daflangstlairde-art

[daflangstlairde-art]

"thoughts that breathe" 2,239 words

Part 4 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

Almost six years now. And almost four since he met Color. One year and seven months since they moved in together. …And still, he woke up like this. Far too frequently. Craving and– …and fearing the burning touch of tentacles.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Killer woke up with a sharp inhale and… confused.

It was weird. He felt disoriented. It was weird that he even recognized he felt disoriented. He was never 'oriented' to begin with, or at least he hadn't been for ages, or at least that's… what he thought. Though it felt wrong.

Yep. He was confused, to put it mildly.

He raised a hand, but he wasn't sure what he was trying to achieve with that, so he simply rubbed his face.

There was… something… lingering. Like a bad dream he couldn't quite remember. Like burning cold seeped into his bones. Like whispers in the back of his awareness, wrapping around him and clinging and–

What… where was he? It was a bedroom. It was familiar. And yet it wasn't, it felt like he couldn't quite bring it into thoughts and shapes. Just a oh, yeah, of course I'm here without knowing quite what 'here' meant.

'Here' was… his room? But that couldn't be right. His room was small and dark and cold, always infused with crushing isolation and despair, never comfortable. This place was comfortable. It was… lived-in, in a visible manner, whereas his room was more haunted by him.

But it was his room. He knew that was the wardrobe, and how much that hoodie on the floor cost, and that the hairs on the carpet were from a cat.

Did– did he switch bodies with someone or something–?

But… no. Looking at his palms, those were Killer's. Untethered, like he was swimming through air (or through dark, numbingly cold water), Killer pushed away the blanket. Placed his feet on the ground (soft slippers…?). Stood up.

There was a mirror on the inside of the wardrobe, on one of its doors. He knew that even though both doors were closed at the moment/ Because he didn't want said mirror always uncovered. Because… it made him… it made him feel…

…He didn't feel. That's not something he was even capable of.

Killer trailed over to the wardrobe. With a hand that surely belonged to him, he grasped the handle and opened it.

It wasn't quite a full length mirror, but it was long. It showed enough.

Killer stared.

He was… in a casual T-shirt and shorts. His bones looked so white from the light streaming through the windows, bright. Not dark.

His eyes were black and empty.

But his soul…

His soul– he–

Wrong. It was wrong, it was so wrong, it shouldn't be– why was he– what was happening to him? Why was it like– it was–

It was the wrong shape. Why were his hands shaking? Were these actually his hands? He was empty inside, but when he stared at the mirror, he saw a wide-eyed expression, trembling and hunched, all of which spoke of fear and confusion.

Where was he?

Not– not just physically. Emotionally. Where was he in the timeline of his life? It all felt so– torn and out of order. What is this pocket of time? What existence was this?

Killer nearly jumped out of his skin when there came a soft knock at the door. There was a razor-sharp– feeling that went through him, immediate awareness of who that was, he knew who it was, of course he knew, who else could it be?

Killer felt nothing. But his hands were shaking severely and he was sweating and his chest felt tight, but he felt nothing, how– what was happening to him?

His eyes were pinned to the door. He knew who it was because there was only one being in the world his mind really recognized as real.

Yes, he would never knock, especially not so softly. Unless he was fucking with Killer's brain. Which he could be because that's what he did, it's what Killer went to him for.

Because he needed it. Because it was right, it was his place, it was real.

…Except, then, why did all of him want to get away? Why did the image of that door opening feel like the worst possible outcome?

"Killer?"

That. Was… not his voice.

It was neither Dust's nor Horror' voice as well. Not even Cross.

…And there was… meowing?

What?

"What," Killer called back, flat and sharp. He wasn't weak. He wasn't. He could be watching all his teeth fall down in real time and he would still bite.

"Can I come in? Boxer misses you," Color said through the door with a louder meow as the cat recognized his own name.

Because… it was Color. Because this was Color's house. Except it was Killer's. They… lived together.

Factually, he knew it was true. In every other way, it was wrong.

"I don't care," Killer replied.

The door opened a crack, soft, patient. Literally, as Color's flames were noticeably cyan. Because of the souls. And their associated traits. That he had within him. And Killer knew all that because he knew Color.

And yet, his being screamed who is that? and Killer itched to summon a knife and attack.

His eyes were pinned on Color as the other stepped into the bedroom, his bedroom. He didn't close the door behind him.

Faster than either of their decision-making, Boxer rushed in and Killer stiffened as the cat began weaving between his legs. Nuzzling his calves so hard, like he was trying to push Killer over, and purring up an absolute storm.

Hehe. He was always such a motor engine.

Which… Killer knew because… because that was his cat. His and Color's, but his most of all. Boxer's fur was short and a bright orange. That's where his name came from — the Bravery kid had chimed up excitedly with options. Killer found the name hilarious. It stuck.

His fur had been so coarse and mattled before, but over time, with careful bathing and brushing and a good eating schedule, it had softened and built up its healthy oils. Killer could feel it against his legs. It felt… it felt more real than…

As if in a trance, tentatively, dazedly, slowly he crouched lower. Placing his hand on Boxer's head and petting down his back. The cat pushing his muzzle into his palm like he wanted to break through it, haha.

Killer's head snapped back to Color as he stepped forward again, and Color stopped. He stared back. Patient. Calm.

Killer didn't need to look down to pet the damn cat (as much as Boxer tried to hog his attention). So he didn't. He kept his gaze on Color.

Boxer didn't care if Killer's hands shook. He had no way of knowing it's because Killer was restraining himself from summoning a barrage of attacks.

He… wasn't… sure why he was restraining himself. He… knew Color could handle it. He wouldn't even be mad.

…Why wouldn't he be mad?

It was– that was weird. He should be mad. Killer wished he would attack. Adrenaline was already making his metaphorical heart race, his breathing speed up, heat at his face. Right? He was itching for a fight. He was itching for violence. Right. It had to be adrenaline. That was… that's what was…

Killer wished Color would attack. The only thing that felt tangible was Boxer's face butting into his hand. He needed– he needed more. He needed to hurt, he needed to be real, he needed his soul to be normal. Not this– not this weak, gross heart-shaped insult.

Killer–

Killer needed Nightmare. The real Nightmare. The Corrupted Nightmare. Nightmare was the only being that knew what Killer really needed, what he was made of, what he was made for. The only being that could really give it to him.

Except he thought of getting that wish and realized it would just be… that… ugh. Night. Night, who still visited as much as it pained him, to check on Killer's well-being. Because they were… not friends, but they were connected in a way that just couldn't be severed.

But that's not what Killer wanted, what he needed.

He craved Nightmare.

It was the burning cold. It was the dark depths. It was the whispers in the back of his mind, like tendrils ghosting over his skin and raising metaphorical goosebumps.

Whispering you'll never be free. You can never change what you are. You will never escape me.

You can never move on from this. You're mine.

And here Killer was.

Proving him right.

"What the hell do you want," he said flatly, because Color still hovered.

"…Just to– make sure you're alright," Color replied, keeping himself from reacting to Killer's attitude. Like he was familiar with it. Because he was familiar with it.

Killer barked a humorless laugh.

Hah. Him? Alright? That concept didn't even exist for him. Objects like him weren't meant for 'alright'. It just didn't fit them. Like jamming a heart-shaped plastic peg into a tiny circular hole.

"I'll be better if you piss off," Killer said through his mean, bared-teeth grin.

The flames gently flickered through a darker blue. Then, purple. Finally, a touch of orange but primarily green. That might've meant something.

"Can I sit here instead?" Color pointed to the floor right where he stood. "I'm not going to touch you. I'm not going to hurt you," with a flicker of that dark blue. Killer wished he wasn't telling the truth.

He shrugged. "I don't care."

"Okay," and Color sat down. Just there. On the floor. Killer was still crouching even though it was killing (heh) his knees, but he wasn't about to deprive Boxer of attention, what a heresy. It would be easy to snap up and lunge at Color. Take advantage of the split second he'd need to get up.

He didn't.

He continued crouching, neither sitting down nor getting up. He continued petting his cat. Feeling the fur underneath his fingertips. The movement and warmth of something alive, so fragile and trusting. The vibrations of the ceaseless purring.

He… he missed Nightmare, but… Nightmare was long gone, wasn't he? It was… how long now?

Killer glanced to the side briefly, and oh, what would you know, a calendar was there. Almost six years now. And almost four since he met Color. One year and seven months since they moved in together.

…And this was Killer's bedroom. With his carpet and his clothes and his large window to let in the daylight. His cat. His friend.

His mirror to see his soul.

…And still, he woke up like this. Far too frequently. Craving and– …and fearing the burning touch of tentacles. Wrapped all around his body. Squeezing until he heard bones start to crack. Until they felt tangible. Real.

Killer slowly exhaled. And then he breathed in. It felt like the first inhale for his entire morning.

"Five things you can see?"

His gaze lifted back up to Color. "What?"

Color gestured around the room. "Five things you can see?" he repeated easily.

Killer stared at him. Watching the flames of energy waver and flow.

"…You. Boxer," he remembered to keep petting the cat, "…My bed. The carpet. The calendar,"

"Nice," Color smiled a bit, "four things you can hear?"

"Boxer," constant purring, like he was happy to be around Killer. Not fearful. Not hateful. "Your pestering," he added, and there was no heat behind it. He wasn't sure if… he'd meant for there to be any. "The clock, and, uh…" he wracked his brain. Couldn't really hear anything else. "Ugh, this house is too silent," he complained gruffly.

Color snorted quietly. "I'll turn the TV on in a moment,"

"Great,"

"Three things you can–" and then Color paused. Realized he'd messed up the order, and then decided to keep going at it anyway, "Three things you can feel?"

"How giving him a bath the other day was a good idea," Killer joked about the cat. Soft, smooth fur. "Uh, the floor, and my shirt I guess," he traced his free hand over both items as he mentioned them, feeling their textures.

"Heck yeah," Color nodded. "Two things you can–"

"You can stop, you know," Killer intercepted. "I'm probably not going to stab you. Unless you get too close, heh,"

"I know," Color didn't take it personally. Killer liked that in him. "But I want to. Two things you can smell?"

"That's four for four for Boxer," Killer cackled, "And… I don't know, clothes?" and sweat. He was cooling off now, though.

"One thing you can taste?"

Metal. Like he'd bitten a tongue he did not have. He swallowed, trying to clear it.

"My spit," he said instead, "Why, wanna try it for yourself?" he teased.

Color snorted, grinning. Fair enough — Killer was hilarious.

"You wanna talk about it?" he offered. Steady. Easy. Like it was an everyday thing. Like it wasn't raw and vulnerable and heavy.

And Killer realized…

…Maybe. Maybe he would.

Not know, not with ghostly frost crawling over his bones. Not with the blade of weakness pressed to his throat.

"C'mere idiot," he waved Color over.

With no sudden movements, easy and smooth, Color pushed himself up to his feet. Not for long, because it was soon that he crouched beside Killer. Close enough to touch only if Killer wanted to.

Which he did. With his free hand, he grabbed onto Color's hand. Killer's grin remained sharp and guarded, but the way he held onto Color's hand was tight. Like a lifeline. An anchor. Color squeezed back.

Killer breathed out.

[daflangstlairde-art]

"and Ink trying to appear to care only to actually care about art more" EXACTLY he was Trying but at the end of the day, his emotions do have their priorities xD

Emotionless/low-empathy trio,,,

Emotionless/low-empathy characters I love you,,,,, I love you emotionless/low-empathy characters. I love all three of these doofuses so much

I drew this a while ago but it's also fitting with this interaction that just happened with @signanothername that I am totally unaffiliated with yup

TW for mention of suicidal thoughts, suicide joke

Credits:

Ink belongs to comyet

Fresh belongs to loverofpiggies

Killer belongs to rahafwabas

[daflangstlairde-art]

Emotionless/low-empathy trio,,,

Emotionless/low-empathy characters I love you,,,,, I love you emotionless/low-empathy characters. I love all three of these doofuses so much

I drew this a while ago but it's also fitting with this interaction that just happened with @signanothername that I am totally unaffiliated with yup

TW for mention of suicidal thoughts, suicide joke

Credits:

Ink belongs to comyet

Fresh belongs to loverofpiggies

Killer belongs to rahafwabas

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Childish Dreams" [INTERACTIVE]

Fanfic summary:

"Night!" the child stumbled a little, running towards him with hands outstretched. "Are you okay?!" he exclaimed in worry. Oh, fate. It was about time you presented him with such a sweet opportunity. — Dream, somehow, got turned into a kid. Nightmare takes advantage of the opportunity.

Chapter 3, 3826 words

Credits, content warnings and further information on ao3.

—

Dream woke up super early.

Or… at least he thought so. It was dawn-dark (he'd kept the curtains wide open), but that might be how this place was most of the time. He felt sleepy, like he hadn't slept all that well. The blanket wasn't especially warm.

Dream shuffled under it, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth as he yawned. There wasn't a clock in the room, so he couldn't actually tell the time. He considered sleeping more. Usually he'd already be up and starting the day, because he usually had tons to do all the time, and he wanted to get it over with in hopes of returning to his brother earlier.

But… he didn't really have anything to do locked up in this room. Which… he still wasn't sure why he was locked up in here.

It felt weird to be still and to do nothing. He had to do something! Weren't there… people to help or– something? He felt like he was needed somewhere…

Maybe it was Night who needed him? But Dream had no way of getting to him. Hm.

He decided he was going to ask Horror, Dust and Killer when they came around later.

He closed his eyes again, trying to pull the blanket better over himself to chase warmth. He was usually naturally warm, even outdoors, so it was a bit weird that he felt chilly. Though it made sense, he supposed — Horror, Killer and Dust all wore jackets.

Dream would offer to help them with the heating later. Maybe they were busy and didn't have time to chop up some wood for the hearth. Or they were bad at setting up a fire, haha! …No, Night was good at that. If they weren't visiting Dream, then they probably were busy.

"Yeah," he murmured to himself, trying to drift off to sleep.

—

Sleeping… wasn't very successful. He laid there and he drifted off, but he couldn't properly fall asleep.

Ah, that's okay. He probably just had too much energy! Just used to being active.

In the end, Dream sighed, pushing himself to sit up. He yawned again, putting his crown back on.

(He knew it was called a 'circlet' but 'crown' sounded fun, haha. And he could be like a kind prince who was responsible for the whole village and helped all his people! Like from fairytales.)

Dream picked up the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders to keep warm. He still… didn't have anything to do. The room was as quiet and as still as it was yesterday.

Could he play a game alone? Learn to dance maybe? He couldn't really do that without someone to show him though.

…He really wished he had someone to talk–

Don’t be sad Dream, we the voices will keep your company! [Alex_Magic]

–Dream startled, looking around. But there was still nobody there. What…?

It's gonna be okay, Dream, we'll try to keep you company! [rhyssands]

That sounded like a different one? What??? "Hello?" he called. Where did these voices come from…? It's like they didn't come from a specific direction. "Um, that's very sweet of you– you two–? Thank you!" he remembered to be polite.

He waited for a response, looking around. Was it a ghost? Or a talking spider like that book Night had told him about?

No, they said 'the voices'. That also meant they were self-aware.

Dream, hi, hope you're doing okay! Though maybe you should eat those grapes sometime, they might go bad and I don’t think Night's gonna be around anytime soon... [StrawberruS0da]

That sounded like another different voice! Huh!

"I'm okay, thank you!" Dream nodded, sort of… speaking to the air. Bringing his legs down to thump them rhythmically against the side of the bed, swinging them. Lightly of course. "I think I'm going to get breakfast though. So I don't really need them but Night might be hungry, so… I think I'll wait and see if he shows up," he reasoned, smiling.

And then he thought for another moment, and suddenly his insides scrunched up a little.

"I mean–" would the Voices be mad he wanted to bring Night food that wasn't for him–? Or– would they tell on him? "Um– if that's okay…?" he asked, a bit nervous. "He'll be happy to have some!" he smiled. They didn't sound upset–

GRAHHH DREAM YOU POOR SWEET THING THERES PLENTY OF FOODDDDD [Anonymous]

"Oh!! Thank you for letting me know," Dream appreciated it. That meant it shouldn't be an issue if he got some to Night! (Or that at least it wouldn't be noticeable.)

Hi there dream, [@terahble]

"Hii!" Dream waved. Another different voice!

i just wanted to ask how does it feel to have your own room? Not to mention, I bet when nightmare checks up on you, he'd be amazed at how good of a job you did at cleaning it [@terahble]

Oh! Then maybe the Voices were okay with Night…? Or at least this one. Did the Voices know each other?

"I hope so," Dream nodded. "I hope he likes it if it's going to be his room too. It's a really nice room," he remembered to answer their question. "The window is so large! And everything is so well made. The furniture is polished and stuff, and the bed sheets are so even. Whoever made them must've put a lot of effort into it,"

It looked expensive. Dream remembered helping to make furniture and textiles and stuff around the village, and it wasn't easy. He respected people who were skilled at crafts like that.

Actually… when he thought about it, the hallway outside hadn't looked... like the hallway of a regular house. There were stone walls and a long carpet and it was so big. And when Dream had looked out the window, it was high up.

Was he in some sort of… mansion? Or a castle? A really expensive and big one? He didn't remember anything like that around the village. He would've noticed it.

—

The Voices were quiet after that. Dream got a bit concerned whether he'd maybe insulted them somehow. It wasn't for long, because soon enough, there came a soft clicking at the door, and then the handle turning.

In walked Horror and Dust, the former carrying a tray with breakfast. Not Killer though. Dream's brow ridges pinched together.

"You're up early," Dust commented with mild surprise that soon went away.

"Is Killer okay?" Dream asked, still sitting on the bed, now legs criss-cross. "Oh– good morning!" he remembered.

"…Morning," Dust returned, a little amused.

"Good morning," Horror echoed the sentiment. He said it flatly but Dream didn't sense any irritation from him, so maybe that's just how he talked.

He walked over with the tray to put it on Dream's bed. There were pancakes, and a bit of honey in a tiny bowl with a tea spoon. And cut up cubes of cheese, and a banana.

"Thank you," Dream smiled, "do you want some too?" he immediately held out a cube of cheese to Horror.

Horror sighed. Dust snickered.

Horror accepted the small cheese cube and popped it into his mouth, sitting on the carpeted floor. Without a word, Dream also passed one to Dust who accepted it and did the same.

There were three pancakes. Dream considered that.

"Is Killer coming later?" he asked.

"Uh," Dust shared a look with Horror, "…Maybe for dinner?" he replied tentatively.

Hmm.

Dream took one pancake and carefully ripped it in two sort of even halves. Then, the same with the second, but not with the third.

One half for him, Horror and for Dust. That left… one more half and one whole. If he pretended the other half was also for him maybe he could keep it for Night, and the whole could be for Killer so he could heal better if he was hurt.

Horror and Dust watched him, both with muted curiosity and amusement. They didn't scold him for messing with his food, which he was grateful for. Wordlessly, both of them also accepted half a pancake.

Dream dipped his own half into the honey and bit into it.

"You know what, we probably should've asked this earlier, but how old are you, pal?" Dust asked, biting into his pancake piece.

Dream chewed first, before answering "Twelve,"

Both of the other two paused. For some reason, they were surprised at that.

"Wait– really?" Horror blinked.

"…Yeah?"

"…Huh," Horror scratched his skull.

"Wow," Dust had his brow ridges raised, "we thought you were like… six or something, eight at most,"

Dream sputtered, "What? No!" he exclaimed, a little amused.

Yeah, Night was… a lot more mature than him. Dream really didn't understand why people thought he was immature, but he knew they did.

"In our defense, you're not wearing stripes like you should be," Horror pointed out.

Dream shrugged. They'd never really worn stripes like the other kids.

"I'm not really a child," he explained. "My brother and I are guardian spirits! These are just our bodies,"

"But… you got your body when you were born, right?" Dust nudged.

Dream blinked. "Well… yeah, sort of, I guess," he conceded. "But they weren't the bodies of babies, not really, not even at first. This is just how we look, we're not like people's actual kids,"

Horror and Dust shared another glance. There was something to it Dream couldn't quite put to words.

"Sure kid," Horror shrugged.

…Okay?

"The pancakes are really good by the way," Dream switched the topic to something more understandable and cheerful. And they were good.

"Oh. Uh, thanks," Horror cleared his throat, biting into his half.

—

They did humor him and said they'd take one pancake to Killer, though Dream didn't get to keep anything for Night this time. That's alright though! He still had the grapes. And one of the Voices said there was plenty of food.

After they left, it was back to quiet. For a while, Dream just waited around. Put the blanket back on the bed properly. Walked back and forth around the room, counting his steps. He tried to climb the wardrobe, which was a bit difficult, but in the end, he managed to squeeze himself at its top, right under the ceiling, laughing quietly to himself.

It was dusty here too, but he managed to wipe the dust off with his sleeves.

HIII! How are you doing ? [Azries]

Oh!! The Voices were back!! Dream grinned excitedly.

"Hiii!" he waved, laying on his stomach on top of the wardrobe. "I'm okay! I had breakfast, thank you for asking,"

What are your thoughts on the 3 skeletons who was in your room earlier?? Also you're so cute im gonna explode !!! (to clarify, not literaly ! [Azries]

Oh, Dream was just about to ask if the Voices knew Killer, Horror and Dust too.

Dream giggled, amused. "Aww thank you! You're very sweet! So far they've been nice too," he considered them. "I think they're not entirely sure how to act around me for some reason, but I think I'm helping them get more comfortable. I hope Killer is okay and that I can talk to him later too,"

dream i have some words of advice, horror is the kindest of the 3 you just talked so you can trust him to talk to you about stuff most of the time though he can be sensitive, dust is also nice but he likes to stay to himself so i wouldn't bother him unless you can't talk to horror, and never talk to killer. he's not very nice [Wise Villager (Guest)]

Even though he wanted to interrupt, Dream listened first. He frowned a little, then remembered to smooth it out.

"Thank you for the advice," he smiled politely. "It's very informative! I can't wait to get to know them. I'm sure Killer is nice too," he reasoned. "Maybe he's just scared, or he doesn't know how to act nice because people have been mean to him a lot. I'm sure he has his reasons," Dream said gently.

Sometimes you think someone isn't nice, but it turns out they're just stressed, or scared, or angry, or they need something, or a dozen other reasons. Dream didn't like immediately dismissing people.

"And anyway, I… don't think not talking to him will help him be nicer, right?" he asked, not because he didn't know (he already thought so), but he didn't want it to sound like arguing. "I wanna give him a chance," he smiled. "Still, thank you! I appreciate you trying to help,"

and i wouldn't talk to nighty yet as he is in a bit of a mood so you should let him rest, maybe you can talk to him later? :) [Wise Villager (Guest)]

"Oh!" Dream exclaimed. "Good idea! When the guys come back for dinner I'll ask them if Night's okay, thanks for reminding me,"

Night was in a bad mood and tired very often these days. Whenever Dream went back to their tree at the end of the day, he was usually so tired, he immediately went to bed. But when he tried to talk with Night instead, Night said he was tired and didn't want to.

