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Ink loves all AUs.
The happy, the angsty, the fluffy, the horrible— there was value in them all. They were all crafted with knowing hands; They were all to be protected, loved, and guided. Ink had no favorites. For, they all deserved his equal, careful attention. His adoration.
But, some AUs were more… preferable than others, in regard to visitation and inevitable use-as-battlefield.
“You know, uh…” Ink trails off, grimacing as he swipes off a chunk of sludge that had affixed itself to his shoulder. A Waterfell that was covered in slime and goop was a cool concept— sure. But, in practice? Ink tries to fight off the last of his boiling red: he can make another shirt, it isn’t the end of the world. The battle hadn’t lasted that long, anyway. Nightmare and his crew seemed just about fed up, tiring out to retreat once covered in the appropriate amount of carnage. “…Kinda glad that Bluebell got left out of this one.”
Dream groans from where he walks besides Ink: the safe— not gross —snow crunching beneath their feet. Ink won’t blame Dream for his sour green-apple mood; Being covered nearly head to toe in mysterious thick, slimy substance would put a damper on most anyone’s outlook.
At least there is respite; At least they won. The AU is safe, the interference has been stopped, and there are no scars besides discomfort.
“Eugh,” Dream mutters. When Ink turns to look at him, he finds that a look of warranted disgust has wormed its way across Dream’s features. It’s still Dream— still gentle and warm and all too forgiving— but it’s disgust all the same, as he tries (and fails) to bat off some of the goop from his cape.
Like a cat who’s grooming, Dream continues to pat down the fabric: grimace deepening as the substance seems determined as a human to stick. His cape, his tunic, his undershirt: it’s everywhere. “Uh,” Ink tries, “…do you want some help?”
Dream seems too busy spinning in a circle— attempting to swipe at the small of his back— to register Ink’s offer. He whines, perturbed; Ink can only think of how he makes the same sound when he colors at Ink’s side: brows furrowed, with tongue poking from mouth as he self chastises after a perceived mistake. Eventually, Dream stops. He sighs. “I think it’s under my clothes,” he admits, and Ink thanks the fact that he doesn’t have that much cyan or purple running through his marrow. He doesn’t need to experience that second hand disgust. Dream turns his gaze to Ink and… blushes? “…Can you, ah, turn around for a moment?”
Ink blinks. Once the request processes, he nods. Ink turns on his heel and busies his mind.
It’s a nice AU, even when considering its sludgy gross Waterfall. This Snowdin is peaceful. Quiet. The trees are tall, and the snow covers the ground like a blanket in bed on a cold night. He wonders how Nightmare and his crew are faring. Dream and Ink had beat them pretty good— distractions and lack of Blue considering. Dust and Killer seemed rather unaffected. Horror had gotten some substance in his skull: again, Ink can thank his current lowered capacity for disgust. Nightmare… Ink can only laugh at the thought. He can only hope that he was as horrified and grossed out as he looked.
Ink shifts from foot to foot, allowing a tune to whistle through the air.
The call had come late at night. Or, well, the call that was disturbance. Ink had been awake, as per usual. Dream was also awake, which unfortunately was similarly pretty usual. Blue… he’d had a hard week. It was decided that a two person response was worth the extra work; They wouldn’t want to risk Blue’s life, sleep deprived and mortal as he is.
Dream… Ink wishes that he would consider himself up for an opportunity of rest and relaxation. Sure, he was immortal— he could handle days and days and weeks and weeks of zero sleep (despite his namesake). But still. Ink saw how the hours dragged him down: how the constant being weighed on him. It was more fun when Dream was enjoying himself; It felt better when he was well rested, smiling and laughing as he was awake and aware enough to enjoy the time he spent with Ink.
It’s a practical thought, really. Nothing more. Nothing less.
…Why was Ink turned around again?
“Hey Dreamy, am I supposed to be doing something—?” Are the words that Ink is able to get out before he loses all communication: drained out of him like evaporated water, no competition for the blazing sight that exists in front of him.
