminded of your existence by the credit card bill is enough to set her off,’ George says.

‘Yeah? Well, sorry you need to eat food to survive, what a fucking travesty,’ Sapnap seems particularly put off today.

‘I don’t know why you would expect anything different,’ Dream replies with nonchalance. He’s far past the point of caring about how his mother views him, he’s never been able to predict or circumvent her various moods before so why bother starting now?

The night ends just like every other night, boring and uninteresting, with an empty plastic tray in the trash and a pile of finished homework. The house is silent and Dream brushes his teeth, changes clothes, and slips into bed. He sleeps without dreams, another tally for the ironies in his life, the only respite to ease his pitiful conscious being the cold embrace of the void.

Chapter Text

Dream’s routine has been changing recently, which isn’t as bad as he imagined. In the mornings, instead of the usual spot in the lot next to the library, he’s been meeting up with his group in the courtyard by the cafeteria where there are circular tables and an overhead awning. Tommy has been forcing Wilbur to drive him and his brother there earlier so he can hang out too, and with him came the other younger brothers of the group, Tubbo, Ranboo, and Purpled.

Tubbo, of course, being Sam’s brother, while Ranboo is the younger sibling of Niki, and Purpled’s the adopted brother of Puffy. Purpled is a quiet kid, always wearing noise-canceling headphones and ignoring anyone’s attempts to talk to him, to which Dream can definitely relate. He doesn’t seem to have any other friends, and really only hangs with their group out of convenience. Though lately, he’s taken to Ranboo’s shadow, silently trusting the taller boy to stay out of the way and out of the limelight.

Ranboo has to be the most average out of the trio- now quartet, with Tommy’s inclusion- he’s polite and considerate, shy but not too much so. He gets flustered speaking to new people, but the fact that he can speak at all puts him ahead of Dream on the social scale. Upon meeting him a year ago, Niki warned their group that he suffers from some acute memory problems, needing constant reminders of names and his class schedule. He carries around with him a memory journal, which no one is allowed to read.

Since the tables in the courtyard only seat about 4-6 of them at a time, everyone shifts around daily, but Dream is the only one who sits in the same spot each time. It really depends on their running conversations. Sometimes Sam and Techno join him along with Karl and Quackity, and other times it’s Niki and Schlatt and Charlie that sit with him. The other day it was Jack and Puffy and the younger kids, and the day before was Karl and Wilbur and Techno. Since it’s so crowded, Dream hardly ever talks after the first few show up, but he welcomes the dynamic. It makes mornings something fun for once.

And Tommy always seems to sit at Dream’s table, whether the other kids are there or not. He’ll talk his ear off about anything and everything, and Dream gladly gives him all his attention. Tommy is contagious like that, spreading happy vibes to everyone in the vicinity, garnering the eyes of anyone close enough to hear him. He’s loud, witty, always joking at his own expense. He’s the highlight of Dream’s mornings, just sitting happily and listening to the boy ramble.

If Dream didn’t know any better, he’d almost consider himself a third brother of Tommy’s. Dream always greets him with a ruffle of his blond locks and a bright smile, then promptly receives some envious remark from Wilbur or Techno about the action. The rest learn to leave an open seat next to Dream because that’s where Tommy will ultimately sit, basking in the affection of someone who truly doesn’t deserve it.

Maybe it’s a highlight, but these mornings also wage a war inside Dream’s thoughts. He already feels like an infiltrator, jutting himself into the lives of his friends when he has nothing to contribute other than fake smiles and the occasional snarky comment, and then comes this boy, who floods Dream’s head with wild emotions, feeding into his obsessed craze without even realizing it. It makes Dream feel even worse, like he’s manipulating this child into sustaining the dark and ugly sides of his mind when he should really be staying far far away from him. And maybe Dream should try harder to push him away, do him a favor and cut himself out of the boy’s life so he isn’t pulled into that void, but Dream… is selfish. He’s always been selfish.

One day, after the final bell, Dream finds himself sitting outside in the sun, a good distance away from the field where he’ll be practicing in a few hours. Usually, he’d be with his team heading to a local fast food place for late lunch, but he was beckoned by Tommy to come hang with him instead.

The kid did actually get on the volleyball team and tonight is a game night so he and Tubbo and Ranboo are hanging around the school grounds until it starts. So there Dream is, sitting in a small circle with three 8th graders, which to any passerby would look weird as fuck, but Dream can’t bring himself to care.

Besides, these kids are pretty funny, not gonna lie. They’re funny in the way that Karl and Quackity’s bickering is, but the topics they peruse are somehow even more nonsensical.

“Tubbo, please, why the hell would bees have thoughts? What the fuck would they have to think about?” Tommy sputters, answering the question Tubbo posed only a second earlier.

“Taxes?” Ranboo muses.

“I don’t know! Maybe like, what kind of flowers are the tastiest? Or how sexy the queen is?” Tubbo says.

Tommy makes an offending scoff, “What are you even saying? Bees are far too pure to think such things!” He shakes his head. “No, I’m certain the only thing they think is ‘buzz buzz, gotta make dat honey. Buzz buzz, gotta stab this human, buzz.’”

“Buzz buzz, gotta pay my taxes, buzz.” Ranboo says as he mimes having little antennae on his head.

“Buzz, buzz, holy shit here comes the bee IRS! Martha, buzz, hide the pollen!” Tubbo mimics Ranboo’s gesture.

Ranboo chuckles, “Martha? What kind of name- no, no it should be ‘Bee-atrice.’ ‘Cause they’re bees, Tubbo.”

“I’ll have you know, Martha is a perfectly good name for a bee wife,” Tubbo pouts.

“Wait, wait- why the fuck would they have a bee IRS??” Tommy asks, be(e)wildered.

“For the bee taxes, Tommy. Keep up,” Tubbo dismisses.

“Yeah, Tommy. Buzz buzz,” Ranboo deadpans, but then the two burst into laughter anyway. Tommy attempts to hold his disappointment but fails as he giggles along with them.

Dream can’t help but smile, despite being very much lost on whatever the fuck they’re arguing about, but their childish laughter is still heart-warming. He’s sitting hunched over with Tommy kneeling beside him, letting the boy put tiny braids into his hair. He normally never lets anyone near his head, let alone touch his hair, but Tommy asked and Dream couldn’t dare say no to him.

It helps that Tommy is so delicate with it, doing his best to avoid tugging on the strands or hurting him in any way. Of course, Dream still has to suppress a flinch every time the boy grabs new sections and his knuckles brush against Dream’s skull, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

‘You’ve gone soft,’ Sapnap comments. He’d be smirking if he could, Dream knows.

‘Fuck off,’ is his cold response.

‘Who knew all it took for your scary facade to crumble was a couple of annoying brats?’ George says in a similar snarky manner.

‘Well the only annoying brats I hear right now are you two idiots,’ Dream scorns, trying not to physically rolls his eyes. Tommy doesn’t seem to notice his internal turmoil, simply laying the finished braid next to his ear and starting on another. He’s already done about eight so far, all half-inch wide pleats scattered around the right side of his skull, and shows no signs of stopping.

‘You know Quackity will one-hundred percent make fun of you if you show up to practice all braided up,’ Sapnap reminds him.

‘Yeah, and if he gets your whole head then you might be accused of cultural appropriation,’ George adds.

‘I hate you both,’ Dream mutters. He tunes back into the arguing only to find them on a completely different topic, just as nonsensical as the last.

“-and I’ll start taxing the Minecraft realm,” Tubbo leers at Tommy.

Tommy gasps all dramatic, taking a hand from his current braiding and placing it against his chest. “You wouldn’t!”

“You’d have to pass that by Schlatt first,” Ranboo says.

“Hah! As if he isn’t the one who gave me the idea in the first place!” Tubbo replies triumphantly. “He recommended a diamond a day but you’re honestly too poor for that.”

“Hey!” Tommy scoffs, extremely offended. “I’ll have you know what I lack in material wealth I make up for with my never-ending charisma and epic builds!”

“You live in a dirt house, Tommy,” Ranboo tells him.

“Well, we can’t all have rich platonic husbands, boob boy,” the blond frowns, turning away to continue braiding.

They keep going, but by this point Dream tunes them out, letting his gaze rest on the busy road at the far end of the field. It’s difficult to comprehend just how serene the air feels at the moment. Usually, he’d be surrounded by noise and laughter, stuffed into a few booths at a small fast food joint with the varsity lacrosse and soccer teams, warm bodies pressed together while Dream tries to eat his damn meal in peace. He can picture Quackity stealing fries from everyone else’s tray and flicking sauce at Karl, Sam and Techno in a booth across the way arm wrestling, Jack and Schlatt arguing over something or other. It’s hectic, sure, and he’d be lying if he said he was comfortable in that chaotic environment. But it’s routine. This is just a welcome detour. He’s not sure how much time passes until he’s brought back to attention with Tommy flicking his fingers in front of Dream’s face.

Dream blinks, meeting Tommy’s baby blues, needing an extra moment to avoid falling back into stasis by how the eyes seem to pull him in.

“Dreeeeeam, you deaf or what?” Tommy pesters him, flicking his fingers a few more times.

“That’s actually quite ableist, Tommy,” Tubbo comments, but he doesn’t seem serious, he doesn’t even look up from his phone.

“Oh, come off it, bee boy. Go pay your fuckin’ bee taxes or whatever,” Tommy quips, rolling his eyes. He sees that Dream is focused again so he points towards the school building. “The boys are back, Techno says he got you a burg’.”

Ranboo snorts, “Burg’?”

“It’s American, innit? You know what I mean,” Tommy huffs and crosses his arms.

“Sure, Tommy,” Tubbo says, before pocketing his phone and standing up, pulling both Tommy and Ranboo with him. “Come now, we gotta go set up the nets.”

Tommy groans loudly but does what he’s asked, getting to his feet and brushing the grass blades from his shorts, “Fine.” Then he waves to Dream as they walk away with a “see you later!”

Dream watches them walk towards the gymnasium together, already back to conversing about something unimportant, as he enjoys the warm contentment that rests in his chest. He can feel the numerous tiny braids weighing on the right side of his head but he really doesn’t mind, because he knows Tommy made them, and that’s all that matters to him.

Literally, it’s all that matters.

For every single second of the rest of the day, Dream thinks about nimble fingers combing through his hair, eyes the color of the ocean open wide for only him to see, warm, inviting, captivating. He’s in a daze, miles away from the teasing comments by Quackity, the compliments by Karl, Techno’s knowing smirk, it all devolves into background static. The images of the world around him are meaningless to the overlay of Tommy’s face, all senses dulled to the memory of his hands’ warmth ghosting his ear, his neck. He ignores the worry of his headmates, Sapnap’s difficulty staying focused during practice, and the looks of concern from his friends- nothing matters compared to the target of his obsession.

And when he gets home that evening, hand fiddling with the braids that rest against his curls, he feels a dark cloud of loss float over him when he realizes some of the small pleats had come untangled during practice. Then in his bathroom, faced with the shower head, that cloud condenses in grief as he understands his needed washing will most certainly destroy the evidence of the rest.

The sadness follows him, rains atop his damp skin, nulls his appetite, erases the attention required to complete his homework, forces his eyes to glue to the white ceiling well past his normal hours of sleep. He feels too far away from him, now that every trace of Tommy is disappeared from his person. He’s as empty as his existence before meeting him, before he laid eyes on that bright child, before his mind erupted into sparks and gleamed like he’d never felt before. Now it whirs in desperation, clinging hopelessly to the images carved into his brain like it’s the only thing he’ll ever have to keep of the boy.

It’s not enough.

The next day isn’t easy.

From the moment his eyes open, Dream knows for a fact that getting out of bed will be a much harder chore than usual. His brain fights against every movement as if battling with his lungs to cease breathing, willing the void of sleep to consume him once more. But his phone alarm is still blaring, the sun still blinding, George and Sapnap still whispering comforts.

‘We could call in sick?’ Sapnap suggests, doing his damndest to push warmth to the forefront of his mind, attempting to alleviate the pressing migraine.

‘Not old enough to do that, they’d need a parent to do it,’ George retorts, sounding like he’s in his own battle against exhaustion.

‘We could pretend to be his dad?’

‘I doubt his dad’s contact is even in the system.’

Dream groans, feeling the headache worsen with every passing minute, especially while the two converse in his thoughts. He feels like dying, like he’s already dying a slow and painful death, like every atom of his body is steadily dissociating into the surrounding air. Soon enough he’ll be a floating space of matter that used to be a human, but is no longer. The joy he felt the day before feels like eons away, witnessed in another lifetime. He is but a slug today, dissolving into his mattress as if it were made of salt.

‘Look, Dream, why don’t you let us handle it for today?’ Sapnap asks, gently pushing for a switch to allow Dream to take the backseat.

Dream can’t even bring himself to reply, he just wallows in the empty feeling, staring at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes. Even the simple act of switching feels like too much effort, like he’ll die if he tries to formulate even a single coherent thought.

‘C’mon Dream, then we’ll at least get to see your friends today, you wanna see Tommy don’t you?’ Sapnap begs, not too comfortable using his attachment to the kid to get Dream out of bed, but coming up empty with any other excuse.

Again, he doesn’t answer, he just lets Sapnap take control, falling to the wayside to rest. This week has been really good, he’s felt more and been happier than he has in a long time, so why does his brain have to take all that and grind it into the dust?

He’s barely present as Sapnap goes through his morning routine, taking a bit longer than usual because he isn’t used to having control in the mornings. Of course, this isn’t the first time this has happened, where the earth’s gravity seems to weigh heavier on Dream and sleep refuses to release him from its clutches, but it’s been a little while since the last time. Before this week, he’d been living day to day in a sort of blurry state, not having any strong reactions as his routine repeated and repeated, just gazing through a veil at the world passing him by.

Sapnap looks displeased at the frozen waffle, breaking the routine by placing it in the toaster oven while he gets his school stuff together. He packs a binder labeled ‘history’ that was set aside in the living room, and Sapnap is reminded of their project. He asks George, ‘You aren’t presenting today, right?’

‘No, thank God. We won't go until Monday, but I doubt that’ll prevent them from giving me shit for not finishing my work last night,’ George complains.

‘Well, at least it’s not today.’ Sapnap zips the back closed and throws it over his shoulder, grabbing the now-heated waffle with the sleeves of his shirt covering his fingers so it doesn’t burn him. He eats on the way out, remembering to lock the door at the last second after he checks his phone to see he’s a good ten minutes behind schedule. They won’t be late for school, thankfully, but it’s still likely someone is going to notice.

Since they’re in pretty good shape from soccer, Sapnap half-jogs the rest of the way, barely even out of breath by the time they reach the school. He heads around the outside to the usual meeting spot in the cafeteria courtyard, spying that just about everyone else is already there. Sapnap smiles when he sees the empty seat next to Tommy, the boy looking downtrodden at his phone as if waiting for something. Just as Sapnap approaches, Tommy’s head jumps up and catches sight of him, a grin quickly forming on his face, showing off his teeth.

“Big D! You made it! Come, come, have a seat,” Tommy greets cheerfully, patting the empty chair next to him. He gets the attention of a few others, who trade waves and greetings of their own. When Sapnap obliges, Tommy leans forward on his elbows, bobbing his head as he talks, “Big Q over here said you’d moved on to a cooler friend group, but I knew for a fact he’s a lying wrongun! Because we are the coolest group in the whole school, obviously.” He points at Quackity accusingly then gestures to the rest of the tables. He looks back to Sapnap for approval.

Sapnap gives a small chuckle in return, ruffling the kid’s hair and waiting back in his quiet space as the conversations continue around him.

It’s a little hard to pay attention, though, as the dark cloud of dread continues to emanate from the general area of their shared mind where Dream resides. The thought of going back to sleep, of slowly decaying until the components of their body sink into the soil, like death looming over their shoulder no matter how bright the world is around them.

‘It’s okay, Dream. Everyone is okay and normal and they love you, can you try to focus on that?’ Sapnap consoles, feeling uncomfortable with the contrast of his own emotions and the weird vibes of Dream’s funk.

Dream could scoff if he had the energy. They can’t love him, he knows he’s unlovable. Everyone who’s ever loved him has died or abandoned him. The conclusion that reaches him is always that it’s his fault, that he must be wrong because everyone else seems to get along fine. He doesn’t deserve sympathy from anyone, he doesn’t want to pretend that he can be loved. He can’t love. He can’t feel love.

Even without words to convey it, Sapnap and George can still parse the emotions, saddened by the depressing aura that surrounds their headmate.

‘Love isn’t some straight-forward feeling, dude,’ Sapnap attempts to explain, ‘and everyone feels it and shows it differently.’

‘People love by sticking by your side even when you’re fighting, calling you out on your bullshit, looking out for you when the rest of the world is a bitch,’ George continues. ‘All the bickering and jokes and jabs, that’s love, baby.’

‘Didn’t take you for a love expert, George,’ Sapnap jokes, though he agrees. ‘I think that kind of love is shared between all of us, the fact that we all stick together. Hell, Tommy seemed to be worried that we weren’t here at the usual time.’

The sentiment is there, and appreciated, Dream knows, but the words can only echo in the dark space of their mind. There are high walls surrounding him, keeping out the reassurances and locking in the repeated mantra of words his mother has told him, of missing the only caretaker that truly loved him, of the friends in grade school that adapted to their social standards by leaving him behind. Never once has he been anything more than a burden to everyone around him. It’s a wonder he has any friends at all. It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed himself yet. 

The thought doesn’t come very often, but when it does it’s always brutal. Sapnap physically winces, especially when Dream conjures the premonition of actually going through with it, how easy it would be. With the rope in the cellar, or a kitchen knife, or the gun in the safe in the closet-

“Yo! Dream! Snap out of it, man!” Tommy emphasizes grabbing his attention by flicking his fingers together inches from his face, just like he did yesterday. But instead of amusement, this time concern laces his features. Sapnap blinks repeatedly, pushing away the intrusive images from his vision, finding it strangely hard to breathe all of a sudden. A quick glance over the rest of the table finds all eyes on him with similar worry. He looks back at Tommy when the boy asks him, “You alright? You look like you saw a ghost or some shit.”

Karl speaks up next, voice cracking on his entrance. “We could go somewhere quieter if that’d be more comfortable for you,” he offers. A few others nod in agreement.

The watchful eyes of his friends are instinctually unnerving to him, even if it’s more of a burden to Dream than himself, so Sapnap tries to shake off the feeling and deny the request. He gives a half-hearted smile like pulling a mask over his face.

(It’s a mask Dream is all too familiar with, one he’d carefully crafted since he was enrolled in primary school. The adults, the other kids, they all just wanted him to see his smile, simply, not blank-faced or lips downturned in frustration. Not contemplative or sad or angry, just happy, just content, all the time, in every single moment. They never cared about how he felt, they never wanted an explanation. His words always fell on deaf ears, always denying them a reality that was so much easier to bare when every face displayed the same emotion, the same intention. No matter the harsh words spoken, the taunts, the disappointment. Sit there and take it, Dream. Smile and take it, take it, take it. He’s broken if he doesn’t smile. He’s worthless if he isn’t perfectly fine.)

‘Please, Dream, you have to stop,’ Sapnap pleads to his headmate’s spiraling mix of memories and fantasy, the clear image of a white circular mask with an emoticon smile plastered in the middle planted at the forefront of their thoughts. His real-life smile is strained like a grimace and doesn’t seem to be appeasing his friends, but every word flies right past him from how loud Dream’s distress is. 

(Sometimes Dream is convinced that he is the only one hiding behind his mask, sometimes he’s convinced that everyone else is lying too, plastering fake smiles and speaking only to spout lies. People who look at him as if he isn’t just a human-shaped thing, people who see him as the monster he truly is, are one and the same, lying through their teeth even when faced with the absolute truth. They mold the world around them until it appears as some sort of brightly-colored utopia, ignoring the shadowed corners and walls filled with rot. Dream is the only one broken. Dream is the only one who knows.)

The bell prevents any further questioning as Sapnap quickly gathers his things and scurries into the building. He disappears into the crowd of students and tries to absorb the white noise of chatter and footsteps to cover whatever echoes in his mind. Yet, as Dream laments about being the only person without a single glance pointed at him, Sapnap feels like all eyes are on him, piercing through his shaking limbs and seeing the panic that courses through him.

Time jumps forward until Sapnap slides into a desk in the back of his first-period classroom, instantly collapsing his aching head into his arms and just trying to keep up the simple task of breathing. It’s obvious Sapnap can’t properly cope in this headspace, he’s too entirely helpless to how Dream is feeling, unable to parse reality from the overwhelming emotion.

Internally, George sighs. He’s mastered the front of evasion and disillusion in his many years as a headmate of Dream. He only finds contentment in a few topics which he will allow himself to front, all else is draining and too much effort save for moments of emergency. But it looks like he’ll have to take the reins for today, at least until Dream can calm down enough to let Sapnap breathe easy.

George lifts his head, already tired. He knows he’ll be sleeping for days after this.

Chapter Text

It’s Sunday, and everyone is tired, to say the least.

After coming home on Friday, George slipped right into bed and no one has managed to get up since. Each time someone awakes, a tide of despair ties their limbs down and causes a headache something fierce, where leaving the sanctity of the covers will almost certainly lead to an early death. George, true to his word, sleeps through the entire ordeal. Sapnap tries to gather all the optimism and pure willpower he can but it’s never enough, even the thought of sitting up is met with a barrage of negative emotions. He can only lay awake for however long it takes for them to fall back asleep and complain about their poor hygiene, or upset stomach, the way their eyes are so adjusted to the dark that any stray beam of sunlight will surely blind them.

Dream is the root of the problem, obviously. He’s entirely convinced that wasting away is the only good thing he could achieve in his pathetic life, that everyone secretly hoped for him to disappear one day if they ever thought of him at all. His mask is less of a shield and more of an Iron Maiden, with steel spikes digging into his skin where it rests on his face. The thought of wearing it again makes him want to puke all the nonexistent contents of his stomach. In the few moments of consciousness, sometimes he can hear the landline ringing from the downstairs kitchen, but it does nothing to motivate him.

There’s only one person who could possibly be calling, and that’s his good-for-nothing mother, no doubt armed with a violent argument and scathing words to belittle him even further. No one else knows that number and he doesn’t own a cell phone. No one has ever been to his house, nor do they know where he lives. The only person who could possibly stop him from slowly killing himself is the same woman who in part drove him to this point in the first place.

It’s a little-known fact, but Dream got his name from his mother for a very particular reason. A reason that is nothing more than pure irony at this time, but he’s feeling sentimental so it comes to mind on this tired Sunday afternoon.

When Marigold Taken was 24 years old, she married a man whose name is unimportant, and all she wanted in the whole world was to raise a child of her own. Being a mother was the only goal she’d ever had, and upon news of her pregnancy a few months after their honeymoon, the couple went straight to work buying a family home, building a nursery, picking out names and telling all of their friends and coworkers. Life was blindingly bright, she was happy and so so ready to fulfill her dream. She marked a calendar to count down the days until her little angel would be born.

She awoke on a cold night with blood soaking into the sheets.

The doctors told her that her body wasn’t fit to endure a full-term pregnancy, that if she attempted to conceive again it would only end in more heartbreak. Their words were meaningless. For a year she cried every day on the phone with her mother. She began attending mass every Sunday and praying every night before bed. She would plead to God for a miracle, for her little angel.

She was pregnant again at 26. This time, they kept it quiet, she and her husband, but they dusted the nursery and searched for prenatal care that could assist her in any way. They prepared for the worst. And the worst they got.

She would curse God, vow to never pray again, and threaten to off herself if she couldn’t have this one thing. All she’d ever wanted.  Her dream to come true.

Another lost life at 27, another hospital stay at 28. She was horrendously depressed, and this no doubt contributed to the rejection of the fetus every time her womb attempted to house one. Yet she still begged for a miracle, and her husband obliged.

Years and years of crying and begging and blood went by, the nursery sat unused, and friends who had their own children were cut out if they ever mentioned them. The only constant for Marigold was her own mother, who stuck by her and made sure her daughter stayed alive. Sometimes she would ask her to consider another avenue, like adoption, or a surrogate, but no. She had to create this life, she had to raise it, it’s all she wanted.

Then, at the age of 37, hope sparked within her for the first time. Before, only the first pregnancy made it to the second trimester when it terminated, and all other miscarriages happened in the first. But this time, the first trimester came and went, and was still going strong through the second. Upon nearing the third, she allowed herself to feel joy, to feel hope that this could be the one that made it to the end.

None of the prenatal experts found any worries, her belly began to swell and her back ached and her appetite fluctuated but she was happy. She was ready. She was finally ready to meet her angel, her miracle, her dream come true.

The due date was a bit earlier than expected but welcomed all the same. She held the beautiful baby boy in her arms and named him Dream.

Maybe she should have named him Nightmare instead.

Now her ‘dream’ lays forgotten, bedridden, aching and lonely. Perhaps the greatest irony of his existence is the fact that he exists at all.

Sapnap, who had been listening silently to Dream’s story, gently nudges him to awareness, asking, ‘Why? If she wanted you so badly, why does she seem to hate you?’

‘Because she wanted a dream, an angel, a gift from God,’ Dream replies, the first cohesive thought since the start of his spiral, “She got me instead.’

He isn’t asked to elaborate further and for that Dream is grateful, because that moment down memory lane seems to have receded the crushing weight that laid over him if only the smallest amount. His limbs tingle and threaten to crumble under him as he sits up in bed, pushing aside the sweat-drenched covers and feeling quite uncomfortable with the way his hair sticks to his head and neck. It’s all greasy and it’s frankly disgusting. Sapnap expresses a bit of joy seeing as they’re finally moving again.

Dream takes a long shower, for once finding pleasure in the hot water cascading over his skin as his head is completely empty, save for Sapnap. Usually, showers elicit long contemplation or conversation between his headmates, but the quiet is welcomed greatly. Afterward, he brushes his teeth, changes into clean clothes, and then shakily walks down the steps as his empty stomach screeches in protest.

‘Maybe it would be helpful to keep some snacks in the bedroom?’ Sapnap ponders, and it’s not a bad idea. Once the hunger sets in during his depressive episodes, it only succeeds in making it all the more difficult to leave his nest.

‘That’s a good idea,’ Dream tells him, because he is truly grateful. Even if, technically, Sapnap has no choice but to stick with him, his good-natured self is very much appreciated. Dream doesn’t know what he’d do without him and George.

He makes himself a sad excuse for a meal, but really by this point he’d eat anything, as his mind wanders, apparently still feeling sentimental over a past that he would much rather forget. Before Sapnap and George.

It was no secret that Dream was a lot to handle, so it was no surprise when his mother’s patience grew entirely too thin on a stressful night when he was 5. He remembers clutching a book, whining in the way that he did when he was younger with a high-pitched vibration that echoed through his nasal cavity. He did that instead of crying, perhaps some instinctual mechanism to avoid getting his face wet which he couldn’t stand. By this point, he could read pretty well, but it was an established routine that after dinner a book would be read to him until it was time for bed. His mother wasn’t having it. She was watching TV (another thing he hated, not only did the screen make his eyes hurt, he could always always hear the ear-straining buzz behind it that made him go crazy which, apparently, wasn’t a normal thing) and drinking a foul-smelling red liquid in a clear glass.

So he was tugging on her sleeve, whining in short stuttered intervals because of the TV buzz and the icky smell and the fact that he needed her to read to him because that’s his routine and he knew his mother knew he needed his routine or else he’d never get to sleep. And maybe he should have cut his losses, if his 5-year-old self had any sense because he could read to himself without a problem and tuck away in his room so he didn’t bother her. But he was 5, give him a break.

When she reached her breaking point, after begging for the seventh time for him to “please for the love of God go away,” and “shut the fuck up Dream can’t you see I’m busy?” she finally stood up, dropping the glass into the sink and grabbed him by his arm, tightly. So tight that her nails dug into his skin, and he whined harder, this time in pain as she dragged him down the hallway. He was struggling now, unable to form the words but crying for help anyway (as if anyone was there to answer) and trying to dig his heels into the carpet which didn’t work because it was carpet and he was wearing socks. And she pulled open the closet door, and she shoved him inside, and she locked him in.

This wasn’t the first time. Ever since the death of his grandmother, when his mother needed a break from his constant needy self, she would simply lock him into the side closet between the living room and the stairs, wait until he stopped screaming, then let him out and take him to bed. Was it a learning experience? He didn’t know. All he knew was slamming his fists against the wooden door, tugging and rattling the handle with all his might, screaming at the top of his lungs until his voice was shot. Usually, it only took a few hours before she let him out, once he’d wasted all his energy and couldn’t fight back anymore.

Usually, but not this time.

Maybe it was cause she was drunk, maybe he had pushed too far, or maybe she really did just forget that she locked her only son into a closet, but the front door opened and shut, and the car pulled out of the driveway, and Dream was still stuck. Alone.

The first few hours were typical, screaming and pounding and calling out for her, even though she wasn’t in the house and couldn’t possibly hear him, he still tried. When those hours burnt him out, he took to shoving two coats apart, moving aside some shoes and other junk so he had a tiny place to shiver and curl into a tiny ball. He fell asleep that way, arms wound tightly around his knees. It wasn’t comfortable, and he found himself already whining the moment he woke up, strangely cold and yet still sweaty beneath his shirt. He hated sleeping without his pajamas, and he hated waking up without a change of clothes, but maybe his mom had come back while he was out and unlocked it for him.

The door didn’t budge.

He was starting to get hungry, and was upset about the taste of his own mouth, having not been able to brush his teeth the night before. That and his mouth was disgustingly dry. He only tried to open the door and call for help for a short while before he gave up, resolving to sit against the door and wait for however long he needed to. Surely she’d come back soon enough, right?

Right?

A few hours passed and the thirst and hunger were really getting to him. His head was starting to pound and no amount of whining could alleviate it. He curled into a ball on his side and clutched his aching stomach, wondering what he did to deserve this pain. He was supposed to be eating lunch by now, probably, he couldn’t tell the time from there, and then exploring the backyard. He had just gotten the courage to look inside their shed, and found a flashlight in the kitchen to help him see, and now he was stuck in a closet.

At least the light was on, at least the switch was inside the closet and his mother didn’t leave him in the dark. More time passed, another day of his pains and aches getting worse and worse, his mind turning to more and more desperate pleas. He remembered his grandmother teaching him about God, how his mother had prayed for him to be born, how He was love and hope and would protect him from anything and everyone. He wasn’t sure if he believed her, especially after she passed away (how could a God be so great and yet take her away from him?) but now he was starving and tired and he just wanted to be out.

He leaned his frail body against the door and prayed in his mind, for his voice was shot and he was too tired to speak any longer.  ‘Hello, God? Can you tell mama I’m sorry? Can you ask her to come back? I don’t wanna hurt anymore, I don’t like being here.’

Of course, there was no response (she had told him God responded through blessings, not words) so he just kept thinking, speaking into the empty abyss of his mind and waiting for the lock to turn. ‘Please God, I just wanna sleep in my bed again. I wanna hold my soft toys and see the moon and the stars. I wanna see Nana again. Tell mama I’m sorry, please tell her.’

It was the third day, and Dream was delirious. He wasn’t too familiar with death, he knew his grandmother died, and the neighbor’s dog had died when it got hit by a car, and people died in a bad storm a few months back, but he didn’t understand death on an intimate level.  But then, waking up still laying on the floor of the closet, dehydrated, stomach shrunken, watching the lights on the ceiling wiggle and sway, he was sure he was dying. The thought was heartbreaking, to never wake up another day, to never go to school or make any friends, to never see his mom again, he would die cold and alone in a tiny room. He would die before his sixth birthday. He would die and his mom would be sad, would she? She let him die, right? She gave him life and now she’s taking it away. He didn’t understand why things, why people had to die when they fight so hard to live. Dream fought, tooth and nail, streaks of red on the grain where he tried clawing his way out, splinters in his hands from beating against the wood, throat scratched from screaming, no one could say he didn’t fight.

He just couldn’t fight enough to win.

‘So, you’re just gonna give up?’

That… that wasn’t his own thought. It didn’t sound like his voice, or at least, the way his voice sounds in his own head. ‘God?’ He asked, just to clarify.

‘Hah, I hope not. I’m not suited for that kind of role,’ the voice replied, he had an air of indifference about him. Dream had never heard him before, not in his head or outside it. Was this normal? Well, being trapped in a closet for three days didn’t seem normal either.

‘Why are you in my head?’ Dream said because he was sure the voice wasn’t coming from outside his thoughts.

‘Why are you in a closet?’ The voice replied, mockingly. ‘I’m pretty sure only coats and boring stuff go in here, not sleeping kids.’

‘I can’t get out.’

‘Have you tried opening the door?’

Dream scoffed at the annoying tone, yet for some reason, he felt comforted. At least he wasn’t alone. He didn’t grace the voice with an answer.

‘Why are you here?’ The voice asked again, softer this time.

‘Mama locked me in.’

‘Why?’

Dream felt like whining again because he truly didn’t know. He wished he knew. ‘I was bad,’ was the only conclusion he could come to. ‘I think I’m dying.’

‘Pssh, kids can’t die, dummy.’ And he sounded too confident for Dream to refute. ‘People only die when they get all old and stuff.’

‘Or hurt. I feel like I’m hurting enough to die.’ He felt too weak to even move his limbs anymore, he was stuck on his back staring up at the lights swimming around. A bit of his hair was sticking to his forehead and he couldn’t even shove it away. It was almost like the feeling of falling asleep but slowed down and heavier, like the air was weighing down on him. But at the same time, he was floating up and away.

‘You can’t die yet, Dream,’ the voice told him, still sounding indifferent yet with an undertone of pleading. ‘I haven’t even told you my name yet, you can’t just die. You just met me.’

Dream didn’t know how the voice knew his name, but he couldn’t find the strength to care. Moment by moment lethargy was sinking into him, the world blurring in and out of focus. He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep, but some part of him was so afraid that he would never wake up again. ‘What is it?’

‘What is what?’

Dream could tell he was being annoying on purpose, but it’s not like there was much he could do about it. ‘Your name.’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ the voice replied quickly, ‘When we’re out of here.’

Dream didn’t know when ‘you’ became ‘we’ but he didn’t know what that meant either.

‘I’m not leaving you, so you can’t leave me, okay? You can’t,’ and maybe Dream didn’t cry all that much, but the voice’s sorrow spilled over into his physical self, as gentle tears made their way down his face.