They were… getting less and less time to talk. Dream hoped maybe now that he wasn't so busy, they could. He missed spending time with his brother. Though it wasn't Night's fault, it's okay to be tired! It's Dream who should work faster and better to have more time with him.

He shook his head, and reminded himself to feel hopeful and excited that he had more free time now. He hoped the village was doing okay though. It was so big and with so many people, there was always something he was needed for.

Also what's the first thing you remember from when you met Ink and Blue? After being in your AU with the tree and village. [StrawberruS0da]

"Oh, uhh…" Dream tapped his fingers against the wood of the warbrobe, trying to remember.

He… didn't really recall. And when he thought about it, it started to make his head hurt.

"I was…" his face scrunched up, "…I just remember waking up in a really, really big empty white place, and Ink was there and he called Blue. I mean, I didn't know who they were, but Blue was worried so I introduced myself and told him it's okay,"

("Dream?!" Blue freaked out, hands at his head. "What– how?! What happened??? How did you get here– are you okay???"

"I'm okay!" Dream reassured him again, trying to push his sleeves back so they didn't fall over his hands. He wasn't sure why his clothes were so big.

"Oh wow–!" Ink was bent over laughing, "Wow, oh my stars– this is crazy, the plot has really thickened now, hahahah–!"

"Oh my angel– what if this has disastrous consequences for the Multiverse?" Blue held his face in his hands.

"It's going to be okay, we'll fix it," Dream patted his elbow, "what's the issue?"

Blue sighed deeply. "Dream– oh gosh, do you even know what the Multiverse is?"

"…I think I've heard it but can you remind me please?"

…

"…Do you even know who we are?!"

"…Uh–"

Ink started laughing harder.)

"And then we went to Blue's house and they brought me clothes and food and we drew! They were really nice," Dream recounted. That'd all happened just a few days ago.

Inversely, what's the last thing you remember before you left? [StrawberruS0da]

"Left?" Dream tilted his head. "Left where? Left Blue and Ink? Um, they told me they had to leave quickly to 'deal with my brother' and to stay at Blue's house," he replied. "I followed after them to help,"

It had made him a little worried what 'dealing with' Nightmare meant. And if it concerned his brother, it concerned him too.

He felt a little bad disobeying and he hoped Blue and Ink wouldn't be mad.

(But considering he'd seen them all fighting, it was a good thing he showed up. He didn't regret it.)

—

"Killer!" Dream exclaimed, and the named skeleton blinked at him, closing the door after them. "Do you feel better?"

"'Feel better'?" Killer repeated, brow ridges raised.

"We told you he was worried about you," Dust shrugged, as Horror walked over to put the food tray on the bed as always. There was a stew thing with green beans and other veggies that smelled really good.

"Huh, is that so," Killer mused.

"Dream, sit down and eat," Horror told him. Making Dream paused from where he was walking over to Killer.

"Are you hurt? Do you need healing? I can heal you," he offered quickly.

"Nope, HP's all full," Killer replied with a bit of humor.

"That's good to hear," Dream nodded. "Can… can I try anyway? I promise it won't hurt,"

(Dream's hand hovered in the air between them uncertainly. Night kept laying with his back towards Dream.

…He'd seen the bruise on his brother's face. Night said he'd just 'slipped and fell'. He fell a lot these days. Dream never saw him fall.

"…Can I try to hea–" he started quietly.

"I'm tired, Dream." Night cut him off, not much louder. "…I know you're tired too. Just go to sleep."

Dream opened his mouth to respond, but didn't know what to say. He was tired. He didn't want to bother Night if he was tired too. And he needed a good night's sleep to heal properly.

…That's okay, Dream would just go to bed and heal him in the morning when he had more energy and could do it better. He yawned, exhaustion tugging him to his own tree nook where he slept.

(Instead, he had to leave first thing in the morning to help settle cattle distressed by an upcoming storm.))

Killer considered Dream, tilting his head. He always grinned in a really… sharp way. Not necessarily mean though.

"You know what? Sure," he shrugged. Dream could sense curiosity from him. Meanwhile Horror and Dust were surprised at that.

Dream grinned, "Thank you!"

So he got Killer to sit down on the bed and shuffled to sit next to him, while Horror and Dust watched from their places on the carpet.

Killer's HP may have been full, but Dream could sense… something was wrong. It was hard to describe. There was like… an unsettling.

"Can I ask a question?" Dream prefaced.

"Go ahead," Killer was mostly amused.

"Is that… your soul?"

Dream had noticed it way back at the start. A glowing circle at his chest, in red and white and then red again. It exuded a very… particular energy.

With a bit of surprise, "Yup,"

"He could tell–?" Dust murmured, sharing a glance with Horror.

"Well he is Nightmare's brother," Horror muttered back.

Killer's soul was a perfect shimmery circle when they met. However, now it was… it was like... like there was more air, less structure.

Dream brought his hands up to focus on it, without touching, to try and heal.

Healing magic took very precise intent. Dream was a good healer because he held a strong base-level love and trust and compassion for every single person he ever met, and in turn, he was also able to make them sort of trust him too, or at least to feel a little comfortable around him.

Since he didn't know Killer all that well, and he'd also noticed how uncaring (guarded) Killer was, Dream expected some difficulty. Still, he channeled his intent. Breathing out slowly.

Care. Sympathy. Warmth. Safety. Trust.

It was a bit difficult. It felt like there was… something in the air, pressing back against him, like resistance. Dream gave it his best though.

It's okay. I'll help you. I'll make it stop hurting. You deserve–

–Killer's hand grabbed Dream's wrist with such force he yelped, his eyes shot open.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Killer snapped with a mean grin, and Dream saw his soul was a little more unstable actually. Oh no–

"It's okay, I'm just healing you!" Dream explained quickly, keeping the strain out of his voice (Killer was squeezing his hand really painfully). "I promise I won't hurt you, it's alright–" he reassured, calm, honest.

"Hurt me?! Do you even know–" Killer laughed, sharp sharp sharp.

"Ah shit–" Dust hissed, both him and Horror having shot to their feet, and now he tried to wrench open Killer's grip while Horror tried to drag Killer away.

"No no no, it's okay, it's okay!" Dream tried to deescalate, "He's just scared, it's not his fault–"

"SCARED?" Killer snarled, more of that dark liquid running down his face. "I'll SHOW you SCARED–"

"You aren't showing anyone anything," Horror growled, finally yanking Killer to his feet once Dust got him to free Dream's wrist. "C'mon, we're leaving–"

"Please don't hurt hurt him, he's just scared, I'm sorry I scared you–!" Dream rushed out, trying to get them to listen for a moment. If they all just calmed down for a second–

"You should've listeneed to meee!" Killer laughed, an unstable quality to it. "I told you we should wait until tomorrow, I told you I was in no state–"

"Yeah yeah you're a straight up prophet," Dust deadpanned, unlocking the door so Horror could drag Killer out with little resistance. "Dream, finish your food, see ya tomorrow," and then the door was shut and Dream was alone.

…

And Dream was alone.

His soul still raced, and he clutched the ends of his sleeves. Keeping his breathing level. Staring at the locked door. Alone again. It was quiet now.

The food sat on the bed still.

"Oh no," he whispered, swallowing. Face scrunching up against his will with a sort of warmth to it.

Don't cry.

He'd messed up.

He'd just been trying to help. When his magic reached out, he'd sensed strain, struggle, something so oppressive. It was hard to parse who it even came from, because it felt like it was just… in the atmosphere.

…But he'd pushed too hard. This is why he was scared to be pushy. Killer wasn't prepared for it, wasn't ready. It was unfamiliar to him, or maybe he thought something bad was going to happen. Dream could feel the way he freaked out all of a sudden. He was angry because he wanted to protect himself, even if… maybe he didn't… quite realize it.

Dream should've explained it to him more (even if Killer might've refused to accept the help then). He should've been more patient (even if it might've gotten worse if untreated). He should've made sure Killer felt safer and more comfortable (even if he had a sense Killer wouldn't have allowed that).

Don't. Cry.

(There's no one around to see anyway.)

He should've done better. If they were mad, he'd understand. He was upset at the screw-up too.

He just hoped Killer was okay and that Dream hadn't made it worse.

—

(If the poll runs out of time before you've voted, you can also comment on ao3)

[daflangstlairde-art]

"It's All So Incredibly Loud" by Glass Animals

Dust belongs to ask-dusttale

[daflangstlairde-art]

"A Noble Occupation" Chapter 2, 7936 words

Summary:

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame. — Dream acquires a new coping mechanism. It's not a very good one.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

It… became a habit, as shameful as that was.

On lighter days, when his emotions weren't exhausted enough and therefore reached him, Dream would… well, first he would busy himself. When there was nothing obvious that needed him (uncommon occurrence), he sought out how to be helpful, how to be of use. When there was little of that (very rare occurrence), he trained with his teammates, or made preparations.

When that ended and he was home, Dream still looked for ways to make his time worthwhile. Even cleaning was better.

But when he was at a loss on how to do that, and he was thinking and feeling things the Guardian of Positivity shouldn't be… he drank.

The experience didn't get more pleasant, but he grew accustomed to it. The same way he'd learned to bear wounds. The same way he'd learned to bear his own bad emotions.

Go to the store. Internally writhe in shame as he got a bottle of alcohol (wine, since he was most familiar with it). Sometimes he lied that it was for a friend or a gift. Go back home.

Drink it all as fast as possible.

Get hit with the effects all too suddenly.

Feel miserable. Throw up. Go to bed. Sleep like a log.

He learned to keep a glass of water at his night stand. He learned to set an alarm so he wouldn't sleep until noon. He learned to take headache meds in the morning so his functionality wasn't impaired.

It wasn't a big deal, really. It rarely happened, once every several weeks at most.

It helped him sleep, when he did it. It helped him, well, drown his sorrow — make it dull and fuzzy, allowing him to wake up the next day and pretend like none of it existed in the first place, because it shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He was a Protector of the entire Multiverse. If this made him better at his job, at giving the people what they needed in a way that didn't affect them negatively at all, what's the harm in it?

—

Dream should get a mat or something. For his bathroom. The floor tiles were cold.

At some point, he figured it was easier to just drink in his bathroom, since he was inevitably going to end up throwing it up.

The floor… wasn't particularly comfortable, but that's fine. Dream just had to sit here for a bit. Knees pulled to his chest, breathing steadily. Waiting for the alcohol to kick in properly, for the nausea to really rear up. Everything was already fuzzy and tilting, so it was on its way.

And then his phone rang.

Dream winced. He felt his metaphorical heartrate pick up, because it was late, and today had been easier, so this had to be an emergency, and he was a useless mess–

"Hey Dream!" Blue's voice came through.

"Blue?" Dream swallowed. Oh, he hadn't yet… experienced talking to anyone in this state. And he knew alcohol changed the way people spoke. Stars, he really hoped Blue wouldn't pick up on it. He really, really hoped that.

Blue was one of his best friends. One of his teammates. He was… so nice. He genuinely… cared about Dream, not just– about what Dream could do for him, not just about Dream's role. Blue was a good person.

What would he think of Dream? Would he be disappointed?

Dream would not be able to handle that.

He couldn't let Blue know.

"–always for some emergency or another, soo I thought I'd just… you know… call to chat! Just as friends," Blue spoke. His voice was… calm and cheerful. No emergency.

His words caught up to Dream. He wanted to… chat. As friends. That was important. Dream… didn't want Blue to feel like they're just co-workers. They were friends. Blue mattered a lot to Dream.

He was right. Dream had to make more time to spend with his friends. As friends. The last thing he wanted was for them to feel like… like he didn't care about them because he spent all his time helping other people instead.

(He had to have learned from his mistakes. He had to.)

Dream exhaled through his nose, trying to string together a coherent reply. Come on, he wasn't that drunk. Liven up!

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding even if Blue couldn't see. "I– I also… I'd enjoy spending time with you too. As friends,"

"Yay mweheheh!" Blue exclaimed, and Dream huffed in mirth at his endearing laughter. "Unless you're tired, that is– oh no, did I wake you up? I should've asked if you were available to talk first, gah, please prioritize your rest–!" he rushed out.

Dream shook his head. "No, no, I'm available," he spoke slower than the other. It's like the words were fuzzy in his mouth. It was weird. But it didn't sound weird, at least not to him.

"Oh! Okay then, great! Anyway. I'm making dinner!"

Dream hummed. "What're you making?"

"Vegetable cream soup!!!" Blue exclaimed.

That simultaneously sounded really tasty and made Dream remember the upcoming nausea.

"Sounds lovely," he focused on.

"Uh-huh! I hope so. You can try it tomorrow! It's a bit pot. I'm making it with the usual ingredients — you know, carrots and onions and potatoes, but I also decided to add cauliflower because I quite enjoy cauliflower–"Blue started rambling. He enjoyed cooking, as was characteristic of many versions of Papyrus. Funnily enough, Dream had caught him and Horror discussing food prep in the middle of a fight once or twice. It was bizarre. Dream wasn't against it though.

He didn't… think hating Nightmare's gang would solve anyone's issues. He wished he could help them instead. They… hngh. People hated them for ruining and destroying, which was understandable. Dream also, well, highly disapproved of their actions. But they were people, too. And, occasionally, he could feel their hurt. And there's no way being with Nightmare helped.

He exhaled. Maybe someday, he'd figure out a way to help them too. If he tried harder. If he was better.

…Ah, he wasn't listening to Blue. What a friend he was. How could he help Nightmare's gang if he couldn't even be enough for one of his best friends?

"–with an egg, and then it's going to be all done. What about you, what are you up to??" Blue asked curiously, because he was a good friend.

Agh. Dream would have to lie again. He felt… ashamed and guilty. What should he answer?

"I was… cleaning earlier," he answered. He did clean just a little.

"Cleaning? Tsk tsk tsk Dream, I told you to go home and rest," Blue said, light-hearted, more teasing than anything. Though there was soft, disguised concern in his words.

Dream winced. He swallowed. He almost reached for the bottle again before he remembered it was already empty. It was really getting to him. As always, it left him feeling odd. Fuzzy at the face. Nauseated.

"Sorry," he said, sort of by reflex.

"N– it's alright," Blue was quick to assure, and then he paused for a moment. "Are… you alright, Dream?"

Oh no.

Good going, Dream, you couldn't even compose yourself enough for one phone call. Blue just wanted to spend time with you, and now you're making it all about yourself and your problems which you shouldn't be having in the first place. Selfish.

Ugh, and the wine wasn't helping him at all. Dream felt… messy, when he should be the pinnacle of put-togetherness. He couldn't cry now. He couldn't.

"I'm okayy," Dream tried to put a sincere inflection to it. He'd mastered that long ago, except now, it fell oddly, drawing out the end of the word just a bit. Dammit.

Blue was quiet for another moment. Dream had to fix this.

"…Dream, you can ta–"

"I'm just a bit distracted, sorry," Dream lied, "Planning. You know how it is. …Sorry for interrupting you," he winced.

"…Right," that didn't sound like Blue believed him. Dream hunched in on himself. He felt sick. "Just–" Blue took a breath, "–don't stay up all night planning, okay? …Take care of yourself. Please. You don't have to– …You… you'll need the strength, so we can, uh, help people the best we can!"

Right. He was right. Dream was so selfish to be doing this.

"…You're right," he agreed softly. "Thanks for the chat, Blue. I really enjoyed it. Can we… I… I really appreciate you as a friend, you know?" he swallowed. "We should… hang out more. I'm sorry we don't hang out more. I'm s– I… I think I'm gonna go to bed now," he finished on a bit of a lame note.

"I'd love to hang out another time," Blue said all warm, and Dream knew he meant it. "But right now, you going to bed will make me even happier! Good night, Dream! See you tomorrow!"

"Good night," Dream returned quietly. After a beat, the call ended.

Dream let his hand down, blinking bleary at the wall. The silence lingered. He was alone.

He shuffled over to the toilet to throw up so he could go to bed.

—

He was growing too accustomed to the alcohol. One bottle wasn't making him as sick. He had to get two.

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame.

…He was finding more varied places to get the alcohol from.

—

Several days later,

"Dream!" Ink grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Ink?" Dream was immediately aware, "What is it, why did you call me, are you alright?" did Error go too far again, did Dream need to heal him? Was an AU being destroyed?

"Oh I'm great," Ink waved a hand, and then once again grabbed Dream, "But I really really really need your help!"

"Yes? Of course!" Dream would always help his friends.

"I need you," Ink said gravely, "to have a beach day with me."

Dream stared back at Ink's intense stare.

He resisted the urge to sigh. That'd be rude. And he wasn't really irritated with Ink anyway. Both because he didn't feel irritation, and also because it was Ink, Ink was like this.

"Come on pleeasee! It's really important!" Ink shook him a little. "It's for one of my stories! It has to be realistic. I stayed up all night thinking of plot points to put to the test,"

It still often baffled Dream how Ink could use up his time and energy for fictional stories like this. Then again, he'd… learned Ink perceived real people as fictional too. And besides, he wasn't Dream. Other people needed breaks and hobbies to function and to feel alright, so it was justifiably important. Even if Dream, personally, wouldn't dare.

"…Right," he replied carefully. "How long is this going to take…?"

"Uhhhmmm about a day, less even, so it's basically nothing," Ink shrugged. "We'll leave if there's an emergency, too, I promise,"

Okay, that eased some of Dream's worry. And it's not like this was the first time Ink hauled them away to do stuff relating to his stories. Last time was a few months ago, a camping trip in the mountains. Blue enjoyed that one. Dream did too. He held the memory fondly.

"Okay," he relented with a sigh and a smile. He'd rather be used by his friends.

"YES!" Ink threw his hands up.

And so here they were. Having a beach day.

It wasn't some private beach — there were a bunch of monsters around, but it was very far from crowded. It made Dream feel less like everyone would be looking at him and disapproving of this unearned leisure.

They'd already gone into the water, which wasn't awfully cold. And either way, the sun was high up and hot, seeping warmth into Dream's bones. The air held a gentle breeze that smelled of salt and sand and seaweed.

"Ink, pass it!" Dream hollered, grinning.

"Incomiiing!" Ink laughed, turning so he could pass the ball to Dream. With a running start, Dream jumped to dunk it past the net.

Blue laughed loudly at that, whistling. Error couldn't be assed to rush to catch the ball, even if he was literally a few paces away from it.

Blue had the idea that they play beach volleyball, but they'd needed a fourth person. Ink ended up nagging the Destroyer until he finally agreed, though he wasn't exactly passionate about it. Still, it was really fun. Error made up for his lack of involvement by cheating. This was the third ball Ink had drawn, haha.

And honestly?

Dream was having fun. Even with just the four of them, he was having a great time. All those fighting skills turned out to be useful — agility and precision and team coordination. Both teams were about evenly matched, making the game just engaging enough. Though weirdly, Dream didn't feel drained by all the movement and emotions.

The other monsters around the beach were relaxing, wafting off pleasant contentedness. Blue and Ink were as cheerful as ever. Even Error, as much as he complained about the sand, didn't seem to loathe it too much (likely because he was sort of friends with Blue and was familiar Ink).

It all left Dream collapsing onto his towel with a grin that was so big it ached against his face and a pleasant buzzing in his bones. This was yet another memory he'd hold near and dear.

("Thank you," Dream said to Ink quietly, but from the heart, as they all were sat to eat lunch during a brief break.

Ink chuckled, sharing a brief glance with Blue. "Anytime," he nudged Dream with an elbow.)

.

.

.

…Unfortunately, Dream remained a mess.

He was trying to sleep, he really was. He'd gone to bed over half an hour ago and he'd stayed there. Feeling lighter after a fantastic day. Calmer. More put together. Hopeful, the positivity inside him fresh and sincere, braced to live.

But he just… couldn't sleep. Which, to be fair, was far from new. Actually, he struggled to sleep most of the time. Which wasn't ideal since he got to bed, hm, maybe once every three days, but he was still fully functional so it must be all he needed.

Dream sighed, rolling on his side. Purple teddy bear held to his chest as always.

He wanted to sleep. Bad dreams or not, selfish or not, he was tired and he needed energy to bring his best for the Multiverse. Simply laying around certainly wasn't better.

He didn't understand why he couldn't sleep. He felt so cozy and comforted after the day at the beach. Filled with an unmarred warmth.

…Maybe…

…Hm. Did he need to drink an entire bottle every time? Maybe… drinking only a little would be fine. Just enough to dull his hyperawareness. What's so different to using melatonin pills?

Carefully, still a little ashamed, Dream got out of bed.

His head didn't even hurt in the morning, so it must've been fine.

—

It's really not that bad. Dream remained Dream, the Guardian of Positivity, member of the Star Squad, Protectors of the Multiverse. He was just as reliable, endlessly and gladly inspiring hope in everyone around him. Everyone knew how Dream was. Dream helped and asked for nothing in return. Dream always saw the best in people. Dream determinedly kept his stance in the face of terror and destruction. Dream embodied goodness, in everything he did, everything he was. Always smiling sincerely, reaching out his hands. Dream and all that he was belonged to the people. He served his role dutifully, humble and dedicated, glad and proud.

After years, he'd eventually settled into this balance. Always outputting as much productivity as he could, and always looking to do it more. A worn routine.

This was just… another… tiny part of said routine. He never dared to overdo it — he never drank around people, the same way he never cried around people. He never did it two days in a row, never even did it twice in the same week. He was always very careful that he wasn't needed when he was… uhm, in that state. He didn't… always drink himself to sickness, some nights it was just to help him sleep.

No one was noticing. So it was fine. Dream was ensuring he was highly functional and stable. He could get out all these unwanted emotions and thoughts, flush them down the toilet, and then continue as if it wasn't needed in the first place.

Until he was taken off-guard.

His phone was ringing.

Dream picked up immediately, desperately hoping this was just Blue or Ink wanting to chat. Because here he was once again. Dressed in pajamas, on his bathroom floor. Staring at the swirling and swimming tiles with over one bottle of alcohol in his system. Waiting for the sickness to come and pass, as usual.

"Yeah–?"

"Dream, emergency," Blue's alarm was audible over the line. Dream's rolling stomach sank. "Nightmare and his gang attacked–"

"On m' way, give me– minute," Dream hauled himself to his feet, and promptly regretted it as sharp reflux burned his throat. He pushed it down.

To his credit, his awareness sharpened a bit, as he listened to Blue give him the details of where to go and what state they were in. Ink was already there, and he heard Blue go through one of his portals. At that point Blue had to hang up to engage in combat as well.

