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The library was Dream’s cathedral.
Sunlight fractured through high windows, catching dust motes dancing like shattered dreams above endless rows of spines. Here, between the scent of yellowed paper and binding glue, reality softened. Here, princes kept their promises, love burned eternal, and gentle, bold heroes like Blade from The Crimson Kingdoms series would ride through ink-and-paper realms to claim their destined one.
Dream traced the embossed title on his current refuge, A Throne of Ash and Roses, his thumb brushing the fictional king’s name: Blade. A sigh escaped him, deeper than the quiet of the stacks. He’d been a hopeless romantic since he first deciphered fairy tales at six, building altars to love in dog-eared paperbacks. Real boys, however, were written in a language of thorns.
And then there was George.
George wasn’t a prince from parchment. He was a storm of espresso grounds and coding syntax, all sharp angles and sharper wit, perpetually haloed by the blue glare of his laptop screen in the campus coffee shop, The Grind.
Dream had stumbled into his orbit during freshman orientation, tripping over a stray backpack. George hadn’t laughed. He’d fixed Dream with dark, fathomless eyes, offered a hand with a sardonic twist of his lips, and said, “Spatial awareness. Install the update.” Dream was a goner.
It wasn’t just George’s effortless cool, the British lilt that turned mundane words into poetry, or the way his black turtleneck clung to his lean frame. It was the potential Dream saw flickering beneath the sarcasm – the vulnerability George hid like a secret line of faulty code.
Dream’s love for George bloomed in the quiet spaces between lines of shared Java and stolen glances. He memorized the constellation of freckles dusting George’s knuckles as he typed. He learned George took his tea with two sugars and a sigh, that he hated rainy Mondays and adored obscure synthwave.
Dream poured his yearning into every interaction: lingering after study sessions, crafting perfectly timed jokes just to see George’s lips quirk, bringing him a spare charger when his died mid-deadline panic. He built entire futures in his head – shared apartments cluttered with books and tech, quiet mornings with George’s head on his shoulder, a love as deep and steady as the bedrock beneath their university town.
He showed George his favorite havens: the hidden garden behind the old astronomy building where wisteria wept purple tears in spring, the dusty vinyl record shop downtown that smelled of history and honey. He gifted him dog-eared copies of fantasy novels with heroes who loved fiercely.
See? Dream’s heart whispered with every gesture, every shared silence heavy with unspoken words. See how I know you? See how I could love you?
George accepted the books with a distracted nod. He laughed at the jokes, sometimes. He used the charger. But his eyes, when they met Dream’s, held the polite opacity of a screen saver. He existed behind an invisible wall, his warmth a reflected glow, never direct sunlight.
Dream mistook proximity for intimacy, shared space for shared destiny. He was drowning in the almost, mistaking George’s tolerance for a slow-burning fuse.
The shattering wasn’t loud. It was a Tuesday. Rain lashed the coffee shop windows, turning the world into a watercolor smear. Dream, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, finally pushed a worn copy of The Crimson Kingdoms across the table. Blade’s silhouette, a sword against a stormy sky, glared from the cover.
“This one… this one made me think of you,” Dream stammered, cheeks burning. “The main character… he’s brilliant, guarded, but underneath… there’s this incredible loyalty. Like you.”
George looked up from his screen. Not with surprise, but with a weary kind of resignation, like a programmer encountering a bug he’d long anticipated. He didn’t touch the book. His gaze, when it settled on Dream, wasn’t unkind. It was empty.
“Dream,” George said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual wry edge. “You’re a great friend. Seriously. But… this?” He gestured vaguely between them, encompassing Dream’s trembling hope, the offered book, the years of quiet devotion.
“It’s not… it’s not that.” He offered a small, brittle smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t see you like that. I’ve never… led you on, have I?”
The words weren’t arrows; they were a vacuum. They sucked the air from Dream’s lungs, the warmth from his skin, the very light from the rain-gray room. The word echoed, hollow and devastating. Never led you on.
The careful architecture of Dream’s imagined future – the shared mornings, the quiet understanding, the depth of love he’d projected onto George’s guarded silence – imploded. He hadn’t been building a shared reality; he’d been performing a soliloquy to an audience of one, mistaking George’s passive presence for rapt attention.
Dream’s fingers, still resting on Blade’s cover, went numb. The hopeful flutter in his chest curdled into a cold, leaden weight that sank to the pit of his stomach. He stared at George, truly seeing him for the first time: not a complex hero hiding vulnerability, but a closed system, fundamentally incompatible with Dream’s yearning.
The freckles on his knuckles were just freckles. The sarcasm wasn’t a shield hiding treasure; it was the wall itself. The potential Dream had adored was merely his own reflection, projected onto a blank surface.
“Right,” Dream whispered, the single word scraping his throat raw. He pulled the book back, the embossed title biting into his palm.
“Yeah. Sorry. Misread… misread the code.” He stood abruptly, the chair legs screeching against the floor like a dying animal. He couldn’t look at George.
The rain-streaked window, the indifferent hum of the coffee machine, the blur of other students – they were all part of a world suddenly rendered alien and hostile.
He fled into the downpour. The icy rain soaked through his hoodie instantly, plastering his hair to his forehead, mingling with the hot, silent tears he refused to acknowledge.
He ran, not knowing where, only knowing he had to escape the crushing weight of his own foolish heart. He ran past laughing students huddled under umbrellas, past the hidden garden where the wisteria hung heavy and sodden, past the vinyl shop’s glowing window – all places now tainted by the ghost of a future that never was.
He finally stumbled into the library’s blessed, silent gloom. He bypassed the familiar fantasy aisles, seeking the deepest, darkest corner of the stacks, a place smelling only of dust and forgotten things. He slid down between towering shelves of ancient philosophy, his back pressed against cold metal.
Pulling his knees to his chest, he buried his face in the soaked fabric of his hoodie, the damp chill seeping into his bones.
The pain wasn’t sharp; it was a vast, hollow ache, a physical cavern opening beneath his ribs. It felt like the library itself had collapsed on him, crushing the breath from his lungs, compressing his heart into a tiny, bruised stone. He choked on a sob, the sound muffled by fabric, raw and ugly.
How could love hurt like this? How could something built so carefully from glances and shared silences and the quiet certainty of knowing shatter into nothing with a few flat words?
He felt exposed, foolish, the raw nerve endings of his hope scraped bare. George’s indifference was a brand, searing the word "FRIEND" onto his soul in letters of ice. He hadn’t just lost George; he’d lost the person he’d believed George to be, the person he’d built his fragile hopes upon. The fictional George he’d loved was dead, and the real one had never existed.
His hand, trembling, found the familiar shape in his soaked backpack. A Throne of Ash and Roses. Blade’s stoic, determined face stared back from the cover, untouched by the rain, unbroken by rejection.
Dream clutched the book to his chest like a shield, like an anchor in the wreckage. The cool, smooth cover was real against his fevered skin. The promise within its pages was solid, unchanging. Blade wouldn’t look at his beloved with polite emptiness. Blade wouldn’t call devotion a misread code.
He opened the book, the pages whispering like a benediction in the oppressive silence.
His vision blurred, tears smudging the ink as he found his place. He read not for the plot, but for the refuge. He read until the hollow ache in his chest was momentarily filled by the fierce, unwavering love of a fictional king for his fictional queen.
He read until the rain outside faded, until George’s flat, empty voice was drowned out by the clash of swords and declarations of eternal fealty written in ink. He read, and in the quiet sanctuary of the stacks, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand other stories, Dream began the fragile, necessary work of rebuilding his shattered heart around the only love that had never lied to him: the love found between the covers of a book.
The real world had shown him its thorns. Blade’s world offered roses, even if they were woven from paper and longing. For now, it was the only balm he had.
The days after George’s gentle, devastating demolition bled into a monochrome haze. Dream moved through lectures and meals like a ghost haunting his own life.
The vibrant greens of the campus quad seemed muted, the laughter of passing students a distant, dissonant hum. He avoided The Grind like a plague zone, taking circuitous routes across campus, his stomach clenching every time he glimpsed dark hair or a black turtleneck in the distance.
The library became his bunker, the fantasy aisle his only deployment zone. He devoured The Crimson Kingdoms, finding a perverse solace in Blade’s stoic suffering, his unwavering loyalty in the face of impossible odds. At least Blade felt things deeply, even if it was for a queen woven from ink.
Then came Sapnap.
Sapnap, Dream’s best friend since freshman orientation week chaos, was a supernova of chaotic energy – loud, fiercely loyal, and possessing an emotional radar tuned specifically to Dream’s frequencies. He’d noticed the withdrawal, the shadows under Dream’s eyes that no amount of coffee could hide, the way Dream flinched at George’s name like it was a live wire.
"Alright, spill," Sapnap demanded one afternoon, cornering Dream in their shared dorm room, currently littered with Sapnap’s discarded game controllers and Dream’s precarious stacks of fantasy novels.
"You look like Blade just told you the kingdom’s doomed. What did George do?"
Dream flinched. Hearing George’s name spoken aloud felt like prodding a fresh bruise. He tried for a shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but it came out brittle. "Nothing. Just… nothing happened. That’s the point." He kept his eyes glued to the worn cover of A Throne of Ash and Roses, tracing the sword’s outline.
Sapnap plopped onto Dream’s bed, sending a book tumbling. "Nothing? Dream, you’ve been orbiting that guy like Jupiter’s saddest moon for months. You’re avoiding the coffee shop like it’s haunted. Did he… did he say something?"
The dam cracked. Not a flood, but a slow, painful seepage. Dream recounted the Tuesday rain, the offered book, George’s flat, empty words. "It’s not that." "Friend." "Never led you on." He spoke in a monotone, each word scraped raw from his throat, but the raw ache beneath vibrated in the small room.
Sapnap listened, his usual boisterousness replaced by a rare, focused stillness. When Dream finished, silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then, Sapnap sighed, a sound heavy with understanding. "Oh, Dream. Man, that… sucks. Like, monumentally sucks." He punched Dream lightly on the shoulder, a gesture of rough comfort.
"He’s an idiot. A blind idiot. Anyone with half a brain can see you’re… you’re everything, Dream."
The raw sincerity in Sapnap’s voice was a balm, a tiny flicker of warmth in the icy cavern George had left. Dream managed a weak, watery smile. "Thanks, Sap."
Sapnap’s loyalty was absolute. He railed against George’s obliviousness, cursed his "resting bored face," and vowed eternal vengeance involving strategically misplaced coding textbooks.
For a few days, Dream felt shielded. Sapnap dragged him to loud, greasy pizza places instead of the coffee shop, filled their room with mindless gaming commentary, and generally tried to drown out the silence George had left behind. Dream leaned into it, grateful for the distraction, the sheer, uncomplicated presence of his best friend.
But loyalty, Dream would learn, wasn’t exclusive.
Sapnap, being Sapnap, didn’t hold grudges the way Dream did. His anger cooled, replaced by his natural, gregarious nature. And George… George wasn’t actively cruel. He was just George. Oblivious, self-contained George, who didn’t see why Sapnap’s sudden hostility should continue over something as trivial as… well, whatever Dream had misinterpreted.
Dream first saw them together again a week later. He was skulking near the science building, trying to avoid the main thoroughfare, when he heard Sapnap’s distinctive laugh.
He froze, hidden behind a thick oak tree. There they were: Sapnap, gesturing animatedly, and George, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, a small, genuine-looking smile on his face as he listened.
Sapnap punched George lightly on the arm, the same way he did to Dream. George didn’t flinch; he just rolled his eyes, that familiar, wry expression back in place.
The sight was a physical blow.
It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was the confirmation of his own replaceability, his own insignificance in George’s world.
Dream’s carefully constructed pain, the monument he’d built to his shattered devotion, felt mocked. George had moved on without even noticing he’d stepped on Dream’s heart. He’d simply resumed his life, unburdened, and Sapnap… Sapnap, his anchor, his shield, was laughing with him.
The world kept spinning, indifferent to the tectonic shift that had leveled Dream’s internal landscape.
The casual encounters started.
Dream, heading towards the library, would see Sapnap and George emerging from the computer lab, heads bent over a phone screen Sapnap was showing off. He’d duck behind a bookshelf, heart hammering. He’d hear George’s dry chuckle echoing down the hall, followed by Sapnap’s louder guffaw, and the sound would coil around his lungs like cold wire.
Once, Sapnap even tried to bridge the gap.
"Hey, Dream! George and I are grabbing burgers. Wanna come?" Sapnap called out across the crowded quad, George standing beside him, looking vaguely at the sky.
Dream’s throat closed. He saw George glance over, his expression politely neutral, utterly devoid of the awkwardness or guilt Dream craved. He doesn’t even remember, Dream realized with a fresh wave of nausea. Or he remembers, and it simply doesn’t matter.
"No thanks," Dream managed, forcing a smile he knew didn’t reach his eyes.
"Got… Blade awaits." He held up his book like a talisman.
Sapnap looked disappointed but shrugged. "Suit yourself! More fries for us!" George just nodded, already turning away, his attention snagged by something on his phone.
The worst was overhearing them.
Dream was tucked into his favorite, secluded library nook, deep in The Crimson Kingdoms: Crown of Sorrows, seeking refuge in Blade’s latest impossible battle against encroaching darkness. Their voices drifted from the nearby study carrels, clear as shattering glass.
"...Dream still buried in those knight-and-damsel books?" George’s voice, laced with that familiar, detached amusement.
Sapnap’s reply was defensive, but light. "Hey, lay off. He likes what he likes. They’re good stories! Full of… honor and stuff. Not everyone’s wired for code 24/7, Gogy."
George snorted softly. "Honor. Right. Seems like a lot of unnecessary angst. Real life’s messy enough without inventing fictional tragedies." There was a pause, the rustle of papers.
"He offered me one, you know. Before. Some muscle-bound guy on the cover swinging a sword. Thought it was… odd."
Dream stopped breathing. His fingers tightened on the pages of his book, the paper biting into his skin.
Odd.
His offering, his vulnerability, his attempt to bridge the gap between his world and George’s, reduced to a curious, slightly baffling anecdote.
Unnecessary angst.
George couldn’t even comprehend the depth of feeling Dream poured into those pages, the solace he sought there, the very real tragedy he was currently living. Blade’s fictional struggles felt more valid, more seen, than Dream’s own raw heartbreak.
He heard Sapnap mumble something noncommittal, clearly wanting to change the subject. George just hummed, the sound dismissive, already moving on.
Their conversation shifted to an upcoming coding project, their voices fading as they walked away, leaving Dream alone in the suffocating silence.
The cavern beneath his ribs yawned wider, colder. It wasn’t just George’s rejection anymore. It was the erasure. It was Sapnap’s easy camaraderie with the architect of his pain. It was the confirmation that his deepest feelings, the core of his hopelessly romantic soul, were viewed by George as mildly perplexing artifacts – like finding a medieval broadsword in a server room.
Unnecessary. Odd.
He looked down at the book in his hands. Blade stared back, his illustrated eyes fierce and unwavering. Here, in these pages, devotion wasn’t mocked. Sacrifice wasn’t trivialized. Love, even doomed love, was treated with the gravitas it deserved.
Blade fought for his queen against legions of shadow; he endured betrayal and hardship, but his purpose was never questioned, his feeling was never called unnecessary.
Dream traced the bold lines of Blade’s face. Real boys, like George, offered polite emptiness and casual dismissal. Real boys moved on, unburdened, leaving craters behind without a backward glance. Real boys thought love stories were "angst."
Blade, though… Blade was constant. Blade was brave. Blade understood loyalty that burned like a forge. Blade wouldn’t call Dream’s heart odd.
He pulled the book closer, pressing his forehead against the cool, smooth cover.
Outside the high library windows, the sun shone brightly on a world where George and Sapnap walked together, laughing about things that didn’t matter. Inside, surrounded by the whispers of a thousand fictional souls, Dream made a silent vow.
He would retreat further. He would fortify his heart behind walls of parchment and ink. He would find his love, his loyalty, his worth, in worlds where heroes like Blade rode against the darkness, where feelings weren't burdens, but the very fire that lit the way.
The real world, with its Georges and its casual, crushing indifference, could keep its messy, unfeeling reality. Dream had kingdoms to save, and a fictional king whose steadfast gaze held no trace of emptiness. It was safer here. It hurt less. Blade would never call him "friend" and mean nothing at all.
The first year of college bled out like ink from a cheap pen – messy, stained, and ultimately finished.
Dream survived Linguistics 101, the ghost of GeorgeNotFound, and the awkward dance of the Sapnap-George-Dream "friendship."
Survival was the operative word. Acceptance was a slower, more agonizing bloom. He learned to breathe around the dull ache George left behind, a phantom limb of the heart. He watched Sapnap and George forge an easy, bantering camaraderie – built on coding marathons, shared memes, and a mutual appreciation for dry sarcasm that Dream could only ever admire from the outside.
He became the quiet third wheel, the one who lingered at the edge of their inside jokes, offering a smile that sometimes reached his eyes, sometimes didn't.
He accepted the invitations to group study sessions, learned to flinch internally rather than visibly when George laughed at something Sapnap said, a sound that still held a faint, painful echo of the affection Dream had once imagined directed at him. It was a fragile peace, built on the careful avoidance of anything too deep, too real.
They were an unconventional trio, bound by Sapnap's unwavering loyalty and Dream's quiet endurance.
Summer break arrived like a sigh of relief. Dream traded the echoing lecture halls and coffee-scented minefields of campus for the familiar, book-dusted sanctuary of home.
Home was a sprawling, slightly chaotic Victorian house filled with the comforting scent of Niki’s baking and the warm, grounding presence of Puffy. And Tubbo.
Tubbo, his whirlwind of a younger brother, was a force of nature – all buzzing energy, boundless curiosity, and an infectious grin that could crack through even Dream’s lingering melancholy. His room was a testament to his passions: half-built robots shared space with terrariums and posters of obscure indie bands.
He was Dream’s anchor to the present, dragging him out of his internal landscapes with demands for help fixing a drone or opinions on the latest sci-fi series.
Dream’s own anchor, however, remained firmly planted in the fictional.
He retreated into his haven: a small, converted attic space accessible only by a narrow staircase hidden behind a bookshelf in his bedroom. His secret library.
Sunlight streamed through a single dusty skylight, illuminating floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers. Classics rubbed spines with modern fantasy epics, poetry collections nestled beside dog-eared romance novels. But the place of honor, on a small oak table beneath the skylight, was reserved for The Crimson Kingdoms series.
He’d reread them countless times over the summer, the worn pages soft as velvet under his fingertips.
Blade’s steadfast courage, his fierce, unwavering love for his queen, Elara, was a balm. It didn’t matter that the author hadn’t announced a new book. Dream found solace in the familiar rhythm of the prose, the predictable arcs of loyalty and triumph. Here, love wasn’t a minefield; it was destiny, written in indelible ink.
He was sprawled on the worn Persian rug in his library, lost in Blade’s Vow – a particularly intense scene where Blade faced down a traitorous duke to protect Elara – when Tubbo burst through the hidden door like a small, excited tornado.
“Dream! You gotta come down! Tommy’s here! And he brought his brother!”
Dream blinked, dragging himself out of the snow-capped mountains of Eldoria. “Tommy? The loud one from your robotics club?” Tubbo had mentioned Tommy incessantly – a whirlwind even louder than himself.
“The one and only!” Tubbo beamed.
“And his brother Wilbur! He’s like, super cool. Music major. Plays guitar and writes songs and everything! He’s waiting downstairs. Come on!”
The prospect of meeting new people, especially loud ones, usually made Dream want to burrow deeper into his book fort. But the sparkle in Tubbo’s eyes, the sheer normalcy of a summer afternoon visit, felt… necessary. A step towards the world outside his pages.
He marked his place with a sigh (Blade mid-glower) and followed Tubbo down.
The living room was instantly louder. Tommy was indeed a force – all flailing limbs, bright blonde hair, and a voice that seemed permanently set to ‘maximum volume’. He was enthusiastically describing the catastrophic failure of his latest rocket design to a patient-looking Puffy.
Leaning against the doorway, radiating an air of amused detachment, was Wilbur.
Wilbur was… different. Tall and lean, dressed in a worn brown corduroy jacket over a band t-shirt, dark curls framing a sharp, intelligent face.
He had warm brown eyes that held a glint of something thoughtful, almost melancholic, beneath the surface of his easy smile. A battered acoustic guitar case leaned against his legs.
He looked like a character stepped out of a different kind of book – perhaps a bohemian romance or a coming-of-age novel set in Greenwich Village.
“Ah, the elusive Dream!” Wilbur’s voice was smooth, deeper than Tommy’s, with a melodic cadence that immediately drew attention.
He pushed off the doorframe and offered a hand. “Tommy’s talked non-stop about Tubbo’s brilliant, book-obsessed brother. Wilbur. Pleasure.”
Dream shook his hand, feeling a faint, unexpected warmth spread from the contact. Wilbur’s gaze was direct, assessing, but not unkind.
“Uh, hi. Dream. Yeah, Tubbo might exaggerate the brilliance part,” he mumbled, suddenly hyper-aware of the ink smudge probably on his thumb.
“Nonsense! Anyone who builds a secret library gets instant cool points in my book,” Wilbur grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Tubbo gave me the grand tour concept. Sounds epic.”
They talked. Easily, surprisingly. Wilbur was effortlessly charming, asking questions about Dream’s linguistics studies with genuine interest, sharing anecdotes about his music program – the pretentious professors, the chaotic open mics, the thrill of crafting a perfect lyric.
He didn’t mock Dream’s quietness; he seemed to find it intriguing. Dream found himself relaxing, drawn in by Wilbur’s easy confidence and the way his hands moved expressively when he talked about chord progressions.
Then Tommy, mid-rant about the ‘absolute tyranny’ of his history teacher, dropped the bombshell.
“...and Techno! He’d get it! He hates boring history lectures too! Wish he was here, but nope! Mr. Fancy-Pants Theatre Major is too busy method acting or whatever in California! Probably covered in glitter glue again. Pink hair phase, innit? For that vampire rock musical thing?”
Dream froze. Pink hair? His mind instantly conjured an image: not glitter glue, but the fierce, crimson mane of Blade, flowing like blood against snow in the cover art of A Throne of Ash and Roses. His heart gave a strange, unexpected lurch.
“Techno?” Dream asked, trying to sound casually interested, not like his fictional world had just collided unexpectedly with the real one.
“My other brother,” Wilbur explained, a fond exasperation in his tone.
“Techno Blade. BA in Theatre Arts. Currently deep in the trenches of some avant-garde production, hence the… vibrant hair choices. It changes with the role. Last time it was neon green for a cyberpunk thing. Pink is new. He’s intense. Brilliant, but… intense.” Wilbur chuckled.
“Communicates mostly in cryptic quotes and grunts when he’s deep in character.”
Techno Blade. The name itself felt like it belonged in one of Dream’s novels – strong, slightly ominous, unique. Pink hair. Intense. Brilliant.
Each detail resonated, painting a picture startlingly close to the fictional hero who haunted Dream’s dreams. He felt a spark of excitement, a ridiculous yearning to meet this phantom brother who sounded like he’d stepped straight out of The Crimson Kingdoms.
“He sounds… interesting,” Dream managed, hoping his voice didn’t betray the sudden, vivid fantasy unfolding in his mind: meeting Techno Blade, finding someone whose reality mirrored the bold, steadfast intensity of Blade.
But Techno remained an absent specter, a story told by Wilbur and Tommy. Wilbur, however, was very present.
He started visiting often. Sometimes with Tommy, sometimes alone, guitar case in hand. He’d play snippets of new songs on the sun-drenched porch, melodies that were wistful and yearning, lyrics that spoke of fleeting moments and unspoken desires.
Dream would listen, curled up in a wicker chair, a book forgotten in his lap, drawn into the intimate world Wilbur spun with chords and words.
Their casual summer love bloomed like wildflowers – bright, beautiful, and inherently temporary. Wilbur was sunlight and music. He took Dream on drives to hidden lakes at dusk, the air thick with the scent of pine and water.
They’d lie on a blanket, Wilbur pointing out constellations with a poet’s flair, weaving stories around the stars Dream had only ever read about in myths.
He kissed Dream under the weeping willow in Niki’s garden, the touch soft and exploratory, sending shivers down Dream’s spine that had nothing to do with fictional heroes.
Wilbur made Dream feel seen, in a way George never had. He appreciated Dream’s quiet observations, his knowledge of obscure folklore, the way he’d get lost in thought. He called Dream ‘lovely’ and ‘fascinating’, words that sank into Dream’s bruised heart like warm honey. He wrote a song fragment just for him, a few lines about ‘quiet eyes holding universes,’ sung softly against Dream’s temple one late afternoon.
It was intoxicating. Dream, the hopeless romantic, began to weave a new narrative. Perhaps this was it? The real-life connection he craved?
Wilbur was artistic, sensitive, charming. He saw Dream. He kissed him like he meant it.
Dream tentatively lowered the walls he’d built around his heart, brick by paper brick. He shared more about his books, about Blade, about the ache George left.
Wilbur listened, his expression thoughtful, his fingers tracing patterns on Dream’s arm. “You feel things deeply, Dream,” he murmured once. “It’s beautiful. Fragile, but beautiful.”
Dream mistook the observation for understanding. He mistook the summer’s ease for depth. He started imagining Wilbur visiting him at college, meeting his moms properly, maybe even dedicating a whole song to him someday. He pictured lazy weekends filled with music and shared silence, a love less like a fairy tale and more like a perfectly crafted indie film – real, raw, and deeply felt.
But he didn’t notice how Wilbur’s songs were always about the idea of love, the melancholy of endings, the beauty of transience.
He didn’t register how Wilbur spoke of the future in vague, artistic terms – ‘touring,’ ‘recording,’ ‘finding inspiration’ – with no concrete place for Dream in those plans.
He was too busy basking in the warmth of the present, mistaking Wilbur’s artistic appreciation of his fragility for a desire to protect it.
One evening, as August bled into September and the air held the first crisp hint of autumn, they were lying on the blanket by the lake again. Fireflies danced like scattered embers in the gathering dusk.
Wilbur was strumming a soft, melancholic tune. Dream, head resting on Wilbur’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath the music, felt a surge of courage.
“Wilbur?” he whispered, the words barely louder than the crickets.
“Hmm?” Wilbur’s fingers stilled on the guitar strings.
“This… us… what happens… when summer ends?” Dream asked, the question hanging fragile in the twilight air. “When we go back?”
The silence stretched, thicker than before. Wilbur didn’t tense, but the easy rhythm of his breathing hitched, just slightly. He looked down at Dream, his expression soft but distant, like he was viewing him through a slightly fogged lens.
“Oh, Dream,” he sighed, the sound tinged with a regret that instantly chilled Dream to the core.
He gently brushed a stray curl from Dream’s forehead. “This summer… you’ve been wonderful. Truly. A perfect muse. So sweet, so… beautifully present.” He paused, choosing his words with the care of a lyricist.
“But ‘us’… it’s a summer thing, isn’t it? Like fireflies. Bright, magical… and then gone with the season. I’m not… built for anchors, love. Not yet. My music, it needs… space. To breathe. To wander.”
He spoke gently, almost poetically, framing his rejection as a necessity of his art, a tribute to the fleeting beauty they’d shared. But the meaning was devastatingly clear. You were a lovely interlude. A seasonal muse. Not a destination.
The warmth Dream had been basking in evaporated, replaced by a cold, familiar hollowness. The fragile narrative he’d built – of indie-film love, of being understood – shattered.
He hadn’t been seen as a partner, but as a subject. A beautiful, fragile thing to observe and write songs about, then leave behind. Like a character in one of Wilbur’s melancholic tunes.
The kiss, the star-gazing, the whispered compliments… they weren’t the prelude to something deeper. They were the song. And the song had ended.
Dream sat up slowly, pulling away from Wilbur’s touch. He didn’t cry. The pain was too sharp, too familiar, a cold blade sliding between ribs still tender from George. It was the pain of realizing, again, that his depth of feeling was too much, too soon, too anchoring for someone who preferred to drift.
“I see,” Dream whispered, his voice surprisingly steady, though it felt like glass shards in his throat. “Fireflies.”
Wilbur looked genuinely pained. “Dream… I’m sorry. I never meant… you’re incredible. Please believe that.”
Dream believed Wilbur believed it. That was the worst part. Wilbur thought he was paying him a compliment. He didn’t understand that calling someone ‘incredible’ while letting them go felt like having your heart handed back with a ‘Nice Try’ sticker attached.
He stood up, brushing grass from his jeans. “I should get back. Tubbo might need help with… something.” The excuse was flimsy, desperate.
Wilbur stood too, reaching out, but Dream subtly shifted away. “Dream, can we…?”
“Good luck with your music, Wilbur,” Dream said, forcing a small, brittle smile that felt like a death rictus.
“I hope you find all the space you need.” He turned and walked back towards the house, leaving Wilbur standing alone in the firefly-lit dusk, the unplayed melody hanging heavy in the air.
He didn’t go to Tubbo. He went straight to his secret library.
He didn’t turn on the light. Moonlight streamed through the skylight, silvering the spines of his books. He walked past the classics, the modern novels, the poetry. He went straight to the small oak table. He picked up A Throne of Ash and Roses, the cover cool and solid in his trembling hands. Blade stared back, fierce and unwavering, his crimson hair like a banner in the moonlight.
Dream sank to the floor, his back against the bookshelf. He clutched the book to his chest, the familiar weight a desperate anchor.
Outside, the real world held Wilbur’s gentle, poetic rejection and the fading echo of a summer melody. Inside, the silence of the library was absolute, broken only by the ragged sound of Dream’s breathing.
He traced Blade’s face on the cover. Real boys, like George, offered polite emptiness. Real boys, like Wilbur, offered beautiful, temporary melodies that ended with the season. They spoke of fragility and space. They drifted.
Blade didn't drift. Blade didn't call love 'a summer thing'. Blade fought. Blade stayed. He faced down traitors and legions for the one he loved. His loyalty was forged in fire, not written in wistful minor chords.
Dream opened the book, the pages whispering like a promise in the moonlight.
He didn't need fireflies. He didn't need wistful melodies. He needed the unwavering steel of a hero who understood that love wasn't a fleeting muse, but a vow etched in bone and blood.
He buried his face in the pages, inhaling the scent of paper and ink and the only kind of love that seemed capable of withstanding the beautiful, crushing indifference of the real world.
Blade wouldn't leave him standing alone in the dusk. Blade would ride through it. And for now, that was the only truth Dream could hold onto. The hollow ache beneath his ribs felt cavernous, familiar, and Blade’s fictional steadfastness was the only light that didn't flicker and die.
The days after the lakeside rejection unfolded with a quiet, aching grace within the walls of the Victorian house. Dream moved through them like a ghost wrapped in twilight, the vibrant energy of summer suddenly muted.
He didn’t rage or slam doors. The hollow ache beneath his ribs was a familiar tenant now, settling back in with the weary resignation of an unwelcome guest who knew the layout of the rooms all too well. He retreated to his secret library, not to escape, but to fortify.
Blade’s world offered no false promises, only the steadfast, predictable rhythm of loyalty and valor. He reread Blade’s Vow, the scene where Blade stood alone against the blizzard to protect Elara’s retreat feeling less like fiction and more like a grim reflection of his own emotional landscape.
But this time, he wasn’t alone in the fortress of his pain. He had Puffy, Niki, and Tubbo.
The understanding in the house was palpable, woven into the very fabric of their lives. Puffy, with her therapist’s gentle intuition, didn’t press. She simply saw.
She’d leave a mug of his favorite chamomile honey tea outside his library door, the steam curling like a silent offering of warmth. When he emerged, hollow-eyed, she’d be in her study, door open, engrossed in case notes, offering only a soft, “Hey, sweetheart,” that held no expectation, only presence.
It was an anchor, a reminder that he existed outside the cavern of his own hurt.
Niki, sunshine embodied even in empathy, wielded comfort through sensory balms. She’d coax him into the kitchen, fragrant with the cinnamon-sugar scent of her legendary snickerdoodles.
“Just need a taste-tester, Dream,” she’d smile, her voice warm as the oven.
She didn’t ask about Wilbur. She talked about her kindergarten class’s antics, about Tubbo’s latest near-disaster with a potato battery, about the new rose hybrid blooming defiantly pink in the garden.
She filled the silence with the comforting, mundane music of life, her hand occasionally brushing his shoulder, a tactile reassurance that he was grounded, loved.
Tubbo, bless his whirlwind heart, understood in his own way. He didn’t tiptoe, but his usual boisterous energy softened when he bounced into Dream’s room or library.
He’d plop down, shoving schematics for a ‘heartbreak-defying drone’ under Dream’s nose, or demand Dream’s opinion on the most ‘epic, emotionally devastating’ fantasy battle for a D&D campaign he was planning. “Gotta get the feels right, Dream! You’re the expert!”
He treated Dream’s sadness not as fragility, but as a temporary state requiring distraction and loud, brotherly solidarity. He was a whirlwind of unconditional acceptance, a reminder that joy existed, persistently, even when Dream couldn’t quite feel it.
Then there was Wilbur. Again.
True to Tommy’s chaotic schedule, Wilbur kept appearing. Tommy and Tubbo’s ‘playdates’ – now involving complex robotics projects that occasionally sparked ominously – required transport and occasional supervision.
Wilbur arrived, guitar case often slung over his shoulder, his easy charm now layered with a careful, watchful hesitance when he saw Dream.
The first time Dream walked into the living room to find Wilbur tuning his guitar while Tommy and Tubbo argued loudly over circuit boards, the air crackled with unspoken tension. Dream froze, the casual sight of Wilbur’s familiar profile hitting him like a physical blow.
Wilbur looked up, his warm brown eyes meeting Dream’s. They held a complex mix: regret, apology, and a persistent, bewildered kind of fondness.
“Dream,” Wilbur said, his voice softer than usual, lacking its usual melodic confidence. “Hey.”
Dream forced himself to breathe, to move. Don’t be a martyr, he chanted inwardly. Be civil. For Tubbo. For the peace of the house.
“Hey, Wilbur,” he managed, aiming for neutral and landing somewhere near strained. He busied himself getting water from the kitchen, his back a rigid line.
Wilbur tried. Oh, how he tried. He’d steer conversations towards books Dream liked, referencing a fantasy trope Tommy had mocked.