Dream stands with cape, tunic, and undershirt discarded out into the snow. His bones shine ivory beneath the false sun; His scars— like texture on a page —paint the expanse of his ribs, sternum, clavicles, and humeri in careful brushstroke patterns. This isn’t what has taken Ink’s breath, though. They’ve been friends— best friends —for long enough that there had been glimpses of their barest forms. No, this is not what has captured Ink’s full attention; This is not what has stolen mind and turned his palette into nothing but a whirlwind mixture of spring sunrise.
No. What has Ink weak at the knees, itching for his paint, and unable to communicate is the presence of Dream’s wings.
Dream’s wings. They’re beautiful, large, and honey-dappled golden. They extend from his back like they had always belonged; Even half folded and rumpled as Dream tries to clear the mess from his back, they manage to embody the very nature of true royalty. Majestic. They seem built for silent flight. Speed, maybe? Endurance remains a possibility. They’re not like anything Ink has ever seen. No bird or creature or artwork compares: this is uniquely new. They are uniquely Dream. Ink can do nothing but stare.
“You have wings!?”
It’s almost comical how much Dream’s sockets have widened. And, they somehow manage to widen even further as Ink reaches down, grabs a fistful of snow, and lobs it directly at Dream’s face.
Ink doesn’t know if he should be concerned by the fact that Dream doesn’t even attempt to dodge his next strike. The snowball hits the mark of his sternum and cakes the gaps of his ribs.
“You have wings, and you didn’t tell me?!” Ink yells, already preparing another attack. It… may be possible that the red hadn’t been truly used up. Ink opens his mouth, prepared to continue, but finds himself completely and utterly speechless besides his battle cry.
Wings. Wings! Dream had wings! One of the coolest design features— one of Ink’s true weak points— and he hadn’t told him?
After Ink’s next onslaught of snow, Dream raises his hands.
“…Are you done?”
Oh.
Wrong dialogue choice; Wrong action. Ink lowers his hand and lets the snow fall from his fingertips back into acceptance of the land. But, before he can open his mouth and figure out just how he was wrong, he’s met with a cold chill that blooms across his face.
The snowball slides down into the loop of Ink’s scarf. Before he can react, Ink himself is being pushed directly into the endless chill with a calculated lunge from Dream and a peal of laughter.
Misdirection: the perfect battle maneuver.
They fall together into the powdery whiteness. Ink is quick to grab and slog another handful into Dream’s face, but Dream is even quicker in pulling Ink’s scarf up and over his head: a makeshift blindfold. Ink can feel the warmth of Dream’s mirth, blazing and wonderful as always despite the sheet of snow that’s covered his own face. With the right timing and a bit of luck, Ink is able to bunny kick his way into rolling the both of them over— laughing all the while. He gets one good attack in before Dream is taking charge once more. Ink can do nothing as Dream pushes him back into the snow, hands dug into Ink’s shoulders with smile as dorky and lopsided as always.
“Dreamy,” Ink breathes, staring up at what angels must have been made in the image of. Dream is haloed by the false sky, expression soft and gentle despite the coating of snow and mysterious goop. There’s a streak, actually— dashed across his cheek and over his nose. Ink can only think of a comet tail: illuminated by the sun, and brought to life with hope. Ink is about to reach up— do something. Something he needs to do. Something he’s wanted to do. Something he doesn't know, and something probably stupid —when he finds his mouth moving on its own. “You have wings? When… When did that happen?”
“Oh,” Dream says. He looks down at Ink, pauses with brows raised a millimeter, and then pulls himself up into a sitting position. He reaches out his hand, and Ink pulls himself up as well. “I, erm… have always had them.”
Huh? Is all that Ink can think. He watches as Dream averts his gaze, the haze of golden blush already infesting his gaze: the realization of Ink’s knowledge setting in. It seems right how Dream idly messes with a feather. Fitting, for his character.
“...I feel like I would have seen them by now. I mean, I know I’m forgetful, but…”
Ink has seen Dream’s bare back. No wings; Just bone. Ink inches closer, and Dream tucks his face into his knees.