In the meanwhile, Dream tried to gather himself into something semi-functional. He knew he looked terrible when drinking, and he was far from dressed for fighting, he had to hurriedly put on more combat-appropriate clothes so he wouldn't earn himself unnecessary wounds or impede his movements. He also took barely a few short seconds to splash his face with cold water.

As always, his mind kicked into habit as soon as he heard 'emergency'. Settling into familiarity. Forcefully jammed into strategy and pragmatism, away from sorrow and pain and all those distractions.

In about a dozen minutes, he arrived at the described location, more specifically in a version of Waterfall. The teleportation made his stomach do uncoordinated flips but Dream barely even noticed it, because he spotted Killer and Dust both engaging Blue in combat and jumped in to deal with at least one of them.

"Dream!" Blue exclaimed in relief.

"Here," Dream called back, parrying the swing of Killer's knife with his staff. Sometimes Killer preferred regular ranged attack bullets, but it seems today (or, tonight, according to the Omega Timeline's cycle) he was more for close-ranged combat. Which was fine because Dream was experienced in both.

"Well look who deigned to join!" Killer spat laughter in Dream's face, gladly engaging him in a fight. He was as vicious as ever, relentless and dirty with his attacks. Dream was used to him and knew to keep his guard up at all times, responding with fast, precise blocks and attacks of his own so as to not allow him openings to abuse.

Or… he was used to Killer.

But as they fought, and Killer kept taunting him as he usually did, Dream was… having a harder time than he should be.

It felt like he was reacting on time, except again and again, Killer managed to steal hits from him that Dream should've been perfectly capable of handling. His reflexes were… fuzzier than he'd like. In a normal fight, they would still hold up, but again, this was Killer. Nightmare had picked out the members of his gang for clear reasons.

Everything was just a little uncoordinated. Just a little unstable, like they were fighting in shallow water even though they were still on dry land, like Dream couldn't manage his footwork. Each hit that landed jarred Dream, even though the pain was muffled as well. Dream was lacking.

…And Killer was catching onto it.

"Heheheee did we catch you off-guard, dreamboy?" he jeered as he slammed his blade against Dream's staff once more, undistracted by his own words. "Are you losing your spark?"

Dream didn't reply, focused on matching him beat for beat as much as he could. Though that wasn't uncommon. He wasn't much for mid-fight banter. That was more Ink's thing. It's why Killer liked fighting Dream specifically. He wanted to crack his composure.

"You're sloppy," Killer hissed, grinning, dodging and slashing in the same movement, "Not usually your style, Mr. Perfect!" he mocked.

And he was right. Dream excused the rushing of his metaphorical heart on the adrenaline.

"This is who our enemies are? Pathetic," Killer successfully managed to slam the hilt of his blade against Dream's wrist, which weakened the grip on his staff, allowing Killer a wide swipe that landed despite Dream's attempt at dodging. Dream registered absentmindedly that, thankfully, it wasn't a lethal wound.

"What is up with you?" Killer crooned. "Am I scaring you, sunshine? Was this a bad time? Or…" he paused, in a dangerously considering way.

Dream's gut wrenched. His eyes widened, just the tiniest bit that people usually would not notice.

But this was Killer. Killer, when he wasn't drunk on violence and pain, could be terrifyingly observant. He was like a shark sensing a single droplet of blood in the water.

Killer barked out a hysterical laugh.

"Are you drunk?!" he loudly marveled.

Dream was too late to catch the wince he made at that. It was just the confirmation Killer needed.

"Oooohohoho oh this is incredible!" Killer laughed, fiercely back to attacking. "Your Guardian, everybody! A drunkard! I knew I could smell something familiar!" he declared it all loudly, even if there was nobody here to hear except the two opposing groups. And the echo flowers.

But even though there were no civilians here to hear, Dream was violently cringing inside. Please, no, he begged, please just let me handle this and go back home.

"What, got sick of living the life anyone else would kill for?!" Killer mocked, abusing his new knowledge to gain the upper hand in their fight. Dream was even sloppier, struggling to keep up with him, backing up as Killer pushed onwards. "I'm embarrassed to even fight you, Dream! Tsk tsk tsk!"

Usually, Dream mentally shielded himself from Killer's and Nightmare's and everyone's negative remarks as much as he could. Usually he knew the point of their words was to get to him, him specifically. To weaken his resolve, to hurt.

So why was it getting to him now?

Horrifyingly, Dream realized he wanted to cry.

All Killer needed was for him to stumble for a moment, and then Dream cried out as a knife was plunged directly into his chest. Killer seized the opportunity, shoving him towards the wall with it so he could push the blade in up to the hilt.

As soon as he accomplished it, he twisted the knife, Dream letting out another highly pained sound, and then ripped his knife out to let him bleed.

Dream, uncoordinated, sloppy, hurting, overwhelmed, slid down to the ground, trying to at least breathe. Everything was spinning, and the back of his throat stung sharply and discontentedly.

Dream didn't even process Killer lifting his knife and summoning four blasters with the same gesture, laughing hysterically above him. He flinched and cowered pathetically as a second shape jumped between them, and it was the final push as he leaned forwards and retched on the ground. Or… he aimed for the ground but didn't quite make it. The humiliation burned as he saw he caught the bottom of his pants and his shoes and it was gross and he wanted to cry. He was shaking.

"–eam are you okay?!" Blue's worried voice floated in from beside him, and Dream squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his knees closer in, hiding his face in them.

He was collapsing in the middle of a fight. His friends needed him. He was letting them down. He was letting everyone see his composure break. He was broadcasting his weaknesses, his wrongness to their enemies. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just work?

Adrenaline and shame and sheer overstimulation wracked him inwardly and he felt sick, he felt so sick, he was going to throw up again.

"Dream, hey, hey, listen to me, it's okay, focus on my voice," Blue spoke. He was– he was kneeling next to Dream, blocking his view of the rest of the fight. If both of them were dealing with Dream's mess, then Ink had to be handling the rest on his own. And Ink was strong and incredibly capable, he was creative and didn't let things get to him, but Dream was letting him down.

They were both going to be disappointed in him. The thought felt like getting stabbed in the chest again.

Dream– Dream couldn't do this. He was a disappointment. He was a useless. A mess. He was a failure.

In barely a flash, he was back in his bathroom, bending forward to throw up into the toilet. Everything was spinning, and he clutched the bowl to stop the shaking of his hands. His face felt hot with shame and the blubbery tears breaking out of their prison.

Dream was struggling to breathe. It felt like his rib cage was made of stone, and he couldn't breathe in right. He was– he was trying to gasp in air but every inhale got cut off sharply, he couldn't breathe, everything was vibrating like pins and needles.

Dream let his forehead thunk down on the toilet seat, the cutting breaths starting to sound more like hiccups, like sobs. He couldn't get himself under control, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. It was all just a barrage of emotions he shouldn't be capable of even having, uselessness and panic and sorrow and self-hatred and guilt and disappointment and shame shame shame. He was a ruin. He felt so damn sorry the Multiverse depended on this thing.

Suck it up. Pull yourself together. Handle this. Be better. Be better!

But he couldn't. He couldn't. Every desperate attempt to pull himself together only made him more overwhelmed, only made him feel more incapable. He wanted to claw out the emotions. He wanted it out.

It hurt as he retched into the toilet again, acidic magic trailing down his chin. It was gross, it was so gross, he hated it. He hated the way his uncontrolled sobs echoed in the bathroom. He hated the way he couldn't even get up, trembling and weak and aching all over. He hated hating, he shouldn't even be capable of it.

How was he going to sleep like this? How was he going to look his friends in the eyes like this tomorrow? How was he going to look at anyone? Maybe they wouldn't know how much of a useless disappointment he was, if Nightmare didn't broadcast it to the whole Multiverse, but Dream would know. It would be in the background of all his actions, following him, never allowing him to forget because he had to remember his mistakes, he had to learn from them, he had to be better.

Who would need– who would want a Guardian of Positivity who wasn't even positive?

He tried to reign in the sobbing, he tried, he swore he tried. He always tried so, so hard but it was never enough. He was never enough. People always needed more, there was always more to do, he always had to be more. He couldn't even stop crying, when he shouldn't be crying in the first place.

Dream raised his hands, slamming them into the sides of his head. Just stop it. Just stop it. You're the one that messed up, you're the one who always messes up! It's your fault! It's always been your fault! Why are you crying? How dare you feel sorry for yourself you useless thing? People suffer constantly, and here you are, sniveling!

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Dream blubbered incoherently, not even sure to who. It was just– instinct, deep inside him. Sorry that he was wrong, sorry that he wasn't enough, sorry sorry sorry.

The tears didn't stop coming. It's like every tear he'd ever repressed was coming back for him with vengeance. He just kept crying and crying and crying, like he was trying to hold back the tears with his own hands but they just kept slipping through. How was he supposed to calm anyone else's tears when he couldn't even deal with his own?

He was made to help people, it was the definition of his existence to exist through others and for others. If he couldn't be theirs then he was nothing, he was as good as de–

"–shh, shh, it's okay,"

Dream jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder, no, no, what? There wasn't supposed to be anyone here, he was alone, he–

"Dream, it's okay, it's alright," Blue was kneeling next to him, keeping up a stream of reassurances, and the sudden shame Dream felt, like someone had grabbed his nonexistent intestines and squeezed.

"Blue– you– n– m– I–" he stammered, words slurred in a way he hated.

"It's okay," Blue insisted, "Look, look at me, hey," his hands came to cup Dream's face, and Dream felt borderline scared as he looked at Blue's gaze. It was gentle, but sure. "You're okay. Everything is okay. Stop thinking, just– breathe with me, please?" he said.

More tears bubbled into Dream's eye sockets because he couldn't, he couldn't–

"I need you to remind me how we did it, please? Please? How did we do it? How do we breathe deep?" Blue tried desperately.

He needed Dream. He needed Dream's help, and that's all Dream's shattered thoughts could focus on. His friend needed him.

Dream forced himself to gasp in air even as it burned, his chest and his throat.

"There we go, that's right," Blue encouraged, still holding his face, keeping Dream's eyes on him. "I think I'm remembering, keep showing me, okay?"

Dream gasped for air again, and Blue followed, inhaling deeply. Much more steadily than him. Dream tried to hold the breath but it burned and escaped him, and Blue held and exhaled with him, although slower.

Dream was still shaking with sobs but he pushed through, hands clutching tightly onto nothing, forcing himself to breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, repeat. Blue following him beat for beat.

They barely spent a few minutes that way before another presence joined them and Dream flinched, his already unsteady rhythm knocked off again.

"It's just Ink, it's okay," Blue reassured quickly. "He's got some medical supplies–"

Dream's eye lights snapped back to Blue in alarm, "Who's hurt?" he asked immediately, still struggling with cohesion.

Blue's face saddened, and that only panicked Dream more. There was someone injured who needed his help and he was sitting here freaking out–

"You are," Ink said next to them and flicked Dream's head with two fingers. Dream startled at it. He saw Blue send Ink a look at that, but he sensed no regret from Ink.

His mind grappled to process the words.

He was? He was what? Hurt?

…Oh wait. Yes. He was hurt. Killer stabbed him in the chest, he was still bleeding from it.

And then– then he'd–

More tears and shame pricked at his face. He shook his head insistently, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey.

"Dream, please let Ink help," Blue pleaded, worry lacing every word.

Dream hated to make him worry, especially over him, so in guilt, he relented.

With shaking hands, he removed his capelet and his shirt so it would be easier for Ink. Looking at it now, the wound was bad. It wouldn't kill him, it would take a lot to kill him, but it was bad. His blood dripping down from his severed ribs. It'd soaked into his clothes. It explained the burning of his breathing only partially.

"It's going to be okay," Blue lifted his face up again. "Just let Ink heal it, it's going to be okay Dream,"

He shouldn't be the one reassuring Dream. Ink shouldn't be the one cleaning his wound carefully to heal him. Dream should be the one taking care of them, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through hiccups, not even flinching as Ink gently cleaned his wound out with rubbing alcohol.

However the smell reached up to Dream's nose and nausea rolled in his stomach.

He shoved himself away from Blue to gag, pressing a hand to his mouth because he'd hate himself even more if he threw up on his friend.

"Whoops, sorry about that," Ink said casually, assuming he'd done something wrong.

"Not– not your fault," Dream reassured him, struggling to breathe through the nausea.

"Oh, I thought that's what we're doing? Apologizing for things that aren't our fault?" Ink said with a mischievously innocent smile.

Blue whacked his shoulder. Ink showed no regret, chuckling.

Dream was trying not to throw up again. He didn't usually vomit this much, but he usually stayed in his bathroom with little physical strain too.

He really, really wished they didn't see him like this.

"Oh, you still feel sick?" Ink spoke again, pushing himself to his feet, "I'll be back in a mo, keep an eye on him," he told Blue and then disappeared through a swipe of inky magic.

"Okay–" Blue exhaled through his nose, picking up the cotton and the rubbing alcohol, "I'll treat your wounds for now then, is that okay?"

Dream stared at the plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. Just the thought of the smell made him feel sick and ashamed and guilty, like he wanted to hide under his blanket.

"Oh–" Blue looked down at the bottle and then put it down.

"No, no, it's fine–" Dream was quick to reassure. His words were slightly clearer even though everything still felt like pins and needles. He was still intermittently hiccuping and sobbing, breathing shakily. And bleeding.

"No, we'll think of something else," Blue insisted, and Dream cringed. He couldn't even give it to them to not be a difficult patient. Way to burden your friends with what shouldn't even be their job, Dream.

He reached for the plastic bottle. He could patch his wound up himself, it was far from the first time.

Blue grabbed his wrist.

"Dream." he said sternly, and Dream couldn't help but hunch in on himself at the tone.

"Sorry,"

Blue breathed in and out in a measured manner.

"It's okay, I'm not mad at you," he said gently, and Dream could feel he wasn't. Mostly, he felt– frustration, worry and care, and sadness.

"Are– are you okay?" Dream asked. He didn't want Blue to feel frustrated and sad and all.

The frustration reared up at that, and then Dream felt it get intentionally shoved down.

"'S okay to be frustrated," he reassured, hand reaching up to Blue's shoulder in sloppy comfort.

"I'm–" Blue exhaled, "I'm not frustrated because you've done something wrong," he explained, "I just– I want to help you but I don't know how, and I'm... frustrated you're not letting us,"

Oh.

"Sorry," Dream mumbled, "I'm– I'm alright,"

"You're not," Ink reappeared, and Dream saw Blue wince at the bluntness. "Maybe this will help though?" Ink crouched down next to them, holding out a blister pack to Dream.

Dream let go of the rubbing alcohol, so Blue let go of his wrist. He accepted the blister pack, reading the name on the back.

'DETOX' and underneath, in smaller letters, 'active charcoal'.

"Charcoal?" he frowned.

"Yup!" Ink exclaimed. "It helps draw out, uh, bad things from your digestive system! Like food poisoning. Or alcohol,"

Dream stiffened, deeply uncomfortable and ashamed. Maybe they'd just heard Killer. Maybe they'd connected the dots. The two bottles still remained in the bathroom, after all, which is where they were sitting right now.

"I, I–" he scrambled.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Ink cut him off with a raised hand. "If you think that'll help, take it. You can even take two, it's not dangerous," he pointed at the active charcoal pack Dream held.

He hesitated.

"...Okay," Dream accepted, popping two out and swallowing them dry. It didn't taste like anything. He was thirsty. He felt completely drained, which didn't help the shaking and the wooziness.

"Wanna know what would help right now?" Blue spoke, and Dream looked at him hopefully.

"What?"

"Telling me how this upsets you so I can think of something else?" Blue pointed at the bottle of rubbing alcohol tentatively.

Dream cringed again. He should just tough it out. He was making things needlessly complicated, when he should be the person that makes things easier.

...But... Blue said it would help.

Dream took a wobbling breath in, then let it out. He was still blinking tears out of his eyes. Even though they weren't wracking through him anymore, he couldn't stop them.

"It's– the smell," he admitted quickly.

"Oh! Psh, well that's not a problem," Ink said easily, for some reason unraveling his (very long and thick) brown scarf that he loved. And then, bizzarely, he started wrapping it around Dream's neck, pulling it up so it rested over the lower half of his face too.

When Dream breathed in through his nose, all he could smell was Ink's natural scent, ink and paint and cloth.

"I– but what if I throw up again?" he looked up at Ink, voice small, eyes wet.

Ink stood with his arms crossed, smiling.

"You realize I throw up when I get overwhelmed, like, half the time, right?"

...Oh.

They were being… so nice. Showing him so much care, even though they shouldn't. But because they… wanted to?

It made him want to cry all over again, expression wobbling. They were so nice, and warm. He could feel their care.

"Thank you," he said softly to both of them.

"Anytime!" Ink beamed. "So is it gonna work?"

"I– yeah, I think so," Dream nodded, raising a hand to press the scarf to his face.

When Blue brought a cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol to try cleaning his stab wound again, the smell didn't hit Dream's nasal cavity, it didn't make him want to bend over and retch.

They spent some time in the quiet like that. Blue and Ink cleaning up his wound, healing it, and dressing it in a practiced manner. There were still tears half-heartedly streaming down from Dream's eyes, no matter how much he wiped them away with his hands and tried to hold them back.

He could feel the ache of the wound settling in, sharper now that it wasn't covered up by alcohol and adrenaline, but it wasn't more than what he could handle. His metaphysical stomach felt desolate, and he was so thirsty, but he worried he'd just throw it up again. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs and his eye lids, from the amount of energy he'd wasted in throwing up and freaking out.

And in the middle of a fight, too. And his teammates had rushed after him to help him, oh stars.

"What about Nightmare's gang?" Dream suddenly piped up in alarm.

"Oh don't worry," Ink waved a hand, "I ditched them at Error's," he cackled. Blue snorted.

Oh. Okay then.

"Good job," Dream praised them both. He really couldn't ask for better, more capable, more reliable teammates. Friends. "And… thank you. And– I'm–" his mouth wobbled more, and he tried to breathe the uprising tears away. "I'm sorry, I... I just– this–" how could he explain this? How could he justify himself?

He didn't want to lie to them. He hated lying. Especially to his friends.

"I thought it would help," his voice broke against his will. He stared at the floor, starting on the damned crying again. Get a hold of yourself, Dream. "I was trying to– I thought it would–"

Wordlessly, Blue reached over and dragged him into a hug. A second later Ink flopped into the embrace too, both of them sandwiching him like endearing annoyances.

Dream was… a bit stupefied. Here he was, drunk (post-drunk?), having botched a fight. Vomited magic dried on the bottom of his pants (he'd kicked his shoes off). Sitting with his best friends on his bathroom floor, an undignified mess in all ways.

And they just… hugged him.

Blue's arms around him were solid and strong, an unflinching aura of care. Ink had a steady calm presence, for all his hyperactivity, never overwhelming Dream with emotions due to their artificial nature.

They were… so warm.

Dream pressed his face to Blue's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut painfully. Blue rubbed his back, as much as he could with Ink there at least.

"It's okay," Blue comforted him gently. "You're okay. Everything is alright. You didn't do anything wrong, alright? You can let it out,"

Dream shook his head.

"Heeyy! There's room for only one emotionless Protector!" Ink whined, "Don't infringe on my copyright!"

Dream laughed wetly at that.

"I'm– but it's wrong," he argued, daring to voice his inner turmoil. Uncertain how exactly to describe the way he felt about it to someone else. "I– I wasn't made to cry," he tried.

"I mean, you can cry though, right?" Ink pointed out. "Sounds to me like you were made to do it, then,"

And… and Dream couldn't really argue with that. He was left speechless.

"Come on, what do you always tell other people?" Blue guided. "What do you say when someone's crying?"

Many things. But among those things,

"That it's... normal, and... healthy," Dream replied, quiet, uneasy. "But I'm not– it's not the same,"

"Why not?" Blue exclaimed. "Didn't it feel nice just now? Letting it out? Everything that was built up?"

…Miserably, Dream had to admit it did. Like there had been a dam accumulating inside of him, turbulent and heavy, metric tons of tears built up. And finally, he'd let some of it out. He was exhausted, and ashamed, but he did feel… eased, in a way.

"You're allowed to cry, Dream," Blue insisted softly. "Heck, you of all people should get to cry!"

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone," Ink said in a jokey tone, "It's going to be a Star Secret,"

"Yeah, Ink will probably forget in a day," Blue teased.

"Heeyy!" Ink complained with no upset behind it, instead amused. "Maybe you should forget it too, did you consider that?"

"Nope! I'm a magnificent keeper of secrets, mweheheh!"

Dream giggled wetly. They were so nice. He sobbed again, muffling it into Ink's scarf. He loved his friends so, so much.

"There we go," Blue encouraged, amused but sincere. Patting his back gently. "Do you still feel sick? Do you think we can move to your room–?"

"Yeah, it's alright," Dream swallowed.

"Dream,"

"No– it is, it really is, I– I want to change my clothes," he insisted, it was the truth.

"Alright, Ink, move a little please,"

Ink complained and there was a bit of shuffling. Dream also got ready to disengage from the hug, but instead he was taken off guard as Blue lifted upwards, still holding him. Easily picking Dream up, making him yelp. Jeez, he sometimes forgot how much sheer physical strength Blue had.

Blue cackled, having definitely done that on purpose.

Dream sighed in feigned annoyance, but considering how tired he was, he honestly appreciated the lift to his bed where Blue deposited him. Ink happily trailed after, and flopped down right beside him.

"Do you need anything else? Where are your clothes?" Blue hovered, still on his feet.

"I can get it," Dream pushed himself up.

"Noooooo," Ink complained, wrapping around him like a squid.

"Guys,"

"Dream,"

"Just–" Dream sighed, "please? I swear I'm better," either from the DETOX or he'd thrown it all up, or both. And from the sheer comfort and positivity of his friends. He was just… tired. So tired.

But… not in a hopeless way. Rather in a really sleepy way.

Blue was visibly unsure, but relented, sitting at the bed. Dream smiled at him. Ink unlatched from him, letting him get up. He got into pajamas, brushed his teeth because yuck, and also went to get himself a glass of cold water from the kitchen. He drank it slowly and crossed his fingers, hoping he wouldn't throw up again.

He lingered in his kitchen for a moment, just… breathing. His body was tired. Heavy and dragging. It was so much more than simple lack of sleep. It felt like he'd bled out. Not just literally. A part of him dreaded how this would all crash down on him tomorrow.

And he was still highly in danger of crying.

…But…

…Maybe, he was made for it. Maybe, it was good and healthy for him. That's what Ink and Blue thought. And Dream both trusted them and trusted their view. They were some of the most truly kind, capable, honest, caring, dedicated– ah, he could go on. Point was: he appreciated them. Maybe... maybe he should take them as a guide instead.

It was a bit terrifying? Because what if he was wrong? What if Dream was daring to go against everything that'd kept the multiversal balance intact this far?

