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“…er! … … …er, you ne— get— up!”
They say there’s no rest for the wicked.
“...ing to be late—…”
When he was a child, he didn’t know what that phrase meant. He hadn’t tried to understand it. It hadn’t mattered.
“...rother, I’m serious! You need—!”
He understands now.
He understands a lot of things, now, that he hadn’t when he was a child.
“Brother! You cannot spend all day in bed, there are people waiting for you.”
He blinks his sockets slowly open, staring blearily up at the ceiling until the world starts to come into focus. Until the voice echoing in his skull drones out into nothing. Until his aura, sluggish and thinned-out, limps its way out from his core.
There was a time, when he was not long out of stone, when his aura was a bright, blinding thing that glowed out from his core with an unshakable, inexorably firm hand. He often could not draw it back into his core, like a tap left running, and like a fool he had been certain the well of magic would never, ever run dry.
But now, so many years later, he…
He’s tired.
He is always so, so tired.
His aura, once so overwhelming even to him, has become a brittle thing. Shaky. Unreliable.
“Stop brooding and get up, brother.” That voice sighs, put-upon and tired, from everywhere and nowhere. He knows if he looks, there will be no one else here. “Or did you want your friends to find you like this?”
He does not want that.
And while it’s probably useless to listen to a ghost, it’s a decent enough point: he needs to get up before someone finds him still in bed.
The people of the Omega Timeline aren’t the type to yell at him or make him feel guilty for oversleeping, at least. If someone did find him still in bed well past his normal start-time for the day, they would probably let it slide without a word, or else words of encouragement for him to get as much rest as he needs. It’s a small thing, really, but it certainly does make actually getting up a less nerve-wracking experience than it could have been.
The villagers never did like it when he overslept.
(And his brother never did like that he kept going down to the village anyway. Not so much he’d outright argue, most days, but enough that Dream can still perfectly picture the furrow in his brow and the unhappy curve of his teeth every time Dream stumbled out of bed, threw on his clothes, and shot out the door with only minutes before he was needed for his first tasks of the day. He should have realized there was a reason for that. He should have known.)
He sits up, slowly. Carefully.
His head swims a bit, but by now he’s gotten more or less used to the vertigo and unsteadiness that have woven themselves tightly into his morning routine, and he only needs a second or two to steady himself before he can extract himself from under the blankets, swing his legs off the bed, and get stiffly to his feet.
He’s always so tired, now, and so achy. From the nape of his neck to the soles of his feet, there is a persistent, though intermittent and relatively mild, pain.
The stiff neck and shoulders from his own tension, the overworked burning in his arms and legs, the way his ankles and especially his tarsals and metatarsals throb faintly with flashes of heat and sharp little sparks of agony… Even just a handful of years ago, he wouldn’t have been dealing with any of it.
He healed faster, once upon a time. Not instantly, nor even with the same speed with which Nightmare could recover from wounds that would have been fatal to anyone else, but quickly enough to notice. Not instantly, but often overnight, or in a matter of days if it was particularly severe.
He didn’t used to be so tired, either. Back then, he could often forget to sleep and continue functioning at something close to his usual capacity for days. Maybe even weeks, when he had a lot of magic to burn.
The decline wasn’t gradual.
Or, well, it was, when it first started.
Years of his power slowly, slowly starting to wane passed by mostly unnoticed. It was so small a difference from the previous year, after all. It was so minuscule a change until he finally realized that he couldn’t do a number of things he used to be able to do with ease.
(As he waned, Nightmare waxed; the only real proof Dream has that it is not his own advanced age that’s slowly killing him, truly. It has to be something else, else Nightmare would have started declining a fair few years before Dream had.)
He dresses mechanically, going through the motions and ignoring that he’s even more off-balance today than he was yesterday, or the day before. He’s in the worst shape he’s been in for a few weeks, that’s for certain, but there is nothing good that will come of dwelling on it.
He’s scarcely finished breakfast before there’s a knocking at the door.
He leaves the dishes in the sink and goes to see what it is, of course, even as he hears the phantom voice of his brother sigh in exasperation.
… There’s no point in paying heed to a ghost.
Especially a ghost that only exists inside of his head.
“You’re going into the village again?”
Dream pauses in the so-called doorway of their makeshift home, shuffling his feet. He knows that Night doesn’t like it when he goes into the village, he’s always known that, but he still doesn’t quite understand why. The villagers are all so nice, and so generous – all they ask is that Dream do a chore here and there in exchange.
Isn’t that reasonable? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?
He doesn’t have any money, so he can’t just buy supplies for he and his brother. And even if he did, he doesn’t quite understand money – trading makes so much more sense! Help repair a fence and get fresh-baked bread to bring home to Night. Help mind the cattle and get a new pair of boots. Help with the harvest and get a hot, fresh meal to share with his brother.
“The kind old lady on the hill asked me to help her with the laundry today.” He answers, “She told me I could bring ours along to wash them too, so I thought…”
Night still doesn’t look happy, but his expression lightens a bit at the mention of who he’s going to see, and what he’s signed on to help with. Old Mary is one of the few villagers that Night seems to get on well with, Dream has noticed.