‘Okay,’ Dream agreed, closing his eyes.

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

The last sound he heard was the front door opening.

‘Ugh, is it Monday already?’ George of the present says, grumbling and not sounding too much different from how he did in the memory.

‘Nope, still Sunday,’ Dream replies back, for some reason feeling a bit chipper even after recalling that trauma. Maybe he’s happy that George is finally awake. ‘It’s a good thing too, 'cause you have to finish working on that history project.’

‘Ughhh,’ he groans again, ‘don’t remind me.’

‘Too late.’

Sapnap is oddly quiet, but it makes sense after viewing that shit situation he was in. It was about a year before Sapnap first showed up, and while they can hear his thoughts now, neither headmate can see Dream’s memories unless he recalls them specifically. He must be processing, finally seeing a glimpse of why Dream is the way he is. It’s getting late now, though, and he’s eaten and washed up, so he’ll have to purposefully recall Sapnap’s beginnings at a later date. For now, they have to do all the school work that was put off during his days of sulking in bed.

Dream heads back upstairs with his backpack and a glass of water, letting George properly wake up before he has to switch in to do work, and enters the small office next to his parents' bedroom. It’s a computer room, probably used whenever his parents would have to work from home, though Dream hardly remembers witnessing them use it themselves. It has enough room for a desk and a desktop and not much else, other than a standing lamp and a narrow window. The walls are blank and nothing is decorated, it looks more like a cheap college dorm room than anything else. But hey, it gets the job done.

He powers on the computer and waits for it to boot up, already logged in and greeted by the default wallpaper after a minute. Then he breathes and takes a step back, ready for George to take over.

It’s strange how not bothered he feels, despite spending the last two days in his bed suffering under the torment of his own brain. Now, he feels empty, but in a good way, like whatever tethers held him back before have all been cut. He thinks that maybe he should feel guilty for wasting George and Sapnap’s time as well as his own, but hey, it’s not like any of them asked to be here.

“Thank god,” George suddenly mumbles under his breath, their school email opened on the tab before him. There’s a message from Ted, assuring him that they don’t have to present tomorrow if he can add some speaking notes to his part of the PowerPoint.

‘See? I knew he was cool,’ Sapnap says, back to his usual self. Dream would ask if the boy came to any conclusions regarding the flashback, but he doesn’t really care. That time was long ago, and he’s already done his compartmentalizing. George gets to work on finishing up their part of the history project, copying segments of his notes into PowerPoint slides, and adding his references to the last slide. He types out extra information and talking points onto the notes section, so whoever presents his slides can fill the allotted time easily enough.

When that’s done he slips back and lets Dream take over once more so they can finish the rest of their homework. The remainder of the weekend is uneventful, leaving Dream to contemplate why he went through his depressive spell and what he can do to avoid it in the future.

‘That’s just your brain, dude, I don’t think there’s any way to work around it,’ Sapnap comments, following Dream’s thought train.

‘It wouldn’t be such an issue if it didn’t affect you too, Sap,’ Dream states. ‘We can’t just waste away in bed for days at a time out of nowhere.’ He doesn’t mention how the random suicidal thoughts are worrying to him as well. There’s no clear sign that he’ll ever follow through, but who’s to say one really bad episode won’t push him over the edge?

He’s reminded of his first meeting with George, when he believed the voice to be God answering his prayers. ‘So you’re just going to give up?’

It’s not that he wants to die, because he doesn’t, he quite likes living funnily enough. It’s just that so much of the universe is working against him. He wants to figure out the pitfalls so he can work through them ahead of time.

‘Personally, I think you give the universe too much credit,’ George says, his voice poking through the flurry of thoughts Dream is sorting. ‘Things aren’t on a set course or anything, it’s all random. You can’t foresee the shit that’ll get in your way.’

Really, Dream knows that to be true, as much as he wants to believe otherwise. ‘But there has to be a pattern,’ he argues. ‘Pretty much every concept in history and math proves that patterns exist, with or without pre-determination.’

‘So what’s the pattern here? I don’t think anything drastic has happened since the last time something like this happened,’ Sapnap asks. Though, as soon as the thought conjugates, the answer appears clear as day.

‘Tommy.’ Dream and George say at the same time. Dream continues, ‘It has to be him, from all the intrusive thoughts and the weird feelings-‘

‘But that doesn’t explain why his presence would cause you to spiral so suddenly,’ George argues.

‘He’s the only extra variable though. We were doing just fine before we met him.’

At the inclusion of ‘variable’, Sapnap gets an idea. ‘Oh shit, it’s like science! With every action comes an equal, opposite reaction,’ he explains. ‘You’re always super happy when you’re around him, so it makes sense that-‘

‘Eventually, those emotions have to balance out sooner or later,’ George completes his thought, but he doesn’t sound happy about the revelation.

Neither does Dream. Because that would mean that the more content and happy he feels in a certain span of time, the worse the backlash of his own brain will be by the end of it. What if he experiences something so positive, that the negative equalizer actually enables him to off himself? Could it be that living in a menial haze is better for his actual survival than trying to be happy? Are his attachments not his tie to life, but are in fact his gateway to death?

‘Okay, no, that can’t be right,’ Sapnap says, almost pleading. ‘There's no way it works like that. We need our friends, dude.’

Dream used to believe that anyone he ever attached to would either end up despising him or dead, but maybe there’s a third option: that they’ll end up killing him instead. It makes sense if his recollection of George’s origin story is anything to go off of.

‘Well that’s depressing,’ George says offhandedly.

‘But it’s true,’ Dream concludes, ‘I’ll have to change up my routine again, but we can’t let anyone get too close anymore. I can’t risk the positivity reacting in the worst way.’

Sapnap definitely isn’t happy about this decision, but he knows that there isn’t much he can do to sway Dream once he’s made his mind up about something. ‘Just… please don’t quit soccer,’ he pleads, not knowing how he would possibly cope without those short hours of freedom. Not to mention Karl and Quackity, the two he loves more than anything, he can’t completely cut them off, he just can’t. Even if they can’t spend time together in the mornings or during lunch, he’ll just have to make the most of their practices and the short time afterward.

If that goes away… he doesn’t want to think about how that will affect him.

Chapter Text

One month has passed since Dream made the executive decision to sever his attachments. And he’s been successful- or, well, successful implies something positive but he’s gotten what he wanted. The people he was once acquainted with have long since stopped bothering him, or trying to converse with him in the hallways or worse, crowding his space and demanding answers. Some hold a certain kind of disdain for him now, while others act indifferent but he can still see the worried or sullen looks they send his way every now and then.

His life has returned to the baseline of monotony and just-passing-by, time slipping through like cupping water from a gentle stream with his bare hands. The routine he’s adopted is as much the same as it is changed, he still gets ready earlier than most but instead of going to school right away, he spends his time reading in his living room, planning to arrive the minute before the first period begins. For lunch, he sits in the back of the library in a spot no one would look unless they were seeking him out. Then after school, he goes home until practice starts and leaves immediately when it ends.

Although now that it’s late October, the soccer team has disbanded for the winter so going to practice isn’t necessary. Sure, they’re supposed to take up track in the off-season but he’d rather run when there are fewer people around anyway. He’s relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about soccer for the time being. Not only is it annoying to listen to Sapnap complain about having to ignore Quackity and Karl, but there was also the risk of running into the lacrosse team too, and the anger in Schlatt’s glare whenever Dream was around made him anxious. But now, he can just go straight home after school, hole up in his room, do his homework, and worry not.

A pastime he’d taken up was perusing his father's surprisingly expansive collection of mystery novels kept in a bookcase in the master bedroom. Dream suspected the man had a close friend who was an author, because a lot of the books are written by the same person, all signed with personal notes inside the covers. They’re not half-bad, and he knows George enjoys them too since they often use historical fiction as the settings for the stories, spinning made-up characters around real events in the past. As a hyperfixation, it gives him plenty to think about, theorizing with his headmates about where the story will lead instead of listening in class, and making meaningless bets about who the culprit will turn out to be. He’d estimate that he’s a third through the collection, the books not bound by series but arranged in chronological order nonetheless, upping in craft and expertise for every new publish. It’s done a great deal to suppress the feelings of guilt, of missing the people who used to be his friends. It’s easier to ignore the looks and the questions and demands when his nose is lodged in a book.

Life without attachments may be numb, dull, lacking spontaneity but it’s worth it for the sake of self-preservation, and it’s much easier to distance his cognition when his mother decides to call to ramble on about whatever. Even talking is simpler without weight to his words or care for the concern of the listener- he still won’t speak in a crowded room but he’s better suited to offer a request to the librarian or a question for a teacher after class is dismissed. His lonely moments are filled with reading and walks through the woods behind his house in the evening, though he is never truly lonely with George and Sapnap with him, even if Sapnap is a bit less mannered from his annoyance with Dream’s decision. Dream tries to ease him by allowing him to craft small fire pits in the desolate corners of the forest, carefully watched to avoid catching the brush aflame but Sapnap is experienced enough to keep it under control.

It’s a craft Dream has come to appreciate as well, relinquishing his graded essays and report cards to the ravenous flames, admiring the way the bold lettering sparks and blackens and floats away into ash. He burns the notes his (ex) friends left in his locker in the days following his absence, burns the toys from his childhood he found in the back of his bedroom closet, burns the pages of the books he decides he didn’t like the resolution of. Sapnap cares less about the sentiment and more about the heat and danger, but it’s cathartic for Dream, the smoldering embers that glow make up for the warmth of the relationships that he left behind. Sometimes the fire will catch in a brilliant yellow, close to the color of Tommy’s blond locks and Dream will forget how to breathe until the smoke clouds his vision and he coughs into his sleeve. Sometimes the sparks slip into his palms and mark tiny burns on his skin. Sometimes he doesn’t even notice until the walk home, when the cold of the evening reveals the painful heat radiating from the wounds. He finds that he doesn’t mind. If anything, the reminder of pain keeps him content with his monotonous life.

Today is a Friday, a few days before Halloween, the bell had rung a couple of minutes ago to signal the end of the school day. The hallways are more rowdy than usual, everyone excited for the long weekend since the holiday lands on a Monday. Dream doesn’t really see the reason for extending the days off (not that he’s complaining) but it’s a mercy granted for the students to enjoy the spooky scary evening of the 31st, and have the day after to recuperate from the sugar high and likely underaged hangovers. Talks of parties and get-togethers have been floating around all week but Dream doesn’t bother listening, knowing that he’s the furthest from an invitation and will definitely not attend even if he was invited.

But despite his efforts, he’s aware that Quackity and Karl are hosting a party at the latter’s house since his parents are away for a business trip then. Not that he wanted to go, but he overheard Niki and Quackity arguing over whether to invite Dream regardless of his distance. He remembers the ire in Quackity’s voice as he admonished Dream’s character, calling him a spineless coward and some other Spanish insults that he didn’t know the translation of, unaware that Dream was only a few feet away by the door of an open classroom. He could lie and say it didn’t affect him, or blame his hurt on the pain that Sapnap expressed, but still, hearing someone he was close to speaking so lowly of him was hard to hear. But he can’t complain, this is what he wanted after all.

In the end, no one mentioned it to Dream, which was expected.

The noise of the crowded hallway is starting to grate on his nerves, so he quickens his pace by shoving the needed books in his backpack and the unneeded ones in his locker. George and Sapnap are supplying him with the homework they are in charge of to be sure he doesn’t forget anything, and with a final sigh, he shuts the locker door closed with a metallic bang that hardly compares to the chatter in the air. He turns to the direction of the stairs but pauses when he spies a shorter student, someone familiar with golden blond hair and bright blue eyes, looking around for someone but having not spotted Dream.

‘What’s Tommy doing in the Junior hallway?’ Sapnap wonders for the both of them. It’s rare to see anyone younger in this part of the school, especially when classes are already out.

Dream tightens his grip on his backpack, replying with, ‘I’m sure he’s just waiting for Wil or Techno.’ He makes to leave but stops in his tracks again when three looming juniors take notice of the young blond standing near the window.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” The tallest of the group says, wearing a football varsity letterman jacket with his hair slicked back in a bun on the top of his head.

Man-bun approaches Tommy from the front while the other two flank, cutting off the young boy’s routes of escape. One of them presses forward until Tommy’s backed into the corner, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a baby! Aren’t you a bit small to be in the big kids part of school?” This one is in a flannel and cargo shorts, hair buzzed short on the sides of his skull and curled up on the top.

“Aw, he looks so scared! Are you lost little boy?” The last of the three crouches in a condescending way, hands on his knees like he’s speaking to a toddler. His only defining feature is the SnapBack on his head, colored black with a blue underside. Dream sort of recognizes the three bullies, but has never bothered to learn their names or talk to them at any point.

Tommy steels himself and steps up, arguing, “I’m not a baby! I’m a big man! The biggest!” With his back away from the wall, SnapBack rips the backpack he was wearing away, already opening it and looking through the contents. “Hey!” Tommy protests.

Man-bun gets between them before Tommy can reach for the bag, forcing him back into the wall. “‘Big man’, huh? You’re that annoying brat in the eighth grade, think my little sister mentioned you once. Donny, was it?”

“It’s Tommy,” the boy snaps, curling his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. Flannel moves to open the window to the side, it’s not able to be pushed out any further than a small gap at the bottom, but it’s enough to fit a textbook. Tommy’s eyes widen when he realizes what they’re planning, beginning to push back against Man-bun to get to his bag again. SnapBack pays no attention, casually grabbing the few folders and notebooks from the pack and handing them off to Flannel, who dangles the items out of the window. Dream feels conflicted, watching the scene play out with a death grip on the strap of his backpack, wanting to step in but also knowing he’s broken his attachment to the boy for a reason. The bullies grin as Tommy struggles, Man-bun actively holding him back now as he laughs.

“You call yourself a big man, yet you’re so weak I hardly have to push back!” Man-bun heckles, standing his ground while he keeps Tommy from getting any further than his arms.

“Stop it! Or I’ll- I’ll get Technoblade to beat you up!” Tommy tells out the threat, blinking rapidly to keep tears from forming in his eyes.

Flannel holds back the notebooks a bit, grinning as he says, “Oh, so you’re Technoblade’s brother are you? Another reject picked up by Philza Watson?”

“I doubt he’ll last much longer, I mean, his parents gave him up for a reason after all!” SnapBack jeers, his friends laughing along like he told some hilarious joke. He forgoes digging through the bag and simply flips it upside down, its contents spilling onto the floor. There are a few bystanders at attention now but no one seems willing to do anything.

“Shut up!” Tommy lashes out, pushing against Man-bun’s hold, angry tears gathering along his lashes.

“Aww, is the little baby gonna cry?” Flannel mocks, finally releasing his hold on the school materials, letting them fall through the gap in the window and flutter to the ground.

Stressed and on the edge of tears, Tommy looks around wildly for someone to help as the bullies keep on with their commentary. His gaze suddenly lands on Dream still watching from across the hall, a mix of emotions churning behind his eyes, relief, pleading, sorrow, anger, fear. But he ultimately decides that help isn’t coming, turning back to the teen standing in his way of escape.

All at once Dream’s veins alight with fire, himself not really understanding why the emotion sparks now but giving in to the heat when it spreads throughout his limbs. The look on Tommy’s face was just something so terrifying, like witnessing someone fall in front of a speeding car, or dangling off the edge of a cliff. His heart pushes him to do something, anything, because he couldn’t possibly forgive himself for standing idly to the side. He drops his backpack by his locker and stomps towards the commotion, anger spilling through his bones, and curls his fists tightly.

Once within arm's length, the boy in the SnapBack doesn’t even notice and Dream doesn’t hesitate, he grabs his shoulder with one hand and reels back the other, delivering a swift punch flat on his face. Instantly his knuckles explode into pain, the skin red and aching, he’s never punched anyone before and it shows in the way he hisses through his teeth and shakes the injured hand vigorously, not paying attention to how the three would retaliate. SnapBack jerks away, dropping the backpack and clutching his now bleeding nose, eyes aflame with anger. He doesn’t wait to shove Dream away.

Man-buns turns from where he was guarding Tommy and gives a similar death glare to Dream, “What the fuck are you doing here, freak?” He yells, stalking up into Dream’s space, looming over with his taller stature.

“Leave him alone,” Dream commands, surprised by the confidence in his voice, and the way he holds his ground.

Though, it’s not like it matters when Man-bun shoves him hard against the wall, leaving a hand balled up with his shirt, spitting, “Yeah? Or what? What are you gonna do about it?” Dream moves to throw another sloppy punch but the taller boy beats him to it, pulling him by his collar forward and slamming his fist into Dream’s cheek.

His head knocks to the side, arms shooting up to cover again another hit but Man-bun instead pulls him away from the wall, pivoting to push him into one of the other bullies, who holds Dream’s arms back so he can’t defend himself. “How ironic, the freak who never talks sticking up for the brat who can never shut up!” Another punch lands on his diaphragm, forcing the air out of his lungs and erupting a wave of nausea. It’s followed by another hit to his face, more pain paints his skin and now black dots swim around the edges of his vision. Despite it all, he throws his head back, aiming to disarm the offender holding him. He knows he succeeded when he hears a low groan and the arms release him, but not before Man-bun hits him again, just lower than the other punch, into his gut.

Dream keels over on instinct, and the bully grabs his shoulders and shoves him to the floor a few feet away. He falls on his back, unable to situate himself with the agony that crawls through his entire beating. George and Sapnap keep yelling for him to get up, get away, or protect himself at least but it’s no different than the meaningless noise coming from the crowd of witnesses, or Tommy yelling for them to back off. He peels open an eye to watch Man-bun stalk toward him, legs twitching like he gearing up to kick him while he’s down. Dream frantically tries to lift his upper body and drag himself away but really there’s no escape, no stopping the bully on a warpath of vengeance.

Dream braces himself for the kick but instead of pain, he hears the sound of someone rushing past him, looking up just in time to see the bully get knocked off his feet by the shoulder of a newcomer. Someone familiar, pink-haired, wide-shouldered, and barring his teeth.

Technoblade.

Wide-eyed, Dream watches as Techno picks the next target, swinging the back of his forearm into Flannel’s nose and knocking him backward as well. SnapBack tries then to throw a punch at him but Techno easily sidesteps him, grabbing his wrist at its full extension and pulling him around so it’s pressed against his back, arm painfully twisted in an awkward hold that tugs at his shoulder blade. Techno delivers a kick to his lower back, letting go in the same moment for SnapBack to careen forward, falling to his knees next to Man-bun who’s getting back to his feet. He looks ready to retaliate once more but SnapBack grabs his shirt, saying, “Let’s just go, man.”

SnapBack helps get Flannel to his feet, both with matching bloody noses, and the three stagger away, Techno looking on with a death glare. He doesn’t break his gaze until they are out of sight, then he turns back to his brother who gathers up whatever supplies fell to the floor and stuffs them in his bag. “Are you okay?” Techno asks, voice so soft and quiet that Dream wouldn’t have been able to hear if he wasn’t watching the encounter.

Tommy sniffles and hastily wipes away any tears that tracked down his face, “Yeah, they just- fuckin’ threw my things out the window,” he grumbles. He zips the bag closed, standing up with Techno at his side then finally looks to where Dream is pulling himself to his feet.

His chest and stomach hurt like hell, and he can taste blood pooling in his mouth, having bit his tongue during one of the hits to his face. He can feel the skin atop his cheekbones throbbing already, sure to turn to ugly purple bruises by the next morning. There isn’t a time when he remembers having blood in his mouth before but he decides that he fucking hates it. On his feet he tries not to look at the brothers, simply shuffling to where he dropped his backpack, ready to put the situation behind him and pretend it never happened.

But of course, the universe hates him enough to stop him with, “Dream?” Called out by none other than Tommy. Dream grimaces as he turns around, swallowing the blood in his mouth and cringing, but the action pulls at his wounds so he cradles the bruising cheek with a hand. Techno is looking at him too, now. His face betraying a similar whirlwind of emotions that Tommy displayed earlier, before Dream joined the fight.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. 

Tommy leaves his brother’s side to wander closer, approaching Dream like he’s afraid he’ll run away at any sudden movements. He’s got his backpack on again, considerably lighter but he’ll surely find the rest of his stuff later. “Thanks,” Tommy says, straight-faced, but it’s clearly a mask for his nerves, “for, uh, sticking up for me. You didn’t have to do that.” Even with the nerves he keeps up the eye contact. Dream just nods, before his gaze breaks away to watch Techno walk up behind him.

It seems for a moment that Techno doesn’t know what to say either, but his searching gaze spells only analytical intentions, no malice or disdain. Whether he finds what he was looking for or not, he meets Dream’s gaze once again and asks, “You tried to fight them?”

Dream nods again, figuring that Techno just didn’t notice him laying on the floor when he stormed in. “Yeah!” Tommy says, a cheerful enamor overtaking his concern, “He punched the shit out of that wrongen with the dumb hat!” His eyes shine with some sort of pride as he recounts it to Techno, completely dismissing the fact that Dream got his ass handed to him in no time at all after that, and would’ve ended up a hell of a lot worse if Techno hadn’t intervened.

“Oh,” Techno clears his throat, sweeping aside a lock of hair that fell out of his braid during the scuffle. “Thank you, Dream. I owe you one for defending my brother like that.”

“It’s fine,” Dream mutters, though the words slip out more than he meant to say them. He regrets when he sees the brothers wince, likely seeing the blood covering his teeth.

“Come to our place,” Techno offers suddenly, but with an expression that can only be read as serious, “I can patch you up, and then you can join us for dinner. As thanks.”

“No, thank you, that’s not-“

“Please, Dream?” Tommy pleads, staring with those bright blue eyes that Dream couldn’t possibly say no to. As much as the rejection sits waiting behind his teeth, the thought of making Tommy sad is enough to sigh in defeat, giving a short nod as his answer. Tommy cheers. 

Techno places a gentle hand on Dream’s shoulder, guiding him toward the stairwell. “C‘mon, you’re riding with us once we get Tommy’s stuff back.”

Dream has no choice but to follow silently, although, he notices a distinct lack of dread pooling in his stomach.

'Finally, we’ll get some real food!' Sapnap says.

—-

He can’t gauge exactly how Wilbur felt about driving Dream to his home, but it was surely something resentful. Wilbur didn’t voice any confusion to Techno but his eyes spelled distrust and reservation, especially when Techno mentioned inviting Dream to stay for dinner. Dream made a mental note not to be alone in the same room as him while he was there.

Phil gets home from work around an hour after the boys do, which leaves Techno with plenty of time to tend to Dream’s wounds. He does so on the floor of his bedroom, handling Dream’s palms and face with more care than he’s ever experienced before. The usual nerves of having someone’s hands so close to his head aren’t even buzzing, he doesn’t even flinch when Techno dots his wounds with antiseptic.

“You’ve never fought before, right?” Techno inquires as he wraps thin bandages around Dream’s right hand. The skin of his fingers at the base split when he punched that guy in the nose, catching on his exposed teeth. The rest of his knuckles are already darkening into purples and blues. Dream, of course, shakes his head. Techno grins slightly, which adds an unexpected softness to his usual sharp features, “Yeah, I expected as much,” he says, cutting off the bandage from the roll and tucking the edge in. “You’re lucky you didn’t break any fingers. The key to throwing a good punch is to keep your thumb over your pointer and middle fingers, pressing tight to keep the form of your fist. And aim for the high cheek rather than straight on.” He demonstrates with a fist of his own, emphasizing the placement of his thumb. “Then, when expecting a hit, you gotta keep your jaw shut to avoid biting anything.”

Dream nods, rolling around his tongue in his mouth at the thought, thankful that the bleeding has stopped already. There’s still the icky metallic taste that sticks to his gums but it’s not as bad as it was. At least he doesn’t feel the need to gag anymore. He watches Techno stand up, going to his dresser to pull out a few small items, a bottle of liquid foundation, some concealer cream and foundation powder. When he sits back down in front of Dream, he holds up the makeup with a question, “Is it alright if I try to cover up the bruising on your face? I really don’t feel like explaining to Phil that me or Tommy got into a fight today.” Dream shrugs but doesn’t argue, simply leaning forward some to let Techno begin whatever process he has about covering wounds with makeup. Dream hasn’t the faintest idea of how to use makeup of any kind, never having a reason or feeling the need to use any himself. He knows there’s a case of various bottles and plastic containers in a zipped bag under the sink at home, belonging to his mother, but aside from looking through it once, Dream hasn’t even touched the stuff.

As he applies the first layer of concealer, Techno rambles, “Now, I’m not going to pretend I know what’s going on with you, but you should know that everyone’s been pretty worried.” The plush sponge he uses presses lightly on Dream’s tender skin, enough to leave behind the pigment but not cause any pain. “Not to guilt you into explaining, I just wanted to say your absence is noted,” he continues, smudging the edges with the pad of his thumb before removing the lid of the liquid foundation. “Quackity’s been broody lately, and Karl’s a bit quieter now. Tommy blames himself for you avoiding us, even though we tell him all the time that it wasn’t his fault.”

Dream frowns, feeling the guilt pressing against his lungs like it’s vying to escape. He didn’t want anyone to feel bad about him leaving, that wasn’t his intention in the least. Techno pauses when he sees his expression, leaning back to look him in the eyes. He doesn’t say anything, maybe giving Dream the space to speak for himself. Dream can feel George and Sapnap waiting on the same bated breath, so he swallows the blood-tainted spit in his mouth and mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

The eye contact breaks while Techno continues applying the makeup. “Not sure if I’m the one you should be apologizing to,” Techno admits. “Especially if you’re going to still keep away after all this.” Techno may be good at schooling his tone, but Dream can hear the tiny bit of disappointment in his voice.

“It’s not- you-“ Dream stutters, unable to find the words. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” he replies, without missing a beat, shoving the cap onto the foundation bottle and resuming blending with the sponge. “I don’t understand. It’s not like you’ve given anyone any clues.” The ire in his voice is steadily coming forward, yet his guiding hands remain gentle. “That last morning you hung out with us, Karl pointed out that you were acting strange then. But it’s not like you’re super consistent anyway. We thought maybe someone said something to you, or something happened at home. No one knew what to do, especially after you avoided or straight up ignored anyone trying to talk to you.” Techno takes his chin in one hand, still light, still gentle, tilting his head to see how the makeup looks from various angles. He deems it satisfactory, and finishes the last step of dusting some powder over the handiwork. "No one has your number either, no one really knew how to get in touch."

“Sorry,” Dream says again, because he doesn’t know what else he could add to that sentiment.

“Can you at least explain to me? Or try to?” Techno pleads, staring into his eyes with a stern expression, but begging nonetheless. “I don’t know why you stopped wanting to be around any of us. Or why you didn’t come to anyone for help. Are you afraid? Or were you just tired of our company?”

“I-“ Dream chokes, but can’t force anything else out.

“But you still stood up for Tommy, so that can’t be right,” Techno continues rambling, working through his own thoughts aloud, a total juxtaposition to how Dream is trapped within his own.

‘If you don’t tell him, I will,’ George says suddenly, and Dream blinks, somehow forgetting that he isn’t alone in this conversation with Techno. The thought of letting George take over is tempting, but he can’t escape the conclusions he came to a month ago, how everyone he loves either dies, hates him, or will eventually kill him. How could he possibly explain that living a life of lonely monotony is the only way to ensure his survival?

“I mean, you went as far as to get into a fight with no idea as to how to defend yourself. I just don’t get why you would go through the trouble-“ Techno goes on, ignorant to the battle Dream wages in his own head.

‘Tell him, Dream,’ George pushes again, mentally tugging at the bounds of their shared psyche as a warning.

‘Do it, Dream. It’ll be fine, I swear. It’s not the end of the world to be vulnerable for one minute,’ Sapnap adds to the pressure.

“-is there a reason why you can’t talk about it? Is something so wrong that you have to face it alone? Are you-“

“I don’t want to die! Okay?” Dream blurts out, the space where the confession resided in his chest already replaced with a dizzying panic. He grabs at the neck of his shirt like it’s suffocating him, tugging it away from his skin and balling his hands in the fabric. “I can’t-“ He strains, breathing much too fast for his liking. “I can’t control when I feel too much, and- and for too long. If I let myself be happy then what if- what if when I’m not- when I’m not happy, it’s so dark that I just, end it?” Dream explains, feeling like the justification is getting lost in translation. He knows he isn’t making any sense but what else can he do? “There’s this void, when I can’t feel- when nothing makes me happy. Or, I mean, when I am happy, but then I’m not.” It’s the most he’s spoken in a long time, and it shows by the ache of his throat, the scratchiness in his voice. “I don’t want to die, but, it feels like I am. Dying. When I’m alone.”

There’s a moment of silence when Dream concludes, the only sounds are his heavy breathing and the hum of a ceiling fan. His eyes are misty but they feel more dry than anything else. Honestly, it made more sense in his head when he justified it a month ago.

‘Nah, it was still stupid then,’ Sapnap butts in, which forces Dream to hold back a scoff.

Techno tilts his head at the sudden switch of emotion on Dream’s face, but doesn’t comment on it, instead saying, “Dream, that’s literally just called having a mental illness.”

“...what?”

“You know,” Techno gives a funny sort of half smile, as if he’s amused by Dream’s reaction. “Like, your brain chemicals are all over the place. Sounds to me like some kind of attachment disorder or maybe bipolar? I’m not a doctor, but-“

“No, that’s not it,” Dream argues, although he’s not really sure why. He knows something isn’t working right inside his head, of course, it’s not like normal people have multiple people living in the same brain. But to him, admitting to that would imply that something within him is broken, and he just can’t do that.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” Techno responds, watching the thought train circle around in Dream’s mind. “And that’s okay,” he adds, “almost everyone we know is in the same boat. I mean, I’m trying to get a diagnosis for schizoaffective disorder at the moment, Wilbur has MDD and paranoia, Tommy has ADHD and separation anxiety, we’re all a bit fucked up, yeah? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“But I’m dealing with it,” Dream says stubbornly. “Ever since I’ve kept to myself, I haven’t had any of those dark thoughts.” He heaves out a sigh, his head aching with all the stupid feelings running around in there. He liked it better when he didn’t feel much of anything.

“But are you happy?” Techno asks simply, voice softer than before. He’s got another mask on, but it’s less about hiding his emotions and more about clearing the space for Dream to unveil his own.

But that’s assuming Dream is willing to give in to the reality of his feelings, which he absolutely despises. “I’m still alive,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact.

“But are you happy?” Techno repeats, leaning in from his seat on the floor but not invading Dream’s space.

Dream doesn’t answer, and Techno doesn’t press again, but the silence is palpable, unsettling. Usually, Dream revels in the quiet, the way it gives him room to breathe and think without distraction, but now it’s something pressing down on him like the room’s been filled with water.

What does it matter if he’s happy? The overall goal is the same as any other person, to stay alive. He just has a different way of completing that task. He’s heard all the cliches of life’s mountains and valleys, ups and downs, this and that, but when he knows the countering action to innate happiness is the possibility of death then why pursue it at all?

‘You know, he has a point,’ Sapnap tells him, as if Dream doesn’t already know that. As if that realization isn’t eating him up from the inside out. ‘I feel like your fear is just irrational by now.’

‘You don’t think I know that?’ Dream bites back angrily. ‘Everything in my entire life has been irrational! From the way my mother is, to the universe fucking with me, to almost dying at 5 years old. Nothing makes sense, why do I have to be sensical if I’m the only one?’

‘It matters if it’s for your own sake, Dream,’ George states, somehow keeping up the casual nonchalance while Dream’s frustration burns inside him.

In the real world, Dream’s hands lift until they grab the hair on the sides of his skull, pulling with enough strength for the pain to ground him in both reality and the conversation with his headmates. ‘Is it? If it were truly for my sake then I would reason that I should just die! Just get it over with! It’s too much of a fucking hassle to have it any other way. I’m too much of a burden to everyone, including myself,’ he shouts into the recesses of his mind, like he’s justifying his stance to the world rather than just his headmates.

‘You know what? I don’t think that’s the truth at all,’ George says, ‘I think you’re expecting everything to turn on its head, so much so that you preemptively punish yourself to avoid the fallout.’

‘And punishing us too,’ Sapnap amends, ‘You can’t fathom sharing the burden of life because you’re selfish, Dream. You forget that we’re here no matter what.’

‘What, so it’s selfish to not want to die?’ Dream snarls.

‘No, it’s selfish to believe that the only way to avoid death is to make yourself- and by proxy, us- miserable.’ It’s difficult to recall a time where George showed this level of passion in an argument. He mainly prides himself on keeping a cool head, of mediating rather than retaliating. Looks like he’s been brooding about the past month as much as Sapnap.

Firm hands curl around Dream’s wrists, trying to get him to release his hair, and only then does he tune back in to the steady stream of reassurances muttered by Techno trying to calm him down. Dream didn’t realize how tightly his eyes were clenched shut until he opens them and sees black dots swim in his vision, slowly fading until he notices Techno’s face only inches away.

Techno must see the awareness returning to Dream since he says, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry for pushing. I can see you’ve got a lot going on right now. Do you want a hug?” By then Dream’s released the death grip on his locks so Techno leans away to open his arms as further invitation. And Dream is… conflicted, to say the least. Because, he’s sort of convinced himself that he wouldn’t like hugs, that the contact would be more invasive than comforting. His main experiences stem from being very very young, when his grandmother was still around, or when his mother would feel enough regret to smother him in her arms. And usually she would be drinking. So he hasn’t gotten a hug since he was, what, seven? How pathetic is that?

He’s… he’s trying to think through it logistically. Techno is a big dude, since he works out a lot and plays lacrosse and all that, so that would make a hypothetical hug… good? Or maybe his strong arms would feel crushing, caging him in rather than giving comfort. And what if it’s so obvious that he’s never had a real hug in ages and Techno makes fun of him for it? He’s just not that much of a touchy guy, people getting too close to him makes him tense, he can’t imagine someone holding him because he doesn’t believe himself worthy of being held. He’s got a million excuses under his belt but he just can’t bring himself to reject the teen in front of him.

‘Oh my god, just fucking hug him already!’ Sapnap whines, breaking through to the front for just long enough to nod his head. Before Dream can dismiss the gesture Techno moves in, wrapping his big arms around Dream’s torso, practically pinning his own arms to his side as he’s pulled forward.