…But he hadn't been enough, this far. So... clearly something wasn't working. It was time he tried to change things up Just a little. For the sake of goodness.

(And maybe, just a little, for his own sake.)

Dream refilled the glass, taking it with him. Pattering back to his bedroom.

Ink and Blue were still laying there, their collective aura easy and light and warm, though with mix-ins. They were chatting about something. Ink was holding up the purple teddy bear, making it move as though it was acting out their conversation.

Dream passed by and primly snatched it out of his hands.

"Heeyy!" Ink protested, and then his mental track switched as he grinned, "Oh I'm so happy you kept him!"

"Of course I kept him," Dream rolled his eye lights. "He's a gift from you doofuses,"

"Mweheheh!"

"I like his ribbon," Ink pointed out. "Purple and yellow, complementary colors,"

…Yeah.

"Dream. Bed. Sleep. Don't make me make you," Blue threatened.

"I dare you to try," Dream grinned.

"Oh Dreamy Mr. Guardian," Ink clasped his hands together theatrically, making his eyes big and sparkling, "I need aid remembering how to get into bed, can you please show me–!"

Blue mercilessly whacked him over the head, making Ink kick his feet and laugh loudly.

Blue sent Dream a glance, but Dream was laughing too. He wasn't particularly offended. Partially because it was Ink, but mostly because Ink was... pretty accurate with it, haha. Oh stars.

Oh so benevolently, he flopped into bed, laughing quietly as he got dragged in for cuddles. Holding the plushie close.

Tomorrow, the shame and guilt would crawl up his spine. Tomorrow, he was probably in for… difficult conversations.

Tonight, instead of alone, Dream was held by his teammates, his friends, listening to them chat and breathe, and he felt... alright. Tonight, instead of lying, Dream had cried and it was alright. Tonight, Dream slept alright.

[daflangstlairde-art]

"A Noble Occupation" Chapter 1, 6,224 words

Summary:

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame. — Dream acquires a new coping mechanism. It's not a very good one.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

They were in a naturally negative-leaning AU, though it had gone through its canonical plot, so Ink didn't complain. That was the deal they'd settled on — he was fine with Dream fighting Nightmare's sway over AUs that had finished their 'script'.

Still, said script wasn't especially nice to begin with, and it carried through to the current moment, too. And many of the monsters here (still in their Underground) did whatever they could to cope.

"It's alright," Dream assured one of them with a smile, healing their wounds, inflicted by several members of Nightmare's gang. "Everyone is alive, from here we just need to heal you, I promise,"

Several other injured monsters were huddled inside the bar, since it was a communal location. Somewhere they associated with togetherness and safety a little more, which is why Dream, Blue and Ink had brought them here for the medical aid. Some more waited around Dream for their turn to be healed — it was a rare ability for the native citizens.

It was warmer here than outside. It smelled like wood, and people, and alcohol and smoke and fried food a bit.

He… wasn't actually entirely sure if anyone was alive. They hadn't seen monster dust, but Nightmare's crew could've offed someone in a back alley of sorts, or in the middle of the forest. Dream really hoped not. He hated lying. People struggled to believe his comfort when they perceived him as a liar.

"Welp," one monster said gruffly, leaning against the bar, "Just more sorrow to drown in th' bottle," they declared, raising a glass of some liquid. Alcohol, Dream assumed, though he wasn't sure what kind. There was a weird lilt to their words.

"Hell yeah," another monster, maybe their friend, lifted their own glass and clinked them together.

"If it helps you feel better," Dream nodded. He'd tried alcohol once, one of the nearly clear types, but the sip had kind of burned, and it had an awful taste, and it didn't really do anything to him, so he didn't personally understand how it could help. But people drank it a lot, both when upset and when celebrating; he'd always assumed it was like some sort of medicine? That it worked in some specific way, like, it needed a certain quantity to work or it worked for some but not for others.

'More sorrow to drown in the bottle', huh? Maybe that's how it worked.

"Okay, your HP is back to full," Dream kept smiling gently, letting go of his current patient so he could move to the next injured.

—

"Thank you so much," another monster near-cried, holding onto his arm.

"Of course," Dream assured them, smiling. As he had the previous fourteen others.

It was another AU saved from destruction, and the people here were, understandably, relieved and ecstatic.

Even if Dream couldn't save everyone. Three dead. He didn't even know their faces, or even their names. Even still, their deaths clung to him the way his own post-battle injuries did. Sharp and painful and itching and shameful. Like pieces carved out of him. That's how every failure felt, even the "smallest".

He swallowed, and kept his smile on, as another family's member came to thank him profusely for their aid. Dream listened and assured them he was at their service, of course, any time, it was his duty, his honor.

He could feel all of their emotions. Everyone's relief, the happiness of surviving, the sheer gratitude they felt that they hadn't been forced to fight on their own — that the Protectors had come to them when they called for help. He also felt all the sorrow and the grief of the mourning, their anger, their bitterness, their hopelessness.

It was all so… so… so much.

He didn't complain, of course. There was nothing to complain about! Dream was happy to help, he truly was. He was happy to bring more hope and more life. It's what he was made for. It's what he was.

It was only the others' emotions. He didn't feel things like sadness or anger or exhaustion. Of course he didn't.

—

"Um, can I come in a moment?" Dream fidgeted, glancing back to one of the villagers (Sandiara, a sand monster, he was pretty sure, he had to remember, he couldn't just NOT know someone's name, then they'd be sad and Dream couldn't make people SAD). Then he glanced back to the Tree in the distance, trying to spot Night there.

"Aw but it's Palmela's birthday!" Sandiara (or maybe just Sandra?) insisted, reaching to take his upper arm. Dream let them, because– because of course he did. It didn't even cross his mind not to. It was– nice, right, it was polite.

"I know," Dream nodded vigorously, "and that's super great!" he insisted, "But um– can't… can't Night come too…?"

The other hesitated, unease mixing in with the rest of their emotions. Oh no.

"Ah… well… I'd love to but… well, do you really think he would want to? He isn't very…" they hesitated.

Right. Night didn't like big events full of people. Dream understood — they were super loud and all full of all kinds of emotions and experiences, but that was supposed to be a good thing! He always thought maybe Night just didn't have as much energy as him — Dream found them just as exhausting as everyone else surely did, but he could push through it. But he didn't understand why everyone acted like it was a bad thing. He didn't understand why they didn't even invite Night.

But he also didn't wanna make Sandiara or Palmela uncomfortable. He didn't like that he'd made them uneasy, he wasn't supposed to make people uneasy. Everyone agreed — he was really nice and what he did was make people happy always! That's why they liked him so much and invited him everywhere. All the time.

"…Okay," he relented, and remembered to smile because he remembered people could sometimes be uneased just by your expression.

"Yess!" Sandiara exclaimed, back to excited, taking off to lead him to Palmela's birthday celebration.

Dream glanced back at the tree again. He hadn't even said 'good morning' to Night today. It made him feel really bad, because he wanted Night to have a good morning and a good day and a good night. He wanted to make Night happy the most.

But he shouldn't be feeling bad at a birthday! It could show and then people would be uneased and it would be all wrong. So he smiled and went to celebrate a birthday. At least it would be fun and exciting.

—

"Dream, sir! Here, from me and Lilac!"

"Oh– ah, thank you," Dream accepted the gift from the monster's hands, careful to still smile and not cringe at it. He also didn't say 'no thank you, I don't drink' and return the bottle because refusing gifts was quite rude. People tended to insist you take them anyway. Neither Blue nor Ink drank, either, so Dream couldn't pass it off to them at the moment.

Ah. Well, alright, he was just about to head home from yet another celebration. He'd just find someone to gift it to. Later, because it was already getting late and Dream didn't want to miss the chance to sleep.

(He didn't get many of those. There was always something to do. That fact kept him up even when he did have the time to lay down.)

In barely a flash, he was back in his house, leaving the bottle of alcohol on his living room table. It looked like wine, maybe? Which he was pretty sure was common for celebrations. It was wrapped with a pretty yellow ribbon. He kind of wanted just the ribbon. He had a teddy bear (another gift, one that he's selfishly kept because it was from his friends and a really nice shade of purple) that it would look cute on.

But then he reconsidered. If he passed the bottle onto someone else, it might be rude to give it without a ribbon. It would be impolite to squirrel away just the ribbon, right?

He sighed, rubbing his face. Okay, he should just… go to bed. He hurried to get into pajamas, expecting to receive a phone call for an emergency at any moment. Not for any particular reason. Just… mentally preparing himself, because it was a common (very common) occurrence.

Especially here. Since he'd been unable to stay in Dreamtale, Dream had, at last, decided to live directly in the Omega Timeline. Blue helped him with acquiring a house, which was a weirdly confusing and complicated process even here. Or maybe it was confusing and complicated to Dream, who was, at the time, barely a couple months out of stone–

Don't think about stone.

Anyway.

It was a pragmatic decision, to live in a house in the Omega Timeline. That way he didn't even need to jump AUs to help its residents, who frequently needed him, considering they were most commonly survivors of destroyed universes. Victims. He was happy to be as available as possible to them. At any time. For anything they needed.

Until then, though, he finally laid in bed. Burying himself into the comfortable blanket and pillows. He really liked his bed. It had more than one pillow even though he only needed one (zero, technically) to sleep on. And a few stuffed toys! Which was a bit embarrassing. It made him feel childish.

The plushies were mainly from Blue and Ink, because Dream would've felt incredibly bad giving away the gifts from his closest friends. And they knew that. They knew he tended to give plushies and such to kids in need. And his clothes, to those in need. And just about anything he could that people needed. But Blue and Ink had practically threatened Dream that they'd be really sad if Dream gave away their gifts. Especially since several of them were handmade (Ink was amazing with crafts).

Which is why Dream now got to reach over and drag that purple teddy bear close to his chest. It was really nice, because he ha– preferred to not sleep alone. Hugging it tightly. Making sure it was warm under the blankets too, and that it knew he loved it so much and cared about it a lot and would never, ever leave it.

"Good night," he whispered quietly, face pressed to the top of its head, because he hoped it would have a good night.

(He never named it.)

—

"Fantastic form, Dream!" Blue encouraged from a few paces away.

"Thank you!" Dream called back, a grin coming over his face. Blue was really nice. Dream highly appreciated how encouraging he was.

"Are you feeling up to close range combat?" Blue asked, starting to remove some bullet constructs from the targets.

"Yes," Dream answered. Today was one of those incredibly rare lighter days, where they'd mainly dealt with issues in the morning. After that, Blue had dragged Dream away from his duties (finding people to help) to Underswap to train instead. Because training was also important.

Combat was one of the skills Dream rapidly picked up as soon as he was freed from his decades-long imprisonment, because it was one of the most necessary ones. Of course it was. He was the Guardian of Positivity — born, made to protect and nurture the positivity in the entire Multiverse. He was the opposition to his– to the Corrupted Nightmare. It was his duty. A unique role that was made just for him, that he embodied; nobody could take his place in it because it was him.

(Not– not his brother. His brother died when he bit that apple. Dream had to accept that already.)

And so now, Dream was a highly proficient fighter. That– that wasn't bragging! He had to be humble. He never quite won against Nightmare — even when he'd get the other to retreat in a battle, that was never winning the war. Dream was not arrogant. But he'd also learned to give himself credit, so he'd stay encouraged to keep going. And objectively, he was great at fighting.

Sure, he had no idea what people were talking about when they spoke about the weight of… taxes or something. But he could fight. He opposed Nightmare — the epitome of Negativity himself — readily, protected the people of the Multiverse. He had to. Being a bad fighter wasn't an option.

He was grateful that Blue reminded him to train.

And so they sparred. It was a lighter day, because Dream got to go home at a reasonable time. It was a lighter day, because no one died in front of him today. It was a lighter day, because Dream didn't need to sit down and heal his injuries.

(It was a lighter day because the guilt was stronger. The shame. The feeling that he just wasn't doing enough, he was never doing enough. Every second spent not helping and uplifting others and improving the world might as well be a second spent giving said world up to his– to Nightmare on a silver platter.)

Dream was itching with something to do. He– he had to be active. Just doing nothing felt… wrong. Blue was never harsh with training, though he definitely didn't baby Dream — but it left Dream with more energy than he was used to. He was used to being active for days at a time, that was his normal. And when he did rest, it was always 'coming home and immediately crashing for as long as he could'.

So he took a page from Blue's book and decided to clean.

Just a bit. Just to wait in case he got called for an emergency because that would be the more normal course of the day (it always felt odd to just… have time for himself). Nothing big — wipe away some dust built atop his furniture, put away stray items, that sort of thing. He… really didn't stay much in his house. It reminded him to check his stash of medical supplies, ensure he had everything. That way he'd know he could always bring people here to treat their injuries, if needed.

Yes. That was good. Sorting the medical supplies, noting what was running out — he was helping. Preparation for future tragedy, prevention, they're just as important for his work. It lifted just a bit of… the tight ball of emotions in his metaphorical gut.

The emotions that Dream wasn't supposed to be having in the first place. That he wasn't having, because he was happy to be responsible and prepared and to think of others' well-being, of course. Of course he was happy there was less tragedy today. Or at least, he was pretty sure there was.

…Unless they'd missed something.

Unless Dream had sparred and laughed with his friends, ignorant that the whole time, someone out there was suffering and he was doing nothing–

He blinked to try and clear that thought, rereading the label of the blister pack he was holding. And then again. Squinted. Medication always had such difficult names… how was this supposed to be pronounced–? There were only a few left, so clearly it got used a lot. So he had to get more.

Maybe he could just bring the pack to the drug store and show it to them. But… then they might think he wasn't capable enough for his work, and they wouldn't have faith in his abilities, so they wouldn't rely on him. He couldn't lose people's faith. He could write it down on a piece of paper and bring that, say it's for a friend? But… agh, he really hated lying. But this might be one of those times it was necessary (there was a horrible amount of such moments).

…It wouldn't be if Dream knew how to read well. It's not that he was illiterate! He just… his reading abilities weren't exactly… he just couldn't read complicated medication names.

(Sitting under the tree, pressed close to Night. Following along the written sentences that Night trailed with a finger as he read about… stars and fairy tales and anything and everything. Reading was one of the things he loved. Dream had tried to bring him every interesting book he came across. Especially since… Night never felt comfortable going to the village's library.

Dream tried to talk to him about it. As time went on, Night began only shutting him down more and more. Dream tried to take matters into his own hands — again, get the books and bring them to Night himself. It worked, until it didn't; until Night started shutting that down too, putting them aside and not even looking at them. Even though he loved reading. And yet, because of Dream, he couldn't even enjoy that–)

Dream squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled. Did he get hit in the chest today? It ached.

(He knew it wasn't physical pain.)

…What sort of Guardian of Positivity couldn't even read past a middle school level?

How was he supposed to protect the whole Multiverse when he couldn't even do that? It was… embarrassing. It's why he hadn't approached anyone to teach him, either. Well, that and the lack of time for it. There were more important things than Dream stumbling over syllables.

…And… and maybe it reminded him of his brother. Maybe there was a stupid, selfish child in him that wanted his brother to sit down with him, and show him how to pronounce the complicated words, how to know when a letter was pronounced this way or that way.

It was so stupid. So selfish. What if Dream's ability to read was imperative to help someone, and there was no one around to do it instead? What if someone needed this medication and Dream didn't have it because he couldn't say the name and felt too embarrassed about it to bring it to the drug store?

He pocketed it away into his Inventory. He'd think of something. He solved problems. It's what his job was.

Even when he was terrible at it.

He felt sorry for the Multiverse, sometimes. For everyone else, Nightmare had decades upon decades to build his power and spread his influence. For Dream, life had passed in a stony vegetative blur, and he woke up what felt like mere days after his brother's corruption. Now, it's only been several years since he was freed from his stone prison.

And now he was still learning. He still stumbled. He still struggled to help people because of things he just… didn't understand. The simplest everyday things.

He didn't know how to mop floors. He wasn't sure if glasses were supposed to be put into the cabinet upside down or right side up. He stared at the bottle of alcohol that he'd moved to his kitchen counter, because where was he supposed to put that away?

He didn't know how to reply when somebody was getting divorced from their toxic spouse who they nevertheless missed ("I'm sorry"? "Congratulations"?). He sometimes wasn't sure what the polite thing to say was, because there were so many unspoken rules about it, and all he got were abstract emotional cues.

Sometimes he understood Ink's confusion when it came to empathy.

He stared at the cutlery and wondered if he should take the time to wash the dust with soap, considering nobody really came to his house to use it. They usually went to Blue's house or Ink's Doodle Sphere, and the rest of the time he was busy, always busy. He himself ate on the move.

Hm. Maybe Dream should just give it away. Yeah. Someone definitely needed it more than his underused cabinets.

He sighed. He was tired, but he'd barely done anything today, so there was no good reason for it. No good justification for his desire to rest.

…On the other hand, if he didn't rest, his fighting skills and problem solving and emotional intelligence would be worse the next day…

Dream… felt a bit bad, but he headed off to get in bed.

His bed, as always, was soft. And warm. It was one of the pieces of furniture he used a little more than the rest, though that didn't say much. He was pretty sure he used his shower more.

(The sight of blood and dust swirling down the drain haunted his dreams, sickening. Then again, many things haunted his dreams, so that wasn't anything special.)

Dream stared up at the dark ceiling. His purple teddy bear held close. His blanket soft under his ungloved fingertips. He liked running his hands over it. Feeling the texture. It was soothing.

With every next minute, no phone call came to inform him of an emergency and demand his presence.

It was quiet. His house wasn't in the center of the Omega Timeline.

By all means, it was comfortable. It was ideal sleeping conditions.

And yet.

Dream couldn't sleep.

The minutes ticked on.

And he just couldn't sleep.

…This, unfortunately, wasn't anything new.

I should be doing more, the thought was ever-present in his mind. I'm not doing enough. I can't be sleeping. I have to… I have to…

…He… wanted to talk to his brother.

Dream squeezed his eyes shut again. Gripping the blanket.

That… wasn't a new thought. It was a very, very old thought, actually. Before the… Incident, even.

Dream had been busy all the time back then, too. There was always somebody to help. When night fell and he could finally walk back to the Tree, when he could finally laid down…

So, so very long ago, Night would start chatting with him, quietly. It would be one of the (depleting) times they'd get to talk. Just the two of them. As time went on, Dream… started becoming more and more tired, however.

Selfishly, so selfishly, he'd wanted to sleep. Idiotically, he'd sacrificed his time with Night for it.

Until Dream was the one to be begging Night to talk. Until Night would only lay with his back turned to Dream, pretending to be asleep so he wouldn't have to.

(It hurt, it hurt so much but Night was so upset, Dream didn't dare take away his rest too. He wanted his brother to feel okay. He didn't want Night to feel uneasy, forced to talk when he didn't want to.)

The sorrow was like an ocean wave. One moment, you're laying on the shore, dry and warm. The next, it's the almost gentle enveloping of cold and salty water over your face.

Dream squeezed his favorite plushie in a tight hug, trying to swallow down the upset.

He wanted to talk to his brother. He missed his brother.

No matter how hard he tried to deal with it, no matter how many lives Nightmare ruined, the sorrow never went away. Ever. It clung to Dream the way a ghost would haunt an abandoned house.

The Multiverse despised Nightmare. It was… fair, it had to be, because he destroyed anything he could reach, it's just the creature that he was. Pure Negativity given the form of Dream's long gone twin.

And yet. And yet, Dream just…

He looked at Nightmare and it was just that day, on repeat. That moment. The bite of the apple. All of Dream's failures, his shortcomings, his mistakes, compounding into one single calamity.

If he'd just shown Night that he loved him more. If he'd just pushed to talk to Night more. If he'd just protected him from the villagers' harassment. If Dream had just done more.

The sorrow wanted to physically push out through his eye sockets. He refused to let it. Always did. He had to accept that it happened, he had to move on and grow. Instead he was stuck, selfishly wanting to cry about what was his own fault in the first place.

He could never get rid of the sorrow. At times, it incapacitated him. Despite everything, there was a desperation in him to believe, to hope that somewhere deep, deep inside, his brother was alive. And if Dream just did enough for once, he could save him.

And yet here he was. Wasting precious time wanting to weep instead of sleeping. If he didn't sleep, he'd be worse off tomorrow, he'd make more mistakes, he wouldn't be able to give enough.

He needed– he needed a way to handle this. To just drown this out in one swoop.

…

…

…He remembered the bottle on his kitchen counter.

Maybe…?

Shakily, he pushed himself up. Out of bed. And padded over to his quiet kitchen. Turned on the light.

Yeah. It was still there. A yellow ribbon still wrapped around it, a shade just a bit lighter than the floor tiles. Did… did alcohol expire?

Dream went over and picked it up. Checking over the bottle. It was made of dark glass, he couldn't see much inside, but he thought it was… a red wine maybe? It didn't say anything about an expiry date anywhere on the label…

He tried unscrewing the cap, but it was kind of weird. Wrapped in plastic. He fetched a knife to carefully cut the thin plastic off. Hopefully that wouldn't ruin it…?

Finally, he managed to figure out how to open the bottle. He sniffed it, and then grimaced.

It was sharp, like rubbing alcohol, which he was more familiar with. Which… he… supposed made sense, it was 'rubbing alcohol' after all. But there was more to it. It was… weird. Maybe it had gone bad…?

Except… whenever people drank it around him, it always smelled kind of bad. And, again, it was a bit similar to rubbing alcohol. So maybe his theory was correct, and it was kind of like medicine, and medicine often smelled and tasted terrible. So…

Tentatively, Dream lifted the bottle to take a sip.

"Eugh," he grimaced immediately. It was a bitter, breathy taste. He recalled overhearing people comment things like 'Oh I love that wine!' around him, which was even more confusing now. It tasted awful.

Then again, so did coffee. But when he'd been given a cup with milk and honey to try, that had tasted good. Did Dream need to dilute this too, mix it with something?

…Well, coffee was stronger plain. And… Dream wasn't going to be drinking this for the taste.

Usually, his emotions were cut up into tiny pieces and distributed to everyone he interacted with throughout the day, leaving him spent at the end. Making the grief duller. It's why it hit him harder on lighter days. It actually had time and energy to be felt.

He really hoped this would help him get rid of it.

Dream took a larger sip, shivering as the taste got even less bearable.

.

.

.

Somewhere along the line, he had to sit down.

He wasn't taking his time at all. He tried to do this quickly, down it like medicine. It was difficult, but not much.

He'd chug a bit of the wine, and then wait to see if… anything happened. And then drink more when nothing felt different. At least at first.

And now here he was.

There was… more in the bottle… he was pretty sure. But he was sitting on his kitchen floor, leaned back against the cabinets. And everything was… woozy.