“… Don’t stay out too long today, okay?” Night asks, a trembling nervousness at the edge of his words.
He’s always so anxious.
“I won’t, brother.” He promises, as he ducks out the doorway and clambers up into their Mother’s boughs to retrieve the small basket he usually uses for hauling items back and forth, whispering a thanks as he pats the branch that has held it these last few days. He drops down unconcerned for the height, darting back inside. “It’s only laundry! I’ll be back before you know it.”
Because this is the only chore he agreed to today.
Because Night has been sad and even more anxious than usual, lately, and Dream hasn’t wanted to leave him alone, but their clothes and blankets are in desperate need of this wash, and he has to do something to earn them food most days, since the only food their Mother could ever provide them with is strictly off-limits.
Because Dream never, ever wants his brother to be sad or lonely or anxious, and he will do everything that he can to help.
“I love you!” He calls out, as he darts back out with the laundry, “I’ll be back soon!”
He doesn’t know yet that the village will be a ruin by the end of the day. He doesn’t know yet that his brother will change irreparably in the next few hours. He doesn’t know yet that when he returns, he won’t be spared. He doesn’t know yet that he will spend decades of his existence trapped in stone.
He doesn’t know yet that there was so much more he should have been doing to help his brother, and when he realizes it, three hundred years from now, it will be far, far too late.
“You should eat something.” Says the voice of his brother, soft. Anxious. “You don’t want Blue yelling at you about it again, do you?”
Not particularly, no, he must admit.
Blue doesn’t ever actually yell at him, not unless he’s about to get seriously injured during a fight, but his disappointment and genuine dismay whenever Dream skips a meal are the closest thing he’s ever found to an emotional equivalent of being scolded at volume. And the way he tries to mask it so that he won’t make Dream feel bad, the way he smiles and says it’s okay and reminds him that it’s something they can work on…
Well, it’s more effective than yelling, that’s for sure. Especially knowing that Blue wants so, so badly for him to never feel guilty for not taking care of himself. That he doesn’t want Dream to feel like he’s being scolded or lectured. He’ll heckle Stretch from here to kingdom come about laziness, sure, but Stretch is a willing participant in those lectures and finds them more humorous than guilt-inducing.
“Brother. You’re getting distracted.”
He shakes his head, maybe a little too hard. Right. He needs to eat.
Before Blue can manifest out of thin air and discover him having not eaten since dinner last night.
What does he even have left in his pantry, anyway?
He spaces out midway through taking inventory of what he has available. He spaces back in to find he’s already at the table with a forkful of rice between his teeth. He doesn’t remember making it at all.
It’s bland. Just plain white rice.
He swallows the clump he already put in his mouth. Mechanically scoops up another one.
No point in being picky.
Food is food.
Whatever is wrong with him, it doesn’t stop being wrong when he’s around other people, no matter how much he wishes it would.
He spaces out mid-conversation, sometimes, like his mind decides to just check out and go somewhere else for the duration. Sometimes it doesn’t go very far, his attention pacing around somewhere just out of range of where it’s meant to be. Sometimes it’s like it walks right out of his body and into the distance.
Most people don’t notice. Apparently he’s got a decent auto-pilot built into the handy bone-mecha he’s been driving around for most of his existence – keeps talking and smiling like normal, albeit apparently on a short delay.
Blue and Stretch always notice.
It didn’t happen very much, back when they first met. Sometimes, sure, he’d space out, but it always had more to do with him getting genuinely distracted than with his attention as a whole just going up in smoke partway through a sentence. Stretch would notice those, and Blue did too from time to time, but it didn’t matter much, because he was always able to explain that, no, sorry, he just got distracted.
And then one day he checked out.
And when he checked back in, Stretch had uttered something to Blue and blipped out of view like he was fleeing a fight. Dream still had enough power, then, to keep tabs on him as he traversed the void and landed in his room. He’d been so confused as to why both of them were so upset, until Blue had cheerfully bulldozed past all formality and asked him, point-blank, what they were just talking about.
He’d thought Blue was upset specifically because he didn’t remember what they discussed. Like the fact it slipped his mind at all, and especially so quickly, was a crime. Blue quickly disabused him of that notion when he tried to apologize for it, of course, telling him in no uncertain terms that what he found distressing was that Dream was clearly not doing well and he didn’t know how to fix it.
Dream had tried to tell him he didn’t need to fix it. That it wasn’t Blue’s job to make him feel better, and he didn’t need to feel like it was his responsibility to keep Dream functioning.
Blue had come the closest he ever has to hitting him that day, Dream thinks, because his hands had started shaking and his eyelights had gone weirdly cold and there had been this seething, angry mass of emotion in his chest that felt like getting whiplash every time Dream tried to examine it. He’d clenched his fists and gritted his teeth and tried to steady his breathing and Dream just hadn’t understood at all why.