“I can summon and de-summon them. Sometimes they… appear, though— under the right circumstances. Like, ah…”
“Nightmare’s tentacles,” Ink finishes, captured by the state of Dream’s feathers. They’re rumpled and soaked by the wrestling— of course— but Ink can spot the sign of… neglect. They’re still beautiful. Gorgeous. But, Ink knows what painful, ignored wings look like. He frowns, resisting the urge to reach out a hand to fix a particularly wayward feather.
When was the last time he had preened? Did he… not know how? Was he embarrassed? Was he somehow unable? Ink turns his attention back to Dream. He looks like he’s trying to make himself as small as possible: burn himself out of existence. Ink takes a deep breath, and he hopes that Dream will follow.
The red has been all but drained, now. All that is left is curiosity, concern, and contemplation.
Ink rests his hands upon his lap; He trusts that Dream will understand his restraint. “Why hide them?” Ink asks, hoping that his question is taken as is— no ill-intent or judgement.
Dream clearly takes a breath. Still, he sits with arms around legs, and chin pressed into his arms. He shakes a wing, and Ink wonders if he’s even realized.
“They’re, ah…” Dream trails off. Another breath; Another moment. “...Unwieldy,” he continues. “They’d end up a target in battle. I find it isn’t worth it to have them out.”
“...And, how ‘bout when you’re not in battle?”
Dream looks up at him. His brows furrow, and Ink knows that color palette: swirling blues and forest greens. Confusion— genuine curiosity at its finest.
“You know,” Ink explains, noncommittally gesturing. “When you’re at base? Not fighting? They’re not gonna be a target there. So, why keep them tucked away? Why not, uh…” Ink considers the messy state of those feathers once again. He tries not to gulp. “...Ever let them out to air once in a while?”
Maybe it was too forward to say. As, Ink watches as Dream stretches out a wing— incredibly majestic —and frowns at a half bent feather. He tries to fix it, as he speaks. Emphasis on tries. “...They take up so much space,” he mumbles, far from the image of determined, hopeful leader that the Multiverse knows so well. He looks more like Dream, in his pajamas with tongue poking out as he frowns at another wayward line on his page. “I… I don’t know,” he seems to settle on.
He looks up at the endless sky. He looks down at the endless snow. He looks back over to his mussed, messy wing. He sighs.
“It… it makes me feel vulnerable.”
Ah. Bingo.
Dream picks at the feather again. His frown deepens even further as it seems to refuse to rest in place. Ink can see the storm that's brewing: the frustration that will inevitably bubble up into sky-blue raindrops. He motions to Dream, and Dream accepts Ink’s presence into his personal space. He watches, curiously, as Ink reaches to tuck the feather back where it belongs.
The raised brow is as clear as any verbal question. Ink allows his hand to travel to another rustled feather. Dream doesn’t move, and Ink takes it as permission. Even messy as they are, Dream’s wings feel like sun soaked clouds: warm, soft, and like heaven to touch.
“I help Aster with his wings sometimes,” Ink explains. He pauses before he takes some moisture from his tongue— tucking yet another feather back into place. He brushes off some snow, removes some wayward goop, and continues the relaxing pattern. “Consider me qualified. Maybe quail-ified.”
Dream huffs a pleased noise at Ink’s pun. But, when Ink looks over to check after a particularly rough feather, he finds that Dream is looking at him with a questioning raised brow.
“...Aster?” Dream offers, watching the movements of Ink’s hands.
Ink pauses. He blinks.
“Yeah?” he answers. “Y’know… Aster?”
Silence. The raised brow remains.
“...One of my dads? Aster? Tall guy with wings? Kinda nerdy looking? Aster?”
There is no reaction. No change— no information.
“...You have parents?”
Oh.
Shit.
Dream leans forward. The brow only raises even more. Ink tries to re-busy himself with the preening at hand. But, he can feel the heat of Dream’s curiosity. The question. Ink sighs, leans back, and crosses his arms.