He swallowed, then swallowed again. His mouth felt weird, but only a little. More than that, his head felt weird.

Everything was kinda… spinning and… tilting this way and that. Including his metaphorical stomach. Ugh, he felt queasy. Dream struggled to focus much, too. Thoughts slipping, and he'd only notice seconds after, and then he was unable to chase them.

Which was… which was good, right? He'd wanted to… get rid of it. Of the… bad thoughts.

The kitchen floor was cold. Not very comfy.

Mm. His mouth felt weird. And so did his stomach. He really hoped he wasn't getting sick from this. Could be be allergic or something...? He couldn't, right? His body wasn't, like, him, it was… just a shape, sort of.

He didn't… really feel better, either. He just felt sick. And thirsty. And kind of… pathetic.

Look everyone. The great Guardian of Positivity. Needing alcohol to get rid of… his… wrongness. It was downright humiliating.

He swallowed again, squinting to try and… get a grasp on his thoughts. Ugh. He lifted the bottle again, as shameful as that felt, to drink again, because he was thirsty and he wasn't feeling any better and maybe drinking more would finally make it work.

Oh. That was… after the last sip, Dream pulled the bottle away, looking at it. It was… empty now. Oh. Ah. He hadn't…

He should… throw it out. But not with the ribbon, that'd be a waste and wasting was bad. It was a really pretty ribbon. He liked yellow. Yellow was warm.

Dream lifted his second hand to pick at the ribbon. Slide it off the bottle clumsily, putting it in his Inventory. Now, he could throw the bottle out. He'd have to… he hoped no one would see it.

Dream placed a hand on the cabinets, and one on the floor. Shuffling into a different position made everything tilt one way and then the other. He squeezed his eyes, and then opened them again.

He felt… sick. Was he sick? He really hoped he wasn't sick. If he was sick, he'd be useless tomorrow and if he was useless, then… then…

…Dream should– get up. Just get up. Don't cry. Stop wanting to cry. Just stop. Why wasn't this working? He just wanted to be…

He refocused again. Okay. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He's suffered through debilitating injuries in the past, he wasn't unfamiliar with nausea. Just breathe through it.

One hand at the kitchen counter, he pushed himself to his feet. And stumbled. And everything swayed dangerously, stomach rolling, his mind struggling to catch up with it. But he remained upright. He wasn't that out of it.

Okay. Good. He opened the cabinet with the trash and threw the bottle out. He swallowed. He was still thirsty. The bitter taste lingered in his mouth and didn't help at all with the nausea.

Carefully, Dream shuffled over to his kitchen sink, turning it on. Cupped both his hands under the cold stream. Leaned down and drank some water. Washing away the taste. Feeling it go down his metaphorical throat. It was nice. He drank more.

He turned off the faucet. He took a breath.

Okay. Experiment… failed. Maybe. He felt awful. Although… it did substantially dull the sharp pains of his previous thoughts.

He should… go to bed. Right. He had to walk to his bedroom first.

Dream walked to his bedroom. It was slow and far less coordinated than he'd like. He prided himself on good form. A steady archer hand, a… whatever it was called when you hit targets good. He wasn't the best with words. It was really an issue when he needed to… talk with people. Let them talk to him and then help them, that is.

Okay. He made it to his bedroom door. And then to his bed. And then collapsed into his bed.

Finally, he could curl up in the dark of his bedroom. He couldn't be bothered to pull his blanket over himself. He feel-searched for his teddy bear, eyes closed, and hugged it close.

He…

…He hated being alone.

It felt wrong, the way being sad felt wrong, the way sitting idly felt wrong. Like it was against his existence or something, like it shouldn't be happening. The house was so quiet.

But Dream didn't– he was the one who… supported others. The one who cared for them. He was the one who kept others company. Not the other way around. So this should be right. Maybe. It was confusing.

He curled further in on himself, nausea sloshing around his metaphorical insides. He felt so sick. It's like it was at his throat. He could almost feel it in his mou–

Dream barely had the reaction time to teleport into his bathroom before he bent over the toilet and threw up.

It was horrible. The forceful expulsion of liquid magic out of him, burning the back of his mouth like stomach acid would. He felt sluggish and uncomfortable and still so upset.

He watched the warm color of his magic swirl in the clear toilet water. Head leaned on the seat. Breathing deeply through his teeth.

He felt like crying again. Not like earlier. More like whenever he had serious injuries that threatened his composure. Like the sadness just looked for any opportunity to break out of him. Dream wouldn't let it. He shouldn't be sad.

He was… so loved and appreciated. He was so needed. He had an incredibly good life, compared to so many out there who suffered. What's there to be sad about? He's Dream, he's happy!

Maybe this had worked, after all. Maybe this is how it worked. Drink until you throw up all those bad feelings. Physically, forcefully expelling them from your body. That made sense.

—

Dream woke up with a horrible headache.

He'd only cracked his eye sockets open a little, but closed them immediately as the daylight pricked his brain through them.

He groaned quietly, rubbing his face.

He… didn't quite remember it clearly, but it seems he did end up making it back to bed last night. And then falling asleep. And then…

Huh. He actually felt like he'd slept pretty deeply. His dreams were uncharacteristically blurry, too, slipping between his fingers.

He didn't feel amazing, but he certainly felt better than last night. A little ashamed, but if he was functional today, then it would be justified he had to do it, right?

He pushed himself up, breathing deeply. His throat was parched. And his breath smelled terrible. And he felt heavy and sluggish. And he was starving. At least one of those must be from the alcohol. The last one could also be just from the vomiting.

Eugh.

Dream picked up his phone to check, just in case, for any missed calls or messages, check what he had to do toda–

One p.m.?!

Dream shot to his feet, and then immediately regretted it. What?! He never slept in this late! Did he really sleep that deeply?!

Oh angel, he'd wasted so much time, people needed him, he was so selfish, this was bad. He had to get moving now, random headache or not!

In barely a few minutes, Dream hurried to start the day.

—

"Dream?"

Dream abruptly raised his head from the table.

He'd only rested it down for a moment, in hopes it would ease his headache. Blue and Ink were talking between the two of them so he'd thought it would be fine.

"Yes?" he looked back at Blue, who called his name, and Ink, both of them looking at him. What do you need?

"Are you okay?" Blue asked, with a bit of concern, which made Dream cringe internally.

"What's up?" Ink sat on the table, idly swinging his legs. His voice lacked such a tilt, neutrally cheery as always.

"Nothing," Dream assured them, returning a smile. "I'm okay,"

"You were later than usual today," Ink wondered aloud. "You're usually an early type of guy,"

"Did you sleep at all toni– recently?" Blue asked, hovering near the table. They were in his house for a brief reconvening. They'd be back to work after that. At least Dream would be.

"I did," Dream answered, and it was the truth. He'd slept deeper tonight than he did usually, actually.

He felt Blue's brief hesitation. Whether he should prod more or not. Dream was worrying him.

"I promise I'm fine," he put as much sincerity into it as he could. But he didn't like lying, so he swallowed down the discomfort and admitted, "I just have a tiny headache, it will go away soon," he waved a hand.

"Oh!" Ink hopped off the table and skidded off into Blue's kitchen. Dream wasn't sure why and didn't question it — Ink was like that. He could've just remembered he had something to do.

"It's…" Blue was still hesitant, "…You know you can take a break if you're not feeling alright," he reminded, gently. Sincerely caring. It made Dream warm.

"I know," his smile softened. But he was alright. He was always alright, so he never needed a break.

Ink skidded back into the room, carrying a cup. The water almost sloshed out of it with his movements. He placed it down in front of Dream, and Dream blinked at it.

There were tiny bubbles in the water.

"Sparkling water?" he questioned, picking up the cup.

"Nope!" Ink said. "For your headache!"

…Oh. Right. Medicine. Because that helped with headaches.

Dream… forgot. That he could take medicine. For benign pains. And not just health-threatening ones.

"Oh." he voiced. "…Thank you, Ink," since Ink struggled with emotional stuff sometimes, he'd instead focused on fixing the issue in a tangible way. Showing he cared in that way, where Blue had asked after his well-being. It was sweet. The way they both cared in their own manner.

Ink gave him two thumbs up. Blue snorted.

Dream downed the medication and soon, his headache eased up.

[daflangstlairde-art]

Cover art for my fic "A Noble Occupation"! Chapter 2 will update sometime around this weekend <3

Dream belongs to jokublog

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Childish Dreams" [INTERACTIVE]

Fanfic summary:

"Night!" the child stumbled a little, running towards him with hands outstretched. "Are you okay?!" he exclaimed in worry. Oh, fate. It was about time you presented him with such a sweet opportunity. — Dream, somehow, got turned into a kid. Nightmare takes advantage of the opportunity.

Chapter 2, 2956 words

Credits, content warnings and further information on ao3.

—

"Night…?"

No reply came.

Dream was… very confused.

He wasn't sure why Night locked him in this room. Actually, he wasn't sure what this room was at all. Dream stayed in place at the door for a few minutes, sort of looking around, trying to make sense of the situation.

It wasn't a tiny room. It was pretty dark even though it had windows. And cold, too. It wasn't empty but clearly nobody used it, because there was dust, and even though there was furniture, there were no belongings.

He wasn't sure why him and his brother were here? And… where 'here' is?

Dream was confused about many things going on right now, actually. Like! His brother was suddenly very tall and there was a weird vibrating echo to his voice, and he'd been covered in that painful goop stuff.

Dream really hoped he wasn't hurting. He hoped Night was okay.

He also didn't know who those people were, the ones that came with them. Night seemed to know them for sure, and Night… didn't really talk to people.

Maybe they were friends! Dream really hoped so. He's be so happy if Night had friends, no matter how weird they were.

…Nobody was opening the door yet. He wondered if Blue and Ink would come along too, although they didn't seem to get along with the others much… Dream would have to do something about that.

For now, though, he started to move around the room, curious and lacking something better to do. There was a bed with all black sheets. They were nice to the touch, but also dusty and the blanket was thin.

Did– should Dream clean around here? The people from the village asked that of him sometimes. Helping with chores — so he was good at it. Was that why Night put him here? There wasn't much to clean, just all the dust. Well, it wouldn't hurt anyone.

Dream started smoothing out the sheets, trying to pat some of the dust off. He didn't have a towel or a duster or anything, but he made do as he moved around the room.

Still, nobody came to the door. Nobody unlocked it. And he was finished with that task pretty fast. And there wasn't really anything else to do.

Dream stood in the middle of the chilly dark room, looking around, fidgeting. Um. Was he supposed to wait for something…?

(He didn't really, um. He didn't really like being separated from Night like this, unable to reach him. Because whenever he did reach him, Night was… not really okay.

Then again, it was Night who put him here. So it should be fine! …Hopefully.)

Dream shook his head. He was missing information. He didn't really like missing information, but it happens! He was gonna figure it out and then everything was going to be okay.

The room continued to be quiet and empty and still. It felt a little weird. Dream wasn't used to being alone. He was used to being with at least one person, or many many people.

Did he… did he do something wrong…? Blue did seem upset Dream had showed up to their fight, but he'd only been trying to help.

The thought sent a really awful sharp twisting emotion through him. Things went really, really bad when he messed up.

He tried to smooth the emotion out because it felt wrong, like he shouldn't be feeling it, like he was doing another thing wrong by feeling it. He smiled to himself to remind himself how that felt instead. Think nice thoughts! You're a Guardian of Positivity!

"It's okay," he reassured himself, "Whatever's wrong, I can fix it!" Dream decided. That's what he did! He fixed stuff and he helped people and stuff.

So Dream waited. Not like there was much to do.

He looked around the room's nooks and crannies. The wardrobe was empty, save for a set of spare sheets. It was big enough for him to fit inside, but not much bigger. There were big dark curtains. When he looked out the window, he saw a spanning forest, and gloomy weather. So maybe they were somewhere around the village, just farther away than Dream had gone in the past. The trees didn't really look the same as the ones in their forest — bigger and spikier — but forests could have different types of trees in them.

He couldn't find a mechanism to open the window. It was a weird window, not the type he was used to. It had no latch. There was a handle that twisted, so maybe it was broken?

He tried to think of ways to pass the time. Like playing made-up hopscotch. Or singing quietly to himself, sitting on the bed and swinging his legs. Or tidying up even though everything was already as tidy as it could be.

It was boring. And quiet. And… lonely.

Not just due to the lack of people. There was… like… it felt like there was fog inside the room that made breathing weird. Like a cold sort of air. The type that dampens your mood. Like this wasn't a very nice and friendly place.

He tried to shake it off though. He didn't like lingering on it. Maybe it's just 'cause the room was unoccupied. It would be nice to have someone to talk to.

Ink and Blue had been nice. They said they were Dream's friends! He didn't recognize them but he didn't think that was a lie, he was friends with everybody. And they gave him clothes that fit better! Blue promised they were going to keep him safe and Ink drew pictures with him. Dream tried to draw a bird. He wasn't great at drawing because he never really had time to because he was helping. But Ink said it was adorable. Dream wished he could bring some paper and pencils to Night to draw because Night could draw really good. He didn't do it a lot though, because he didn't have stuff. And because his drawings always went missing.

They only ever went missing when Dream wasn't there. And then Night stopped drawing. But he could probably still do it, right?

Dream flopped down on the bed with a sigh. It wasn't an uncomfortable bed. He hoped it was okay for him to lay on it. Nobody was using this room but maybe it was meant for someone else and he was just here to keep an eye on it.

…Maybe it was Night's room! It was all dark, haha. And Night had the key to it. Ooh, did he put Dream here because Dream was also going to have a room and they were going to match?? And he had to prepare it so it was a surprise?? Haha, that'd be great! Dream loved surprises. Sort of. Nice ones, at least.

If this was Night's bed, then… he wouldn't be upset if Dream laid on it for a little bit, right? There just wasn't anything to do. And he felt a little tired. Just a tiny bit.

(It felt as if the room itself was making him tired.)

After a few hours of waiting, the burns from the black goop had sort of faded. The bed sheets were nice when he curled up on top of them, running his hands over the cloth. They smelled… clean, in an unused sort of way. The pillow was soft. He wasn't really used to sleeping on a pillow like this, so instead he pulled it to his chest to hug and squish his face into it.

It was quiet. Static. Still, nobody came.

Dream exhaled softly, closing his eyes. He was just going to have a quick nap.

—

Surprisingly, when Dream was roused from sleep, it was to a hand hesitantly shaking him.

He blinked his eyes open, yawning, and the hand immediately shot back. It was a skeletal hand so for a moment he thought it was his brother, but when he quickly looked up, it wasn't.

It was those same three guys as before. The one that shook him awake and now stared at him as if Dream would explode was the one with a big red eye and a hole in his skull.

"Are you okay?" Dream asked immediately because he hadn't earlier (which was a bit inconsiderate of him).

The guy blinked, hovering uncertainly. He exchanged glances with the other two. The one right behind him had totally black eyes with the same blackness dripping out, and the one closest to the door (closed) had a hood on that made his face all shadowy.

Wait.

"Are you okay?" Dream asked the one with the black goo dripping down his face. It was just a droplet or two, was he crying? Was it the same stuff that covered Night, did it burn? Dream pushed himself out of the bed and to his feet, "Are you hurt? I can heal you!" he was good at healing, he healed tons of people all the time.

The dark-eyed one snorted and started cackling. The one with the hood elbowed him. This didn't stop him at all. Dream giggled.

"We're fine," the red-eyed one said flatly. He felt out of his element and a bit exasperated, Dream could tell. He hoped it wasn't because of him. "Sit down and eat," the same one said, gesturing– oh! There was a tray of food at the foot of the bed.

"Okay," Dream sat back down on the bed, pulling his legs up to cross them. On the tray, there was a bowl (black ceramic) of what looked like veggie soup, a plate (black ceramic, there was a theme here) with cut up chicken, and a plastic bowl with green grapes. And also some sliced bread.

"What are your names? Mine is Dream!" Dream introduced himself. He'd introduced himself earlier but they hadn't, and he didn't want them to feel bad for it, maybe they just forgot. Even now, they hadn't moved from where they all stood. He didn't sense any… big discomfort or anger in them, though. They felt mostly uncertain. Amused, in the case of the black-eyed guy.

"…Horror,"

"Heh, Killer,"

"…Dust."

"Nice to meet you!" Dream said, smiling at them sincerely, picking up the spoon. He hoped he could put them at ease a little, he was usually pretty good at it. "You know my brother, right??" he scooped up some soup, blowing air on it to cool it because it was still steaming. It smelled nice.

"…You could say that,"

"Yeah!"

"Sure."

These guys were funny. Dream ate the spoonful of soup, not minding the way Horror watched him closely.

It tasted nice. Pleasantly salty and warm.

"This is really good!" Dream complimented, grinning at them.

Horror blinked at him.

"…Uh, thanks," some of that uncertainty eased up. Oh, he made this! That was nice of him.

"Are you not gonna eat too?" Dream asked them, eating a piece of the chicken next.

Killer coughed awkwardly and Dust glanced away.

"That's… for you," Horror replied.

"If there's not enough you can have some of mine," Dream picked up the plate with the cut up chicken and held it out to them. "I don't really eat much usually, anyway,"

They stared at him. He just kept smiling, waiting for them to make up their minds.

"Come on! I like eating together,"

Finally, Horror sighed, rubbing his skull. Dream still worried a little whether it was hurting him.

He shuffled over, sitting at the edge of the bed. He picked up a piece of chicken and started chewing on it.

"Hah! Kid's already charming you, huh Horror?" Killer teased, flopping down on the floor next to the bed, and Dust copied him.

"There," Horror said to Dream after finishing his bite, ignoring Killer. "Happy?"

"Mhm!" Dream nodded smugly, spooning more soup. He handed a slice of bread to Killer and to Dust, both of who accepted it with amusement. Bread might be easier for them if they didn't feel like eating much.

"So," Killer indulged him by chewing some bread, "What, you're not scared we'll hurt you? At all?"

Dust stiffened, and Horror glowered at him.

Dream knew they carried the frost of violence. And they'd been fighting against Blue and Ink with clear harmful intent. He wasn't blind or stupid. But he didn't know their stories or their reasons, and so far, they hadn't been mean to him. And if they did decide they want to hurt him, they'd probably have a reason for it, right?

"Nope!" he replied easily, also eating some chicken.

"Huh," Killer considered that.

Horror raised a brow ridge. "You should be more careful around strangers," he frowned. Blue said that as well.

Dream… didn't really get it. Maybe because, back at the village, he'd known just about everybody, even if distantly. He was careful! He was as nice and helpful to strangers as he was with everyone.

"I am!" he nodded along, eating his soup. "But thank you!" it was nice of Horror to be concerned.

He felt mild surprise from Horror.

"We shouldn't stick around long," Dust muttered, glancing at the door. He was wary.

"He hasn't even finished his food," Horror argued, just a little sharp, "We can stay for a minute,"

(So Dream was expected to finish all his food. That meant he wouldn't be able to sneak any of it to bring to Night, but these people were kind of on good terms with Night, so he would get some too, right?)

Oh, no, they were in a rush and Dream was keeping them here. He tried to eat a little quicker.

He wanted to chat with them while they were here though, even if they weren't very talkative. That was okay though, he knew not everyone is. It's just that he'd spent, like, all day alone. All evening, that is.

(And he could tell they needed some niceness.)

"I can help wash the dishes," he offered, so he wouldn't give them even more work to do. And to repay them for the food!

"Nope," Killer immediately dismissed the idea, "You're staying right here,"

"Oh," oh. Dream fiddled with the spoon, gathering up some finely chopped carrots. "Okay!" he smiled. Maybe it was for a good reason! Or, if he'd done something wrong and that's why he was being locked in here, he wouldn't complain about it, he was very well-behaved. "What are your hobbies?" he asked them, because people were generally pretty happy to get to talk about their hobbies and passions. And he loved to make people smile!

Except they all got vaguely uncomfortable. Killer's then switched to delighted.

"Oh, you know, murder, torture–" he said casually and then oofed as Dust elbowed him again. "What?! Would you rather I lie to him, huh?" Killer exclaimed. "Literally all of us have children's b–" he was cut off as Dust slapped a hand over his mouth. Killer tried to shove it away, and then they were sort of wrestling. Horror looked incredibly done with them.

Dream was failing to suppress snickers at their behavior.

"Jeez kid," Killer commented, valiantly keeping Dust's fists away. "That really didn't bother you? Maybe you are as fucked up as your–"

"Oh my stars stop–" Dust groaned.

And, well.

…Either Killer's words weren't true, and so there was nothing to worry about.

Or they were true, and Dream should just continue being nice, so he didn't provoke him/them. As long as he did everything right, he wouldn't get hurt!

(Or his brother.

…it was usually his brother who– Dream just… shouldn't mess up.)

Dream just laughed like it was a joke, smiling and cheery.

"Alright," Horror sighed harshly. Practically all the food was finished now, only some grapes remained, so he moved the little plastic bowl onto the bed and lifted the tray with the rest.

Oh– he was leaving the rest of the grapes with Dream! Yay!

Oh, but they were leaving–

"Thank you for the food!" Dream exclaimed, "And for keeping me company!" he added, and then tried to think if there was anything else he had to say, instead of letting himself feel sad that they were leaving. "Um, is it okay if I sleep here?"

"Your room — do whatever you want," Dust said, already pushing himself up to his feet.

"Any mess you make, you'll just have to deal with," Killer shrugged with that same sharp grin he seemed to always be wearing, trailing after Dust.

"When are you going to be back?" Dream dared to ask.

"Breakfast," Horror answered simply, shepherding the other two out.

They closed the door behind them, and Dream heard a faint click follow after.

He listened to their voices, muffled behind the door. Getting further away.

And then it was quiet again.

He sighed. Well… at least they were going to be back at breakfast!

He just had to sleep until then and maybe the time would pass quicker. Even if it was just as lonely.

He put the bowl of grapes on the little night stand next to the bed so he could save them for Night. Then, he reconsidered, and opened the drawer itself to put them inside.

He wasn't hiding them! He wasn't. He wasn't sneaking food. He was… just…

They wouldn't be mad, right? Horror didn't seem like the type to throw food away just so Dream couldn't give it to Night, right?

…Dream made the decision to hope so. To believe they could be nice. They wouldn't be cruel. He insisted it to himself.

He felt full, and there was nothing else to do, so Dream curled up under the blanket and tried to sleep.