“So, Tubbo mentioned you’re rereading The Crimson Kingdoms? That Blade guy sounds… admirably stubborn.” His tone was light, attempting camaraderie.
Dream would offer a tight smile, a noncommittal hum. “Yeah. Reliable.” The subtext hung heavy: Unlike some.
Wilbur played music on the porch, songs less wistful now, more deliberately gentle, almost placating. He’d glance at Dream, who pretended deep interest in the pages of whatever book he’d brought down as a shield.
Once, Wilbur started playing a fragment of the melody he’d hummed against Dream’s temple. Dream flinched, the sound a physical brand on his memory. He closed his book with a snap that was louder than intended and stood up.
“Think I left something upstairs,” he muttered, escaping before the fragile facade crumbled.
Wilbur caught him alone in the hallway another time, as Dream was heading back to his library refuge. “Dream, wait.” Wilbur’s hand hovered near Dream’s arm but didn’t touch.
“Look… about the lake… I hate that I hurt you. Truly. You didn’t deserve that. I just… I get tangled up in my own head. In the idea of things sometimes.” He ran a hand through his dark curls, frustration etching his features.
“Can we… I don’t know… try to be friends? Properly? Without the… summer fog?”
Dream looked at him, really looked. He saw the genuine regret, the desire to fix the awkwardness. He also saw the fundamental disconnect. Wilbur spoke of ‘summer fog’ and ‘ideas’, reducing the depth of feeling Dream had offered to a seasonal miscommunication. He wanted friendship – easy, uncomplicated, free from the weight of Dream’s ‘fragile’ heart.
Dream’s chest tightened. He was trying not to be a martyr, not to nurse the wound theatrically. But friendship felt like a consolation prize, a demotion that scraped the raw edges of his rejection.
“Friends is fine, Wilbur,” Dream said, his voice carefully flat. “For Tommy and Tubbo’s sake.”
He didn’t say for my sake, because it wouldn’t be true. He didn’t say I understand, because he didn’t, not really. He understood being collateral damage in someone else’s artistic journey, and it still stung.
“Just… give it time. Okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, slipping past Wilbur and up the stairs to the sanctuary of his books.
The true solace, the beacon that kept the bitter edge of hopelessness at bay, was watching Puffy and Niki.
Their love wasn’t a grand, fictional epic; it was a quiet, daily sonnet. It was in the way Puffy would automatically reach for Niki’s hand when they sat on the porch swing at dusk, their fingers intertwining without a glance. It was in Niki resting her head on Puffy’s shoulder while Puffy read case studies, Puffy’s free hand gently stroking Niki’s hair. It was in the way they navigated disagreements – Puffy’s calm, logical analysis meeting Niki’s passionate warmth, always ending in compromise and a shared smile that held decades of understanding.
One rainy afternoon, Dream found them in the kitchen.
Niki was attempting a complicated French pastry, flour dusting her nose like freckles. Puffy, seeing her struggle, wordlessly stepped behind her, gently guiding her hands on the rolling pin, her chin resting on Niki’s shoulder.
“Like this, love,” Puffy murmured, her voice a soft rumble against Niki’s back.
“Gentle, steady pressure.” Niki leaned back into her, a sigh of contentment escaping her.
“Always steadier with you,” she whispered back, turning her head just enough to brush a kiss against Puffy’s cheek.
Dream watched from the doorway, unseen. The simple intimacy, the effortless anchoring love they shared, struck him with the force of a physical blow, but it was a sweet ache, not a wound.
This was the love he read about. This was the ‘happily ever after’ that wasn’t just an ending, but a continuous, living story. Puffy and Niki were his fairytale, proof positive that deep, abiding, committed love wasn’t a myth confined to paper.
It existed. It was real. It was in the flour-dusted kitchen of his childhood home.
It was this love that had first opened the door to books for him. As a child, curled up between them on the sofa, listening to Puffy read The Hobbit with voices or Niki bring Little Women to life, he hadn’t just learned stories.
He’d learned that the love surrounding him was the magic. It was the foundation upon which he built his own internal library, seeking echoes of that security, that unwavering devotion, in the worlds he escaped to.
He read because he knew love like that was possible – he saw it every day – and he yearned, with the desperate ache of the hopeful romantic, to find his own chapter in that grand, real-life story.
Seeing them now, as his own heart smarted from Wilbur’s gentle dismissal, was both a comfort and a cruel reminder. Comfort because the love he believed in wasn’t fictional. Cruel because it highlighted the chasm between the love he witnessed and the love he seemed destined to experience – fleeting, conditional, or simply unseen.
He slipped away before they noticed him, back to his library. He picked up A Throne of Ash and Roses, but didn’t open it immediately. He traced Blade’s face, then looked out the dusty skylight towards the kitchen window downstairs.
Blade fought for Elara with sword and sacrifice. Puffy fought for Niki with steady presence and flour-dusted guidance. Both were forms of unwavering devotion.
Dream sighed, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He believed in true love. Fervently. He had living proof.
But as the final days of summer bled away, preparing him for his return to sophomore year as a Linguistics student, the question wasn't if true love existed. It was why, when he offered his own fiercely romantic heart – modeled on the depth he saw in his mothers and the loyalty he read in Blade – the real world kept handing it back, gently or indifferently, marked 'Seasonal' or 'Friend' or 'Too Much'.
He clutched the book tighter, the embossed title biting into his palm.
Blade wouldn’t waver. Puffy and Niki never had. Dream just had to survive the space between the proof and the promise, carrying the ache and the hope together, back to a campus where George and Sapnap awaited, and where the only steadfast love seemed to reside, eternally, between the pages in his hands.
The summer of almost was over, leaving behind the bittersweet fragrance of what could have been and the enduring, quiet strength of the love that always was.
Sophomore year dawned with a surprising twist: Sapnap, after a revelatory summer shadowing a sports physio, shifted into the Physical Therapy program. The catch? His new schedule became a labyrinth of labs and clinical hours, rendering him officially "irregular." The irony, however, was exquisite.
For the first time, amidst the chaos of syllabi and lecture halls, Dream, Sapnap, and George found themselves sharing core classes. Linguistics 201, Statistics for Social Sciences, and the dreaded mandatory Art Appreciation – their schedules synced like planets aligning after a long celestial drift.
The forced proximity, coupled with the slow, painful healing of the summer and Sapnap’s inherent gravitational pull, forged them into an official trio.
The lingering ghost of Dream’s unrequited feelings for George didn't vanish; it was exorcised through relentless, self-deprecating humor. They became masters of the bit.
"Dream, pass the notes," George would demand during Statistics, eyes glued to a complex regression model on the projector.
"Only if you promise not to break my heart again, George Found," Dream would fire back, deadpan, sliding the notebook over. The first few times, George had blinked, momentarily thrown, but Sapnap’s explosive snort broke the tension.
"Ouch! Dream’s bringing out the year-one trauma!" Sapnap would crow, earning a half-hearted shove from George.
"Shut up, Sapnap. Dream, your emotional fragility is statistically insignificant compared to this standard deviation," George would retort, but a tiny, reluctant smirk would touch his lips.
They leaned into it. Hard. They’d stage dramatic hallway confrontations.
"George! How could you? Sharing your fries with Sapnap? I thought what we had was special!" Dream would faux-wail, clutching his chest.
George would raise an eyebrow, holding a fry aloft. "Our relationship was transactional, Dream. You provided mediocre coding help. I provided temporary distraction from your crippling fear of Professor Binns. These fries? Sapnap debugged my entire OS last night. This is true commitment."
Sapnap would puff out his chest. "Damn right! Debugging is the ultimate love language, George. Dream wouldn't understand; he speaks… metaphor." He’d then steal the fry George was holding.
It was absurd, cathartic, and surprisingly healing. The elephant in the room – Dream’s past devotion – was acknowledged, paraded around, and defanged with jokes.
They became inseparable: cramming in the library (Dream surrounded by linguistics texts and a single, dog-eared Blade novel for comfort), grabbing greasy pizza after late labs, dominating the mediocre campus bowling alley on cheap student nights.
Dream saw George relax around him in a way he never had before, the invisible wall replaced by easy, if sarcastic, camaraderie. And Sapnap was the glue, the chaotic energy binding them, fiercely protective of their newfound equilibrium.
They knew about "Guitar Boy."
Dream had returned sophomore year quieter, the summer's sunshine replaced by a lingering twilight in his eyes.
He hadn’t offered names, just the vague, painful outline: summer, music, lakeside, fireflies, rejection framed as artistic necessity. Sapnap had fumed ("Dude sounds like a pretentious bard!"), George had offered a rare moment of quiet empathy ("Transience is overrated. And messy."). They became his anchors, dragging him out when he retreated too far.
Because retreat he did. Sophomore year, for Dream, was a battlefield against Wilbur's ghost.
He’d hear a snatch of acoustic guitar drifting from a dorm window and freeze, the taste of lake water and heartbreak flooding his mouth. He’d see a worn corduroy jacket in a crowd and his breath would hitch.
Even the scent of Niki’s snickerdoodles, mailed in care packages, carried the echo of sun-drenched afternoons when Wilbur had strummed on the porch.
He hated it. Hated how a boy who’d deemed him a "seasonal muse" occupied so much real estate in his mind. He hated the phantom ache, the way his traitorous heart still clenched at a melody or a turn of phrase.
His dorm room became a fortress against memories. He burrowed into his studies, into the familiar, unchanging world of The Crimson Kingdoms.
He reread the first three books obsessively – A Throne of Ash and Roses, Blade's Vow, Crown of Sorrows – seeking the cold comfort of Blade’s unwavering focus. But even here, Wilbur intruded.
Tommy occasionally messaged Tubbo, who relayed updates: Wilbur was playing a big gig, Wilbur got a song on a local radio playlist, Wilbur was dating a bassist from another band. Each snippet was a tiny needle prick.
He actively avoided thoughts of Techno, the pink-haired phantom brother. Thinking of Techno meant thinking of Tommy, which meant thinking of Wilbur. Blade was his refuge, not a gateway to that particular pain.
The breaking point, the starkest evidence of how deeply Wilbur still haunted him, came in Professor Thorne’s Advanced Poetics class. The semester project: A Chapbook of Self: 80 Pages of Your Truth.
Dream approached it with grim determination.
He wrote about Puffy’s steady calm, Niki’s sunshine warmth, Tubbo’s chaotic brilliance, Sapnap’s fierce loyalty, George’s sharp wit softened by time and inside jokes. He wrote about his secret library, the scent of old paper, the way words could build worlds. He wrote about Blade, the fictional north star of his heart.
And then he wrote about Wilbur.
It poured out of him like a hemorrhage. Not just the summer, but the ghost that lingered. The way fireflies still made his chest tighten. The way a certain cadence of speech could send him spiraling. The crushing weight of being deemed beautiful, fascinating, but ultimately… temporary.
He wrote about the phantom guitar strings, the taste of rejection disguised as poetry, the hollow ache of being someone’s muse but not their destination.
Page after page after page. Raw, unflinching, saturated with a longing he couldn’t kill. When he finally stopped, trembling and drained, he had written 47 pages solely about Wilbur. Forty-seven pages of poetry and prose dedicated to a ghost of a summer.
He stared at the stack, a monument to his inability to move on, and felt a wave of crushing shame and self-loathing. Pathetic.
He didn’t show them the Wilbur pages. The chapbook he submitted contained the safe chapters: family, friends, books. But Sapnap and George knew. They saw the shadows under his eyes deepen during the project, the way he’d sometimes zone out mid-laugh, staring at nothing. They saw the weight of the unsaid.
One Tuesday night, after a particularly brutal linguistics midterm, Dream dragged himself back to his dorm, feeling hollowed out. He booted up his laptop, ready to lose himself in Blade's latest fictional siege, when an email notification popped up.
The subject line.
URGENT: SAPNAP EMERGENCY PORTAL (DO NOT IGNORE!!!!)
Frowning, Dream clicked. It opened a simple, brightly colored webpage. At the top, in bold, comic sans font (George’s signature ironic touch).
DREAM'S EMERGENCY HAPPINESS EXTRACTION ZONE
Below, a grid of photos loaded.
Photo after photo of Sapnap making the most ridiculous, exaggerated, utterly deranged faces. Sapnap with his eyes crossed and tongue lolling out. Sapnap attempting to fit an entire banana in his mouth. Sapnap mid-sneeze, caught in horrifying detail. Sapnap pretending to be a walrus with two pens taped to his face. Sapnap posing dramatically with a single, wilted lettuce leaf on his head.
Each photo was captioned with George’s dry wit.
Fig. 1: Sapnap demonstrates advanced mandibular dislocation technique (failed).
Fig. 7: Subject exhibits primitive vegetable-based headdress ritual. Significance unknown.
Fig. 15: Peak existential despair, or just gas? Further study required.
At the bottom, a small button.
CLICK FOR AUDIO THERAPY
Dream, a reluctant smile already tugging at his lips, clicked. Sapnap’s voice, slightly muffled but brimming with chaotic energy, boomed out.
"DREEEEEAM! STOP MOPING ABOUT GUITAR BOY OR WHATEVER SAD SAP YOU'RE BEING! LOOK AT MY FACE! IS THIS THE FACE OF DESPAIR? NO! IT'S THE FACE OF SOMEONE WHO JUST ATE A BUG! FEEL BETTER OR I'LL SEND GEORGE TO DEBUG YOUR BRAIN!"
Followed by George’s distant, deadpan mutter.
"Please don't. His code is spaghetti."
And then Sapnap’s maniacal laughter.
Dream burst out laughing. It was a raw, unexpected sound, shaking loose some of the tension coiled in his chest.
He scrolled through the photos again, laughter turning into helpless giggles. It was stupid, absurd, and utterly perfect.
George, the coding wizard, building a ridiculous website. Sapnap, the eternal goofball, offering his dignity as a sacrifice.
Just for him. To make him laugh. To remind him he wasn't alone in the fortress of his lingering sadness.
He bookmarked the page. Emergency Happiness Extraction Zone. It didn't erase the 47 pages. It didn't stop the ghost of Wilbur from appearing in the strum of a distant guitar. But it was a lifeline, thrown by his chaotic, irreplaceable friends.
He opened Crown of Sorrows, but this time, the weight felt a little lighter. Blade fought his battles, but Dream wasn't fighting his alone. He had his knights, however ridiculous their armor.
He still ached, but the ache now had a counterpoint: the warm, goofy, unwavering glow of Sapnap's deranged face on his screen, and George’s dry, coded affection humming beneath it.
Sophomore year was a war against memory, but he wasn't fighting it in the dark anymore. He had backup.
Junior year hit like a collapsing bookshelf. The relative ease of sophomore year dissolved into a maelstrom of deadlines, complex theories, and the looming, monolithic shadow of the Senior Thesis.
The playful trio dynamic, forged in shared classes and inside jokes, fractured under the sheer weight of academic survival. They were all officially irregular now, their schedules jagged, overlapping shards rather than a synchronized whole.
The library cram sessions became less about shared misery and more about desperate, silent focus in isolated carrels.
Sapnap, buried beneath anatomy texts and kinesiology models, looked perpetually shell-shocked.
"They said 'physical therapy'!" he'd groan, head thudding onto a muscle diagram.
"They showed videos of people running! No one mentioned memorizing every nerve root in the lumbosacral plexus! Karl," he'd sigh dramatically, referencing his Economics major crush, "is probably analyzing market trends with Quackity, who's probably already arguing a mock trial, while I'm drowning in the brachial plexus! How do I compete with future Esquire? I can barely spell 'litigation'!"
George, perpetually pale and fueled by pure caffeine and spite, muttered incantations over lines of code that seemed determined to unravel.
"Passing. Just... passing," became his mantra.
"Irregular Sapnap is bad enough. Irregular George is... unacceptable. Existentially threatening." His dry wit sharpened into a survival tool, slicing through panic with sardonic precision.
Dream, who’d sailed through linguistics with the quiet joy of someone finally speaking their native tongue, found himself drowning.
The sheer volume was unprecedented. Phonological analyses stacked upon sociolinguistic surveys, piled atop Old English translation exercises.
His once-beloved theories now felt like intricate traps. His secret library at home, his sanctuary, felt galaxies away.
Even his refuge in The Crimson Kingdoms became fragmented – stolen moments before sleep, a paragraph scanned while waiting for code to compile, the familiar weight of a book in his bag a comfort he rarely had time to properly open.
The constant thrum of stress manifested physically: a permanent knot between his shoulder blades, migraines that pulsed behind his eyes like tiny, angry suns, fingers that trembled slightly when exhaustion peaked.
He missed the luxury of getting lost in a story. Now, reading felt like another task on an endless list.
The ghost of Wilbur still flitted at the edges, a faint scent of corduroy and melancholy guitar on a breezy day, a pang at a certain shade of twilight. But it was duller now, buried beneath mountains of academic dread.
Dream actively pushed it down, shoving the lingering ache into the same mental compartment labeled "Later (Probably Never)." He was too tired for old heartbreaks; he barely had energy for the present.
It was Sapnap (of course), in a moment of sleep-deprived, Karl-pining desperation, who unleashed the chaos.
"Okay, hear me out," he announced during a rare, bleary-eyed coffee break. George was dissecting a bagel with surgical precision, Dream was trying to massage the migraine away.
"We're drowning, right? Dying. Our social lives are deader than the dinosaurs Professor Binns drones about. We need... distraction. Low-effort, high-reward distraction."
George didn't look up. "Define 'high-reward'. If you suggest another all-nighter fueled by energy drinks and existential dread, I'm debugging your nervous system."
"Dating apps," Sapnap declared, slamming his palm on the table, making Dream wince.
"Temporary happiness! Swipe right, get a dopamine hit, maybe meet someone equally desperate for an hour of non-academic conversation over terrible campus coffee. No strings! Just... human interaction that doesn't involve the subjunctive mood or the innervation of the flexor digitorum profundus!"
George snorted. "Sapnap, your idea of 'human interaction' usually involves challenging people to Mario Kart and then trash-talking them into oblivion."
"Exactly! Perfect low-stakes fun!" Sapnap beamed. "Come on! Even you, Dream! You need to get out of your head and away from Blade for five minutes. Think of it as... field research. For your thesis on... uh... modern communication rituals!"
Dream felt a wave of exhaustion just thinking about it. "Sapnap, I barely have time to shower. Swiping through strangers sounds like another chore."
George finally looked up, a glint of mischief in his tired eyes. "I'll do it."
Both Dream and Sapnap stared. George? Mr. "Social Interaction is an Inefficient Algorithm"? Mr. "Romance is a Glorified Hormonal Feedback Loop"?
George shrugged. "What? Temporary happiness sounds efficient. And observing Sapnap's attempts will provide valuable data on human mating rituals gone wrong. Consider it anthropological research." He pulled out his phone.
"I'll download... whatever the least terrible one is. But only if Dream does too. Solidarity in stupidity."
The "solidarity" hook, combined with George's unexpected participation (a rare occurrence), nudged Dream past his skepticism.
Maybe Sapnap was right. Maybe a mindless distraction, a brief connection with someone who didn't know IPA symbols or thesis deadlines, was exactly what his frayed nerves needed.
He downloaded the app with a sigh, feeling vaguely ridiculous.
Sapnap dove in with characteristic enthusiasm, only to surface sputtering. "Too young! Too old! This guy's profile pic is just his cat wearing a tiny hat! This one lists 'competitive snail racing' as a hobby! Why is everyone so weird?!" His reports became a daily source of grim comic relief.
George, true to form, downloaded the app, opened it once, grimaced, declared it "a poorly optimized interface rife with logical fallacies," and promptly forgot it existed. His "participation" lasted approximately seven minutes.
Dream felt a flicker of betrayal, quickly drowned by his own mounting pile of work.
He swiped half-heartedly, a mechanical left-left-left during brief moments of procrastination. Most profiles blurred together: gym selfies, hiking pics, vague quotes.
Then, Fundy.
The picture wasn't flashy. A guy with warm, intelligent amber eyes and a shock of bright orange-red hair, grinning as he held a surprisingly calm-looking chicken.
His bio was simple, witty: "Vet Med student. My life is fur, feathers, scales, and existential dread over pharmacology exams. Seeking: Someone who understands the profound joy of a successfully bandaged paw and doesn't mind the occasional animal hair on their clothes. Swipe left if you think reptiles are creepy (they're majestic, you philistine)."
Dream paused. There was a warmth, a self-deprecating humor, and a shared sense of drowning in studies. He swiped right. It matched.
The conversation started slow, tentative exchanges about the horrors of academia, the specific anxieties of their majors (Dream fascinated by Fundy’s descriptions of animal physiology, Fundy amused by Dream’s rants about irregular verbs).
It was easy. Comfortable. A digital lifeline thrown across the miles – Fundy attended a university known for its agricultural sciences, a solid two-hour drive away.
Then, Fundy made effort.
Real, tangible, breathtaking effort.
"There's this amazing used bookstore cafe halfway between us," Fundy messaged.
"Heard they have a first edition of some obscure fantasy trilogy gathering dust. Wanna hunt for treasure and caffeinate our souls this Saturday?"
Dream, drowning in a phonetics assignment, almost said no. But the lure of books and genuine human interaction won.
Meeting Fundy was like stepping into a sunbeam after months in a cave. He was vibrant, quick to laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his passion for animals infectious. He listened – really listened – to Dream's stressed ramblings, offering empathy, not solutions.
The conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by the smell of old paper and good coffee. Fundy paid, waving off Dream's protests. "Next time," he winked.
Evenings, when Dream was bleary-eyed over syntax trees, his phone would buzz. Fundy's face, often looking equally exhausted but smiling, would appear.
"Hey. Just finished suturing a dummy. My hands are shaking. Tell me something utterly unrelated to medicine or blood."
They’d talk for hours – about stupid campus gossip, weird dreams, childhood pets, the merits of different fantasy subgenres.
Fundy remembered things Dream mentioned offhandedly – his moms' bakery, Tubbo's latest project, Sapnap's Karl-induced rants. It wasn't performative; it felt like genuine care.
After Dream mentioned surviving a brutal thesis proposal meeting, a delivery arrived at his dorm. Not roses, but a vibrant, slightly wild bouquet of sunflowers, orange lilies, and sprigs of lavender.
For surviving the academic beast. You're tougher than you think.
- F
Sapnap wolf-whistled. George raised an eyebrow but offered a rare, "Not terrible."
Fundy started showing up. Not just for planned meetings, but sometimes on a random Thursday evening, knocking on Dream’s dorm door with takeout from Dream’s favorite Thai place, claiming he "needed a break from cadavers."
He’d crash on Sapnap’s floor (Sapnap, thrilled by the novelty and the free food, declared Fundy "officially cool"). He met Puffy and Niki during a weekend Dream went home, charming them instantly with his easy manners and genuine interest in Niki’s baking ("This snickerdoodle is art, Mrs. Niki!").
Fundy never pressured. He understood when Dream vanished into thesis black holes for days. His texts during those times were simple: "Thinking of you. Drowning in parasitology. Surface when you can."
When they were together, he created pockets of peace amidst the chaos – quiet walks, cooking simple meals in Dream’s cramped dorm kitchen, watching terrible movies just to laugh.
Dream, the hopeless romantic whose heart was a battlefield scarred by George’s indifference and Wilbur’s transience, felt something profound shift. Walls he hadn’t realized were still standing began to crumble.
This wasn't a fleeting summer melody or a confusing proximity. This felt… solid. Fundy showed up. He remembered.
He fought through miles and his own brutal schedule just to be present. He saw Dream’s stress, his occasional retreats into books, his lingering shadows, and he didn’t call him fragile or muse-worthy. He called him strong. He called him worth the effort.
By mid-junior year, Dream was all in.
He spent every possible moment with Fundy, weaving him into the fabric of his chaotic life. Study sessions included Fundy sketching anatomical diagrams while Dream annotated linguistic texts. Weekends were split between Dream’s campus chaos and trips to Fundy’s university, where Dream learned to appreciate the controlled chaos of the veterinary teaching hospital, the smell of antiseptic and animals becoming oddly comforting.
He met Fundy’s friends – fellow vet students with dirt under their nails and hearts of gold. He listened to Fundy’s dreams: opening a clinic in a rural area, working with wildlife rescues.
Dream started tentatively rebuilding his library fortress, not as an escape, but as a shared space. He lent Fundy The Crimson Kingdoms, watching nervously as Fundy, more used to medical journals, tackled the dense fantasy.
"Blade’s intense," Fundy remarked one night, curled up on Dream’s bed. "But I get why you like him. Loyalty like that… it’s rare." Dream’s heart soared. Fundy understood.
He introduced Fundy to Sapnap and George properly.
Sapnap, after grilling Fundy about his thoughts on competitive snail racing (Fundy: "Depends on the species. Terrestrial pulmonates? Questionable ethics. Aquatic? Potential.") declared him "infinitely better than Guitar Boy."
George offered a slow nod of approval after Fundy fixed a glitch on George’s laptop with surprising deftness. "Acceptable," George decreed. "He has practical skills."
Dream looked at Fundy laughing with Sapnap, patiently explaining something veterinary to a fascinated George, and felt a warmth spread through him, deep and certain.
This was it. This was the real thing he’d read about, witnessed in his mothers, yearned for through George’s indifference and Wilbur’s beautiful impermanence.
Fundy wasn’t fictional. He was flesh and blood, orange hair and amber eyes, smelling faintly of antiseptic and dog, showing up with Thai food and unwavering support.
He fought through the miles and the mess to be with Dream. He made Dream feel chosen, not just appreciated as an idea or a temporary muse, but as a person, complex and stressed and book-obsessed, worthy of consistent, tangible effort.
He spent his entire junior year wrapped in the warmth of Fundy. He lowered the drawbridge of his heart fortress completely, letting Fundy into the innermost chambers, sharing fears and dreams he hadn’t voiced to anyone else.
He stopped rereading The Crimson Kingdoms for solace. He started reading them for fun again, sometimes aloud to Fundy, who would listen, head on Dream’s shoulder, occasionally asking surprisingly insightful questions about Eldorian politics.
The ache of Wilbur faded to a distant, almost forgotten echo. The stress of junior year, while still crushing, felt manageable with Fundy’s hand in his.
Dream, the boy who fell in love with TV screen boys and fictional kings, finally believed he’d found his real-life hero.
Fundy wasn’t on a screen. He wasn’t bound by pages. He was right here, solid and warm and seemingly committed, building something real with Dream amidst the beautiful, terrifying chaos of becoming who they were meant to be.
The sanctuary felt real. It felt like home. He allowed himself, tentatively, blissfully, to believe it was built to last.
But the sanctuary, meticulously built over junior year, didn't shatter. It eroded. Grain by grain, sigh by sigh, missed connection by missed connection, under the relentless, grinding pressure of final year.
The air in Dream’s life thickened, saturated with the metallic tang of impending deadlines and the sour sweat of pure, undiluted terror about the abyss labeled "After."
Senior year wasn't a battlefield; it was a slow, suffocating descent into a trench.
The internship at the university linguistics archive, meant to be a crowning glory, felt like indentured servitude.
Hours spent meticulously cataloging obscure dialect surveys under the watchful, critical eye of Dr. Aris Thorne (who seemed to believe dust motes conspired against proper metadata) bled into evenings already mortgaged to thesis revisions.
His thesis, "Metaphor as Cognitive Anchorage in High-Stress Environments," felt increasingly like a cruel joke, a meta-commentary on his own unraveling mind. Every sentence was a struggle, every citation a potential landmine of academic error.
Sapnap was a walking stress ulcer. Clinical rotations had him bouncing between geriatric wards (frail bones, endless patience required) and pediatric physio (screaming toddlers, boundless energy demanded), leaving him perpetually hollow-eyed and vibrating with suppressed panic.
His crush on Karl had morphed into a distant, aching throb – Karl and Quackity were practically married in their shared law library carrel, a picture of coupled-up future security that made Sapnap feel like a lost child. His reports were monosyllabic groans: "Hips. So many hips." "Kid cried. I almost cried." "Karl smiled. Quackity smiled back. I died inside."
George existed in a state of perpetual near-meltdown. His thesis, a complex algorithm for optimizing network security protocols, was a hydra – fix one bug, two more sprouted.
His carefully maintained "just passing" strategy was failing spectacularly under the weight of capstone projects and course audits that revealed unexpected gaps. His caffeine intake reached toxic levels, his sarcasm turned brittle and sharp enough to draw blood.
"Failure is not an option," he'd mutter, staring at lines of code that seemed to actively mock him, "it's an inevitability I'm currently negotiating with."
The trio, their bond forged in fire, was stretched thin, translucent. Their meetings were logistical nightmares, snatched moments in overcrowded coffee shops or silent vigils in the 24-hour lab. Conversations were truncated, frayed at the edges by exhaustion.
The playful flirting, the George-heartbreak jokes, died a quiet death. There was no energy for performance.
Just the grim sharing of resources: "Can you proof this methodology section?" "Does this kinesiology diagram make sense?" "Is this error message lying to me?" Solidarity became survival, not solace.
And Fundy. Beautiful, earnest, effort-making Fundy. Still there. Still trying. But the landscape had shifted seismically beneath them.
The two-hour drive felt like crossing continents. Their meticulously planned halfway meetups began to crumble.
Dream would get trapped at the archive, a box of uncataloged 19th-century Appalachian folk tales demanding his immediate attention. Fundy would be called in for an emergency surgery on a colicky horse, his phone silent for hours.
When they did connect, fatigue hung heavy between them, a thick, palpable fog.
The small things started. Not malicious, never intentional. Just… life. The crushing weight of it all.
Dream mentioned offhandedly, buried under thesis corrections, how much he loved the specific, slightly spicy scent of freesias. Weeks later, stressed before a major internship presentation, he found a wilting bouquet on his dorm desk. A sweet gesture, weeks late. The scent, when he buried his nose in it, was cloying, not comforting.
A reminder of something missed, not received.
Their nightly calls, once lifelines, became minefields of exhaustion. Dream would ramble about the maddening inconsistencies in Thorne’s cataloging system, needing to vent, to be heard. Fundy, fresh from a twelve-hour shift in the large animal ward, smelling faintly of manure and despair, would listen, then sigh.
"Sounds rough, babe. Today was… a lot. Had to assist with a dystocia in a cow. Messy." The disconnect yawned.
Dream’s archival dust felt trivial against life-and-death hooves. Fundy’s visceral reality felt like another planet Dream couldn’t access. The silence afterwards stretched, filled only with the white noise of their separate exhaustion.
Dream, in a rare moment of vulnerability during a particularly brutal migraine, curled up with Blade’s Redemption, seeking the cold comfort of the hero’s unwavering resolve. Fundy, visiting that weekend, found him.
Instead of joining him, or asking about the book, he gently took it from Dream’s hands, bookmarked it, and said, "You should rest your eyes, love. Staring at pages won't help the headache."
He meant well. It felt like dismissal. A fundamental misunderstanding of what Blade was to Dream – not just pages, but oxygen.
Conversations about "after" became treacherous. Fundy’s path was clear, demanding: internships, licensing exams, possibly moving for a residency. Dream’s linguistics future was a fogbank – academia? Publishing? Corporate communications? The uncertainty was a constant, gnawing fear in his gut.
When Fundy talked excitedly about a wildlife rehab center in Colorado looking for vets, Dream felt a cold wave of panic. "Colorado?" he’d echoed, his voice tight. Fundy, misreading the tension, backtracked quickly.
"Just an idea! Lots of options!" But the seed was planted: Fundy’s future had momentum. Dream’s felt like quicksand.
The effort Fundy poured into them started to feel, subtly, like effort poured into a structure built on shifting sand. The grand gestures – the surprise visits, the flowers – became rarer, replaced by weary texts: "Swamped. Thinking of you. Talk tomorrow?"
Tomorrow often bled into the day after.
The ache started small.
A pinprick of disappointment when Fundy forgot about the virtual defense of George’s thesis (which George aced, then promptly vomited from stress).
A dull throb when Fundy described a hilarious incident at the clinic with a new intern, and Dream realized he hadn’t truly laughed in weeks, just grimaced.
A heavy weight when he looked at Blade’s determined face on his bookshelf and felt a pang of… envy? For a fictional character’s clarity of purpose.
He tried to talk. Once. During a strained weekend visit, the air thick with unspoken strain.
"Fundy... do you ever feel like... we're just treading water? Like the current's too strong?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the thesis drafts on the floor, the empty coffee cups, the palpable fatigue.
Fundy looked up from his veterinary pharmacology text, his amber eyes clouded with his own stress. "God, yes. Final year is hell, Dream. It’s drowning everyone. But... we're drowning together, right?" He reached across the table, squeezing Dream’s hand.
"It’s just this year. Once we're through this... once we have our degrees... then we can breathe. Then we can build."
Dream squeezed back, wanting desperately to believe him. Together. The word felt fragile. The "after" felt like a mirage.
Fundy’s focus was on surviving the now, on reaching the solid ground of his veterinary license. Dream was drowning in the now, terrified of the shapeless after, and feeling increasingly like a burden Fundy was patiently, lovingly, carrying towards a finish line Dream couldn’t see.
Fundy’s effort was still there, but it felt less like building a future and more like preventing a collapse. The sanctuary walls felt less like protection and more like confinement.
The balloon of pressure, disappointment, fear, and exhaustion inflated. Agonizingly slowly. Silently.
Every unanswered text that wasn't malice, just forgetfulness under duress. Every conversation that skimmed the surface because diving deeper required energy neither had. Every time Dream reached for The Crimson Kingdoms not for shared enjoyment, but as a desperate escape from the gnawing anxiety Fundy’s presence couldn’t soothe anymore. Every time Fundy talked about Colorado with a hesitant hope Dream couldn’t mirror.
It inflated through the brutal gauntlet of finals.
Dream existed on caffeine and sheer terror. He sat for his linguistics finals in a haze, the words swimming on the page, his mind a cacophony of thesis corrections, internship duties, and the terrifying silence of Fundy’s latest text.
Good luck today. Got a double shift. We’ll celebrate after?
Celebrate what? Survival? The end of something he couldn't even name?
The breaking point wasn’t dramatic. It was a Tuesday.
Dream had just emerged from his final, most difficult exam – Historical Linguistics. His brain felt like overcooked gruel. He’d blanked on a crucial Proto-Indo-European sound shift.