“Yeah. Y’know how it is,” Ink tries, staring at Dream’s intense expression. He gulps. Maybe there was some purple left after all. How wonderful. “Uh. Life. Being born. Birth. Having biological parents. Super cool. Fun— Fun stuff.”
“...Ink.”
“I was informally adopted,” Ink admits, breaking beneath that blazing heat. He rubs at the back of his neck. Just how had he slipped up like that? He’d been able to keep the existence of his dads tucked neat and hidden for, well, ever. It was safer, that way. No one needed to know, who didn’t need to know. Most people didn’t need to know. “...They took me in a while ago. Pretty much for as long as I remember.”
The moment should be passed by like a warm, peaceful breeze. Ink leans forward again, hoping to continue his little project. When, Dream leans back, expression colored with afternoon-light mischief.
Dream brings a hand to his chin: it invokes the image of haggard, old philosophers. When he speaks, his tone is light and teasing.
“And, why have you kept them hidden?”
Touché, is all that Ink can think. Touché.
He reaches his hand out once more, and Dream nods. Back to preening; Back to routine. Even with the little time they’ve had, the wing is coming together nicely. They would really benefit from a couple hour sessions on a regular basis— maybe some of Aster’s wing oil —but Ink will have to see if he’s allowed. He’d scribble a note on his scarf reminding him to ask, but he knows he won’t be forgetting.
“Nobody has needed to know,” Ink finally answers. Almost hesitantly, Ink glances towards Dream’s reaction. He should have known that he would find gentle, understanding acceptance; Still, he finds himself feeling… something. The colors are too muddled. All that Ink can, or wants, to think about is the sensation beneath his phalanges: the art that is caretaking.
“I, uh,” Ink continues, mouth failing to shape around what he’s trying to say. “Would like if this were kept on the down low. An accidental private screening— just between us.”
Dream nods. He points his head towards the wing that Ink is currently working on. “I would appreciate if you did the same, with what you have learned.”
“...Dreamy.”
“Please.”
It would be futile against that honest, pleading tone of voice. With exaggerated movements Ink lifts his hands in the sign of defeat. “Okay! Okay,” he responds, getting right back to work.
Dream’s wings… it was knowledge shared between them, and them alone. Ink hopes that Dream will change his mind— show his full, honest self with pride. But, that isn’t Ink’s choice. He isn’t Dream’s creator. He isn’t writing his story. For now, Ink was the keeper of this secret. He would guard it like any other.
“So…” Dream trails off, stretching out the wing that Ink isn’t working on. It nearly glows within the vastness of pale snow: a beacon. “...You have dads?”
“Two,” Ink is quick to inform. He tries to swallow the lilac hesitation that bubbles up in his throat; Dream is a fellow Guardian. It has been proven that he can be trusted— relied upon. “Aster and Big Top. Or, uh, I usually just call him ‘Top’. They’re good folk.”
Silence returns to this empty Snowdin. Ink won’t argue with himself: they’re good people, and if someone had to know it might as well be Dream. He begins to hum as he works on the last of the worst offenders. Again, he wishes he had some more tools— more time. But, this is what he’s been presented with. Complaining won’t be of any use.
“Top…” Dream repeats. It seems like he’s considering something. Thinking, perhaps. And, Ink’s suspicions are confirmed when Dream completely stills. “...Ink,” he continues, voice clearly portraying some kind of implication.
Ink simply hums. Dream sighs.
“Ink, is your father the ringleader of the most well known circus within the Omega Timeline? The one that you’ve taken us to? Multiple times?”
It takes all that he has to not break beneath Dream’s intense, sweltering stare. Ink swears there wasn’t that much cyan in him. But, still, he finds himself fighting the urge to avert his gaze. Top being known within the OT was a double edged sword; It was fantastic that he was able to share his craft with a wider audience. He deserved every attendee, every reaction, and every smile. But, that also meant that he was known. He could be tracked; He could be targeted. Ink’s association would only paint a larger target. Zephyrtop, at the very least, remained far away and hidden beneath as much protection as he could manage. Still, Ink wishes that their circumstances were different. That he could do more.