It’s… kind of nice, actually. He can feel Techno’s body heat through his chest, his hold not restrictive like he thought but protective. Like he’s being guarded from all the injustice of the world. Techno’s heartbeat echoes alongside his own, his chin resting on the other’s shoulder, the hairs on the back of his neck fluttering every time Techno exhales. After a moment, Dream maneuvers his arms to return the gesture as well as he can, Techno loosening his hold a bit so he can reach around further. The amount of contact between their bodies (through clothes but that hardly matters) is frankly overwhelming, every square inch of skin buzzing beneath the proximal warmth. Dream doesn’t cry, but he can feel the telltale signs of his rib cage quaking, stuttering breaths getting caught in his windpipe while he tries to calm his body down but it’s hard when Techno is just so close.

‘If he’s getting this worked up over a hug,’ Dream hears Sapnap whisper, as if he’s sharing a secret with George standing off to the side, ‘Just imagine what’ll happen when he gets his first kiss.’

His cheeks erupt in a blush over the commentary, thankful to whatever god is out there that no one else can hear those two. ‘Spontaneous combustion, most likely,’ George snickers. They both laugh like school children.

‘If you two don’t shut up right now, I’ll kill you,’ Dream warns, gripping Techno a little tighter, ‘I don’t know how, but I’ll do it.’

‘Oooh, now he’s threatening us with murder~’ George pretends to be shocked. ‘I’m so scared!’

Dream does his best to shut them out, bringing his focus to the embrace that he and Techno are still sharing. Perhaps the novelty is faded some, he’s not really sure how long a hug is supposed to last, but Techno hasn’t pushed him away yet. He’s so drawn into the sounds of the both of them breathing that he misses the footsteps that approach Techno’s door, which he also forgot was still open.

“Am I interrupting something?” Wilbur breaks the calm silence, and Dream can see over Techno’s shoulder the guarded stance of his brother, looking uncomfortable and slightly annoyed. Dream goes to pull away but Techno doesn’t let him, giving a gentle squeeze to encourage Dream to stay.

“Yes,” Techno answers blatantly, only barely moving his head to glance at where his brother stands. “What do you want?”

“Thought you’d like to know that Dad is pulling up now. I take it you want to keep that fight you guys were in a secret?” Wilbur spies the lack of bruising on Dream’s face and, while his skepticism hasn’t faded, he doesn’t look as cross to see Dream still around. 

It’s then that Techno calmly separates the two of them, though he holds onto Dream’s upper arms. “Yeah. Thank you, Wil,” he says to his brother, fully earnest.

Wilbur just waves a hand, “Can’t promise Tommy won’t spill immediately though, he’s been raving about you two since we got home,” he dismisses, and turns to leave, but stops in his tracks when he seemingly remembers something. “Oh, right. Dream. Are you allergic to anything?”

Dream has to think for a moment, but he doesn’t want to cause any suspicion by waiting too long, so he blurts out, “No.” Truthfully he doesn’t know, he’s never encountered foods that caused any reaction, but he’s never branched that far out either. He guesses that as long as he can stomach dairy and nuts then he’ll be fine. Anyway, Wilbur doesn’t question him and simply nods, then takes his leave.

There’s a moment as Dream’s eyes linger on the doorway where he sort of forgets what they were doing before Wilbur derailed them, but Techno lightly squeezes his biceps and he darts his head back to the matter at hand.

“Look, Dream,” Techno begins, voice stern almost like he’s scolding, but it envelops a warmth all the same, “Life is hard for everyone, but that’s why we have to stick together. Friends are supposed to help you through the bad days so you can look forward to the good ones. You don’t have to go at it alone.”

Dream so badly wants to disagree since, technically, he’s not alone. He’s got George and Sapnap. But George hisses from the back of his mind a stubborn, ‘that doesn’t count!’ and Sapnap follows with, ‘you need real-world friends, idiot,’ so he doesn’t say anything.

Techno continues his spiel with, “This month has been rough, I get it, but it’s not the end of the world. I think if you just apologize to everyone they’ll welcome you back with open arms, ‘kay?” Finally, he lets go, gathering the makeup still laying on the floor and shoving it into a dresser drawer. Faintly Dream can hear the front door open and a voice announcing their arrival. It must be Phil, like Wilbur warned. Techno doesn’t pay it any mind for now, though. He looks Dream in the eyes and says, “This weekend. Sunday night. Karl’s hosting a party.” Techno can see the moment hesitance crosses Dream’s face so he quickly explains, “You should come and clear the air. Then once we’ve all made up we’ll drink and be merry, okay? I won’t force you to go, but I think you should. Even if the idea scares you.”

Saying that the idea scares him is an understatement of the century. Dream is not someone fit for parties. He’s never drank, never smoked, he doesn’t like music all that much and definitely hates loud and crowded places. Having him at a party would be a fucking disaster, like, there’s a reason no one invited him. Even if that’s what Techno is doing now, inviting him. He can’t possibly understand how bad of an idea it would be for Dream to show up to this party. It would die out in seconds. Something will probably catch flame and burn down the place. People will laugh at him and ridicule him and throw him out before he could make it three feet past the door. It’s not just a bad idea, it’s the worst idea.

“I can see you spiraling from here, dude,” Techno comments, poking at Dream’s forehead with his pointer finger like one would hit an old TV to get it to work again, except it’s only a gentle tap. He laughs out loud when Dream goes cross-eyed to try to spot the hand that’s above his brow, which makes Dream feel all floaty inside. The panic still glows but it’s only embers in the dark for now. “Just think about it,” Techno says, before getting to his feet and offering a hand to help Dream do the same.

Chapter Text

Phil Watson isn’t as intimidating as he should be. Or shouldn’t be? Dream can’t decide on whether or not he’s relieved to find out Phil is fairly laid back. It’s not like he has much to go off of. He doesn’t believe he’s even met his own father. And not for the excuse of divorce or widowing, no, his parents are still happily married as far as he knows. It’s just that, like his mother but without the legal obligation, Dream’s father wants nothing to do with him.

So he’s treading foreign waters trying to gauge Phil and his actions. Sure the man calls everyone mate, asks about their days, listens and asks follow-up questions, offers advice and help for their homework, but there has to be some catch. Maybe. He can think back to the neighbor that used to watch him when his mother couldn’t, back before he could properly survive on his own for longer than a few hours. That man seemed nice at first but had a quick fuse, angering and yelling at one slip-up from his kids or Dream. The yelling was bad enough but if he was within arms reach, his more favorable punishment was a slap to the face, or gripping your forearm until it bruised. It was hard not to flinch when Phil extended his hand for a handshake to greet him.

But he thinks he played it off, especially once Techno explained that Dream was awkward and didn’t talk much. For some reason, Phil took that answer in stride, even going as far as offering to teach a few ASL signs when Dream revealed that he knew none. What a strange man. What’s even stranger is when Phil announces the plan for dinner and starts making it as soon as he’s finished greeting his children. It’s been a shockingly long time since Dream had food cooked for him, if you didn’t count fast food. And with actual ingredients too. Those not helping in the kitchen, which amounted to Techno, Dream, and Wilbur since Tommy insisted he’d be involved in some way, sit on the couch in the living room. The main room of the home is an open space, meaning the kitchen and living room are only separated by an island countertop, with a dining room offshoot from the rear of the kitchen.

Their house is only slightly bigger than his own, or, at the very least the ground floor is more spacious, but the overall atmosphere of it being lived in is what makes it feels even bigger. There are decorations and knick-knacks, photos of various occasions featuring one or more of the sons, some with just a lady and Phil, even a couple with Tommy in them despite the fact that he’s only been in their care for five weeks. There’s a whole life story to this house, from the scuffs on furniture to small stains on the walls or ceiling that weren’t quite cleaned completely. A show plays on the television while Wilbur and Techno make conversation but Dream is enraptured by all the little details scattered around the room. The hanger where coats of different sizes and colors sit, a decently sized shoe cabinet with everything from sneakers to dress shoes to snow boots. A rug that’s seen better days lays across the hardwood floor, edges frayed but the color it brings to the room isn’t impacted in the least.

What draws his attention the most is the way the kitchen and all its sounds are still prevalent in the living room. In Dream’s house, the two rooms are separated by a hallway, but here they mesh together like one big room. If he were more irritated he might find the noise coming from the kitchen to be distracting, but at the moment it’s all so… homely. Conversation could carry through the rooms with no problem, the family still connected and interacting despite the different tasks they handle. Dream can hear every step of the cooking process, smell when the foods start to simmer, listen in on the mindless chatter between Tommy and his foster dad.

If he didn’t know any better, he would just assume that Tommy was Phil’s biological kid. They’ve both got blond hair and bright eyes and a certain energy that seems to draw others near. The only differences are that Tommy’s hair is more saturated, Phil’s eyes are green not blue, and Tommy is teeming with energy while Phil seems chill. Even if they aren’t blood-related they seem like a match made in heaven.

(And he can’t think about the way that makes something in the back of his mind simmer and spark, something ugly and broken and full of hate tucked away into a dark corner and hopefully never to see the light. Because he knows the moment it’s acknowledged, there’s no going back, everything will change and he’ll be powerless to stop it--)

“Hey, Dream. Can I ask you something?”

Dream shakes his head, probably rougher than necessary as his bangs fall over his eyes and he has to take care to sweep them away without smudging the makeup on his face. He turns to look at Techno, who just spoke to him, giving him a silent cue to ask whatever’s on his mind. “Do you live far from school? I notice you walk to and from every day but I’ve never known where,” he prompts.

Pity him to be asked an open-ended question in front of an audience, although Wilbur doesn’t seem like he’s paying attention, instead scrolling through his phone reading something. “No, it’s not far. Maybe ten minutes,” Dream shrugs.

“What about in the winter? Do your parents ever offer to drive you?” Techno continues, cocking his head. Really, he should already know the answer, he’s been around Dream for a good two years now.

He shrugs again, “They’re busy.”

“What do they do for a living?”

It’s not an interrogation, thankfully lacking the vibes for that, but Dream isn’t sure why Techno is asking him all these questions. Maybe they’ve just never been in an intimate enough space to do so? It’s weird. “Real estate,” at least so far they’re questions he can answer easily. “They own an office in the city.”

“The city?” Wilbur pipes up, leaning forward to see around Techno, who’s sitting on the couch between them. “That’s pretty far, do they commute?”

Dream is… starting to not like these questions. “Uh, they have their own apartment in the city, I think,” he answers, trying to sound collected and normal and not clue them into the fact that he hasn’t seen his parents since his mom visited several months ago. It’s fine though, right? He’s an adult. He’s been taking care of himself since before he hit double digits.

“Wait, so they live there?” Wilbur presses, a frown pulling at the edges of his mouth. “What about you?”

Why is his heart beating so fast? “What about me?”

“They just leave you alone?” Techno questions, a similar unsettled expression forming over his face. Dream takes back what he said before, the vibes are definitely spelling interrogation now.

“Well, yeah? I can take care of myself,” he forces a flat, unaffected tone, not wanting to give into the panic that’s pushing on his mind.

The twins share a look between them, having a whole conversation through their eyes alone. This is starting to feel like good cop bad cop, but neither of them takes a specific role. Dream wishes he never said anything, that he simply chose not to answer that first question.

When Wilbur breaks first to look back at Dream, there’s something different in his gaze. No longer can Dream sense the negative opinion of himself that he felt before, he can’t really get a read on him at all anymore. “Well, if you ever need company or whatever, you can always chill here,” Wilbur offers with a surprising amount of sincerity. Dream is too taken aback to respond, watching with wide eyes as Wilbur pulls up his phone again and asks, “What’s your phone number? That way I can give you a ride if you need it.”

He’s already opening his contact list and is just about to pass it over when Dream stops him. “W-wait,” he says, already uncomfortable with the forwardness of the situation even if they seem to be genuinely extending their kindness to him outside of this visit, “I, uh, thank you, but I don’t have a phone.” Once again, that seems to be an answer that neither twin believes is acceptable since they both express concern and bewilderment. Suspicion shades over Wilbur’s gaze and he glances for a half-second towards the kitchen, while Techno looks almost sorrowful at Dream.

“You don’t have a cell phone?” Techno asks again, continuing when Dream nods slowly, “What about a landline?”

“Yeah,” Dream affirms, although it’s not something positive for him. That phone in the kitchen for him only ever rings for his mother’s calls. He’d rip the damn thing out of the wall if he could, he doesn’t even remember what the number is. It was given to the school as an emergency contact when he first enrolled, but that was when he started kindergarten. When he got to secondary school, they just transferred his information over so he’s never had to think about it again.

A tiny sigh of relief escapes Techno’s mouth upon learning that Dream has at least some way of communicating with the outside world. Wilbur proceeds with, “Oh, okay, that works. Can I get the number to your landline, then?”

“I don’t remember. I’ve never given it out before,” Dream says with a shrug. He’s not that sure how he feels anymore, it’s obvious that this line of questioning means something to the brothers, but he can’t reason why that is.

Wilbur looks at him for a minute longer, the unbroken eye contact making Dream sweat in his seat a little, before he too lets out a sigh and turns back to the TV. “Right,” he huffs, sounding somewhat defeated. “I’ll show you how to dial the voicemail when I drive you home later tonight. That’ll tell us the number.”

Dream nods, even though Wilbur isn’t looking at him anymore, and with a momentary glance at Techno also turns to gaze at the TV. He’s not really paying attention though, simply trying to go over what the heck just happened.

‘They’re likely weirded out because literally everyone has a phone, dude,’ Sapnap supplies helpfully. ‘Even the 12-year-olds.’

‘Why the hell would a 12-year-old need a phone?’ George questions.

‘For the hella dank memes, George. I don’t know, all the kids live online these days,’ Sapnap says, probably trying to sound hip but it comes off stilted.

‘What would you know about memes? You’re like, the lamest person ever,’ George taunts Sapnap, ‘I bet you don’t even know what a may-may is.”

‘I’ll have you know my Twitter timeline is filled with memes!’

‘What the fuck?’ Dream cackles in his mind, the only sign in the physical world being the slight upward turn of his lips, ‘Since when do you have a Twitter??’

‘You have to sleep sometime, you know,’ Sapnap jests, but it’s clear that it’s just a joke, it’s not really possible for only Sapnap or Dream to be awake by themselves. George is the only one who can still sleep when the body is awake. Still, Dream finds it hilarious to imagine Sapnap leading a double life while he and George sleep, and that it only consists of scrolling through Twitter and retweeting memes all night.

Sapnap and George continue taking jabs at each other’s characters, keeping the mood light-hearted so Dream doesn’t spiral after that tense conversation. It’s strange, his home life has never been of interest to anyone else before, and Dream has never brought it up himself. Maybe some isolated part of him yearns for a family like his friends have, but he also has George and Sapnap, so that yearning doesn’t last very long. Besides, a family would mean either parental figures in his life that dictate his every move, or he would have to be the parental figure, and he is definitely not suited for that. Maybe if Tommy was his little brother it would be okay, but that’s just a fever dream.

—-

Dinner was served not too long after. Dream was pointed toward a seat in the dining room near the back door, Techno to his right and Tommy to the left, opposite Phil.

It seemed to take forever to bring out all the food, like they were having a banquet instead of just a family dinner with one guest. Tommy balanced two plates in each arm, dumping them gently on the table before scurrying back to the kitchen to grab another bowl. Wilbur placed water glasses at each plate and set out a butter dish with a small knife atop it, also grabbing soda for his brothers and placing them at their seats. The whole ordeal made Dream’s head spin, he’s never seen this much food for five people in his life.

Now he sits feeling slightly overwhelmed, eyeing all of the various foods in front of him while the others waste no time in dumping whatever was closest onto their plate. There’s a big pan filled with blackened chicken breast in a red sauce, a plate of roasted green beans sprinkled with Parmesan, dinner rolls in a cloth-lined basket, and loaded mashed potatoes in a glass bowl with a small container of gravy beside it. In the center of the table was a large bowl of salad and bottles of dressings lined around it, a whole assortment of colors mixed with the lettuce leaves. It’s a meal Dream is slightly familiar with, though it hardly compares to the dull frozen dinners. He almost feels too lowly to indulge in a meal like this, even if his stomach gnaws at its walls from his lack of school lunch and pitiful breakfast.

When Techno stops to ask if he’s okay, Dream shakes himself out of his stupor, taking small portions of the dishes that are passed to him, accepting a prefilled salad bowl from Tommy, casually passing on the roll for now because he’s not certain he could even finish what was on his plate. The food itself is warm and fucking decadent, better than anything he’s ever tasted, and it’s not even an extravagant sort of meal. But it’s homely, it’s home-cooked, and it’s shared between an actual family.

And there’s… something. Something sitting painfully in his chest, and it’s not from the food. This family… they eat like this every night, a full meal, sitting together and talking between bites, never a quiet moment or stagnant air. He can’t call the feeling jealousy, or even envy, just… aching. Maybe there was a life he could have been born into instead, where the house was filled with ambient sounds and music and laughter, and every meal was made with love, and dinners were shared and enjoyed and made every day worth waking up to. Was he just not good enough for that life? This family that he is eating alongside, they aren’t even bound by blood. Dream should be grateful he even has parents at all.

But does he? His parents are more strangers than Phil at this point, and Dream just met the man today. He chose his children, just as he chooses to love and support them, to make sure they never go hungry, never forced to fend for themselves. Dream was a miracle, yet all his life he’s been treated as nothing more than a stain on this earth. It’s not fair. And some part of him wants to be angry at that fact, but it’s just aching. It’s crushing his chest rather than fueling his anger.

It’s enough to force his consciousness away from the scene, maybe as a defense against another depressive spiral, Sapnap easily slipping into the front seat to take over the task of eating this heavenly meal that’s been given to them.

‘Fuuuuck dude, do you think Phil could adopt us too?’ Sapnap practically moans, having to restrain himself from shoving as much food in his mouth as possible.

‘You can’t just ask someone to adopt you, Sap,’ George huffs a laugh, amused by Sapnap’s excitement.

‘Right, well, good fucking luck pulling me out of this house. I’m never leaving,’ Sapnap declares. Honestly, he’d prefer a foster parent over a neglectful one any day of the week, especially if a meal like this would become routine. What good is blood anyway? Sapnap doesn’t even consider himself or George as sons of Dream’s mother, their only relation is to Dream’s mind and Dream alone. God, if Sapnap could convince him to stay here forever. That would be the life.

With a full belly and an empty plate, Sapnap sits idly by as conversation flows among the table’s participants. Wilbur shares his new music interests, a few indie bands that aren’t as well known, and even rattles off some names from his jazz group that he’s considering starting a band with. Techno apparently has weekly karate lessons with he is enjoying, electing himself as the sensei’s favorite of his class, which could explain how he was able to fight off the bullies earlier today. Although he doubts that kind of defense isn’t just something he learned in a classroom, either way, Techno is pretty fucking cool. When the conversation shifts naturally to Tommy, the young boy starts with his friends’ shenanigans and then ventures to a story that unfortunately catches the attention of the older table mates. 

“Yeah, he kept spouting shit like, ‘meh, meh, meh, I’m taller than you so that means you’re a baby,’ even though I made it very clear that I am a Big Man and he can rightly fuck off. Ugh, then his friend grabbed my backpack and started throwing my shit out the window but then, like a fuckin’ tiger, Dream jumped in and punched him right in the face!” Tommy recounts with all of the dramatics he can muster. He’s not really paying attention to his audience and especially misses when Techno’s face pales and Phil frowns. At the part where Dream comes in, Phil’s eyes widen in some sort of surprise and concern and he looks toward Sapnap.

Sapnap shrinks into his chair some, trying to not make any further eye contact with the foster dad by staring off to the side, despite only the wall being within his view. Wilbur looks like he’s trying to hold back a grin, seeing his warning from earlier coming to light exactly as he expected.

“But of course it was three against one, so right after they started roughing up Dream but then! Then Techno rushed to the scene, and beat all three of them down and sent them running! It was so cool!” Tommy continues the story to its completion despite the reservations of the people around him. It’s only then that he notices the tense air, seeing Phil glance between Techno and Sapnap with too many emotions running through him to decide how to react.

Honestly, Sapnap excepted some kind of scolding right now at least. Hell, Dream is practically frozen stiff with anticipation from where he’s witnessing all this go down.

Techno lets out a frustrated yet defeated sigh, leaning his elbows on the table and holding his face in his hands. “Gods above, Tommy. I should’ve known this would happen,” he laments.

“I told you so,” Wilbur chides with a smirk.

That’s when Phil finally chooses a reaction, his face downturned with a disappointed frown. “You both knew about this and you weren’t going to tell me?” He questions. Both twins drop their eyes to the table, quieting.

Seeing how Tommy caused this, he stands up in his chair to lean on the table, saying, “Wait! I mean, it’s not that big a deal, no one even got hurt!” Then he slowly sinks back down, side-eyeing Sapnap. “Well, except Dream,” he amends.

Phil’s gaze falls to him once again, but his face lightens to something more akin to worry. “Is that true, mate?”

Not expecting to be questioned directly, Sapnap goes rigid, glancing around while he tries to figure out the right answer. Eventually, his eyes make their way back to Phil and he nods, stone-faced. Then he looks to Techno. The teen meets his gaze and takes the cue to answer for him, “He’s fine, just some bruising on his face. I covered it up so it isn’t very obvious.”

While the others accept the answer, Tommy frowns, interjecting, “But wait, what about his chest? He was punched there a few times too, I think.”

“I didn’t know about that,” Techno admits, and again all eyes end up on Sapnap.

Now that it’s mentioned, there is a slight bit of pain with every inhale, but he’s been instinctually avoiding it by using the higher muscles of his chest to breathe rather than his diaphragm.  There’s also the ache of his gut, like some organ had been bruised near to his stomach, he just didn’t really notice it when Dream was fronting. Nothing seems life-threatening though, and he really isn’t liking all this attention on him. “Uh, it’s no big deal, I can handle it,” he explains, sounding not all that confident.

And apparently, it’s the wrong answer, because Phil’s worried frown only deepens.

Sapnap quickly tries to correct the mood, “I mean, I play soccer, b-bruises aren’t anything new.” He can’t distinguish where his anxiety ends and Dream’s begins, the other headmate watching with uncertainty. A switch right now would be far too obvious… probably, but it’s best that Sapnap handle this to the end now that he’s out.

“Still, would you let me take a look at your chest? I just want to make sure you don’t have anything that needs medical attention before I let you go home,” Phil requests, speaking softly as if he can sense the rise in tension in Sapnap’s frame. Still, Sapnap looks to Techno, hoping his friend could somehow get him out of this.

At least Techno has the grace to look apologetic when he says, “Sorry, Dream. But I have to agree.”

“O-okay,” Sapnap relents, rising from his seat at the table. Phil directs him to sit in the living room and asks him politely if he could remove his hoodie. He does this without complaint, especially since he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath. Being bare-chested in a practically stranger’s home would be really awkward and uncomfortable, so the thin shirt gives him an ounce of control and he’ll take what he can get.

‘Does anyone else feel a foreboding sense of dread?’ George whispers loudly in their shared thoughts, perhaps trying to ease some of the tension but it, unfortunately, has the opposite effect.

Phil kneels in front of him on the floor, asking if he’d like any of the boys to leave the room.

“Nah, it’s- I don’t care, it’s fine,” Sapnap doesn’t really want to be alone with Phil, even if there are no bad vibes coming from the man, because if there’s anything he knows from their shared experiences with adults; their actions are rarely consistent, and highly dependent on the audience. So Techno sits on the couch next to him, Wilbur on the adjacent sofa while Tommy stands awkwardly in the corner. It’s obvious he doesn’t know where he can be useful but he still wants to be involved. It’s kind of sweet, the way he cares about Dream. Even after the long month of radio silence.

“Okay, mate. Could you lift your shirt for me?” Phil keeps a neutral tone, as a physician would, and keeps his hands in the open so Sapnap will know if he’s reaching out.

With shaky hands, Sapnap grips the lower hem of his t-shirt and raises it until about half his rib cage is revealed. Phil’s expression turns into a grimace, and Wilbur hisses through his teeth at the sight. Techno’s eyes spell something dark, but Sapnap can’t figure out what it is.

He’s completely blind to whatever the others are seeing, shivering from the chill air blowing against his bare skin. After a moment, Phil pipes up again, “That’s a hell of a bruise, mate. I’ll give you that.” Then he asks permission to prod the injury, just to check the status of his ribs. “It’s easier for the false ribs to get moved out of place, and it’s quite painful if you sleep on it without realignment,” Phil explains, waiting for the go-ahead before he even begins to move his hands.

“Wait, he’s got fake ribs?” Tommy questions, sounding truly bewildered.

Phil rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling fondly, “No, no, they’re called that because the way they’re connected is different from the other ribs. The false ribs are the lower five pairs, here,” he demonstrates by outlining the bottom curve of his own rib cage over his shirt.

Content with the answer, Tommy goes back to being quiet, while Phil gets Sapnap’s approval with a short nod. Phil’s hands aren’t cold, at the very least, when they gently poke at the skin of his abdomen. Nothing screams in pain but the bruise throbs under the attention, especially as Phil guides the pad of his fingers along the short ribs that lay beneath the bruising. After a short while, he leans back, “Alright, I think you’re good, mate.” Sapnap breathes out in relief as he lowers his shirt again, then quickly pulls on the hoodie. Despite the examination being over with, Phil still looks apprehensive. “But, and I'm sorry to bring this up so suddenly, Dream, are you eating enough at home?” He asks out of the blue.

Sapnap freezes, widening his eyes at the implications. “What?”

“You’re quite skinny, definitely underweight for a boy your age and height. Especially being an athlete, it’s… worrying,” Phil explains, looking a little wary to be saying this in front of everyone else but not knowing if he’ll have another chance. And Sapnap very much wishes that Phil had never taken that chance because he is so fucking stressed right now. Like, of course they’re underweight, they eat hardly two meals a day and rarely have any food that isn’t full of preservatives and weird chemicals and shit. They don’t have the luxury of parents that actually care for the well-being of their child, okay? That doesn’t mean Sapnap can just say that out loud, though.

He’s entirely too grateful to have his hoodie on again, because at least then the others can’t see how rapidly he’s breathing, using every ounce of will in their system to keep a straight face, to not break out into a panic attack. ‘GUYS WHAT DO I DO,’ he yells to the other headmates, feeling the headache they had from being punched in the face twice getting worse by the second. His muscles are exhausted from tensing so much.

‘Can we just shut the fuck up? See why I choose to be silent all the time? This is why we don’t go spouting everything that's on our mind!’ Dream rants, despite this being the absolute worst moment to do so.

‘Not helping!’

George adds his analysis, ‘I don’t think they’ll just let it go if we freeze up now.’ He’s quiet for a moment. ‘I think you have to mask up.’

‘Cool, cool. Cool cool cool but have you considered that Dream is the only one who does that??’ Sapnap spouts, having trouble maintaining the collected image from both sides of his control, in the physical body and in their thoughts. With every quiet second that passes in the real world, he knows the hole he’s digging is just getting deeper and deeper. He’ll be lucky if they can get out of this without someone tipping off CPS.

‘Oh god, we’re so fucked. Mom is going to kill me,’ Dream despairs, already in the midst of imagining the scenarios of CPS breaking down the front door, dragging Dream away to some random group home, his parents showing up so so mad because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

‘Just, shut up, Dream, calm the fuck down. Sapnap, put on a smile and repeat after me okay?’ George directs, offering a much more distinct presence in the mind as his way of supporting Sapnap.

Without wasting another breath, Sapnap does as he’s instructed. He summons the most mundane, casual smile that he can muster, appearing as though Phil had told some dumb dad joke instead of a world-shattering accusation. “Oh no, I’m sorry to worry you, Mr. Watson. I promise that I’m fine, it’s always been like this,” Sapnap says, drawing up the personality of a perfectly mannered son. It helps that George feeds him the tone of voice he should use for each phrase as well, so it can actually sound genuine. “Even when I was a little boy I was really skinny, no matter how much or how little I ate. My mom had the same worry when I hit 13, but the nutritionist we saw told me that I just have a really high metabolism.” Honestly, Sapnap doesn’t know what either of those things are, and has no idea how George knows, but that’s neither here nor there. With the smile still present, he takes a quick glance around the room to see how his lie has gone over, and it seems that Phil and Tommy are abated. Techno and Wilbur may look on with a bit of suspicion but they don’t interject or press further.

Phil apologizes for any unsaid insinuation and, finally, Wilbur brings up the fact that it’s getting late so he should drive Dream home. Sapnap couldn’t agree more. They all wave goodbye and Techno reminds him once again to consider the party on Sunday evening before Sapnap gets into the passenger seat of Wilbur’s car and breathes out a sigh of relief. Dream takes the opportunity to slip back into control, nerves properly soothed for now since they got away without any more interrogation.

Wilbur doesn’t say much on the drive to Dream’s house, they both just listen to the chill music that Wilbur plays on the aux. Dream just thinks about the encounter he witnessed, if he’d ever go back to that house if offered. Phil had said the doors would always be open for him, and truth be told, his experience apart from that last spat wasn’t all that bad. None of the Watsons are particularly demanding, or judgmental; maybe Wilbur was at first, but even he mellowed out once he saw the way Techno interacted with Dream. He can’t help but think about Tommy as well, what it would be like to get a tour of his room, hear about his life in that homely house, all the little parts of him that don’t rise to the surface very often. Or at least, not in front of everyone else. Imagining having a bond with that kid, something that he hasn’t shared with anyone else… it makes his mind race. He’d get his ass beat any day if it meant he could stay close to him.

When they pull up to the house, there’s no one home, obviously, and both boys get out. Wilbur waits while Dream unlocks the door, then follows him in. Dream’s absolutely had enough talking for the day, probably for the next few days more like, so he silently directs Wilbur to the landline in the kitchen, letting him do whatever he needs to figure out the number. It takes a few minutes for Wilbur to press the various buttons and listen to a robotic voice that emits from the speaker, then he fiddles with his cell phone, presses more buttons on the landline, and finally places it back on the dock. He turns to Dream with his phone safely back in his pocket. “Right, I’ve got your number and I went ahead and put our numbers on speed dial in case you ever want to call. Phil is 2, Tech is 3, and I’m 4,” he explains while making his way to the front door. He lingers in the doorway for a moment, gazing over the layout of the unlit kitchen and hallway, eyeing the empty driveway and the other houses on the street with scattered lights in various windows. “It doesn’t have to be, you know, serious or anything. Just if you want company or to talk to someone or for me to drive you somewhere. I don’t mind, and I know Tech and Phil won’t mind either,” Wilbur says in a neutral tone, even if what he offered is incredibly caring. Dream just nods and Wilbur takes his leave.

With the door closed and locked, Dream falls back against it, sliding down until he’s sitting flat on the floor. He pulls his hands through his hair and just breathes. ‘That's it, I’m never socializing again,’ he laments to his headmates.

‘Right, as if you weren’t on the edge of tears after a singular hug from Techno,’ George argues with an eye-roll.

‘You’re never socializing again??? I’m the one who had to put on the fucking show!’ Sapnap yells in exasperation.

George replies with, ‘And you did great, Snapmap.’ Which results in Sapnap just screaming incoherently while George laughs.

‘I hate you both,’ Dream says. But we all know that’s a lie.

Chapter Text

Come Sunday, Dream felt emotionally and physically exhausted. He dreaded his decision in leaving the house the moment he stepped through the door, but at least he knew George and Sapnap had his back, no matter what would happen.

Saturday wasn’t all that great either. He woke up to the terrible feeling of nausea climbing up his throat, and spent the first ten minutes of his day leaning over the toilet in his bathroom, ejecting the meal he had eaten the night before. Really, he should’ve known eating that much food with the diet he had would lead to this, but he doesn’t blame Sapnap. The home-cooked meal was still something special, he just wished he didn’t have to see it a second time.

Then all he wanted was to stay in bed all day, tired from the exertion of socializing the night before as well as the less-than-ideal wake-up call (his bruised ribs hurt like a motherfucker), but of course, he lacked food in the house and had to make a store trip. Sometimes he could make do without it but he neglected to the week before, so there was little he could do other than suck it up and walk to the grocery store so he could stock up on frozen waffles and microwave dinners to get him through the week. He supposed he’s lucky no one there recognized him because there was zero chance he’d be able to talk face-to-face.

And finally, perhaps the worst of it, he had to put his newfound communication to use and call Techno because he didn’t know Karl’s address. There was an unspoken agreement in his thoughts that he would be going to the party, despite the dread that would surely follow that decision, if not because Techno asked for him then to see his friends again. It’s daunting to think about going back to the way things were a month ago, especially regarding why he wanted to isolate himself in the first place. Even the day after dinner with the Watsons he felt it, the recoil of his mental state. The pitfall of depression, the occasional thought of ending it all. Though it was light enough to respond to logically, after all, it’s pretty dumb to want to off yourself after one singular night of socializing. He could work through the weight though, but it’s hard to imagine coping with a full week of talking and listening and, god forbid, physical contact.

Well, that’s a problem for the coming week, because he’s almost to the address. Walking at night isn’t anything new to him, it’s why he can get lost in thought so easily, following the occasional spotlight on the well-kept sidewalk. He’s not wearing anything special, though he’s got just a long sleeve rather than his signature hoodie.

‘Yo! Our first party!’ Sapnap exclaims as if any of the trio forgot.

‘Oh great, loud music, drunk teens, and dancing. How fun,’ George responds sarcastically.

‘Come on, George. It’s a night we can finally chill out, not to mention try alcohol for the first time!’

‘Right, like that’s gonna go well. You know lots of people go batshit when they’re drunk. We don’t even know how Dream is gonna act. He could be like his mother for all we know.’

‘…ouch.’

‘No offense, Dream.’

‘Whatever,’ Dream dismisses the comment. He’s not too bothered by his headmates’ bickering, he’s well aware that tonight will be full of new experiences and uncertainties but he just… he wants to try. George was right before, when he said that Dream’s intended isolation was some sort of punishment for himself that carried over to hurting those two as well. So, he’s trying to not be so selfish, even if there’s a chance this night will end badly. It can’t be as bad as anything he’s already dealt with before. He almost died once, for God’s sake.

‘Well, I’m excited,’ Sapnap decides.

George scoffs, but Dream can tell that his scorn is more playful than serious, ‘You just want to fawn over Karl and Quackity all night.’

‘Right, and?’ Sapnap doesn’t even bother denying.

‘Hope you’re ready for disappointment, then,’ Dream mutters, interjecting because he too can’t afford to hope for the best. ‘Last time I saw Quackity, he certainly wasn’t happy with us.’