The fear of failing, of his entire future teetering, was a cold fist around his throat. He needed… something. Someone. To say, "It’s okay. You survived. I’m here."
He called Fundy. It went to voicemail. Again. The clinic. Always the clinic. The animals. The real, tangible lives that needed Fundy’s hands, his skills, his presence.
Dream stood in the crowded hallway, students laughing, crying, hugging, releasing years of pressure. He felt utterly alone. The balloon, stretched thin over months, pressed against his ribs, suffocating him.
He didn’t go home. He went to the quietest corner of the library, the one smelling of ancient parchment and dust. Not his usual fantasy aisle. The historical archives.
He sat on the cold floor between towering shelves holding the weight of centuries. He pulled out his phone. Not to text Sapnap or George, who were fighting their own final battles. He pulled up Fundy’s contact. His fingers trembled.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again. The words weren’t angry. They were bone-deep weary. Drained of everything but the leaden certainty that had been coalescing for months.
Fundy. I can't do this anymore. I love you. I think I always will, in some way. But I'm so tired. Tired of missing you. Tired of feeling like I'm an item on your overflowing to-do list. Tired of the distance that feels like more than miles now. Tired of waiting for an 'after' I can't see and you can't promise. I'm breaking. I need to not be waiting for the next time we barely connect. I’m sorry. So sorry.
He hit send before he could think. Before he could chicken out. Before the tiny, treacherous voice hoping Fundy would fight, would call immediately, would rage, would prove him wrong, could gain traction.
The silence that followed was absolute. No immediate call. No torrent of texts. Just… silence. The kind of silence that echoed in the cavern of his chest, louder than any scream.
Minutes ticked by, measured by the frantic hammering of his own heart. He stared at the phone screen, willing it to light up, for Fundy’s name to appear.
It didn’t.
An hour later, as Dream sat frozen, the cold from the floor seeping into his bones, a notification finally chimed. A text.
Not a call. A text.
Dream. I... I don't know what to say. I never wanted you to feel like that. I love you. So much. But... you're right. It's been so hard. For both of us. I haven't been there like I should. Like I wanted to be. I'm so sorry I made you feel alone. If this is what you need... I won't fight you. I want you to be okay. Please be okay.
No fight. No grand declaration. No promise to drive through the night. Just… acceptance. Understanding. Resignation. Fundy loved him enough to let him go. Loved him enough not to fight for the crumbling sanctuary.
The balloon didn’t pop. It deflated. Slowly. Agonizingly. A long, silent hiss of air leaving a space that felt suddenly, terrifyingly vast and empty.
The pain wasn't sharp; it was a vast, hollow collapse. The sanctuary wasn't shattered; it was simply… gone. Acknowledged as unsustainable. Fundy’s final, devastating act of love was letting Dream break it.
Dream dropped his phone. It clattered on the stone floor, the sound obscenely loud in the silent stacks. He wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them tight to his chest. He didn’t sob. He shook. Silent, violent tremors wracked his body, as if his very bones were rattling apart.
The cold from the floor was nothing compared to the icy void opening inside him.
He had done it. He had ended the one real, solid thing he’d ever had. And Fundy… Fundy hadn’t even tried to stop him. The acceptance was the deepest cut of all.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. Time lost meaning. When he finally moved, stiff and numb, it was because his thesis supervisor had emailed. Again. Demanding the final revisions. Now.
Somehow, mechanically, Dream picked up his phone. He ignored Fundy’s text. He ignored the world. He opened his thesis document. The words blurred. Blade’s face, fierce and loyal, swam in his mind’s eye. But even Blade felt distant. Abstract. A comfort for a different kind of pain.
He began to type. Revising metaphors about cognitive anchorage while his own anchors – Fundy, the future, his own sense of worth – had just been swept away.
His fingers moved. His mind was a howling void. He had finals to pass. A thesis to submit. A future to face. Utterly, completely alone.
The ache wasn’t just in his chest; it was in every keystroke, every labored breath, every terrified thought of the yawning "after" that now held nothing but an echoing, Fundy-shaped silence.
He worked through the night, the library’s silence his only witness, the hollow exhaustion his only companion, the ghost of Blade watching from the spines of untouched books, a silent reminder of a loyalty that only truly existed where the ink met the page.
The slow unraveling was complete. All that remained was the terrifying task of not completely coming apart.
Graduation day dawned bright and brittle, the kind of sunshine that felt like it was mocking the sheer exhaustion clinging to Dream’s bones.
Four years of linguistic labyrinths, thesis terrors, internship indignities, and heartbreaks that carved canyons into his soul had led to this: pulling on the stiff, unfamiliar toga, adjusting the absurdly tasseled cap, and staring at his reflection in the dorm mirror.
He looked pale beneath the black polyester, shadows like bruises beneath his eyes that even the forced smile couldn’t erase. He looked, frankly, like he’d survived a war. He had.
The air outside crackled with a frenetic, almost hysterical energy. Families swarmed the campus quad, clutching balloons and bouquets, faces split with proud grins. Laughter echoed, too loud. Camera flashes popped like miniature stars. It was a celebration, a collective exhalation after years of holding breath.
Dream felt like a ghost haunting his own celebration.
He found Sapnap and George near the staging area. Sapnap was vibrating, his cap already askew, his grin wide enough to crack his face.
"WE MADE IT, BITCHES!" he roared, pulling Dream and George into a bone-crushing hug. "No more lumbosacral plexuses! No more cadavers! FREEDOM!"
George, looking surprisingly put-together in his regalia, endured the hug with a long-suffering sigh.
"Statistically improbable, but confirmed. We have survived. Barely." He adjusted his glasses, a flicker of genuine relief in his eyes.
"My offer letter from Aethel Systems was confirmed this morning. Systems Architect. Starts in two weeks." The pride in his usually flat voice was unmistakable. Security. A future mapped in clean lines of code. George had navigated the quicksand and found solid ground.
Dream managed a shaky smile, clapping George on the shoulder. "Knew you'd debug your way out, George. Congrats, man. Seriously."
The happiness for his friends was real, a warm ember in the cold ash of his own uncertainty.
Sapnap bounced on the balls of his feet. "Okay, my turn! Karl and Quackity are here. With their parents. It's terrifying. But... I'm doing it. After the ceremony. Cornering Karl. Telling him... everything. The pining. The jealousy. The whole pathetic saga." He took a deep breath, his bravado momentarily faltering.
"Quackity might punch me. Karl might laugh. But... I can't graduate with the 'what if' rotting in my gut. Not after everything else."
Dream saw the genuine fear beneath Sapnap's excitement. The courage it took. He squeezed Sapnap's arm. "Do it. Whatever happens... you won't regret saying it."
He understood the weight of unsaid words better than anyone.
Then, the call came. The slow, stately procession began. Marching. The weight of the robe, the awkwardness of the cap, the solemn chords of "Pomp and Circumstance" swelling through the packed auditorium – it all felt surreal.
Dream walked, step by measured step, flanked by Sapnap’s barely contained energy and George’s stoic calm. Rows of black-clad students stretched ahead, a river flowing towards an uncertain sea.
He scanned the blur of faces in the stands. Found them instantly: Puffy, beaming, tears already tracking down her cheeks, clutching Niki’s hand. Niki, radiant, waving a small banner with Dream’s name painted in glitter. Tubbo, practically vibrating out of his seat, phone held aloft to record everything. His anchor. His living fairytale proof that love endured.
Seeing them, the tightness in his chest eased, just a fraction.
The ceremony was a blur of speeches filled with platitudes about "the future" and "endless possibilities" that sounded hollow to Dream’s ears. His future felt less like possibility and more like a vast, terrifying blank page.
He’d applied for a few research assistant positions, some editorial jobs. Radio silence.
The gnawing fear of irrelevance, of being adrift with his hard-won linguistics degree gathering dust, was a constant companion. He’d poured everything into surviving finals after the breakup, scraping through on sheer, terrified willpower, the memory of Fundy’s devastatingly accepting text message a cold brand on his heart.
Passing felt less like triumph and more like dodging a final, crushing blow.
Then, his name. "Dream Was-Taken." He walked across the stage, the polished wood echoing under his feet. Shook the Dean's hand. Accepted the heavy, fake diploma holder (the real one came later). A flash from Tubbo’s phone. A wave towards his moms. It was over in seconds. He was officially graduated. Adrift.
Back in his seat, numb, he barely registered the rest of the names until a pause in the proceedings. Dr. Aris Thorne, the terror of the linguistics archive, the bane of Dream’s internship existence, stepped to the podium. Her sharp gaze scanned the graduates.
"Before we conclude," her crisp voice cut through the murmur, "I wish to recognize resilience. Academic excellence is celebrated today, and rightly so. But there is another quality, forged not in perfect scores but in the crucible of perseverance, that deserves acknowledgment." Her eyes seemed to find Dream in the sea of black.
"This year, one student in particular demonstrated an extraordinary capacity to withstand pressure, to navigate complex challenges, and to maintain focus under circumstances that would fracture lesser resolve. Working alongside him in the archives, I witnessed not just competence, but a quiet, unyielding determination. Dream Was-Taken, please stand."
Shock jolted through him. He stood, legs trembling, heat flooding his face. The auditorium erupted in polite applause. Sapnap whooped beside him. George gave a rare, approving nod. Puffy and Niki were crying openly now, Tubbo cheering.
Thorne gave a curt nod. "Resilience, Mr. Was-Taken, is a formidable asset. Carry it forward." She stepped back.
It wasn't a Latin honor. It was something more profound. Recognition not for flawless achievement, but for enduring the storm. For not breaking, even when he felt shattered. The unexpected validation washed over him, a warm, grounding wave.
He sat down, heart pounding, a fragile spark of something like pride flickering in the void.
After the final dismissal, the dam broke. Chaos erupted. Graduates surged into the aisles, caps flying, hugs exchanged, families converging.
Dream was swept into the warm embrace of Puffy and Niki, their tears wet on his cheeks, their murmured "We're so proud, sweetheart," a balm.
Tubbo launched himself at Dream, nearly knocking him over. "YOU DID IT! EVEN WITH THE MEAN LADY SAYING NICE THINGS! BLADE-LEVEL RESILIENCE, DREAM!"
Amidst the joyful chaos, Dream scanned the crowd. He saw Sapnap, red-faced but grinning, talking animatedly to Karl. Quackity stood nearby, arms crossed, but he was… smiling? Smiling and nodding? Sapnap caught Dream’s eye and gave a thumbs-up, his expression dazed but ecstatic.
George was already deep in conversation with a man in a sharp suit, probably from Aethel Systems, radiating a calm competence Dream envied.
He was happy for them. Truly. But the happiness was a separate island in the ocean of his own complex emotions. He thought of Fundy. Not with bitterness, but with a profound, aching sadness.
He still loved him. Loved the earnest vet student who brought sunflowers and bandaged paws and tried so damn hard.
Their love hadn't failed; life had simply been too big, too demanding. They’d set each other free not from lack of love, but because of it. Understanding the weight of the other's dreams, the impossibility of carrying each other and their own crushing futures. It was a mature pain, a clean break that somehow hurt worse than betrayal. Life had happened. Futures were at stake. They’d chosen love in the letting go.
Then, he saw him.
Standing slightly apart from the swirling crowds, near the ancient oak tree where Dream had often sought shade.
Fundy. Holding a bouquet not of sunflowers, but of vibrant blue delphiniums and white lisianthus – elegant, serene. In his other hand, a small, beautifully wrapped box and a familiar, weighty paper bag from Dream’s favorite used bookstore.
His amber eyes found Dream’s across the distance, filled with a complex mix of pride, sorrow, and unwavering affection.
Dream’s breath hitched. The carefully constructed calm threatened to fracture. He excused himself from his family, murmuring, "I’ll be right back," his voice thick.
He walked towards Fundy, the sounds of celebration fading into a muffled roar. Each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of everything unsaid, everything ended, everything still felt.
"Dream," Fundy said softly as he approached. His voice was the same, warm and slightly rough, but held a new depth of sorrow.
"Congratulations. Really. I... I watched. Thorne recognizing you..." He shook his head, a small, proud smile touching his lips. "That was incredible. So deserved."
"Thanks," Dream managed, his throat tight. He gestured to the gifts. "You didn't have to..."
"I wanted to," Fundy interrupted gently. He held out the bouquet. "Delphiniums. For dignity, grace under pressure. And lisianthus... for appreciation, for lasting bonds." He swallowed.
"Appreciating what we had. The bond that... remains, even if it's different now." He then offered the paper bag.
"And... I remembered you mentioned the author finally finished. Fourth and fifth books. Simultaneous release. I got them. First editions. Had them signed at the midnight launch... thought you'd be busy." He offered the small box last.
"Just... something silly. A graduation bear. Seems obligatory."
Dream took the gifts, his hands trembling. The books felt heavy, significant. The culmination of Blade’s saga, arriving at the culmination of his own undergraduate saga. The bear was soft, absurd. The flowers were heartbreakingly perfect.
Fundy remembered everything. The effort was still there, pouring out in this final, bittersweet gesture.
"Fundy..." Dream started, tears pricking his eyes. "I... thank you. This is... too much."
"It's not enough," Fundy said, his own eyes suspiciously bright.
"It could never be enough for what you deserved. For how much I..." He trailed off, clearing his throat.
"I just needed you to know. I saw you walk. I saw you recognized. I’m so proud of you, Dream. So incredibly proud of the man you are. Resilient. Brilliant. Kind." He took a shaky breath.
"And I love you. I think I always will, in that deep-down place. But... you were right. We needed to let go. For both of us to breathe. To find our footing without dragging the other down." He reached out, hesitantly, and brushed a tear from Dream’s cheek with his thumb. The touch was feather-light, agonizingly familiar, and final.
"Build your future, Dream. Unanchored. Find your solid ground. You deserve the world."
Dream couldn't speak. The ache was a physical presence, vast and hollow, yet threaded with a strange, painful gratitude.
Fundy wasn't fighting. He was blessing. Releasing him with love, not resentment.
He nodded, clutching the books, the bear, the flowers – symbols of a love that was real, profound, and ultimately unsustainable.
Fundy offered one last, heartbreakingly tender smile. "Goodbye, Dream." He turned and walked away, melting into the celebrating crowd, the shock of his orange-red hair disappearing like the last ember of a dying fire.
Dream stood rooted to the spot, the joyful chaos swirling around him feeling distant, muffled. He looked down at the signed books in the bag. Blade’s Legacy and Blade’s Requiem. The final chapters. He thought of Blade’s unwavering loyalty, his fierce, almost simplistic devotion to Elara. A love forged in battle, clear-cut, destined.
The realization bloomed then, slow and devastating, like ink spreading on water.
He had spent his life yearning for a Blade-like love. A love that conquered all, unwavering, constant, written in the bold strokes of fantasy. He’d sought it in George’s distant gaze, in Wilbur’s poetic fireflies, even in Fundy’s valiant effort. He’d measured real love against a fictional ideal, always finding it lacking.
But real love wasn't Blade’s epic saga.
Real love was Puffy and Niki, steady and enduring through decades, building a home filled with flour and therapy notes and unwavering support. Real love was Sapnap’s chaotic loyalty, confessing his heart even when it might get broken. Real love was George’s dry wit building a website of stupid faces to make him smile. Real love was Fundy showing up today, not to reclaim, but to honor, to celebrate, and to finally, truly, let him go with grace and dignity.
Real love wasn’t a flawless, unwavering constant. It was messy. It was hard. It was choosing, every day, even when it meant choosing to let go. It was resilience, not just in surviving storms, but in navigating the complex, often painful currents of human connection.
Blade’s love was a fantasy. Fundy’s love, ending in this painful, necessary release, was the real thing. Deep, complex, flawed, and ultimately, profoundly brave.
He looked towards his family. Puffy was watching him, her eyes seeing everything, filled with understanding and infinite love. Niki waved, her smile warm and accepting. Tubbo was trying to balance a graduation cap he picked up from the ground on his head.
Sapnap was heading his way, looking dazed but euphoric, probably to report on Karl. George was disentangling himself from the suited man, heading towards their little group.
Dream took a deep, shuddering breath.
The ache for Fundy was still there, a deep bruise on his heart. The fear of the future still loomed, vast and unknown. But the crushing weight of the fantasy, the impossible standard he’d held love to, began to lift.
He didn’t need a Blade. He needed to learn how to live in the messy, beautiful, heartbreaking reality of being Dream.
He clutched the new Blade books. He would read them. He would lose himself in the final chapters of the epic fantasy that had been his refuge. But he wouldn’t search for his reflection in Blade’s unwavering eyes anymore. He would read it as a story. A beautiful, fictional story.
He straightened his graduation cap, the tassel brushing his cheek. He wiped his eyes. He held the flowers, the bear, the books – tokens of endings and beginnings.
He walked towards his family and his friends, towards the terrifying, blank page of "after," carrying the ache, the pride, the resilience, and the hard-won understanding that the truest love stories weren’t found in books, but forged, imperfectly and bravely, in the beautiful, brutal mess of real life.
The walk wasn't over. It was just beginning. And for the first time, standing amidst the celebration of an ending, Dream felt a flicker of readiness, not for a fairytale, but for whatever came next.
Two years. Two years of dusty archives, dense theoretical texts, and the quiet, demanding hum of academia. Dream’s Master’s in Linguistics felt less like a triumph and more like a necessary, grueling ascent up a mountain whose peak offered only a view of steeper slopes.
Dr. Aris Thorne, the former terror of the archives, had become an unlikely anchor. Her offer of a Research Assistant position a month after his Bachelor’s graduation had been a lifeline, a familiar harbor in the storm of "what next?" Thorne, it turned out, possessed a fierce, almost maternal protectiveness beneath her razor-sharp exterior.
She saw Dream’s quiet tenacity, his analytical mind wrestling with complex syntactic structures, and recognized a kindred spirit – someone who found solace in the intricate order of language.
Their relationship thawed, solidified by shared late nights deciphering obscure dialect maps and debating semantic shifts.
"You have the resilience, Was-Taken," she’d say, not unkindly, pushing another stack of papers his way.
"Now cultivate the precision. The PhD will demand both." He began to see the glint of something like pride in her steely gaze.
She treated him less like a subordinate, more like a promising, if occasionally exasperating, protege. A surrogate son forged in the crucible of academic pressure.
The trio was scattered now, bound by frantic group chats and rare, precious weekends that felt like stolen time.
Sapnap, having realized the limitations of his Physical Therapy degree for his ultimate dream of becoming a physician, had plunged into the abyss of pre-med requisites and the MCAT gauntlet.
His messages were a litany of despair.
Organic Chem is Satan's personal playground.
MCAT practice test score: clinically dead. Send snacks. And a defibrillator.
Why did I think DOCTOR OF OSTEOPATHIC MEDICINE sounded manageable? It sounds like a curse!
His chaotic energy was now channeled into pure, survivalist panic.
George, conversely, thrived in the structured chaos of Aethel Systems. Promoted to Lead Systems Architect within a year, his world was clean lines of code, elegant solutions, and the satisfying hum of optimized networks.
His messages were tersely triumphant.
Debugged the Kraken. Promotion secured.
Salary bump: 15%. Acceptable.
Weekend? Work. Next.
His success was a solid, gleaming island in their shared sea of uncertainty, a reminder that focus could carve a path.
And Dream, he existed in the liminal space between them.
After the Master’s, the PhD loomed, a necessary but daunting prospect. Thorne encouraged it, saw his potential. But Dream hesitated. The relentless academic treadmill felt suffocating.
He needed… air. Experience. Proof he existed outside the ivory tower. So, he became a linguistic mercenary.
Part-time Research Assistant for Thorne (the familiar archive dust a comfort).
Freelance Translator/Interpreter for Pandora's System (navigating the nuances of technical manuals was its own puzzle).
Junior Editor at "Parchment & Quill Publishing" (the scent of fresh paper and ink a siren call he couldn't resist).
He juggled schedules, deadlines, identities. His days were a blur of syntax trees, style guides, translation software, and editorial markups. He was building a formidable CV, a mosaic of competencies. Yet, beneath the busyness, a profound weariness settled in his bones.
He was running, but towards what?
His love for books remained his only constant sanctuary, though the nature of his refuge had changed. Finishing The Crimson Kingdoms – Blade’s Legacy and Blade’s Requiem – had been a profound, melancholic experience.
Witnessing Blade’s final sacrifice, his unwavering love for Elara enduring beyond death itself, had left Dream feeling hollowed out. The epic saga was over. His fictional hero was gone. The perfect, unwavering love existed only in those closed pages. His belief in finding its echo in reality had died a slow, quiet death.
Real love was messy, transient, conditional. It was George’s polite indifference, Wilbur’s poetic transience, Fundy’s heartbreaking, necessary release.
Books offered escape, not blueprints. He accepted that now. The ache was duller, a familiar companion rather than a sharp wound.
Seeking a new fictional anchor, he’d reluctantly turned to the author’s next project: The Nightmare Chronicles. Focusing on Blade’s arch-nemesis, Nightmare, the villain whose shocking backstory had been a last-minute twist in Blade’s Requiem.
Dream, who traditionally loathed villain perspectives, approached it with skepticism.
The first book, Shadows of the Eclipse, was a slog. Nightmare was cruel, calculating, destructive. But slowly, insidiously, the author peeled back the layers.
Veins of Obsidian, the second book, revealed the systemic betrayal, the unbearable loss, the slow corrosion of hope that twisted a brilliant mind into a force of vengeance. Dream found himself… understanding. Not condoning, but understanding.
Nightmare hadn’t chosen darkness; it had been forced upon him, drop by toxic drop. He wasn't a monster; he was a tragedy.
Dream devoured the books, his usual moral compass spinning. He needed the third book. Needed to see if redemption was possible, or if the fall was absolute.
Nightmare’s complexity was a dark mirror reflecting the messy, unresolved pain Dream carried. Because Fundy was still there. Not physically. Not in contact. But a ghost haunting the periphery of Dream’s life.
The ache wasn't the sharp grief of the breakup; it was a low, persistent thrum, a background radiation of longing.
He saw Fundy in everything: a golden retriever bounding in the park (Fundy adored dogs). A flash of orange-red hair on the street (his heart would stutter). The deluxe editions of Blade’s Legacy and Requiem sitting prominently on his shelf – gifts from Fundy on that painful graduation day, a testament to love understood and released.
He told himself he deserved better than the exhaustion, the slow erosion of their connection. He knew it intellectually. But his heart, the stupid, romantic organ, refused to fully evict the memory of Fundy’s earnest eyes, his warm laugh, the solid comfort of his presence during the chaotic junior year.
On rare, unscheduled evenings, when the relentless busyness paused, the dam would break.
He’d find himself curled on his sofa, a random movie playing unheard, tears silently tracking down his face as memories flooded in: the smell of antiseptic on Fundy’s jacket, the taste of cheap Thai takeout shared on his dorm floor, the way Fundy’s hand felt in his.
He’d cry for what was lost, for the love that was real but couldn’t survive the weight of their separate worlds. He hadn’t moved on; he’d just been running too fast to feel the full force of the wind resistance.
Then, the phone rang.
An unknown number. Dream, bleary-eyed after a late shift editing a particularly dense historical fantasy manuscript for Parchment & Quill, almost ignored it. Habit made him answer.
"Dream? Dream Was-Taken?" The voice was familiar, warm, laced with a new layer of confidence and static. Wilbur.
Dream froze. "Wilbur? How… how did you get this number?" He’d changed it years ago, after the breakup, a symbolic severing of that summer chapter. Only close family, Sapnap, George, and Thorne had it.
Wilbur chuckled, a rich sound down the line. "Ah, the magic of persistent friends and slightly unethical data mining? Kidding. Mostly. Tommy wheedled it out of Tubbo. Said it was an emergency involving… I don’t know, rogue robotics needing linguistic analysis? You know Tommy." He paused.
"Look, I’m sorry to ambush you. But I have a proposition. And before you hang up… it involves my brother. Techno."
Techno Blade. The name surfaced from the depths of Dream’s memory, coated in the dust of that long-ago summer. The phantom brother. Pink hair for a musical. Absent in California. Blade’s crimson hair flashed in Dream’s mind.
"Techno?" Dream echoed, wary.
"Yeah! He’s finally done it. Ditched the glitter glue – well, mostly – and started his own theatre company. Blood God Productions. Very him." Wilbur’s voice brimmed with brotherly pride.
"He’s ambitious. Original productions, adaptations, the works. But he’s hitting a wall. Needs a dedicated script doctor. Sharp mind who understand narrative structure, character voice… language." Wilbur paused meaningfully.
"I remembered you. Linguistics. Wordsmith. Buried in books. I thought… maybe? It’s a long shot, but he needs people who get it. It’s full-time, intense, but creatively… it could be amazing, Dream."
Dream’s mind reeled. Script doctoring? For theatre? It felt alien, exhilarating, terrifying. His entire focus had been on formal linguistics, academic rigor, editorial precision. Theatre was… emotion. Subtext. Performance.
"Wilbur… I appreciate it, really. But my background… it’s not narrative writing. It’s analysis. Syntax. Semiotics. I’m aiming for a full-time editorial role at a publisher. Script doctoring… I wouldn’t even know where to start on scriptwriting. And full-time? I’ve got commitments…"
"Think about it," Wilbur pressed.
"It’s different, sure. But language is language, right? Shaping meaning? Creating worlds with words? That’s what you do with those fantasy novels you edit, isn’t it? Helping build other people’s worlds? This is building your own. Techno’s… particular, but brilliant. It could be a fantastic detour. Or a whole new path." He paused as a muffled voice called his name in the background.
"Shit, gotta run, soundcheck. Just… consider it? I’ll text you the company details. Talk to your people. Please?"
The line went dead. Dream stared at the phone, Wilbur’s words echoing. Building your own world. The idea was seductive, dangerous. It felt like stepping off a carefully plotted map.
He thought of Blade, of Nightmare – worlds built with words that had anchored and haunted him. Could he help build something like that? Did he dare?
He did what he always did with big decisions: he sought counsel.
He called Sapnap (mid-anatomy cram session, answered with a groan: "Script doctoring? Sounds better than memorizing the brachial plexus again. Do it. Distract me from my impending doom.").
He texted George (reply hours later: "Analysis: Unconventional. High risk. Potential high reward in skill diversification. Probability of failure: significant. Recommendation: Proceed with caution. Also, Wilbur, the guitar boy you named at graduation? Intriguing.").
He video-called Tubbo (bursting with excitement: "TECHNO BLADE?! DREAM, YOU HAVE TO! HE'S LIKE A MYTH! TAKE ME TO THE THEATRE!").
He had dinner with Puffy and Niki. Puffy listened intently, therapist mode engaged but heart open.
"Sweetheart, you’ve been building armor with all these jobs. Strong, practical armor. This… this sounds like stretching a different muscle. A creative one. It might feel vulnerable, but growth often does."
Niki squeezed his hand. "Life’s too short not to try the scary, exciting things, Dream. What’s the worst that happens? You learn you hate it? Then you come back to editing with a new story to tell."
Even Dr. Thorne, over strong coffee in her office, surprised him.
"Script? Hmph. Applied pragmatics. Performance semiotics. Fascinating field. Your analytical skills would be an asset, Was-Taken. Rigor isn't just for archives. Go. Observe. Analyze the process. Consider it… extended fieldwork." Her lips twitched in what might have been a smile.
The message was unanimous, echoing Wilbur’s plea: Try.
Hesitantly, heart pounding, Dream called Wilbur back. "Okay. I’ll… give it a shot. But only part-time. I can’t drop my other commitments yet. Maybe… a trial project?"
Wilbur sighed dramatically but sounded pleased. "Part-time? Dream, Techno’s looking for blood oaths signed in stage lights. But… I’ll talk to him. He respects stubbornness. I’ll make it work. I’ll text you interview details."
Before Dream could ask something about Techno, Wilbur was gone, swallowed by his music.
Weeks crawled by. Dream buried himself in work, trying not to think about the impending leap into the unknown. Then, Wilbur texted.
Techno says okay. Trial basis. First project only. Interview: Monday, 10 AM. Blood God Productions Studio. Address below. Don’t be late. He hates wasted time. And… wear something without ink stains.
The Blood God Productions studio was a converted warehouse in a revitalized industrial district – exposed brick, high ceilings crisscrossed with lighting rigs, the scent of sawdust and old paint hanging in the air.
Dream arrived early, clutching his portfolio (filled with academic papers and editorial samples, feeling woefully inadequate).
He spotted Wilbur near a makeshift reception area, looking effortlessly cool in ripped jeans and a vintage band tee. Beside him stood a woman with a cascade of stunning, vibrant orange-red hair that stole Dream’s breath. Fundy’s hair.
"Dream! You made it!" Wilbur grinned, pulling him into a brief, one-armed hug. "This is Sally. Sally, this is Dream Was-Taken, the linguistic genius I told you about."
Sally offered a dazzling smile, extending a hand. Her eyes, a warm hazel, held a flicker of recognition.
"Dream! It’s so lovely to finally meet you properly! Wilbur’s talked about you. And…" she tilted her head, her smile softening with a hint of melancholy, "...I feel like I know you already. Fundy showed me so many pictures. You two looked… really happy."
The world tilted. Sally. Fundy’s older sister. The model. Standing beside Wilbur. Wilbur, his summer almost-love.
Fate wasn't just playful; it was a cruel, absurdist playwright.
Dream felt the familiar ache for Fundy surge, sharp and immediate, triggered by Sally’s hair, her words, her connection to the ghost in his heart.
He managed a shaky smile, shaking her hand. "Sally. Wow. Yes, Fundy… he talked about you all the time. Said you were terrifyingly glamorous. He undersold it."
He looked between them, Wilbur looking slightly sheepish but unapologetic, Sally radiating warmth. "This is… a small world. Hilariously small."
Wilbur laughed. "Tell me about it! When Sally mentioned her brother Fundy dating a guy named Dream who was obsessed with fantasy books and linguistics… well, the pieces clicked. Wild, right?"
He clapped Dream on the shoulder. "Look, Techno’s running a bit behind. Scene blockings. You know how it is. Just… breathe. He’s intimidating, but fair. Mostly." He winked and steered Sally away towards the sounds of rehearsal.
Dream stood alone, reeling. The past was colliding violently with the present. Fundy’s absence felt palpable, conjured by Sally’s presence.
He pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the trio’s group chat.
You will not believe this. Interview waiting room. Just met Wilbur’s girlfriend. Her name is Sally. She has ORANGE-RED HAIR. Because she’s FUNDY’S SISTER.
The replies were instantaneous.
Sapnap: WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. Fate is drunk.
George: Probability of this coincidence: 0.00047%. Conclusion: Universe is mocking you. Or testing narrative cohesion. Proceed with caution.
Before he could respond, a deep, resonant voice cut through the ambient noise. "Dream Was-Taken?" Dream looked up. And stopped breathing.
Standing before him was Techno Blade.
Wilbur had undersold it. Dramatically. The man was Blade stepped from the pages of A Throne of Ash and Roses.
Tall, broad-shouldered, holding himself with a regal stillness that commanded the space. Sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to assess and dissect in a single glance. A strong jawline, a nose that might have been broken once, lips set in a neutral line.
And the hair. Not pink, not red, but a deep, rich black, falling in a sleek, straight cascade past his waist, tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a simple cord. It was majestic, dramatic, utterly striking. If only it were crimson… he would be the living embodiment of the Crimson King.
"Mr. Blade?" Dream stammered, his mind short-circuiting between fiction and reality.
The man’s eyebrow quirked, the faintest hint of amusement touching his lips. "Techno," he corrected, his voice dry, smooth, devoid of the booming theatricality Dream somehow expected.
"Techno Blade is the government name. I’m just Techno. Follow me."
He turned and walked towards a door marked ‘Founder’s Lair’, his long hair swaying like a dark banner. Dream scrambled to follow, his portfolio suddenly feeling like a child’s drawing.
The office was surprisingly functional – a large drafting table covered in set designs and scripts, bookshelves crammed with plays and theory texts, a comfortable-looking armchair, and a sleek laptop. No velvet drapes or skulls.
Techno gestured to a chair opposite the desk and sat, steepling his fingers. His gaze was direct, unnervingly focused. "Wilbur speaks highly of your mind. Linguistics. Interesting. Tell me why a semanticist thinks he can write compelling dialogue for live actors."
The interview was unlike any Dream had experienced. It was less Q&A, more a verbal sparring match, a pressure test.
Techno probed his understanding of narrative structure not through theory, but through brutal dissection of famous plays ("Hamlet's soliloquies are brilliant, but structurally, Act IV is a meandering mess. Agree?").
He challenged Dream’s editorial experience ("Cutting 20% from a bloated fantasy novel is one thing. Cutting 20% from a script where every word costs rehearsal time is another. How ruthless can you be?").
He presented a snippet of stilted dialogue and demanded Dream rewrite it on the spot to convey subtext through rhythm and implication alone.
He asked about Dream’s favorite flawed characters, listened intently to his passionate, slightly nervous analysis of Nightmare’s tragic complexity.
Throughout, Techno was intimidatingly sharp, his questions cutting to the core. But he wasn’t cruel. He was… precise. And unexpectedly, dryly funny.
When Dream, flustered by a question about comedic timing, referenced an overly dramatic line from a bad fantasy novel he’d edited, Techno’s lips twitched. "Ah, the 'forsooth, villain!' school of writing. We strive to avoid that particular plague here."
When Dream mentioned Thorne, Techno nodded. "Aris? Good. She doesn’t suffer fools. Neither do I."
He was a disorienting blend: Blade’s imposing physicality, Tommy’s potential for chaotic energy (barely leashed), and Wilbur’s underlying intelligence, all filtered through a lens of bone-dry wit and relentless focus.
He was utterly, compellingly human. More human, in his sharp, demanding presence, than the idealized fantasy of Blade had ever been.
The interview ended as abruptly as it began. Techno glanced at his watch – an expensive, functional piece. "Time. I have a production meeting crawling with actual divas." He stood.
"You have the analytical chops. You understand character motivation, even for villains," he said, a flicker of approval in his eyes.
"Your practical script experience is non-existent. Your dialogue needs work. Less academic, more visceral. More blood." He paused, fixing Dream with that unnerving gaze.