[daflangstlairde-art]

Aaaa thank you ehe !! Your art and the concepts in your comics bang <3

I've been exploring my art style trying to figure out how I like to draw these skeletons, and @signanothername has a very distinct one! I asked for permission to take inspo on anon :] Keep up the great work, I utilized the sharp shapes you use (I love sharp shapes) and Killer's freaky grin

Drawing is also inspired by my own Killer-centric fic "she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands"

Lyrics are from "Never Wanted to Dance" by Mindless Self Indulgence (though I don't really support them as a band)

TW blood, TW strangulation, TW abuse

Killer belongs to rahafwabas

Nightmare belongs to jokublog

[daflangstlairde-art]

I've been exploring my art style trying to figure out how I like to draw these skeletons, and @signanothername has a very distinct one! I asked for permission to take inspo on anon :] Keep up the great work, I utilized the sharp shapes you use (I love sharp shapes) and Killer's freaky grin

Drawing is also inspired by my own Killer-centric fic "she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands"

Lyrics are from "Never Wanted to Dance" by Mindless Self Indulgence (though I don't really support them as a band)

TW blood, TW strangulation, TW abuse

Killer belongs to rahafwabas

Nightmare belongs to jokublog

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Childish Dreams" [INTERACTIVE]

Fanfic summary:

"Night!" the child stumbled a little, running towards him with hands outstretched. "Are you okay?!" he exclaimed in worry. Oh, fate. It was about time you presented him with such a sweet opportunity. — Dream, somehow, got turned into a kid. Nightmare takes advantage of the opportunity.

Chapter 1, 1776 words

Credits, content warnings and further information on ao3.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61963975

—

"No no no, you're gonna hurt him!"

And just like that, all fighting froze in place.

It was the voice of a child. In the middle of their battle. Killer was frozen with his knife high and ready to stab at Blue, while Dust and Horror took Dream's absence to team against Ink. Nightmare had found no need to intervene, simply standing back and smugly watching the havoc and destruction always rightfully linked to his name.

Because Dream was missing. Because he'd been waiting for Dream to appear, so he could target him personally, as he so frequently did.

Well.

He got what he asked for, in a way.

"Night!" the child stumbled a little, running towards him with hands outstretched. "Are you okay?!" he exclaimed in worry. Not fear, not hatred, not anger, which was normal, those weren't Dream's modus operandi; but not in sadness, not in regret, not in morose conviction.

He could feel it. Worry. For Nightmare. The corrupted King of Negativity. His arch nemesis of decades past.

"DREAM!" Blue yelled, full of alarm. Nightmare watched– Dream wince and slow down, highly emotionally tensed though he hardly showed it. "We told you to STAY. HOME–"

"I'm sorry…" Dream fidgeted, looking down. Guilt. Anxiety. "But you needed help… I can help!" he looked back up, grinning back at Blue. And then he once again looked up to Nightmare, just a few paces away.

'Up' because he was a tiny child. No older than the day of Nightmare's… becoming. His ascension.

Likely not having travelled here from the past, however — his circlet remained as always, but his clothes were different. Nightmare had never seem him dressed like this. They were clearly borrowed. A yellow shirt, an orange zip-up hoodie that was too big on him, light blue trousers. Far from the borderline princely or knightly outfits he would don these days. (Nightmare always dressed far more regal than him, however, of course.)

Everyone on the battlefield was stupefied still.

"Dream," Blue hissed, eye lights frantically flicking around, still braced to parry Killer's stabbing.

"Night, are you okay?" Dream pretended not to hear, eye sockets wide and looking still at him. Was he… caring? No, that was preposterous. It had to be faked, it always had been. Nightmare could only imagine the expression he wore.

"What."

"You're, um," Dream tentatively stepped even closer, reaching out. "There's weird stuff on you…" he muttered.

"How did he even know that's his brother?" Ink wondered aloud, perhaps the only one naturally unperturbed.

"I don't know," Blue stressed, like he carried tension enough for both of them.

"OH because of the crown!" Dream looked back at them, pointing at Nightmare's head. Or, rather, his circlet.

Still reeling, Nightmare raised a hand halfway as if intenting to… take it off or something. He still wore it, because he was a King. And it pleasantly dirtied Dream's name — everyone should know whose brother was sowing suffering throughout the Multiverse.

"It's okay!" Dream turned back to him, smiling like sunshine. It occurred to Nightmare he'd hardly seen his grins that… radiant for a while now. Always marred by hidden tiredness, indicative of Nightmare's own building strength. Those shadows lingered now too, though. That was another difference to their youth. "We can, um… I'm sure it can wash off!" the child, what, reassured him?

What the hell was going on?

"What is this?!" Nightmare's expression turned to a glower, pinned on Blue (as Ink would hardly care).

Blue cringed, and sensing his emotions wasn't even needed to see the discomfort and panic he was experiencing. Killer still held a knife above him, though all of Nightmare's gang had also stopped to watch… whatever this was.

"Ink," Blue hissed.

"Huh?" Ink turned to him, one of his eye lights turning to a question mark.

Blue made a few frantic expressions, nodding at Dream with something implied to it. Even Nightmare halfway got the meaning, akin to 'Do something about this!', which was more than what could be said for Ink. Killer chortled.

Nightmare looked back down to the child. Contemplative.

Oh, fate. It was about time you presented him with such a sweet opportunity.

"Oh," a conniving grin slowly curled over his face, "how the mighty have fallen," one of his tentacles shot forward and grabbed Dream off the ground, who let out a small sound. Nightmare expected him to immediately start wailing at the burning touch like the crybaby he was, but to his surprise, Dream only looked strained, hands latching onto the tentacle desperately.

"NO!" Blue screamed, using Killer's pause to shove him away and shoot towards them. Killer recuperated, barking a laugh as he fired a blaster at his back within the next second and combat was re-engaged.

That didn't matter, because all Nightmare needed was a moment to disappear into the shadows and drag his catch alongside him.

Within the following moment, he was back in his castle, expansive and regal and dark as always. (No, it was not 'goth' or 'edgy' or 'emo' dammit–)

Dream still clutched in his tentacle. Nightmare was larger than a standard Sans, corruption looming and distorted; but even then, Dream currently barely reached above someone's lowest ribs in height.

"Um, Night," he whispered, strained, sweating, "does this black… goop stuff hurt you–?" he asked, eye lights flicking to Nightmare's face.

He barked an unkind laugh.

"Here, let me fix that for you," he said condescendingly, letting Dream drop straight down. It wasn't a long fall to the dark stone floor, but he yelped in surprise and then let out a pained noise with his landing.

The child pushed himself up with some difficulty, traces of harm where Nightmare's liquid negativity had connected with bone.

One by one, Nightmare's recruits began appearing in the common room as well, having dutifully followed him in their tactical retreat. He watched them look at the child in different ways.

Killer seemed to find it bafflingly hilarious. Dust carried a small, flat frown. Horror was outright glowering, minorly conflicted. All of them held notes of confusion.

In the middle of their gathering, Dream looked between everyone. Nightmare could sense… hm, hesitation perhaps. He was unsure of himself.

It was… odd, to sense his aura, because Dream had learned to block him out of it decades ago.

How fun.

"Hello!" Dream smiled past it, and waved at Nightmare's gang. Dust's brow ridges raised. Killer's grin widened. Horror frowned deeper. "I'm Dream! Are– are you my brother's friends?" he asked cheerfully.

Killer started laughing.

"No," Horror grunted, and promptly got elbowed by Dust with a certain look. Perhaps he considered pretending to be just that so as to not freak the kid out.

"Oh," Dream said, smiling in a way that betrayed absolutely none of the disappointment and anxiety Nightmare sensed in him. Curious. "Do you want to be friends?" he exclaimed.

Dust kept it hidden while Horror didn't bother, but both of them felt uncomfortable. Dust's hand raised to habitually hold the scarf around his neck, pulling it up. Killer was still cackling.

"Enough of that," Nightmare turned to him flatly.

"Sorry, sorry boss," Killer chortled, "but wow, am I right? So what's the plan?"

Ah, that was indeed the question.

Hm. Clearly, Dream had no idea he was corrupted. He also hadn't known who the gang were. Nightmare wondered what terrible mishap brought this on. He assumed Blue and Ink had been the one to take care of the child since its occurence, which had to be sometime in the past week or so, as that's how long it had been since Nightmare's latest battle with the other Guardian.

They had tried to keep this hidden from Nightmare. They had failed. Because apparently, Dream was still capable of Multiversal teleportation, a skill he definitely didn't have when they were young. So he'd retained his powers (or at least this one), but was simply returned to a childish state.

Ugh. Then Nightmare couldn't needle him for information.

But Dream was vulnerable like this. And Nightmare held so much old, bitter malice for his "brother".

Once again, he grinned.

"Dream," he began, the tips of his tendrils idly flicking, "would you like to play a game?"

"Yeah!"

—

The "game" went like this:

Order his gang to clean out a bedroom, dark and cold like every unoccupied room around here. Put Dream inside the room. Tell him nothing. Lock the door. Walk away.

How fun.

Said gang trailed after him at a distance. Killer was mostly curious, then slightly disappointed when that's all Nightmare did. Dust and Horror were both uncomfortable.

"Are you just– going to leave him there?" Horror pushed Killer aside to be the one following after Nightmare the closest.

"Yes," Nightmare said easily.

"But he's a kid!" Horror growled.

"And my arch nemesis, correct."

"The hell is a child going to do to you?!"

Nightmare stopped in his stride, and his gang wisely followed suit, stumbling to a halt a few paces behind him. He sighed, slowly turning to give Horror a flat look.

"You'd be wise leaving the decision-making to me." Nightmare spoke low.

Horror was puffed up in anger, hands clenched. He glared back at Nightmare.

Ah, always a more difficult one. He didn't keep quiet the way Dust did, though at least he didn't intentionally annoy to bring himself trouble the way Killer did.

Nigtmare exhaled through his nose.

"He'll be finee," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "He's spoken to enough people for a lifetime, he won't crumble to dust if he doesn't get attention for five minutes,"

Horror bristled further. Behind him, Killer continued to watch in unaffected interest. Dust seemed to be disapproving of Nightmare's decisions at well.

Hm.

Nightmare rolled his eye.

"He will be fed come nightfall," he said in annoyance. Contrary to what many believed, he wasn't a despicable leader to those directly under him. After all, he'd offered them all something in return should they work for him, rather than simply forcing the issue. And he remained true to those deals.

(And, of course, he didn't actually want Dream to die.

This was just some… payback, if you will. A harmful little fantasy. It was about time Dream saw what it's like to be cast out and at somebody else's mercy.)

"Happy?" Nightmare raised an eyebrow.

Horror didn't reply, but he turned around, shoving Killer and Dust aside to storm off. Those two looked at his retreating back, then at Nightmare, then shared a glance.

"Dismissed." Nightmare told them flatly. They scurried off after Horror. He turned back to continue on his way. He had things to contemplate.

—

[daflangstlairde-art]

Starting the year off with DUSTAARDDDD I love Dustard. I have a 7 part Dust x Red fanfic series literally already written. But I'll be busy with finals until like mid february so it will take me a bit to edit it

I've been trying to find a style I like so you may see some differences in my upcoming drawings

Dust belongs to ask-dusttale

Underfell belongs to @/underfell

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Extremophile" 4/4

Part 3 of ocean depths

Summary:

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. And here was the sun himself. Here was that gasp of air that burned. You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death. — Alt summary: It's not easy but boy do I drag Killer (and everyone around him) kicking and screaming towards a healing arc

Chapter 4: "it gets better" 4892 words

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

“No.” Killer immediately answered, before they’d even finished with the proposition. 

Dream sighed. “Okay,” he accepted easily, like he’d been expecting the response. 

“Why not?” Night bulldozed over him, frowning. Interesting. It seems he wasn't one to back down from a stance. 

“Well, for one,” Killer leaned back in his seat. They’d occupied the living room for this little chat, since all three of them could sit somewhere. There were additional seats now, not just the couch. “It won’t prove anything about your little experiment. Dream influencing me to have emotions isn’t me having emotions,” he pointed out. 

“But it could help,” Night argued. More and more, he seemed to be finding his voice around Killer. It was funny to watch. Like a grown lion slowly comprehending it wasn't a baby kitten. 

“Not really, I don't think so,” Killer inspected his nails, just hoping to rile him up further. 

“Then why not?” Night crossed his arms, back straight. “Why not try it? You lose nothing,”

Killer mimed rolling his eyes. “It's stupid,”

“And?” Night pressed. 

“It's annoying,” 

“And?” 

“I don't want him to touch me,” Killer growled. 

“That’s fair,” Dream reasoned, trying to mediate between them. 

“No, I don't think that is quite all,” Night placed his hands on the table. Why was he so hung up on this of all things? “I think you're scared.”

...

...

...Oh? 

“Bold words for someone within knifing distance,” Killer warned, voice low. 

“We are both aware you can hurt me worse than a mere stabbing,” 

Ohohooo, little Night-night grew some balls? What a fascinating development! Killer wondered what the reason for it was? Was he finally snapping? Oh he really, really hoped so. Or maybe he simply finally understood Killer was nothing but a terror! It was about time, really. 

Killer grinned wider.

“Oh really?” he purred, “How cute,” 

“Yes,” Night crossed his arms again. “I think... I think you're full of shit.” oh naw, was he losing steam? Was that hesitation there? But they were just getting started!

“Uh-huh?” Killer tried to stoke the flames. “What, you’re going to tell me how I actually feel baby? Or maybe just force it onto me? We both enjoy that,” 

“No,” Night parried him easily. Maybe he was getting used to the verbal assault, though Killer knew it must still hurt. “However...” Night hesitated. 

“Come on, spill it alreeadyy,” Killer prodded him. 

“...You’re scared, Killer,”

Killer barked a laugh. So he really was going to claim that? 

“You are,” Night gained some confidence, getting to his feet. “You rave about power and strength and yet you are– you–” 

“I’m what.” Killer grinned wider, pushing himself up from his lounge to sit up properly. His gaze pinned on Night. 

Night’s expression scrunched up. 

“Come on, don't be shy,” Killer leaned against his palm, “Talk sweet to me, like you did before,” 

Night stiffened, cringing at the comparison to his corrupted self. 

“What’s it gonna be this time? I’m annoying? Lowly? Am I disgusting or just right for you, Mr. Despair?” Killer teased sweetly. 

“...You’re a coward,” Night dared to say, swallowing. “And you are abysmally incapable of self-reflection.”

Killer let out a rolling laugh, loud. 

From the corner of his vision, he saw Dream was watching this all unfold, tension in the way he sat. Unsure if he should intervene or not. Killer couldn't decide which would be more fun. But for now, he only had eyes for Nightmare. 

“Oh really?” Killer got up as well. 

“Yes.” Night stood in place. 

“Want to know what I think?” 

Night’s resolve faltered minutely. “What? I– yes? Yes–” 

“I think,” Killer walked towards him slowly. Sorry not sorry Dust, but the house may get thrashed in about two seconds. “That you’re projecting,” 

“I’m not–”

“I think you loathe yourself,” Killer cut him off. “I think you loathe all of what you did for hundreds of years, and most of all the fact that you enjoyed it. Sure! You or your twinsie or whatever can argue it wasn't you, but you remember it oh so clearly, don’t you?” he stalked closer, a blade materialized in his hand. 

Night, to his credit, didn't cower away now. He stood in place with his back ramrod straight and his arms pinned to his sides, but eyes not moving from Killer’s. A set expression on his face. How commendable. 

“You remember the blood on your hands. You remember speaking the commands,” Killer drilled in the point. “It was born from you,” 

He wasn't going to buy the whole ‘the corruption was a parasite of pure negativity that took control of Nightmare and destroyed him on the inside’. That was a goddamn cop-out. If Killer didn't get to pin his actions on Chara or the Player, then why the hell should Nightmare get to?

“And I think you want to believe so badly that I can be good,” Killer continued, “because you wish for your life to not be so abysmally hopeless. You’re desperate for it to be true that anyone can change,” he was so close now. He pressed his blade under Night’s chin. 

He heard a swift shuffle, but Night raised a palm to his side. Dream must've gotten up, likely to interfere. But it seems Night wanted this personal matter resolved intimately. 

“You are the coward, baby,” Killer crooned, staring him in the eyes with his own Void-filled ones. “You are the one deluding yourself you can be good when all you're good at is being horrid. And you hate yourself for it.”

Night swallowed. Emotions were swimming over his face, each miniscule movement crystal clear to Killer with their proximity. 

Night breathed in. Breathed out. It trembled, but didn't get snuffed out.

“...Maybe that’s true.” he reasoned, audibly doing his best to keep his voice steady. “Maybe I even believe it–”

“It’s not–” 

“But,” Night pushed onwards through Dream’s immediate rebuttal. “That doesn't make what I said incorrect. Because... because I did spend... years ruining people’s lives, and you did as well, and there’s one thing I can claim,” 

He held Killer’s ever-blackened glare. 

“Well?” Killer prompted. 

“It is... so much easier to destroy.” Night stated emphatically. “You parade your violent attitude around, claiming strength, but the reality is, you cannot even fathom how to do anything but hurt. You shrivel away from any shred of happiness or love because you are incapable of preserving it. You are weak.” 

The silence rang between them. 

...How... manipulative. Killer would be delighted if he wasn't so–

Slowly, Killer was pushing his knife in and in. Until he could feel the resistance of bone against the tip. Right where Night’s throat was. 

If he leaned closer, he would be able to feel Night’s heavy but measured breaths. They stared at one another. Blackened despair dripping from Killer’s eyes, on the floor between their feet where it faded into the ether. 

A rubber band being pulled more and more taut. Until you could only watch in trepidation, wondering when is it going to snap? When, when, when? 

Killer chuckled low. 

But it seems Night hadn't quite said all he wanted to.

“I know you attacked Dream when you felt his aura passed through the physical connection of an embrace,” he spoke, a little quieter. Did he soften? 

Killer wanted to take that softness and rip it to bloody, gorey pieces. He wanted to give the walls and floor a fresh new coat of paint in the shade of Night’s blood. He hated these damn twins to the bottom of his soul.

“I know you've felt nothing but bad for... for so, so long, I know that because Corr– because I was responsible for it for so, so long. I intentionally kept you at your lowest possible point, Killer, and– I know you care not for my apologies so I will hold them for later–” Night continued on and on, “I– I intentionally took advantage of you at your most vulnerable. But you can be– you are more than that.” Night slowly lifted a hand. “Your suffering does not define you.” his hand lingered, hesitant, halfway raised. Killer wondered what he’d imagined doing. 

Killer slowly tilted his head. He wondered what would hurt Night the most.  

Killer’s free hand shot up and grabbed Night by the collar. Night’s eyes shot wide, and he most likely expected Killer to start ruthlessly attacking, which Killer would've loved to do! But that was old news. Night was familiar with his routine now. 

Instead you yank him forward and kiss him. 

It’s rough, it’s loveless, and it’s short as Night shoves you away by the sternum. 

You stare at his expression, wide-eyed and shocked and grasping to make sense of the action, and you start laughing in his face. Loud and cruel. Tar-like hatred streams down your face in rivulets.

“Ohhhohoo,” you snarl, breathless, hysterical, “that’s so mighty rich of you.” 

Night just continues gaping at you. In a flash you rear back your hand and punch him straight across the face so hard he stumbles back with a yelp. He stands there, stunned, one hand pressed to the spot your knuckles connected. 

“At least when you called me scum you didn't dare LIE to my FACE,” you sneer, hands shaking with the desire to take Night and rip him apart. 

“I’m not lying!” Night raises his voice. “You have the capacity for it, I’m sure, you’re just– you’re too damn stubborn to even entertain–!” 

“OH because you are SUCH a charitable man, a real miracle-worker! Or am I just a special case baby?!” you yell back, unable to stop the convulsions in your chest from your laughter. “You NEVER cared about me!” 

“I DO!” Night finally screams at you. “I DO care about you, I-I don't know if I did before but I do, I do, I–” he breathes harshly, and you hope he is about to cry. “That is the SOLE reason I am doing any of this, I–!” 

“I will NEVER forgive you!” you snarl, because you want to hurt him, you want to choke out any hopes he might have, anything he could gain from this. “I will lord every little bit of harm you caused over your head for eternity! I will stab you and kill you and RUIN YOU, believe me I will find a way!” you swear. 

“I don't want your forgiveness!” Night yells. “I– I do– angel above I will do whatever is necessary to try and earn it but I will never demand that of you! I’m helping you because– because I genuinely believe you freaking deserve it, after everything you've been put through–!”

You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. You hate him more than you have hated maybe anybody. You hate him so intensely it spills out of your brain and down your face, so intensely you choke on it.

“I hate you.” you let out a gutteral growl, all teeth and venom. 

“You have every right to.” Night is shaking, but he stands his ground. Tears are building in the corners of his eye sockets but he still holds your hateful glare. 

You despise him. 

“But I still love you.” 

...

...

...

Your ears are ringing. 

The icy behemoth that is the ocean rages around you. A storm. Ravaging and merciless. 

A leviathan. You can never even hope to go against it. 

There is no hope. There hasn't been hope in such a long, long time. 

Hope doesn't exist here. Hope is the sunshine above the surface. You have nothing but cold and drowning and darkness. 

Hope doesn't exist for you. It can't. It– can't.

...

“...What?” hissed out, animalistic. Barely comprehending. The desire for violence screeching in your head, ricocheting around your ribcage and stabbing into your soul. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Night whispers, eyes shot wide open. The lights in them small and quivering. “I– I didn't mean to– I would never put that on you– it isn't impo– I–” 

You barely hear him. You barely hear him over the chorus in your soul demanding maim hurt rip apart destroy kill kill. 

Night is a little mouse. A tiny minnow. Small and pathetic, nothing compared to the leviathan that was The Corrupted Nightmare. Night used to barely be able to look you in the eyes. Night always pulled away from you in fear.

Now, your soul is tearing itself apart in the frenzied need to execute. 

Now, Night steps towards you. 

“I’ll kill you.” you barely even hear your own words, airy and detached. 

“...You like... you like chocolate,” Night speaks.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You’d read even a children’s book if it was all you could do to fill the silence,” another step forward. 

“I am going to rip you apart.” 

“You like playing rough with Dust, because you like someone matching you beat for beat without hesitation.” Night takes another step forward. Your magic is summoning itself, charged with heaps of violent intent.  “You like the way he doesn't pull away in fear,”

You are trembling with the tension just waiting to be unleashed. 

“You’re playful; you can't be bothered to listen to anyone, yet when ignored, you seek attention, like a cat,” another step forward. “You are deeply curious about how people’s brains tick–” 

“I will spill your brain over the floor–” a row of blasters right behind you, their energy glowing like a readied gun. Like a spotlight on him. Or maybe a target.

“You laugh at your own jokes even when you find them unfunny,” he keeps speaking, “You are loyal to a fault even when you don't act the part,”

“You are delusional,” you snap, snarling and animalistic. 

“Because you hate being alone.” another step forward. His voice is steady. He’s getting so close. “That’s why you came here to be with Dust. That's why you haven't killed me yet–”

“I will kill you–” 

“Because, Killer, you love.” 