‘Yeah, well, neither was Wilbur,’ Sapnap argues. ‘He came around.’

George sighs, readying his argument without any sort of passion, ‘We weren’t as close with him, though.’

‘You’ll try, though. Right, Dream?’ And while the house is in view and Dream’s nerves are now successfully frazzled, Sapnap’s innocent pleading keeps his feet moving towards the front door.

‘I’ll try,’ Dream says. It’s about as close to a promise that Sapnap will get and that, fortunately, is enough to ease him.

As he approaches the door, he can hear a steady stream of bass-heavy music growing louder, yet still muffled mostly by the walls. There’s a large window facing the street, and though the blinds are drawn, Dream can see several silhouettes moving around inside, snippets of voices breaking through the music. It’s now or never, and his brain feels like spontaneously combusting with the stress of it all eating away at the neurons that keep him functioning.

But he can’t back down. Even while his feet beg to run, a hand raises to knock, knuckles held in the air for multiple minutes before he can muster the confidence to knock loud enough to alert someone despite the noise. The seconds spent waiting for the door to open are agonizing, listening to short bickering inside that question who could possibly be arriving this late, until finally a voice commands that they will answer the door.

A lock turns, then the handle, then suddenly the door opens inwards, revealing Quackity in all his glory holding a beer in his free hand. Surprise paints his face for a few moments before the realization of who is standing opposite him produces an angry scowl and the door is slammed shut without a word.

Dream huffs out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding during the encounter, mind clashing between the hurt of rejection and the relief that he might be able to walk away without incident. At least he tried.

But Quackity’s fury is audible through the closed door, the black-haired teen loudly questioning “who the fuck invited that asshole?” to the rest of the room. Someone responds, and by the baritone alone Dream can tell it’s Techno. The response is too quiet to make out, but the fact that the other teen might be standing up for him is enough to keep his feet planted in front of the door. Arguing ensues, but it isn’t long before light pools on the ground before him, and Dream looks up to see Techno gesturing for him to come inside.

His anxiety is through the fucking roof but he steps forward anyway, nervously glancing at the pairs of eyes that watch him from the group in the middle of the room. He can spot each and every member accounted for, including Ted, sitting around a wide coffee table holding beer cans and a few bottles of wine. Everyone has a different expression, with some barely hiding their discontent, some just confused,  and others a mix of the two. No one seems as angry as the bitter frown on Quackity’s face, though.

Dream hardly registers Techno closing the door, and leading him closer to the others with a careful hand on his shoulder. His eyes can’t seem to tear away from the looks of scrutiny, no matter how much he wishes he could. Quackity turns off the music, then takes a stance behind where Karl is sitting, arms crossed defensively. “Right, care to explain why you invited him?” He asks Techno, in a scolding manner.

Techno is about as socially inept as Dream, but he still stands confidently beside him. His hand no longer rests on his shoulder and Dream isn’t sure if he’s relieved or missing the contact. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t know why Dream was acting so distant for the last few weeks either,” the pink-haired teen begins, holding the facade of indifference to hide any nervousness. “My guess was that he got too annoyed with Tommy but didn’t want to hurt the kid,” he says with a shrug.

Dream finally turns to him with wide eyes, offended by the sheer notion that any of this could be blamed on Tommy.

Techno meets his gaze but continues on without hesitance, “But then, on Friday, I hear that Dream got his ass beat because some jackasses decided to bully Tommy in the middle of the hallway, and he intervened.” Dream feels the eyes of the group again, probably latching to the still visible bruise under his eye, colored a deep purple, tinted green around the edges. It’ll probably be another week before it heals completely. He stays staring at Techno, wanting to see what the boy will say next but his eyes are determinedly staring back. Techno does a short nod, giving Dream the cue to continue himself.

Dream feels his tongue weigh heavy in his mouth, seeming like it’s glued to his teeth, while his lungs fight against gravity with every inhale. He knew he’d have to explain himself at some point, but now that the time has come he feels nothing but dread. Any words he thought of during the day prior dissolve into dust in his brain. But the eyes of the room are expectant.

‘Do you need help?’ George whispers, despite not needing to, but he doesn’t want Dream to panic at a sudden noise in the oppressive silence.

Maybe he does, but he can’t accept it. Following a script that George feeds him will only summon his mask, and even for how intense it feels to be vulnerable, he doesn’t want to hide behind the dissonance any longer. At least not for this, not for his friends. He takes one last breath, as if it were his last, and forces his mouth to open. “I’m sorry,” are the first words to spill out as he surveys the circle of peers, unable to focus on any one person. “I’m sorry, that I… I pushed you all away,” Dream states, letting his guilt and his willingness to change lead his voice. “I’m not- I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but I did. And I’m sorry, because I wasn’t… I didn’t consider anyone else’s feelings. I was selfish.”

“Then why?” Niki speaks up, sounding saddened by the admission, “What was so wrong that you couldn’t ask us for help?”

He gulps, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves to try to settle his nerves. “I really, really like you guys,” he says, suddenly unable to look at anyone at all. “I’m- when I’m with you guys, I’m happy. I’m happy and I don’t feel like… like I have to be someone I’m not. I can be happy.” No one interjects further as Dream takes a few more evened breaths. “But then, I go home, and I’m- it’s so lonely. The more content I am, the more happy I am with you guys, the worse I feel when you’re gone. I keep… I kept thinking about- about dying. Alone. It didn’t feel real, anything I felt before. Like it was all a lie.” The confession is really taking its toll on his body, his shoulder twitching consistently and his eyes darting around. Not to mention the way his lung seize up on every other breath. His hands no longer fidget with his sleeves but instead clutch onto the opposite arm like it’s the other thing holding him together. “I thought it would be best if I just, stayed by myself,” he whispers the last part, “I thought it was the only way to stay alive.”

It felt like the most he had spoken in his entire life. He can feel how dry his mouth is, his tongue sticking to the roof uncomfortably. He still can’t lift his eyes from the ground, until Quackity asks, “So, what changed?” Then he spares a glance at the other teen, surprised to see that the ire from before has faded into mild frustration, his arms still crossed but loosening by the second.

Dream seriously doubts that he could answer that verbally, so he instead looks at Techno. He takes the hint, facing the rest of the room, stating simply “I told him how stupid that was.”

Then, it seems the mood is near instantly lightened, especially when Schlatt raises a beer can and says, “I’ll drink to that,” before downing the rest of the drink. A few others chuckle, with Ted lightly smacking him on the shoulder calling him a doofus.

Karl takes the opportunity to jump to his feet, smiling brightly, “Okay! Enough sad talk, time to party!” He gestures for Quackity to restart the music, who does so with a fond grin on his face. Once the beat is officially reverberating throughout the room, Karl approaches Dream. “Glad to have you back, buddy,” he says, before opening his arms and asking, “Hug?”

Dream, whose heart is still racing from the tense confession before, for some reason looks at Techno as if the boy will give him the answer, or permission of some sort. Techno raises a brow but nods anyway, and Dream looks back at Karl to see him staring inquisitively at the interaction. But he can’t comment, because Dream is opening his arms and Karl presses forward, wrapping him in a warm hug. It’s a lot different than the embrace he shared with Techno. For one, they’re standing, and Karl’s stature is similar to Dream’s, thin and spindly. They fit together like a pair of twigs, like intertwined vines. It doesn’t last nearly as long though, as Dream hurriedly withdraws before things get awkward.

Karl goes back to where he was sitting, the rest of the group paired off and in their own conversations leaving Quackity, Techno, and Dream still standing a few feet from the entrance. The latter is just glad he isn’t the center of attention anymore, likely going to opt to stay silent for the rest of the evening- although he’s not sure whether that’ll change if and when he gets some alcohol in him.

He startles slightly when Techno lays a hand on his shoulder, telling him, “Proud of you, bud.” That unwanted feeling of heat settling on his cheeks happens again, but Dream tries to pass a small smile to the teen regardless.

Quackity still has an aura of apprehension about him, standing between the other two, but it doesn’t hold any malice. “You know, Dream,” he says, speaking a little slower than usual, “You can always ask to hang out outside of school, too.” He has an eyebrow raised, as if he’s unsure why Dream hadn’t thought of that before.

The words he could say fail him anyway, but Techno takes the initiative and replies for him, “Believe it or not, he doesn’t have a cellphone.” That definitely surprises Quackity, although for only a moment until he thinks about it, probably recalling he’s never seen him with a phone in all the time he’s known Dream.  “He’s got a landline, though,” Techno explains.

“Huh, retro,” Quackity nods, amused, “Kinda sucks since you don’t like talking.” That, Dream can agree with. He can’t even describe how much worse it is to talk on the phone than it is to talk to another person. You’d think with his experience with his headmates it’d be better, but it’s not. “Well, I’ll get everyone to write down their numbers before the night’s over,” Quackity offers, finally gracing Dream with his usual grin. Seeing his friend at ease allows for Dream to let his heart rate return to normal, making breathing easier again. Before returning to Karl’s side, Quackity does one last glance between Dream and Techno, some unreadable expression hidden underneath his casual smile. Dream can’t think much of it as the teen turns away a moment after.

‘Ah, I missed him,’ Sapnap says, voice filled with fondness.

‘I’m sure you did, Sap,’ George rolls his metaphorical eyes.

With peace restored, Dream feels sort of lost now. After all, he’s never been to a party before, and after that little sideshow he starred in, he doesn’t know where to insert himself into the rest of the group. He’s just about to wordlessly ask Techno when he hears Sam call his name, gesturing for Dream to come sit beside him. Well, Dream thinks with a smile, he may be lost, but at least he has his friends to guide him.

—

Alcohol, as Dream would come to realize, is quite the double-edged sword. For one, he’s all warm inside, like the drinks he had coiled in his stomach and fed the flames of whatever fire kept him going. His head and the tips of his fingers feel tingly, and as time went on it became increasingly harder to balance on his feet. Perhaps that was worrying, but the laughter of his friends told him it was okay.

And two, despite expecting the opposite, his brain was constantly thinking, like, a lot. Whatever idea he had that the alcohol would make talking easier went right out the window, as the only communication he attempted beyond laughing or frowning was met with a flurry of fragmented words circling his brain yet never forming anything legible. It was exceedingly difficult to stay present in reality while his thoughts tugged him in every direction. More than once did someone need to direct his attention (including his own headmates) and needed multiple tries to do so.

When Sam waved him over before, they talked for a bit (well, Dream just listened, Sam did the talking) until Schlatt announced they were playing beer pong and began clearing the table before them. Karl brought some red solo cups and filled each with a small bit of water and lined them up in a triangle on both sides of the table while Quackity brought out shot glasses. Dream had to admit, the game was fun, and a great way to get drunk very quickly. They broke into teams and had a tournament of sorts to see who were the best players.

It wouldn’t have been too much of a problem if Sam wasn’t so damn good at the game, even with Dream not being able to throw for shit they made it to the semi-finals, and Quackity and Karl were ruthless. He stopped keeping count after the fifth shot, though thankfully it was only beer they were drinking. By the time Dream was forced to lean on Sam so he could attempt to sink the ping pong ball in the remaining cups, Quackity commented how he was lucky they weren’t played with hard liquor, or else Dream would very much be dead by now.

Once the game ended and everyone was sufficiently drunk, they broke off into groups once again, clearing the space so people could move around. Niki instantly pulled Puffy onto the makeshift dance floor, giggling all the way, later joined by Karl and Quackity, then Wilbur and Ted. None of them were particularly good at dancing, especially not while wasted, but they seemed to be having fun. Dream stayed with Sam and Techno on a nearby sofa, Jack disappeared into the kitchen, and Schlatt and Charlie were doing something upstairs. Dream didn’t know exactly what, but he saw Schlatt whispering to Charlie quite a bit before they ran off hand in hand.

So there he is, staring off into space while Sam and Techno chat to each other, sometimes trying to include him but he’s far too lost in thought to respond. Usually, he’d attribute his hyperactive mind to being in distress, but he isn’t nervous at all right now, just distracted. Pictures in his mind keep flashing in and out, changing with every flicker, hardly staying long enough to contemplate so it’s just like he’s watching a sped-up slideshow. At first, it’s images of earlier in the night, the smiles of his friends, Karl asking for a hug, the way Sam danced when they won a game and patted Dream on the shoulder with pride in his eyes, the way Techno would cheer them on from the sidelines. Those moments are interspersed with his current field of vision, seeing his friends enjoy themselves, dancing and laughing and drinking. Even though he feels like he’s outside of his control, like he’s viewing the world through the eyes of someone else, it doesn’t bother him. He’s glad to witness the serene scene regardless of his involvement.

Although those moments of clarity become less frequent when he begins seeing further into the past, from over a month ago. Watching Karl and Quackity talk animatedly to each other at the lunch table, playing soccer on a sunny afternoon, to years before working with Techno in class they shared, seeing him laugh at something Dream whispered to him. And then, Tommy.

It always came back to Tommy.

Their first meeting, how unafraid he was when introduced to everyone, his boldness when announcing himself during lunch later that day, the way he seamlessly slotted himself into their friend group, eager to make everyone laugh. Smiling at Dream, offering him half a cookie, following him outside when he panicked. Bright hair, bright eyes, teeth smiling in the sunlight, a slight pink tint to his cheeks as Dream ruffled his hair. The boy’s concentrated face on the afternoon he spent braiding Dream’s hair, focused with his tongue stuck out the side of his mouth, rolling his blue eyes at whatever his friend said, biting back a reply with a smirk.

Then, unexpectedly, back to the memory of them sitting in the grass outside of the lunchroom. These images stay a bit longer, playing like a short film burning into his eyelids while he tries to figure out why he’s remembering this specifically. Tommy is staring at him with a guarded expression, forced into something neutral, but his fear and apprehension is as clear as day. And Dream… feels confused, since the is memory is so different to the happy moments from before but… he isn’t really all that bothered. In fact, it’s a breath of fresh air, seeing the conflicted emotions painted across the boy’s face.

Fast forward to when Tommy was cornered by the bullies, facing the one in front of him, false bravado on display but he’s so obviously scared. The wide eyes and furrowed brows are just as fascinating, just as breathtaking as his smile. The way hopelessness clouds around his pupils, clearly not his first time being in that sort of situation. When he looked around for help, when he pleaded with his eyes for a savior, and only found Dream. He was just so expressive, the way the varying emotions mixed and molded his features. It made him wonder what else the boy could express.

(It made him wonder what true fear would look like on him, or anger, or betrayal. It made him wonder if there was something he could do about it, to see for himself the change in posture, to capture the moment where his stubborn front finally breaks. How brilliant would it be to capture his destruction and know that only his hands were capable of bringing it to light? He wonders where the limits are, just how many emotions can he yield before there’s nothing left but a broken husk of a-)

“What’s got you smiling over there, Dream?” Sam yanks him from his thoughts with a playful smirk, shaking his shoulder a little to jostle him back to reality. The abruptness makes him shake his head for a second to clear his mind before he gives Sam a short shrug of his shoulders. This seems to be an answer Sam expected so he chuckles softly and says, “Well, Karl just asked us if we wanted to watch a movie with him and the others.”

“His parents have a whole in-home theater and everything,” Techno explains, and it’s then that Dream notices the music is turned off and the three of them are the only ones left in the living room.

Dream looks back at Sam and shrugs again, muttering, “Sure.”

So they set off down a hallway, Sam leading the way to a staircase where Quackity emerges from. “Oh hey! Movie’s just starting so I’m going to get popcorn. Wilbur picked Halloweentown ‘cause, you know, it’s relevant,” he tells them.

“Ah yes, witches hunting down virgin children, an honorable choice,” Techno says sarcastically.

Quackity frowns for a moment, “Okay, well, yeah, the virgin part is kinda weird. But it was like, the 80s, man. No one gave a shit.”

“It was released in the late nineties, actually,” Techno corrects.

“I completely forgot about that plot point,” Sam adds, “I just remember the child murder and the talking cat.”

To be honest, Dream is very bewildered by this discussion, mainly because he’s never seen this movie. He clears his throat, overcome with a question, “Is this a horror movie?”

Quackity answers simply, “Nope. It’s a popular family classic.” He says this with a shit-eating grin, before addressing the others, “Right, well, go get settled in. I’ll be back with snacks in a minute.”

Dream watches Quackity walk away and disappear behind a corner, and though he hears Sam go in the opposite direction, something catches his eye. On the wall of the hallway, there’s a line of pictures showcasing different moments of time. It’s similar to the shelves at the Watsons’ house, where photographs tell the story of a family throughout the years, aging in each other's company. There’s no particular order, but he creates the chronology in his head as he observes them.

The first is of two people who look very young, possibly in their mid-twenties, standing together in a white gazebo. The photo is obviously professionally shot, completed with a blurry background and slight lens flare from the hanging light. They must be Karl’s parents since they both share characteristics of the teen, the woman with his eyes and fluffy brown hair, and the man with his nose and rounded jaw. The picture next to them is their wedding day, not too long after the precious photo, the woman in a long white dress with a lace veil in the arms of the man in a tuxedo.

A few frames away shows the same woman in a loose sweater, holding a swaddled baby whose eyes are closed. The man is standing behind her, looking at her with a soft smile on his face. The next photo shows the baby a few years older, and Dream can tell that it’s Karl, with big brown eyes and impossibly small hands. He’s being held by an older woman with grey hair, possibly his grandmother.

In the corner of his eye, he sees that Techno is still beside him, following his line of sight. They are alone in the hallway.

Techno huffs, “Cringe. Imagine being a baby, couldn’t be me.” The statement is so ridiculous that Dream can’t hold back his laughter, staring at Techno incredulously. Techno meets his gaze. “Now I know what you’re thinking, ‘Techno, of course you were a baby, how else would you come into existence?’ However,” he’s leading up to a joke, Dream can tell, especially with the smirk on his face, “I don’t have any baby pictures, therefore, you can’t prove I was ever that small.”

Dream laughs even harder, despite it not being all that funny of a joke, his breaths soon turning to wheezes that mimic the sound of a tea kettle. Techno just looks self-gratifying, proud of the fact that he caused this unholy sound to leave Dream’s mouth. Once he’s composed himself, Dream tells him, “I don’t have any b-baby pictures, either.” He doesn’t think he has any pictures of himself, disregarding any his friends took on their phone at various points in time. Definitely zero physical photographs, that’s for sure.

Despite just proclaiming the same thing, Techno gives Dream a strange look, like he’s concerned about what he said. “You don’t?”

“Uhh, I don’t think so,” Dream reiterates.

Techno just stares at him for quite some time. It’s starting to make Dream a little nervous, like he said something wrong, but he doesn’t want to ask what. The pink-haired teen blinks a few times, then looks away before asking, “Dream, you said your parents live in an apartment in the city, right?” Dream’s jaw is still locked shut, so he just nods. Techno continues, “When was the last time your parents lived with you?”

And Dream… really doesn’t want to answer that. It’s reminiscent of the interrogation he got from the twins and Phil the other night. It’s not like he doesn’t know the answer, but he knows that saying it aloud will only make the people around him worried for him. Even if they don’t need to be. He glances away, avoiding eye contact and staying silent.

He almost jumps when a warm, calloused hand settles over his collarbone, probably intending to rest on his shoulder but it ends up brushing the base of his neck. The skin-to-skin contact sends tingles down his spine. Dream is getting flashbacks to when Techno was applying the makeup to his bruises, the way he touched him so carefully like Dream was something delicate. He’d definitely blame the alcohol if asked, but he can distinctly feel his face heating up in a blush. “Dream,” Techno says in a low voice, quiet enough for just the two of them, even though they are already the only two in the hall, “you know you can tell me anything, right? Anything at all.”

Well, shit, Dream’s mind is racing again. He feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, moments before falling to his death. He knows he’s never actively hidden the dreary reality of his homelife before, but now he knows that it’s far too dangerous to talk about. The weight of it sits on him like it’s dragging him down into the earth, and he’s the only one sinking. He needs a way out of this, and fast.

What was it that Sapnap said before?

‘If he’s getting this worked up over a hug… Just imagine what’ll happen when he gets his first kiss.’

He’s definitely going to regret this.

Without warning, Dream forces his head forward until his lips are pressed firmly against Techno’s. The other teen is very obviously taken aback, letting out a confused hum and lifting his hand, but he doesn’t pull away. Dream is the one to pull away first, hands having somehow found their way onto the other’s shoulders. They face each other, only inches away, Dream trying desperately to calm his frantically beating heart. Oh god, did he actually just do that? Techno’s eyes are blown wide open, his surprise rendering him speechless for the moment. Dream subtly hopes it’s enough to completely disregard the previous question.

And- wow, it’s hitting him now, he just had his first kiss. He just had his first kiss as a distraction from answering a loaded question, with a person he’s not even certain he’s attracted to. Like, sure, Techno is nice to him and doesn’t take his shit, he’s willing to force his way past Dream’s stubborn mindset and get him to go to a party and admit his faults. No one has ever been able to do that, no one has ever looked beyond the mask to see a glimpse of the person he is.

(If Dream is a person at all. He’s not that sure about it, because people are social creatures and they require love and attention. People are expressive, and individual, and most certainly not ghosts that vaguely exist in a person-shaped space.)

But Dream, he doesn’t feel that way about Techno. He could’ve kissed some other person just as freely, like Sam, or Quackity, or- fuck, even Niki. And for some reason, that thought just makes him sick to his stomach. His hands fly away from Techno’s shoulders in an instant, the air around them feeling heavy and tense. He can’t decide what to even think, his mind is spinning too fast, in circles and circles, berating himself, questioning, surprise, some unacknowledged desire to reconnect their skin, a depravity that has no name, that he prays will never reach the surface. So he does what he does best.

He runs.

Straight down the hallway towards the front door, unlocking and opening it just enough to slip through, then shutting it behind him. He looks around rapidly. He doesn’t want to- he doesn’t want to leave just yet, he wants to go back to the party at some point, maybe, maybe not, but he’s so- he’s such a fucking idiot. His feet take him to the curb, but not any farther, so he sits down on the cold concrete.

His lips still tingle from the kiss, no matter how brief, it feels like someone glued cotton to his mouth or ripped away the skin altogether. The bright red heat of his face is even more apparent to him now that he’s sitting out in the cold, but his chest is absent of warmth, instead a void sits under his rib cage. His breaths are jagged once more, the icy air piercing his lungs with every inhale. There are no streetlights above, his only witness is the moon.

‘That was, uh, that sure was something,’ Sapnap pipes up, reminding Dream that he’s never truly alone.

‘Definitely did not see that one coming,’ George follows with an awkward sort of emotion.

Dream lets out a harsh sigh bordering on a groan, and drops his head onto his knees. His hands find their way into his hair, gripping with enough strength to keep himself grounded. ‘I’m an idiot,’ he admits, repeating what’s been on his mind for the last however many minutes.

‘Sure you are, but,’ George wastes no time agreeing, ‘I don’t think it’s the end of the world. So you kissed a dude, so what?’

‘And how was your first kiss, by the way?’ Sapnap asks, and if Dream could see him he knows the boy would have been smirking.

‘Fuck if I know.’ He relaxes his fingers enough to card through his curls, slightly damp with sweat since it was fairly warm inside with everyone drinking and moving around. And what Dream said is only half true, the electricity that floats on his lips still sparks to life from time to time, as if holding onto the memory of the brief kiss. There’s a nagging thought in his mind that says he should be exhilarated, high on the essence of love, or whatever. But really he’s too clouded by his anxiety to feel anything at all.

‘Maybe he’ll agree to never speak of it again,’ George suggests, offering a metaphorical pat on the back to his headmate. ‘It’s not like anyone else saw it happen.’

‘Or,’ Sapnap draws out the word, trailing into his suggestion with an air of mischief, ‘You could ask him out! It’s obvious you enjoy his company, Dream.’

Dream can’t even reject the idea before George breaks out in harsh laughter. ‘As if! I’m sure Dream would rather keel over than get himself an actual boyfriend,’ he sneers, this time lacking the light-hearted tone.

And (despite being the truth) Dream can’t help but feel affronted by the remark, ‘What did you just say?’

‘What? You hyperventilate at the slightest bit of vulnerability on your part! There’s no way in hell you’d sign yourself up for that long term.’ Even if what he’s saying is entirely based in reality, the sheer confidence he has while insulting Dream is enough to make him furiously defensive.

‘You know what? Fuck you, George. I’m not a coward, I could totally date Techno, no problem,’ Dream retorts, ignorant of how childish he’s acting.

‘Wait, guys-‘ Sapnap tries to intervene but George cuts him off.

‘Really, Dream? Take a look around you right now. Do you even know where you are? Say, why are we sitting outside in the cold?’

‘Shut up, just- you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t understand.’

‘I don’t understand? You’re the one who thinks you’ll drop dead the instant someone gives a shit about you! I know we’re supposed to be your emotional support whatever-the-fucks, but I’ll be honest, Dream; it’s pathetic! You’re pathetic!’ Even though the outburst is contained within Dream’s mind, he can still feel the pain of his fingers pulling against the roots of his hair, threatening to give.

The frustration building inside of him extends far beyond simply his headspace, it envelops his entire body, buzzing at a high frequency like millions of bees are trapped under his skin. And it’s not simply his own, he has a sinking suspicion that George had been holding this resentment for quite a while, but he’s confused as to why this argument is the catalyst for his eruption. He knows the only path before him, should they continue fighting, is self-destruction. ‘Says the one who hides behind a veil of indifference no matter what. At least Sapnap has a fucking personality!’ Dream shouts in his mind, welcoming the anger like an old friend.

‘Right, like your ‘mask’ is any better. You wouldn’t last a week without me and Sapnap here to baby you after any interaction.’

It feels like every muscle in his body is tensing all at the same time when he retorts, ‘I don’t need you, George-‘

‘Calm down!’ Sapnap worriedly calls out above the increasingly loud white noise, ‘Dream, you need to stop before you hurt yourself, and George,’ he takes a pause as if turning to the other person, ‘you are not helping. Stop berating him.’ Even if he’s the youngest, Sapnap sort of feels like the older brother in this situation, physically stepping between the two younger siblings in the midst of their fighting. He knows there’s some truth to what George is saying, with Dream having a hard time being vulnerable and all, but using that against him is just mean. And he’s not really okay with that comment about being there for emotional support either. Sure, Dream pilots the body the majority of the time, but still, Sapnap likes to think they’re equals in some way.

‘Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to help. Maybe I’m tired of playing nice when Dream refuses to better himself,’ George argues, obviously still annoyed.

‘Oh yeah? What significant character development have you undergone recently?’ Dream continues taunting, but at least he’s calmed some in a physical sense, no longer feeling the need to slam his head into the concrete. The lax posture points his eyes to the night sky, while his mind continues to feud.

‘One right now, actually. I’ve decided I’m done with your shit.’

‘Wow, what a turn-around, you’ve really grown as a person.’

‘Whatever. Don’t come crying when you lose yourself for the millionth time.’

‘That doesn’t even make any sense-‘ Dream cuts himself off because something is wrong.

The absence is immediate, like a solid presence in his mind vanished into thin air, leaving behind an empty space that spoke of nothing. It’s not even the same as when George goes to ‘sleep’ as he does sometimes, because even then his residence is still known, can still be sensed. But now? Dream feels like a crater has been left in his brain.

Sapnap is himself a ball of worry, emitting a certain frantic energy similar to how Dream felt earlier, as he calls out, ‘George?’

To no response.

If Dream had a sense of hopelessness before, it’s cemented now, intertwined in his ever-present anxiety and overthinking. He never imagined that George would just leave him. He didn’t think it was possible.

‘He’s… he’s coming back, right? He’s just gone to cool down?’ Sapnap attempts to reason the emptiness. He isn’t as lost as Dream, still clinging to an ounce of hope that this wouldn’t be the last conversation they’ve shared with the third headmate. Dream doesn’t know what to think, and yet is thinking everything at once, somehow convinced within a few seconds that he fucked up. Badly. His fuck ups before had been salvageable, rightened with a few apologies and a sprinkle of truth, but this? This isn’t like that. This is far beyond something he can fix.

So he does what he does best. Time and time again, the only routine that can never be changed, one carved so deep in his bones that he can never imagine anything different.

He runs.

Not literally, this time. But he withdraws from his mind, focusing all of his attention on the physical world because even his dumbass choice to kiss Techno is easier to handle than the loss of the one person he thought could never leave.

So he stares up at the moon, wondering how it all went wrong. Is he destined to ruin everything he touches? Or is he just that unlucky? That unlovable, that worthless, that prone to failure? Why must his name be the ultimate symbol of irony, when he is nothing more than a nightmare to anyone who tries to care for him, tries to see him as more than the good-for-nothing loser that he is? The moon judges him, staring unblinking like it knows all of the horrors that plagues him, that he desperately tries to hide, tries to ignore. But it will always be there, festering under his skin, rotting him from the inside out.

George probably regrets coming to save Dream when he was near to death. At least an unbreathing corpse locked inside a closet would have more worth than what he is today. A dead child could never do as much harm as he does.

‘He’ll come back,’ Sapnap says, but he doesn’t sound as confident as he wants to be. ‘He’ll come back, eventually.’

Dream lets his eyes fall closed, shielding himself from the judgment of the night’s guardian. ‘Eventually,’ he echoes.

The quiet envelops him like a hug, but offers little comfort. Chilly late autumn breezes sweep through his long-sleeved shirt, painting his skin in goosebumps and slight shivers. He should really go inside, lest he gets sick.

(He should really find someone to watch him, lest he tries anything stupid.)

He doesn’t even flinch when a warm hand drops onto his shoulder and he feels the rustle of someone sitting down beside him on the curb. The hand moves away quickly enough, only there to alert him of the other’s presence, and Dream opens his eyes. He already knew who came to find him, but now he’s confirmed it.

“Nice night,” Techno says, offering grace to Dream by not looking him in the eyes, instead wandering along the house-lined streets and the distant treetops. “A bit cold, but I’ve always liked the cold. It’s peaceful.” He sounds only a little uncomfortable, not well acquainted with small talk.

The boy’s presence seems to completely wipe away the guilt of what transpired only minutes before, now with Techno being the only thing on his mind. Though Dream can’t find the tether between his thoughts and his mouth, he stumbles onward anyway, “I’ve never kissed anyone. Before, uh, what happened in the hallway.”

It’s then that Techno looks at him, seeming surprised, but not as much as when Dream first kissed him. “And you wanted to… you chose me?” He questions.

Dream’s mouth is dry again, feeling numb on his lips. So he nods.

He can be vulnerable. He’s allowed to be vulnerable. He trusts Techno. Far more than he trusts himself. He keeps repeating it to himself, be vulnerable, be vulnerable, (if only George was there to see him now) be vulnerable. He keeps their gazes locked together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask, I probably made you uncomfortable.”

“No, I- I didn’t mind,” Techno leans toward him ever so slightly, illuminated under the light of the moon, his hair shining lavender while the rest of the world is washed out, all deep blues and gray. His eyes are dark, a perfect reflection of the night sky. “Do you,” the words slip from Techno’s mouth like sand, “wanna do it again?”

In lieu of an answer, Dream meets him halfway, pressing their lips together in a much calmer manner than before, with no rush to avoid confrontation. It’s only the two of them on an empty road, only their two pairs of warm hands rested on a neck, around shoulders, coasting gently across the side of one’s face. The void that threatens to swallow Dream’s chest is momentarily relieved, covered by a blanket of warmth. Perhaps it will return later, but for now, his worries are little more than wisps in the recesses of his mind, fading into the wind like smoke from a lit candle.

Chapter Text

The end of the week comes around again as Dream finds himself walking home from school- but not alone this time. Techno walks beside him, matching his stride and talking lowly about random topics. With every other step their hands will brush against each other, and it leaves the skin of Dream’s knuckles tingling. The past few days at school have been strangely tense, but not in a bad way. His eyes always seem to drift toward the pink-haired teen at any given moment, mind occupied with the images of their encounters during the party. They haven’t discussed anything regarding their relationship, Techno seemingly letting Dream find his comfort level while Dream attempts to find reason to go any further. Sapnap’s been teasing him nonstop about it, repeatedly asking when he’s going to ask the boy out, how long until they’ve confessed their love, when’s the marriage - all jargon that Dream ignores vehemently. Sure, he felt safe and seen with Techno, but to label them? That just seems terrifying.

To be honest, Dream didn’t really have a plan in mind when he decided to invite Techno over to his house after school. The other teen had simply mentioned Wilbur staying after for a band meeting and Tommy heading to Tubbo’s house, and out of the blue Dream offered to hang out with him. Really he wasn’t expecting an affirmative answer (even as Sapnap congratulated him for being so bold) but here he is anyway, walking side by side with his pink-headed friend on paved sidewalks in a neighborhood he knows all too well. His thoughts keep racing around his head replaying their moments together, questioning how Techno saw him, wondering if what he felt was actual attraction or just some drunken mania.

(He wonders if someone told Tommy about the party- though he imagines the only one who would do so would be Wilbur- because one day he saw the blond boy pull on the sleeve of his older brother, casting eyes in Dream’s direction and smirking like he knew there was more under the surface. His eyebrows would shift up and down in quick succession, a strange gesture that seemed to convey something suggestive. Dream may or may not have imitated the expression in the mirror later that day.)

“-and he just kept going on and on about sand and how it’s actually nutritious, like, I was so certain it was a bit but once he hit the ten-minute mark I thought, ‘Wow, he really ate sand.’ Crazy. You think you know a guy.” Techno rambles, sounding bewildered even through his stoic tone of voice.

“Sounds like a life-changing experience,” Dream adds.

“I think he talked longer than he did during his rant about anteaters.”

Dream pauses for a moment, for dramatics, but with an air of pondering. Then, he says, hauntingly, “I would ask… but I don’t think I want to know.”

Techno chuckles, smirking, “Trust me, you don’t.”

By that time, the duo reaches the front door to Dream’s house and Dream lets them both in. The entryway is just as sparse as ever, but it occurs to him that this is the first time Techno has ever seen the inside of his house. The pink-haired boy has that same look about him that Wilbur had, looking around at the space with a subtle frown, contemplating yet disliking whatever conclusions his mind reaches. Dream suddenly feels awkward again, completely lost as to what he’s supposed to do now that he’s invited a friend over. What does he usually do after school? Nothing? Shower? Chat with Sapnap and George?

Well, not so much the latter anymore.

Dream tosses his backpack against the back of a sofa in the living room, glancing at Techno as if he’d have the answers. He watches Techno finish his sweep of the room, and with a purposefully neutral expression says, “Nice place you got.”