"Wilbur vouched for you. Your professor, Thorne, apparently thinks you’re resilient. The trial project is a historical adaptation. Niche. Complex. We start next week. Part-time, as agreed. Prove you can learn fast and bleed on the page productively. Or don’t. Your choice."
He handed Dream a thick binder. "Read this. First draft. Be prepared to eviscerate it. Constructively." A ghost of a smirk.
"Welcome to the Blood God, Was-Taken. Maybe."
Dream walked out of the warehouse studio an hour later, the heavy binder clutched to his chest like a shield. The late afternoon sun felt harsh after the focused intensity of Techno’s lair.
The encounter replayed in his mind: the shock of Techno’s Blade-like appearance, the whiplash of his dry, human personality, the sheer intellectual challenge. It was exhilarating. Terrifying.
But as he walked towards the bus stop, the adrenaline faded, replaced by a deeper, more familiar ache.
He passed a pet store window. A Labrador puppy tumbled over its own feet. Fundy. He saw a woman with bright orange hair getting into a car. Fundy. The weight of the binder reminded him of the signed Crimson Kingdoms books, graduation gifts from Fundy. Fundy.
He thought of Sally’s kind smile, her connection to the love he still carried like a phantom limb. He thought of Techno, a living echo of his greatest fictional comfort, who turned out to be a demanding, brilliant, dryly humorous stranger.
Reality, once again, refused to conform to the narrative. Blade was fiction. Nightmare was fiction. The perfect love, the perfect villain, the perfect hero – all confined to the page.
He arrived home, his small apartment silent. He placed the binder on his desk, next to his well-worn copies of The Nightmare Chronicles.
He ran a finger over Nightmare’s stark, angular profile on the cover. He had the right to become a villain, Dream thought, understanding the character’s pain more than ever. He understood the refuge of darkness, the seduction of a narrative where pain had a clear purpose.
He sank into his armchair, not opening the binder, not reaching for Nightmare. He stared out the window at the city lights blinking on.
The interview with the real-life echo of Blade hadn't filled the Blade-shaped hole. It had just highlighted its emptiness. The ache for Fundy, the man who had been real and flawed and loving and gone, settled over him, heavier than Techno’s binder, more persistent than any fictional tragedy.
He was moving towards something new, something challenging, something laid out by the absurd twists of fate. But he was doing it with a heart still navigating the slow, painful, uncharted territory of letting go.
The script for his own life felt messier, more painful, and far less certain than anything he’d find in Techno’s binder or the pages of The Nightmare Chronicles. The only thing he knew for sure was that the next chapter wouldn’t be written in the bold, clear strokes of fantasy.
It would be written in the messy, aching ink of real life.
The binder from Techno sat on Dream’s cramped desk like an unexploded ordinance. "Eviscerate it. Constructively." The words echoed, a dry command that sent shivers down his spine.
He cracked it open that night, after a grueling shift translating technical specifications for engineering team at Pandora's Systems (George’s domain, but overflow work Dream desperately needed).
Inside wasn't a script, but a chaotic battlefield: a dense historical biography of Empress Matilda, pages of Techno’s scrawled notes in sharp, angular handwriting ("TOO MUCH EXPOSITION! WHERE'S THE BLOOD?" "THIS CHARACTER IS WOODEN. CHOP HER."), and a first draft adaptation by someone named Eret that read like a particularly dry academic lecture interspersed with jarringly modern slang.
Dream felt a wave of panic. Narrative structure? He could analyze the hell out of a Chomskyan syntax tree. Character voice? He could spot a dangling modifier at fifty paces. But creating compelling drama? Making historical figures bleed on the page? He was adrift in an ocean with only a grammar textbook for a raft.
He spent hours that night, not eviscerating, but drowning. Highlighting awkward phrasing, circling anachronisms, scribbling "Motivation unclear?" in the margins, feeling utterly inadequate. This wasn't linguistics; it was alchemy, and he was no alchemist.
The Trial by Fire began the next week. Blood God Productions operated on a different temporal plane – one where deadlines were tyrannical gods and sleep was a forgotten myth.
Dream’s carefully calibrated schedule of part-time jobs imploded instantly.
Research Assistant for Dr. Thorne: His sanctuary became a source of guilt. Thorne, sharp as ever, noticed his distraction during a session analyzing vowel shifts in Appalachian ballads.
"Focus, Was-Taken," she’d snapped, tapping a spectrogram.
"The diphthongization here is fascinating, not whatever theatrical crisis is brewing behind your eyes." He’d stammer an apology, working late to compensate, fueled by caffeine and shame.
Translator for Pandora's: Sam, a perpetually harried engineer with kind eyes hidden behind thick glasses, needed a complex German engineering manual translated yesterday.
Dream, juggling Matilda’s marital strife in his head, delivered a section riddled with uncharacteristic errors. Sam’s gentle, "Dream, this reads like it was translated by the machine, not for it," felt like a physical blow.
Editor at Parchment & Quill: Punz, his editor boss, was sleek, ambitious, and had zero tolerance for diminished returns. Dream’s usual sharp eye for continuity errors in a sprawling fantasy manuscript failed him; he missed a glaring geographical inconsistency Punz found in seconds.
"Distracted, Dream?" Punz asked, voice silky but laced with steel.
"This isn't the quality we expect. Get it together." The manuscript, ironically titled The Unbroken Shield, mocked him.
His carefully constructed armor of busyness wasn't protecting him; it was crushing him. The stress was a constant, low-grade hum in his veins, escalating to panic attacks in the pre-dawn hours when the sheer volume of obligations felt like walls closing in.
Time management became a cruel joke. He existed on snatched meals, power naps at his desk, and the frantic, fragmented attention of a hummingbird on amphetamines. Exhaustion was his default state, a heavy cloak he couldn't shed.
And stepping into the converted warehouse of Blood God Productions was like entering a pressure cooker fueled by creative chaos.
The air crackled with tension, sawdust, and the faint ozone smell of stage lights.
Techno was the eye of the storm – a looming, dark-haired presence moving with unnerving calm between set designers arguing over fabric swatches, actors rehearsing heated confrontations in corners, and Ranboo, a tall, nervous intern with mismatched socks, frantically taking notes that seemed to vanish into thin air.
Techno’s gaze would sweep the room, missing nothing, his dry comments cutting through the noise: "Eret, your soliloquy sounds like a tax return. Inject some passion, or inject some hemlock.
"Callahan, the set design for Act II looks like a toddler attacked it with finger paint. Simplify. Now." Callahan, the stoic, silent set designer, would merely nod, his eyes holding depths of unspoken frustration.
Dream’s role was nebulous. "Script doctor," Techno had grunted. "Find the wounds. Suggest the sutures."
He was given a battered laptop in a corner shared with Ranboo, who offered a terrified smile and a whispered, "Don’t make eye contact when he’s in ‘Reaping Mode’."
Dream’s meticulously annotated binder was summarily dismissed by Techno with a flick of his wrist. "Margin notes? Cute. We need solutions. Rewrite Scene 7. Matilda confronting Stephen. It’s tepid. Make it scalding. By lunch."
Embarrassment became a frequent companion. His first attempts at rewriting dialogue were clunky, overly formal, or painfully melodramatic.
He presented a revised scene, heart pounding. Techno scanned it in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, flatly: "Was-Taken, this isn't scalding. This is lukewarm dishwater. ‘Forsooth, thou art a knave’? Are we staging a Renaissance fair? Matilda wouldn’t say ‘forsooth’; she’d shove a dagger in his ribs and then monologue."
A stifled snort came from Eret, lounging nearby, radiating a weary, cynical amusement. Dream’s cheeks burned.
Progress was measured in agonizingly slow microns. He learned by brutal osmosis.
He studied Techno’s own sparse, powerful notes on other scenes – "SHOW, DON'T TELL THE RAGE!" "SUBVERT EXPECTATIONS HERE – SHE SMILES BEFORE STRIKING."
He eavesdropped on actor rehearsals, learning how words needed space to breathe, how rhythm conveyed emotion. He tentatively started replacing exposition with subtext, clunky pronouncements with sharp, revealing action.
One afternoon, wrestling with a particularly flat exchange between Matilda and a bishop, he had a flash of insight inspired by Nightmare's manipulation tactics. He rewrote it, making the bishop’s piety a thin veneer over ambition, his words pious but his eyes calculating. He handed it in, bracing for impact.
Techno read it. His expression didn’t change, but he grunted. A neutral grunt. Then, "Better. The serpent in the garden approach. Acceptable. Now do it for Scene 14. The bishop’s downfall. Make it hurt."
It wasn't praise, but it wasn't evisceration. A tiny, hard-won foothold.
The strangers to acquaintances shift was glacial, defined by shared exhaustion and the unspoken language of creative survival. They moved from "Was-Taken" and "Techno" to occasional, gruff acknowledgments.
Passing in the narrow hallway stacked with props, Techno muttering, "Coffee. Black. Two sugars. Now," as if Dream were a particularly slow-witted servant. Dream, too tired to protest, would fetch it.
Dream, bleary-eyed after another all-nighter balancing Thorne’s data analysis and Punz’s manuscript, accidentally using an overly complex linguistic term during a script meeting.
Techno’s dry interjection: "Translate that into Basic Human, Was-Taken. Not all of us have a PhD in Obfuscation." Eret chuckled. Dream managed a weak smile.
A rare moment of shared frustration over an actor’s inability to grasp a character’s motivation. Techno sighed, a sound like grinding stones.
"Sometimes I envy Callahan. He only has to make things look broken." Dream, surprising himself, muttered, "At least wood doesn't argue back." Techno’s lips twitched. Just once. Barely.
Dream learned Techno’s rhythms: the intense focus during rehearsals, the quiet fury when something wasn't right, the dry, unexpected humor that could slice through tension ("Ranboo, if you drop that priceless prop vase, your next role will be as a stain on the floor").
He saw the immense pressure Techno was under – funding worries, temperamental actors, the sheer ambition of launching an original production.
The myth of Blade faded further, replaced by the complex, demanding, frustratingly brilliant reality of a man building something from nothing, fueled by sheer will and black coffee.
And outside the warehouse, life continued its relentless march.
Sapnap was a ghost haunting medical libraries, his messages increasingly desperate rants about Ant Frost, a ruthlessly efficient study partner who seemed to absorb knowledge osmotically.
Sapnap: Ant just recited the entire Kreb cycle BACKWARDS. I hate him. I need him. Send brain fuel.
His Karl pining had morphed into a background ache, buried beneath mountains of organic chemistry.
George thrived in the digital realm, but the promotion brought crushing responsibility. Noah needed constant support, systems crashed, and George’s messages were terse bulletins from the front lines of tech.
George: Network meltdown. Noah panicking. Contained. 18-hour day. Existence: pain.
Their trio meetups were reduced to rushed coffee breaks filled with sympathetic grimaces.
Tubbo visited once, eyes wide as saucers at the theatre chaos. He bonded instantly with Ranboo over shared anxiety and a love of complex robotics jargon that baffled everyone else.
"Techno’s intense!" Tubbo whispered. "Like Blade, but… grumpier. Cooler, maybe?" Dream just nodded, too tired to explain the difference.
Puffy and Niki were his lifeline. Weekend dinners at their house were oases of calm. He’d collapse on their sofa, Niki plying him with comfort food, Puffy listening patiently as he spilled fragmented tales of Techno’s demands, Eret’s cynicism, Ranboo’s endearing panic.
They offered no solutions, just unwavering belief. "You’re learning, sweetheart," Puffy would say, squeezing his hand. "In the crucible," Niki would add, placing another cookie on his plate.
Dr. Thorne became an unlikely confidante. During research sessions, she’d pause, fixing him with her steely gaze. "The theatrical endeavor progressing? Learning the difference between prescriptive syntax and persuasive narrative, I trust?"
He’d confess his struggles, the feeling of being an imposter. "Good," she’d say curtly.
"Discomfort precedes growth. Apply your analytical rigor to human motivation. It’s not so different from tracking semantic drift." Her blunt faith was oddly bolstering.
Fundy’s ghost lingered.
Seeing Sally at the theatre occasionally, her vibrant hair a constant, painful flare, was the worst. She was always kind, asking how he was, sometimes sharing neutral updates about Fundy – he’d gotten a residency position out west, he was working with large animals, he was happy but busy.
Each snippet was a tiny knife twist. Dream would smile, say he was glad, and quickly find an excuse to flee. The ache wasn't the sharp grief of before; it was a deep, persistent bruise, a phantom limb he kept expecting to feel.
On rare quiet Sundays, when the relentless pace paused, he’d sink into his armchair, the silence amplifying the hollow echo.
He’d pull out the signed Crimson Kingdoms books, tracing Blade’s face, not seeking solace in the hero, but remembering the hands that gave them to him. He’d cry then, silent, weary tears for the love that was real, that was good, but that life had ruthlessly reshaped. He wasn't over Fundy. He was learning to carry the absence.
His refuge remained books, but the nature of his reading changed. He devoured plays now – Shakespeare, Ibsen, Williams, Kushner – analyzing structure, dialogue, subtext with a new, desperate hunger.
He reread The Nightmare Chronicles, finding grim parallels in his own struggle.
Nightmare’s descent wasn't just about betrayal; it was about the crushing weight of expectation, the feeling of being perpetually out of his depth, the seductive allure of embracing the darkness when the light seemed too hard to reach. He understood the villain more than the hero now.
He even picked up other series, seeking different kinds of strength: grim survival in post-apocalyptic wastelands, quiet resilience in contemporary dramas, the cunning strategy of political thrillers.
Blade’s unwavering heroism felt distant, almost naive. The world demanded more complex survival tools.
The work at Blood God was brutal, relentless. Techno was merciless, demanding rewrites on rewrites.
Eret, initially dismissive, started occasionally grunting, "Huh. Not terrible," at Dream’s suggestions, which felt like a Nobel Prize.
Callahan began showing Dream set design sketches, pointing silently at elements, seeking his input on how the environment could reflect character psychology – a silent acknowledgment of growing respect.
Ranboo became an ally in the trenches, sharing smuggled snacks and whispered commiserations about Techno’s latest impossible demand.
One late night, deep into the sixth week of the trial, Dream was alone in the script corner.
Techno had demanded a complete restructuring of Act III by morning. Punz had sent a furious email about overdue edits. Thorne needed data collated. Sam had a new manual.
The tension was a wire stretched to breaking point inside him.
He stared at the screen, the words blurring. Matilda’s defiance felt hollow. The bishop’s hypocrisy seemed cartoonish. It was all garbage. He was garbage. A fraud in every role he played – linguist, editor, translator, script doctor.
The carefully compartmentalized pressures of his fractured life merged into a tsunami of panic. His breath hitched, then came in short, ragged gasps. The warehouse walls seemed to press in. He dropped his head onto the keyboard, a sob wrenching itself from his throat, raw and ugly in the empty silence.
He didn't hear the door open. Only sensed a presence. He froze, humiliation flooding him, hotter than any of Techno’s critiques. He couldn't look up.
A long moment passed. Then, the scrape of a chair. Techno sat down heavily across from him, not speaking. Dream kept his head down, tears soaking into the keys. He expected scorn. Dismissal. The end of the trial project, the end of this insane detour.
Instead, Techno sighed. A long, weary sound that seemed to come from the depths of the building itself. "Punz riding you hard?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically devoid of its usual dry edge. Just… tired.
Dream flinched, surprised. He managed a jerky nod, still not looking up.
"Thorne?" Techno pressed, his tone neutral, observational.
Another nod. A shaky breath.
"Sam? Pandora's?"
Dream nodded again, a fresh wave of tears threatening. How did he know?
"And the forty other jobs you're juggling?" Techno added, a hint of the familiar dryness returning, but softer.
Dream finally lifted his head, wiping his face roughly with his sleeve, expecting to see mockery. He saw only exhaustion mirroring his own, and something else… a flicker of understanding?
Techno looked older in the dim light, the lines around his eyes deeper, the weight of his own impossible project etched onto his face.
"It's unsustainable, Was-Taken," Techno stated, not unkindly. "You're trying to bleed from a dozen wounds at once. You'll just… empty."
He tapped the laptop screen displaying the disastrous Act III. "This? This isn't you failing the script. This is you drowning. And drowning people don't write compelling drama. They write… well, this." He gestured dismissively at the screen.
The blunt assessment, delivered without malice, cut through the panic. Dream stared at him, the raw vulnerability of the moment hanging heavy in the air between them – the imposing theatre director and the shattered linguist-turned-script-doctor.
"What do you suggest?" Dream whispered, his voice hoarse. "Quit everything? Fail everyone?"
Techno leaned back, steepling his fingers, his dark eyes holding Dream’s. "I suggest you choose your battlefield. Blood God needs focus. So do you. You have a mind, Was-Taken. A resilient one, Thorne insists. But resilience has limits. Even Blade," he added, the faintest ghost of something that might have been a wry smile touching his lips, "probably needed to sleep occasionally."
He pushed his chair back and stood. "Fix Act III. Not tonight. Tomorrow. After you've slept. And eaten something that isn't pure caffeine and despair."
He walked towards the door, pausing. "And tell Punz, Thorne, and Sam you need… less. Or you'll break. And broken tools are useless to everyone." He left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
Dream sat in the sudden silence, the echo of Techno’s words – surprisingly lacking in blame, almost… concerned – reverberating in his skull. The panic had receded, replaced by a profound, bone-deep weariness and a flicker of something else.
Not hope. Not yet. But perhaps the first, faint acknowledgement that the relentless pressure could be managed. That he wasn't alone in the crucible. That the intimidating figure of Techno, the real man behind the myth, might understand the cost of building something real, even if he demanded blood, sweat, and perfectly structured acts to do it.
The start of the burn was a forge, and Dream was still very much in the fire.
But for the first time, he felt a hand, rough and unexpected, offering not rescue, but a momentary grip to keep from slipping completely under.
Acquaintances? Maybe. Comrades in the exhausting, exhilarating trenches of creation? Perhaps. It was a start. Agonizingly slow. Painfully real.
The crucible of Blood God Productions didn't get easier. It deepened.
Techno’s unexpected moment of weary understanding in the face of Dream’s breakdown wasn't a softening; it was a recalibration. He still demanded blood on the page, scalding dialogue, and ruthless cuts. But the demands felt… focused. Less like random artillery fire, more like targeted drills.
Dream, clinging to the lifeline of sleep and food Techno had implicitly mandated, began, agonizingly slowly, to find his footing.
Then the sickness came not with a dramatic collapse, but as a creeping tide. It started as a persistent scratch in his throat he ignored, buried under deadlines. Then a bone-deep weariness that coffee couldn't touch. Then, during a tense script meeting where Eret and Techno were locked in a verbal duel over Matilda’s climactic monologue, a wave of dizziness hit Dream so hard he swayed in his chair.
The warehouse lights swam, Techno’s sharp profile blurring into a dark smudge.
He managed to mumble an excuse about needing air and stumbled into the chilly alley behind the studio. Leaning against the rough brick, he shivered violently, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. His lungs felt tight, each breath a ragged gasp.
The world narrowed to the pounding in his head and the terrifying realization: he couldn’t think. Words, his tools, his weapons, dissolved into meaningless static.
He texted Punz, Thorne, and Sam with trembling fingers: "Sick. Can’t work. Apologies." The responses were variations on a theme: curt acceptance, veiled annoyance (Punz), clinical concern (Thorne: "Viral load overwhelming cognitive function. Rest. Hydrate."), and gentle understanding (Sam: "Feel better, Dream! The manual can wait.").
The world didn't stop. It just… paused for him. The terror wasn't just the fever; it was the sudden, absolute incapacity.
He crawled home. Puffy descended like an avenging angel, thermometer in hand. "102.3, Dream. You idiot." She bundled him into bed, Niki arriving with homemade soup and quiet reproach. "You pushed too hard, sweetheart."
For three days, he existed in a feverish haze, drifting between fitful sleep and coughing fits that felt like tearing his chest apart. The relentless pressure of his part-time jobs evaporated, replaced by the simple, brutal struggle to breathe, to sip broth, to exist.
The silence was deafening. The absence of obligation, profound.
In the lucid moments between fever spikes, clarity struck like cold water. He couldn't do this. Not like this. The jack of all trades path wasn't sustainable; it was a slow suicide. He was competent everywhere, exceptional nowhere, and his body was screaming its final protest.
Lying there, weak and dependent, the image of Techno surfaced – not the intimidating Blade-figure, but the exhausted man who’d seen Dream breaking and offered not pity, but a stark truth: "You're trying to bleed from a dozen wounds at once. You'll just… empty."
He was empty. Hollowed out by the very busyness he’d thought was building his future.
Recovery was slow. The cough lingered, a raspy reminder. His energy returned in frustratingly small increments. But the forced stillness became a catalyst. He started making choices, agonizingly slow, dictated by necessity and a dawning sense of self-preservation.
He finished the urgent manual section with meticulous care at Pandora's, then formally resigned from ongoing contracts.
"My focus needs to shift," he explained, voice still rough. Sam, ever kind, understood. "Focus is good, Dream. Go build something."
He negotiated fiercely at Parchment & Quill Editing, leveraging his value but acknowledging his limits. He kept only the high-fantasy manuscript he was passionate about (The Unbroken Shield), dropping the other, drier projects.
"One epic at a time, Punz." Punz, recognizing the steel in Dream’s weary eyes, conceded with a curt nod. "Quality over quantity. Don't disappoint me."
Research Assistant at Dr. Thorne's was the hardest. She was his anchor, his mentor. He sat in her office, still pale, and laid it out. "I need to scale back. Significantly. The archive work… maybe just the core dialect project? No more peripheral data dives."
Thorne studied him, her gaze sharp. "Recognizing limitations is not failure, Was-Taken. It’s strategic resource allocation. The core project only. And report weekly. Don't let theatrical flair erode academic rigor." It was permission, wrapped in a warning.
Freeing up those mental acres was like removing lead weights. The stress didn't vanish – Blood God and the remaining jobs were demanding enough – but the constant, background hum of impending doom lessened.
Crucially, he reclaimed time. Not vast swathes, but precious, guarded pockets. And for the first time in years, he used some of it not for work, but for books. Real reading. Not analysis for Thorne, not editing for Punz, not research for Techno. Reading for the sheer, forgotten pleasure of it.
He revisited The Nightmare Chronicles, not with analytical fervor, but with a newfound empathy. He understood Nightmare’s rage at being stretched thin, his desperation for control in a world that demanded too much.
He started a new fantasy series, savoring the world-building without dissecting its linguistic consistency. He even picked up a collection of contemporary poetry, something he’d never have considered before, drawn to the raw emotion condensed into sparse lines.
Sitting in a patch of afternoon sun, lost in a page, feeling the simple joy of a story unfolding without demands attached… it was a revelation. It felt like remembering how to breathe.
At Blood God, the shift was palpable. With fewer psychic leaks, Dream’s focus sharpened. He still wrestled with dialogue, still got Techno’s dry critiques ("Less internal monologue, Was-Taken. More externalized conflict. Think stabbing, not sighing."), but he wrestled better.
He started anticipating Techno’s notes, offering solutions before the scalding remark landed. He found his niche: structure and character motivation. His linguistic training helped him dissect the why behind awkward phrasing, his editorial eye helped streamline bloated scenes, and his deep dive into flawed characters like Nightmare gave him insight into making Matilda’s ambition and the Bishop’s hypocrisy resonate with terrifying clarity.
One afternoon, deep in Act III revisions, Dream suggested a subtle shift. Instead of Matilda declaring her right to the throne, he proposed she take it – silently picking up the discarded crown of her defeated enemy and placing it on her own head during a tense silence, her gaze locking with Stephen’s.
Eret, usually sardonic, blinked. "Huh. That's… actually powerful. Silent defiance. Visceral." Techno, reviewing the change, grunted. Not a neutral grunt. A grunt of approval. "Acceptable. Shows, doesn't tell. Finally." He didn’t look at Dream, but the lack of critique was praise enough. Ranboo beamed as if he’d written it himself.
The strangers to acquaintances (nearly friends?) dynamic with Techno evolved through shared trenches and dry humor.
Techno’s "Coffee. Black. Two sugars. Now." became a familiar, almost comforting demand. Dream started anticipating it, placing the cup on Techno’s drafting table without a word during intense rehearsals. Techno would grunt acknowledgment, a tiny nod.
Dream, explaining a character’s ambiguous line, used the term "pragmatic ambiguity." Techno, without looking up from a lighting plot, deadpanned, "Translate: They're lying through their teeth, but politely." Dream snorted. Eret choked on his coffee.
During a marathon session pre-tech week, both slumped in chairs during a ten-minute break, surrounded by chaos. Techno, eyes closed, massaged his temples. "Remind me why I didn't become a hermit, Was-Taken?"
Dream, head thunked back against the wall, mumbled, "Because hermits don't get to boss around talented linguists?" A beat of silence. Then, a low chuckle from Techno. "Valid point."
Dream, struggling with a historical idiom, mentioned an obscure semantic shift he’d tracked for Thorne. Techno listened, then pointed at a line in the script. "So this phrase… it wouldn’t mean that to a 12th-century audience? It meant this?" Dream confirmed. Techno struck the line. "Anachronisms are death. Good catch." It was professional respect, offered gruffly, but genuine.
It wasn't warmth. It was a mutual recognition of competence forged in the fires of shared, brutal effort. They weren't friends who confided; they were allies who understood the cost of the work.
And then, one utterly ordinary Tuesday, walking to the studio after a decent night's sleep and a peaceful hour re-reading his favorite play, it happened. Fundy.
Dream passed a pet store. A golden retriever puppy tumbled in the window. Fundy. The thought surfaced, clear and calm. But the ache… was gone. Not lessened. Gone. In its place was… a soft nostalgia. A fond memory, devoid of the sharp hooks of longing and regret.
He thought of Sally’s vibrant hair, not with a pang, but with simple recognition. He remembered Fundy’s laugh, the smell of antiseptic, the taste of Thai takeout… and felt only gratitude for what had been, and a quiet acceptance that its season was over.
The hollow space inside him wasn't empty anymore; it was simply… available. Cleared of rubble, ready for something new, though he had no idea what. The soullessness had receded like the fever, leaving him feeling… whole. Tired, busy, but fundamentally intact.
He hadn't decided to move on; the relentless forward motion of his reshaped life, the focus demanded by Blood God, the rediscovered joy in simple things like reading, had simply… carried him past the wound. It had healed in the background, unnoticed until the scar was smooth.
Life around the crucible became even better.
Sapnap. A single, glorious text.
MCAT: CONQUERED. MED SCHOOL: HERE I COME! (Also, Ant is still a knowledge vampire, but now he's MY knowledge vampire. We start rotations next month. Send caffeine IV drips.)
The relief and pride were palpable, even through text. His path was clear, brutal, but chosen.
George got promoted again.
Aethel Systems: Vice President of Network Security. Salary: Significant. Free time: Mythical. Noah sends regards (and more work).
He was a titan in his digital realm, his success a stark, gleaming monolith.
Puffy and Niki watched Dream’s slow restructuring with quiet pride. "You look less like a ghost, sweetheart," Puffy observed during a calm Sunday dinner. "More like… a person weathering a storm, but finding his footing." Niki just piled more roast potatoes on his plate.
Dr. Thorne approved of his focused approach to her project. "Efficiency improved, Was-Taken. Theatrical distractions seem to have honed your focus. Paradoxical." It was high praise.
Tubbo and Ranboo had formed a chaotic tech alliance, often found huddled in a corner of the studio, whispering about wireless cue systems that made Callahan raise an intrigued eyebrow.
Wilbur and Sally were fixtures at the theatre, Wilbur offering (often unsolicited) musical advice, Sally a calming presence. Dream could now chat with Sally easily, the Fundy-connection a neutral fact, not a wound.
The career crossroads loomed as the trial project at Blood God neared its end. Tech week was approaching – the notoriously hellish final run-up to opening night.
Punz was dropping hints about a full-time Senior Editor position opening up. Thorne was subtly probing his PhD intentions. And Techno… Techno hadn't mentioned the future.
Dream was no longer drowning, but he was standing at a junction, looking down multiple paths.
He loved the intellectual rigor of linguistics and editing. He craved the stability and the world of books Punz offered. But Blood God was different. It was terrifying, demanding, often infuriating. But it was also alive. It was collaboration, creation under pressure, the raw alchemy of turning words into living, breathing performance.
He saw the world he was helping Techno build – flawed, ambitious, real. He saw the glimmer of respect in Eret’s eyes, Callahan’s silent nods, Ranboo’s trusting gaze. He felt the pull of the forge, the heat of creation, the potential for something new shaped by his own hands and mind, not just analyzed or polished.
He hadn't chosen yet. He was letting the current of the work carry him, observing, learning, feeling the shape of each possibility.
The fear of the master of none lingered, but it was countered by the hard-won knowledge that spreading himself thin nearly broke him. He needed depth. He needed focus. He needed to choose his battlefield. But for now, standing amidst the controlled chaos of Blood God Productions, the scent of sawdust and ambition in the air, the echo of Techno’s dry commands mingling with the actors' voices, and the unfamiliar lightness of a heart no longer haunted, Dream simply… breathed.
The next chapter wasn't written, but for the first time in years, he felt equipped to pick up the pen. The burn wasn't just between people; it was within himself, a forge firing his own resilience, his own voice, his own path – one agonizingly earned step at a time.
Then the trio reunion finally happened, a minor miracle orchestrated by sheer will and George’s color-coded calendar.
They met at their old, grimy pizza haunt, the air thick with the familiar scent of grease and nostalgia.
The years showed: Sapnap vibrated with a different energy, the frantic pre-med panic replaced by the focused intensity of someone neck-deep in gross anatomy labs and bonding with Ant, his "knowledge vampire" study partner turned reluctant friend.
George looked sleek but weary, the Vice President title sitting heavily amidst tales of Aethel Systems network fires and the ever-reliable Noah needing support.
Dream felt like the bridge between their worlds – grounded in academia and publishing, yet now steeped in the chaotic creativity of theatre.
Over lukewarm pizza, Dream laid out his crossroads. "Thorne wants me to commit to the PhD path. Punz is dangling a full-time Senior Editor role – fantasy specialization, good pay, stability. And Blood God…" He hesitated. "The trial project ends after opening night. Techno hasn’t said anything about the future. But… it’s alive. It’s terrifying and exhausting, but…" He trailed off, the complexity defying easy explanation.
The advice came, as varied as their personalities.
Sapnap leaned forward, eyes alight. "Dude, BLOOD GOD! Are you kidding? You're in it! You helped build that thing! It’s got your fingerprints all over it! PhDs and editing jobs will always be there. This? This lightning in a bottle? Grab it! Plus," he grinned, "Techno sounds like a Blade-level challenge. You thrive on that!" His passion was infectious, rooted in his own embrace of the demanding medical path.
George took a precise bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. "Analysis: The publishing offer presents optimal stability and utilizes your core competencies with minimal risk. Blood God represents high volatility. Techno’s operation is new, funding is likely precarious, and theatre is inherently unstable. While the creative stimulus is undeniable, the probability of long-term security is significantly lower. Recommendation: Accept Punz's offer. Maintain a consulting relationship with Blood God if feasible." His logic was impeccable, a spreadsheet made flesh.
The conflicting perspectives didn't clarify; they amplified the weight. Dream felt pulled in three directions, each valid, each demanding a different version of his future. He left the reunion more confused, yet deeply grateful for the anchor of his friends.
Then came Fundy. Again.
He arrived unannounced one afternoon during a final dress rehearsal, a whirlwind of cheerful chaos visiting Sally.
Dream was in the tech booth with Callahan, reviewing a tricky lighting cue sequence, when he saw the flash of familiar orange-red hair near the stage doors. Sally was hugging a tall, lean man whose back was turned. Dream’s breath hitched, a conditioned response. Then the man turned, laughing at something Sally said.
Fundy. Older, a little more weathered around the eyes, but undeniably him. The same warm amber eyes, the same easy grin, just tempered by time and responsibility. He looked happy. Healthy. He scanned the bustling theatre, his gaze sweeping past the booth, then back… and landing on Dream.
Recognition. A wide, genuine smile spread across Fundy’s face. Not awkward, not pained, just pleased. He waved. Sally, following his gaze, smiled too, though Dream saw a flicker of nervousness in her eyes.
Dream’s heart hammered, but not with the old, hollow ache. It was… surprise. Nostalgia. A fond warmth, utterly devoid of romantic yearning.
He waved back, a small, genuine smile touching his own lips. He excused himself from Callahan (who gave a silent, perceptive nod) and made his way down.
"Dream!" Fundy greeted him, pulling him into a brief, firm hug that felt… brotherly. "Look at you! In the thick of it! Sally’s been singing the praises of Blood God, and apparently you're a key part of the machine!" His voice was warm, familiar, but held no lingering tension, no unspoken questions.
"Fundy. Wow. It’s really good to see you," Dream said, the truth of the words resonating within him. The expected pang, the squeeze of loss, was absent. There was only the quiet pleasure of seeing someone who had been important, who was doing well.
"Heard you landed an amazing residency out west? Large animals?"
Fundy’s eyes lit up. "Yeah! It’s incredible. Tough, messy, but so rewarding. Never a dull moment." He launched into a funny story about a stubborn goat, his passion evident.
Dream listened, laughed in the right places, asked questions. It was easy. Comfortable. Like catching up with an old friend you’d lost touch with, discovering the bond remained, just transformed.
Wilbur, ever the observer, materialized beside Sally, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, well! The prodigal vet returns! And finds our resident linguist holding court amidst the stage lights!"
He slung an arm around Fundy. "Looking good, Fundy. Country air suits you. Unlike city chaos, which suits… well, chaos." He winked at Dream. "So? Spark reignited? Old flames fanned? Should I start composing a reunion ballad? Very on-brand for theatre."
Dream rolled his eyes, a genuine chuckle escaping him. "Shut up, Wilbur. It’s just good to see Fundy." He met Fundy’s gaze, a silent understanding passing between them – no sparks, just mutual respect and well-wishes for separate paths.
Fundy grinned. "Wilbur, you haven't changed. Still composing drama where there isn't any. Dream’s clearly busy building empires here." He gestured at the stage where Techno was quietly directing an actor.
Unnoticed by Dream, Wilbur’s gaze flicked past him towards the shadowed wings near the tech booth.