It rings. You want to slam his head into the concrete floor over and over and over–

“You crave it,” another step forward. “But you are terrified. You lash out and you destroy everything around you because you are terrified of it being taken away.” 

You’re shaking your head. You’re drowning in your own hatred and rage and violence. You want him to shut up. You barely know where you are. 

...A hand ghosting over your face. Not daring to touch. So apprehensive. So gentle it shouldn't even be possible for it to exist in the same reality as yourself. 

So close.

“But I told you,” spoken quietly. Intimately. Sincerely. “I’m not leaving you.”

.

.

.

...Arms wrap around you. You don't even twitch. 

The embrace is gentle. The embrace is firm, in the way real things are. He didn't ask. You wouldn't have wanted him to. He knew that. He knows you. It's horrible. It’s terrifying. It hurts. It's real.

Your knife remains clutched in your hand. 

When you raise it ever so slightly, the light reflects off the smooth metal. 

For a brief second, you catch your own reflection in it. Dark and distorted. You haven't known who that is for a very, very long time. 

You barely even breathe. 

It’s silent. The hum of charged magic potent.

He doesn't pull away. He stays. 

The point of your blade presses to his back. He surely feels it. 

He doesn't even flinch. In fact, he holds you tighter. 

...

“...I know it’s scary to be soft, because you could be hurt so badly,” he whispers. Soft. So close. So easy to trample and ruin. 

You want to. You want to. You don't care about him. You hate him. You're not sure how those two could be simultaneously true.

“I know it’s scary to care about something, because it can be so easily ripped away from you,” 

SHUT UP, you want to scream. You say nothing. Your magic is unstable and unfocused and erratic. Pulling itself apart at the seams. 

(...are you even real? 

...is any of this real?) 

“...But you’ve never been the type to lose against fear.” 

You're not sure if you're breathing. He is. He breathes, steady. Like he isn't scared of you. He holds you, tight and secure. Even as you press a knife to his back in a cruel promise. Both hands clutching the blade like you’ll fall into the abyss if you let go. You watch your own eyes in the reflection of the metal. 

He knows you better than anyone. He doesn't let go of you. 

It–

You–

...

...It’s...

...nice. 

...You watch your own eyes in the metal of your weapon. 

...Since when... were there lights in them...? 

(Sunlight against the surface of the water. So far above, and yet, it's there, it's there, it's there. It's real.)

“Come on,” Night whispers, “hug me back.” 

It's not a request. It's not a command, either. It’s...

The silence in your mind rings and rings and rings so loud. Endless empty caverns. Ruins. Dark and abandoned. No direction of your own. 

That’s what it is. It's... direction. It's instruction. It's purpose. 

It’s a desolate universe. It’s a hand held out and an offer to join him. 

Drowning, you are weightless. You are untethered. It’s been so dark you lost track of up and down. 

This...

Your hands twitch. You slowly let go of the magic. The constructed blade dissipates.

This is an anchor. This is something to hold onto when nothing feels real.

Something to grasp.

Something new. 

You move your arms that don't quite feel your own. You wrap them around him, hesitant and untethered. You wrap them tight and desperate. You hold on.

You hold on. 

(And you breach the surface of the water. 

And you take a desperate breath.)

—

.

.

.

Dream did not interfere, because his brother asked him not to. Even if it became dangerous, they both needed this, clearly. And he was... working on his relationship with Night. He had to trust Night and allow Night to trust him in return. 

He was still reeling from the shock of everything that happened. From the other two’s argument, to the kiss, to– to this– 

Just... watching them hug. In the middle of the room. It felt surreal. Killer and Night, hugging, willingly. 

And to top it off? To top it all off?

Just for a split second. Amidst the culmination of their fight. Dream swore he saw Killer’s soul flicker in the shape of– 

Dream blinked rapidly, as Night’s head turned ever so slightly towards him. Wide-eyed, mouthing what do I do?! 

Dream stifled a laugh. Don't laugh. Night was probably triple-shocked about how all this went down. Many, many jaw-droppers, haha. 

His own shock was slowly morphing into something fluttery and warm. 

Dream gestured to the couch in a silent suggestion. 

He watched Night take a breath. 

“Killer,” he spoke up again, “ah, let’s, sit down?” he offered. Then reconsidered, “Killer, sit down, come on,” he instructed. Because... apparently that worked much better with Killer. Apparently that's what Killer needed. 

Which... wasn't what Dream had assumed? He thought after years of the Corrupted Nightmare’s iron-grip control, and considering Killer’s proclivity to doing whatever he personally wanted, he’d assumed that... Killer would revel in the freedom.

Apparently not! Apparently he’d been with Nightmare because he needed the control from the start. And then he withered without its support. Maybe... it was taken away too abruptly, after so long being used to a short leash?

Learning experience. Dream reminded himself he was not, in fact, a mind reader, and did not, in fact, know what’s always best. He pushed aside the sadness and disappointment and guilt for now.

(“What sort of example are you setting, sunshine?”)

...Dream carefully compartmentalized them to be processed later, rather than burying them entirely.

He watched Night maneuver Killer towards the couch where they could sit. Still hugging. With the way Killer’s hands clutched onto the back of Night’s capelet, they would probably be at it for a while. 

Night didn't seem to mind. He began gently rubbing Killer’s back in return. Was Killer upset? It was often difficult to tell with him. It's not like Dream got a screen that spelled out the category of whatever emotions everyone was feeling, he had to parse it on his own. 

...It was really nice to see them like that. It made Dream smile sincerely. He really felt happy for them. So happy. Satisfied with the massive amount of progress they made with Killer. Proud of Night for handling it. Just really dang happy with the end result of all this. 

Obviously, Killer still had a long way to go. Dream himself could attest that he, personally, was still learning and growing as a person, and he’s been alive for much longer. But this... felt like a turning point. It felt hopeful.

...For just a split second, he’d seen Killer’s soul take the shape of a monster’s. And he knew Night saw it too.

...Haha. Maybe they won the bet.

—

.

.

.

Dream asked if they needed him to stay. Night shook his head. 

Dust passed by. Stared at them. Questioned, tentatively, what's going on. With similar hesitation, Night summarized he... may explain later. Dust left them be. 

And now it was just the two of them. Killer still neither moved nor spoke. Night was slowly concluding that maybe, once again, he needed to be the one to initiate. 

It felt... hm. Counterintuitive, for one. Uncomfortable, too. To tell Killer... what to do. It made some traumatized part of Night start screaming and blaring the alarms, insisting he was just like his old self, he was causing harm, he was horrid–

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

He’s been... working on it. Dream has been an incomparable pillar of support and help in the process. Night constantly had to convince himself he wasn't abusing Dream’s kindness. His brother was also high on the list of ‘People Corrupted Nightmare Hurt The Most’. Very high. 

...And so was the skeleton still holding onto him. It was– hm. It was... ah. Well. 

Night just had to ‘grow some balls’. As that whole rant from earlier hopefully showcased, he did know Killer quite well. He knew Killer sneered at those he deemed weak, that he idolized and respected strength. So with strength Night approached. He knew Killer needed direction, like an anchor to hold onto when his head was a mess. 

(He used his knowledge of Killer to manipulate him into what he thought was good for him–)

So Night gathered up his guts once again. This whole fight would be... extremely heavy to process no doubt, but not right now. 

He tapped Killer’s back gently. They've been at this for... a while now. Not that Night was displeased with that!

“...Can we... talk, now?” he asked, still gentle. Because with everyone else, Night must be gentle. He wanted to be gentle. He wanted to be a thing that cared and nurtured and fixed and loved, because he’d been denied that for... what felt like millennia. 

But that’s not quite what Killer needed right now. Not in that way, at least. He wasn't the type for meek love. 

Night cringed. Agh, love. He... really hadn’t meant to let that slip. Hnggh.

(...The one person. The one person beside his own brother who cared about him even at his worst.)

“Killer,” Night rephrased, “Let’s talk,” 

Killer’s first sound post-breakdown was a discontented grumble where his face was buried in Night’s shoulder. Typical. Night huffed in amusement, patting his back as though in comfort. 

“Yes, the world is terribly cruel,” he sympathised, “if you want a hug so bad, I promise you more later,” 

(Because he knew teasing Killer for being affectionate would get him to let go, to put distance. Manipulative–)

“Tch,” Killer scoffed, hands finally loosening, pulling away. He didn't get up and leave, though. He didn't stab or throw attack magic. Didn't even sit further away from Night. Just disbanded the hug and crossed his arms, looking at Night expectantly. “Well?”

Night stared, once again stupefied. Because–

...The Corrupted Nightmare had toyed with Killer’s mental state many, many times. Had handled his soul in the most cruel ways, had always kept him from any sort of healing or recovery or change. 

...

...Killer’s eyes were... it was nice. To see the lights in them. It was... such a lovely sight. 

“Well?” Killer pressed, snapping him back to the moment. Still waiting for a reply.

I’m sorry immediately came to mind, but unfortunately, as much as Night meant it, it wouldn't be productive. Are you alright? was a good contestant too, but would likely receive the same amount of defensiveness and apathy.

“I... the rest aside, I did mean what I said. I wouldn't demand anything of you,” Night clasped his hands in his lap in order to not fidget. “Not forgiveness, not kindness not– not love,” 

“You wouldn't get any of that even if you did demand it,” Killer leaned back in his seat, a lot more comfortable than Night felt. Perhaps uncaring. A neutrally amused expression on his face. 

(So much more expressive with the eye lights.)

“Right.” Night nodded, keeping himself composed. “If you’d prefer, I won’t–”

“I don't love you,” Killer cut him off, speaking light-heartedly. It hurt. Many things that he said hurt. It was also true. 

“...I know–”

“I can't love you,” Killer inspected his nails, and Night watched the miniscule twitches of his eye lights, “not like other people do,” 

Night blinked slowly. Frowned. 

“...I know,” 

“But if you ditch me, I am going to hunt you down,” Killer hissed, grin widening, “and I am going to ruin you.” 

Night choked down the surprised laugh that bubbled up in him. 

“...Deal,” he was trying not to smile. 

“And I refuse to go all... soft and pathetic like you,” Killer insisted. 

“I... didn't expect you to,” Night agreed. He held no beliefs that Killer was a saint of some sort. He was all too willing to do horrible things. But Night’s heard these things progress with time and effort. He wanted to believe that. 

“Great,” Killer stretched, “Now you should give me a damn way to call you, it’s always you idiots who come here, what if poor ol’ me was sad?” he complained, and again, Night had to hold back a laugh and just grin. 

“Wouldn’t want that,” Night nodded along. 

“And one billion gold and five chocolate cakes,”

Night couldn't hold back a snicker. “Obviously,” 

Killer threw his head back and groaned loudly. 

“And here I thought you grew a spine!” he exclaimed. “Where's all that ‘Killer, you’re a coward and a jackass’ stuff from earlier?? That was fun!” 

“I never called you a jackass!” 

“That was your first mistake,” 

Night muffled his escapeé of a laugh with a hand. 

He felt all warm and fluttery. It was so, so rare to have chats like this with Killer. Where it felt... semi-normal. And fun. 

...Instead of like an abuser and his enthusiastic victim with Stockholm syndrome. 

Night’s enjoyment dimmer. He inhaled, and then let it out. 

“...Killer–” he hesitated. The idea made discomfort squirm in him, but it was the right thing to do. “...Do you... want... your soul back?” Night offered quietly, keeping his eyes on the low table in front of the couch. 

It wasn't about the bet anymore. It never felt right to keep Killer’s own soul away from him. Never. Every moment, Night was gnawed by guilt. But he knew what would happen if he returned it to its owner. And he was selfish, because he really, really didn't want that to happen. It was like a made-up philosophical dilemma that he was stuck in, which wasn't meant to have an answer in the first place. And yet here he was, living exactly that reality, and needing to answer it. 

He expected a moment of silence. He expected... he wasn't sure what he expected. A hopeless part of him expected for that argument to have changed nothing. For Killer to say yes, to take it and– 

“Hm, well, I felt quite a lot of hatred there,” Killer hummed performatively, tapping his chin. Eyes looking up and to the side in faux contemplation. “And that is very far from numbness, don't you think, O mighty Lord of Negativity? Some consider that to be the other side of love’s coin,” he joked, voice low. When Night’s eyes flicked to him, he was grinning sharply. 

Night’s jaw worked as he tried to puzzle how to respond. Floundering. Caught off guard. 

Because Killer didn't care about being fair. If he had a way to win, he would take it. He was made from twisted code. 

And yet here he was. 

Turning down Night offering to let him win. Just like that. 

Night stared at him. 

Killer stared back with those no-longer-empty eye sockets. They made it all feel so much more tangible, like reality was finally in focus.

“...Oh.” is all Night managed to reply with, quiet and soft. Stricken and shocked and anxious and ecstatic. 

“I’ll be waiting on those cakes,” Killer moved on, as if it was that simple, that easy. 

It wasn't, of course it wasn't. Everything was still difficult and complicated to hell. They were both deeply damaged. Night was still trying to figure out how to even start fixing it. 

...But now, maybe there was hope.

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Extremophile" 3/4

Part 3 of ocean depths

Summary:

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. And here was the sun himself. Here was that gasp of air that burned. You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death. — Alt summary: It's not easy but boy do I drag Killer (and everyone around him) kicking and screaming towards a healing arc

Chapter 3: "an orchid" 4293 words

—

Killer was bored. He was bored as hell. When wasn't he bored? 

“Hey,” Dream greeted, with a small smile and a wave, “I guess I don't have anything to pass onto you today, so, I brought something of my own?” 

Luckily there was a clown here to entertain him. What a delight. 

“It’s also a bit of a... an apology gift?” Dream continued, rubbing the back of his neck. “Last time I was here, I... kind of freaked you out, and I didn't mean to,”

Killer shrugged. “Whatever,” he hadn't even bothered to stand up upon Dream’s arrival, why would he care about that? 

“Right,” Dream strode over, holding out... 

“...A russian nesting doll,” Killer deadpanned, though he did take the object to inspect it.

(Pointedly avoiding even the smallest point of physical contact with Dream. Not even a brush of their fingers.) 

“Yeah! I– Night told me about... your conversation, and... I agree with him,” Dream said. “Oh! Ink helped me paint it!” 

It was customized. As Killer opened it up, all the dolls had black eyes and a replica of his soul painted on. He snorted. This felt like mockery, honestly. And the thought of Dream of all people being a bully was very funny.

It was made from hard wood. Killer discovered this as he tried to crush one of the pieces with a hand and it didn't buckle. Shame. It would've been fun to watch Dream hide away the hurt that would've caused. 

“Well now that that’s out the way,” Killer stored the thing in his inventory, pushing himself to his feet. Dream stepped back to give him space. Or maybe he was (justifiably) scared that Killer would attack him again (he might). “Take me to– ugh, Underfell,” 

Dream blinked, confused at the changed topic. 

“Where Dust is,” Killer clarified for him. “I’m sick of this place,” 

Dream paused. Then, his expression brightened with a grin like a sunrise, though what that was for, Killer hadn't a clue.

“Yes!” Dream exclaimed. “I mean– of course I can,”

And in barely a few minutes, they were in Dust’s Underfell with Dream knocking at the door. Killer mimed rolling his eyes.

It was some time late in the afternoon. There was the sound of several locks being undone, and then the door opening. 

Red regarded them with a flat look. 

“What,” he asked. 

“Hello!” Dream greeted. 

“Hi?” 

“Here for Dust,” Killer cut in, directly to the point. 

“Right,” Red turned to the inside of the house. “EY DUST BUNNY! GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!” he yelled. Killer snorted. 

Dust appeared in the space next to him, a hand on Red’s shoulder. Already prepared with a glower, but it eased up when he saw them. Probably because of Dream’s presence. 

...Except he pushed Dream away. And stepped toward Killer. And put an arm around his shoulders, punching him in the sternum with no harmful intent behind the action. You could even call it friendly. 

“Finally decided to stop sulking?” he teased.

...What. 

Since when was Dust so damn touchy? Since when was he... what, affectionate? What the hell did this place do to him? Wasn't this Universe supposed to be, you know, rough around the edges or something? Violent? What? 

“I don't sulk,” Killer shoved him in return. 

“Sure, and I've never killed a soul,” Dust rolled his eyes, amused, though he did let go. “Seriously though. It's nice to see you here,” 

...What? 

This was like that ‘you're my friend’ bullshit that Dust pulled. 

Dream was beaming at the two of them. Killer stepped on his foot harshly, making him yelp and stumble away. 

Dust whacked him upside the head for it. Killer elbowed him in the ribs.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Red muttered, dragging a hand down his face. Turning around leaving them to it like he wasn't associated. 

“You’re as much of a freak as ever,” Killer replied to Dust’s comment at last. 

“And you're as much of a jackass as ever,” Dust replied, not offended even in the slightest, just grinning in amusement. Damn him. “Thanks for bringing him,” he turned to Dream. 

“Of course! Anytime.” Dream nodded, smiling still. “Will you be staying here, Killer?” 

“Sure,” Killer shoved his hands back in his pockets, “Beats being bored.” 

“I support your decision entirely,” Dream stated, and Killer narrowed his eyes, considering stabbing him. “In that case, Dust, you should expect to see us around occasionally, if that's okay?” 

“Sure,” Dust shrugged. “Just don't forget to knock,” 

“Of course,” Dream nodded. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it!” he waved at them with a smile, and in a flash he was gone.

“Come on,” Dust shoved Killer inside. “I wanna see you try Edge’s cooking,” 

“Not worried I’ll dust him on the spot?” Killer teased. 

“Good luck trying,” Dust immediately countered, closing the door behind them and redoing the locks. “If you're going to be an asshole I’ll just kick you out and back to your depression hole. Have fun being bored out of your mind,” 

Good point. Currently it would be more interesting to have people around. When they got boring, Killer would resolve to pain and murder, but he had no reason to waste resources right now.

—

The ‘fell brothers got him a mattress in Dust’s room. That’s where Killer spent of his time really. Just used to it. 

Except when Dust kicked him out of bed to do random shit. Like cleaning the house. Or watching television. Some of it boring, some of it a little less boring. 

At least there were things to do. Even if they kind of made Killer itch for violence. So far, the only decoration to his side of the room was grooves in the wall where he threw his knives in boredom. 

...And that stupid nesting doll from Dream. 

Well. Killer wasn't going to complain (that's a lie, he complained a lot) — at least it wasn't the emptiness. 

...In the dark of night, sometimes Dust couldn't sleep. Sometimes Killer was awake as well, restless with a craving for something to fill the void. And they... chatted. Like they did before, when they were both still with Nightmare. 

It was... 

...nice.

—

When Killer’s name was yelled from the living room, he already expected it to be Night or Dream. 

“Hello,” Night greeted passively. 

“Should've closed the door on his face, maybe a broken nose would make the sight nicer,” Killer commented and Red snorted.

“Hell no, I’m not getting involved with y’all,” Red didn't waste a moment to leave. Fair enough. 

“Test number one,” Night mentioned, lifting... a folded chess board? 

“All you'll succeed with that is boring me to death,” Killer pointed out, striding over to drag him inside because the idiot still hadn't entered. What, was he going to play chess from the doorway? 

Close the door, lock all those stupid locks because apparently this was just how Underfell is. 

“Well. Give it a chance,” Night reasoned. 

“Whatever,” Killer walked over, flopping on the ratty couch. Might as well indulge him so he leaves quicker. If Night wanted to sabotage his own stance by intentionally boring Killer, well, that was his business. 

There was no chair across the low table. Killer watched as Night, hesitantly, sat on the couch too. As far away from Killer as he could. Killer snorted. 

Night opened up the board and started quickly setting up the chess.

“You are familiar with the rules,” Night stated. It wasn't a question because he already knew the answer — Corrupted Nightmare had played with him once. 

“Nope,” Killer said, just to be annoying. “Never even heard of it,”

Night had the audacity to roll his eyes. He even looked amused. Where did all that guilt and hesitation go, huh? 

“You take white,” Night said before Killer could instigate his suffering. 

Killer sighed, and played some classic first move. 

He already knew how this match would go. It was obvious — chess was one of Night’s favorite things, the nerd, and he’s had decades to get good at it. Killer wasn't an idiot if he could say so himself, but chess? It never really caught his fancy in particular. He wasn't much of a strategist. 

They weren't even talking. Just sitting in silence, moving some wooden pieces around a checkered pattern. It was nothing.

Time ticking forth. The quiet sound of the pieces hitting the board.

As Night started snatching his pieces off, it was only being confirmed who’d win. And it wasn't even taking long. 

“...You’re not actually putting effort in, are you,” Night finally caught on. 

“I told you,” Killer sighed, lounging on the couch without much care, “it’s boring. And you’ll win anyway. What's the point?” 

“That’s unfair,” Night huffed, “You agreed to play fair. That was the deal.”

Killer groaned, letting his head flop back. 

“It’s stupid,” he growled. “This is a waste of time. I agreed to your damn bet, not to play pointless games,” 

“Yes,” Night reasoned, “and this is part of the bet.” 

“No, this is you being an annoying asshole,” Killer said cheerfully. “Haven't you learned? No one actually wants you around. At least when you were a mean asshole, you were an asshole with a personality.”

With how he was leaning back, Killer couldn't see the other’s face. But he didn't need to. The pause that followed made the hurt audible. 

Night quietly breathed in. Breathed out. 

“...You’re frustrated,” he stated.

Killer mimed rolling his eyes. “Fantastic counterargument, totally defeated my point,” he returned sarcastically. 

“No,” Night corrected, “you're frustrated. I know that because I can still sense the emotions of others. When you get bored, you get frustrated. That's an emotion.” 

Silence. 

“What a delightful existence,” Killer spoke slowly. Cold and venomous. Pushing himself to sit up so he could stare at Night. “Being able to feel either emptiness or frustration.” 

“But it’s a feeling,”  

“It’s torture.” Killer growled. 

“But it's a feeling,” Night insisted, and in a blink Killer threw a knife at him. 

Night yelped, but barely managed to dodge to the side. As if Killer could put a dent in his HP that mattered. 

“And when you’re bored, you want to do something!” Night continued, even as Killer got to his feet. “That’s a feeling too!” Night also scrambled to his feet to avoid the next stab, the blade sinking into the couch instead. 

“I’ll show you what’s a feeling,” Killer snarled, grinning. “Ever heard of pain?” 

But before he could throw the next readied attack, there was a ping! 

His soul was grabbed and he was slammed back into the wall. Not enough to be a killing blow, barely chipped anything from his HP. 

“Don't put holes in my couch,” came Dust’s flat voice from the stairs. “Do you know how hard it is to get furniture around here?” 

Killer breathed harshly, still glaring at Night. He dissipated his conjured knife, huffing. Whatever. 

Night was wrong. This yawning chasm inside him wasn't an emotion. It was a feeling the way hunger was a feeling. It was a desperation, a self-preservation instinct from the brain’s desire to not self-destruct. It was cold. 