Nothing humorous was said but Dream bursts into a cackle anyway, endeared by Techno’s awkwardness that seems to rival his own. “Home sweet home,” he jokes once he catches his breath. Techno seems a bit confused by the laughter, but he’s smiling, so that’s a win.

Once the laughter dies down, the awkward feeling resumes, but luckily Techno shrugs his shoulders and says, "So, you said you got a computer right?" And when Dream nods - "Wanna play Minecraft?"

--

For the first time in his life, the sound of the landline ringing throughout the house doesn’t immediately instill dread inside Dream. Of course, there’s a notion of despair since it could be his mother calling, but it’s no longer the only possibility. He excuses himself from the game of bedwars he was spectating to head downstairs. (Techno is surprisingly very good at the game, one could say he’s the best at it. Even if Dream has never played before, he was more than content to simply watch Techno dominate the arenas of the strange Minecraft server.)

Though, any spark of hope quickly snuffed itself out upon seeing the caller id on the phone screen. He probably wouldn’t be able to recall the number if asked, but he’d recognize it any day, taunting him like the disappointment on a parent’s face. He takes a deep breath and forces it back out, bringing up his mask of indifference so he can cope through the straining call in real time.

The plastic is cold against his ear, but what’s worse is the near-quiet static of the connection, piercing his skull like a school fire alarm that he can’t escape from. “Hello?” He says to the receiver despite knowing exactly who will answer.

“Dream! My baby boy, it’s been so long since we’ve talked!” From the instant her voice reaches his eardrum, he knows for a fact that she is drunk. At least the sun has set already and she doesn’t seem to be anywhere other than her apartment.

“Hi, mom.” It’s about as polite as he’ll act for this conversation, well past the point of vying for her good graces. He knows she doesn’t care about him, or better yet, downright hates him. It’s just one of those facts of life.

“I was just thinking of you!” The cheer in her voice reeks of intoxication, something far too sweet and sickly to be genuine. “You know, the funniest thing happened today~ There’s this new coworker I met at the company dinner party- Sally? I think? Real young and pretty, but not very bright!” She giggles to herself like a child telling a silly joke, before trailing off and continuing. “Anyway- she asked me if I had any children, and you know what I said to her?” She pauses as if expecting him to guess.

He has no idea what she could have said, or what she wants to hear from him- she does this every now and then, calling while drunk and pretending she’s a good mother checking up on her darling son- but he wants this call to be over as soon as possible so he says, “what?”

“None! I told her, ‘No, we don’t have any children,’ isn’t that hilarious!” She breaks off to laugh deliriously, gasping as she adds, “And she believed me, she didn’t even question it! She just moved on and kept talking, and I was nodding along.” She doesn’t seem to register the silence emanating on Dream’s end as his mind whirs, conflicted. She just keeps going, “It felt so right, telling someone the truth. You were never my son, you’re a waste of space leeching away at our hard-earned money. You wouldn’t believe how exhausting it is to try and pretend that we’re a family. It’s so much more freeing to pretend you never existed in the first place!”

Dream can hear the blood pumping through his eardrums, pulsing with abandon alongside the endless static of the phone connection. He… doesn’t know what to say- this isn’t anything new, right? He’s known that his mother held these opinions for a very long time, it should come as no surprise but to hear her say it so candidly, so joyfully… something hurts. He can’t quite place it. This goes on for some time, her rattling off about how ungrateful he is, how he never should have been born, as if that were his fault to begin with. He’s too stunned to respond. There’s a thrumming in his veins that is starting to heat his blood, fire tingling at his fingertips, feet itching to run.

She gets cut off by someone elsewhere in the room, muttering something to her that he can’t hear. He’s tempted to hang up, but can’t seem to move his limbs. “Oh! I almost forgot,” she finishes whatever conversation he wasn’t privy to, returning her attention back to her ingrate son for another verbal beating, “Dale and I will be staying at the house this weekend and- you know how he is about his space,” no, he doesn’t, “so, find some other place to stay, because you won’t be staying there.”

The fire in his blood suddenly runs ice cold, like someone dumped a bucket of water over his head- and fuck, he hates being wet- so much that he stutters out, “W-wait, what?”

She doesn’t hesitate to repeat herself. “Find a different place to live, until we come back to the city, capeesh?” And it doesn’t feel any better the second time. He finds himself nodding on instinct, not quite understanding what’s being asked of him. Find somewhere else to live? What the fuck? Is he being kicked out? Does she despise him so much that she can’t stand to be under the same roof as him? What about school?

He takes too long to give an answer, a cold voice echoing from the speaker, “Dream, is there a problem?”

“N-no, no, ma’am.” The words escape his mouth without his prompting. That was a threat. It may not have sounded like one, but that’s what it is. A “problem” means he’s disobeying, it means punishment. He may be familiar with his mother’s punishments, but not his father's. Who knows what that man believes is proper discipline?

“Good!” That false cheeriness is back, smooth but bitter like the wine no doubt filling her glass. “Glad we’re in agreement, we’ll be arriving tomorrow morning. Bye!” Then it’s over. She hangs up.

And… fuck, he’s so fucked. Where the hell is he supposed to go? Is he just going to be homeless for the next few days? Should he even try to sleep in the house tonight, lest he run into them in the morning before he can leave? How long will they be here? What is he supposed to do for food?

The dial tone is grating against his eardrums, a thousand times worse than the underlying static of a phone call. The phone is still in his hand, still pressed to his head. The dial tone screams.

It’s not the only one.

‘Dream? Dream, what the fuck was that?’ Sapnap is trying to talk to him, trying in the same vein to figure out what the hell is going on. ‘Is she serious? Dream, what-‘

‘She’s always serious,’ Dream whispers in his own thoughts, incapable of anything more.

Sapnap rambles, and Dream is still standing there, that damned dial tone giving him a headache. Is he even breathing? He can’t tell. He doesn’t know how long that lasts, how long his head reels but his limbs refuse to move.

“Dream?”

Sometime later, who knows how long Techno waited, but he’s come down to check on Dream, only finding a statue in the kitchen where he once stood.

“Uh, Dream, bud? Who’s calling you?” The warm baritone of Techno’s voice is closer now, any closer and he’ll hear that no one is in fact on the other end of the line.

‘Dude, you gotta answer him, c’mon, wake up,’ Sapnap urges, pushing for control as a way to get through to Dream. To his dismay, Dream falls back, letting Sapnap take the front without resistance, which he was definitely not expecting.

A hand falls on his shoulder, shocking Sapnap into almost dropping the phone but he catches himself, putting it on the dock and quickly turning to face his friend. Technoblade looks worried, his eyebrows furrowed and gaze searching, not liking whatever he sees. Sapnap has no clue what his own expression could be.

Techno took a half step back when Sapnap turned so his hand was down to his side again. “Uh, are you okay? Who was on the phone?”

“Yeah- yes, I mean, I’m fine. It was just my mom,” Sapnap explains, fighting through the palpable despair ruminating through his brain. Although, the second he grants himself a moment to think, the cold sorrow melts into something bitter and heated, like a fire erupted under his skin. Sapnap has always hated Dream’s mother, him and George both, and while George could balance his own anger with casual indifference, Sapnap is simply a lit fuse eating away at the short string holding their sanity together. It’s so pervasive, Dream’s pitiful self-degradation and Sapnap’s fury that the walls of the house seem to reflect his own desires to burn the fucker to the ground. There are matches in the kitchen drawer, just a reach away.

‘Wouldn’t really solve the issue- well, I guess getting jailed would be shelter enough,’ Dream mutters, a sore attempt to guide Sapnap away from his call to arson. ‘Just go to the pit, bring Tech too. I don’t care.’

Definitely not the brightest idea, potentially burning down the entire forest, but it’s better than property damage, he supposes. Sapnap locks eyes with Techno once more, who looks to be about to say something, but cuts him off, “Wanna go for a walk?”

The pink-haired boy widens his eyes a moment, registering the question while no doubt wondering about the connection between the phone call and the shift in mood. “Uh, sure?”

“Good,” Sapnap grins, though it likely looks more manic than appreciative, then says, “Lemme just grab my bag and we’ll go.”

——

The night is clouded by the overhang of the forest trees, lightly whistling in the evening breeze and casting moon-backed shadows over their faces. Sapnap’s bag slung over his shoulder taps his spine with each step, creating a rhythm that all the winter creatures echo back. He can see the puffs of breath escape his mouth with every exhale, thankful the wind is merciful enough to leave him warm enough in just his hoodie and undershirt. Paired steps lag behind him, Techno staying silent as they walk and casually brushing away the thin branches that tug against their sleeves.

Sapnap knows he hasn’t given much information at all, just that he knows these woods fairly well and promised not to get them lost, though it’s likely Techno’s trust in him is dwindling with every quiet minute among the leaves and pitch-black trunks that all blend together. If he were to turn around, he wouldn’t even be able to see the lights of the houses anymore, but it’s for the best. Sapnap still feels the volcanic rumbling of anger and anxiety from the call earlier, only the near-imperceptible clink of the lighter in the front pocket of his backpack gives any sense of respite for the time being. The last thing he needs is for his much-needed dose of friendly neighborhood arson to be interrupted by some passerby.

When they come upon the clearing, the sky above is muffled by a thin layer of clouds. Usually, they are far enough away from the city to have a minimal view of the stars, but winter brings gusts of fog and cloudy nights that conceal their celestial audience. The clearing isn’t anything big, perhaps an arm’s length radius with a blackened circle of rocks in the center, a decent splotch void of tree limbs above it.  Stepping into the realm of the fire pit already washes a feeling of warmth over Sapnap. No matter how many bad memories are burned here the place will always be one of comfort, of control. Fire is something Sapnap was born with, something he feels intrinsically, as natural as the blood flowing through the body’s veins.

“So, uh, what are we doing here, exactly?” Techno’s low voice breaks Sapnap out of his stupor, the other teen no doubt confused as to why Sapnap suddenly stopped in this abandoned campsite.

“I’ll show you,” Sapnap answers, feeling a light smirk pull at his lips as he sits down on a fallen trunk and gestures for Techno to sit beside him. He does so without question.

Sapnap goes through the motions by muscle memory alone, piling on a few twigs and sticks from the brush behind him, setting up a nice little wooden structure in the midst of the charred remains of whenever they came here last. Once he’s content with it, he digs through his bag for an old notebook, something unimportant, used when Dream was in a younger grade, and he rips out a few pages, balling them up in a loose sort of way and stuffing them underneath the lumber. Then, his favorite part, one final notebook page rolled into a wand in one hand, the other removing the lighter from the bag. Flick. Spark. Light. Tossed into the rest of the kindling.

Then sit back, and watch the flames rise.

Techno watches with moderate interest, a little wide-eyed at the sudden burst of heat and he looks around at the clearing to deem it safe enough for this sort of activity. However, no matter his conclusion, he doesn’t feel compelled enough to question him beyond, “You do this often?”

Sapnap takes a moment to rip his gaze away from the growing wisps of fire that ripple into trails of smoke, almost forgetting for the moment that Techno was there at all. “Yeah,” he answers quietly, like his voice would interrupt the steady crackling of burning wood. Sapnap doesn’t know if Techno expected any elaboration, probably not, given that it’s Dream he’s supposedly talking to, but he would much rather indulge in the ambient blaze.

After a minute, Sapnap compels his hand to dig through his bag again and withdraw one of the mementos he brought with them, the first being a half-slip of paper. In the light of the fire, he can only make out some of the small text on the slip, but it’s enough to supply the context. It’s a permission slip, given to him for his parent to sign in the 8th grade so he could accompany the class on a school field trip. Of course, lacking any sort of guardian and not feeling brave enough to forge it, they didn’t go.

Sapnap remembers the occasion, it was supposed to be a trip to the History of the Americas museum in the city, and George was bummed for the entire week leading up to it because they couldn’t go. Never before had George held such a cold grudge against the empty space where Dream’s parents should have been. Sure, they may have attempted to kill Dream before, but George was too young to be as contemptuous when he first came into being.

Oh great. Now he’s upset again. Reminded of both George’s absence and their predicament of finding a place to stay this weekend. ‘Fuck, dude,’ Dream says, defeatedly, ‘what are we going to do?’

‘Sleep here, I guess,’ Sapnap scorns, balling up the blank permission slip and tossing it into the fire. His fists clench in the aftermath, watching the paper disintegrate and ashes rise to the open night sky.

‘Hell no,’ Dream argues, ‘We’d freeze to death.’

Sapnap breathes deeply, focusing on the way the flames dance in the wind. ‘Not with the fire going.’ But he knows it won’t stay lit forever, which, incidentally, is the perfect metaphor.

‘I can’t believe we’ll be out on the streets,’ Dream complains, like he’s given up on any hope of finding a few nights worth of shelter.

He wonders what George would say.

“Uh, you okay, Dream?” Once again, Techno startles Sapnap out of his staring contest with the fire, looking at him strangely while the light flickers in front of them.

‘Oh, we’re idiots,’ Sapnap confesses internally, an idea coming to mind upon locking eyes with the other teen. “Hey, Tech. Can I sleep over this weekend?” He wipes away the angst from his expression to sound as casual as possible, although maybe the awkwardness can pass for nerves about making such a request.

(From outside his influence, and thankfully hidden in the dark of night, his cheeks flood with the red warmth of embarrassment. Although, Sapnap would point out that the request is infinitely less embarrassing considering Dream had asked to kiss him not four days ago.)

For some reason, Techno still gets surprised by their odd behavior, his brows tilting in confusion as he considers the question. “Uh, sure?” He agrees, tentatively. “Where is this coming from?”

Sapnap shrugs, “Just need to get out of the house,” he explains. A completely true statement. He’d much rather avoid the wrath of Dream’s parents at all costs.

Besides, what are friends for?

Chapter Text

Come Saturday morning, Dream finds himself once again at the dining room table of the Watson house sitting before a plethora of food, feeling way out of his element. He has many, many choices, with constant reassurance that he can have as much as he wants - or even request something else if he wants, though he wonders why he would ever take up that offer - from pancakes to eggs and bacon, toast with sides of butter and jam, orange and apple juice and milk. Dream has no idea if Phil went all out because of his presence or if breakfast is always like this for the family.

At least Dream understands this time that he needs to pace himself (or just have a bit more control over how much they eat than Sapnap did the last time they were there) so he doesn’t end up ejecting it all up later. He can tell that Sapnap isn’t thrilled with this method, the yearning he emits is that of someone looking over his shoulder, mouth-watering drool dripping onto the sleeve of his shirt, but Dream has his resolve. There’s an overall lightness that’s quite surprising to him, to simply be out of his house and in the presence of actual people who can fill the space.

(‘That’s rude, Dream,’ Sapnap pouts, ‘Am I not an actual person?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Dream replies easy, ‘I’d say you’re more of an annoying ghost than anything else.’

They both ignore the obvious room for a third input.)

Even just waking up in an unfamiliar place, on the couch in their living room with Techno snoring in a side chair, was infinitely more calming than the potential of his parents’ arrival, or opening his eyes to the drab white ceiling of his bedroom. A part of him wishes the feeling was a more common occurrence.

‘Oh well,’ he thinks to himself, taking a bite out of his pancakes, content with enjoying the experience while it lasts. He’s actually quite awestruck with how fluffy and pleasant tasting the pancakes are, with their light butter spread and coated in maple syrup. He’s been eating Eggo waffles for years and they can hardly come close to the way these pancakes flood his mouth with soft sweetness. Distantly, he’s a bit worried he’ll never be able to enjoy his morning waffle ever again, with it being reduced to cardboard in comparison to this food.

He’s hit with the sense that someone is trying to talk to him, so he looks up from his longing gaze at his plate to see the other table inhabitants’ eyes on him. A shiver runs down his back with the sudden attention, but he quickly chews and swallows his mouthful of food before asking, “Sorry, what?”

Techno chuckles under his breath and Tommy just rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to his food, (Wilbur is elsewhere, something about band practice) but Phil smiles patiently, repeating what he said before, “How are you enjoying the food?”

“Oh,” Dream feels his cheeks flushing. It may be a mundane question but he’s still a bit embarrassed that he wasn’t paying attention. “It’s good. Really good. Thank you, Phil.”

“I’m glad!” Phil’s pleasant smile widens, eyes crinkling along familiar crows feet. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I tried to cover the basics.”

“You gotta stay over more often,” Tommy adds, his mouth still in the process of chewing. Both Phil and Techno cringe at the sight. “I could get used to pancakes every morning.”

“Chew your food before you speak, gremlin,” Techno scolds.

“Fuck you,” Tommy retorts, harsh enough for a speck of slightly chewed food to launch across the table and land near Techno’s plate.

Techno grimaces, moving his plate a wide margin away from the mush. “Is it too late to send him back?”

Tommy protests again and Phil just sighs, grabbing an extra napkin to clean up the food residue.

“That’s it!” Tommy exclaims, “You’ve lost your big brother privileges! Dream is my only brother now.”

“Oh no, whatever shall I do,” Techno answers in monotone, yet dripping with sarcasm. Tommy is still frowning at the lack of acknowledgement when Techno’s phone suddenly lights up on the table next to him. He checks the screen then stands from his seat, taking his near-empty plate to wash up. Dream watches his movements, a little confused but not enough to ask.

Phil gets up soon after, picking up the remainder of the food from the table. He eyes Dream, noting the look on his face. “Did Techno tell you about his fencing practice today?” The man questions.

“Ah, shoot,” Techno facepalms, instantly regretting it as he is currently running his dish under the tap to put in the washer. “I knew I forgot something.” He finishes what he was doing and turns to Dream, stepping away from the sink so his father can use it. “You can come and watch if you want. I can’t say it’s very entertaining but-“

“No way!” Tommy slams his hands on the table, rattling the leftover dishes and scooting his chair away as he stands up. “Dream is going to hang out with me! We’re gonna play video games talk endlessly about women and how great they are.  Right, Dream?” He asserts, looking pointedly at Dream.

A bit frazzled, Dream just nods quickly, not exactly absorbing everything the boy said but who is he to say no to such a sweet kid.

Techno folds his arms contrarily, “Tommy, you can’t just force someone to hang out with you.”

“But I asked him, innit? He said yes!” Tommy argues, cusping on a whine, pointing a finger at Dream while he nods his head to convince him.

Not wanting to spark a proper argument, Dream speaks up, “It’s cool! I don’t mind at all.” And really, he doesn’t. That strange part of brain that’s so fixated on the young boy is absolutely alight with glee at the prospect of spending some alone time with him. (Which, yes, sounds very creepy, but in reality Tommy always seems to have a sort of persona when he’s around other people, and Dream is hoping that if it’s just them, he’ll get to see a new side of the boy that few ever witness. He can’t help but see something like his own mask over the kid’s eyes when he interacts at school or in front of his foster family.

Or maybe he’s just projecting. Either way.)

Techno spends another moment watching Dream’s face, as if trying to parse if he’s genuinely agreeing to the play date or simply appeasing the child. He ultimately sighs, resigning Dream to his fate as he heads to a side closet to pull out his equipment. “Right, have fun, then.”

The teen and his father say their goodbyes, promising to be back in a few hours with lunch and to use Tommy’s cellphone if there’s an emergency. Then Tommy offers to clean up the remaining plates, teeming with excitement for the afternoon to come, and finally pulls Dream by the wrist into his bedroom, babbling all the way about the joys of Minecraft and Animal Crossing.

—-

There’s a moment when Tommy excuses himself for the bathroom, after receiving a text from Phil saying they’d be coming home in a half hour, that Dream takes an interest in the layout of the kid’s room. To be honest, he’s amazed at how personalized the room is, despite the fact that Tommy’s only inhabited it for a few months. Dream’s had the same room all his life yet his is more akin to a cheap hotel room than someone’s personal bedroom. Tommy’s got a few posters of different bands and video games, some medals from his time on the volleyball team, sentimental items like a broken compass and barely-held-together stuffed cow, and a variety of Polaroids. He can recognize most of the people in the pictures, like Tubbo and Ranboo and Purpled, and a few of the older teens in their friend group like selfies with Niki and Schlatt. Then there’s one of the twins and him sitting in front of the couch playing a console game, another of Wilbur with his guitar mid-strum, Techno in his fencing gear holding the helmet at his side, even one of Tommy braiding Techno’s hair with an intense look of concentration on his face.

The only word that comes to mind is family. This is a family. Despite his short stay Tommy’s already woven his way into the Watson’s dynamic, carving himself a little hole between the twins and Phil in no time at all. And Dream…

(Dream is angry. For seventeen years he’s fought a never ending battle for the slightest bit of care, the tiniest sliver of attention. All he ever wanted was a family who wanted him, and he got fuck all. Nothing. Just hatred and resentment and nonsensical rambling about how he was a mistake. And this child, this fucking kid who is loud and annoying and full of himself- he gets to have everything Dream has ever craved, given to him with no qualms, no catch, just pure love and adoration for everything that he is. Why does he get the world while Dream suffers? Why is he so lucky? Why? Why? Why?)

But, sure, the kid has some decorations; that’s not what Dream is looking for. He turns his head, trying to find where Tommy would keep the things he needs to hold close for himself, and yet keep out of view from others. As his eyes pass over the side closet, a glint of metal catches his gaze. He goes to pull the door open, noting the way it was before so he can make it look untouched once he’s done, and sees a makeshift alter on the lowest shelf. A small statue of a goddess in a headdress with a veil, her hands clasped and head bowed. She is standing, and at her feet is a small, sleeping calf in a bed of grass. On its back is a candle holder.

To the right is a wood-carved statue of the Thinker, and next to that is a much cruder carving of what looks to be a person, almost like a wood-carved equivalent to a stick figure drawing. The Thinker statue is fairly well-crafted, done by someone who has definitely spent a while practicing whittling, probably years. While the other had to be done by a child. Could it have been Tommy? He wonders who made the more detailed carving.

Behind the goddess statue is a picture frame with a broken glass cover, a photo of two adults and a baby Tommy inside. They have to be his parents, they look so alike to Tommy. And before Dream can ponder what happened to them, he spots one final piece of the alter, a newspaper clipping. It’s dated almost 7 years ago, near to the beginning of April, and details a tragic car crash with a drunk driver that took the lives of two local residents, leaving a small child orphaned. Neither adult had living relatives, no siblings  with parents already passed, so the child became a ward of the state. He was reportedly at a friend’s house waiting to be picked up when the accident happened.

And, well, it seems Dream found what he was looking for. Just as he suspected, Tommy’s an orphan who’s been in the system since he was five years old.

‘Can you stop now, please? This is already fucked up,’ Sapnap worries, his anxiety over the intrusive exploration having been constant throughout, yet sanctioned to the back of Dream’s thoughts.

Dream does as Sapnap says, content with the information he’s uncovered, though he argues, ‘You can’t say you weren’t curious too, Sapnap.’ He places the newspaper back in its place and steps back, closing the door just as he found it.

To be honest, he feels a bit better, lighter now with this newfound information. The bitterness from before has sufficiently washed away, maybe he’s still envious of the way Tommy’s been interwoven into the Watson’s dynamic, but at least the boy hasn’t always been so fortunate.

‘Dude!’ Sapnap scolds, sounding perturbed by the thought.

Dream thinks about what would happen if his own parents got in an accident. Surely they have a will with his name in it, right? Although usually the money would go into some account until he’s older, but maybe they haven’t thought that far ahead.

(Could he kill his parents himself?)

“Dream!” Tommy yells, knocking Dream out of his thoughts, then literally knocking into him, wrapping spindly little arms around his waist.

Dream gets his balance, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately before nodding towards the Polaroids he noticed earlier. “You took these?”

Tommy lets go, stepping back to see what Dream is referring to. His face splits into a smile, saying, “Yep! There’s a machine at the mall that prints your phone pics out. They look pretty pog, right?”

A hum of affirmation vibrates in his throat, as he takes a second to look over the photos again. He’s never given much appreciation to pictures before, but he definitely sees the use in them. The way that the pictures capture Tommy’s adoring smile, his bright eyes crinkling from the exuberant joy plastered on his face; what Dream would give to have a tangible little memory like that. Sure, his memory is pretty vivid anyway, but there’s something special about seeing the image physically in front of him. Maybe he’ll buy a camera, a cheap one from somewhere.

“I never had this many photos before,” Tommy admits, staring longingly at the one of him and his brothers. “I do have one with my birth parents but… I don’t leave it out anymore.”

Dream tilts his head slightly, face completely neutral, “Oh? Where is it?” He can sense Sapnap’s confusion in the back of his head, since they both already know where the picture is.

A moment of hesitance passes over Tommy’s gaze as he glances away, towards the closet door where Dream knows the picture lies. Well, Dream didn’t really mean for this to be a test but it looks like that’s what is it now. Does Tommy trust him enough to see his beloved picture of him and his parents? He didn’t expect the anxiety over his memento to be so pervasive. Dream hasn’t done anything to break his trust as of yet, has he? After a few seconds of Dream waiting patiently, Tommy silently walks to the closet, quickly opening the door just enough to pull the frame out and then closing it once more. It’s another second where he pauses, once his eyes meet the blank gaze of his parents, seeming unsure about handing it over.

Though, ultimately, he holds the frame out for Dream to take, keeping his gaze on his hands like he’s making sure Dream won’t try to break it.

Seeing how nervous the kid is, Dream handles the frame with slow movements, looking over the picture as if it’s the first time he’s seen it. He notes the details again, the jagged crack in the glass cover, the tiny bundle of Tommy held in the arms of his mother with the father’s hands steady on her shoulders. They both look so happy, eyes as bright as the boy in front of him presently, while baby Tommy’s eyes are a stormy blue. Dark and clouded in the way only an infant’s eyes can be. But even he looks relaxed, looking up at his mother’s face as opposed to the camera. He holds an impossibly small hand upward, with tiny fingers stretched to reach for his mother. Funnily enough, the crack in the glass runs right between him and the heads of his parents.

“You look cute,” Dream teases, taking joy in the way Tommy looks away embarrassed. He waits a moment before asking, “What happened to them?”

Sapnap immediately chastises him. ‘Dream, what the hell are you doing?’

‘Calm down,’ Dream replies, uncaringly. ‘I want to see what he says.’

‘You’re crazy, dude,’ his headmate leaves it, obviously quite disturbed by Dream’s line of questioning.

Tommy’s eyes snap back to Dream’s, cautious defense taking root in his gaze. He’s heard that question before, Dream knows, and seems a bit sad that Dream’s asked him as well. But Dream simply looks on, no judgement, watching all the little muscles in Tommy’s face betray his thoughts.

(He’s so fascinating.)

“They, uh-“ the boy begins, sheepishly, eyes once again fallen to the floor, “They died.” 

(But why does he look away? Doesn’t he know how crucial his eyes are to the entire process of falling into despair? Dream just wants to grab Tommy by the chin and make him face him. He doesn’t want to miss anything.)

Dream lets the silence sit for a moment, wanting to push for more details but not stress him out. “Yeah?” He presses, innocently.

Tommy takes a deep breath, a little shaky on the exhale but it’s obvious he’s refusing to cry. “It was my first sleepover, but I- I didn’t like- I couldn’t sleep and I just kept begging to go home until they agreed to come get me.” Dream tries not to let his surprise show on his face, he really wasn’t expecting to get the whole story when he asked what happened. Tommy concludes, “Then they… got in an accident. Car crash.”

And oh, Dream so suddenly realizes that this child blames himself for the accident that killed his parents. That’s why he started with the story of the sleepover, because he thinks they would still be alive if he didn’t make them drive to pick him up.

Dream also realizes he didn’t think this far ahead, how is he supposed to react now? ‘That sucks’? ‘Damn, wish my parents were dead’? ‘Maybe you should’ve just stuck it out until morning’?

‘Dream!’ Sapnap yells in his head, ‘That’s not funny!’

‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say!’ Dream argues back.

Sapnap groans, ‘Then why did you ask? Fuck, dude, just say ‘sorry to hear that’ and give him a hug or something.’

‘Why would I say sorry? It’s not my fault his parents died.’

‘Because-! Ugh, just let me do it,’ Sapnap, tired of his shit, pushes to the front and places an awkward hand on Tommy’s shoulder, Dream too stunned by his sudden boldness to intervene. “I’m sorry to hear that, Tommy. It sounds like they loved you a lot,” Sapnap consoles, not alleviating the awkwardness by any measure. “Do you want a hug?”

“N-not right now, sorry,” Tommy sniffles, quickly wiping under his eye. “Can I, uh, have the picture back, though?” He turns his head but only eyes the frame that is still in Sapnap’s hand.

“Oh! Sure, sure, yeah,” Sapnap assures, sort of forgetting that he was holding the photo in the first place. He hands it over with a short, “here.”

The kid takes the frame, scurrying over to the closet to put it back in its place and closing the door just as quickly, noticeably more at ease once it’s done.

Luckily, Sapnap doesn’t need to attempt any further comfort, as Techno and Phil get back immediately after, Tommy skipping away to the foyer as if the whole thing never happened.

—-

The evening was fairly uneventful. Dream sat with the Watsons in the living room, all four of them, since Wilbur returned from wherever he went then and Phil was already used to hanging out with his sons during the weekends, playing a variety of video games that Dream had heard of but never played.

At Tommy’s insistence, they played through a few Mariokart cups and a round of Mario party before Techno switched to Minecraft- the console version, that is- and showed him the wonders of survival multiplayer. He found out that Tubbo’s server is funded by Schlatt’s debit card, which is astounding, Dream never knew just how much that kid had Schlatt wrapped around his finger, and that the Watson’s had their own family server too. Phil and Tommy even went to a different room to use the PC so they could play together. It was the first time in Dream’s life that he ever felt like he was a part of a real family.

But even so, there was always this voice present in the back of his mind that reminded him that he, in fact, was still an outsider. They were only pretending to make him feel like he’s included, but in reality, he’s a stranger, intruding on their perfect little household. So gradually over the course of the evening, Dream’s mood began to deflate, that nagging voice getting louder as the night went on.

By the time dinner rolls around, Dream is back to his quiet self, getting lost in his thoughts more often and zoning out of the whatever conversation the Watsons engaged in.

Sapnap senses that they’re nearing the end of their stay here, not by any fault of the family themselves, but because Dream’s social battery is declining drastically. ‘Do you think they’ll be out of the house by tomorrow?’ Sapnap asks, referring to Dream’s parents. He knows it’s a long shot considering it’ll be Sunday and his mother said they’d be staying for the weekend, but he fears spending another whole day here will push Dream into another depressive cycle.

‘I don’t know,’ Dream answers, but his thoughts turn to a tiny bit of hope that the house will be vacant if he returns early. Not that he expected to have an extended stay at the Watson’s. When Techno agreed to the sleepover that Friday night, Dream was sure that would be it, and he and Sapnap would be back to brainstorming ideas for shelter for the remainder of the weekend. It came as a surprise to have Phil casually invite Dream for a second night, going as far as to say he could stay as long as he liked. As long as it was okay with his parents, the man included, at which Dream had to bite his tongue since they were the entire reason he needed to stay over. 

But, alas, while Sapnap seemed pretty confident that their entire problem for the weekend was solved after that conversation, now he understands the offer, although polite, is a little too good to be true. There’s too much at stake, staying here. Too much familiarity and the constant reminder of what Dream does not and will never have.

Though, maybe there’s some chance another night wouldn’t be so bad, since after dinner, Techno and Dream retire to the former’s room and read for the rest of the evening, Techno in his desk chair and Dream on the end of his bed. It’s surreally calming, the quiet of Techno’s room and the softened strumming of Wilbur’s guitar from the other room, with lights dim and the window uncovered to show the pale light of the moon. Techno reads his well-loved Greek myth anthology while Dream continually works through the novels from his father’s collection, and every few pages he finds himself immersed in the atmosphere instead of reading, eyes lazily gazing out to the night sky.

Sometimes, during those moments he’ll feel eyes on him, a subtle instinct telling him that Techno is watching his distracted stare. But he finds that he doesn’t mind, in fact, he kind of likes it. He’s very used to being on his own in a particular space, so to have the presence of another, someone who can see him, it’s a nice feeling. Like he actually exists.

“Hey, Dream?” Techno breaks the silence with a subdued voice, bringing Dream’s attention away from the window.

“Yeah?”

It’s curious, the way Techno’s expression is schooled to be blank and yet his eyes shine with something on his mind. Maybe Dream doesn’t feel any sort of romantic attraction towards the guy but something about his face makes him want to get ever closer. Whether to hug or kiss or just to look at him, he doesn’t know.

Techno’s eyes dart away for a half second under Dream’s stare, an awkward hand coming up to move a strand of pink to behind his ear. “I wanted to, uh, ask how you’re doing,” the teen prompts, dogearing a page in his book and setting it on his lap.

“Me?” Dream replies, as if there’s anyone else he could be asking about, “I’m fine… Just fine.” He doesn’t shift his gaze, wondering why the other is asking. Did he happen to notice Dream’s dwindling mood earlier in the evening?

It’s difficult to say if Techno fully accepts that answer, staring at Dream’s face for a moment more. Either way, Dream doesn’t mind the silence.

‘Admit it, you just like looking at him ‘cause you think he’s cute,’ Sapnap teases.

Dream blinks a few times subconsciously to process the comment and give a retort. ‘It’s not that, I just think his face is interesting,’ he says, but realizes mid-thought that he just repeated what Sapnap said in a more roundabout way.

‘Cute, interesting, it’s all the same, gay boy,’ Sapnap echoes the sentiment.

He’s in the middle of willing Sapnap to shut up forever when he regains his clarity in the real world, finding Techno standing a few steps in front of where he once sat, much closer to Dream. Dream focuses his eyes, blinking again, and at that Techno sits himself down on the bed about a foot away. “You do that pretty often,” Techno states.

“Do what?” Dream questions with a small tilt of his head, suddenly aware that his face has heated up some from Sapnap’s teasing and the close proximity of Technoblade.

“Dissociate,” the teen replies, simply, sounding curious himself. “Like, zoning out. Staring into space. You stop responding and don’t notice when people try to get your attention.” He waits a moment, hesitating before asking, “Are you hearing any voices, when you do that?”

Taken aback by such a bold (accusation?) statement, Dream blanks for a moment, just staring at Techno with a look of bewilderment on his face.

“Because, well-“ Techno continues, quickly, like he’s trying to assure Dream, “I do. I mean, I hear voices, sometimes. All the time. Kind of. They get louder for certain activities but it’s not really something I can control.” He rambles on, “I only ask because I do the same thing. Dissociate, I mean. When I’m trying to listen to the voices or talk back to them. Do you get what I mean?”