Techno stood there, observing the scene, his expression characteristically unreadable. But Wilbur, knowing his brother, saw the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his eyes lingered on Dream for a fraction longer than necessary before shifting away.
Wilbur smirked, a knowing curve of his lips. He walked and leaned towards where Techno stood, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry over the rehearsal murmur, but soft enough that Dream and Fundy wouldn't hear clearly over the ambient noise.
"See something interesting, brother dearest?" Wilbur murmured, his voice laced with playful insinuation. "Or perhaps someone? Don't worry, the vet’s just passing through. Your resident wordsmith seems… remarkably unruffled." He raised an eyebrow meaningfully at Techno’s impassive profile.
Techno didn’t turn. He didn’t react visibly. But the line of his shoulders seemed to stiffen almost imperceptibly. He gave a single, curt shake of his head, a silent dismissal of Wilbur’s teasing, before turning his full attention back to the stage, his voice cutting through the air with a sharp directive to an actor.
Yet, the moment hung – Wilbur’s smirk, Techno’s subtle tension, a silent exchange witnessed only by the observant musician and the oblivious subject of their quiet attention.
The burn had just found a new, unexpected source of heat, its direction still unclear, but its presence suddenly undeniable in the charged air of the theatre.
Dream remained blissfully unaware, chatting easily with Fundy, the weight of his career choices momentarily forgotten in the simple, uncomplicated warmth of a past chapter finally, peacefully closed.
The converted warehouse thrummed with the focused intensity of a beehive nearing the height of summer. One month until opening night.
Blood God Productions was no longer just chaos; it was chaos sculpted with ruthless precision, and Dream moved through it with a hard-won steadiness. Gone was the frantic, fractured attention. He’d carved out mental compartments, fortified by the brutal lesson of his illness.
His time management wasn't flawless, but it was sustainable. He guarded his reclaimed pockets of peace fiercely, using them not for collapse, but for deliberate restoration.
Often, this meant books. Not just the anticipated finale of The Nightmare Chronicles (still months away), but explorations beyond familiar realms. He delved into intricate political thrillers, finding grim satisfaction in the strategic maneuvering that echoed Techno’s relentless drive.
He savored quiet literary novels, appreciating the nuanced character studies that resonated with his work on Matilda and the Bishop. He even revisited childhood favorites, finding unexpected comfort in their simpler narratives. Reading was no longer escape; it was equilibrium.
His jobs were demanding, but he navigated them with a newfound clarity.
Mornings often found him in the hushed university archive, sunlight filtering through high windows onto ancient dialect surveys. His focus was laser-sharp now, the core Appalachian vowel shift project benefiting from his undivided attention.
Thorne observed his efficiency with a curt nod. "Precision improved, Was-Taken. The theatrical distractions seem to have honed your focus. Paradoxical, but effective." He’d decipher faded handwriting, cross-reference phonetic notations, and input data with meticulous care, the quiet ritual a grounding counterpoint to the theatre’s roar.
Afternoons might shift to the sleek, quiet offices of Parchment & Quill. Punz, sleek and ambitious, had him deep in The Unbroken Shield.
Dream’s editorial eye was keener than ever. He tracked intricate plot threads with the analytical rigor honed by linguistics, flagged inconsistencies in world-building magic systems with Thorne-like precision, and suggested character motivations deepened by his understanding of flawed figures like Nightmare.
He’d wrestle with a clumsy battle scene, stripping away excess adjectives to reveal the visceral core, feeling a familiar satisfaction in shaping narrative clarity. Punz’s approval was tangible, the promise of the full-time role a heavy, glittering lure. Stability. Expertise. A world of books he understood.
Evenings and weekends belonged to the warehouse. The pressure was immense, but Dream met it head-on. He’d huddle with Eret, debating the subtext of a newly rewritten confrontation scene.
Eret, his initial cynicism thawed to grudging respect, would grunt, "The Bishop’s hypocrisy stings more now. Less ranting, more poisoned honey. Better." Dream would then take the notes to his corner, revising dialogue until the words crackled with tension and hidden daggers.
He’d confer with Callahan, the stoic set designer, explaining how a specific lighting cue could underscore Matilda’s isolation. Callahan would listen silently, then adjust his sketches with a thoughtful nod.
Ranboo, his anxious ally, became a reliable sounding board for structural ideas. And always, there was Techno.
The actual shift from acquaintances to friends wasn’t marked by grand declarations, but by an accretion of small, unspoken understandings and shared burdens.
Late nights became common. Dream would be refining a soliloquy, Techno reviewing lighting plots or budget spreadsheets, his brow furrowed. The warehouse would be quiet except for the hum of electronics and the scratch of pens.
No words were exchanged for long stretches, but the silence wasn’t empty; it was companionable, charged with mutual concentration. Dream found a strange comfort in Techno’s focused presence, a silent acknowledgment of their shared dedication to the beast they were wrestling onto the stage.
The ritual coffee evolved. Dream no longer waited for the barked order. He learned the rhythm of Techno’s focus, the subtle signs of impending demand – a certain tightening of the jaw, a deeper sigh. He’d rise quietly during a rehearsal lull, fetch the black coffee with two sugars, and place it on the drafting table just as Techno’s hand started to reach out. Techno’s grunt of acknowledgment became a simple, almost imperceptible nod.
Once, Dream was deep in a thorny editorial note for Punz when he felt eyes on him. He looked up to see Techno holding two cups of coffee. He placed one silently beside Dream’s laptop.
No words. Just steam curling in the dim light. Dream stared at the cup, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with caffeine. "Thanks," he murmured. Techno just walked away, already barking an instruction to Ranboo about misplaced prop swords.
Their script discussions developed a shorthand born of mutual respect. Dream would point out a potential historical inaccuracy: "Would a 12th-century bishop use this term here? It feels… early." Techno wouldn’t dismiss; he’d consider. "Verify. If anachronistic, axe it. Replace with period venom."
Conversely, Techno’s cryptic notes became decipherable challenges: "Matilda’s victory needs less triumph, more terrifying resolve. Think glacier, not avalanche." Dream would ponder, then offer: "Silence after the crowning? Her just… staring out at the court, the crown heavy, her face unreadable?"
Techno would grunt, "Acceptable. Cold. Good." Eret started calling them "the Silent Architects."
After Dream presented a complete restructuring of the problematic third act – weaving historical nuance, character arcs, and heightened tension into a cohesive whole – Techno scanned it with his usual intensity. He looked up, his dark eyes holding Dream’s.
"Competent, Was-Taken." He paused, then added, the words seeming almost physically pulled out, "The Bishop’s final plea… the desperation masked as piety. That was… effective." Two sentences. Delivered flatly. But in Techno’s world of minimal praise, it felt like a laurel wreath.
Dream felt the ridiculous pride bloom again, warmer this time.
Fundy, the ghost of a perfect love, overlapped with this burgeoning reality in Dream’s mind. He thought less of Blade’s unwavering, almost simplistic devotion. That felt like a childhood dream, beautiful but distant. Instead, Nightmare occupied his thoughts.
Re-reading the first two books, he didn't just understand the villain; he felt the crushing weight of betrayal, the corrosive bitterness of hope extinguished, the terrifying logic that could twist brilliance into destruction. Nightmare wasn't evil incarnate; he was tragedy forged in fire, a monument to how love and trust, when shattered, could calcify into something monstrous.
This resonated deeply. It mirrored the complex truth of his own past.
Fundy hadn't betrayed him; life had simply been too vast, their dreams too heavy to carry together. Their love hadn't failed; it had been reshaped by circumstance, released not with malice, but with a painful, necessary grace. The ache had transformed into a melancholic appreciation, a recognition of a profound connection that existed in its own season.
And seeing Fundy at the theatre with Sally had cemented this. The warmth was nostalgic, devoid of yearning. He saw Fundy now not as a lost ideal, but as a testament to a real, imperfect, deeply meaningful chapter.
If Nightmare taught him that darkness often stemmed from broken light, Fundy taught him that even released light left an enduring warmth.
The Tommy-Tubbo-Ranboo trio erupted into the theatre’s ecosystem like a joyful supernova. Tommy, visiting Wilbur, collided with Tubbo (there to drag Dream to lunch) and Ranboo (frantically searching for misplaced prop gems). Instant chaos ensued.
Tommy’s loud, irreverent energy bounced off Tubbo’s manic inventiveness and Ranboo’s anxious earnestness. They bonded over dissecting the theatre’s outdated comms system ("It’s practically Neolithic, big man!" Tommy declared), planning impossible tech upgrades, and sharing horror stories about their respective older brothers (Wilbur/Techno for Tommy, Dream for Tubbo, a mysterious "they" for Ranboo).
Their laughter became a new, welcome layer of sound in the warehouse, a counterpoint to the intense creative focus. Dream watched them sometimes, a fond smile touching his lips. Tubbo, beaming amidst the new chaos, looked happier than he had in months.
The career crossroads loomed larger as opening night neared. Punz made the Senior Editor offer formal: full-time, excellent salary, benefits, a clear path in the world of books. Thorne subtly increased the pressure about PhD applications. Blood God remained silent on the future.
And the stability of publishing, aligned with his academic aspirations, was the logical, safe choice. It felt like the path of least resistance towards a recognizable future.
He sought the trio again, this time in George’s sleek, minimalist apartment.
Sapnap, radiating the exhausted intensity of someone who’d just survived a 24-hour hospital shift, sprawled on the sofa. George, impeccably dressed even at home, sat rigidly at his desk, monitoring network traffic on one screen. Dream paced, the weight of Punz’s offer heavy in the air.
"Sapnap," Dream began, "you were all for Blood God before…?"
Sapnap ran a hand over his face. "Ugh, med school changes a man, Dream. It grinds you down. You see the value in… structure. In letters after your name."
He sat up, surprisingly earnest. "Look, Blood God sounds epic. But it’s a gamble. Theatre? Risky. Punz’s offer? Solid gold. And the PhD…" His eyes gleamed with a new fervor. "Titles matter, Dream. Seriously. On your research, on your tombstone. ‘Dr. Dream Was-Taken, Linguistics’. That’s legacy. That’s permanent. Script doctoring is… ephemeral. Lights up, lights down." He gestured vaguely.
"Go for the PhD. Secure your expertise. Be the master, not the jack-of-all-trades getting burned out again."
It was a complete reversal, born of his own immersion in the credential-heavy world of medicine.
George swiveled his chair. "Sapnap’s emotional appeal to vanity aside," he deadpanned, ignoring Sapnap’s indignant sputter, "his core logic aligns with mine, albeit for different reasons. Aethel Systems thrives on predictability. Pandora’s Systems," he nodded towards the screen, "where Sam battles his own fires, also values stability. Punz offers a high-probability path: stable income, clear progression, utilization of proven skills.
"Blood God represents high volatility. Techno’s venture is unproven. Funding is speculative. Theatrical success is fickle. The creative stimulus is undeniable, but the long-term security metrics are unfavorable. Recommendation remains: Accept Punz’s offer. Maintain freelance script consultation if Blood God desires it and your PhD schedule permits."
His reasoning was a cool, clear stream against Sapnap’s newly pragmatic passion.
But Dream felt more adrift than ever. Sapnap, his chaotic champion, now advocated for the tombstone title. George, ever logical, reinforced the safe harbor.
The passion he felt at Blood God warred with the seductive security of Punz’s offer and the intellectual allure of the PhD. He loved the world of books Punz represented. He craved the deep dive of a PhD. But the forge of the theatre, the alchemy of creation with Techno, Eret, Callahan, even Ranboo… it called to him with a siren song of terrifying potential.
Later, talking to Puffy and Niki, he voiced the conflict. "Punz makes sense. So does the PhD. But Blood God… it doesn’t feel like just a job anymore."
Puffy listened, her gaze seeing the layers. "Security is important, sweetheart. Especially after how hard you pushed before. But ‘making sense’ isn't always the same as ‘feeling right’. Does Punz’s path feel like your path? Or the path you think you should take?"
Niki added, "And the PhD… it’s a huge commitment. Does it excite you now? Or is it a ‘should’ you’re carrying from the past? Blood God might be ephemeral, but the experience, the creation… that becomes part of you forever."
They didn't tell him what to do; they held up mirrors to his own conflicted heart.
Tubbo, of course, was unequivocal. "BLOOD GOD! Are you nuts, Dream? You're a hero there! You and Techno are like… like a well-oiled murder machine! But, like, for art! Punz is just… words on paper. Blood God is words that live! Plus, Ranboo and Tommy and I are building a revolutionary cue light system! You gotta be there to see it!" His loyalty was to the vibrant, chaotic present.
Dream walked home under a sky streaked with twilight. The weight of the decision pressed down.
He thought of the quiet intensity of the archive, the satisfying precision of editing The Unbroken Shield, the thrilling uncertainty of shaping Matilda’s rage on the page for Techno. He thought of Sapnap’s newfound reverence for titles, George’s unwavering logic, his mothers’ quiet wisdom, Tubbo’s infectious enthusiasm. He thought of Fundy’s warm, uncomplicated presence, a closed chapter accepted. He thought of Nightmare’s tragic complexity, a far cry from Blade’s simple heroism.
And he thought of Techno. The shared silences. The unspoken backup. The coffee. The flat, hard-won "Competent… effective." The subtle shift from imposing Blade-figure to demanding, brilliant, unexpectedly human collaborator.
The burn was the forging of respect, trust, and a shared language in the fires of creation. It was real. It was messy. It was terrifyingly uncertain.
And as he neared his apartment, the lure of Punz’s safe, stable, predictable world warred fiercely with the magnetic pull of the chaotic, demanding, exhilarating forge where the Silent Architects built worlds under the watchful eye of the Blood God. He still didn't know.
The path ahead remained shrouded, but for the first time, the choice wasn't just about security versus passion; it was about choosing the fire where he felt most alive, even if it meant stepping back into the crucible’s heat without a guaranteed outcome.
The clock ticked, loud in the quiet street, mirroring the frantic pulse of the theatre preparing to unleash its story upon the world.
The air in the converted warehouse thickened with the electric tension of a coming storm.
One week. Seven days until the velvet curtain rose on Blood God Productions' inaugural show. The meticulously sculpted chaos had reached a fever pitch – actors running lines with manic intensity, Callahan and his crew hammering final set pieces into place with grim focus, Ranboo darting like a startled rabbit, clutching lists that seemed to multiply, and Techno a dark, immovable monolith at the center of it all, his voice a low, constant rumble issuing directives that brooked no delay.
Dream moved through this maelstrom, a figure of contained turmoil. His time management, once a hard-won shield, felt paper-thin against the converging tidal wave of deadlines.
Ten chapters. That's all that remained of The Unbroken Shield, the epic Punz demanded finalized before opening night. Punz’s emails had shifted from reminders to thinly veiled ultimatums, the promise of the Senior Editor role gleaming like a golden cage just beyond the finish line. "The market waits for no epic, Dream. Seal the shield."
Simultaneously, Dr. Thorne’s core Appalachian dialect research project demanded its final synthesis – complex phonetic data woven into a coherent academic narrative, ready for peer review. Thorne’s expectations were a silent, crushing weight: "Precision under pressure defines the scholar, Was-Taken. Conclude with rigor."
And Blood God… Blood God consumed everything else.
Tech rehearsals bled into dress rehearsals bled into frantic last-minute script tweaks prompted by Techno’s laser focus. "Matilda’s coronation lacks visceral dread, Was-Taken. Find it. By tonight." Eret’s cynical gaze followed him, Ranboo’s anxious energy vibrated beside him, and the sheer, terrifying reality of putting their collective creation before a live audience loomed like a physical wall.
Fate, Dream decided bitterly, had a cruel sense of timing. It had gathered the disparate threads of his fractured professional life and knotted them into an impossible tangle, all converging in this single, suffocating week. The stress wasn't just mental; it manifested physically.
The old cough, a relic of his collapse, returned with a vengeance, a raw scrape in his throat that flared during tense rehearsals or late-night editing marathons. A permanent knot of tension lodged between his shoulder blades. Sleep became a fragmented memory, stolen in brief, uneasy snatches haunted by misplaced lines, editorial oversights, and the disapproving specters of Punz and Thorne.
He moved through the warehouse, through his apartment, through the library archives, with a visible tautness, his usual quiet focus replaced by a brittle intensity. He snapped at Ranboo over a misplaced prop list, instantly regretting it as the intern flinched.
He stared blankly at a page of The Unbroken Shield, the intricate politics of a fictional kingdom blurring into meaningless glyphs. Frustration, a hot, corrosive brew, simmered beneath the surface. The carefully rebuilt compartments of his life were cracking under the pressure, threatening to flood him with the very chaos he’d fought so hard to contain.
One particularly brutal evening, after a disastrous dress rehearsal where lighting cues misfired and an actor froze entirely, Dream fled the warehouse.
He didn't go home. He walked, aimlessly, through the city streets still buzzing with oblivious life, the cool night air doing nothing to soothe the furnace inside his chest.
He found himself outside the imposing, silent facade of the main library – his childhood cathedral, his sanctuary. Leaning against the cold stone, the familiar scent of old paper and dust somehow penetrating the city smells, the dam finally broke. Not into tears, but into a profound, dizzying wave of introspection.
He saw his life unspooling behind him, not as a linear path, but as a series of illuminated pages.
His linguistics major: Choosing words, dissecting meaning, seeking order in the beautiful chaos of language. Why? Because language built the worlds within the books he adored.
George: The devastating first love, built on projected fantasies worthy of the most tragic romantic subplot. He hadn’t loved George; he’d loved the idea of George, a character he’d written onto a real person.
Wilbur: The summer melody, ephemeral and poetic, a beautiful interlude straight out of a bittersweet coming-of-age novel. He’d been Wilbur’s fleeting muse, a character in the songwriter’s narrative.
And Fundy: The earnest, tangible love story, the one that felt real, yet ultimately followed the script of diverging paths, a mature, heartbreaking denouement. Even Fundy, solid and warm, was framed by the narratives of loyalty and sacrifice he’d consumed.
It hit him with the force of a physical blow, stealing his breath more effectively than the cough.
Everything.
Every significant choice, every profound feeling, every heartbreak and triumph, was filtered through the lens of books. His obsession wasn't just a hobby; it was the very architecture of his perception.
He hadn't been living life; he'd been trying to narrate it, to fit himself and everyone else into the familiar, comforting arcs of fiction.
He craved the clear-cut heroism of Blade, the poetic tragedy of Wilbur, the enduring loyalty he’d projected onto George, the tangible "happily ever after" he’d glimpsed with Fundy.
Reality, messy and resistant to neat plots, had consistently refused to comply.
Editing. Punz’s offer. It made chilling, perfect sense. It allowed him to stay within the world of books. To shape other people’s fictional realities, to polish their epics and tragedies, to live perpetually in the realm of story, safely removed from the messy uncertainties of crafting his own.
He could become a master weaver of other people’s tapestries, his own life a footnote in the margins. It was stability, yes, but also a profound retreat. A surrender to the very impulse that had shaped him.
Script doctoring. This was different. This wasn't just being near fiction; this was breathing life into it. Taking words off a page and forging them into living, breathing moments under the harsh glare of stage lights.
It was collaboration, raw and demanding, with Techno’s relentless vision, Eret’s weary cynicism, Callahan’s silent artistry, Ranboo’s frantic dedication. It was the terrifying alchemy of turning "Matilda’s coronation lacks visceral dread" into a moment that would make an audience hold its breath.
It was creation, not curation. It was stepping onto the page, not just reading it.
His heart, battered and exhausted, yearned for Blood God. The forge, despite its heat and danger, felt like the only place where he wasn't just observing the story, but actively writing it.
Where the narrative wasn't predetermined by genre conventions, but forged in the messy, collaborative, terrifyingly real crucible of shared effort. Where Techno’s grunted "Competent… effective" meant more than any polished academic praise.
Yet, the hesitation was a cold serpent coiling in his gut. Fear. Not just of failure, or poverty, or Techno’s infamous temper.
A deeper, more insidious fear whispered by the ghost of every disillusioned adult: What if you learn to hate it? What if the relentless pressure, the compromises, the sheer exhaustion of turning his deepest passion – the world of stories – into his daily grind, drained the magic from it? What if the fire he was drawn to consumed the very fuel that fed his soul?
He was an adult now. The wide-eyed child who believed loving something meant you should do it forever was tempered by harsh reality. People grew to resent hobbies turned obligations.
Would the weight of deadlines, Techno’s impossible standards, the fickleness of audiences, turn the vibrant tapestry of storytelling into a gray, burdensome chore? Would the books he still loved, waiting for Nightmare’s finale, start to taste like ash in his mouth?
He thought of Punz’s sleek office, the quiet hum of editing, the predictable satisfaction of fixing a clumsy sentence. Safe. Contained. Separate from the vulnerable core of his passion.
He thought of Thorne’s archive, the hushed reverence for the past, the intellectual puzzle of language detached from the messy business of human performance. Secure. Respected.
Then he thought of the warehouse: the smell of sawdust and sweat, the echo of actors finding a truth in a line he’d wrestled onto the page, the shared, exhausted silence with Techno after conquering a scene, the electric anticipation crackling before a run-through. Alive. Terribly, dangerously alive.
He leaned his forehead against the cold library stone, the city lights blurring into streaks of color.
The decision wasn't made. The fear was too real, too adult. But the realization was complete, agonizingly so. His entire life had been a quest to live within the pages.
Now, at the climax, he stood trembling on the threshold, drawn to the terrifying act of stepping out and helping to create the light that cast the shadows on the page, terrified that doing so might extinguish his love for the shadows themselves.
The pressure of the converging deadlines, the exhaustion, the cough scraping his throat – they weren't just obstacles; they were the physical manifestation of this impossible, existential choice.
One week. To choose the safe confines of the story, or to risk everything, including his love for the stories themselves, by stepping into the blinding, uncertain glare of the stage lights.
The climax wasn't the opening night; it was this silent, internal war waged against the backdrop of stone and starlight, with the ghosts of all his fictional loves watching, waiting to see which narrative he would finally choose for himself.
The pressure didn’t lift; it crystallized. Seven days became six, then five, a relentless countdown echoing the frantic ticking of Dream’s own overtaxed heart.
The converging deadlines weren’t abstract threats anymore; they were physical weights strapped to his chest.
Ten chapters of The Unbroken Shield glared at him from his laptop screen, each dense paragraph on elven political intrigue feeling like wading through tar after hours wrestling Matilda’s visceral dread under the warehouse lights.
Punz’s emails acquired a new, steely edge: "Dream, the acquisition team meets Monday. The shield must be sealed by Friday COB. No extensions."
Dr. Thorne’s final data synthesis loomed, a complex puzzle demanding absolute focus – focus eroded by Ranboo’s panicked whispers about malfunctioning trapdoors and Eret’s muttered critiques of the Bishop’s revised poison-honey monologue.
And Techno… Techno was a force of nature compressed into human form, his demands sharper, his gaze missing nothing, his presence a constant, low-frequency hum of expectation that vibrated in Dream’s bones.
Dream moved through the days like a ghost haunting three separate realities.
In the hushed university archive, sunlight illuminating swirling dust motes above century-old dialect surveys, Thorne’s silent scrutiny was a physical pressure.
He’d trace faded phonetic notations, his mind snagging not on vowel shifts, but on a line of dialogue that felt wooden. "Less internal monologue, Was-Taken. More externalized conflict. Think stabbing, not sighing." He’d jerk back to the data, fingers trembling slightly, the cough scraping his raw throat.
At Parchment & Quill, Punz’s sleek, air-conditioned office felt sterile, alien. He’d stare at a battle scene in The Unbroken Shield, the clash of enchanted blades blurring into the remembered chaos of yesterday’s rehearsal where an actor missed their light cue.
Punz would appear silently at his shoulder, radiating impatience. "The pacing drags here, Dream. Trim the fat. Remember the market waits for no epic." The words felt like shards of ice.
But it was the warehouse that truly defined the crucible now. The air crackled with a manic, sleep-deprived energy. Actors ran lines with the fervor of the damned. Callahan and his crew hammered and painted with grim determination, the scent of sawdust and fresh paint thick enough to taste. Ranboo was a blur of nervous motion, lists clutched like talismans.
And Techno was everywhere. His voice, usually a low rumble, could crack like a whip.
"Lighting cue three is late! AGAIN!" "Stephen, your defiance lacks teeth! Find them or I’ll pull them!" "Was-Taken! The coronation stillness needs more weight! Not just silence – suffocating expectation!" Dream felt like he was constantly scrambling to plug leaks in a dam threatening to burst.
The actual "friends" interactions didn’t arrive with fanfare. They seeped in through the cracks of the relentless pressure, small moments of shared humanity that felt like lifelines thrown into a stormy sea.
After a brutal twelve-hour tech rehearsal plagued by gremlins in the sound system and a backdrop that stubbornly refused to descend smoothly, Dream and Techno found themselves alone in the cavernous space long past midnight.
The actors had fled, the crew had collapsed. Only the ghost light remained, casting long, eerie shadows. Dream slumped against a prop crate, head in hands, the accumulated fatigue a crushing weight. He heard the scrape of a chair. Techno sat heavily nearby, not looking at him, staring out at the empty stage.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, a sigh so deep it seemed to come from the foundations of the building. "Building worlds," Techno murmured, his voice stripped of its usual command, rough with fatigue.
"It’s less glorious, more… bloody trench warfare." It wasn't sympathy. It was shared recognition. Dream lifted his head, meeting Techno’s shadowed gaze. The imposing director looked hollowed out, the lines around his eyes etched deep. Dream didn’t offer platitudes. He just nodded, a silent I know.
The acknowledgment hung in the dim silence, a bond forged in mutual depletion. They sat there, not as boss and employee, but as two soldiers in the same impossible campaign, sharing the weight of the quiet.
Dream was deep in a thorny editorial knot for Punz during a rare lull, his focus fraying, the cough worsening into hacking spasms that bent him double.
He hadn’t even noticed Techno approach. A large, surprisingly warm hand landed briefly, firmly, on his shoulder. Dream flinched, looking up, expecting a demand. Techno held out a steaming mug – not coffee, but strong, dark tea with honey and lemon. "Drink," he ordered, his tone devoid of its usual bark, almost… gruffly gentle.
"Your throat sounds like gravel in a blender. Can’t fix the Bishop’s venom if you sound like him." He placed the mug on the table beside Dream’s laptop, then walked away without another word, already calling out a correction to Callahan about a misplaced flat.
Dream stared at the mug, the warmth seeping into his chilled fingers, the simple act of care cutting through the haze of stress and illness more effectively than any words. He sipped the tea. It soothed the rawness. It felt like belonging.
During a particularly fraught run-through where an actor kept stumbling over a crucial emotional beat in Matilda’s final confrontation, Techno’s icy fury was palpable.
He stopped the rehearsal, his critique sharp enough to draw blood. The actor fled backstage, near tears. The tension was suffocating. Dream, moved by instinct, started to follow, wanting to offer support, but Techno’s hand shot out, stopping him.
"No." His voice was low, intense. "She needs to find it herself. Coddling creates weak performances." He turned his fierce gaze on Dream. "You think this is just about hitting marks? It’s about truth. Ugly, messy, terrifying truth. We break things here, Was-Taken," he gestured around the stage, "we break actors, break scripts, break ourselves, until what emerges is… true. However painful."
It wasn't just direction; it was a credo. A terrifying, exhilarating glimpse into the furnace of Techno’s artistic vision. Dream saw not just a demanding director, but a man obsessed with authenticity, willing to endure the chaos to find it.
The ambition, the ruthlessness, suddenly held a raw, compelling purpose that resonated deep within Dream’s own yearning to move beyond fictional confines. He nodded slowly, understanding dawning. Break things until they're true.
One afternoon, wrestling with Punz’s latest demand for cuts while simultaneously trying to incorporate Techno’s note about "suffocating expectation" into the coronation scene, Dream felt the familiar panic rise – the fear of failing everyone, the terror of choosing wrong. He muttered aloud, barely conscious of it, "What if I ruin it? What if I learn to hate it?"
He hadn’t realized Techno was nearby, reviewing lighting cues. Techno didn’t look up immediately. Then, his low voice cut through Dream’s spiraling thoughts. "Hate is easy, Was-Taken. Passion is hard. It demands everything. Burns you. Exhausts you. Makes you question every damn choice."
He finally looked at Dream, his dark eyes holding a flicker of something uncharacteristically open – not vulnerability, but stark honesty. "The fear doesn't leave. You just learn to build alongside it. Or you walk away."
He held Dream’s gaze for a beat, then returned to his cues. "Choose the hard thing. Or don’t. But choose knowing the cost."
It wasn't reassurance. It was the grim reality of pursuing passion laid bare by someone living it. It acknowledged Dream’s deepest fear without dismissing it, making the potential choice for Blood God feel terrifyingly real.
These moments stacked, brick by heavy brick, building a bridge between wary collaborators into something resembling actual friends.
It wasn't about shared laughter or confidences, but about shared exhaustion, mutual respect earned in the trenches, and an unspoken understanding of the brutal cost of creation.
Dream saw Techno not as the untouchable Blade-figure, nor just as a brilliant, demanding director, but as a man wrestling his own demons, fueled by an uncompromising vision, capable of unexpected, gruff kindness. He saw the humanity behind the imposing facade, the passion beneath the ruthlessness.
This deepening connection became the counterweight to Punz’s glittering cage. Editing The Unbroken Shield felt increasingly like polishing armor for a battle he didn’t want to fight. The world within its pages, once a refuge, now felt static, confined.
Thorne’s research, while intellectually satisfying, felt distant, detached from the pulsing immediacy of human emotion he was helping to shape on stage.
Yet, the fear remained, colder and sharper than ever. The specter of future resentment haunted him.
Would the relentless pressure of opening nights, funding crises, and Techno’s impossible standards eventually leach the joy from storytelling? Would the vibrant tapestry fade to gray under the weight of obligation?
He saw the exhaustion etched on Techno’s face, the ruthless choices he had to make, the constant battle. Was that the future? Trading the safe sterility of editing for a different kind of burnout, one that consumed the very thing he loved?
He stood at the precipice, the converging deadlines roaring in his ears – Punz’s Friday ultimatum, Thorne’s synthesis deadline, the relentless march towards opening night.
The library revelation – that his life had been a quest to live within the pages – was now a stark choice: retreat into the safe, curated world of other people's stories, or step onto the terrifying, unpredictable stage of co-creation, risking the very love that defined him.
The friendship with Techno, hard-won and forged in shared fire, pulled him powerfully towards the edge. It offered not security, but the terrifying, exhilarating promise of building something true, alongside someone who understood the cost.
But the fall could break him, and the thing he cherished most.
The climax wasn't the performance. It was this agonizing suspension, this breath held over the abyss, the weight of every fictional love and every real fear pressing down, demanding he choose which story he would live – the safe narrative, or the terrifying, uncertain, blazingly real one beckoning from the blinding glare of the stage lights.
The choice was imminent, and the cost of either path felt unbearably high.
The pressure didn't break him; it distilled him. Four days. Ninety-six hours until the curtain rose on Matilda's fraught coronation, until Punz's acquisition team passed judgment on The Unbroken Shield, until Thorne expected her research synthesis polished to diamond brilliance.
Dream existed in a state of hyper-focused exhaustion, every nerve ending raw, the cough a constant, grating companion. He moved with a brittle efficiency, a man walking a high wire strung between collapsing worlds.
The decision wasn't made, but the need for it screamed in his bones. He needed… clarity. Not logic, not fear, but something deeper. He sought out the anchors in his storm, one by one, a pilgrim seeking unintentional benediction.
Sapnap found him slumped over a cadaver lab manual in a deserted hospital cafeteria, the fluorescent lights bleaching the color from his face. Dark circles rivaled Techno’s.
"Dream? Didn't expect…" He gestured vaguely at the textbook. "Ant is making me re-memorize nerve innervations. Fun times." Dream sat, the plastic chair cold through his thin shirt. He laid out the choices again. And Sapnap listened, chewing mechanically on a protein bar that looked like compressed sawdust.
When Dream finished, Sapnap sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "Look, man, we've been through this before. After stitching up my first actual human yesterday? Seeing the guts, the blood, the sheer… mess of it? Stability sounds like heaven. Punz’s offer? And doing your PhD at the same time? That’s clean. Contained. You know exactly what you’re getting. Blood God?" He shook his head, a flicker of his old passion dimmed by exhaustion.
"It’s like surgery without anesthesia. Thrilling? Maybe. But it hurts. It breaks you open. Do you really want to sign up for that kind of pain when you could have… peace?"
He didn’t say "choose Punz," but the longing for his own version of peace – a quiet clinic, predictable hours – screamed it. Yet, his words echoed Techno’s: Break things… until they're true. The very pain Sapnap feared was the crucible Dream was drawn to.
Dream cornered George late at Aethel Systems, the server room humming like a sleeping dragon. George was meticulously tracing lines of code on a giant monitor, his face illuminated in cool blue light.
He didn’t turn as Dream spoke. George’s fingers never stopped moving.
"Emotional appeals to 'passion' are statistically unreliable predictors of long-term satisfaction," he stated flatly. "Punz offers quantifiable benefits: salary percentile, career progression metrics, health insurance stability. The PhD enhances future earning potential and intellectual capital. Blood God presents…"
He finally swiveled, his glasses reflecting the screen’s glow, obscuring his eyes. "…incalculable risk. Techno’s venture capital is likely precarious. Audience reception is an unpredictable variable.
"Theatrical longevity is statistically dismal. Your skillset," he tapped the screen displaying complex network schematics, "is optimized for structured environments like publishing or academia. Placing it in a high-volatility, low-predictability sector like independent theatre is… illogical. It’s like running precision code on unstable hardware. High probability of system failure."
His analysis was cold, irrefutable. Yet, as Dream walked away, the phrase "precision code on unstable hardware" resonated strangely.
Wasn't creating living art the ultimate challenge for a linguist? Wasn't imposing structure on chaos the most demanding, rewarding application of his skills?
George’s sterile logic inadvertently framed Blood God as the ultimate test, the unstable hardware where his precision code might create something truly unique.
Dream went home. The familiar warmth, the scent of Niki’s baking (snickerdoodles, a balm), was almost overwhelming. He spilled it all over the kitchen table – the deadlines, the fear, the crushing weight of choice.