Not until Blue managed to unlock his jaw, after a moment, and tell him in a very low, very deliberately calm voice, that he didn’t care about keeping Dream ‘functioning’ in the same way that Dream did. He didn’t care if Dream’s memory issues affected his work. He didn’t care if Dream couldn’t keep the balance because there was something wrong with him. He didn’t feel obligated to help just because he needed Dream to be able to work.
(“I love you, you idiot.” Blue had said, whole body shaking, “I love you and I want you to be okay, too. I don’t want to watch you tear yourself apart for a job you never even asked for.”)
But him checking out happens more often, now.
Especially when he isn’t working.
Especially when he’s alone.
And if it would only happen then, if it would only happen when he wasn’t busy, when he wasn’t with other people, he might not mind. He might not be worried about it at all – it’s not as if he needs to remember exactly what he did while he was at home, right? He probably just tidied up, ate dinner, and went to bed.
But it keeps happening when he’s with people.
It keeps happening when he’s with Blue.
And it’s like Blue has gotten so accustomed to it that he can sense it coming on – he’ll just suddenly put a pin in whatever conversation they’re having and say that it can wait, switch topics to something of little consequence, urge Dream to sit down for a while. Or maybe Blue is taking cues from Stretch to know when it’s going to happen, because ever since the X-Event wrapped up Blue hasn’t left Underswap much, and Dream usually just spends time with him at home, and that always means that Stretch is there.
(Stretch reminds him of Night, a little. In small ways – the knot of negativity always writhing behind his ribs, the too-knowing look in his eyes, the dark circles beneath his sockets, his blinding wit and unmatched intellect. His anxiety, as constant as the stars in the night sky. His quiet, festering disapproval when Dream has been overworking himself. His loneliness when Blue is away from home for any reason.)
“Got you some stuff to lounge in.” Stretch tells him, dropping a bundle of fabric into his arms when he arrives at the house. “Blue said he wanted to wash your ‘work’ clothes today, heh.”
Dream takes the bundle, ignores that he can’t even remember coming to Underswap, and slips into the bathroom to shuck off his tunic, then his boots and gloves and sleeves and bodysuit. He tries not to look at himself, feels his mind getting fuzzy again like he’s about to check back out, but he can’t help it.
So many cracks.
So many old wounds that have never fully faded.
Healed-over hairline cracks criss-crossing his ribs, his radii and ulnae, the lower half of his humerii, his femurs and spine and tibia and fibula and even his ankles, all the times he’s been injured since his aura started to fade. There aren’t many that are new. There aren’t many that still hurt.
Nightmare heals so quickly, so easily, from whatever is thrown at him. The corruption that has remade him allows him to regenerate lost limbs in a matter of seconds, should anyone but Dream be the one to hit him. And even without the corruption, Dream imagines that Nightmare would still be stronger. Heal faster.
Once upon a time, his healing was so quick he could knit a fracture back together without even blinking. Without thinking about it. His aura would pulse and the pain would vanish and he would keep fighting like nothing happened at all, because by the time he looked himself over afterwards there would be no trace of the injury left.
And then the pain started lasting longer and longer. And then the wounds stopped closing immediately. And then he was exhausted and dizzy and standing naked in Blue and Stretch’s bathroom, staring down at the spiderwebbing lines of every mistake he’s made in combat for the last five years. He can name where most of them came from. He’s so lucky most of them can be easily covered.
(His soul is dull and dim in the cage of his chest, all shimmer and vibrancy leeched from it as his power wanes over the years. It pulses with a faint, sickly light each time it beats, nothing like the blinding glow it exuded when he was younger. Stronger.)
(Sometimes he wonders if, one day, it will simply stop beating. That its faint light will dim to nothing, that its movements will cease, that he’ll check out and simply never check back in.)
There’s a knock on the door of the bathroom.
He jolts, dragged back to the present. Back to being present.
“Dream?” Blue asks, from the other side of the door, “You okay? You’ve been in there a while.”
The words, “I’m fine” are on the tip of his tongue. Well-worn, easy, familiar. He almost says them, almost parts his teeth and lets the obvious lie hang between them.
… But Blue always knows when those words are a lie. Even if he won’t call Dream out for it, most of the time, he notices. His mood always dips when Dream says that he’s fine when he doesn’t mean it.
“… Got lost for a second.” He says, instead, wearily, leaning his body weight against the door and resting the side of his skull against it. “I’m. Back now, I think. I just need a few more minutes.”
Blue’s emotions do still shift at his answer. A faint sadness, drifting between the edges of his affection and the soft notes of bittersweet pride. But he isn’t disappointed or upset with Dream for lying, and he’s been very clear that he always wants Dream to just tell him the truth even if it makes him a little sad to hear sometimes, so Dream focuses on the good parts.
He told the truth without being forced, and Blue is happy about it.
End of story.
(He really is doing better in a lot of ways than he was before Blue and Stretch started getting on his case about his problems. It’s just hard to remember that, sometimes, when he’s so caught up in his vanishing memory and his slowly rotting power. He’s honest about his feelings with Blue. He asks for help when he knows he needs it. He trusts that Blue and Stretch care about him because they like who he really is, not who his aura makes people think he is.)