He finishes his monologue and waits for a response, seeming flustered watching Dream’s expression for any changes or some type of reaction.

And Dream doesn’t really know what to say. Does he tell the truth? It really seems like Techno would be the last person to judge him if he did. He’s astounded by how easily Techno can will himself to be vulnerable , but can he do the same?

‘I wouldn’t mind if you told him,’ Sapnap offers, earnest in his soft tone. The teasing lilt from before is long gone. ‘I think he’s trustworthy.’

But does Dream think Techno is trustworthy? Really, the only thing stopping him from admitting the truth wholeheartedly is his own barrier to trusting literally anyone in the first place, at least with this. Vulnerability is one thing, but revealing the existence of his headmates seems downright impossible. It’s something his mind vehemently disagrees with, causing somewhat of a headache is he even tries to imagine telling Techno about it.

Back and forth and back, he tosses around the idea and shoots it down then backtracks to considering it all over again. He can’t decide on a tangible backlash, just the inherent danger of being so open about his mental state, of sharing something that could be used against him in some way. But would Techno do that? He doesn’t think so-

“No, I don’t. I talk to myself a lot but, no, no voices,” he finds himself answering the question without even meaning to, almost as if it wasn’t him speaking at all but it certainly wasn’t Sapnap. The tone was something off, too, placing strange emphasis on certain words, unlike anything he’s heard before.

Techno doesn’t even notice. In fact, he seems sort of relieved, knowing that Dream isn’t like him in that regard. “Well,” the teen says, smoothing the crown of his head, “that’s good, but I would still recommend talking to someone about that. Apparently, it’s not a ‘helpful coping mechanism.’” He mimes finger-quotes with the term, obviously having heard it from someone, probably a therapist.

“Okay,” Dream agrees, knowing full well that he won’t. He’s pretty sure you need a willing parent to sign off on that and that’s the one thing he lacks the most. He could wait until he’s eighteen, but what then? It’s not like has a job or knows how to navigate insurance. His parents are supposed to include him on theirs, right? Is that something they’re doing? He doesn’t even know.

It’s quite disheartening, actually, being reminded of how little control he has over his own life. What will come of him when his parents decide to kick him out for good? If they ever want to sell the house and move permanently to the city, would they give him any warning? Or tell it to him last minute just like the phone call from his mother the other day?

Just how long can he keep living in ignorance?

Chapter Text

It took some charm and a few white lies, but the next morning Dream was able to convince the Watsons that he could walk back to his house alone. He got about three offers to drive him or to walk with him at least part of the way, but Dream was very insistent on how unnecessary that would be. Truth be told, he needs the alone time. But also he can’t risk his parents being alerted of his arrival if they haven’t left yet, or the chance of one of them meeting his parents. That would be nothing short of disastrous. 

He definitely enjoys the walk, never mind that he’s severely underdressed for the chill winter morning, but with the overcast and wind sweeping through his hair, it’s just relaxing. He can easily disengage from the cold with a simple chat with Sapnap. They don’t talk about anything significant, in fact, they are pointedly talking around anything significant. Not George, or what to do after graduation, or feelings about any certain individuals.

However, the vibes take a stark downturn once Dream’s house comes into view, upon the realization that his parents are indeed still there based on the car parked in the usually empty driveway. There’s a bit of annoyance, a bit of panic, and a lot of other emotions that descend over him like a sudden downpour. He wants so badly to just turn the other direction and walk back from where he came, but sadly, he needs an extra pair of clothes and supplies for school on Monday.

‘I very much vote to just go back,’ Sapnap interjects. ‘We can borrow clothes from Techno, and ask for notes tomorrow-‘

‘It’s fine,’ Dream assures, though to himself or to Sapnap he isn’t sure, ‘I can climb through my window, we’ll be in and out before they even notice.’

‘And if they do?’

A few tense seconds pass, Dream actively ignoring the possibility before his brain can conjure up any images. ‘…it’ll be fine. We’ll figure something out.’

There’s nothing else Sapnap can offer except his comforting presence, so he stays silent as Dream walks to the side of the house, approaching a branchy tree that sits outside his window. He’s never done this before, so he’s a bit clumsy, but he makes his way up the branches, catching the spindly twigs in his sweatshirt while leaves crest his face. His hand plants on a particularly sappy patch on a limb which makes a shiver run down his spine, the sticky coating causing bits of bark to embed in his skin with every grab. When he finally gets to the window, he’s relieved that it’s unlocked (a possibility he didn’t even consider beforehand) and he begins to shimmy it open, trying to cause as little sound as possible.

He gracefully tumbles into his room, smashing his face into the carpeted floor before he can get a hold of the side of his desk to right himself. Sapnap doesn’t bother trying to hide his laugh, so, at least one of them is having fun. Once up on his feet, Dream pauses, listening for any movement in the house, any sign that someone heard him. He’s met with silence. Which is to be expected, it’s still fairly early after all, not even noon yet, and if his parents partied last night then they almost certainly are still sleeping off their hangovers.

He lets out a sigh, feeling marginally safe for now, and starts to gather what he came there for. While he meanders around the room picking out clothes, he starts to wonder if it’s worth it to take a quick shower. He wasn’t able to take one Friday, and didn’t at the Watson house, so he’s running on day three of teenage grime accumulation. But it’s far too risky. He keeps shoving items into his bag, exchanging new clothes for the dirty ones to throw in the hamper. Again, he’s annoyed with the fact that he was supposed to do laundry this weekend, and go out to buy more groceries. Now he’ll have to do that stuff on a school night, which sucks. It’s not the end of the world, but it’s staggering how much of a nuisance his parents can be toward him without ever actually being in his life.

He’s in the middle of stuffing a textbook into his backpack when his heart stops, hearing the sound of his bedroom door opening with an eerie creak. It starts back up again at a rapid pace as he turns to the doorway to see his mother standing with a disgusted expression.

While it’s been several months since her last visit, she has definitely seen better days. Her hair is a mess, all tangles and clumps of curls, while her eyes are bruised and red-rimmed with an obvious hangover. She looks angry and exhausted, having drank significantly the night before, no doubt.

“And what the hell are you doing here?” She greets him, glaring at him as if he broke into the house (which, he sort of did). “I thought I made it very clear about you finding somewhere else to stay this weekend.”

“I needed clothes,” Dream blurts out, flinching at the sound of his own bag as he fumbles the zipper. “And stuff for school, I didn’t think-“

“Damn right you didn’t think,” she snaps, taking a terse step into the room, the breach in his space filling his veins with adrenaline. “Why did God ever curse me with such a retarded child? Are you seriously this stupid? I have half a mind to call the cops right now.”

Dream stumbles back a step, bewildered, “B-but why?”

“I don’t want you here. How many times do I have to explain it? You were a curse upon this family, you’re a waste of space, an ungrateful piece of shit, always mooching off Dale and I’s hard-earned money. I’ve had enough Dream! I can only take some much before I have to draw the line. This is my house and I decide who stays in it!” His mother spits her venom with ease, all words she’s echoed in previous rants, her disdain nothing new but it has been a while since Dream had come face to face with it. 

“But I live here!” Dream has no idea where the impulse comes from, he’s never felt this heated during their tense phone calls, but he yells back, feeling enraged at the hypocrisy. “I live here more than you do! You’re never here!” He can’t help but feel childish, like his younger self is emboldening him to fight back since he never could before.

Her face morphs into something even more bitter if that’s even possible. “Do not raise your voice at me, young man. You are and always have been a goddamn leech, using my money and living under my roof. You deserve nothing! You’ve been nothing but ungrateful!”

She keeps yelling, but Dream’s head fills with white noise, fists clenching at his side with the sudden need to hit something. Hit her. In her screwed-up face. The anger compels him to step forward, fingers burning white and curling tight.

Too soon he’s within distance, his mother not letting up for even a moment, when he finally shouts, “Shut up!” Then he raises his arm, remembering Techno’s advice about how to throw a punch. Wrap the thumb over the knuckles, aim for the high cheek, try not to hit the teeth, he feels his muscles tense and-

Click.

There’s suddenly the barrel of a shotgun in his face, the sound reverberating in his ears of the safety being switched off. Standing just to the side behind his mother, it’s his father, Dale, holding the weapon, though only through context does Dream know that, having no memory of ever meeting the guy before. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger right now,” he says, his voice steady and unforgiving, pushing the cold steel closer to Dream’s forehead.

He feels sick.

There’s no possible way any words could escape his throat as it seemingly collapses in on itself, not even air can enter or escape. Every ounce of heated rage has frozen to ice instantaneously, his muscles locked in place and trembling. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to utter the words, “Y-you can’t- you- I’m your s-son.”

And that answer is apparently the wrong one, as Dale barks out a cruel laugh and leans forward again, this time pressing the end of the barrel against his skin, “No son of mine would raise a hand at his own mother.” Dream is mute once more, unable to respond, he can feel the metal chill the panic sweat above his eyebrows.

It doesn’t even matter that the trigger hasn’t been pulled yet, his mind already supplies the sounds and the visuals of the shotgun’s release straight through his skull, turning his brain into visceral confetti. Logically, he wouldn’t have time to register the sound of the gunpowder firing before his ultimate death, but in the fictional instance where time resumes in slow motion, he can cleanly picture the controlled explosion shattering the bullet casing, the pieces flying out of the chamber and into his face, ripping his flesh into tiny pieces and severing nerves, muscles, connective tissue, liquifying the gray and the white matter together into a slush. Again, realistically it’s lights out, immediate game over, no room for perception, but in his mind's eye he can see and feel the entire process, and for every millisecond the eye of the chamber is in his sight the process repeats again, and again, and again.

With a disappointed sigh, unassuming to the unbridled fear taking over Dream’s entire being, his mother puts a hand on her husband’s shoulder, though he doesn’t shift his eyes away from Dream for even a moment. “It’s not worth it, Dale. I’d hate for you to be arrested for something so mundane,” she tells him. The gun doesn’t move an inch.

Mundane?? That’s all his life means to her? She sounds more like she’s contemplating stepping on a cockroach rather than shooting her own son in the face. He’s still stuck there unable to feel anything but the tremors under his skin and the cold sweat dripping down his neck. He still can’t believe that he’s actually alive, almost convinced that he’s a ghost standing in the spot where his living body once stood.

His father grumbles, but eyes the window where Dream entered, gesturing with the end of the gun toward it with a, “Get out.” It takes a few moments for Dream’s addled brain to process, which is apparently too long for Dale as he adds, “Go on, before I change my mind.” He’s far too matter-of-fact considering the situation.

Dream immediately stumbles toward his backpack, not wasting any time putting it on as he practically vaults out the window. He’s partway down the tree when his foot slips out from under him and he falls the rest of the way to the ground, gravity dragging him through the tangling branches. He lands on his wrist with a hiss of pain but he can’t think about it when he takes off in a sprint toward the forest.

The path only appears from muscle memory. There is nothing but panic coursing through his thoughts, the vague idea of a weapon aimed at his skull from behind him, never getting any farther away no matter how fast or far he runs. The feeling of his own brain matter sprinkling down his neck and back, raining down like sparkler trails behind him with every step. He doesn’t stop, not to breathe or check behind him or anything, until he gets to his spot. The fire pit. He collapses onto a log, breathing hard and shaking uncontrollably. 

He doesn’t cry. He hates it. The water on his face, how sticky the tears make his skin, but- with the exhaustion, the lingering panic, his aching wrist and the scrapes from the twigs and branches that caught him while he ran- he can’t help it. The saline droplets fill his ducts and overflow, and he hates it. He’s still so scared, and now that he’s sitting down he just noticed the disturbing wetness crowding the front of his jeans and faintly running down his legs.

He actually pissed himself.

The realization makes the tears amplify, he has to shove the dirtied sleeves of his hoodie into his eyes to soak them before they fall but they hardly make a difference. Every inch of him is slick with sweat or tears or piss and he’s so unfathomably uncomfortable, he’d actually prefer being lit on fire at the moment. He feels like a baby, a dumb, helpless little baby crying for someone, anyone to care about it. To pick him up and change his soiled clothes and give him a hug. For the first time in a long time, he wishes he still had his grandmother. At least then he would have someone on his side. At least then someone would love him.

—-

‘How long do we plan on sitting here?’

A few hours have passed. Or maybe several. It’s hard to tell with the lack of watch or phone, only the shift in the shadows of overhead canopies relaying the sun’s journey. He’d estimate that it’s around 5 o’ clock, not just by the sun but by the stiffness of his muscles and the ache of his empty stomach. Dream feels exhausted, completely burned out and simply smoldering like the remains of the fire pit before him. Sapnap had the idea to light it a while back, and though he got it done, he hasn’t had the energy to keep it going. Now there’s just thin trails of smoke reaching to the pale, clouded sky, steadily sprinkling a chill rain for the past hour or two, already showing signs of darkening, being winter and all.

Speaking of Sapnap, Dream hasn’t answered his question, feeling far too muted to even think about standing up or walking somewhere. With every minute the drizzle soaks deeper into his clothes, into his hair and his skin, at the very least no one would be able to tell his little accident earlier. With the fire gone out his shivering has amplified as well, teeth chattering something fierce. There’s nothing in his body that compels him to move from this very spot, perfectly content on dissolving into the forest floor in due time, but then again, as another stray raindrop gets caught on an eyelash, he’s irritated enough to be driven to find some shelter.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, a hoarse whisper under the quiet of the rain so only Sapnap would hear. He gets to his feet, taking his time as the moment he’s fully upright his vision begins to fill with static. Nothing feels real, still. Even the pattering rain against his body could be mistaken for a hell of his own making, or perhaps a metaphor for the melting of his own cognition. He’s mentally and physically depleted, nerves and tears run dry, in need of some food and a full biological and psychological reset. He doesn’t necessarily pick a direction than his feet begin walking somewhere, some way, too uncaring to pay attention.

Funnily enough, a memory slips into his hollow thoughts.

He was 7, or maybe 8 years old. So young and yet already understanding that his family was very different from the families in the neighborhood, or the kids at school, or the ones shown on TV. He knew he didn’t really have a family. Not a father or a mother that would dote on him, make him meals during the day or play with him. He didn’t have someone to walk with him to school or take him on vacations or drive him to candy stores. He put himself to bed every night and made his own cereal every morning, ate nothing for lunch then snacked after school and scrounged for his own dinner. Sometimes the fridge would have food and sometimes it didn’t, and those times he would have to go to the neighbors for a meal, whom he knew didn’t like him either. While the concept of “mooching” wasn’t something he understood, he did at least know that his survival was a burden to others, but he also knew there wasn’t any other option. He didn’t want to die. Well, he sort of did, but George had been very insistent that he stay living, to which he didn’t really know why.

And that was beginning to be a problem. Dream was growing into his awareness and his cognition was starving for stimuli, for something enriching and exciting, but every day was the same sad story. Nothing made him happy or giddy, no one loved him and there was no one for him to love. He knew he was loved, once, by his Nana, but then she died and took all her love with her. Then he was left in the sole care of his mother who hated him for reasons he still didn’t really understand but he knew it was his fault. So why live? George didn’t have the answers either.

He was in the cellar, somewhere he had already explored but his boredom wasn’t alleviated by a reorganization of the living room so he ventured down there instead. It was as dark as always, one of those days where Dream would rather leave the overhead lights off and rely on his hands to guide him or use a flashlight. It offered a different perspective and a sense of uncertainty, which he desperately needed. Plus, the lightbulb overhead broke and he didn’t know how to fix it yet.

So he was there, searching through the workstation’s drawers once again while contemplating why he was still living when his slim fingers found a box of matches.

Now, he’d seen matches before, both in his first run-through of the cellar and on TV, so he was well aware of what he was holding. But what he couldn’t see before was the pure potential hidden in the tiny compartment. Almost without thinking, he slid the drawer of tiny sticks out until he could see the red bulbs on the ends, taking one out between his thumb and finger and sliding the box closed once more. He held it in front of him, feeling a foreign excitement combatting his usual indifference.

‘What are you doing?’ George asked, more curious than demanding. His headmate usually stayed quiet apart from the occasional commentary while Dream explored and re-explored regions of the house, but even he could feel the strange presence alighted by the appearance of the flammable sticks.

The feeling of desire to light the match was creeping into his conscience, like emerging from a thick fog, though he wasn’t sure why. In the TV show he saw, the person used the match to light up a dark hallway, but Dream already had a flashlight, so what use did he have for a lit match?

‘Depends, what’s something we can burn?’

‘What?’ ‘What?!’ Dream and George exclaimed simultaneously, both knowing that voice was one neither had heard before. The moment of panic made for an easy opening for the new presence to swiftly take control, moving Dream’s wrist with uncanny ease to strike the match against the colored surface on the side of the box. A foreign smile lit across Dream’s face, feeling a jolt of excitement flow through him now that this mysterious person was face to face with the glowing flame.

His eyes then scanned the dim room of the cellar before falling on a metal wastebin next to the workbench, quickly stumbling over to see its contents. Dream was still reeling over the sudden appearance of this person, was this a new headmate? He remembered that George didn’t have much of a lead-up to their first meeting either, only the circumstance of Dream’s near-death experience.

“Yes!” The stranger voiced aloud their delight in finding a few scraps of paper in the bin, not waiting a single moment more before flicking the lit match into it and watching the proceeding fire spark and crackle. They sat on their knees, just watching the dancing flames with an eagerness Dream had not felt on his own before.

‘So, uh, who’s this guy?’ George asked, standing by in the same way as Dream, not feeling enough alarm to intervene with the random person fronting.

‘No idea,’ Dream replied, not sounding all that bothered. He was fascinated, really. All it took was a bit of fire and this guy was absolutely thrilled. When was the last time Dream felt that way? ‘Who are you, guy?’

The stranger, upon being addressed, seemed to become more aware of his position, and chose to step back and allow Dream to front again. ‘Oh, right! I’m Sapnap!’

‘What the heck kind of name is Snapmap?’ George questioned.

‘No, it’s Sapnap! Sap. Nap. Sapnap.’ He exclaimed, emphasizing the syllables.

George didn’t seem fazed, ‘You’re just saying words.’

‘Oh yeah? What’s your name then, smart guy?’

‘George.’

‘Pfft, lame.’

‘George is a perfectly normal name! Better than Sadmad or whatever.’

‘It’s Sapnap!’

And thus began the forever bickering of Dream’s two headmates. In the moment, it brought a small grin to Dream’s face, something so rare in his young life. Maybe he wouldn’t have his own excitement about the future to come, but with Sapnap and George along for the ride, there had to be something special to look forward to.

‘I miss him,’ Sapnap states solemnly, bringing the both of them back to the present.

The sun is on its way to setting, causing the storm clouds on the horizon to glow pink and orange. The rain had picked up a bit more leaving the sky above them dark and gray. Dream is well soaked now, hair pressed irritatingly to his cheeks and every limb chilled to the bone. However, hope lies a few blocks away in the form of Karl’s house. During Dream’s little visit down memory lane, it seems his subconscious found its way to somewhere reasonably safe. His stomach grumbles violently, overpowering any thought of turning around to avoid burdening his friend.

Despite his yearning for George’s return, Sapnap seems marginally happier anticipating Karl’s appearance as they approach the front door of the house they ventured to merely a week before. But oh how the circumstances have shifted.

Before, the worst of Dream’s mind centered on apologizing for trying to rid himself of his emotional attachments, only recently convinced that his idea of cutting off his friends to him himself alive was flawed thinking. That was also the night he first kissed Techno, twice.

But now, fresh in his thoughts is the exchange earlier in the day, where the threat of death was no longer an abstract conclusion but staring him dead in the face. Where he felt his brain burst out of his skull and pissed his pants and cried like a baby, and he still checks over his shoulder every few steps for the glint of metal that would spell his doom. The paranoia aches worse than his hunger pains, ringing panic alarm bells on a continuous loop despite no dangers present giving him a blaring headache.

(Silly was he to believe that the ones who loved him would end up killing him, in reality, he should be afraid and avoidant of those who hated him.)

Regardless, he spends considerably less time with his fist raised to knock as his did the last time he was here, and a few moments later the familiar mop of dark brown hair curtained over Karl’s face peers around the cracked open door. He’s in a plush sweater and a pair of Minecraft patterned pajama pants, disheveled like he’s been inside all day. Upon recognition, his eyes go wide and he flings the door near off its hinges. “Dream?!” He gasps.

Dream doesn’t waste a moment before allowing Sapnap to take over, feeling utterly exhausted with the social interaction he’s already had today and this weekend. Sapnap, despite being just as drained, manages to smile at the sight of his crush. Weakly, he raises a hand and waves, “Hey, Karl.”

Just then, another gasp comes from further in and Quackity jumps into the doorway, echoing Karl, “Dream?!” He’s wearing similar comfy attire, but with worn sweatpants and a fleece flannel. He looks Sapnap up and down, bewildered and slightly concerned, “Dios mío, dude, where have you been?” Then he pulls Sapnap by the arm (his good arm, thankfully) into the house while Karl closes the door.

“You’re absolutely soaked,” Karl comments, pinching the seam of his hoodie above the shoulder, making a show of wiping the moisture off on his own sweater.

Quackity frowns, crossing his arms like a concerned parent and asks, “How long were you out in the rain?” His eyes then catch a stray twig tangled in a lock of his hair and he plucks it out with another scolding question, “And what the hell were you doing?”

The intense gases of his crushes brings a heavy blush to Sapnap’s face, making him hunch in a bit, clutching his injured wrist closer to his chest as though trying to hide it from view. He knows he looks like a complete mess, with cuts and scratches on his face from running through the forest’s foliage, hair and clothes drenched and glued to his skin, mud stained on the hems of his jeans, not to mention the fact that he’d been crying not too long ago. “It’s, uh,” Sapnap drawls, trying to think of something to say to explain but coming up blank, “It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll say,” Karl agrees, holding his concerned frown for a minute before taking a long breath and stepping back. He claps his hands together and straightens his stance, as if calling himself to attention. “Alright, here’s the plan,” he begins, “Quackity, you go get a spare set of clothes from my room and a nice blanket, oh, and the first aid kit. It’s in the hallway bathroom under the sink, ‘kay? Meanwhile, I’ll warm up some of the soup we made for lunch and update the group chat.” He nods as he finishes establishing the plan.

“Group chat?” Sapnap echoes, not having heard of it before since he doesn’t have a phone.

“Yeah, the whole gang,” Quackity explains, “Wilbur and Techno have been worrying about you all day. Said they called your house but your mom answered and wouldn’t say where you were.”

‘Of course she said that,’ Dream huffs, equally as annoyed that the twins worried themselves for no reason.

‘No, no,’ Sapnap pushes back, lightly, ‘Definitely not for no reason,’ he points out, thinking about their injured wrist and how they almost willingly froze to death in the woods.

In the moment he talked with Dream, Quackity went off to find the requested items while Karl helped remove his backpack andguided him to the kitchen to sit on a wooden chair. Sapnap shivers, suddenly feeling clearly the ambient heat of the space as it crowds around his stiff, wet clothes. It’s silent in the room as Karl removes a Tupperware from the fridge, fills a bowl with the cold soup and puts it in the microwave. The whirring sound is better than nothing, but hardly eases the tension. Karl stands by the microwave, watching him, something clearly on his mind.

Sapnap feels heat rise to his cheeks, although that could be his body trying to combat hypothermia, and he blurts out, “I’m sorry, by the way.” He studies his lap, unwilling to meet Karl’s gaze although he can feel the attention burning his scalp. “I didn’t mean to show up out of nowhere.” And it’s true, the choice of walking to Karl’s house wasn’t even a conscious one. 

Karl only waits a second before replying in a soft voice, “It’s okay. It’s always okay.” The teen takes careful steps towards Sapnap, resting a warm palm on his shoulder. “I want you to be here. You’ll always be safe here, no matter what, okay?”

To make matters worse, the rush of heat crowds behind his eyes once more, threatening to shed further tears. Damn it all, why does Karl have to be so sweet and genuinely kind? Why is life so unfair as to put this wonderful person in front of him just out of reach, where his feelings can never be materialized because this isn’t his body? “Safe... Sure,” Sapnap mutters, breathing deep to keep the tears at bay. He thinks about what would happen if he ever told these boys the truth about everything. About his identity separate from the body, about Dream’s parents and their neglect.

About his love for them.

Dream watches and listens from the sidelines, not really knowing how to feel about the inner conflict.

(It’s not like feeling bad would make anything change. Dream would still be the rightful host of the body, nothing changes the fact that Sapnap and George are just side characters along for the ride. Sure, as a helpless little child there was some use to the others’ presence, but Dream is an adult now. Maybe he doesn’t need extra voices talking over his shoulder anymore. Maybe life is easier now that one has been removed from the equation. Maybe things would be better if Sapnap didn’t have a say in anything at all.)

Sapnap wonders if George felt the same way before he left.

And if he did, then is there any hope for his return?

Maybe, in some other universe, some other reality in a different lifetime, the three of them would be born into their own bodies. Still destined to be intertwined, but with the potential to lead their own lives as well.

Maybe. 

Chapter Text

Sapnap spends a long moment gazing at his own reflection in the foggy mirror, fresh out the shower with a towel wrapped around his hips. Well, saying ‘his own reflection’ feels a bit dishonest, since it’s Dream’s body he’s looking at, but it’s not like he’s ever known any different. The feelings from earlier are still lingering, making him question his role in this body that is not his own, what sort of future he can envision while limited to the desires of the body’s host. He doesn’t feel any ill will toward Dream, per se, but the unique sort of helplessness he’s boxed into makes it difficult to see Dream as an equal. Never before has he looked into these green eyes and seen himself as a parasite. What did George call the two of them? Dream’s emotional supports? Was that really accurate? Is that all he’ll ever be?

A few knocks on the bathroom door, while sincerely quiet and considerate, nearly give Sapnap a heart attack, briefly sending him into an episode believing he’s at home and Dream’s mother is outside the door. And just over her shoulder, a shotgun waiting to greet him as soon as it opens-

But it’s really only Karl, as he speaks through the door, “Hey, Dream. You good? You’ve been in there for a while.”

Sapnap takes a forcefully deep breath, shoving down the spike in his heart rate as he responds, “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine, just give me a second.”

“Okay,” Karl says, but doesn’t sound any less concerned, “We’ll be right out here. Just shout if you need anything.”

Truth be told, there’s a secondary reason that Sapnap is taking so long. His wrist. Dream had sprained it when he fell from the tree outside his window, and while it was relatively fine before, the act of undressing and showering has caused the pain to be near unbearable. The only way to ease it is by cradling the arm in his other hand, even having it limp by his side is agonizing, let alone holding it up or grasping anything with it.

All this to say, he’s unsure how he’s going to put on the clothes Quackity got for him.

‘Well, one step at a time, I suppose,’ Dream offers, with perhaps helpful intentions but Sapnap really wishes he would just be quiet for a while and let Sapnap enjoy his time in control.

‘Easy for you to say,’ he grumbles back, glaring down at the stack of clothes on the toilet seat like they’ve personally offended him. He takes a breath and uses his good hand to unfold the fresh boxers, thankful that Quackity grabbed them for him without having to ask. He would likely die of embarrassment if he had to ask for himself, especially if the topic of why came up. Either way, he holds one side of the waistband and lets the undergarment hang loose, slowly leaning to the side to slide one leg through the correct hole, then the other. It’s a slow, tedious process without the use of his dominant hand.

But he gets it done, and soon enough, he’s no longer completely nude. Next is far more daunting, however, the prospect of sliding on a pair of sweatpants and the flannel in the pile. He decides on the pants first, trying to repeat a process similar to his method with the boxers, but the pant legs are long and heavy, making it downright impossible to get a single foot in without holding the opposite side.

It takes several minutes, trial and error, the ache in his wrist getting worse and he can hear the mutterings of the other boys talking outside the door. He almost feels driven to tears, angry, frustrated tears for this simple task that he can’t seem to do. It all comes to a head when he finally pulls the waistband up around his hips, but the pain in his wrist gets to the point where he can’t possibly grin and bear it. A sharp gasp rips itself from his mouth, along with a high-pitched groan while he cradles the hand again, waiting for the fiery burn to calm down. He can feel sweat along his hairline from the effort.

What’s worse is that the boys outside the bathroom heard his cry of pain.

“Dream?” Karl asks, the door still closed, but he’s louder this time, more concerned. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Quackity follows.

Sapnap jumps at their voices, previously solely focused on the pain and trying to ease it. Unfortunately, the shock caused his wrist to jostle yet again leading him to whimper in reply.

The door opens, Sapnap didn’t even realize it wasn’t locked, and the two boys rush to Sapnap’s aid. The fact that he’s shirtless goes right out the window, but at least his pants are on. It’s obvious the cause of his pain is his wrist from the way he cradles it to his bare stomach.

“Shit, dude,” Quackity curses, cringing at the state of his injury. While before the appendage was hidden by his sweatshirt, now it’s plain to see how the normally bony wrist is swollen significantly. The area of skin is a bright red and pulsing with every heartbeat. “How the hell did you get that?”

“I fell,” Sapnap states, not wanting to elaborate. Karl approaches and wraps his soft nimble hands around the sprain, observing it closely.

The next few moments are tense, Karl drawing the wrist close to his face while Quackity stares at Sapnap, as if trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or not. Then Karl gently releases the appendage, “Well,” he says, “At least it’s not broken. I think I have a brace in the first aid kit.”

So they spend the good part of an hour fretting over the minor injuries that Dream accrued throughout the day. Sapnap sat on the toilet seat and Quackity held the first aid kit while Karl checked him over, and while the shower warmed him up the proximity of his crush looking him up and down made Sapnap’s face heat significantly, to a point where he thought he may have caught a cold from being out in the rain for too long. After the check-up, both teens helped Sapnap put on the fleece flannel that Karl lent him, being cautious of his injury and assisting with the line of buttons on the front. With every soft grace of one of their hands against his skin, Sapnap felt himself getting more and more antsy, less composed, mind absolutely racing with the desire to stay close to them, maybe even kiss.

It all culminates to this moment, Sapnap sitting between Karl and Quackity on the living room couch, the room dark with night, and the glowing screen of the television playing some cheesy horror movie. Sapnap honestly feels stuck in some kind of daze, comfortable in his borrowed fleece and the heat of the two bodies beside him filling his bones with warm flames. Dream hasn’t spoken a word in the past hour, not really engaged at all, it’s almost akin to the way George would sleep while the others were awake.

Then, about twenty minutes into it, Karl turns down the volume of the movie and sits up, turning his torso so he’s more facing Sapnap.  He takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “Dream,” he starts, sounding nervous, “I didn’t want to press before but… what happened today?”

Sapnap blinks, surprised by the sudden question. “Today? I mean,” he lifts the newly braced wrist, “I fell, yeah. And I stayed out in the rain for too long, probably.”

“No, what I mean is, like- Techno texted everyone at noon after he called your house and you got here at close to six- where did you go? Were you out in the cold for all that time?” Karl explains.

“I, uh- yeah, I guess,” Sapnap breaks eye contact, rubbing the back of his neck with his uninjured hand, “I took a walk in the woods, hung around a clearing I go to pretty often, then I walked here-“

“For six hours?” Quackity jumps in, his concern evident. “You were in the woods for six hours? Why- did you get lost?”

Sapnap shook his head, “No- well, lost in thought, maybe.”

“Why didn’t you go to your house?” Karl asks, finally with the million-dollar question. Why didn’t he just go home? Well, the fact is, he did, and all he got was a threat on his life and a fucked wrist. Not that he could just out and say it, though. Who knows what kind of trouble that would stir?

He sits for a moment, trying to come up with an answer that will make sense and not cause suspicion. He’s a little concerned that Dream hasn’t weighed in at all, but maybe it’s for the best? Usually, Dream is very protective over the information that they share with others, adamant that they stay silent about most topics. But now he’s eerily quiet, absent. Maybe he’s just processing the events from earlier, even if that type of thing in the past would be projected throughout the headspace.

“I- uh, I didn’t want to go home,” Sapnap admits, “I had an argument with my parents and I needed some space. It’s why I slept over at Techno’s, and why I came here.” Great, possibly the most watered-down version of events. Never mind that this ‘argument’ has been going on since the day Dream was born.

Although, the admission seems to have an unexpected effect, as Sapnap watches the expression on his friends’ faces shift to surprise. “Your parents?” Quackity echoes, “You… I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about them before.”

“I honestly thought you were, like, an orphan or something,” Karl adds, huffing a short, nervous laugh.

‘Might as well be,’ Sapnap thinks cynically, but out loud he replies, “Haha, nah, my parents are just super boring, and- uh, we tend to argue. It’s easier to just avoid talking about them altogether.” He ends with a shrug.

Quackity’s expression is schooled to something noncritical, but he doesn’t seem convinced. “Do they know where you are right now?” He inquires.

“They don’t really care,” Sapnap answers, which is the truth. Whether he’s at a friend’s house, passed out in the woods, or dead in a ditch somewhere, their concern is the same - none at all. Relieved, maybe, if it was the latter.

“Listen,” Karl relents, his shoulders slumping slightly, “It’s not really our business but, like, Techno and Wilbur seemed really worried when they couldn’t reach you and- and I can’t say I didn’t feel it too. I’m…” he trails off a little, sliding a soft hand onto his shoulder before continuing, “I’m really happy you’re here and you’re okay.”

“Same,” Quackity adds with an air of sincerity, placing his own hand on top of Sapnap’s uninjured one.

Well, if he wasn’t blushing beforehand he’s most definitely red as a beet now surrounded by these assurances. It’s- gosh, how do they say these things so easily? As if Sapnap hasn’t been pining after them for years now, as if words of encouragement have never graced his ears before. Sure, it’s one thing for people to engage with Dream, but it really feels like they’re speaking to him right now, to Sapnap directly, without even knowing it. His eyes dart between the gazes of his crushes, both staring determined, unmoving, as if watching the impassioned thoughts spin around in his head like a hamster wheel.

(Does he notice how Dream is nowhere to be found? Although what does it matter, to live in wistful delusion for a little while…)

There’s a distant feeling, right now crowded by the frantic beating of his heart and the yearning for connection, but it’s there, he can’t place it but it’s there. It sits like a cold block of ice spreading tiny fractals of crystal along the walls of his mindscape, lying in wait.