Puffy listened, seeing the layers of exhaustion and yearning. Niki held his hand, her grip warm and firm. "Oh, sweetheart," Niki sighed. "It sounds like you're trying to choose between your head and your heart. Punz and the PhD make sense here." She tapped her temple.
"But Blood God… it sings here, doesn't it?" She placed her hand over his heart.
Puffy leaned forward. "Remember six-year-old Dream? Devouring fairy tales, building castles out of cushions? That boy didn't dream of editing other people's castles. He dreamed of living in them. Of being the knight, the king." She smiled softly.
"Blood God isn't just a job. It's you stepping into the story. It's terrifying because it's real. It's messy. It has no guaranteed happy ending written by someone else."
Niki squeezed his hand. "But honey, isn't writing your own next chapter, messy as it might be, more exciting than just proofreading someone else's?"
Their love was a mirror reflecting not what he should do, but who he was at his core – not the editor, but the protagonist yearning for his own adventure.
Dream wasn't seeking Fundy out, but fate intervened. Fundy was back at the theatre, helping Sally with a minor costume repair.
Dream, fleeing a particularly tense note session with Eret, bumped into them in the dim backstage corridor. Fundy looked up, his amber eyes warm, a needle and thread in his hand.
"Dream! Just fixing a ripped tunic. The perils of historical drama, huh?" His ease was disarming. Dream, strung tight, found himself blurting out fragments of his dilemma – Punz, PhD, the terrifying uncertainty of Blood God.
And Fundy listened, his vet’s calm settling over him like a familiar blanket. He tied off the thread, snipped it neatly.
"Stability’s a powerful lure," he said thoughtfully. "Especially after… well, after everything. Knowing where your next paycheck comes from, having a clear path… it’s safe harbor." He met Dream’s eyes, a gentle understanding in his gaze.
"But Dream, watching you here… even stressed, even coughing like a sick badger… you’ve got this light in your eyes I haven't seen since… well, since we were burying ourselves in Thai takeout and pretending finals weren't happening." He smiled, a little sadly.
"Back then, it was us against the chaos. Now… it’s you, right here, in the chaos. Building something. Don't undervalue that spark. Safe harbors are vital, but sometimes… you need to trust the boat you've built, even in the storm."
He didn't advocate for Blood God; he simply named the spark Dream felt there, the spark absent in Punz’s sterile office, the spark Fundy recognized from a time when Dream’s passion was their shared fuel.
It was an observation, a mirror held up to Dream’s own buried fire.
Dream met Dr. Thorne in the archive, the silence a stark contrast to the theatre’s din. He presented his near-complete synthesis, precise, rigorous, but devoid of the fervor he poured into Matilda’s final speech. Thorne scanned it, her expression unreadable.
"Adequate, Was-Taken," she stated. "Technically proficient. But it lacks…" She paused, searching for the word. "Conviction. The passion you apply to dissecting fictional motivations seems absent here." She fixed him with her steely gaze.
"The academic path demands discipline, yes. But it also demands a certain… fire. A relentless curiosity that burns brighter than the fear of failure. Your work at the theatre," she said the word with distaste, "however chaotic, clearly ignites that fire. Here?" She tapped his synthesis.
"It smolders. Choose the path that fans your flame, Was-Taken. Rigor without passion is merely… competent drudgery."
Her words were a cold splash of water. She valued his academic mind, but she saw the truth: his passion blazed elsewhere. Her definition of "conviction" aligned terrifyingly with Techno’s demand for "truth."
The meeting with Punz was brief, brutal efficiency. Punz laid out the Senior Editor contract, the numbers gleaming, the benefits outlined in crisp bullet points.
"This is security, Dream," Punz said, leaning back in his sleek chair. "A respected position. A future shaping bestsellers. No late-night panic over trapdoors or temperamental actors. Just you, the manuscript, and the power to make it shine. Leave the instability, the uncertainty… the mess… behind."
He gestured dismissively towards the window, as if the messy world of live performance was beneath them.
"Here, you control the narrative. Permanently." His pitch was perfect, appealing directly to Dream’s desire for order, for control, for permanence within the world of stories. Yet, the word "control" rang hollow.
Control meant curation, not creation. It meant safety, but also… sterility. Punz offered a gilded cage within the library walls, while Techno offered the terrifying freedom of the stage.
Dream returned to the warehouse late, the others gone. Only a single ghost light illuminated the stage, casting long, dramatic shadows.
He stood in the empty auditorium, the weight of every conversation pressing down. Sapnap’s fear of pain, George’s cold logic, his mothers' recognition of the adventurer within, Fundy’s observation of his spark, Thorne’s indictment of smoldering passion, Punz’s seductive promise of controlled narrative. He traced the edge of a prop crown, the cool metal biting his finger.
A presence materialized from the shadows near the tech booth. Techno. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his long black hair a dark waterfall in the gloom. He didn’t speak immediately, just watched Dream in the pool of light.
"They all think I’m insane," Dream finally said, his voice rough with the cough and unshed tears. "They see the risk. The instability. The… mess."
Techno pushed off the doorway and walked slowly down the aisle, his boots echoing in the vast silence. He stopped a few feet away, his face in shadow, only the sharp line of his jaw visible.
"Risk is inherent in creation, Was-Taken," he stated, his voice low, resonant in the empty space. "Stability is the language of museums. We build living things. They’re messy. They bleed."
Dream turned to face him fully. "They say I might learn to hate it. That turning passion into work kills the thing you love."
Techno was silent for a long moment. Then he took another step closer, close enough that Dream could see the weariness etched around his eyes, but also the unwavering intensity within them.
"Passion isn't a static thing," he said, his voice dropping, losing its usual commanding edge, becoming almost intimate. "It’s a fire. It needs fuel. Air. Sometimes it dims. Sometimes it threatens to go out."
He held Dream’s gaze, the ghost light catching a fleeting softness in his dark eyes. "But when you find the right forge… when you’re building something real, alongside someone who understands the cost…" He paused, the silence stretching, charged.
"The fire doesn’t die, Was-Taken. It transforms. It becomes the heat that shapes the steel. The light that guides you through the dark spots."
He took a breath, his next words falling like stones into the quiet, deliberate, weighted with an uncharacteristic vulnerability that stole Dream’s breath.
"This place… it needs that fire. I need that fire. Your precision. Your understanding of the bones beneath the skin of a story. Your… relentless belief in finding the truth, however hard we have to dig for it." He didn’t look away.
"Without it… the whole damn thing feels… adrift. Like losing the north star in the middle of the storm."
The words hung in the air, vibrating with an intensity that went far beyond professional necessity. "I need that fire." "Without it… adrift." "Losing the north star." It wasn't a confession, but it was an admission of profound reliance, a vulnerability laid bare in the stark theatre light.
It spoke of a connection deeper than boss and employee, deeper than collaborators. It hinted at a dependence that felt terrifyingly personal. If it weren't for the context, the shared crucible, the work… Dream would have sworn it sounded like the desperate plea of someone who couldn't bear the thought of him leaving. Not just for the project, but for them.
Before Dream could process, could even begin to formulate a response, chaos erupted. Tommy burst through the side doors, dragging a protesting Tubbo and a flustered Ranboo.
"DREAM! BIG MAN! WE DID IT! THE CUE LIGHT SYSTEM! IT’S REVOLUTIONARY! WE GOTTA SHOW YOU BEFORE TECHNO SCAVES IT FOR PARTS!" Tubbo was vibrating, wires spilling from his pockets. Ranboo held a jury-rigged control box, looking terrified and exhilarated.
The spell shattered. Techno’s intense expression snapped back into its usual impassive mask, a shutter slamming down. He cleared his throat, the vulnerability vanishing as if it had never been.
"Revolutionary usually means 'prone to catastrophic failure'," he stated dryly, turning his glare on the interrupting trio. "Demonstrate. Briefly. Then get out. Was-Taken has decisions to make that don't involve your potential pyrotechnics."
As Tommy eagerly started explaining the blinking lights, Tubbo demonstrating with wild gestures, and Ranboo nervously fiddling with the box, Dream stood frozen.
The cacophony of the enthusiastic trio, Techno’s dry reprimand, the lingering echo of those devastatingly intimate words – "I need that fire" – collided inside him. He looked around the shadowed theatre – the half-built sets, the ghost light, the faces illuminated by Tommy’s blinking contraption.
He saw the messy, exhausting, terrifying forge. He saw the community he’d become part of, however chaotically. He saw Techno, the imposing director whose north star comment still resonated with terrifying, personal weight.
He slipped his hand into his bag, his fingers finding the worn cover of the signed copy of Blade's Requiem, Fundy’s graduation gift. He traced the embossed title, Blade’s stoic face. The perfect, unwavering hero. The fictional ideal.
Then he looked back at Techno, bathed in the erratic glow of Tommy’s "revolutionary" lights, his expression stern but his eyes, for a fleeting second when he thought no one was looking, holding a question – a silent, desperate plea disguised as impatience.
The fear of hating his passion was still there, cold and sharp. The allure of Punz’s safe harbor still beckoned. But in that moment, amidst the chaos, under the ghost light, with the echo of "north star" ringing in his ears and the tangible presence of the messy, living story they were building together all around him, the choice crystallized.
It wasn't about avoiding pain or seeking safety. It was about choosing the fire that transformed, the forge that shaped, the terrifying, exhilarating act of co-authoring a reality far more compelling than any edited fantasy.
He didn't know the next chapter, but he knew where it had to be written.
He tightened his grip on the book, not for solace, but as a reminder of the journey that led him here – to the edge of the page, ready to step into the blinding, uncertain light.
The climax wasn't a decision announced; it was a silent shift deep within, a terrifying, exhilarating commitment forged in the crucible, witnessed only by the ghosts of the stage and the man who’d just admitted, in all but words, that he needed Dream’s light to navigate the storm.
The fall wasn't over, but he’d chosen the direction. Now came the terrifying, glorious leap.
The world narrowed to a single, impossible point. Two and a half days. Sixty hours.
The countdown to Blood God’s opening night screamed in Dream’s veins, a frantic counterpoint to the agonizing final edits for Punz, the meticulous data synthesis for Thorne, and the relentless firestorm of last-minute rehearsals under Techno’s merciless gaze.
He moved through the warehouse like a specter fueled by caffeine and sheer will, the cough a constant rasp, sleep a forgotten luxury.
The decision to stay, forged in the ghost light with Techno’s devastating words – "I need that fire… north star" – still vibrated within him, a terrifying certainty amidst the chaos.
He’d sent a terse, definitive email to Punz declining the Senior Editor position, the click of the send button echoing like a slamming door.
He hadn’t told Thorne about the PhD yet; that reckoning waited in the hushed archive. His fate was now irrevocably tied to the success, or failure, of Matilda’s bloody crown.
Then, the universe delivered its final, exquisite torture.
The notification arrived like a physical blow during a brief, stolen moment of attempted calm in his apartment.
Nyx Blackwood's 'Nightmare's Requiem' – The Shattering Conclusion – Available NOW!
The cover stared back from his phone screen: Nightmare, not in his signature obsidian armor, but fractured, half his face human – scarred, anguished, beautiful – half dissolving into swirling, chaotic shadow.
The release wasn't months away. It was now. Two and a half days before the crucible of Blood God consumed him entirely.
He stared, numb. He’d waited years for this. Hungered for the conclusion to Nightmare’s tragic arc, the character whose broken brilliance had mirrored his own recent despair more than Blade’s steadfast heroism ever could.
He’d planned to savor it, dissect it, lose himself in its depths after the storm of opening night. Now, it sat there, a siren song amidst the whirlpool of his obligations. To read it now was madness. It demanded focus, emotional bandwidth he simply didn’t possess. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Yet, the pull was gravitational, a compulsion deeper than exhaustion. Nyx Blackwood hadn’t just released a book; she’d dropped a depth charge into the already turbulent sea of his soul.
He resisted for six agonizing hours. He threw himself into Punz’s final edits, the clashing armies of The Unbroken Shield blurring before his stinging eyes. He forced concentration on Thorne’s dialect data, the phonetic symbols dancing meaninglessly. He endured a brutal dress rehearsal where Techno’s critiques felt like scalpels flaying his already raw nerves. "More weight, Was-Taken! The silence isn't empty, it's suffocating! Make them feel the dread!"
All the while, the knowledge of Nightmare's Requiem pulsed in his back pocket, a forbidden, glowing ember.
Finally, late that night, after fleeing the warehouse, leaving Techno brooding amidst the half-lit sets, Dream cracked. He bought the book moments before he went home. He opened it. He dove in, not for pleasure, but as a drowning man gasps for air, seeking… something. An answer? A reflection? A final push into the abyss he’d already chosen?
The Obsidian Citadel wasn't a fortress; it was a tomb Clay had built around his own still-beating heart. Torchlight guttered, casting monstrous, shifting shadows on walls carved with scenes of betrayal – his betrayal by the Silver Order, his abandonment by the only light he’d ever trusted, Lyra.
He stood before the great, cracked mirror of Void Glass, not seeing the formidable Lord of Shadows the world feared, but the broken man beneath: Clayven Evermarch, the brilliant scholar whose thirst for forbidden knowledge had damned him.
The scar Lyra’s final, desperate spell had left across his cheek burned, a constant reminder of love turned to ash.
"Is this all I am?" His voice, usually a blade of ice, was a ragged whisper in the vast silence. "Anger sculpted into armor? Pain weaponized? A monument to their failure… and mine?" He traced the scar. "They broke you, Nightmare," the shadows seemed to whisper, coalescing into familiar, mocking forms – the Silver Justiciars who’d condemned him, the colleagues who’d envied then feared him. "They made you this."
"NO!" The roar shattered the stillness, echoing through the empty halls. He slammed a gauntleted fist against the Void Glass. Cracks spiderwebbed outwards, distorting his fractured reflection.
"They provided the hammer! The anvil! They showed me the abyss! But I chose to jump! I forged the armor! I wield the blade!" His breath came in harsh gasps.
"This darkness… it is mine. My creation. My burden. My choice." The admission hung heavy, terrifying.
Owning the darkness meant owning the pain that birthed it. It meant the hero he might have been was truly, irrevocably dead. Not slain by them, but sacrificed by his own despairing hand.
Dream read, his own breath catching. Nightmare wasn't pleading for redemption or reveling in villainy. He was confronting the terrifying truth of his own agency within the tragedy.
"I chose to jump… I forged the armor…" It resonated with the terrifying freedom of Dream’s own choice – stepping away from Punz’s safe narrative, embracing the volatile forge of Blood God. He hadn't been forced; he’d chosen the fire.
The confrontation came not in a grand battle, but in the ruins of the Celestial Athenaeum, the repository of knowledge Clay had once loved.
Facing him wasn't the head of the Silver Order, but Lyra. Not the radiant sorceress of his memory, but a woman aged by grief and regret, her eyes holding the same shattered light he saw in his own reflection.
The air crackled, thick with unspoken years and the weight of a love turned to poison.
"Clayven…" Lyra’s voice trembled. "This path… it consumes you. It twists everything beautiful you ever touched. Please… there has to be another way. Let me help you find it." She extended a hand, not wielding magic, but offering connection. A fragile, impossible bridge back across the chasm.
Clay flinched as if struck. The shadows writhed around him, whispering seductions of vengeance, of power, of the cold comfort of isolation.
He looked at her hand, then at the ruins surrounding them – the shattered crystal knowledge orbs, the scorched tapestries depicting heroes he’d once admired, now figures of hollow hypocrisy in his eyes.
The temptation to lash out, to make her feel the depth of his desolation, was a physical ache.
"Another way?" His laugh was a dry, broken thing. "To what, Lyra? To kneel before the Order that branded me a monster for seeking truths they feared? To pretend the scars don't exist? To forget the taste of betrayal, the sting of their sanctimonious lies?" He took a step forward, not towards her hand, but forcing her back.
"You speak of beauty. What beauty remains in a world built on such foundations? What light isn't ultimately devoured by the shadows it casts?" His voice dropped, laden with a sorrow so deep it chilled the air.
"You cannot help me rebuild what they broke, Lyra. Because what they broke… was my belief in the light itself. There is no 'another way' back to who I was. That man drowned in the dark water they threw him into."
"Then who are you now?" Lyra whispered, tears tracing paths through the dust on her cheeks. "Just… Nightmare? A force of endless pain?"
He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since his fall. He saw not the betrayer his rage had painted, but a woman as broken by circumstance as he was. The fury didn't vanish; it transmuted.
"I am what the darkness and my own choices forged," he said, his voice stripped bare, terrifyingly calm.
"I am the consequence. I am the storm they unleashed. And I will not spend eternity howling at the void they left. If there is no way back…" He straightened, the shadows coalescing not into weapons, but into a mantle of terrible, resigned power around him.
"...then I will forge a path forward through the wreckage. On my terms. With the tools I possess. Even if those tools are born of shadow." He turned away, not towards her, not towards the Order, but towards the gaping maw of the ruined Athenaeum’s forbidden archives – deeper into the unknown.
"My requiem won't be a lament for the light lost. It will be a hymn to the power found in the embrace of the inevitable dark." He didn't look back. The choice was made. Not redemption. Not damnation. Ownership.
Dream’s vision blurred. Tears, hot and unexpected, spilled onto his phone screen.
This wasn't Blade’s unwavering heroism. This wasn't George’s polite emptiness, Wilbur’s poetic transience, or even Fundy’s heartbreaking, necessary release. This was raw, ugly, profound acceptance. Nightmare wasn't seeking a return to a lost ideal. He wasn't blaming fate. He was acknowledging the wreckage – the betrayal, his own choices, the shattered belief – and choosing to build something, anything, from the ruins.
"Forge a path forward through the wreckage. On my terms. With the tools I possess." It was a declaration of terrifying self-possession.
He wasn't the hero, nor purely the villain; he was the architect of his own shattered reality, embracing the darkness not as an end, but as the medium for his next creation.
He read through the night, ignoring the cough, the exhaustion, the looming deadlines. He witnessed Nightmare’s final, cataclysmic confrontation not with the Silver Order, but with the source of the forbidden knowledge that had first tempted and then damned Clayven Evermarch – an ancient, amoral entity of pure void that saw mortals as fleeting sparks.
The battle wasn't swords and sorcery; it was a battle of wills, of fractured psyche against cosmic indifference.
"You crave oblivion, little shadow?" the Void Entity hissed, its voice the sound of collapsing stars. "I am oblivion. Surrender. Become nothing. Cease the agonizing flicker of your existence."
Clay, battered, his obsidian armor cracked, shadows bleeding from him like smoke, stood amidst the swirling chaos of the entity’s domain.
Images flashed – Lyra’s tear-streaked face, the sneering Justiciars, the burning libraries, the endless, crushing weight of his isolation. The temptation was immense. To simply… stop. To let the darkness finally win. No more pain. No more choices. No more forging paths through endless wreckage.
He closed his eyes. He saw not the grand villain, but the scholar Evermarch, hunched over a dusty manuscript, eyes alight with pure, insatiable curiosity. He saw the love for Lyra, bright and fierce before the poison seeped in. He saw the betrayal, the fall, the long, cold centuries of embracing the shadow. He saw the ruins of the Athenaeum, the impossible choice he’d made.
"No," He breathed, the word barely audible against the cosmic howl. Then louder, a raw scrape of defiance torn from his very core: "NO!" He forced his eyes open, meeting the swirling, infinite maw of the Void.
"You are oblivion. I… am creation born of destruction!" He raised a hand, not summoning destructive power, but focusing the chaotic remnants of his shattered self, the lingering echoes of Clay's knowledge, the bitter dregs of his love, the cold certainty of his chosen path.
"You offer nothing. I choose the agony of being! I choose the burden of meaning forged in the dark! I choose to shape the shadows into something new!"
The power he unleashed wasn't pure darkness. It was darkness alchemized. It was despair hammered into resolve, betrayal annealed into self-reliance, loneliness compressed into a terrible, solitary purpose.
It struck the Void Entity not as destruction, but as an assertion of existence so fierce, so unexpectedly complex, that the cosmic entity recoiled, momentarily stunned by the sheer, defiant will of the broken spark before it.
Dream gasped. This was the core. Not vanquishing the darkness, but harnessing it. Not seeking lost light, but finding power in the acceptance of shadow.
Nightmare wasn't saved; he wasn't redeemed. He transcended the binary of hero and villain by embracing the totality of his broken, self-forged existence and wielding it as his ultimate tool.
The Void Entity wasn't destroyed; it was momentarily rebuffed by the sheer, terrifying force of Nightmare’s choice to exist, to create, despite the wreckage.
The ending wasn't triumphant.
Nightmare stood alone in the aftermath, the Void Entity retreated, but the cost etched deeper into his soul. The Citadel was gone. Lyra was gone. The old world order was fractured.
He was truly, utterly alone. But he wasn't adrift. He looked out not over a kingdom won, but over a chaotic, uncertain expanse of pure potential – the Void Entity’s domain subtly altered, infused with the lingering echo of his defiant creation-born-of-destruction.
He lifted his scarred face to the infinite dark, no longer seeking a light to guide him, but ready to become his own.
~ End of Nightmare's Requiem ~
Dream finished reading as dawn bled grey light through his window. He was weeping openly, silently, the tears a release he hadn't known he needed.
Sobs wracked his frame, shaking loose the exhaustion, the fear, the lingering ghosts of everyone. He wasn't crying for Nightmare, but for the brutal, beautiful truth the story laid bare.
The Crimson Kingdoms had been his refuge – Blade’s unwavering love, the clear lines of good and evil, the comforting arc of destined triumph. It was the world he’d tried to force onto George, the poetic melancholy he’d projected onto Wilbur, the enduring loyalty he’d hoped for with Fundy. It was fiction offering order to chaos.
The Nightmare Chronicles was the mirror held up to his own fractured reality. It wasn't about order. It was about embracing the chaos – the betrayal of expectations (George), the beautiful impermanence (Wilbur), the necessary release born of love (Fundy), the terrifying uncertainty of forging a new path (Blood God).
Nightmare didn't find resilience in bouncing back to an old ideal; he found perseverance in moving forward through the wreckage of his own making, wielding his brokenness as his only tool. He didn't seek a north star; he became his own.
Techno wasn't Blade. He was the terrifying, brilliant fusion: Blade’s unyielding will and relentless drive forged in the fires of creation, tempered by Nightmare’s profound humanity – the exhaustion, the vulnerability glimpsed in the ghost light, the dry humor masking deep care, the willingness to break things to find the truth, the stark admission of need.
He was the embodiment of building something real from the chaotic mess, demanding blood, sweat, and truth, yet offering unexpected tea and acknowledging shared exhaustion. He was the forge itself, and the master smith shaped by its heat.
Dream looked at the time. Less than two days now. He looked at his book, the cover of Nightmare's Requiem still glowing.
He thought of Punz’s sterile control, Thorne’s pristine archives. Safe harbors. Museums for curated narratives. He thought of the warehouse – the smell of sawdust and sweat, the echo of actors finding truth in his words, the shared silences with Techno, the blinking absurdity of Tommy’s cue lights, the terrifying, exhilarating leap he’d already chosen.
The fear of hating his passion, of the fire consuming the fuel, was still there. But Nightmare’s final choice reframed it.
"The fire doesn’t die… it transforms. It becomes the heat that shapes the steel." Passion wasn't a static thing to be preserved in amber; it was a force to be wielded, even if it changed you in the process.
The risk wasn't of losing his love for stories; it was the risk inherent in living one, in co-authoring a reality far messier, far more terrifying, and potentially far more magnificent than any edited fantasy.
He wiped his tears, the raw ache in his chest not from sorrow, but from the profound, terrifying expansion of understanding.
He wasn't choosing Blood God Productions over Punz. He wasn't choosing Techno over his past. He was choosing himself. The self who could embrace the chaos, persevere through the wreckage of expectations, find power in the acceptance of shadow, and forge his own path forward, wielding the tools he possessed – his words, his resilience, his hard-won understanding of human darkness and light.
He was choosing to lift his face to the infinite dark, no longer seeking a fictional hero or a perfect love to guide him, but ready, scarred and trembling, to become his own north star, his own flame, within the terrifying, beautiful, collaborative forge that was Blood God.
The climax wasn't the opening night's applause or silence. It was this internal alchemy, complete in the grey dawn, the final page of Nightmare’s story echoing the first, irrevocable sentence of his own.
He closed the book, the ghost of Nightmare’s scarred face fading, replaced by the clear, terrifying image of the stage lights waiting to blaze. He was ready. Not unafraid, but finally, wholly, committed to the fire.
The grey dawn light bled into Dream’s apartment, illuminating dust motes dancing like forgotten epics. The final echoes of Nightmare's Requiem – "ready to become his own" – still vibrated in his bones, a seismic shift compared to the comforting resonance he’d always found in The Crimson Kingdoms.
He didn’t consciously decide to compare them; the contrasts arose, unbidden, as potent as the scent of ozone after a storm, each series a mirror reflecting a different facet of his own fractured journey.
Blade stood atop the Stormwatch Pass, crimson cloak whipping like a banner of defiance against the blizzard’s fury. Below, the Shadow Legion advanced, a seething mass of darkness threatening to engulf the last bastion of Eldoria.
Elara, his queen, his heart, stood resolute beside him, her hand finding his, cold but steady.
"They come for the light, my love," Elara whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind’s shriek.
Blade’s hand tightened around the worn hilt of his ancestral sword, Dawnbreaker. Its faint, golden glow pulsed against the encroaching gloom.
He turned to her, his eyes, fierce as embers in his scarred face, holding no doubt, only unwavering resolve. "Then they break upon it, Elara. Upon us. The light endures. It must." His voice was a clarion call, cutting through despair.
It wasn't hope; it was absolute certainty. Destiny written in starlight and blood.
He raised Dawnbreaker, its light flaring, a beacon against the overwhelming dark. "FOR ELDORIA! FOR THE DAWN!" The cry was taken up by the ragged defenders, a wave of sound crashing against the storm.
Blade charged, not into uncertainty, but into the glorious, preordained fray, Dawnbreaker cleaving shadow, a hero forged for this singular moment.
Dream remembered the thrill, the pure, unadulterated righteousness. Blade’s world was one of stark binaries: light and shadow, loyalty and betrayal, unwavering love and absolute evil.
His power came from purity of purpose, an external force (Dawnbreaker, his lineage) wielded against an external foe. His ending, in Blade’s Requiem.
Elara knelt beside Blade’s fallen form on the blood-soaked flagstones of the reclaimed throne room. Dawnbreaker lay beside him, its light dimmed but unbroken.
The Shadow Legion was vanquished, but the cost lay heavy in her arms. Tears traced paths through the grime on her face, but her voice was steady, regal.
"You held the line, my heart," she murmured, pressing her lips to his cooling brow.
"You held the light. Rest now. Your watch is ended. The dawn… is ours." She lifted her head, grief transmuted into steely resolve, the mantle of rule settling upon her shoulders, a legacy of unwavering light passed from one perfect guardian to the next.
Clean. Poignant. A closed circle of light triumphing over darkness through noble sacrifice and destined love. Dream had wept then too, for the beauty of the ideal.
Now, the echoes were different. He recalled a scene from Shadows of the Eclipse, where Clayven Evermarch, still clinging to his humanity, confronted the Silver Order Justiciar who’d condemned his research.
"You speak of forbidden knowledge, Justicar Vorlag," Clay spat, his voice raw in the sterile, sun-drenched interrogation chamber. Chains bit into his wrists.
"But you fear only the loss of control! The crumbling of your tidy, sun-blessed world where everything fits in its sanctioned box!"
Vorlag, face impassive beneath his polished helm, gestured dismissively. "The shadow's taint is clear upon your work, Evermarch. You reached into the abyss. It reached back. Your corruption is your own doing."
Clay laughed, a harsh, broken sound. "My 'corruption'? I sought understanding! I sought the why beneath your comfortable lies! Is truth now forbidden if it disrupts your precious order?" He strained against the chains.
"Where is the justice in your light, Vorlag, if it blinds you to everything that doesn't shine?"
No glorious charge. No beacon of light. Just a man, broken by the very institutions meant to protect, railing against the hypocrisy of a "light" that demanded conformity and ignorance.
His power wasn't bestowed; it was clawed from the abyss he was thrown into, born of betrayal and desperate curiosity.
And the story… not a throne bathed in sunlight, but Nightmare standing alone in the altered Void.
He looked down at his hands. The obsidian gauntlets were cracked, revealing scarred, human skin beneath. Shadows still bled from him, but they felt different.
Not chains, not weapons… extensions. Tools. His tools.
The weight of centuries pressed down – Lyra’s tear-streaked face, the burning libraries, the sneering Justiciars, the crushing isolation, the entity’s seductive offer of nothingness.
He closed his eyes. Not to pray. Not to despair. To feel. The raw ache of existence. The terrifying freedom of being utterly, irrevocably alone. The burden of meaning he had chosen to shoulder.
"No lament," he whispered, the words swallowed by the vastness, yet echoing in the hollows of his own being.
"No light to guide." He opened his eyes, not seeking a horizon, but gazing into the infinite, chaotic dark stretching before him. The scar on his cheek, a relic of love and loss, throbbed. Not with pain, but with… presence. A testament.
"Only… forward."
He took a step. Not towards redemption. Not towards further destruction. Into the unknown dark, shaped by his defiance, carrying the wreckage and the tools forged within it. Ready. Not a hero. Not a villain. Simply… Nightmare.
Dream saw it now, not as separate stories, but as a shattered mirror reflecting the same truth from opposite sides. Nightmare was the shadow cast by Blade’s unwavering light.
In The Crimson Kingdoms, the Shadow Legion was faceless evil, a force for Blade to vanquish. In The Nightmare Chronicles, Dream understood the Shadow Legion was born from legions of broken Clayven – scholars, seekers, dissenters crushed by rigid orders like the Silver, their despair weaponized by entities like the Void.
Blade fought the symptom; Nightmare embodied the disease – the systemic betrayal, the crushing weight of institutions that couldn't tolerate complexity.
He didn't consciously think Nightmare is better. The realization was a quiet settling, a resonance deep within his newly acknowledged wreckage.
Blade’s world offered the comfort of absolutes – the perfect love, the clear enemy, the guaranteed triumph through noble sacrifice.
It was the world he’d wanted with George, Wilbur, Fundy. It was the safety of Punz’s editing, Thorne’s archives – curated order.
But Nightmare’s world… it was Blood God Productions. It was the messy, uncertain, collaborative chaos. It was the lack of guaranteed applause, the potential for failure, the exhausting demands of Techno, the constant friction of creation. It was embracing the shadow of past heartbreaks (George’s indifference, Wilbur’s transience, Fundy’s necessary release) not as failures, but as the very material from which to forge his next step.
It was recognizing Techno not as a Blade-figure (demanding, heroic, certain), but as a Nightmare-figure – brilliant, demanding, scarred by his own artistic battles, wielding his intensity as a tool to shape truth from chaos, capable of unexpected vulnerability ("I need that fire… north star").
Blade offered an escape into a perfect story. Nightmare offered a reflection of the imperfect story Dream was already living – the story of choices made in the wreckage, of perseverance over resilience, of finding power not in pristine ideals but in the acceptance and alchemy of his own darkness and light.
Nightmare didn’t win a throne; he claimed sovereignty over his own existence.
That, Dream understood with a final, aching clarity as the dawn light strengthened, was the only victory worth having.
It wasn't about loving Nightmare more; it was about recognizing his story as the terrifying, necessary blueprint for becoming his own author, stepping onto Blood God's stage not to recite a pre-written script, but to improvise his own requiem in the blinding, uncertain glare.
The climax of the books had ended. The climax of his choice was absolute. The phantom of Clayven Evermarch's scar fading, replaced by the very real, demanding glare of the stage lights waiting just hours away. He was ready to walk into the dark, carrying his tools.
The final hours before opening night hung thick in the converted warehouse, a tangible fog of sawdust, sweat, ozone, and pure, undiluted adrenaline.
Blood God Productions vibrated with a manic, focused energy. Actors murmured lines in corners, faces pale beneath stage makeup.
Callahan and his crew darted like silent specters, making minute adjustments to flats that already looked perfect.
Ranboo vibrated with nervous energy, clutching a headset and muttering checklists like protective incantations.
Tommy and Tubbo, having successfully integrated their "revolutionary" (and currently flickering) cue light system, were engaged in a hushed, intense debate about wireless signal interference, their usual volume tempered by the pervasive tension.
Eret leaned against a prop pillar, radiating weary cynicism as he watched the controlled chaos, a half-smoked cigarette (unlit, per Techno’s draconian backstage rules) dangling from his fingers.
Dream stood near the tech booth, a strange calm settling over him amidst the storm. The impossible convergence was over.
That morning, he’d walked into Dr. Thorne’s archive, the synthesis of Appalachian vowel shifts clutched in his hand – precise, rigorous, the final product of years of academic dedication.
Thorne had taken it, her steely gaze scanning the cover page. She hadn’t smiled. But the curt nod she gave was deeper than usual, the silence stretching a fraction longer than professional courtesy demanded.
"Competent, Was-Taken," she’d finally stated, placing the document on her immaculate desk. "The theatrical endeavor… it concludes tonight?" There was no judgment, only observation.
"It opens tonight," Dream corrected softly.
Thorne’s lips thinned, almost imperceptibly. "Opening implies a beginning. A continuation. Choose your continuations wisely. Rigor is not confined to archives." She’d dismissed him with a wave, already turning to her next case study, but the unspoken acknowledgment – that his path now diverged from hers – hung in the quiet air.
It felt less like an ending, more like a bridge carefully crossed.
Punz had been colder. The final, polished chapters of The Unbroken Shield delivered electronically minutes before deadline received a terse reply: "Received. Acquisition proceeds. P&Q wishes you well in your… theatrical pursuits."
The dismissal was palpable, the door to the gilded cage of publishing firmly shut.
Telling Sapnap and George had been a brief, chaotic call squeezed between rehearsals.
Sapnap, mid-suture practice on a banana (according to him), had whooped. "YES! Knew you had it in you! Blood God or bust! Just… try not to get trampled by angry theatre critics. Or Techno. Mostly Techno."
George, between debugging screams from Noah’s latest crisis, had offered a rare, full sentence: "Statistically risky, emotionally resonant. Optimal outcome: critical acclaim leading to sustainable funding. Suboptimal outcome: catastrophic failure followed by lucrative tell-all memoir. Either way, data acquired. Congratulations. Now, excuse me, Aethel's box appears to be actively vomiting firewalls."