“Alright.” Blue says, warmly, “I can wait a few more minutes. Do you want me to stay?”
It’s probably better if Blue does stay outside the door. It might actually convince him to finish what he’s doing.
“Yes,” He says, soft, “please do.”
The affection and pride Blue feels swell, blotting out the sadness and anxiety. His voice is even warmer when he says, “Alright, I’ll be right out here, then! I could talk to you while you finish up, if you’d like? Or just be a comforting presence!”
“I’d like it if you kept talking,” He manages to admit, prying the words from behind his teeth, “but I might not have much to add.”
“That’s alright.” Blue dismisses, easy, “I, the Magnificent Sans, can most definitely talk enough for the both of us.”
Dream laughs, the sound pulled from him with an effortlessness only possible here. In this house. In these moments. His soul flickers brighter, just a bit. As Blue laughs in return, as his mood levels out into something sweet and warm and certain, his soul beats stronger.
He closes his eyes, breathes in the positivity laced into the air, and basks. In the love that is knitted into everything else Blue feels about him, interwoven so deeply it’s become inextricable, a sure and steady thing that has slowly, slowly begun to color everything else he feels at all with its unique shade in the same way his love for Stretch did a long time ago. In the sound of Blue’s laugh, his voice, the unyieldingness of his presence.
It may only be seconds later that he opens his eyes. It could be several minutes. But Blue is still talking, still patiently waiting, and Dream knows there’s no point in dragging this out much longer.
He’s not starving for Blue’s positivity, no matter how weak his aura is – there is never a shortage of it, after all. Blue is so full of love it overflows out of him and into the air around him, following him through everything, surrounding him even in sleep. And he has told Dream, time and time again, that he can take as much as he needs. As much as he wants, even.
He’ll be here for a while, this time, he’s sure.
There will be more than enough time for him to load up on positivity purposefully.
For now, he needs to get dressed.
He pushes away from the door, slowly. Inspects the clothes Stretch had offloaded onto him earlier. However long ago ‘earlier’ was.
A pair of grey socks. Grey leggings patterned with stars. A pair of blue gloves and blue… Leg warmers? A blue t-shirt. And… One of Stretch’s hoodies?
It’s in better shape than the one Stretch seems to favor, more or less in one piece with very little fraying on the sleeves, but with no strings to cinch the hood tighter. But it’s undoubtedly the same shade he prefers for his hoodies, material careworn and soft under Dream’s bare phalanges, and when he curiously brings it to his nasal aperture it carries the same faint, sweet tobacco-and-honey smell that comes off of Stretch’s hoodie beneath the aroma of Blue’s favored detergents and fabric softeners.
His soul does something complicated in his chest, a tight double-thump that sends an ache radiating through his chest. For some reason, there are tears in his sockets all of a sudden.
(He catches hints of the smell of tobacco smoke from Nightmare, sometimes. Faint. Never enough to be sure if Nightmare smokes or not, but enough to make him wonder if Night’s smell would be like this if things were different. Just the barest notes of tobacco and sour apples hidden under fabric softener.)
(Stretch is particular about his clothes, unexpectedly. He wears the same outfit every day in a combination of depression-induced ‘laziness’ and a profoundly large collection of nearly-identical hoodies and a small array of pants and shorts he cycles between. He doesn’t like to let people borrow his clothes, either, because it makes them ‘feel wrong’. Dream doesn’t understand, exactly, but he knows enough to realize what a massive gesture it really is that Stretch is letting him wear one of his hoodies.)
He shakes it off, the best he can. Sets the hoodie aside for now and pulls on the rest of what he’s been given, tries not to get emotional about the fact Stretch even went to the trouble of finding gloves for him to wear. Tries not to wonder why the heck Stretch gave him leg warmers and just putting them on anyway.
He holds the hoodie for another moment before he puts it on, just examining it as Blue’s voice continues to drone steadily from outside the bathroom.
Stretch isn’t like Blue. His affection doesn’t overflow and fill the room around him no matter how strongly he’s feeling it. He doesn’t tell him out loud, either. So Dream had known, and had known for some time now, that Stretch loved him, but it was impossible to tell if Stretch himself had quite made the connection.
This, though.
This is proof Stretch does, in fact, know how he feels about Dream. Proof that he’s made a conscious decision to tell him, in the way that’s the most comfortable for him. Without words. Just through action.
To be adopted by Blue as another brother had been one thing.
For Stretch to be consciously doing the same is dizzying.
He can just… Not put it on. If he doesn’t like this. If he doesn’t want to reciprocate, or encourage it. There’s a part of him that says he should just refuse to wear it, of course, a voice he doesn’t want to think about too much. A voice he associates with aching wrists and a sharply stinging tailbone.
“… Put it on, brother.” Night’s voice says. It’s the first thing Dream’s heard from him all day. “They’ve been family to you for a long time already, haven’t they?”
It’s true.