Ink shrugs, once more busying himself with his work. The gold of Dream’s wings matches his eye-lights— his blush: even the light freckles that dapple the apex of his cheeks and the tops of his shoulders. “...You seemed to like his show.”
With clear exasperation (from Dream, at least. He always struggles with true annoyance), Dream sighs. But, soon enough a smile graces his face. He nods; Ink remembers his pure, innocent joy whenever Ink had brought him to a performance. It was worth the risk.
“...So,” Dream continues, fluffing his wing as Ink hits a particularly sore spot. His tone of voice is soft and joking as he says, “Who is Aster— our mailman?”
Ink snorts. He flicks Dream’s wing, and is delighted by the huff of laughter that it elicits. It seems like he’s been able to do all he can without any tools. So, Ink sits back into the snow. Dream looks at him: still half undressed, still covered in snow and mystery sludge. Despite it all, he smiles. Warm as the sun, welcoming as spring.
“Nope,” Ink replies, popping the ‘p’. He leans over, collects what he can of Dream’s clothes, and offers it out to him. Dream settles the fabric in his lap, looking down with… displeasure, at their current state. “...He’s chronically ill— physically disabled. He isn’t able to leave his AU that much. It’s why I preen for him sometimes. Top often does it. But, y’know, sometimes Aster can’t do it himself and I’m there. Sometimes his husband is being lazy and forces his son to do all the manual labor. ‘Tis life."
In all honesty, Ink often looked forward to those quiet moments of peace and pattern. Aster would rest— often quiet from pain— and Ink would take the chance to talk. About possible invention ideas, new Multiversal happenings— anything, really. It was nice; It was… familial. A way to bond.
“If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”
Coming from anyone else, Ink would roll his eye-lights and move on with his life. But, Dream is never anything but genuine. Maybe… maybe his aura could be of some help in some way. He’ll have to mull it over— write a note, and circle back to it later.
Dream watches as Ink scrawls upon his scarf. He adjusts himself, glancing at his newly cleaned up wing. It’s almost hard to catch, but Ink notices the wonder in his sockets: the relief of his shoulders. He grimaces when he realizes that he’s still, overall, dirty. But, he shakes his head and smiles back over at Ink.
“I, uh…” Ink trails off, blinking at the pure warmth that radiates from Dream. He clears his throat: ignores the swirling colors. “I can do the other wing, if you want. Back at base, maybe. Just lemme grab some supplies.”
Dream opens his mouth. He closes it. He considers his wings, and he considers Ink. For a moment— a small, weirdly aching moment, Ink believes that he will be denied. That this will be all the intimacy he’ll be allowed: that he didn’t treasure it enough. It’s a weird thought; It’s a weird feeling. And, before Ink can begin to process it, Dream is nodding in acceptance.
“...It would be nice. Perhaps… Perhaps you could tell me more about your parents. I feel like there are a lot of stories you’ve been unable to tell.”
Oh. Oh. Dream knows Ink’s weak points. Before he can even consider the possibility of saying no, Ink is throwing out his best fingerguns: laughing as Dream’s sockets crinkle with a smile. Oh, he has stories. Tales, even. Adventures.
Dream reaches out a hand. Together, they stand.
“Thank you, Ink,” Dream says, reaching forward to brush some goop from Ink’s shoulder. When he tidies Ink’s scarf, Ink finds that he has no inclination to object. “...For allowing me to be vulnerable."
The colors swirl within him; They’re as golden and bright as Dream: his wings, his magic, himself.
“...No problem, Sunshine. Now, let’s get back to base— I have the most interesting wedding story to tell you! Did you know I officiated them? They make you read some crazy stuff.”
Dream laughs: blazing and warm, gentle and sweet. It feels… nice, to have someone to talk to: to trust.
It feels nice, to be vulnerable.