“Uh- o-oh, thank you,” Sapnap stumbles over his words, the immense want thrumming in his veins dragging the desires right out of his mouth, “I- I really want- if I could- if you- c-can I kiss you right now?”

In an instant, shock fills Karl’s face, whose eyes he met while making the request. And turning his head, Quackity is fairing no better, very much taken aback and a little betrayed. So Sapnap quickly tacks on, “B-both, of you, I want to kiss both of you.” And while his words are a bit clearer his brain is practically on fire, the unbelievable boldness washing over his face like it’s something embarrassing. 

Both teens are quite obviously too stunned to respond, and with every second Sapnap feels like his chest is caving in on itself, dread creeping over his rib cage and suffocating him to death. He’s just about to take it back when Quackity breaks the silence, in barely a whisper, “Really?”

“Yes,” Sapnap doesn’t waste a single moment before replying, “Yes, of course, I- God I’ve wanted to for so long-“ He’s cut off when Karl’s hand cups the side of his face, and suddenly they’re only inches away from each other. Their eyes meet with the unspoken question, the last-minute chance to say no, but Sapnap knows he’s in too deep.

To say sparks fly would be an understatement. It feels like the weight of the entire world has been on his shoulders for so long and he never even noticed, not until now, when it all instantly dissolves into mist and washes over him to float away with the wind. He can’t even catch his breath when Karl leans away and Quackity takes over, pressing his lips to his like he’s claiming a long-awaited prize. It’s electrifying, the feeling of soft lips cradling his own under the watchful eyes of his other crush. And he knows- sure, he’s always known, but now he knows- that these are his soulmates.

When Quackity breaks away, Sapnap is confused by the change in his expression, and the tiny glint of moisture that’s dotted on the other’s cheek. It’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. “¿Qué pasa? Mi vida, what’s wrong?” Quackity asks, voice gentle and a hand sweeping through his hair. It’s the acknowledgment that breaks the dam.

With the weight off his shoulders- the only desire he’s had ever since he’s got to know these two wonderful souls before him gone and passed, fulfilled, even- he’s left with that cold ice block that’s been slowly freezing the metaphorical ground it sits atop. And he can place it now, the feeling. It’s hopelessness, a bitter, never-ending sorrow opening like a black hole in the void of his mind. It’s the cold truth of the fact of the matter, that he is not a person, but a side character, a parasite upon the mind of an entirely different, autonomous person. He can play pretend but he will never be happy. He can love his soulmates but they will never love him. They’ve never even met him. They’ve never known his name. They’ll never see him.

He can’t even see anymore. The void consumes him, trapping him in the reality of his thoughts while he sits there, curled up and sobbing, the two teens confusedly offering comfort to what might as well be a living statue. He thinks they’re saying something, probably asking what is making him act this way, but he can’t discern it. It doesn’t matter anyway. They want to know if Dream is okay. They want to hear Dream tell them what’s wrong. They kissed Dream. Sapnap may as well be a ghost.

It’s funny, how before they got to Karl’s place Dream relived the memory of when Sapnap first came into being. Where George sought to stay alive, Sapnap wanted to burn. Their first meeting was Sapnap unwittingly taking over the body and lighting a fire, nothing else to be discovered other than his love of watching the flames devour whatever falls in its grasp. And it’s funny, because now George is as good as dead, and Sapnap is only charred remains. He’s a soggy pile of tear-ridden ash, once a beautiful spectacle of color and light, now reduced to embers fading to black. The fire was so fleeting, yet the burning so bright, he finally got a taste of everything he’d ever wanted. A kiss from each of his loves, gestures of comfort, friendship, acceptance. So close, so close, but now he’s caught up with himself, understanding that- that’s all there is for him, just a touch, just a taste. Nothing more. He isn’t deserving.

He’s only a ghost.

You’d think with the finality of it all the crying would’ve stopped, but Sapnap’s overwhelming sorrow keeps the tears coming. He’s curled into himself, face pressed to his lap and hands clutching his hair. It’s getting a little difficult to breathe too, maybe even setting up to be the beginnings of a panic attack. He can just barely hear the mantra of Karl rubbing over the sleeves of his arm and his back, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. C’mon, you have to breathe. Tell us how to help you, Dream, please.”

Quackity isn’t on the couch anymore, but he walks back into frame soon enough to hold a glass of water in Sapnap’s view. “Dream, can you hear me? I brought you something to drink,” Quackity consoles.

‘Please, stop,’ Sapnap pleads to the roaring of his mind. ‘Please, for the love of god stop calling me that!’

The room is suddenly a lot quieter, and with one concerned comment, Sapnap realizes he said that out loud. “Call you what?” Karl asks, so innocently it scares him. The want in his entire being is telling him to confess their biggest secret, and Karl’s sweet, never-ending patience isn’t making it any easier to rein it in.

“Dream?” Quackity offers, either as a guess or the start to another comment he doesn’t know, because Sapnap blurts out.

“Please, that’s not me. That’s not me, I’m sorry,” Sapnap cries into his borrowed sweatpants, although a little more aware of his breathing.

There’s a moment, probably as the two teens communicate nonverbally to each other, before Karl speaks again, “What are you saying?”

Quackity follows with, “You’re not Dream?”

They’re both so non-accusatory, like they only want to know, only want to understand, not judge or call him a liar. It’s turning the tables in his brain, making him feel guilty for not telling them at this point. He lifts his head, seeing the blurry figures of his friends through wet lashes. “N-no,” Sapnap shakes his head, “No, I’m- I can’t, I’ll ruin everything.” Sapnap curls in again, feeling an ache pounding at his skull from all the crying. He whines a little, then remembers that Quackity brought Dream him some water so he takes it from him.

“Hey, hey,” Karl moves closer, pressing their shoulders together and saying, “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be called a different name. Nothing is ruined.”

Quackity sits back down, giving a little space but folding one of his legs to face him. “Yeah, we’ll always support you, dude. You can tell us anything.”

“No, it’s not- you don’t get it-“ Sapnap’s hands shake around the water glass, feeling frustrated that they aren’t already understanding what he isn’t saying out loud. “Dream is- Dream is me but he’s not me,” he emphasizes himself, hoping to convey what he needs to. But it’s so difficult, both because it’s a complicated topic and because he’s single-handedly dismantling the secret Dream and they have been keeping throughout their entire existence. Sapnap isn’t supposed to disclose himself. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he doesn’t exist.

But, what if he wants to? Just for a moment? Just for the two people that he loves and trusts- or wants to trust. But he can’t establish that until he breaks past the facade of Dream.

Karl cocks his head, “I’m not following. Is it that you don’t want to be called Dream anymore?” So kind and patient as always, he questions without judgment and rubs gentle circles onto Sapnap’s back.

“No- I mean, yes but- but it’s not just the name. Dream is still Dream but I’m-  I’m a person too!” He attempts to explain, sounding a bit like a child, but who can blame him?

Although, Quackity’s brow furrows when he hears that, “…why does it sound like you’re his secret identical twin brother or something?”

Sapnap sighs deeply, the burdening frustration almost driving him to tears again.  He wants so badly to give up, to say it was all a joke and meld back into the Dream-centric lifestyle, but there’s some part of him that worries this will be the last time he’s ever in control if that happens. That if he forgoes the effort of disclosing himself to his cherished friends, then he’ll end up in the same place that George went, wherever that is. And as difficult as it is, he doesn’t want to disappear, to burn out his existence like the stump of a candle, snuffed under its own wax. He wants to live as himself, even for a moment, just enough to keep him going. He doesn’t want to leave without Karl and Quackity knowing that he loves them.

Steeling himself, he gets up from the couch and stands in front of the television facing them. His nerves thrum under his skin but he ignores it, letting the fire burn in his veins and fuel his confession. “Karl, Quackity,” he addresses them, taking one final breath before he bites the bullet. “My name is Sapnap. I share this body with Dream. I love playing soccer, I’m a bit of a pyromaniac, and I love you both, immensely. Every moment we’ve shared, where you thought you were talking to Dream, you were actually speaking to me.” He pauses a moment to let it sink in.

“…what?” Karl responds, looking shocked like he doesn’t know what to think.

Quackity’s frown deepens, “Is this a joke?”

“No,” Sapnap states, trying to stay serious and not give into the frustration, keeping the tears at bay. “No, I’m not- look, you don’t have to understand. I just- I need you two to know that I exist. I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance again, I feel like I’ll die if I keep it a secret any longer.”

“Wait- wait, slow down a sec,” Karl straightens his posture, moving a little closer to Quackity. “So, you- you and Dream are different people but… sharing a body? How long has this gone on?”

With an actual response, Sapnap coasts down from the adrenaline high, all of a sudden feeling nervous standing in the center of the room. He completely forgot he was holding that glass of water still, so he drains the rest of it and sets it on the coffee table. He feels too awkward to continue standing, opting to sit on the edge of a nearby footrest. “It’s- to be honest, it’s Dream’s body. And I didn’t show up until he was, like, eight,” he explains, timidly, eyes drawn to the floor.

“That doesn’t make any sense-“ Quackity attempts to dismiss him, but Karl stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No, I think- I read something like this, once. It’s like, multiple personalities,” Karl interjects. “And it’s not too surprising, I mean, we’ve all noticed how Dream is a little inconsistent.”

“That’s just being a teenager, though,” Quackity rebuts.

“Maybe,” Karl says, “Or Sapnap is telling the truth.”

The amount of utter joy that fills Sapnap’s being upon hearing his name being spoken by someone else (especially his crush) is immeasurable. The tears return with a vengeance, this time leaking droplets of pure relief from being validated. Although, still, underneath hides that same despair from before, lying in wait like a crocodile below the pond's surface.

And, of course, that’s the moment that Dream returns from his stasis. ‘Oh, shit, what did I miss? Why are you crying?’ He asks, sounding more bothered than concerned. He really does hate crying, or just having any liquid on his person in general.

“Fuck,” Sapnap curses, aloud. Whatever happiness existed the moment before is banished now, panic filling the space. He brings his hands up to wipe off his face, hoping the soak the moisture with the ends of his sleeves. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he tells Dream.

‘What? Did you do something?’ Dream questions, pushing forward for control, suddenly wary about whatever happened that he was absent for.

(Even after shedding all the hardship, stacking up every wish and filling the void in his chest with relief, all good things must be broken from the illusion they hide in, eventually. Shattering like glass, a once smooth surface now glittered over the asphalt.

But who will pick up the pieces?)

Chapter Text

Dream doesn’t really know what happened either. There was simply a point in time where he was present, seeing through his eyes as Sapnap tried to dress himself after their shower, then the next, he was floating in some deep dark void. It was… well to be honest, it was actually sort of nice. Ever since the encounter with his parents, Dream had felt like he was constantly alert for any threats against his life. But in that void he felt strangely at peace.

He could hear some muffled conversations, not enough to make out who was talking and what was being said - it really felt like nothing mattered as he sat there, drifting. There wasn’t any room for thoughts either, just a blank slate of being, in an endless space with nothing to prove. In hindsight, he wonders if that was what George experienced whenever he was sleeping.

Dream resumes control while Sapnap disturbingly panics, pleading, ‘Just a few more minutes, please, I need them- I need them to see me.’

He has no clue what his headmate is rambling about. Sapnap has of course expressed reluctance before when Karl and Quackity are involved and Dream wishes to take control again, but he’s never put quite as much effort into staying in front as he is now. It gives him a headache, something deep and spiked with pain added atop the forehead pressure that followed whatever Sapnap was crying about.

Dream blinks, settling into the front and attempting to calm the internal tension caused by Sapnap’s struggle. It almost feels strange, being in his own body again. He doesn’t think he spent that long in the void but apparently, it’s left the outside world feeling foreign. Regardless, he tries to fill in the blanks. The last thing he remembers was putting on the clothing that the duo let him borrow, and now they are in the living room, Dream sitting on a footrest with the other two on the couch, staring at him with mixed expressions.

It’s well into the night, a clock on the wall reading close to nine pm. There’s a movie playing on the television behind him but it’s muted. His wrist is in a brace and feeling much better, although his face is uncomfortably sticky from dried tears. Sapnap’s resigned himself to an eerie silence, given up on his strife to stay in control.

“Is your head hurting?” Karl asks, softly and with a slight tilt of his head. He seems curious, but Quackity has this look of disbelief on his face. “Do you need some Advil?”

“No,” Dream says, still wondering why there’s an odd tension in the air. He’s never really been in this situation before, where he was gone in his own mind for a period of time while someone else was in control, it feels so strange to be missing that awareness. He has no idea what’s going on right now, and the other two and Sapnap aren’t giving him any clues.

Quackity’s frown deepens, and he crosses his arms, pouting, “Okay, this has to be a joke.”

“What?”

“Quackity!” Karl scolds him, smacking his upper arm. “It’s fine if you don’t understand but you don’t need to be invalidating.”

“I’m just saying,” the black-haired teen laments, rolling his eyes, “all this sounds pretty crazy to me.”

Dream is still very confused, wanting to ask for clarification but he’s also incredibly anxious, worried about the response to his lack of short-term memory. ‘Sapnap, you know what they’re going on about?’ He tries to ask his headmate.

But the only answer he receives is palpable despair.

As he’s pondering Sapnap’s (lack of) response, Karl asks him something quite peculiar. “Are you feeling alright, Sapnap?”

Dream’s mind just about freezes, completely bewildered how his headmate’s name could’ve come out of someone else’s mouth. He can only stare dumbly and spout, “what?” again.

“Well, if feels like a minute ago you were being really open but now it’s like you’re completely closed off,” Karl explains.

“No, no, I- what did you call me? How did you come up with that name?” Dream questions, his usual passivity morphing into something like anger at the implications.

“You… you just told us?” Karl sounds just as confused, especially as Dream’s anger begins to show. A heavy frown mars his face, eye twitching as he directs the irritation internally. 

Words can’t even begin to describe it. For once he wishes Sapnap was a real person he could pull out of his head and scream in his face. How dare he spoil the one secret that Dream has carefully crafted his entire life? Who does Sapnap think he is, to go around revealing himself for the one minute that Dream is away? Who is he to believe he has the power or control to do that? His fists clench, even the one with the brace grips hard around the sleeve, despite the pain that flares. Gritting his teeth, he laughs oddly and says, “Hah, no, Quackity’s right. That was a joke, and you fell for it.”

He can spot the hurt look on Karl’s face, and the matching anger from Quackity, but only more crazed bouts of laughter bubble from his lips. “I mean- haha, what kind of name is Sapnap anyway? Hah, you really should’ve known.”

Quackity jumps up from his seat, standing slightly in front of Karl and leaning over Dream. “What the hell is wrong with you, man?” He demands.

“I don’t understand,” Karl says softly, “How much of that was a joke?”

“All of it,” Dream responds without any consideration.

Now Karl looks to be on the edge of tears, staring in horror at Dream’s admission. Without another word, Quackity stomps out of the room, heading toward the hallway where he can be heard marching up the stairs, presumably to Karl’s bedroom. Karl himself sits for a minute more, eyes growing glassy as he tries to read Dream’s face, searching for an answer he’ll never find. He does this odd gesture where he touches the pads of his fingers to his bottom lip for a moment, before taking a deep breath and standing. With voice wavering, he says, “Look, dude, I think that was pretty messed up, if what you’re saying now is true.” He doesn’t look at Dream directly. “I’m not going to kick you out, you can sleep on the couch if you don’t want to go back to your house, but…” Karl ponders a moment, lifting his eyes to a point on the far wall. “Yeah, I’m- I’m going to go. Goodnight, Dream.” Then he follows after Quackity.

In the moments of silence that follow, Dream doesn’t think about his friends’ reactions at all, the only thing on his mind is his frustration toward Sapnap’s tirade.  He feels more angry than he’s ever felt in his life, the fury building up under his skin like it’ll burst through at any moment. He’s forced to stand up and pace the area of floor in front of the couch, an inane desire to destroy something buzzing in his fingertips.

‘What the hell, Sapnap?!’ He demands internally, hating how the thought couldn’t possibly bear as much weight as an outward statement but he can’t just start screaming aloud. ‘What is your deal? Are you trying to get me thrown into an insane asylum?’ All while he grips a bundle of half-dried hair with his good hand. The pain is minute but satiates his need for damage, for now.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sapnap replies, in a tiny, cowardice voice that reeks of guilt and sorrow.

‘You’re sorry? That’s it? You just about ruined my life!’ Dream argues. ‘If it wasn’t for Quackity’s doubt I could’ve lost everything! Even now, I know they’ll never trust me again. How could you be so stupid?’

‘You don’t get it!’ Sapnap cries. ‘You’re your own person, Dream! Everyone knows you and loves you and cares about you, but, what about me?’

Dream scoffs, ‘What about you?’ And the hurt emitting from Sapnap doesn’t even reach him before he continues, ‘Did you seriously forget that you’re just a voice in my head? You’re not even a person and, frankly, I don’t even need you here at all. Sure, you and George helped when I was younger and didn’t have any friends- but now I do! And you just keep getting in the way!’

Sapnap says nothing.

‘It’s like you exist just to fuck up my life,’ Dream rambles, all while his irritation builds in the circles he paces in the living room. ‘All you ever do is distract me or ruin my image or slow me down. I can’t believe I let it get to this point, to where you could possibly think you have control over me and my relationships. But you know what? I’m done, Sapnap, I’m-‘

Then Dream stops, in his tracks and in his thoughts, to find himself alone with the echo of his ranting making its way through the empty headspace. He… isn’t sure what he expected. At first, he never saw a future where he outgrew his headmates, and then he believed maybe, just maybe, if they were to disappear he would feel like his own person. But in reality, he still feels split into three parts, with two of them now lost to the void. He’s more fragmented than ever before, the only difference is the lack of structure; with only himself and no one else, nothing exists to hold together the pieces that threaten to topple.

He’s shocked, truly and completely thrown off-guard despite this being the second time something like this has happened. When George died disappeared left, the thought that he would never return was present, but at least Dream had Sapnap to keep him going regardless. Now there is no hope of either of their returns.

Now he is alone.

——

Not only was the morning awkward, with his back aching from sleeping on the stiff couch and his two friends acting strangely (Karl pretending like nothing ever happened while Quackity pretended he didn’t exist), but he also had no time to come to terms with what his newfound singularity meant for him. There’s this deep, piercing feeling of grief that he has no hope of escaping, and yet his mask stays adjourned to his face incapable of letting anyone else catch on to his inner conflict. Not to mention the rooted fear of metallic clangs or anything too loud or sudden that threatens to shove him into a panic spiral every time he hears it. It’s like his brain is both imploding and exploding, collapsing in on itself and shattering outward into a million pieces.

It’s exhausting, to put it simply.

But more than anything, he can’t get over the crippling emptiness in his mind, the heavy silence that sucks up every thought he conjures and echoes it back like he’s speaking to an empty concert hall. It makes him afraid to even think to himself, forcing his mind to be blank so he isn’t reminded of the space that his own presence can’t occupy. Unfortunately, a side effect of this is that he’s dissociated to all external stimuli as well. So even as he tries so desperately to keep himself stable, to show everyone around him that he is fine and normal, there’s simply too many flaws in his psyche at the moment.

At the very least, in his classes he can drift off without garnering any attention. He’s also found that writing can get his thoughts out without causing him distress- something about creating something tangible existing outside of his own mind. So during lectures he just scribbles onto a sheet of notebook paper, not really reading the words nor attempting to make them coherent, just doing anything he can to get out of his own hollow thoughts.

(But if only Dream would read the words that spill from his pen, to see just how pitiful he truly is. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, please come back, he writes. I take it back, it’s too quiet, I can’t take it, please, please. Like the words of a child locked in a shoe closet, yet taller, older, and no longer dependent on a drunk.)

The bell rings for lunch. Dream folds the paper without looking at it and stuffs it into his backpack. He stands as the last of the class leaves the room, making his way to the door with his brain in a fog. The mere idea of sitting in that loud and crowded lunch room is nauseating to him, but he’s supposed to be normal right now, and that means spending the period with his friends even if he hardly says a word.

In the blink of an eye, he’s there, at the corner of their designated table next to Techno. Usually Karl and Quackity would be across from him, but today they are at the opposite end, presumably to distance themselves from him. He doesn’t blame them, they probably think he’s a delusional weirdo now, if they didn’t already.

Another oddity is Tommy, who is much more quiet and hunched over a textbook, a frustrated frown on his face. Dream watches the boy’s lips move, but with all the sound around them he can hardly register what he’s saying. Him and Techno seem to be conversing, somehow, despite the noise of the cafeteria. Dream only feels his headache, like nails being hammered into his skull. And yet it’s still too quiet.

“-aren’t you, Dream?” The tail end of a question breaks through the fog, Dream lifting his eyes to see Techno waiting.

“Huh?” He sputters.

“I said, you’re pretty good at math, right?” Techno repeats himself, not mentioning how Dream seemingly had his attention on his and his brother’s conversation and yet not heard a word of it.

Dream’s brain is slow to register the words, but he replies eventually, “Uh, yeah. Why?” He looks at Tommy, whose eyes are still glued to the small print with a glare.

“He’s got a math test after school, a redo for one that he failed last week, and better yet, he still hasn’t studied-“

“I studied plenty!” Tommy interrupts, “These damn questions just don’t make any sense! I don’t get why I have to learn all this stuff anyway. Al-ge-bra," he says mockingly, "When the hell am I gonna use that? I happen to be an expert in all other kinds of bras.”

Techno blinks at Tommy, waiting for him to finish, before turning back to Dream. “So, yeah. I can’t help because I’ll be at fencing practice, Wil is driving me then going to his own band practice, and Phil will be late at the office until, uh, eight, I think.” Techno checks his phone to verify, nodding to himself, “Yeah, so could you possibly help him study and maybe babysit-“ he rolls over Tommy’s protest to that statement, “-until one of us is able to pick him up?”

It takes a couple more seconds for the question to spark all the necessary neurons in his brain, but he eventually realizes that yes, what better way to take his mind off the triggering metals and insufferable silence than to spend some time with his obsession friend’s younger brother? “Yeah,” he decides, bringing himself to awareness just the tiniest bit more, “I can do that. No problem.”

Techno sighs, relief sagging his shoulders, “Great,” he says, “Both of you can meet up at the library after school, thankfully the teacher doesn’t have a set time for the retake, he just has to be done by 5:30.”

Dream nods, feeling his nerves soothed for the time being now that he has something to look forward to. Once they’re dismissed back to class, Dream slides the note from his bag, the inane ramblings from the period before, and tosses it into the garbage on his way out.

——

Dream waits outside of the classroom while Tommy finishes up his test, staring off into nowhere and trying to free his mind from its own shackles and actually contemplate the silence. He doesn’t want to feel as though two of the three pieces of him died, he wants to feel whole and wholly himself. But he just can’t get through the echo of his thoughts returning to him in the headspace, the missing recipients and returning quips so apparent that it hurts.

A crazy part of him wants to blissfully pretend that they never left, to fill in their gaps with imagined responses. What are headmates if not imaginary friends anyway? Who says he can’t just conjure up new ones?

And doesn’t that pain him as well, gaslighting himself into erasing the uniqueness and individuality of them, reducing them to only voices when he knows for a fact they were so much more than that. But he doesn’t need them. It wouldn’t matter if he did, because they are gone. He is alone. So painfully, unbearably alone.

Beside the loneliness lays a certain kind of resentment as well, to multiple parties. To George and Sapnap for one, for intruding into his life, forming relationships with him, supporting him throughout his awful childhood and keeping him sane in his teenagehood, and then fucking off out of nowhere. Some friends they were, to up and leave at the slightest inconvenience, leading him to believe that they would stay by his side and uplift him and grow with him then disappearing without saying goodbye. It sort of reminds him of the love/hate feelings toward his Nana, who raised him in the place of his birth mother for the first few years of his life, only to die one day and never return.

(And he didn’t understand back then, either. A four-year-old, somehow already aware that the maternal role supposedly belonging to his mother was assumed by his grandmother for a reason. And he was the reason, of course, but he was also a child. And suddenly the only person who loved him was gone and his mother was back, freely expressing her displeasure with his existence at every opportunity, a sullen contrast to the patience and love his Nana would give to him without expectation. Who was his Nana to love him then leave him without notice? Who was he to understand how little control one has over their own mortality? This is no different. His headmates are just as hypocritical, and died without even considering his opinion on the aftermath.)

The other target of resentment is, of course, himself. Because he is weak, incapable of celebrating his newfound freedom, of coping with his change in headspace, he is almost an adult and yet whining like a child in the face of such a minor hardship. He has the most control over his body and mind than he has ever had in his whole life, yet feels as helpless and unstable as the day he met George. The duality irks him to no end. If he weren’t standing in a school hallway he may as well be tearing his hair out from the roots, or planning his death in a million new ways. He wonders how he never found his father’s shotgun before yesterday, was it a new purchase? Could he find it himself? Is the other handgun still in the safe, with the same passcode?

(He remembers spending hours fiddling with the keypad on a long night when his mother left him alone. He may not have understood the concept of permutation, but at that young age he could still presume that with enough differing combinations, the safe would open eventually. It perhaps took longer than necessary, as he kept forgetting what numbers he had already tried, too lost in the idea of the door slamming behind him and never opening again, leaving him to die a slow and painful death like he should have done months before.

‘Let’s forget what was in here,’ George had nervously said to him, once he finally got the passcode correct, viewing the silver sheen of a pistol and its magazine laid beside it.

He didn’t forget.)

But he is pulled from his daydream when Tommy emerges from the room, a step in front of his teacher. It’s the same one that Dream had when he took Algebra 1 in the seventh grade.

“Ah, how lucky of Tommy to have such a wonderful student as a tutor. Are you tutoring any other underclassmen?” The teacher asks.

Before Dream can answer that, no, it’s just a favor for Techno, Tommy beats him to it, touting, “Yep! He just open for business for the low-low price of 15 an hour! We could really use the help with advertising,” he does an elbow-jab into the arm of the adult, as if they were bonding over an inside joke, “you know how Dream is, all modest and shit.”

“Language,” the teacher scolds lightly, seemingly used to Tommy’s endearing choice of words. “I would be happy to put up some flyers, do you have a phone number I can list if a student is interested?”

“No, I actually-“

Dream’s cut off once again by Tommy, “As his manager, all tutor requests come through me! You can put my number, tell ‘em to ask about Dream’s Scholarly Math Practice, or Dream SMP for short.” The young blond grins, very apparently giddy about his assumed role as Dream’s manager.

The teacher watches his performance, amused and likely understanding that this is in fact a spur-of-the-moment decision not co-opted by Dream himself, but at a questioning glance, Dream simply shrugs, not all that bothered. “Right then,” the math teacher agrees, clasping his hands together, “I’ll help spread the word! I’m truly grateful for your assistance in guiding the young minds of the underclassmen.”

“Thanks, Mr. Halo!” Tommy cheers and waves, leading Dream away to begin their walk back to the older teen's house. Dream finds it humorous that he hardly said a word that entire interaction, and now he’s suddenly running a tutoring business?

Although, it’s not a bad thing, not in the least. If he has this sort of job, then he could actually make some money and start saving for when his parents inevitably kick him out of the house. Perhaps he could even indulge himself a little, buy a phone or a laptop, better food, or stop mooching off his mother altogether. Not to mention it can be some sort of pastime to further avoid thinking about his troubled mental state.

He truly doesn’t deserve the spontaneity and greatness that is Tommy.

(He wonders how many other problems this kid could grant the solution to?)

Chapter Text

December sweeps through like the typical cold rush of winter, desperate to hasten the process of fall, the leaves brown and degraded and turned to mush. Dream hates the winter. He has some winter clothes, but they never seem to protect his bodily warmth in the way they should. It may have to do with the fact that the gloves he has are full of holes and paper thin, or the coat he wears is a few sizes too small, leaving his thin wrists and midriff exposed to the harsh icy winds. He doesn’t have any snow shoes either, and their town typically expects a good three inches of snow throughout the season, so when the ground is laid with white he knows he’s due for a shitty day. His one pair of worn-out sneakers can only do so much to combat the slush of the sidewalks on his walk to school.

The holiday break approaches. For most students, it’s the time to slack off and prepare for the two whole weeks without school by making plans, ignoring assignments, scraping by on their midterms. But for Dream, he only feels dread. The past few weeks have been bad enough in his mental isolation, only barely relieved by the monotony of communal suffering that is school, but soon that will be as absent as the voices in his head, albeit temporarily.  A whole two and a half weeks at home seems more like a death sentence.

(You see, there’s a few things that Dream doesn’t want to know- doesn’t want anyone to know, let alone himself- lest he break the fragile facade that keeps him moving throughout these harrowing days. For one, his grades are slipping. This coincides with the ritual college open-house exploration for late-bloomer seniors and eager juniors, unfortunately. His belief that he had any future of substance, in the best case scenario where he lives to see it, was already corroded before his little mind break and now only exists as a thinly veiled mirage preventing his self-sacrificial desires from becoming reality. So, sure, he doesn’t pay attention in class, barely completes his classwork, forgoes any homework to rot away in the dark crevice of his worn backpack, but it’s easy to do as long as he burns his report cards before he can register the letters on the page.)

There’s always the idea that he could ration his time, invading the holiday spaces of his friends instead of stewing in his own miserable loneliness. But that inherent burdensome makes his insides crawl and threaten to upheave onto the cement. Not to mention the continued awkward tension between him and Karl and Quackity.

(And that’s the second tidbit of unknowable information. The fact that all his so-called friends are beginning to suspect the troubling despair bubbling up inside of him. It perhaps doesn’t help that he has to turn his brain off for most waking hours of the day. He only seems to function as a normal human being when he is tutoring, and maybe that’s the only reason the illusion is able to persist.)

It’s not like he’s attempting to do anything about mending their relationship, though. He would, maybe, because he likes being friends with them, but every time he sees them now all he can think about is Sapnap and just how close he got to ruining his entire life. Then he’s fighting back the rage and disappointment in himself for letting Sapnap have that much control. How could he, in the one time Dream is away from consciousness separate to the others, try and take everything away from him? It leaves him with a cold ache of frustration and shattered trust, the feeling projected onto the pair themselves because Sapnap isn’t around to receive it.

He feels his mask is slipping, and he can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

(Speaking of lacking control over one’s autonomy, number three: Dream’s time is limited. Not in the way a mortal life span will always lead to an unavoidable end, no. He may refuse to admit it, even if he is already aware, but his days are severely numbered. If the surprise barrel of a shotgun to the face from his father wasn’t enough of a tell, his mother’s patience for his freeloading is growing quite thin. Already hanging by a thread, social conventions state that she must harbor her spawn until he is no longer a child. And when is the set deadline for the transition of child to adult? That’s right, the minute he turns eighteen, he will no longer fall under her obligation. She’ll have free rein to kick him out, put him on the streets, kill him- not as likely, but who could guess what hand she has in the execution of laws in this town? He barely knows her.)

But, there’s a few good things happening as well. He’s got a bit of money now after a month’s worth of tutoring nearly every day after school. Although his concept of spending it is a little jarred. He’s only ever bought groceries for himself, never anything superfluous, so it makes him anxious to even think about getting a phone or better food. Not to mention his ongoing fear of using his mom’s credit card, lest he remind her of his existence and place a target on his back.

His days have been starting off alright, though. Because of his assigned position, Tommy makes a point to talk to him every day to fill him in on the tutoring schedule and his after-school routine, asking about the kids and their temperament and constantly assuring him that he’ll never schedule with a student again if they give him a hard time. It truly makes Dream’s chest aglow when he lays witness to the passion that Tommy has for this role, even if he gave it to himself. He has some kind of preemptive grief for when the time comes to shift the responsibility to Dream once he buys a cellphone. Maybe he’ll still let Tommy play the manager role regardless, it’s a great excuse to prompt daily interaction apart from the shared mornings and lunch.

And thus brings the current day, some random Thursday in the second half of December- the last Thursday that he’ll be in school, actually, since the next week marks the start of winter break. The kid sitting with Dream in the near-empty library is obviously burnt out from preparing for midterms, both anxious about his lack of math readiness and restlessly awaiting the two-week long break. They are nearing the end of the hour, the shorter winter days bringing the night soon, so Dream gives the kid some problems to do in the textbook and lets him run off.

Once alone, Dream sighs, tense in a way opposite to the kid. He’s tired sure, but he doesn’t want to lose his daily routine of going to school for a whole two weeks. He’s going to be so bored and anxious that his parents will make some surprise return, not to mention stuck in his head without his friends or any other interaction to distract him. With absent movements, he packs up the materials from tutoring into his backpack and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way out of the library and toward the front entrance to the school, seeing the sky already begin to dim with the sun hiding away.

Strangely, though, once he exits the school building, he sees a familiar face staring down at his phone, hunched over on a wooden bench near to the entrance. It’s Tommy, and Dream definitely did not expect to see him this late. Dream walks toward the boy, intent on seeing why he didn’t go home with his foster brothers after school ended.

His mind is in its strange buzzing state, as it usually is when around Tommy, so he doesn’t have any words prepared to enact his intentions. Luckily, Tommy senses his oncoming presence and whips his head up when Dream is a few feet away. “H-hey! Big D! ‘Ow do?” Tommy rambles, with every intention to distract from the question of why he’s still on school grounds. The sudden attention makes his heart race, similar to the first time he ever saw Tommy, despite the numerous months of consistent interaction since then.

The mask is cracked and faded, but he lets it control him while his mind spins in circles, keeping a neutral face and asking, “Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

Tommy’s expression slips, his own masked bravado crumbling into something sad. He looks away, staring at his phone with weary eyes. “Uh, yeah. Should be, innit?” He attempts to sound jovial, but it’s more of a grimace.

Dream doesn’t press, using the quiet moment to observe and analyze, a mode of internalization he is much more comfortable with. Tommy sighs, breathing out a flume of fog in the cold air but for once Dream doesn’t mind.

“So, Tech’s got his fencing practice and Wilbur’s got his band and Phil is working late… but I didn’t feel like tagging along with either of them cause it’s so boring but the house is on the opposite side of town so they would be late if they drove me home then I missed the bus and everyone had already left and- and I texted Wil but he hasn’t responded and neither has Phil or Techno…” he finishes his rambling with glassy eyes, spilling out the words like they’ve been trapped in his lungs for a long time.

“So they forgot about you,” Dream sums up, something blooming under his rib cage as the words pierce through Tommy like a knife. The boy winces as if physically pained by the idea, the waterworks building up to the point of flowing over. Driven by the fire dancing over his lungs, Dream continues, “It’s like you didn’t even cross their minds in the last two hours.”