Even if Night is only a ghost created by his mind, a specter crafted for his own comfort, he often has good points.
(It’s the only way Dream ever listens to the very good points his own mind makes: when they get thrown back at him using his brother’s voice.)
He takes a deep breath, and he pulls the hoodie on.
The backs of his femurs are still stinging when Dream finally makes it back to he and Night’s makeshift home at the base of their Mother’s trunk. It takes everything he has to stand up straight and not flinch with every step as he starts setting out the supplies he managed to get for them today.
Thankfully the flogging he got took the place of any of his earnings being taken.
The pain is worth it, he thinks, for the way that Night actually perks up when Dream draws a new book from his basket and offers it with a wry smile.
“You know Amaryllis, the cowherd’s daughter?” He asks, and gets a reluctant nod from his brother, “She’s engaged now, so she’s clearing out her books from when she was younger. She said I could take a few!”
Night’s reluctance transforms instantly back into delight, his face brightening into a rare smile.
Though he only really likes Old Mary, Night finds Amaryllis and most of the others around their age to be generally tolerable.
His hands gently lift the book from Dream’s grip, giving it a thorough looking-at and growing steadily more and more pleased as he looks. After a moment, Night sets the book aside on their shared bed and drags him into a hug, clacking a little kiss against his zygomatic bone.
“Thank you, brother.” He says.
“Of course!” Dream answers, hugging back and nuzzling into his hold. “I’ll see if I can bring some more tomorrow, but she got called away for evening chores before we could finish sorting through the ones she wants to let go of.”
Night hums.
When they part, his brother helps him unload the other goods from the basket.
Blessedly, he doesn’t notice when Dream flinches, mostly. When he does notice, he seems to shrug it off. Dream can’t help being relieved that he doesn’t ask about it.
Night already doesn’t like the villagers much. It’d just make things worse if he were to ask why Dream is having trouble walking. It’s not that Abernathy is mean, he’s just strict. Dream knew that when he agreed to help Amaryllis with her books. He knew breaking a rule in the cowherd’s house meant picking a switch.
He doesn’t want Night to be upset on his behalf, because he’s not upset about it himself.
When they curl into bed together, and one of Night’s knees knocks against his aching femurs, Dream carefully doesn’t cry out. He’s okay. It’s okay.
The pain will fade and he’ll be more careful tomorrow.
It’s fine.
Blue is talking, but Dream can’t focus on what he’s saying.
Perched on the far left of the couch, he’s staring sightlessly at the TV while Blue yammers away from the kitchen. Stretch is closer, slumped on the opposite end of the couch, his voice a soft drone that slips in here or there, but Dream can’t focus on what he’s saying, either.
He can’t quite zone back in from wherever he’s gone, but he can’t seem to zone the rest of the way out, either. He knows what’s happening, sort of. He just can’t seem to convince himself to move, to speak.
He’s just there, sitting, listening to them talk, watching the images on the TV without processing a single one of them.
But he’s not… Unhappy, exactly.
The most frustrating part is that he isn’t as aware as he wants to be.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time Blue lays a very gentle hand against his arm, dragging his consciousness back at last. Physical contact seems to help. It grounds him a little, anchors him to the moment.
“Hey,” Blue says, with the usual slight tinge of worry, “you doing okay? You’ve been quiet tonight.”
Yeah, he imagines he has been.
He blinks, shakes his head. Looks up at his friend. “I’m—” He stops. Tries again, “I think so. Just not as present as I want to be.”
Blue hums, gives his arm a little squeeze. He manages to reach up and take Blue’s hand before he can pull away, gently squeezing him in return.
Blue smiles at him, soft and genuine, even if Dream logically knows that Blue’s being influenced by his aura at least a little bit. It’s not as if his aura completely stops Blue from feeling negatively around him, anyway.
“Would you mind if I took your circlet for a bit? To polish it up?” Blue asks, quiet, leaning a little closer and clacking their foreheads together affectionately. “I’ll give it right back when I’m done.”
“Sure.” He says, without thinking about it too much. He trusts Blue. “Would… It be alright if I stayed here tonight?”
The brothers’ reactions are almost identical: surprise, then pride, followed swiftly by deep affection.
Blue says, “Of course that’s alright. Oh! We could have a sleepover in the living room!”
Unusually genuine, Stretch laughs. “Hell yeah. I’ll grab the extra blankets and pillows, you two sit tight.”
After he vanishes through a shortcut, Blue gently takes the circlet from Dream’s head, and Dream lets him.
“I’m glad you asked to stay,” The guard tells him, as he sets to work cleaning and polishing the accessory with all the same attention he lavishes on his armor, “instead of going home by yourself tonight. I obviously don’t ever want to force you to do anything, but I… I’m sorry, I just worry about you being alone when you’re having a rough time with your awareness like this, that’s all.”
Blue is so, so good that sometimes it hurts. He does the best he can, he tries to understand everyone no matter how nonsensical their motivations are. And despite all the good he does, he still feels the need to explain that he’s not trying to be mean or manipulative, always so insecure about his motives being twisted into something they aren’t.