Their support, however pragmatically or chaotically framed, was a solid warmth in his chest.
Puffy and Niki had simply enveloped him in a hug that smelled like home and snickerdoodles when he’d visited briefly the day before.
"We’re so proud, sweetheart," Puffy murmured, eyes seeing the exhaustion and the resolve.
"Stepping into your own story." Niki squeezed his arm. "Break a leg! But metaphorically! Unless it’s literal in the play? Is it literal?"
Tubbo, of course, had declared an impromptu "Pre-Opening Night Chaos Fest!" involving questionable pizza toppings and a disastrous attempt at building a miniature replica of the set that nearly took out a lamp. The normalcy was a balm.
Now, backstage at Blood God, the calm Dream felt was the eye of the hurricane. He’d done it. Shed the old skins. All that remained was the leap. And the man currently orchestrating the controlled chaos radiating from center stage.
Techno stood amidst the swirling preparations, a dark pillar of intensity. His long black hair was ruthlessly tied back, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face, currently set in a ferocious scowl as he examined a prop crown under a work light.
"This gold leaf is flaking like a bad sunburn, Callahan! It looks like Matilda looted a discount tomb! Fix it. Now." His voice wasn't a shout, but it cut through the din like a scalpel.
Callahan materialized, took the crown with a silent nod, and vanished into the shadows.
Dream watched him. The comparison wasn't conscious anymore; it was intrinsic. Blade’s unyielding will was there in the set of Techno’s jaw, the relentless drive for perfection. Nightmare’s profound humanity was there too – in the exhaustion bruising the skin beneath his eyes, the faint tremor in his hand as he adjusted his headset, the vulnerability he’d shown in the ghost light.
He was the forge master and the metal being shaped by the heat, demanding blood and truth, yet capable of delivering tea and acknowledging shared exhaustion.
Their dynamic had shifted seismically in the past week. The wary respect had solidified into something resembling friendship forged in fire, expressed primarily through dry banter and mutual, relentless critique.
"Was-Taken!" Techno barked, not looking up from a lighting plot. "The Bishop’s final gasp in Scene 14. It still sounds like he’s complaining about the mead. More venom, less indigestion."
Dream didn’t flinch. He fired back, "Noted. Though perhaps if Callahan’s discount tomb crown doesn’t distract them, the audience might actually hear the nuance, Techno Blade." He deliberately used the full, slightly ridiculous government name.
Techno’s head snapped up, a flicker of surprise, then irritation, then something almost like amusement in his eyes. "Focus on the words, Script Doctor. Leave the props to the professionals. And it’s Techno."
"Techn Blade sounds more dramatic," Dream retorted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Fitting for the founder of Blood God."
"Keep it up, Was-Taken," Techno growled, but there was no heat in it. "I’ll assign you to paint flaking gold leaf."
Wilbur, weaving through the chaos with Sally, caught the exchange. He sidled up to Dream, grinning. "Oho! Nicknames! Is this flirting? It sounds like flirting. Very aggressive, niche flirting, but flirting nonetheless. Careful, Dream, he might start calling you 'Dreamboat' next."
"Shut up, Wilbur," Dream and Techno said in near unison, then exchanged a quick, startled glance.
Wilbur cackled. "See! Synchronicity! Sally, darling, make a note! Evidence A!"
Sally just smiled, shaking her head fondly at her lover. "Ignore him, Dream. He’s just jealous Techno only growls lovingly at you."
The teasing became a constant, low-level hum. Tommy, overhearing Wilbur, immediately seized upon it.
"OI! DREAMBOAT! TECHNO'S CALLING!" he bellowed across the backstage area, earning a collective groan and a death glare from Techno that could have frozen lava.
Tubbo and Ranboo, emboldened by the atmosphere, started a running commentary.
"Techno’s looking extra murdery today, Dreamboat," Tubbo stage-whispered. "Did you forget to bring his sacrificial coffee?"
"Maybe he’s nervous," Ranboo added, fiddling with his control box. "Opening night jitters? Should we get him a stress ball? Or maybe Dream could hold his hand?"
"Ranboo!" Dream hissed, feeling his ears burn.
Techno, miraculously within earshot, just muttered, "The only hand I need holding is the one pushing you lot into the prop closet and locking it."
Eret, observing from his cynical pillar, drawled, "Careful, children. Teasing the Blood God might result in actual blood sacrifice. And Was-Taken, if you blush any harder, you’ll match the emergency exit sign."
Callahan, passing by with the newly re-gilded crown, offered a rare, almost imperceptible smirk in Dream’s direction.
Even George and Sapnap, checking in via frantic texts, joined in.
Sapnap: "So… Dreamboat, huh? Is the Blood God composing sonnets yet? Or just grunting in iambic pentameter?"
George: "Analysis: Nickname adoption signifies increased social bonding. Probability of unresolved tension: 87.4%. Recommendation: Address before it impacts performance metrics. Also, Noah says break a leg. Literally, if dramatically appropriate."
Dream weathered the storm, a mix of exasperation and a strange, fluttering warmth in his chest. The "more than friends" edge was a precipice they danced along, the banter a safe way to skirt the terrifying drop.
He admired Techno fiercely – the brilliance, the relentless vision, the unexpected glimpses of dry humor and care beneath the intimidating exterior. He saw Blade’s strength and Nightmare’s complex humanity intertwined, making Techno infinitely more compelling than any fictional archetype.
The stress peaked an hour before curtain. A crucial trapdoor mechanism jammed during a final check.
Techno was a whirlwind of controlled fury, barking orders, his face a mask of stone. Dream was helping Ranboo troubleshoot a flickering cue light when Techno stormed past, radiating frustration so intense it was almost a physical force.
"He built an empire on shadows," Dream murmured, almost to himself, watching Techno kneel beside the malfunctioning trapdoor, his long hair escaping its tie and falling across his focused face.
"Forged his path through wreckage. Doesn't seek a throne, just the power to build something real…" He was thinking aloud, the words from Nightmare's Requiem blending with his observation of the man before him. "...becomes his own north star in the dark."
Techno froze. His hands, which had been wrenching at a stubborn gear, stilled. He didn't turn around for a long moment. The frantic backstage noise seemed to recede. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up.
He turned. His usual impassive mask was gone. His dark eyes, wide and startled, locked onto Dream’s. A flush, high and sharp, stained his cheekbones, visible even in the dim work light. He looked… flustered. Utterly, completely disarmed.
"You…" Techno started, his voice uncharacteristically rough, lacking its usual command. He cleared his throat, visibly struggling to regain composure.
"You read too much fantasy, Was-Taken." He raked a hand through his hair, avoiding Dream’s gaze. "I’m just trying to get a damn door to open on cue." He turned back to the trapdoor with a sharp, jerky movement, his shoulders rigid.
The moment was electric. The teasing from Tommy, Tubbo, Wilbur – it all faded. Dream saw it: the impact of his words, the recognition laid bare.
He hadn’t just compared Techno to a character; he’d pierced the armor and seen the vulnerable, brilliant, complex person beneath – the real man who embodied the messy power of both Blade and Nightmare.
And Techno, the unflappable founder of Blood God, had blushed.
Eret choked on a laugh, quickly turning it into a cough. Callahan paused in his work, watching Techno’s stiff back with a raised eyebrow. Ranboo stared, open-mouthed. Tommy opened his mouth, likely to unleash another "Dreamboat" salvo, but Tubbo elbowed him sharply, shaking his head with wide eyes.
Dream didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. He just held the space, the silence stretching, charged with the unspoken weight of his admiration and the undeniable crack in Techno’s formidable facade. He saw Techno’s knuckles whiten on the wrench he was gripping.
Finally, Techno spoke, his back still turned, his voice forcibly steady but lacking its usual edge. "Ranboo. Status on the flickering light in Sector 3?"
"U-uh, almost fixed, Techno!" Ranboo stammered.
"Good." Techno didn't turn. "Was-Taken. Stop philosophizing and check the parchment prop for Act II. The ink looked smudged earlier."
It was a dismissal, a retreat back into the familiar territory of work. But the flush hadn't fully faded from his neck. The rigid set of his shoulders spoke volumes.
Dream moved to check the prop, a slow smile spreading across his face despite the lingering tension. He hadn't told Techno his decision to stay yet. That revelation belonged to the other side of the curtain, after the storm of opening night.
But in that moment, seeing the unflappable Blood God visibly flustered by his words, by the recognition of the complex hero and tragic architect within him, Dream knew. The choice was absolute.
The fire he’d chosen to forge his path in wasn't just Blood God Productions. It was standing right there, wrestling with a trapdoor, brilliantly, demandingly, unexpectedly human, and possibly, just possibly, feeling the same terrifying pull towards the precipice.
The falling action wasn't a descent; it was a suspended breath, a shared secret vibrating in the charged air backstage, as the countdown to the real performance ticked away.
The world outside the warehouse ceased to exist. There was only the hum of anticipation, the scent of sawdust and fear, and the echoing, unspoken question hanging between the script doctor and the Blood God: What happens when the curtain rises?
The charged silence after Dream’s murmured observation – "He built an empire on shadows... becomes his own north star in the dark" – lingered like smoke backstage.
Techno’s rigid back, the uncharacteristic flush visible on the nape of his neck, spoke volumes. He’d retreated into the malfunctioning trapdoor with furious focus, his usual commands clipped and devoid of their usual dry barbs. The air hummed with the unsaid, the teasing from Tommy and Tubbo dying into watchful silence, Eret’s cynical gaze sharp with newfound interest.
It was into this suspended tension that Philza arrived.
He didn't burst in like Tommy; he seemed to materialize from the dim periphery near the loading dock, a figure of calm amidst the controlled chaos.
Tall and lean, with kind eyes the colour of weathered slate and wings of dark hair swept back from a face etched with gentle lines, he moved with a quiet, grounded assurance. He wore simple, well-made clothes – a soft green sweater, dark trousers – that seemed incongruous yet perfectly at home against the industrial backdrop.
His presence wasn't loud, but it was instantly palpable, a shift in the atmosphere like a window opening in a stuffy room.
Tommy spotted him first.
"DADZA!" The shriek cut through the tension like a firecracker. He launched himself across the space, colliding with Philza in a tangle of limbs.
Philza staggered back a step with a soft "Oof!", enveloping Tommy in a warm, tight hug, his face breaking into a wide, crinkled smile that transformed his features.
"Tommy, mate! Nearly knocked me into a flat-pack castle!" He ruffled Tommy's already chaotic blonde hair, his voice a warm, melodic rumble that instantly soothed the jagged edges in the air.
"Causing the usual amount of trouble, I see?"
"Only the best kind, Phil!" Tommy beamed, detangling himself. "Revolutionized the cue lights! Techno’s grumpy because a door’s being a dick, but Ranboo and Tubbo and I are on it! Right, lads?" Tubbo and Ranboo, wide-eyed at the legendary Philza, nodded vigorously.
Wilbur emerged from the shadows near the sound booth, a genuine, unguarded smile lighting his face as he approached. "Dad." He embraced Philza, the hug longer, quieter than Tommy’s exuberant one. "You made it."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Wil," Philza murmured, pulling back to look at his son, his eyes sweeping over him with open pride.
"Heard the new track on the local station. Hauntingly beautiful, son. Truly." Wilbur ducked his head, a pleased flush creeping up his neck, looking younger, softer in his father’s presence.
"Sally’s around here somewhere," he added, gesturing vaguely.
Then Philza’s gaze swept past them, searching the backstage gloom. It landed on the figure still hunched over the stubborn trapdoor, shoulders taut with concentration.
"Techno," Philza called, his voice carrying easily, warm but firm.
Techno froze. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his wrench. He didn't turn immediately. Dream watched, fascinated, as Techno took a visible breath, squaring his shoulders, visibly shedding the layer of frantic director and reassembling the persona of the Blood God.
He stood, wiping grease from his hands onto a rag already stained beyond recognition, and finally turned.
"Dad." The single word was flat, lacking Tommy’s exuberance or Wilbur’s warmth, but devoid of its usual cutting edge. It was simply… acknowledgment.
He walked towards them, his stride measured, the intense focus of moments ago banked but not extinguished. He stopped a few feet from Philza, his dark eyes meeting his father's calm grey ones.
Philza didn't try to hug him. He simply reached out and placed a hand firmly on Techno’s shoulder, his grip strong and steadying. "Ready for the storm, mate?" he asked, his voice low.
Techno’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He gave a curt nod. "As ready as it can be. Ranboo!" His voice snapped back to command, though slightly less sharp than before. "Status on Sector 3?"
"St-stable, Techno! Flicker resolved!" Ranboo piped up from behind a lighting rig.
"Good. Tommy, stop distracting Phil. Check the sword props for Act III. Ensure they clash, don’t clatter." Tommy saluted and scampered off.
Techno’s gaze flickered back to Philza. "Seats are in the front row. Left aisle. Sally knows."
"Front row?" Philza’s eyebrows rose slightly. "Feeling confident, are we?"
"Feeling like if something goes spectacularly wrong, I want the investors to see it firsthand," Techno deadpanned, but a flicker of something – dark humour, perhaps – passed through his eyes. It was the closest to levity Dream had seen from him in hours.
Philza chuckled, a warm, rich sound. "Always the optimist. We’ll be there. Proud of you, son. This place…" He gestured around the bustling, tense warehouse. "...it’s something. Truly something you’ve built."
Techno didn’t reply. He just held his father’s gaze for a long moment, a silent communication passing between them that spoke of years of understanding, of shared struggles and quiet support.
Dream saw the rigid line of Techno’s shoulders relax, just a fraction. The acknowledgment, the simple "Proud of you," seemed to anchor him more effectively than any wrench on a trapdoor.
Techno gave another small nod, gruffer this time. "Gotta check the fly system." He turned and strode away, back towards the depths of backstage, already barking an instruction to Callahan about a backdrop tension.
Philza watched him go, a soft, thoughtful expression on his face. Then his gaze, sharp and perceptive despite its kindness, swept the space again. It paused, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary, on Dream, who had been quietly observing the family dynamic while pretending to scrutinize the parchment prop Techno had assigned him.
Dream felt the weight of that gaze, calm yet intensely observant. Philza offered a small, polite smile, the kind reserved for someone you recognize but haven’t formally met.
Wilbur, ever the facilitator, stepped in smoothly. "Dad, this is Dream Was-Taken. Our script doctor. Linguistic wizard. The reason Matilda doesn’t sound like she’s reading a tax code anymore."
He clapped Dream lightly on the back. "Dream, the legendary Philza. Father of chaos incarnate and our resident dark overlord."
"Wil," Philza chided gently, but his smile widened as he extended a hand towards Dream. His grip was firm, warm, and unexpectedly grounding.
"Dream. Heard a lot about you. Mostly from Wilbur’s slightly dramatic retellings, and Tommy’s… enthusiastic summaries." His eyes held a glint of amusement.
"Seems you’ve been weathering the Blood God’s particular brand of creative typhoon."
Dream managed a slightly shaky smile, acutely aware of the grease smudge probably on his cheek and the exhaustion etched under his eyes. "Typhoon is… an apt description, Mr. Philza. It’s been… intense. An honour to meet you."
"Phil, please. 'Mr. Philza' makes me feel ancient." He released Dream’s hand, his gaze sweeping over him with open curiosity, but devoid of judgment.
"Intense is Techno’s default setting. Especially when he’s building something from nothing. Takes a certain resilience to stand in that particular wind tunnel." He paused, his gaze drifting towards the direction Techno had vanished.
"He doesn’t let just anyone near the foundations, you know. Especially not someone messing with the words." He looked back at Dream, his expression thoughtful.
"He’s fiercely protective of the vision. Always has been. Trust isn't handed out lightly in the trenches."
Dream felt a flush creep up his neck, remembering the brutal critiques, the demanding rewrites, the moments of unexpected tea, and the devastating vulnerability in the ghost light.
"He… demands the best. Pushes hard. But…" He searched for the right word, the truth resonating from Nightmare’s final acceptance. "...it’s a forge. You either bend or you help shape the metal. I’m learning to shape."
Philza’s eyes softened, a flicker of genuine warmth replacing the polite interest.
"A forge. That’s a good way to put it." He studied Dream for another moment, his head tilted slightly.
"He speaks highly of your work, you know. In his own way." A faint smile touched his lips.
"‘The linguist has a grasp of subtext that borders on unnerving.’ ‘His cuts actually improve the flow, surprisingly.’ ‘He doesn’t flinch when I tell him it’s shit.’ High praise, coming from him." Philza chuckled softly. "He usually just grunts about people."
Dream’s breath hitched.
Techno had spoken about him? To his father? And not just about his work, but about his… resilience? The idea that Techno had noticed him not flinching felt strangely intimate.
"He… he does?" Dream stammered, unable to hide the surprise.
Philza nodded, his gaze steady, knowing. "Oh, yes. More than he’s spoken about anyone involved in a project in… well, possibly ever. Certainly since he ditched the glitter glue." He paused, his eyes holding Dream’s with unnerving perceptiveness.
"Techno… he feels things deeply. Always has. But showing it? Letting people in? That’s… not his forte. Walls a mile high, reinforced with sarcasm and impossible standards." He sighed, a sound of fond exasperation.
"Seeing him actually rely on someone… trust their judgment on the words, the very heart of it…" Philza trailed off, his gaze drifting back towards the shadowed wings where Techno was doubtless issuing more commands. "It’s significant, Dream. More significant than he’d ever admit. Especially to you."
The implication hung heavy in the air, unspoken but deafening. Especially to you.
Philza wasn’t just talking about professional reliance. He was painting a picture of walls lowered, of trust extended beyond the norm, of a vulnerability Techno guarded fiercely. He was hinting that Dream occupied a space in Techno’s fortified world that few, if any, ever had.
And the way he said "Especially to you" carried a weight, a quiet observation that Techno’s feelings might be… complicated.
Dream felt his face burn, the flush spreading down his neck. He looked down at the parchment prop in his hands, the ink suddenly blurring. The ache wasn't just from exhaustion or pre-show nerves anymore. It was a deep, resonant thrum of hope and terror intertwined.
Philza’s words confirmed the unspoken tension he’d felt, the charge in the air after his observation, the blush on Techno’s neck. It made the precipice they were dancing on feel terrifyingly real.
Philza seemed to sense his disquiet. He placed a gentle hand on Dream’s arm, a brief, grounding touch. "Don’t overthink it tonight," he advised softly, his voice kind but firm.
"Just do what you do. Help him build this world." He gave Dream’s arm a reassuring squeeze. "The rest… the rest will unfold as it should. Or it won’t. But tonight, it’s about the story on that stage. The one you both helped make real." He offered a final, warm smile.
"Break a leg, Dream. Metaphorically. I have a feeling Techno would be… displeased… if anything literal happened to his script doctor."
With that, Philza turned and moved towards Sally, who was waving him towards the house, leaving Dream standing alone amidst the swirling chaos. The parchment felt heavy in his hands.
The words of Nightmare's Requiem echoed: "Only… forward." But forward felt like stepping onto a high wire strung across the very forge Philza had described, blindfolded, with the Blood God waiting on the other side, his walls momentarily breached, his feelings a terrifying, exhilarating mystery.
The calm he’d felt earlier was gone, replaced by a profound, resonant ache – the ache of standing on the threshold of something monumental, terrifyingly uncertain, and potentially life-altering, with only the echo of Philza’s knowing words and the memory of Techno’s blush as his guides into the blinding light of the stage. The curtain hadn't risen yet, but the real performance, the one unfolding silently backstage, had just intensified beyond measure.
The air in the converted warehouse crackled with a tension thicker than stage fog.
Thirty minutes. The countdown wasn't just numbers on a clock; it was a physical pulse thrumming through the floorboards, vibrating in the chests of everyone backstage. The controlled chaos had solidified into a terrifying stillness punctuated by sharp breaths, whispered prayers, and the occasional, jarring clatter of a last-minute prop adjustment.
Dream stood wedged between a rack of chainmail tunics and the heavy velvet curtain masking the stage, his script clutched in white-knuckled hands like a talisman.
He wasn’t needed here, not physically, but he couldn’t bear the claustrophobic press of the green room. Here, he could hear the low murmur of the arriving audience filtering through the curtain – a sea of rustling programs, anticipatory coughs, the clink of glasses from the hastily set-up bar. Real people. Judgement incarnate.
His stomach churned. The lines he knew backwards blurred before his eyes. Did Matilda’s final monologue land? Was the Bishop’s hypocrisy too subtle? Was the suffocating dread of the coronation… dreadful enough?
He traced the scarred leather cover of his copy of Nightmare's Requiem, tucked in his bag for impossible luck. Own the wreckage, he willed himself, but the wreckage felt perilously close to collapse.
Backstage was a tableau of contained panic.
Callahan stood like a stoic monolith beside the main backdrop, his calloused fingers tracing the edge of a painted stone arch, his expression unreadable but his posture rigid.
Ranboo, wired into his headset, flitted between monitors, whispering frantic status reports to himself, his mismatched eyes wide behind his glasses.
Tommy and Tubbo were uncharacteristically silent, huddled near their jury-rigged cue light console, faces pale, fingers hovering over switches.
Eret leaned against a support beam, smoking an unlit cigarette, his cynical gaze fixed on the heavy curtain, betraying a flicker of something raw – anticipation, perhaps, or dread.
And Techno…
Techno was a dark vortex of intensity near the stage manager’s podium. His headset was on, his gaze fixed on a bank of monitors showing different stage angles. He spoke into his mic, his voice a low, relentless stream that cut through the ambient noise, devoid of its usual bark, chillingly precise.
"Standby LX Cue 47… Check fly rail tension on Flat D… Stephen, breathe through your diaphragm, not your throat, you sound like a strangled goose… Matilda, center yourself on the mark before the soliloquy light hits… Sound, confirm levels on the throne room ambiance…"
He was everywhere and nowhere, a conductor orchestrating the final moments before the symphony began, his face a mask of terrifying focus. He didn’t look at Dream. He didn’t look at anyone. He was the storm.
Five minutes. The house lights dimmed. A collective hush fell over the audience, a tangible wave of silence that washed over the curtain and sucked the air from backstage.
Dream’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. This was it. Months of words, arguments, revisions, sweat, tears, and Techno’s relentless pressure condensed into this single, fragile moment.
Curtain up.
A single, stark spotlight pierced the darkness, illuminating a simple wooden stool center stage. On it sat Matilda (Eleanor), head bowed, her simple shift dress looking worn and vulnerable.
The air vibrated with the low, discordant hum of cellos and deep percussion – Callhan's set, a looming, oppressive silhouette of stone arches and shadowy pillars, seemed to breathe in the half-light.
MATILDA: (Voice low, resonant, carrying the weight of years) They say a crown is forged in fire. Hammered on the anvil of ambition. Tempered in the blood of rivals.
(She lifts her head slowly, her eyes finding the audience, not defiant, but weary.) But they never speak of the weight. The cold, relentless press of gold against bone. The echo of every promise broken, every life spent, whispering… was it worth the cost? This throne…
(She gestures vaguely towards the looming darkness upstage) …it feels less like a seat of power, and more like… a tomb I built for the girl I used to be.
Dream’s breath caught. Eleanor’s delivery was perfect – not regal pronouncement, but raw confession.
The words he’d wrestled onto the page, trying to capture Techno’s demand for "visceral dread," lived. They breathed. He saw an older couple in the front row lean forward, captivated. Philza watched, utterly still.
The scene shifted. Courtiers swirled in a tense dance of shifting alliances.
Enter Bishop Alaric (Finch), resplendent in rich robes, a silver pectoral cross gleaming. His smile was beatific, his eyes calculating pools of shadow. He approached Matilda, who stood observing the court with detached coolness.
BISHOP ALARIC: Your Grace, the people murmur. They crave stability. A firm hand upon the rudder of this… storm-tossed realm. Stephen’s forces gather like wolves at the border, scenting weakness.
(He places a gentle, paternal hand on her arm. His voice drops, honeyed with false concern.) A queen alone… is a precarious thing. The Church stands ready to offer its guidance. Its… support. For the good of the realm, naturally.
Dream tensed. This was the scene Techno had demanded be "poison honey."
Finch played it masterfully – the veneer of piety, the subtle threat beneath the offer.
MATILDA: (Doesn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the distant, unseen threat) Support, Your Eminence? Or a leash?
(She finally turns, her eyes meeting his, cold and sharp as flint.) The Church’s ‘guidance’ has a curious habit of aligning with its own coffers. Tell me, does scripture also counsel whispering poison in the ears of frightened lords? Does it sanctify the turning of brother against sister for a sliver of temporal power?
(She steps closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.) I know the taste of your piety, Alaric. It leaves an aftertaste of ashes.
The audience was silent, utterly engrossed.
Dream saw Techno on the monitor, a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes. His cuts actually improve the flow, surprisingly. The line Dream had fought for – "It leaves an aftertaste of ashes" – landed like a physical blow.
Finch recoiled almost imperceptibly, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing the venom beneath.
The play unfolded, a taut wire of political intrigue and personal struggle.
Dream watched, mesmerized, as the words he’d analyzed, dissected, and reshaped ceased to be ink on a page. They became the sharp intake of breath from a courtier, the tremor in a soldier’s hand, the chilling stillness of Matilda before she made a ruthless decision.
He saw the subtle shift in lighting (Ranboo’s cue, executed flawlessly) that transformed a council chamber from a place of debate to a cage. He heard the carefully layered soundscape – distant clashes of steel, mournful choir voices (Wilbur’s composition) – that Techno had demanded be "another character."
He wasn't just observing a story; he was witnessing the embodiment of language. His linguistics degree, years spent parsing phonemes and syntax trees, suddenly crystallized into this visceral reality.
This wasn't studying how words built worlds; this was the building, happening in real-time, brick by emotional brick. The "fairytale" wasn't something to believe in anymore; it was something he helped create for others to experience.
He wasn't the princess waiting for rescue or the knight seeking glory; he was the architect of the castle, the weaver of the tension, the one helping breathe life into the narrative so others could feel its pulse. The joy wasn't in the story for him now; it was in the bringing of the story.
A profound shift settled over him, warm and terrifyingly certain, amidst the backstage chill. This was where he belonged. Not curating narratives, but co-creating them in the messy, vital forge of performance.
The coronation scene.
The moment he’d bled over. The throne, a massive, shadowed thing of stone and dark wood, dominated the stage.
Matilda stood before it, bathed in a single, cold shaft of light (LX Cue 47 – perfect). The courtiers knelt, a sea of bowed heads. Bishop Alaric stood beside the throne, holding the heavy, simple crown – Callahan’s creation, looking ancient and oppressive, not glorious.
The discordant hum had faded, replaced by an almost unbearable silence, punctuated only by the crackle of torches (sound effect, meticulously timed).
Techno’s voice hissed in Dream’s headset, a stark counterpoint to the stage silence: "Hold the stillness, Eleanor. Suffocate them with it. Finch, your hand trembles? Good. Let it. Show them the fear beneath the greed."
Matilda didn't look at the throne. She looked out over the kneeling court, her face a mask of terrifying resolve. Not triumph. Not joy. Cold, absolute ownership of the wreckage. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Dream felt the audience leaning forward, holding their breath. He saw Philza’s hand tighten on the armrest. He saw an investor in the third row frown, shifting uncomfortably.
MATILDA: (Her voice, when it came, wasn't loud. It was a blade scraping stone, cutting through the silence) You kneel… for this?
(She gestures slowly, encompassing the throne, the court, the shadows.) For power carved from betrayal? For a crown forged in the fires of a broken kingdom?
(She turns, finally, to face the throne. Not with reverence, but with a chilling assessment.) It is not a seat, Bishop. It is a burden. One I alone am strong enough to bear. Not because I desire it…
(She looks back at the court, her eyes sweeping over them) …but because the alternatives… are annihilation. Or you.
The Bishop flinched. The court remained frozen. The silence deepened.
MATILDA: So kneel. (The command is absolute, icy.)
Kneel not for the glory of a crown… but for the necessity of the hand that wields it. For the strength to endure the weight… of what we have broken.
She didn't wait for them. She turned back to the throne. Slowly, deliberately, she walked towards it. Not a triumphant march, but a somber procession. She stopped before the cold stone seat.
The spotlight followed her, isolating her.
Then, instead of sitting, she reached out. Not for the crown Alaric offered. She placed her hand flat on the throne’s high, cold back. A simple, powerful gesture. Claiming it. Not with ceremony, but with stark, terrifying possession. She stood there, hand on the stone, back to the court, head bowed slightly, the picture of isolation and terrifying resolve.
The light held her. The silence screamed.
Blackout.
For a heartbeat, absolute silence. Then, applause erupted. Not the polite ripple Dream feared, but a wave. Starting slow, building, cresting into a roar that vibrated the floorboards beneath Dream’s feet.
He heard gasps, scattered shouts of "Bravo!", a few bewildered murmurs ("What? She didn’t even sit?"), but overwhelmingly, approval.
Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over him, followed immediately by a surge of emotion so powerful it stole his breath. Tears, hot and unexpected, pricked his eyes. He’d done it. They’d done it. The dread, the weight, the suffocating expectation – Techno’s impossible demand – it had landed.
He hadn’t just written words; he’d helped sculpt an experience, a feeling that now resonated in the thunderous applause of hundreds.
He saw Callahan, the stoic set designer, quickly wipe his eye with the back of his hand. Ranboo was bouncing on his toes, grinning wildly. Tommy and Tubbo were high-fiving silently, their cue lights forgotten. Eret crushed his unlit cigarette in his fist, a genuine, surprised smile breaking through his usual cynicism. Sally beamed, clapping furiously. Philza was on his feet, applauding steadily, his eyes shining as he looked towards the wings where Techno stood.
Dream turned. Techno was still at the podium, headset off now, hanging around his neck. He was staring at the curtain, his face illuminated by the glow of the stage manager’s console.
The mask of the Blood God was gone. In its place was an expression Dream had never seen: raw, stunned vulnerability. Relief, exhaustion, and something deeper – a profound, almost disbelieving awe. The applause washed over him, a physical force.
As the cast took their bows to escalating cheers, the curtain calls a blur of grateful smiles and waving hands, Techno finally moved. He didn’t join the bows. He turned, his gaze scanning the backstage shadows. It found Dream, still pressed against the chainmail, tears openly tracking paths through the dust on his cheeks.
Techno walked towards him. The chaotic energy of the successful opening, the congratulations starting to buzz around the crew, seemed to part for him.
He stopped a foot away. The noise faded into a muffled roar for Dream, hyper-focused on Techno’s face – the lingering shock, the exhaustion, the intensity now softened into something else. Something terrifyingly open.
For a long moment, Techno just looked at him. The applause from the house was a distant thunder. Then, he spoke, his voice rough, quieter than Dream had ever heard it, stripped bare of its usual armor.
"Was-Taken." A pause. The dark eyes held Dream’s, acknowledging the tears without judgment.
"That silence… before the blackout." Another pause, as if the words were physically difficult. "That was…" He seemed to search for the right term, discarding his usual arsenal of sarcasm or critique. "...adequate." The corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. "Surprisingly."
He took a half-step closer, the space between them charged with the shared intensity of the performance, the months of struggle, Philza’s knowing words, and the unspoken precipice.
"The dread. The weight. The… suffocating expectation." He echoed Dream’s own internal mantra from weeks of revisions.
"You found it. You… shaped it." He glanced towards the curtain, where the applause was finally dying down.
"It wouldn't have landed… not like that… without the bones you gave it. Without the…" He hesitated, then forced it out, the words low and gravelly, carrying a weight Dream felt in his own chest. "...precision."
He didn’t say ‘thank you’. Techno Blade didn’t deal in platitudes. But the acknowledgment – of his contribution, his precision, the specific impact of his work on the play's most pivotal, terrifying moment – was more potent than any effusive gratitude.
He saw Dream’s role, his skill, and named it essential. And then, the kicker, delivered with a gruffness that couldn’t quite mask the depth beneath:
"Don’t let it go to your head. Callahan’s flats didn’t collapse, Ranboo didn’t set anything on fire… this time… and Tommy’s lights only flickered twice. It was…" He searched again, his gaze flickering over Dream’s face, lingering for a fraction too long.
"...a marginally acceptable team effort."
Before Dream could process, could even attempt a response, Techno clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. The grip was firm, grounding, surprisingly warm.
It wasn't a casual pat; it was an anchor, a silent communication that echoed louder than the fading applause.
He held it for a beat, his dark eyes holding Dream’s with an intensity that stole the air from Dream’s lungs – a look that contained the exhaustion, the triumph, the shared ordeal, and something else, something fiercely, terrifyingly personal that vibrated in the charged space between them.
Then, as abruptly as it came, the contact broke. Techno dropped his hand, the mask of gruff command snapping partially back into place, though the rawness still lingered around his eyes.
"Now," he said, his voice regaining some of its usual edge, though softer. "Go. Bask in the… marginally acceptable adulation. Or hide. Your choice. I have investors to… manage."
He turned, striding towards where a small group of well-dressed individuals were being ushered backstage by a flustered assistant, already morphing back into the imposing figurehead of Blood God Productions.
Dream stood rooted, the ghost of Techno’s hand burning on his shoulder, the echo of "precision" and "marginally acceptable team effort" ringing in his ears alongside the phantom thunder of applause.
The forge had tempered them both. The wreckage had been shaped. The curtain had risen on something monumental, and the falling action, he realized with a dizzying mix of terror and elation, was just beginning. The path forward, lit by the blinding afterimage of the stage lights and the unspoken intensity in Techno’s eyes, stretched ahead, terrifyingly unknown and impossibly bright.
The roar of the departing audience faded, leaving the warehouse filled with a different kind of energy – the exhausted, giddy hum of survival.
Backstage was a landscape of discarded props, coiled cables, and beaming, sweat-sheened faces. Cast members hugged, laughed, wiped away relieved tears. Crew members slumped against set pieces, grinning wearily. The air thrummed with shared triumph, a collective exhale after holding breath for months.
Dream leaned against a sturdy flat depicting a stone corridor, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving a profound, bone-deep weariness… and a quiet, glowing certainty.