Tommy chokes, throat stuttering through his response, “W-well, they’ll remember! There’s no w-way they could just leave me here…”

“I don’t know, Toms,” Dream dissents innocently, “They’ve been a family a lot longer without you than with you.”  He shrugs, hiding his burning tongue behind an uncaring expressing while Tommy looks further driven to tears. “Why don’t you just come home with me? That way, when they do finally get along to recalling your existence, you won’t be freezing to death.” He puts a hand on the kid’s shoulder, not waiting for agreement before leading him along in the direction of Dream’s house.

On the silent journey there, Dream’s mind is as clear as ever, shielding against the cold with a blanket of tickling flames that breathe life into his dying body. Having Tommy near to him, witnessing his misery, is like achieving a high unlike any other. Electricity thrums under the skin of his hands, making him fidget much more than he usually would. It sparks a fragmented memory of when he was a small child, when he would flap his hands at any point where he was bored or uncomfortable. Of all the burdensome habits he had, that one was a major target of his mother’s discipline.

They arrive at Dream’s house just as the sun disappears from the sky, darkness befalling the neighborhood only combated by sparse porch lights. He unlocks the door and enters first, trusting Tommy to wander in behind him. The kid still looks sullen, but he’s brightened up with curiosity about Dream’s residence, having only been there once before for a brief time. He gazes around, taking in the lack of decoration or homeliness. “Oh, I get it. You live in one of those boring houses. No wonder you’re so weird,” he comments, but it’s not unkind.

(“Devoid of life” would be a better description.)

Dream only shrugs, slightly amused by the bluntness of Tommy’s tone. It’s a pleasant change from the typical pitiful surprise that Tommy’s brothers expressed upon first stepping inside. He sets his backpack down by the stairs and sits in the living room, letting his routine decide his actions.

(Of course, the only thing on his mind is what he routinely does every morning and every afternoon after school, and that is check the gun safe in the hallway closet for the pistol, just to make sure that it’s still there. Call it exposure therapy, maybe, or maybe he’s just reassuring himself that it won’t be pointed at him for the time being. The paranoia of thinking it’s gone always outweighs the anxiety of seeing the gleam of the metal with the power to kill him where he stands. Any rational person would rather that power be in their own hands.)

Before a month ago, before two months ago, even, Dream probably would’ve gotten himself a snack. But ever since Sapnap joined George in the list of people who have abandoned him, his appetite has been nonexistent. He’s been skipping breakfast, never eats lunch, and will only stomach an evening snack if he feels like he’ll pass out without it.

Being alone in his thoughts has thrown off a lot of other routines as well. He’s even reverted to some of the habits he had when he was much younger. He’ll wander around the house counting all the items in each room, comparing their locations to his childhood memory, arrange and rearrange books or furniture, committing every object’s location to its rightful place in his mental layout of the building.

The nostalgia/deja vu makes it difficult to remember what he’s done most of the time. The other day, he noticed after a few hours of mindless rummaging that he had cleared a large area in the cellar, just around the load baring support in the center of the room. He doesn’t know why, but it’s easier to let it go than contemplate.

Now, he watches Tommy like it’s some TV show he can’t take his eyes off of. The way the boy’s mannerisms and expression betray his every thought. His comment about the house being “boring” earlier, it’s so obvious how his memories flash before him with every glance over the interior. He’s critiquing the decor like it’s some new foster home he’s been dropped off at.

(And isn’t that a nice thought. Does Tommy think he’ll be staying here for longer than a few hours? Does his mind already shape the space into something he’ll be occupying longer term?

Does he already know what’s to come?)

The young teen finds a place on the couch, about an arms length from where Dream is sitting, and stares ahead into nowhere. He’s thinking, that much is obvious, and Dream only has a slight suspicion as to what.

“Hey, Dream?” He speaks up after a long moment. Dream remains silent, his gaze the only prompt to continue. Tommy gulps, not looking at Dream directly but no doubt feeling the eyes burning into his skin. “You… you were kidding when you said they ‘forgot about me’… right?” He asks, practically pleading, wanting any scrap of indication that his anxieties are nonsense.

And the fire behind Dream’s eyelids gleams, he could be the only light in the room and he would be none the wiser. The words pull from his mouth like a shower of sparks, tugging at the corners of his lips. “Why would I be kidding? I was just stating a fact,”  he says, so candidly setting aflame the carefully constructed house of cards that is Tommy’s trust in his foster family. These past months may have been an open window of opportunity, a tentative glimpse into a life of stability- but perhaps the window was only an attempt to clear the smoke of a hopeless psyche, unintentionally fanning the growing blaze.

The boy mulls over the response, eyes still staring ahead, glossy and unfocused. His breaths are sporadic, some coming easy while others are seemingly choking him through the very act of breathing. When he finds his words, he stutters, “Th-then why-“

But Dream cuts him off, “Because you’re hard to love, Tommy.” His just explanation somehow pales the boy further. “I know that, and I’m not around you nearly as much as the Watsons are.” The streamlined passage of thoughts to words feels so simple, Dream would almost dare to say he isn’t solely responsible- if he wasn’t so fascinated by the despair befalling the young boy. “It was only a matter of time until the novelty of a new foster wore out,” he sighs, like the information is an unfortunate yet undeniable truth.

Tommy is silently crying now, clenching his eyes shut as if that will remove him from the conversation. It’s a glorious sight, one that Dreams observes with rapt attention. He’s saddened to break the moment of tearful quiet but he has one more thing to say.

“Tommy,” Dream interrupts, placing a firm hand on the younger’s shoulders, “When Phil agreed to foster you, I know he didn’t expect the burden that you would cause to his family. How could he? Normal children are easy to love and care for.” He takes a moment for the words to sink in, for Tommy’s cries to become slightly more erratic. “But I see the potential in you. I’m willing to put in the effort to support you, because you’re like a brother to me.”

A minute passes where Tommy attempts to control his breathing, wiping away a stray tear on his sleeve and finally facing Dream with his pitiful eyes all blue and glassy. “Y-you mean that?” He asks, meek like a little mouse, so much hope in his gaze that Dream feels like his own facing heart is about to implode.

“Of course,” he whispers in reply, unblinking, not willing to miss even a millisecond of the moment. The hand that laid on the boy’s shoulder crawls up to brush through his golden curls, reminiscent of a mother comforting her child, but Dream wouldn’t understand that comparison. A memory surfaces of when Tommy described his parents’ accident, how Sapnap apologized for Tommy’s misfortune and offered a hug. Dream still doesn’t really understand why he did that, or why the hug was rejected, but Dream needs a next step and that option is the only one he can think of.

He pivots his body, drawing his knee up onto the couch so he can better face Tommy, then opens his arms invitingly. The boy looks surprised for a moment, knowing Dream isn’t the type to give comfort so easily, but he takes it swiftly, grabbing onto the front of Dream’s hoodie and burying his face in the fabric. His muffled sobs are like music to Dream’s ears.  “I’m sorry,” Dream says once he wraps his long arms around Tommy, lacing his words with pity, “that your foster family isn’t willing to give you the love you deserve.”

(This, of course, is the opposite of how he truly feels. In his eyes, Tommy is loved far too much. Tommy hasn’t done anything to justify the amount of attention, love, and care they give to him. All he’s been is a nuisance. An annoying insolent child enabled by a family that for some reason chose to care for him, but he doesn’t need to be reminded of that right now.)

They sit for a long while, Tommy freeing his tears in one drawn-out moment as Dream contemplates the situation. See, when he first hugged Techno a while back, he remembers how vulnerable he felt, how open and afraid he was to speak about matters he had only shared with his headmates. That embrace was something phenomenal, to receive a physical comfort that shrouded his being without confinement, a shield against the odds of the universe that hated him so.

But this? This is something different. There is power in this embrace, a power that Dream holds, that he controls. His words have shattered Tommy into a million different pieces and now his arms pull him back together, holding him in place like a delicate vase on the edge of collapsing. He is both the hammer and the glue, the sword and the shield, but above all, he is the puppeteer.

(There is an end goal, for Dream. He may not see it, but his taste for control is too intoxicating to leave to waste. His untapped potential will fester like a rotting wound until he figures out how to harness it. But he isn’t alone in his deed. He has never been alone. He just isn’t ready to accept the truth.)

Chapter Text

It’s the following morning, a Friday, the last Friday before winter break, and Dream knows the instant his consciousness awakens that today is not going to be good.

To start, his eyes don’t even open. They feel like they’ve been glued shut, suddenly weighing more than the entire Earth on his brittle cheekbones. His head is pounding like a sledgehammer had been swung at his skull, and despite not eating much in the past few days, he feels nauseated. Saliva that lays bitter under his tongue wells and gives the promise of a painful, acid-filled puke to start his day, and what’s worse is that he doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to drag his worthless body to the toilet if that happens. His entire body is as stone cold as a corpse in a freshly built casket, decomposing at a rapid rate after a quick funeral that no one attended.

These sorts of days are nothing new, but this is the first time he’s experienced one completely on his own. There’s no one, absolutely no one to help him, to take the reins so he can let it pass and still go to school and pretend to be a person, no other presence to whisper quiet comforts and remind him that other people do not, in fact, want him to dissolve into a pile of hazardous waste. No one to combat the violent delusions that get infinitely worse once his brain decides to forfeit all attempts at self-regulation.

Even in his waking minutes, his mind is thrumming with ideas, fantasies about all the ways that he can end his miserable existence. With the stifling bed covers over his sweat-riddled body, he can envision the room is already ablaze and ready to melt him from the skin down to his rotted skeleton. Or, maybe his nauseous gut is already eating itself, caving in and carving a hole under his sternum until his rib cage shatters and his lungs puncture and fill with stomach acid. Maybe he’ll find the strength to push himself down the stairs, taking his grubby hands and fishing out that pistol in the closet, finally putting the thing to good use, like it was always meant to.

And in the minutes past, none of these things happen. His alarm continues to blare and his body remains glued to the sheets. The stagnant air of his bedroom carries a biting chill as if his window were open to the brisk morning. Peeking outside, he can see the blurring streaks of white that dot the windowpane. He’s unsure if it’s snowing now, but it definitely did overnight.

The walk to school will be hell. But that’s assuming he’ll be able to get out of bed first.

Between the flashes of a wishful demise and aches of exhaustion, his thoughts attempt to fill in the vacant spaces where his headmates once occupied, to surmise the kind of things they would say. (‘One foot in front of the other,’ says one, and ‘the day will be over as soon as you know it,’ from the other.) He doesn’t know if he’s successful, it’s all just a cacophony of meaningless noises, but after a few flutters of his eyelids he’s somehow standing in the kitchen.

His body driven by autopilot managed to put on a long sleeve with a hoodie pulled over, and a pair of jeans. It’s the same pair he wore yesterday, and it grates against the skin of his legs, but he’s not going to change. If he steps foot back in his room, he knows for certain he will never come out.

There's a missed call and a message on the answering machine, but Dream is entirely too out of it to deal with something like that at the moment. He can only lay witness to the robotic movements of putting on his shoes, looping his arms through his backpack straps. The world feels underwater when he finally leaves the house, the lock’s click sounding muffled and far away, the cold leading him to believe he’s stepping out onto the bottom of the ocean. Icicles and frost form at the edges of his clothes and hair until they are too stiff for even the brisk wind to push and pull.

While he walks, or at the very least his legs move, pushing one foot in front of the other in a passionless stride, he daydreams about all the ways he could simply cease to live. Cars may be few and far between, but there’s still clear opportunity to jump in front of one sporadically and instantly turn into mush, nothing more than a streak of red in the street for the snowmelt to wash away. Or perhaps a rogue patch of ice on the sidewalk will cause him to slip and tumble face first, cracking open his skull like an overstuffed piñata or snapping his neck to die paralyzed and feeling nothing at all.

Surely the possibilities are endless, and yet, in what seems like the blink of an eye, he’s arrived at school. His slow and apathy-addled brain considers joining his “friends” (the unfortunate dimwits who for some reason allow themselves to associate with him), but the mere image of interacting with a real human being makes him want to projectile vomit all over the school tile.

(And for the record, Dream isn’t a real human being. Perhaps on a better day, he would be close to one, but in his sorry dysfunctional state he is nothing more than a few handfuls of maggots stuffed into a human-shaped suit. They are trapped, wriggling under the thin confines of his skin and eating away at his bones and muscles in their efforts to be free. It is unknown if Dream is the hive mind of these creatures or the unwilling warden. Either way, he is far from real.)

He wills his disjointed mind to decide on a course of action, all at once invisible in the crowds of students walking past him and the center of attention and ridicule. The noise invades his ears like a swarm of locusts, every person looks and laughs and points and pretends he doesn’t exist. He takes so long to act that the bell is already ringing, and he is still standing dumbfounded in the middle of the entrance while the moving bodies make their way to class. In a sense, he really is just a ghost, watching as a harmless bystander while everyone around him goes about their lives. It’s difficult to think about, that at this time yesterday he was still alive.

One long blur of his surroundings later finds him sitting at a desk by the window in his history classroom, gazing keenly at the clouds rolling against the gray backdrop of the sky. It’s still snowing, but only a flurry like this morning. He imagines the window pane is only an illusion, that the delicate snowflakes sweep in from the outside and steadily encase him in ice. It certainly feels that way already, with his toes numb and fingers burning red.

“-is there a Dream here? Dream Taken?”

The echo of his full name breaks through the cold veil, and Dream just now notices that there’s a substitute teacher standing at the front of the classroom. They must be taking attendance, but as luck would have it, the exhaustion settled deep in his bones extends to his ability to conjure words as well. He raises a meek hand, but the substitute isn’t looking up anymore, instead muttering under his breath about how ridiculous someone must be to name their kid ‘Dream.’

“He’s here,” someone speaks up to alert the teacher, and to Dream’s surprise, it’s Karl. Ever since that night when he slept on his couch, Karl has been actively ignoring his existence, any stray gaze filled with sadness and betrayal. His tone now is one of benign obligation.

“Hmm?” The sub looks up curiously, first looking at Karl before catching Dream’s lifeless stare. Dream lets his hand fall, energy sufficiently drained. “You’re Dream?” The teacher restates. “Then, pray tell, why didn’t you answer me when I called you the first time?”

Dream just blinks at him, unsure of why the statement is being made at all. It’s obvious he was lost to the swirl of mindless white outside, head too far in the clouds to hear whatever approached him in reality. Too busy freezing to death oh so slowly.

The teacher waits a long moment for a response that will never come, so much so that a random student jeers, “He’s too slow for your fast talking, sir. You’re gonna need to dumb it down a bit so he can understand.” The teen and a good part of the class laughs.

It doesn’t really bother Dream to hear the snide remark, or maybe, on most days it wouldn’t bother him. Now it’s like a knife’s been driven through his ribcage, especially seeing his other “friends” frown at the comment, but ultimately stay quiet. They probably just mistakenly expect him to answer for himself, since it seems like the past few months have given him a bit of confidence to speak his mind.

Once again, Karl answers for him which, again, is confusing. It’s been made fairly clear that Karl wants nothing to do with him anymore, so why speak up? “He’s nonverbal, sir,” Karl addresses the unfamiliar teacher, speaking stern over the giggles of the bullies in the room.

The teacher sends a skeptical glare to Karl, rolling his eyes after a moment. He stares at Dream again, saying, “You know, most children outgrow selective mutism by middle childhood.” He walks up to Dream’s desk with a slow gait while more students stifle their laughs, condescension in his eyes, towering over the teen’s hunched form and looking down at him like a disapproving parent. “How do you expect to be respected as an adult if you can’t speak for yourself?” The man lectures, as if this is detention rather than a standard history class. He pulls up his clipboard with the attendance on it and readies a pen. “So I’ll ask again, are you present, Dream? Or shall I mark you absent?”

His heart is pounding in his chest, feeling like all the air in his lungs is escaping him.  And Dream isn’t completely sure as to why, again, the belittling is nothing he hasn’t heard before, but today is different. Today his mind is so much more vulnerable, and so much more aware of the fact that there are no fellow headmates to share the burden, to offer comfort and reassurance when the world tries its damndest to pull him into the abyss of despair. Today the face of this substitute morphs into the neighbor next door, staring down at him with contempt after being dropped him on the man’s doorstep for the fifth time that week. Then it’s his mother’s disgusted features, yelling at him right before she drags him away to lock him in the shoe closet again. And then that bully with blood running from his busted nose, standing over Dream sprawled on his back with his foot poised to kick.

There’s not an ounce of sympathy in the substitute teacher's expression as he watches Dream push himself toward hyperventilation, eyes darting around looking for an out. Dream can feel an ache in the back of his throat, the equivalent of wanting to cry, to make that high-pitched whine that he would always make as a child since he resented the feeling of tears on his cheeks. The panic of possibly breaking down in front of his peers shatters the dysfunction of his vulnerable state, and with fight or flight finally active, he instantly shoves the chair back as he stands, grabs his backpack, and rushes out of the room.

Despite being away from the conflict and out in the open, empty hall, he still feels like the walls are closing in on him. His lungs struggle against his ribs with every short, strained breath, to the point where his vision blurs and darkens around the edges. The sounds of his own footsteps against the tile thunder underneath him, quaking the ground as if shifting the earth itself. It’s all muscle memory taking him away, not even running, just walking at a fast pace, yet it feels like he’s trying to outrun death. It’s the same feeling he had after he jumped out of his window to escape his father’s wrath, like death looms behind him ready to blow his brains out at the first sign of weakness.

Reality and paranoia crash into each other like a train derailment when Dream suddenly finds himself inside a janitor's closet. The door is shut behind him with a motion sensor triggering an overhead light. The shelves are stocked with various cleaning supplies that smell stringent and chemical-y, eroding his senses but not enough to force him out of the closet. He slides to his knees, kicking aside an empty bucket and a mop, the walls all shifting into a mirage, a blend of the shoe closet he’s so familiar with and the room he’s in right now. His heart still hammering in his chest, his instincts tell him he’s been bad again, he pissed off his mother and now he’s locked inside until he calms down. The panic is still bubbling over the surface so he crosses his arms over his ribs and squeezes, forcing his breathing to calm by muffling the emotions erupting within. It’s like trying to use a tarp to stifle a geyser, the force of the blast is utterly chaotic, it’s painful. But he has to, or else he’ll be stuck in here for hours, days, however long until his mother deems him subdued enough.

It’s quiet in the small room, the hallways empty and his own racing heart muffled between his palms. All he can hear is the intense ringing, disappointed voices, laughter, the silence of his friends, his own inner monologue berating him for his incompetence and inability for him to just be normal, to stop acting like a baby and a freak and just take it, take it, take it because it’s so easy, because he’s overreacting and nothing about this situation should be a surprise anymore.

(And truly, a darker voice whispers, an effective solution could’ve laid in his hands if he checked the gun safe this morning like he usually did. He could have demanded their respect, shown his true colors and strength and power and control by responding to the goading with a nice shiny pistol right between their eyes. He could’ve taken out the whole classroom, the whole school, his bullies and his useless friends and then himself, to finally right all the wrongs in this godforsaken world.)

And he sees it in his fantasy, when the substitute teacher walks toward him he simply digs into his backpack and within a blink the situation is his to command. And he’s standing, the ringing in his ears like a siren, and he’s holding the gun and the unknown man is bleeding and dying and someone screams and he doesn’t recognize anyone in the room anymore because they are all worthless. They are already dead, and before the announcement demanding a lockdown- he’s dead too. Except he was never alive to begin with.

He’s shoved back into reality when his wrists are suddenly seized and pulled away from the clumps of hair he was gripping for dear life. Someone is whispering, consoling him, or maybe they’re shouting in his ears demanding he stops and-

“-calm down! Dream- please, you have to breathe.” He wrenches open his eyes to see the blurry figure in front of him (he only just notices the door is left open just a sliver, a bright light of the empty hallway glowing like the promise of heaven), his savior, his assailant, his mediator, the traitor that was once his friend. Karl Jacobs is trying to keep Dream’s hands restrained but his nimble fingers lose hold and the images are back in his brain, of blood and violence and stainless steel guns and making them stop-  stop laughing at him- and his fists ball and recoil to his crumbling skull in an attempt to break it open and dig out the awful visions himself lest they come true like some demonic premonition. And worse yet, he’s still trapped in the closet, he has to be quiet, be obedient, or he will shrivel up and die alongside the rest of the disregarded filfth that lies beside him.

When his wrists are grabbed once again- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want you to keep hurting yourself just-“ he can feel the labor of his lungs and his throat, inhaling like he’s sucking air through a straw and expelling it just as quickly with his incessant whining. It must truly be a breakdown if he’s too far gone to repress that urge in public. Paired with all that is his constant struggling against Karl’s confinement, too far from rationale to understand the frustration of the matter, and severely lacking any self-preservation.

“Stop- please,” the words that emit from Dream’s mouth are barely coherent, slurred together and bearing too many fearful memories. “Let go- let me out, it’s- I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-“. He’s had his fair share of flashbacks, God only knows his distinct fear of small spaces and metallic objects and loud noises- but he’s unsure if he’s ever had his traumas overlap like this, not that he’s in any mind to reflect on that at the moment.

He was 4 years old when he had his first-ever meltdown. It was a wonder how he had gotten that far with his mother as obtuse and burdened as she was, but perhaps the dutiful grace of his Nana was what prolonged the inevitable. Because, unfortunately for everyone, she couldn’t live forever.

“Dream,” his mother was turned at an awkward angle in the pew, her hands wrapped around his small wrists so he couldn’t shake them anymore, he could only whimper while she stared at him with such contention and said, “This is the last time I am going to tell you, be still and be quiet or there will be consequences.” Her voice wasn’t even raised, and perhaps that was the worst part, since from the outside she was a caring mother consoling her only son at his first ever funeral.

And he was a smart kid, for a four-year-old, he knew the implications of the context, knew the harsh threat that his mother was promising between her words. But he simply couldn’t stop the tantrum. The suit he was forced to wear was too tight around his neck, too stiff and scratched at his skin like sandpaper. He wanted to go home, he wanted his Nana because she was nicer than Mama, because she actually loved him and would take him outside if he was overstimulated or tired or feeling bad in general. And he wanted her, and he didn’t completely understand it but he wasn’t stupid. She was dead. He was never going to see her again. And his mother looked at him with utter malice as he whined again and flapped his hands and begged to go home and where was his Nana? His mother scolded him again but it was all white noise in the church hall, echoing and reverberating back to muffle his overwhelmed brain. Soon the flapping wasn’t enough and his fingers found themselves sheathed in his hair, tugging violently at the short curls and pounding against his temple with a balled up fist.

Before he knew it, a death grip latched onto his skinny wrist was dragging him away from the crowd, away from the lifeless body hidden in a wooden box on display, and into a side room, an empty classroom for Sunday school he once attended. He was panting and still jittery when his mother tossed him to the thinly carpeted floor; the door shut and the two of them were alone. He whined and shook and tugged at the collar of his shirt, pausing to scratch at the nape of his neck where his hair had grown too long for his liking.

The fire in his mother’s eyes hadn’t abated with the newfound privacy, her glare as sharp as a kitchen knife burrowing into his small frame. “Why must you insist on embarrassing me every chance you get?” She scolded him, standing over him while he stayed seated, rocking and still struggling to escape the discomfort and bad feelings. In a flash, she had one hand gripping his wrists, and the other wrapped around his neck, her manicured fingernails digging into the delicate skin on the underside of his chin. “I ask you to do one thing. One simple thing, and you purposefully disobey me. Do you want everyone to think I’m a bad mother? Is that what you want?” Her voice was booming in his ears as she knelt in front of him, using her leverage to pull him up to her level. He was so dazed by the sudden movement that he didn’t even realize his whining stopped because he couldn’t breathe. Her hand was squeezing, jostling him as if wanting a response but he was suffocating. He had felt her rage before, sure his Nana took care of him the most but she couldn’t be there all the time, but this was the first time he felt the visceral fear of the weight of her pure hatred for him and his existence. The edges of his vision grew clouded and the panic within him peaked, echoes of a scream trying to emerge from his crushed windpipe. Begging for help, for her to stop, to breathe-

He emerges from the flashback muttering nonsense under his breath, a steady string of “I can’t breathe,” and “I don’t want to die,” and “stop, please,” over and over. His throat feels scratched to hell, the ache spreading throughout his mouth and nasal cavity, a usual side effect of his ‘crying.’ It’s a headache to get his eyes to focus but he can see that Karl looks petrified, on the edge of tears only keeping himself together so he can comfort Dream.

Despite knowing he’s in reality, in the present day, his mind still feels trapped in the past, overcome by fear and the instinctual need to survive in any way he can. But his fight or flight is broken, unfortunately, stuck, frozen in time just like his rational thoughts. The limited focus only brings Karl into the trauma memory, especially while the brunet’s hands are still locked around Dream’s arms, even as they lay in his lap now, twitching aggressively ever so often. It seems like Karl doesn’t even realize he’s still holding on for dear life.

“She won’t let go,” Dream whispers, like a child sharing their deepest secret, his breaths still racing through his lungs, “I think I’m dying.” It’s almost reminiscent of his first meeting with George, yet with a real person that he can look at and feel their warmth.

Karl sputters, blinking at the semblance of clarity in Dream’s voice, a breakaway from the dissociated ramblings from before, “W-what? What are you talking about?’ Who-“

“I can’t breathe,” Dream chokes out, cutting Karl off as if he never spoke in the first place. “I’ll be better, I’m sorry. I won’t be bad anymore.”

“Dream- I don’t understand. I- I don’t know what to do,” Karl begs, inching closer, his voice cracking.

Dream’s on the cusp of hyperventilation, feeling his rapid heart beating in his jugular, straining against the artery like it’s begging for release. Yet at the same time, his eyes are so strangely focused on Karl’s, staring with a clouded, yet piercing glare. “I’m dying,” Dream says with a terrified conviction, “I don’t want to die. I don’t wanna- I’m scared, I’m so tired-“ He’s not making any sense, unsure of where he is. He feels so small, so meek and helpless. He wishes he didn’t feel this way anymore.

“You- you’re okay, Dream. I’m right here, you’re with me and you’re not- you’re not dying,” Karl speaks over his rambles, pleading to Dream and to himself and to whatever powers above could be listening. “I’m here, we’re safe, we’re safe.”

(And if only that could be the truth, but Karl doesn’t know that any place with Dream in it will never be safe. Just think, how easily that gun-shaped slot in his backpack could’ve been filled if he had half a coherent mind this morning).

He feels sick, bile climbing up his throat tinged with ghostly bruises. Every inch of his skin, inside and out, is so painfully raw, aching and bleeding. There’s fire beneath Karl’s palms still holding his wrists, all the tiny bones under them broken and serrating the muscles of his arms. His breathing isn’t any less erratic, his vision staring to blacken around the edges and he feels faint. Karl looks at him so desperately, watching his friend drift in front of his eyes, fading from consciousness rapidly.

An extra wave of panic washes over Dream, the oxygen deprivation mimicking the effects of his flashback, cementing even further the fact in his mind that he’s still a 4-year-old, caught in the chokehold of his vengeful mother with no one to save him. Then, a blink, and pressure surrounds him on all sides. His chin hovers over Karl’s shoulder, the side of his face tickled by the brunet’s curly hair. Spindly arms wrap around his torso, pulling them flush, their ribs slotted together like zipper teeth. Through the thin of their skins, the fragile bones and strips of clothing, Dream can feel the duality of their lungs, the contrast between the war in his chest and the steady (slightly elevated) rhythm of Karl’s heartbeat. The whispered comforts continue, but Dream can only focus on how his blood listens and copies the rushing of Karl’s veins, slowing gently until his arteries are depressurized. His heart soon gets the memo, and the beat moves from a frenzy to a laden hum, syncing to the warm body against him.

Dream’s vision returns, and so does his clarity. He lets the tension in his spine drain, his head and limbs falling limp in Karl’s hold. A shaky hand drifts over his back, rubbing gentle circles across his spine. The white noise is the last to fade, until Dream can hear the steady murmurs of Karl’s voice, realizing now how his small hitches in breath are the only signs of his soft crying. 

As his brain does a hard reset, he feels lost for a moment, unsure of where he is or who is holding him, why his body is so utterly drained. He remembers the awful weight resting on top of him that morning, but the rest is a blur. He thinks he’s at school. Despite the warmth and the strange tingling of his skin in contact with another person, Dream regretfully pulls away slowly, and Karl lets him, leaning back to catch his eye.

With a not so subtle wiping of a tear under his eye, Karl asks, “Are you back with me?”

Dream doesn’t really understand the question, since he doesn’t think he went anywhere, but he nods regardless. Karl’s hands are still on his arms, but laying atop them more comforting than confining.

Karl smiles at his answer, but it quickly falls into a concerned frown. “Dream, I-,” he hesitates, looking away for a moment, “I don’t know what just happened but- but I think you need to talk to someone.“

“Talk?” Dream questions, not getting much more out since his throat is so scratchy. Even the simple word made him cough lightly.

“I’m concerned,” Karl worries his lip between his teeth, “Has… has someone hurt you? Are they still hurting you?”

It’s like a bolt of lightning through his chest, his arms twitch violently under Karl’s palms as if suddenly attempting to hide himself, but he suppresses it. “What are-“ He coughs out, but tries again, “What are you talking about?”

Karl’s eyes somehow look even more like a dejected little puppy, “You were saying things, really, really scary things like ‘I can’t breathe’ and ‘I’m dying’ and apologized over and over again. It… I don’t want to assume but…” he trails off, breaking eye contact. He looks conflicted and hesitant, battling between his overbearing concern and the desire to respect Dream’s privacy.

And Dream remembers, even if the details are hazy, he can picture the muttering and the unfettered spazzing of his limbs as his mind sank deeper into the past. But that’s just the thing, it’s the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. He says as much.

The concern solidifies into something horrific, Karl’s wide eyes growing wider, “Of- of course it matters, Dream. Even if it- just- you deserve to be safe, and- and someone, like a counselor, can help. You can’t just keep these things to yourself forever.”

(Interest sparkles within the void of his thoughts, seeing the rush of emotion emanating from the teen before him. It’s intriguing in the way of a house burning to the ground, dangerous, and yet you just want to see more. It reminds Dream of the fact that he may never be human, but somehow the people surrounding him undeniably are. And he wants it, in that hopeless chasm, to see it, all of it. And lucky for him, he was just given the cipher.)

“My mom-“ the words rush through his teeth before he can even catch his breath, finding a dark cloud commandeering his control. The fog is somehow gleeful, compelled so strongly that he can’t prevent the darkness from submerging him completely. The curious glint in Karl’s eyes only draws it forward. “She hates me, she-“ It must seem like the choked effort is a sign of emotional strife, attempting to speak the truth about something so hurtful. But the truth is deeper, coated in a struggle between Dream’s panic for control and the malicious desire to see someone else hurting for once.

Karl’s grip on his arm tenses once again, perhaps trying to ground Dream or maybe himself. “Dream, it’s okay if you-“

“She would lock me in the shoe closet whenever she was angry with me,” he cut the other off, a manic grin fighting its way onto his face. He covers it with a shaky laugh, to look just like every other broken person who can’t cope. “I would scream and cry and claw at the door for hours begging her to let me out.” He keeps eye contact with Karl the entire time while his body tremors.

The look of horror on the brunet’s face only intensifies, as if watching the goriest scenes of a horror film play out before him. It only urged the malevolent force onward.

“Once, she was drinking, and she locked me in there and left. For three days. She forgot about me. When I spent all my energy I just laid on the floor and waited to die. My only thought was, ‘at least she’ll finally get what she wanted,’ but she came back before I passed out.” Dream rambles- but not Dream, it’s not him, he’s beginning to see that now. His mental energy wasted, he lets the compulsion reign free. “The first time I remember meeting my father was when he held a gun to my head, threatening to blow my brains out if I didn’t leave the house.”

It’s addicting, this feeling, more euphoric than anything he’s ever felt before. It piles over the dread of wondering what would happen next, now that Karl knows his deepest secrets. Said teen gasps, as if seeing the gunshot play out in real-time, choking, “What?!”

“And that-“ he’s laughing again, he probably looks crazy, deranged, out of his goddamn mind. He forces the giddiness to calm, because he knows the next line will be the icing on the cake. “That was the night I crashed on your couch.”

The result is instantaneous, the information laid out so neatly in front of Karl, his brain turning through it all, piecing it together, remembering exactly what happened that night. He looks absolutely destroyed, emotionally and mentally fractured beyond recognition. Dream couldn’t even imagine the things Karl must be feeling right now. His eyes dart away, blinking rapidly, mouth closed in a tight line and opening again, as if to ask a question, to exclaim something, but then it closes because he can’t think of anything to say. And Dream watches it happen, right in front of him, a downfall of his own volition, even if he didn’t command it himself.

“Oh my god,” the brunet sputters, shame and guilt and worry all mixed into one. “I didn’t know, why-“ he meets Dream’s watchful gaze again, “why didn’t you say anything?”

What foolishness, to think Dream would have any reason to trust them that night. But the question marks a turning point in the conversation, and the once overwhelming force becomes disinterested all at once, as Karl shifts to his kind-hearted nature and willingness to problem-solve. He isn’t stubborn enough to give in to the hopelessness. “You can’t tell anyone,” Dream says, quickly filling the space where potential solution lay, “You have to promise me, you won’t.” 

Karl, once again thrown for a loop, frowns, protesting, “Dream, you can’t- this is serious. You’re not safe at home, you need help-“

“If you tell anyone then I will kill myself.” The statement spills out as a last-ditch effort.

Sputtering, Karl tries to argue, “D- Wait, what? You-“

Dream just leans forward, every emotion turned to stone, “I’m serious, my life will be completely destroyed if you do.” He lets the words sink in before adding as solace, “I’ll be 18 next summer.”

“That’s months away,” there are tears gathering on the other teen’s lashes, the protest slowly dying out.

“It’s my choice, Karl.” A bout of passion emerges from some forgotten corner of Dream’s mind, his voice raising slightly, true anger burning in his lungs before snuffing out just as fast. “If you take that away from me, then…” he doesn’t need to repeat himself, his case in point made clear. “I’ll make the choice either way.” Finally, Karl crumbles under the burden of it all, nodding once then curling into himself, muffling his cries with the same palms that comforted Dream not fifteen minutes ago.

Despite the mirror before him, Dream just watches silently.