(Sometimes, when Dream thinks about how quick Blue is to apologize for being protective, or for worrying about him ‘too much’, he gets angry. Not at Blue, but at whoever made him feel like he had to do that.)
“You’re forgiven.” He says, slowly sinking a little further into the backrest on the couch. His bones are so tense, he’s realizing, all his nonexistent muscles wound tight like a spring, and it takes a conscious effort to release all that tension in slow, achy bursts. “I, ah… Don’t think I should be alone right now, either.”
The pride that bleeds into Blue’s emotional signature is even more bittersweet than usual. Dream thinks he gets it, this time – he’s proud Dream asked for what he needed, but he dislikes knowing the situation must be pretty bad if Dream is actually asking for help.
“If you aren’t opposed, I think snuggling is in order tonight!” Blue decides, after a moment. “When Pappy was little we used to share the bed every night! Of course then he got older and didn’t want to cuddle as much, but these days on bad nights he’ll come and ask if he can sleep in my bed and I’m honestly so proud of him, and— And I am rambling again, aren’t I?”
Dream laughs, the final knot of tension loosening to something almost like being properly at rest. “I don’t mind. The rambling or the proposed brother-friend cuddle session, I mean. Night and I shared the bed until we were 13.”
The, ‘and I trust that you’ll tell me if my aura is affecting you too strongly, I trust that you’ll move if you need to,’ goes unspoken. Based on the heavy silence that falls between them for a few seconds as that bittersweet pride twists and grows, Blue didn’t need him to say it out loud to hear it.
Cross only stayed with him for six days, four hours, and fifteen minutes after the X-Event was resolved; a temporary respite on mostly-neutral ground – nothing more, nothing less.
At the time, Dream’s aura was only just beginning to give out on him, and he’d only recently begun to lose time in small increments. A few short moments here and there, easily excused by how hectic the entire mess had been.
Dream spent those six days recuperating, spending his energy healing wounds that he was sure should have healed twice as fast as they did. And Cross, likewise, spent the first two more or less comatose on the couch, sleeping deep and heavy as if it would alleviate the marrow-deep fatigue Dream knew he felt. The next three saw him sleeping little and light, waking at the slightest noise when he did rest and otherwise pacing the house in an endless circuit.
The last night, he slept peacefully, so far as Dream can tell.
Cross gathers his things after breakfast that day, returning the clothes he borrowed from Dream, who had had to borrow them from Blue, already laundered and neatly folded. They don’t really discuss the fact he’s leaving, although a part of Dream so dearly wants to. A part of him begs Cross not to leave yet. To stay just a little longer.
But he doesn’t know yet that Cross is among the people who doesn’t enjoy his company just for the benefit of his positive aura. He doesn’t know yet that Cross actually finds his aura mildly off-putting, a little bit uncomfortable for how unnatural the positivity feels to him when it’s so concentrated.
And so he doesn’t ask him to stay. He doesn’t ask why he’s leaving. He doesn’t ask where he’s going.
He just helps him pack, gently bullies him into taking some food along with him, and prepares to say his farewells with a tightly controlled smile and a tightly controlled aura.
And then Cross asks him a question he isn’t expecting.
“Are you gonna be okay if I leave you here by yourself?”
Dream balks at the question instinctively, stammers, “I— what? Of course I’ll be okay, although I— I won’t deny I’ll miss your company.”
Cross blinks, confusion and then understanding and a faint wince. “I don’t mean… Ugh, fuck, hang on. I know you can handle yourself just fine, I just— I mean that I know you’re still recovering and I wasn’t sure if you might want someone around to help out, just in case.”
As always, Cross’ attempts at earnest kindness are a little awkward. But he finds them endearing nonetheless, can’t help hoping they can remain friendly in the future because he really does like Cross as a person. Really wants to see who he becomes now that XGaster has let go of him, even, and in fact especially, if that means he goes back to Nightmare.
(It’s not the most obvious thing, most people out there in the Multiverse haven’t lived long enough to see how things have changed since he and Nightmare first started fighting, but Dream has seen the changes enacted on Nightmare by his gang as he takes them in.
Killer on his own had changed very little about Nightmare, when he first came to him. Horror, too, hadn’t had much of an effect on his own. Combined, though, they made Dream realize his brother was softening. Slowly. Glacially slowly.
When Dust joined the group, the melt increased in speed. Nightmare focused less on a full-fledged takeover and more on selecting and tirelessly maintaining the AUs that provide him the greatest amount of Negativity. His power grew but he softened.
And then the X-Event began. Cross is most certainly to blame for a great number of the earlier cracks on Dream’s bones in the present, and less of the more recent ones, but there’s no denying he was the catalyst for Nightmare’s most dramatic change in tune to date.
Nightmare adores Cross. He adores him so deeply that seeing him at Dream’s side instead, even for a moment, had made him seethe. He adores him so deeply that seeing Dream take hits meant for Cross is the only thing in 500 years that has ever, even for a moment, made Nightmare openly feel affection for him again.)