He watched the controlled chaos – Callahan accepting a rare, awkward pat on the back from a gushing actor, Ranboo practically vibrating with post-success energy as he carefully coiled wires, Tommy and Tubbo demonstrating their cue light system to an impressed stagehand, Eret actually smiling as he lit his long-awaited cigarette.
Techno was still surrounded by the small cluster of investors near the stage manager’s podium, his posture less rigid now, engaged in what seemed like a serious but not hostile conversation. Philza stood nearby, a quiet, proud sentinel.
"Dream! DREEEEAM!"
The voice cut through the post-show murmur, loud, familiar, and utterly unexpected. Dream spun around, his heart leaping into his throat.
Barreling towards him through the clutter, radiating chaotic energy even amidst the exhaustion, was Sapnap. He looked slightly rumpled, still in his hospital scrubs beneath an open jacket, his face split by a massive, triumphant grin.
Right behind him, navigating the cables with surprising grace, came George, looking sleek in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, a rare, genuine smile softening his usually impassive features.
And flanking them, beaming like twin suns, were Puffy and Niki, Niki already holding out a large, fragrant wicker basket.
"Surprise, sweetheart!" Puffy called, her voice warm with emotion as she reached him first, pulling him into a fierce hug that smelled like home and lavender. "You were magnificent!"
"Magnificent?" Sapnap crowed, reaching them and clapping Dream so hard on the back he stumbled. "He was LEGENDARY! That silence before the blackout? I nearly choked on my smuggled Jelly Baby! George almost cracked a facial expression!"
George rolled his eyes but stepped forward, offering a brief, surprisingly firm hug. "Statistically improbable success achieved. The narrative coherence, particularly the Bishop’s dialogue…" He paused, meeting Dream’s stunned gaze. "...was unexpectedly impactful. Well done, Dream. Seriously."
Niki squeezed in, wrapping her arms around him, the basket bumping his hip, filling the air with the scent of warm snickerdoodles.
"Oh, honey! We wouldn't have missed it! We drove straight through! Tubbo gave us the secret coordinates." She pulled back, her eyes shining. "Seeing your words come alive like that… it wasn't just a play, Dream. It was… magic. Real magic."
Dream blinked, overwhelmed. "You… you all came? Sapnap, your shift? George, the firewalls?"
Sapnap waved a dismissive hand. "Ant owes me, like, seventeen lives. Covered it. Karl sends his regrets – mock trial finals – but he demanded a full report. Said it sounded 'epically romantic', which I think was a compliment?"
George adjusted his glasses. "Noah contained the firewall eruption. Temporarily. He is… coping. This," he gestured vaguely around the buzzing warehouse, his gaze drifting towards where Techno stood with the investors, "seemed a higher priority. Data suggested a pivotal moment." He nodded towards the investor group.
"Also, preliminary analysis suggests positive investor sentiment. The one in the grey pinstripe hasn't stopped smiling since the coronation scene. That bodes well for the Blood God's operational longevity."
Puffy followed George’s gaze, her eyes missing nothing. "He’s good, that Techno," she murmured, watching Techno gesture emphatically, his earlier stunned vulnerability replaced by a focused, persuasive intensity.
"Holding his own. They're listening. Really listening. Looks like Blood God might just have a future, sweetheart. A real future."
The warmth in Dream’s chest intensified. Their presence, their unwavering support, their recognition – it was another layer of solid ground beneath his feet.
"Thank you," he managed, his voice thick. "For coming. For… everything."
Before he could say more, he was ambushed from the side.
Ranboo appeared, practically vibrating, his mismatched eyes wide behind his glasses. "Dream! That scene! With Matilda and the Bishop? The 'aftertaste of ashes' line? The audience gasped! Audibly gasped! You have to stay! Please! The next project, the one Techno mumbled about with the sentient clockwork… your words… they fit!"
He was barely finished when Callahan materialized, as silent as ever. He didn't speak, just stood before Dream, his stoic face unusually expressive.
He held out a small, intricate carving – a miniature replica of the oppressive throne from the set, flawlessly detailed. He placed it firmly in Dream’s hand, gave a single, deep nod that spoke volumes of respect and plea, then melted back into the shadows.
Eret sauntered over, blowing a plume of smoke upwards. "Alright, Was-Taken, the puppy eyes and the strong silent type routine are laid on thick." He smirked, but there was a lack of his usual cynicism.
"Even I’ll admit… your cuts didn’t completely eviscerate the soul of the thing. Marginally improved it, even. So. Are you signing on for the next bout of creative masochism, or are you fleeing back to the safe embrace of…" He wrinkled his nose. "...punctuation manuals?"
Tommy and Tubbo bounded over, Tommy slinging an arm around Dream’s neck. "Course he’s staying, big man! Blood God needs its wordsmith! Its… Dreamboat!" He waggled his eyebrows, earning a groan from Tubbo and a startled blink from George.
Tubbo nudged Dream, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, Dream. Are you staying? You know… hypothetically?" He winked, clearly enjoying the secret he’d been keeping.
Dream looked around at their expectant faces – Ranboo’s anxious hope, Callahan’s silent intensity radiating from the shadows, Eret’s sardonic but invested gaze, Tommy’s brash certainty, Tubbo’s knowing smirk.
He felt the weight of the miniature throne in his hand, the warmth of his family and friends at his back. A slow smile spread across his face.
"Hypothetically?" he echoed, playing along. "I’m… still weighing my options. Punz might send a very angry editor after me." He winked back at Tubbo, enjoying the collective intake of breath.
Finally, the investors began to disperse, shaking hands with Techno, Philza, and Wilbur. As the last one – the woman in the sharp grey pinstripe suit Mrs. Pendleton – turned to leave, she paused, looking directly at Techno.
"Mr. Blade," she said, her voice crisp but impressed. "A remarkable debut. Raw, powerful, unnervingly timely in its themes of power and compromise. The words, particularly…" She glanced towards the stage, as if recalling specific moments.
"...the confrontation with the Bishop, that chilling coronation stillness… they carried a weight I rarely feel in new works. Your script doctor… they have a name? And are they… attached to the project?" Her gaze was sharp, assessing.
Techno’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. He followed her gaze, his dark eyes finding Dream across the cluttered space, surrounded by his pleading crew and his unexpected family.
Dream saw the flicker in Techno’s eyes – the same intensity, but now layered with something else… urgency? Possessiveness?
"Ms. Pendleton," Techno said, his voice carefully neutral, but carrying an underlying edge.
"The script doctor is Dream Was-Taken." He paused, then added, the words deliberate, weighted, "He is… an indispensable part of Blood God’s creative nucleus."
Indispensable. The word hung in the air, heavier than any 'thank you'.
Mrs. Pendleton nodded, a satisfied gleam in her eye. "Good. Talent like that needs anchoring. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Blade." She gave a final nod and walked away.
As Philza and Wilbur engaged the remaining investor in conversation, Techno broke away. He didn't walk; he strode, cutting through the celebratory clutter with single-minded purpose, his gaze fixed solely on Dream. The backstage chatter seemed to hush slightly in his wake.
He stopped before Dream, ignoring Sapnap’s grin, George’s raised eyebrow, Puffy and Niki’s knowing smiles, the expectant stares of Ranboo, Tommy, Tubbo, and even Eret leaning in.
"Was-Taken," Techno stated, his voice low, rough, stripped of its usual layers of command or sarcasm. It was pure, unfiltered intensity.
"A word. Now." He didn't wait for agreement, turning and heading towards a quieter, dimly lit corner near the loading dock, away from the main throng, illuminated only by a single ghost light.
Dream’s heart hammered again, but this time it wasn't stage fright. He excused himself with a glance at his family and friends, who all wore varying expressions of amusement and anticipation, and followed.
The cool air near the dock was a shock after the backstage warmth.
Techno turned to face him, the ghost light casting deep shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the exhaustion still bruising his eyes, but also a fierce, almost desperate focus. He crossed his arms, a defensive gesture, but his knuckles were white.
"That," Techno began, his voice tight, "was Mrs. Eleanor Pendleton. Of Pendleton Capital Ventures." He paused, letting the name sink in.
"She doesn't offer 'anchoring' lightly. Her interest… the project she hinted at… it’s substantial. More than substantial." He took a breath, his gaze boring into Dream’s.
"But her interest hinges on continuity. On the… creative nucleus." He practically spat the corporate term, but his eyes held the real meaning. On you.
He uncrossed his arms, gesturing sharply back towards the main space. "They asked for you. By name. For the words." He took a step closer, invading Dream’s space. The scent of sawdust, ozone, and Techno’s unique blend of sharp soap and exertion filled Dream’s senses.
"What you did tonight… the dread, the weight, the silence…" He shook his head, a rare gesture of near disbelief. "That wasn't just adequate, Was-Taken. That was…" He struggled, visibly wrestling with vocabulary that didn't involve critique or grunts. "...foundational. It held the entire damn thing together."
He looked away for a second, towards the ghost light, his jaw working. When he looked back, his dark eyes held a vulnerability Dream had only glimpsed once before, backlit by the ghost light after his breakdown.
"Blood God…" He stopped, started again.
"I…" He corrected, the admission seeming physically painful. "...cannot build what needs building next without that foundation. Without the precision. Without the… understanding." He met Dream’s gaze, the intensity blazing.
"The investors want assurance. I need…" He faltered, the word 'need' hanging heavy and raw in the air between them. He seemed to physically force the next words out, low and gravelly, stripped bare: "I need to know if you're staying."
It wasn't a command. It wasn't an offer. It was the closest thing to a plea Dream could imagine coming from Techno Blade.
A request laid bare, terrifying in its honesty, born not just from investor pressure, but from a profound, hard-won recognition of Dream’s essential role in his vision. The "more than friends" precipice yawned before them, illuminated by the stark ghost light.
Dream held his gaze, letting the silence stretch, feeling the weight of the miniature throne in his pocket, the warmth of his family nearby, the pleas of his crew echoing, and the raw need in Techno’s eyes.
He saw the path forward – the terrifying, exhilarating forge of Blood God’s future, built alongside this complex, demanding, brilliant man.
A slow, deliberate smile spread across Dream’s face, mirroring the certainty that had settled within him during Matilda’s silence. He leaned in slightly, just a fraction, his voice calm, clear, and carrying the weight of his decision.
"Hypothetically," Dream began, echoing his earlier tease to the crew, his eyes locked on Techno’s, "...if I were to say I’ve decided to accept the position… full-time…"
He paused, savoring the way Techno’s breath hitched, the almost imperceptible lean forward.
"...what would the Blood God say to that?"
A beat of stunned silence. Then, a choked sound, somewhere between a cough and a disbelieving laugh, escaped Techno. He stared at Dream, the vulnerability momentarily eclipsed by sheer, startled relief.
Before he could formulate a response – likely something gruff and deflective – a triumphant screech shattered the moment.
"HE SAID YES! DREEEAMBOAT'S STAYING! FULL TIME!" Tommy's bellow echoed from just around the corner, followed by Tubbo’s gleeful cackle and Ranboo’s excited yelp.
Techno flinched, the raw moment shattered. A deep flush, visible even in the dim light, crawled up his neck. He scowled ferociously in the direction of Tommy’s voice, but when he looked back at Dream, the scowl couldn't quite mask the dawning realization and the flicker of something intensely, undeniably warm in his dark eyes.
The ghost light caught the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But definitely not a frown.
The warehouse, for a split second, seemed to hold its breath again. Then, laughter erupted – from Sapnap’s booming guffaw, George’s dry chuckle, Puffy and Niki’s delighted giggles, Eret’s snort, and the crew’s joyful shouts.
The forge had claimed its wordsmith. The falling action was a symphony of relief, triumph, and the delicious, aching promise of everything yet to come, underscored by Tommy’s persistent, echoing cry of "DREEEAMBOAT!" and the furious, flustered blush deepening on the Blood God’s face.
The path ahead was lit, not just by stage lights, but by the shared, unspoken spark finally igniting in the quiet corner near the loading dock.
The warehouse celebration bled into a nearby pub, transforming exhaustion into giddy, champagne-fueled chaos. Dream found himself swept along, sandwiched between Sapnap’s enthusiastic recounting of smuggled Jelly Babies and Niki pressing another warm snickerdoodle into his hand.
He was floating, buoyed by success and the profound warmth of his found family’s presence. Yet, his gaze kept drifting, pulled like a magnet towards the corner booth where Techno held court, Philza at his side, deep in conversation with a few lingering, starry-eyed investors.
The flustered blush from their ghost-lit encounter had faded, replaced by Techno’s usual focused intensity, though Dream swore he caught the Blood God’s eyes flicker towards him more than once.
"Dream! Mate! Over here!"
The voice, smooth and laced with familiar, playful mockery, cut through the din. Wilbur, looking effortlessly cool in a slightly rumpled velvet jacket, raised a glass from a booth where Sally smiled warmly beside him.
"Heard the whispers. The elusive wordsmith emerges triumphant! And apparently, indispensable?" Wilbur’s grin was wide, knowing. "Quite the upgrade from proofreading dry academic journals, eh?"
Dream slid into the booth, accepting a half-hug from Sally.
"Wouldn’t miss the birth of a potential theatrical revolution," Wilbur declared, swirling his drink.
"Or the inevitable chaos that follows Techno like a particularly dramatic storm cloud. Sally insisted. Said she needed to witness the phenomenon firsthand." He winked at his partner.
"The writing was phenomenal, Dream," Sally said sincerely, squeezing his arm.
"Raw and beautiful. Fundy sends his love, by the way. He’s devastated he couldn’t make it – emergency shift at the clinic, some poor spaniel ate an entire sock collection. He made me promise to get every detail." She smiled, a hint of affectionate exasperation in her eyes.
"He’s rooting for you. Always is."
A familiar pang, bittersweet, touched Dream’s heart. Fundy. Sweet, brilliant Fundy, whose gentle affection he’d cherished but couldn’t quite… match in the way Fundy deserved.
"Tell him thanks," Dream said, meaning it. "And tell him the spaniel has my sympathies."
"Ah, Fundy," Wilbur sighed dramatically, leaning back.
"Our resident vet nursing a slightly different kind of ache. Still carries a torch brighter than Tommy’s enthusiasm, I fear." He fixed Dream with a look that was both teasing and perceptive.
"Though… judging by the way a certain brooding theatre titan keeps glancing over here like you might spontaneously combust… perhaps Fundy’s torch might need redirecting? Hypothetically, of course."
Dream felt his own cheeks warm, ducking his head with a laugh. "Shut up, Wilbur."
"Just observing the narrative tension!" Wilbur raised his hands innocently.
"It’s palpable! Almost as thick as the description of the Bishop’s existential dread. Which, by the way, chef's kiss. Truly inspired misery." He took a sip, eyes gleaming.
"So, indispensable, hmm? That’s a five-syllable word coming from the Blood God. Practically a sonnet. When’s the wedding?"
The teasing continued, a constant, affectionate hum throughout the evening.
Tommy and Tubbo took Wilbur’s lead and ran with it, dubbing Dream "Mrs. Blade" within earshot of Techno, who responded with a terrifyingly blank stare that only made them shriek with laughter and duck behind Philza.
Ranboo blushed furiously every time the topic arose, stammering about creative partnerships.
Callahan, silently observing from the periphery, offered Dream another small carving – this time of two figures standing close together near a ghost light, a detail so specific it made Dream’s breath catch.
Even Eret offered dry commentary: "Careful, Was-Taken. Dating the boss. It’s a cliché fraught with peril and potential HR violations. Though," he conceded, blowing smoke, "watching him flounder is admittedly… entertaining."
Sapnap and George were a relentless tag team.
"So," Sapnap grinned, slinging an arm around Dream later as George watched Techno navigate the crowd with his usual unnerving stillness.
"The Great Blade Obsession. George, Wilbur, Fundy… all those heart-eyes emojis over the idea of the mysterious, brooding genius. Turns out you just needed the real deal, huh? The upgrade package: comes with actual communication skills, slightly less existential angst… marginally."
George adjusted his glasses, his gaze analytical.
"Statistically improbable, but data suggests a pattern. Dream’s attraction vector consistently aligns with high-intensity, creative-male archetypes exhibiting significant competency and…" he paused, "...brooding aesthetics.
"Techno fulfills the parameters with a ninety-seven percent match, factoring in verified creative synergy and observed mutual reliance." He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"Superior to the hypothetical Blade construct. More… tangible."
Dream rolled his eyes, used to their dissection, but the ache was there – the echo of past infatuations that felt shallow now compared to the complex reality of Techno.
"He’s not just Blade," Dream countered, keeping his tone light, refusing to let their teasing corner him into seriousness that would kill the mood. He swirled the cider in his glass.
"Blade was… a fantasy. A silhouette. Techno?" He glanced across the room where Techno was now listening intently to Philza, a rare, small smile touching his lips at something the older man said.
"Techno’s the messy, frustrating, brilliant real thing. More than Blade. More than Nightmare, even. He’s… Techno." He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance.
"Annoyingly competent, terrifyingly perceptive, and surprisingly bad at taking compliments. It’s a whole package."
Sapnap snorted. "A package currently radiating ‘touch him and die’ vibes towards anyone who gets within three feet of you. Including the nice old lady who complimented your scarf."
"Protective," George observed clinically.
"A positive indicator for relationship longevity, studies suggest. Though the intensity may require… calibration."
The weeks that followed the opening night were less a distinct 'timeskip' and more a gradual immersion into a new rhythm.
The initial euphoria settled into a steady, demanding pulse. Blood God secured its funding, thanks largely to Mrs. Pendleton’s influential backing and the rave reviews that consistently highlighted the "devastatingly powerful script" and "words that cut deeper than any blade."
Rehearsals for the next production – a complex, steampunk-infused fable about a sentient clockwork city – began immediately, the warehouse echoing with the clang of metal, the whir of imagined gears, and Techno’s increasingly specific demands.
Dream’s life became a whirlwind of script revisions fueled by late-night coffee, passionate arguments over thematic nuance in quiet corners of the warehouse, and the constant, thrilling pressure of meeting Techno’s exacting standards.
Their creative clashes were still fierce, sparks flying over a misplaced semicolon or the emotional weight of a single stage direction. But the undercurrent had shifted. The critiques, while still blunt, were now underpinned by a profound, unspoken respect.
They were building something together. And beneath the relentless work, the unspoken tension from the loading dock simmered, a constant, low hum.
It manifested in small things: Techno wordlessly replacing Dream’s cold coffee with a fresh, steaming cup during a marathon rewrite session. Dream instinctively knowing when Techno’s silence meant frustration versus deep concentration.
The way their hands brushed when reaching for the same blueprint, the contact sending a jolt through them both, followed by averted eyes and a sudden, intense focus on the blueprint's minutiae. The lingering looks across the crowded workshop, heavy with everything still unsaid.
The crew noticed. The teasing never stopped, a constant soundtrack – Tommy’s exaggerated swoons, Tubbo’s knowing smirks, Ranboo’s flustered stammers, Eret’s dry pronouncements of "sexual tension: palpable, detrimental to productivity, highly amusing."
Even Philza would offer Dream a warm, knowing smile that spoke volumes.
One rain-lashed Tuesday, during a break in the relentless clockwork city construction, Fundy finally made it to the warehouse.
He arrived bearing a box of gourmet donuts from the upscale bakery near his clinic, shaking the rain from his bright orange hair. He looked tired but cheerful.
"Emergency sock-ectomy was a success," he announced, setting the box down on a cluttered worktable.
"Patient recovering. Unlike me, who’s still recovering from missing opening night." He turned, his warm brown eyes finding Dream instantly. There it was – that familiar fondness, tinged with a wistfulness Dream knew all too well. But Fundy’s smile was genuine.
"Heard it was incredible, Dream. Truly. Everyone’s talking about the writing."
Dream hugged him, the scent of antiseptic and rain clinging to Fundy’s coat. "Thanks, Fundy. Really. Sorry you couldn’t be there."
The hug lingered a fraction longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the past, a gentle closing of a door.
Fundy pulled back, his gaze flickering past Dream’s shoulder. Techno stood near the partially constructed clockwork tower, discussing rivet placement with Callahan.
Fundy watched him for a moment – the focused intensity, the effortless command, the way his presence seemed to anchor the chaotic energy of the space. A small, slightly sad, but ultimately accepting smile touched Fundy’s lips.
"He’s… something else, isn’t he?" he said softly, turning back to Dream.
"Not what I expected from the infamous Blood God. Seems… good for you. Solid." He nudged Dream gently.
"Don’t let Wilbur tease you too much. He’s just jealous his band never got reviews that good."
Later that night, after Fundy had left and the warehouse was quiet except for the drumming rain and the soft clinks of Techno and Philza securing tools, Dream found himself alone at his makeshift desk, reviewing clockwork schematics.
Sapnap and George had commandeered a corner, ostensibly helping Ranboo with a complex wiring diagram but mostly observing the dynamic.
"See?" Sapnap murmured, nodding towards where Dream sat, illuminated by a single desk lamp, utterly absorbed.
"Totally different vibe. Remember the Wilbur phase? All angsty poetry and strategic guitar solos? Or the Fundy era? Sweet, but kinda… quiet?"
George nodded.
"Affirmative. Previous infatuations exhibited characteristics of projection onto idealized constructs – the tortured artist, the nurturing intellectual. Current data indicates attraction based on observed reality: collaborative friction, demonstrated resilience, shared creative vision, and verified competence under pressure." He paused.
"Also, physical proximity and observed mutual attraction metrics are significantly higher."
"He’s not just filling a Blade-shaped hole," Sapnap concluded, quieter now.
"Techno’s… built different. In a good way. Scary way, sometimes. But good. For Dream."
Dream pretended not to hear, focusing on the intricate gears on the page, but warmth spread through his chest. They were right. This wasn't chasing a shadow. This was standing beside the real, complex, infuriating, and utterly captivating storm.
The ache was still there – the delicious, terrifying tension of the precipice they hadn't yet jumped from.
He could feel Techno’s presence behind him now, a solid warmth in the cool, damp air of the warehouse. He could sense Techno pausing, watching him. Dream didn't turn.
He traced a finger over a blueprint cog, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs, waiting. The rain hammered a relentless beat on the roof, the ghost light cast its lonely vigil, and the unspoken question hung heavier than ever in the space between them, charged with the promise of everything yet to come.
The next step, the final leap, felt inevitable, terrifying, and utterly, completely right. The forge awaited its fire.
The rain became a constant companion to the clockwork city’s birth. It drummed against the warehouse roof, a counterpoint to the clang of metal, the whine of drills, and the low murmur of focused creation.
Dream lived within the rhythm, his world narrowing to the blueprint-strewn desk, the scent of ozone and wet concrete, and the magnetic pull of Techno’s presence.
The ache between them wasn't a sharp pain, but a deep, persistent hum, a vibration resonating in the space they shared. It was in the way Techno’s hand would linger on a page Dream was annotating, their fingers not quite touching but the heat radiating.
It was in the shared silence during late nights, broken only by the scratch of Dream’s pen or Techno’s low mutterings over a recalcitrant gear mechanism, a silence thick with unspoken words.
It was in the way Techno’s gaze would find Dream across the chaos, intense and assessing, lingering a fraction too long before snapping back to the task, a faint flush sometimes creeping up his neck if Dream caught him.
The teasing remained a constant soundtrack.
Tommy, emboldened by Techno’s lack of actual violence beyond terrifying glares, had escalated to constructing a tiny, lopsided sign that read "MRS. BLADE'S OFFICE" and taping it precariously above Dream’s desk.
Tubbo had wired it to flicker erratically. Ranboo, tasked with removing it, would inevitably get flustered and leave it hanging crookedly.
Eret would comment dryly, "The sexual tension in here could power the entire clockwork city. Efficient, if distracting."
Even Philza’s smiles held a deeper knowing, a quiet encouragement that somehow didn’t feel intrusive.
One damp afternoon, during a lull as the crew wrestled with a particularly stubborn section of the city’s central spire, Philza found Dream curled in a surprisingly intact armchair salvaged from an old set, engrossed in a worn paperback – The Crimson Kingdoms: Crown of Ash.
Philza smiled, leaning against a nearby support beam. "Still a fan, I see."
Dream looked up, startled, then smiled sheepishly. "Guilty. Comfort read. Nyx Blackwood just… gets it. The weight of power, the cost of choices. It resonates differently now, after… well, everything." He traced the embossed crown on the cover.
"Used to imagine myself as Blade, you know? The cool, untouchable genius orchestrating everything. Then I met the real thing." He nodded subtly towards Techno, who was currently scowling at a schematic Callahan was silently pointing to.
Philza chuckled, a warm, rich sound. "The real thing tends to be messier, louder, and significantly more prone to dramatic scowls than the fictional counterpart."
"No kidding," Dream laughed softly. "Blade was a silhouette. Techno’s the whole… storm. Blade’s competence, sure, but fused with Nightmare’s terrifying intensity and unpredictability. And then…"
Dream’s voice softened, "...something else entirely. Something real that neither of those characters ever had. Frustration that isn't just brooding, it’s productive. Stubbornness that builds instead of destroys. Annoying, brilliant, infuriatingly human reality."
Philza’s eyes held a deep fondness, mixed with something thoughtful. "Nyx always did write the most compelling, complex characters. Drawn from life, I suppose."
He paused, then added casually, though his gaze was sharp, "She’d be delighted to know her work resonated so deeply with the man who finally cracked her eldest son’s formidable defenses."
Dream blinked. "Her… eldest son?"
Philza’s smile widened, a spark of pure mischief in his eyes that was startlingly reminiscent of Tommy.
"Techno, Wilbur, Tommy… their mother. She writes under Nyx Blackwood. Needed a pen name back when she started, juggling manuscripts and nappies. Stuck with it." He watched the realization dawn on Dream’s face – the profound shock, the dawning understanding of where Techno’s innate grasp of narrative power, his ability to wield words as precisely as a blade, truly came from.
"Keeps her identity quiet. Prefers the work to speak for itself. But she saw Blood God. Sent a message simply saying: 'He found his wordsmith. And his wordsmith understands the weight. Good.' High praise, coming from her."
Dream stared at the book in his hands, then at Techno across the warehouse.
The creator of Blade and Nightmare… was Techno’s mother. The fictional archetypes Dream had obsessed over, the impossible standards he’d measured real people against… they were born from the mind of the woman who raised this complex, infuriating, incredible man.
The pieces slammed together with an almost audible click. Techno wasn't just like Blade or Nightmare; he was the source code, filtered through lived experience and Philza’s steadying influence.
The realization was staggering, vertiginous.
All those years lost in fictional kingdoms, yearning for a love as epic as his mothers' seemingly storybook romance, only to have his heart bruised by the flawed reality of Wilbur’s performative angst, George’s emotional detachment, and Fundy’s sweet but ultimately mismatched affection…
He’d convinced himself that kind of love – deep, consuming, transformative – was reserved for pages and his mothers' exceptional bond. He’d closed the door on that hope, armored himself against the rabbit hole of obsessive longing.
Yet, here, amidst the sawdust and the rain and the simmering tension, hope was a treacherous, persistent vine wrapping around his heart.
Looking at Techno – really looking, past the scowls and the grunts and the terrifying competence – Dream saw not just the fantasy made flesh, but the man who surpassed it.
He saw the vulnerability beneath the intensity, the dry humor beneath the sarcasm, the fierce loyalty beneath the possessiveness. He saw the potential for something real, something messy, something more than any story. He saw the precipice, and the terrifying, exhilarating desire to jump.
Please, he thought, the ache intensifying into a sharp, sweet pang, let this be real. Let him be the one. Don’t let me fall down that hole again. Let this be different.
The final push came not with a grand gesture, but with the quiet culmination of tension that had been building like pressure in a steam engine.
It was late, past midnight. The warehouse was bathed in the cool, blue glow of work lamps and the lonely vigil of the ghost light. Rain lashed against the high windows.
The main crew had trickled out hours ago, leaving only the echo of their presence and the skeletal forms of the clockwork city.
Dream was hunched over his desk, wrestling with the climactic monologue for the Clockwork Queen – words that needed to carry the weight of sentience, loss, and defiance. It wasn't flowing. Frustration gnawed at him.
He didn't hear Techno approach, only felt the shift in the air, the familiar presence settling beside him like a grounding force.
Techno didn't speak immediately. He picked up a discarded draft page Dream had crumpled, smoothed it out, and scanned it with those dark, perceptive eyes. His silence wasn't judging; it was… focused. Companionable.
"Too many syllables," Techno stated finally, his voice a low rumble in the quiet. He pointed to a line. "Clunks here. Breaks the rhythm of her despair."
He picked up a red pencil – Dream’s red pencil – and made a single, precise strike. "Simplify. Let the silence after carry the weight. Like Matilda."
Dream stared at the mark, then at Techno’s profile illuminated by the desk lamp.
The sharp line of his jaw, the faint fatigue bruising his eyes, the absolute concentration. Blade’s precision. Nightmare’s instinct for emotional impact. And Techno’s… quiet understanding of Dream’s process.
The ache flared, hot and urgent. This. This collaboration, this friction, this unspoken respect… this was the foundation. This was real.
Techno put the pencil down. He didn’t move away. He turned his head, his dark eyes meeting Dream’s.
The air crackled. The hum became a roar in Dream’s ears. The ghost light seemed to brighten, casting their corner in stark relief.
Techno’s gaze held that familiar intensity, but stripped bare now of professional detachment. It was raw, searching, filled with the same terrifying vulnerability Dream had glimpsed by the loading dock. He saw the reflection of his own hope, his own fear, his own desperate wanting.
Techno took a slow breath, the sound loud in the stillness. He uncrossed his arms, his hand hovering slightly at his side before clenching into a fist, then relaxing. He looked down for a second, then back up, meeting Dream’s eyes with a resolve that seemed hard-won.
His voice, when it came, was rough, quieter than the rain, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken arguments and that single, raw plea: ‘I need to know if you're staying.’
"Was-Taken," he began, the name sounding different now, stripped of its usual edge, almost… intimate. He paused, cleared his throat.
"This…" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the desk, the blueprints, the half-built city, the charged space between them. "...is unsustainable."
Dream’s heart plummeted. Unsustainable? Had he misread everything? Was the tension just… professional friction after all? The rabbit hole yawned, dark and familiar.
Techno saw the flicker of panic, the doubt. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He leaned in, just slightly, invading Dream’s space, his gaze unwavering, intense.
"The late nights. The arguments over semicolons. The…" He seemed to struggle, the words physically difficult. "...distraction."
His eyes flickered over Dream’s face, lingering on his lips for a heartbeat before snapping back up.
"Phil keeps a list. Of places. Quiet ones. Where the food doesn't require interpretive dance to order." He took another breath, the vulnerability stark under the blue work lights.
"Hypothetically…" The ghost of their old word, laden with new meaning. "...if I were to procure a reservation. For Friday. Seven PM." He held Dream’s gaze, the question hanging, heavy and terrifyingly real.
"Would that… constitute a viable solution to the unsustainable working conditions?"
It wasn't flowery. It wasn't poetic. It was pure Techno Blade: practical, gruff, wrapped in the guise of solving a logistical problem, yet underpinned by a tremor of raw need that resonated deep in Dream’s bones.
It was a far cry from Blade’s imagined cool propositions or Nightmare’s dramatic declarations. It was infinitely better. It was real.
The fear of the rabbit hole evaporated, replaced by a wave of pure, dizzying relief and joy so potent it stole Dream’s breath.
The slow burn hadn't just ignited; it had forged something solid, undeniable. A smile, wide and genuine, spread across Dream’s face, mirroring the certainty he’d found in Matilda’s silence and the warmth of the miniature throne in his pocket.
He leaned forward, closing the infinitesimal distance Techno’s nearness had already bridged. His voice, when he found it, was steady, clear, and filled with the warmth of the hope he finally dared to embrace.
"Hypothetically," Dream echoed, his eyes locked on Techno’s, seeing the flicker of desperate hope beneath the gruff exterior, "a structured discussion regarding operational inefficiencies… outside of the designated creative forge environment…" He paused, savoring the tension, the way Techno’s breath hitched.
"...sounds like an extremely viable strategy. Necessary, even. For the project's long-term sustainability. Friday. Seven PM. I’ll… consult Phil’s list."
A beat of stunned silence.
Then, a sound escaped Techno – a choked exhale that was almost a laugh, a release of immense pressure.
The terrifying blankness dissolved, replaced by a dazed, incredulous relief that softened the harsh lines of his face. A faint, genuine curve touched the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But the undeniable beginning of one.
Before either could move, before the precipice could finally be crossed, a triumphant whoop shattered the moment. Tommy’s head popped up from behind a nearby stack of cog-filled crates, Tubbo and Ranboo scrambling up beside him, all grinning like maniacs.
"HE ASKED HIM OUT! BLOOD GOD ASKED DREAMBOAT ON A DATE! FRIDAY! SEVEN PM! IT’S OFFICIAL! MRS. BLADE IS ON THE MARKET!"
Techno flinched violently, the burgeoning softness vanishing under a furious, crimson blush that flooded his face and neck. He whirled around, fixing Tommy with a glare that could melt steel.
"TOMMY! I WILL DISASSEMBLE YOU INTO COMPONENT PARTS AND USE YOUR KNEECAPS AS FLYWHEELS!"
But the threat lacked its usual heat. Because Dream was laughing, a full, unreserved sound that echoed in the cavernous space, his hand instinctively reaching out and brushing Techno’s clenched fist.
Techno froze, the furious blush deepening, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers slowly uncurled, turning his hand just enough for his pinky to hook briefly, tentatively, around Dream’s.
The warehouse, filled with the drumming rain, the scent of metal and damp concrete, and Tommy’s gleeful, echoing pronouncements, held its breath once more. Not in anticipation of a curtain falling, but in the shared, breathless wonder of a curtain finally, irrevocably, rising. The falling action was over.
The real story, the messy, unpredictable, achingly real story forged in the heat of their shared passion, was just beginning. And as Dream met Techno’s flustered, furious, yet undeniably warm gaze, the ghost light catching the tentative connection of their fingers, he knew with absolute certainty: this was no rabbit hole.
This was solid ground. This was the start of something entirely new, written not in ink, but in the shared, electric space between them.
The fictional love he'd chased had finally, miraculously, found its breathtaking, complicated, utterly perfect reality.
Trixsi_Ndg07 Tue 08 Jul 2025 06:06AM UTC
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Last Edited Sun 27 Jul 2025 05:18PM UTC
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