“I appreciate the thought.” He sighs, with a laugh, “But I’ll be okay, I swear. Don’t worry about me, alright? And…”
He trails.
Does he have the right to ask for this? Moreover, should he ask for this?
Cross tilts his head, mouth curving up into that charming, crooked little smirk. “And what, Dreamboat?”
Whether he should or not, he lets himself say, “And I’d like if you’d keep in touch, if you can.”
Cross’ surprise is openly mirrored on his face, but he doesn’t seem to feel at all displeased by the request. If anything, he seems distinctly pleased by it, actually.
Later, he’ll realize that Cross has the same reaction to him asking for what he wants that Blue does: pride that he’s asking despite clearly having trouble doing it. Right now, though, he just thinks that Cross is pleasantly surprised that Dream still wants anything to do with him after the X-Event, because for some reason he still thinks that he alone is responsible for everything that went wrong even after having it more or less confirmed that XGaster hadn’t given him much of a choice in the matter.
“Sure, dude.” He agrees, quick and easy. “Somebody has to give you a reason to use that phone of yours, after all.”
They talk a little longer, and eventually they say their goodbyes.
Cross is true to his word, never talking about anything of any consequence but sending him periodic texts and voice messages, pictures of the occasional ‘low effort doodle’ he scribbles on scraps of paper and diner napkins, reminders to eat something. For the first couple of years after the X-Event, they talk almost daily.
When Cross finally gets up the courage to go back to Nightmare, the messages more or less stop coming, and Dream more or less stops using his phone again.
He has his first multi-hour lapse in memory two days later.
Stretch returns, eventually, with a frankly monumental pile of spare bedding, including what appears to be a foam mattress pad. Dream manages to get up and convince himself to assist in the assembly of their sleeping arrangements for the night. For once, neither Stretch nor Blue seems to be at all bothered by him trying to help – evidently, they can tell he’s genuinely just doing it because he wants to.
They have dinner standing over the counter together, Dream laughing while Stretch and Blue trade quips and jokes in a constant back-and-forth, and while Stretch demonstrates exactly why Blue always says he eats like he was raised by a pack of starving wolves, and while Blue complains about the mess Stretch is making and Stretch grins and makes more of a mess just to make him groan in annoyance.
The house is alive with their positivity, and Dream feels the most present he has in quite a while. He manages to stay present throughout dinner. Throughout clambering into the makeshift bed on the living room floor with the local skeletons, shuffling and bumping each other until they eventually settle with Dream sandwiched between the other two, his face pressed into Blue’s chest, his back against Stretch’s spine.
It’s comfortable.
It’s warm.
One of Blue’s arms is tucked under the pillows, but the other lays gently over Dream’s hip, his hand resting on Stretch’s side. Stretch has an ankle wedged between both of Dream’s which can’t be comfortable for him with the way his leg is bent, but the taller skeleton neither moves nor complains so Dream doesn’t either.
“Goodnight, brother.” Blue murmurs, over Dream’s head, then pauses. Something nervous creeps into his emotional signature, and he opens his mouth again only to correct himself. “… No, wait. Goodnight, brothers.”
Dream’s breath catches in his throat.
Undeterred, Stretch replies, “Yeah, night bros.”
His sockets are wet, but he scrunches them shut and swallows the lump as best as he can. Takes a deep breath.
“… Goodnight.” He says, and if his voice breaks then it breaks and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“It’s okay.” Blue assures him, clicking a tiny, affectionate kiss against his skull. “You don’t have to say it back.”
He wants to.
He can’t make the word come out, even with Night urging him to do it.
Instead, he curls his fingers tightly into the back of Blue’s shirt and presses closer until his face is hidden in the crook of his neck.
Cross said: hey. you awake?
The message stares at him from the dimly lit screen of his phone, and Dream stares back at it, utterly uncomprehending as he lays in his bed. The clock on his phone says it’s almost three in the morning, and who knows how late or early it is in Nightmare’s realm right now. Cross probably shouldn’t be awake. Stars know that Dream shouldn’t.
He unlocks his phone, opens his messages.
Cross hasn’t texted him in two years. Not since he’d told Dream that he was finally going back to Nightmare, that he might not be able to get any messages through for a while. Until tonight, Dream had been the last person to send a text.
Cross
yeaaaa, im feeling kinda weird about it still but lbr man
never gonna solve it if i keep letting myself run away
so im going back today
just figured id give you a heads up since im prooobably not gonna be able to text you for a while
Dream (Me)
I appreciate the warning, but really I’m just glad to hear you’re going to talk to him. I hope it goes well!
I’ll be around whenever you can get a message through, don’t worry about me too much.
As he stares down at the chat history, he sees the little bouncing ellipsis indicating that Cross is still typing. It’s so surreal that he’s having trouble processing it, if he’s honest.
Cross
hey. you awake?
i mean. i know the answer is probably “no” but.
idk.
Dream stares for a moment longer.
Finally, slowly, he clicks into the textbox.
Dream (Me)
I’m up, actually.
He knows he should say more than that. The trouble is that he just doesn’t know what to say.
Thankfully, Cross doesn’t appear to have the same problem.
Cross
thank fuck, oh my god
iknow it’s like late as shit right now and everything but I just
finally got clearance to talk to you again earlier now that nights finally good and goddamned sure i meant it when i told him we were just pals and i wasnt gonna like. betray him for you. and also you wouldnt ask me to do that
i tell you he is one of the DENSEST geniuses ive ever met, man. like the concept of you being the one who got in my ass about it until i finally went back to him just didnt compute at all.
kinda pissed me off, ngl
but like I do sorta get why hes so paranoid about everything so im not really THAT mad but i am sorry it took two fucking years
anyway ive just been like. Staring at my phone all night trying to figure out what to say
There’s something that lights up in Dream’s chest at having confirmation that Cross didn’t just stop talking to him because he didn’t want to talk to him. Even if the reason behind the long break was his own brother being too suspicious of him to comfortably allow contact.
He gets it.
Dream (Me)
It’s okay, believe me I understand his hesitance. But I’m glad he felt comfortable enough to change his mind, that’s great!
You should get some sleep though. I’ll still be here in the morning, I promise.
Cross argues, of course. But it doesn’t take much convincing before he agrees to wait until morning for any further talking to take place.
It’s not like they haven’t seen each other at all in the last two years – they have. It’s just that they haven’t been able to be friendly during any of those brief meetings. Nightmare was particularly brutal during the early months of having Cross back, striking so often and so hard and across such a wide range of AUs that Dream could barely keep up.
He’s mellowed out, now, more or less. Sends the boys out less.
On the one hand, it’s meant less chance to see that Cross is alive and apparently in good health and relatively good spirits. On the other, it’s meant that he doesn’t have to spend much of his magic healing himself these days, because he doesn’t have to fight as often.
To Cross’ credit, he doesn’t go easy during fights even if he likes you. Dream has learned that the hard way. But, really, he respects it, because when Cross dedicated himself to Nightmare he had meant it and Dream has never loved anything more than he loves his brother.
When he and Cross start talking again in the morning, he doesn’t know yet that Cross is going to remain a steady presence from there on, albeit a steady presence that doesn’t realize just how poorly Dream is doing.
Stretch and Blue have both been fast asleep for hours, and Dream is still squished between them on the floor, and he loves them so much and he misses his twin so much that he wants to cry.
He remains resolutely silent and still in the warm pocket between the two skeletons.
The trouble with how present he feels, how grounded he feels, is that he has time to properly think. To explore topics he normally shies away from so hard that it can cause him to check out for hours at a time. To consider how much he misses Night.
He understands, is the thing. There was so much more he should have been doing to help him. There was so much more he should have been doing just in general. So many red flags that he ignored, over and over, and wrote off as his brother just being asocial and anxious.
The worst offense of all is that he wasn’t there to protect Night when it truly mattered.
And he understands. He knows he can’t reasonably expect that Nightmare will still have any affection for him, any real care for him. He knows he’s a useless and cowardly brother to have, and that Nightmare is probably better off just leaving him to rot as he has been for the last few months.
The trouble is that Dream loves him, and Dream has always loved like a dog: faithful to a fault.
And this, this moment of time that he’s living in, reminds him so much of the simple joy of curling up with his brother in bed after a long day. It’s only that now there are two bodies weighing him down and keeping him grounded instead of just the one. It’s only that neither of them is his twin, no matter how much he wishes Nightmare were here.
“Maybe you should ask Cross about that.” Night muses, softly. Dream sees a flicker of something on the couch, but he closes his eyes before he can be certain there’s actually something there. “Arranging a talk with the modern me, I mean.”
It probably won’t do anything.
But…
Well. Better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all, right? It’s practically the only method he hasn’t used yet to try and speak to his brother – mostly on account of not really having a way to pre-arrange a meeting with him before now that didn’t involve trying to convince him to set one up while actively dodging his tentacles.
He’ll deal with it in the morning.
For now, though, he burrows deeper into the space between Blue and Stretch, presses more firmly against each of them and knots his fingers into Blue’s shirt like he means to never, ever let go. Their combined affection has pooled into the space between them like water, and when he tries to focus on it instead of the painful grief of his twin not being here, the effect is almost instantaneous.
He’s not starving for positivity. His intake of that hasn’t changed all that much since his aura started weakening, since his soul started to dull and he started getting so tired. But these feelings…
It’s different, somehow. He doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t think the why matters all that much.
Everything Blue feels, he has offered to Dream countless times to use as he needs. Stretch would have objected to Dream feeding off his emotions a long time ago if he actually had any complaints about it. It’s fine if he wants to bask in this, right? It’s fine if he wants to take a little more, and if laying here and doing exactly that is the first time in years that he’s felt like maybe he can live?
He’s too wound up to sleep for most of the night, but he’s content.
(Later, he’ll text Cross. Later, he’ll try to examine the why of how he feels. Later, later, he swears.)