“My apologies,” Night’s gaze had moved to Dust, a little wide eyed. “Dust– I–” 

“Yeah yeah, you already delivered your sorry’s,” Dust waved a hand dismissively. “Look, man, it’s not like you ever hurt me in particular,” 

Night’s eyes, perhaps unintentionally, flicked to Killer before returning to Dust. “But I intentionally kept you in the worst possible mental state you could–” he rushed out.

“Yeah, and I left,” Dust shrugged. “And you're not that guy anymore, right?” 

“Unfortunately,” Killer chimed in. “You gonna release me now?” 

“Are you going to damage more of my property?” Dust fired back. 

“I’ll damage your face.” 

“Oh you want me matching your ugly, Tar-Eyes?” 

Killer barked a laugh. “Damn you! I’m prettier than you could ever be,” 

“My boyfriend would beg to differ,” 

“Boyfriend?” Killer raised his brow ridges. 

Dust cleared his throat, glancing away. Killer started laughing. Oh now this was news, how interesting. 

Throughout their interaction, Night’s gaze had flicked back and forth between the two of them. Observing them with something pinched in his expression. 

“Game over, Nighty,” Killer stated as his soul was finally released from the directed gravity. “Pack it up,” 

“...But we didn't complete it,” Night pointed out. 

“And we aren't going to, because quite frankly? I cannot be bothered,” Killer nodded generously. 

“Better listen before he starts dishing it out again,” Dust chimed in, amused. “Trust me, he ain't scared to take it,” 

“Oh like you’d know, you can barely leave a scratch on me,” Killer taunted. 

“It barely takes more than a scratch for you to crumble,” Dust fired back easily.

“Wanna test that hypothesis?” Killer growled, grinning. 

“Yeah, let me go put my egg-handling gloves,” 

There was a quiet snort, and Killer looked over to see Night covering his mouth. Killer could still tell he was smiling, though god knows why.

“I’ll uh, leave you two be,” Night cleared his throat, back to awkward. Swiftly gathering up the chess pieces and folding the board.

—

It’s clear the ‘fell brothers aren't exactly keen on your company, but they tolerate you. Perhaps they even mildly respect you, if only out of fear.

...Dust... interacts so easily with them. It’s clear he cares about them, and that they care about him. 

(He’s been carrying himself so much more easily ever since he left Corrupted Nightmare’s whole operation. 

...Good for him.)

“Hey,” 

What’s more peculiar, weird even, is that Dust acts that way with you, too.

“You okay?” he asks, even though you've done nothing but lay in bed all day. Staring at the ceiling. Getting lost in the passage of time. The damn passage of time. 

“Couldn't be better,” you reply with a flat look, grinning. It is the truth.

Dust rolls his eyes. 

“Move over,” 

“Oho, baby want cuddles like the good ol’ times?” 

“Move over or I'll move you myself,”

“You know what they say, don't threaten me with a good time,” you tease and prod. Always pushing buttons. Always looking for a reaction. For something to fill the emptiness.

Sadly there’s no longer a Corrupted Nightmare to rip you apart and make you feel tangible enough to be ripped part. 

All Dust does is shove you to the side with a foot. You can't be bothered to protest. He flops down beside you, easy and comfortable. He isn't scared of you. He doesn't cower and cry like some frail minnow. It's what you respect about him.

“Found some books about ancient human philosophy recently,” Dust mentions. 

“Uh-huh,” 

“It's pretty interesting. Most of them say incredibly obvious things, just in a fancy way,” 

You both chuckle. 

“A lot of them are from this place called ‘Ancient Greece’ and stuff, a lot of what I’m pretty sure are the classics...” 

Aaand so Dust starts telling you about some ancient humans with different sorts of beliefs. How different schools of thought or sciences developed from their statements. 

It's... it's whatever. It's pretty boring really. Philosophy isn't your thing. Mostly because nothing is your thing. Nothing interests you. 

...But... 

The time doesn't pass as slowly, when it’s being used for something. The silence isn't as suffocating, broken by Dust’s... company. 

So. 

It's not that bad.

(...It’s nice.

...

...maybe you missed this.)

—

“Nothing? Really? You didn’t feel anything?” Dream was frowning at him where he sat across their impromptu beach blanket thing. 

“Nope!” Killer affirmed cheerfully. 

“Did– did you really have that bad of a time?” Dream’s frown was tinged with some sadness. 

Killer shrugged. “Not particularly, no. It was mostly just...” he flicked more sand off his arm, “...boring,” 

Dream’s idea was to take him for a ‘beach day’ for a couple of hours. His hypothesis being that if Killer was relaxed and in a very pleasant space, he’d feel... ugh, “safer and more comfortable” to... “express his emotions”.

It failed. Sure, the sun against his bones was pleasant sensation-wise, and so was the sound of the waves close by, but that was about it. The most Killer got out of it was relentlessly teasing Dream for “taking him out on a date”, trying to get a reaction from him. Dream was annoyingly composed and used to his bullshit. Killer ended up trying to manually catch fish by stabbing them with his knife. 

It lasted a few short hours. The sun was still high and bright. Killer’s jacket was off. They were basically having a beach picnic right now, how romantic! 

“Right,” Dream sighed, face in his hand. He always looked exhausted. He couldn't hide it even from Killer. It got better as the Stars slowly chipped at Corrupted Nightmare’s defenses, getting Dust and Horror to turn over a new page; and it got a lot better as Corrupted Nightmare was un-corrupted; but still. Killer assumed there was a lot of damage control to be done, even with the help of Night. 

That’s the prize you get for living like that. Dream does this to himself, in Killer’s humble opinion. 

“Well, thank you for giving it a shot,” Dream re-composed himself. Still trying to look on the bright side. Jeez, Killer was getting tired just looking at him, hah. 

He shrugged in response. “Just a waste of my time. Nothing new.” 

Dream studied his expression. Probably trying to figure out where he went wrong. Killer would advise him to look somewhere much farther, more along the lines of the distant past, such as: the moment he was born. Were these ‘guardians’ born...?

“...Aside from that,” Dream picked up conversation yet again. Maybe this was just an excuse for him to have a break. “How have you been?” 

Killer blinked slowly at him. 

“You know, the usual,” he leaned back on his hands, “Killing parents, torturing their children, that sort of thing,” he counted off casually. Even if he’d actually done nothing of the sort. He’s mostly been chilling with Dust. And when the itch to cause harm got stronger, when his soul began going crazy, Dust usually indulged him with a fight. It wasn't ideal, but it was keeping him more or less on his feet. 

There was a quirk to Dream’s expression that almost looked like amusement. 

“Right,” he nodded. “I... guess you want me to return you to your... fun activities?” 

Killer sighed, leaning further until he laid his back on the blanket thing. Watching the bright blue sky and the even brighter sun above. 

“...Eh,” he shrugged. “I’m not in a rush,” 

Dream chuckled. 

It seemed he was content to remain in... peace-adjacent silence. Listening to the timid waves sloshing against the shore, just a few paces away from them. 

As calm as it was, however, the minutes ticked on. Eventually, they started to grate on Killer. Silence was boring. 

“Why are you trying so hard to ‘help me’?” he brought up, since Dream had never properly answered. “You are aware I’m one of the worst people just in general. And I’m not “corrupted” like your brother.” 

“I’m aware,” Dream confirmed. “But, well, the whole idea of ‘I believe anyone can change and be good’ wouldn’t hold much weight if I didn’t believe anyone can change and be good, if they tried,” he pointed out. Killer could respect his integrity. 

“But that’s not really where the catch is,” Killer pointed out. He was pretty sure they’ve had this conversation before. “The catch is in the last part. Whether they want to. Whether they try,” 

Of course anyone had the potential to be just about anything. Willpower is one hell of a force. But pure potential wasn't the matter. That demonic god that destroyed his world over and over until they finally got to him could choose, at any time, to not do that. They had that power more than anyone. 

But they didn't. They made those choices. And so did Killer. 

“...Do you want to be evil, Killer?” Dream asked calmly, after their brief pause. When Killer turned his head to look at him, Dream was watching the waves with a tired expression. 

Killer scratched his skull. He shrugged. “It can be fun,” 

“Yeah,” Dream nodded, and Killer blinked. “That’s the thing. You don’t want to be evil for the sake of being evil, do you?” 

...Hm. Interesting that he thought so. 

“And I think,” Dream reasoned, “like Night also thinks, that if we figure out the core reasoning behind your actions, we can find what you really want. And we can work with you. And we can help you,” 

Fun theory. 

“That didn’t answer my question however,” Killer nudged the topic aside with a foot. “Why do you want to help me that bad?”

Dream huffed a soft laugh. “It’s what I do,”

“Oh please,” Killer scoffed, “Don’t give me that cop-out,”

“...Why do you want to know?” 

“I’m bored, sunshine,” as if it was anything new. 

Dream glanced at him. Again, that slight quirk to his mouth, like he was amused or something. 

“...You’re curious,” he offered a correction. 

“Whatever makes you sleep at night,” Killer shrugged. Curious, sure, why not? People are freaking weird. Might as well try to figure them out. It’s one of the few varieties in life. Better mental stimulation than the sameness of everything else. 

“I...” Dream looked down at his hands. “Well, you can look at it mathematically if you want. There isn’t much worth to just... hating you forever, punishing you for your actions. That doesn’t get us anywhere. But if a bad person becomes good, to use simple terms... that’s an overall net gain, isn’t it?” 

...Huh. Much more pragmatic than Killer expected. He would’ve betted on something a lot sappier. 

“And everyone has a will,” Dream continued. “It’s not that you can choose to do good at any time, sometimes it’s a little more complicated, but when you remove any external factors forcing people’s decisions... I do think they can choose to do good. No matter what they’ve chosen in the past.” 

“But why not just kill me? There, that removes a bad person,” Killer pointed out. It’s the solution he’d always utilized. Simple and effective. 

Dream frowned a little. “...Did Corrupted Nightmare prefer killing?” he posed a leading question. 

And the truth was... no, not really. He wasn’t against it, obviously, especially when the death of one person could cause the grief of many. He rarely stopped Killer from indulging in it. But he got all prissy when the gang would do nothing but murder (even if it was literally their speciality). 

“Do you expect a corpse to feel bad?” Nightmare had snarled. 

“If we go down that route, ad absurdum, it would just be... endless destruction until nothing is left,” Dream answered. 

“Which wouldn’t exactly give you an increase in positivity,” Killer finished. He supposed it made sense, if he was trying to understand Dream’s point of view. 

“...I wouldn’t say it like that, my goal was never to make all of the Multiverse wholly positive, but... yes, sort of,” Dream nodded. 

“Really?” Killer glanced at him. “I thought that was the idea. Good and evil fighting to win, blah blah blah,” he waved a hand. 

“...No?” Dream blinked. “Although I suppose I understand the confusion. Many people think that.” he reasoned. “...It’s what got Night...” he muttered quietly, trailing off. His expression pinching with a concoction of emotions unfitting for his title. He shook it off quickly. “No, the idea had always been about balance. That’s why I fought against the Corrupted Nightmare. He wasn’t negativity as it should be, he was more. He was an overwhelmingly consuming force, tipping the balance towards his extreme,” 

“And you’re not doing that?” Killer asked. “You don’t want everyone to be happy, Dreamboy?” he teased. 

“No!” Dream exclaimed, to his surprise. “That’s not good for anyone. I want to help people, not– people have a natural range of emotions for a reason. Negative feelings are just as important — sadness is essential to processing grief, anger is what tells you to defend yourself or what you stand for–” he began ranting, in a way that was clearly repeated many times for many, many years.

“Besides you of course,” Killer interjected, and Dream stumbled over his words. 

“What?” he looked at Killer. 

“You’re not allowed to be sad, are you?” Killer pushed at those buttons, grinning. “Because it’s all about mathematics, right? People need the Guardian of Positivity to always be positive. And you serve the people.” 

Dream stared at him, mouth flat, brow ridges pinched. 

Killer chuckled. He was so good at striking a nerve.

“You’re a liar. So desperate to prove your stance true, you’ll tear yourself apart for it and not even let anyone see,” he continued, until Dream turned away, unable to look at him. “And you’re cruel, to claim everyone is right to feel bad, but then turn around and never do that yourself. What sort of example are you setting, sunshine?” Killer mocked. “You want me to accept and show my emotions? Where are yours?”

Dream stiffened.

He was a fool if he expected this evening to go any differently, really. This is what Killer did. He was made of hurt. His own, others’, it didn’t matter. He was fluent in all the dialects. 

And so they sat in silence. Dream likely didn’t have much more desire to talk to him after that, which was fair. Though the conversation was a degree of... enlightening. Killer had discovered nuances to Dream’s thinking he hadn’t expected.

He also expected this to be the end of it. 

...So he was reasonably surprised, when Dream spoke up, quiet but steady, 

“...Yeah. I guess you’re right,”

(...They stayed there for a little longer.)

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Extremophile" 2/4

Part 3 of ocean depths

Summary:

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. And here was the sun himself. Here was that gasp of air that burned. You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death. — Alt summary: It's not easy but boy do I drag Killer (and everyone around him) kicking and screaming towards a healing arc

Chapter 2: "feel better" 3266 words

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

You don't listen to them when they talk to you. You don't even look at them. You only snap, like when Dust kicks you in the shin for ignoring him. 

You don't care.

You don't think about Dream. You don't think about Nightmare.

None of this matters anyway.

Pain and suffering was all you had to make you feel alive, and now you don't even have that. Hah.

—

“...K–”

“If the words that come out of your mouth aren't ‘I’m here to give you your soul back’, I’ll make it easier for you,” you interrupt him, “and advise you to shut the hell up.” 

And once again, Night falls into silence. He stands where Dream usually does. You don't even give him the courtesy of looking at him. 

You don't want him here. You made that expressly clear. In a perfect world, he returns your soul and then leaves you be so you can finally off yourself. In a slightly less perfect world, but still an acceptable one, he just leaves you be. 

You hate him so much it's more than you can handle.

You want to rip him apart.

Instead, he just keeps standing there. What a coward. He can barely muster up a few words for you. What a fucking coward. All that power and yet he's a weakling.

You hear him take a breath. Steeling himself. You want to ruin his resolve.

“...You haven't been reading my–”

“Yep, and I'm not going to.” you cut him off again. “Not unless that results in me getting my soul back.” 

“...I cannot do that.” Night says quietly, and it almost makes you laugh. You're too tired for it, however. 

What a joke though, huh? The almighty Guardian of Negativity can't do something as simple as returning an object that doesn't even belong– ...well. You suppose it does belong to him, in a way. 

It did, at least. 

You belonged to him. 

And now he's... like this. 

“Right.” you reply flatly. “In that case — au revoir.” 

Another pause. It’d be funny how apprehensive he is to speak to you if it wasn't so pathetic and, frankly, annoying. 

“...Killer–” 

“I’m too lazy to get up and force you out,” you bulldoze over his words yet again, no interest in hearing him out, “so be nice and don't make me, baby,” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him flinch at the nickname. Your grin widens. Good. He deserves to hurt a little. You hope it made him deeply uncomfortable.

“I merely wanted to say I’m sorry,” Night rushes out in an attempt to be heard. “The way I treated you was never acceptable and it never should've happe–” 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” 

The silence rings deafening in the quiet that follows. 

That exploded from you in a way that surprises even yourself. You realize you are boiling. It's detached, but it's there. You shove yourself to your feet, grinding your teeth in a malicious grin.

You breathe heavily. The hatred and rage and desire for violence courses through you like liquid nitrogen. 

“Shut up.” you snap, staring at Night. He stares back, mouth pressed flatly, braced. There’s scarring over his right eye, like very wrongly healed cracks, making it mottled. Deformed forever just like Killer’s soul. He can't erase his — their — past, no matter how badly he wants to. “That’s not for you to decide.” 

He doesn't say anything. 

You stalk toward him slowly, blade already summoned to your hand. You want to make him bleed. You want to make him hurt. 

“I remember,” you start, voice coldly cheerful, “the way you would wring my neck until I couldn't even cry out. I remember the way you told me to attack my– subordinates, and I didn't even hesitate. I remember the way you would make me sob with despair–” 

“And it wasn't right–” 

“And I wanted every bit of it!” you raise your voice over his. He’s barely two feet away from you now. You wish he would cower away.

There was always something... larger, about Corrupted Nightmare. Something bigger than life. Something superior to you.

Night, the way he stood in front of you now, was lithe. He was small. It made you want to squash him like an insect. 

“I don't know how you're seeing this in your sorry little brain,” you mock, “but I’m not some victim. I chose every part of what you did to me.” you step closer, raising your knife. “I enjoyed it.”

Pressing it under his chin. 

Forcing it ever so slightly upwards so the little coward meets your fucking eyes. His eye lights tremble. You hope he's scared.

“Wanna know why, Night?” you barely have to raise your voice to be heard, with how close the two of you are. You hope he feels all the violent intent pouring from you. 

“...Why?” Night dares to prompt, even quieter. 

“Don’t you remember?” you laugh harshly, “I’m defined by my suffering. I breathe negativity.” 

Night flinches as you parrot his own words back to him. You can see in his expression that it hurts. 

Good.

“And that...” you idly trace the line of his jaw with the tip of your knife. “...made me perfect, you said. You gave me exactly what I needed. I can’t be ‘helped’ — your idiot of a brother may think otherwise, but we both know the truth, don't we?” you chuckle. 

Night just keeps staring at you, a twisted expression on his face. You entertain the thought of peeling it away bit by bit. 

“You're all I had, and I’m all you had.” you remind him. 

(I loved you at your worst. I’m the only one who did.

And you left me.)

It all happens in a flash — you've barely pulled the knife back before you slam it into his chest and he screams, but you're louder–

“And you THREW IT ALL AWAY!” 

Hands flying up to grab yours but you twist the knife deeper, shoving him back. Until you slam his back into the pillar behind him. 

He clutches at your wrist with both hands, blood streaming down his shirt. But he doesn't leave. He just takes it. Probably due to all that misplaced guilt. It's pathetic. You're almost disgusted to wound him. 

You wonder if he’ll let you kill him. He won't die from this, of course, it's nowhere near enough, though you almost wish the sheer harmful intent you packed into it was enough to make him keel over.

Oh how the tables have turned. Now it's you putting that look on his face and making him cry out in pain. How cute.

He stares at you, tears building in the corners of his eyes despite his set expression. You wonder if it's the pain from the wound or the pain from your words.

“I was ready to do everything for you,” you snarl, still grinning close to his face so he misses none of it. “But nooo! Little Mister Good Night wanted to play nice!” you jeer, ripping the blade out of him. He buckles and chokes on it, gasping for breath. 

You grab his hand roughly. 

“But you’re not nice. You can't be nice. You’re a monster, just like me. We know the truth,” you pull his hand up, and slot the knife’s handle into it, “Don't we, my king?” 

Night tries to jerk his hand back, and then again, but he still refuses to fight back against you. It’d be adorable if it wasn't so stupid. 

You just use your second one to forcibly press his fingers closed around the handle of the blade. 

And then you press that blade to right where your soul always sits, always bared and vulnerable. 

You lean close, until you can even feel the pain from the sharp tip.

“So here's your ultimatum,” you speak slow and calm. Quiet enough so your voice doesn't even echo, because this is personal. Between you and him. You’re grinning. “You can't have both cakes, baby. Either leave me be completely; or stop with your game of pretend, stop being a coward and finish it.” 

The silence is deafening. 

You feel the way your grin is stretched over your face, leering and dripping black. You listen to Night’s harsh, quick breathing. You watch the shake in his wide, wet eyes. 

What a fun idea Night had, coming here. You wonder what he was expecting to happen. Fool. 

“...I–” Night takes a breath, “I don't wish to hurt you any more than I already have.” he says, pushing determined resolve into his voice, even with how quiet and shaky it is.

“Oh, but dear,” you croon, and you wonder if it’ll work if you were the one to shove his hands in the right direction, “can't we do what I want for once?” 

Night shook his head, distressed.

You sigh, releasing him, taking your knife back. 

It won't work if the intent isn't there, so you can't do it yourself. What a disappointment. Although that isn't a surprise, when it comes to this version of Nightmare. 

“Go on then,” you wave dismissively, turning your back to him. “Leave.” 

And in a perfect world, he does. In a perfect world, the Void comes and claims you with its own hands.

“No.” your wrist is grabbed, and you pause. 

Slowly, you turn back around. Until you can once again see his face. Like a little mouse. It has no right holding all that determination all of a sudden.

“...What?” you hiss.

“I said no.” Night repeats, as if you simply didn't quite hear him. Raising his chin a little, eye lights flickery but holding your glare nonetheless. “I'm not leaving you again.” 

You stare at him. 

You spit a laugh in his face and he winces. You hold your face, and you start laughing so hard your head hurts. The harsh sound bouncing around the mess that became of this damned corridor. 

Well isn't that a funny joke? Never knew Nightmare is such a comedian!

“Laugh all you want!” Night goes on the defensive, trying to speak over your deranged laughter. “I know you hate being alone, I’m not leaving you, even if I can't help, I’ll send Dream, or Dust or– I know you hate being alone,”

“And that's why you ditched me, isn't it?” you speak over his words, through your own laughter. He still hasn't let go of your wrist. The contact feels... feels. “Discarded me when I was no longer fun to push around?”

Night cringes, clearly pained at the reminder. Reflexively squeezing your wrist. 

“Left me? In the Antivoid? Poor ol’ me, all alone?” you press deeper into the emotional wound. “Because you wanted to hurt me as bad as you could, right? Remember? What good times we had, Night-night!” 

“You're so–” Night mutters through teeth, and you laugh in his face. 

“I’m what? Callous? Mean? Evil?” you continue mocking, “Come on, saayy it! Hopeless, beyond redemption? Violent and unstable, a distorted freak, scum?” oh yes, you remember the pretty names he’s called you, always the romantic, “Am I still perfect for you, baby? Or is your little toy finally too broken to play with?” you throw it all at him like darts at a board.

You know it hurts because he cries. His expression is set, but there's silent tears down his face. The sight of it might just make the next day a little more bearable to exist through. 

Instead of daring to address any of that, however, 

“...You’re not beyond hope.” Night whispers. 

What a moron. Him and Dream really are twins, huh? 

“Hey, waste as much energy on that as you want. I don't care,” you shrug, “I don't care about anything.” you say airily.

“That's not true.” Night still doesn't raise his voice. 

“Right, because you know me better than I know myself or... something something,” you feign a yawn, “Soo you going to leave already oorr?” 

Now, Night’s hand squeezes your wrist intentionally. There's probably meaning to it. You don't care. You don't care. 

“I’ll be back.” Night states, quiet but resolute.

You don't dignify him with a response. You don't care enough to do so.

When he finally leaves, you exhale. 

And once again it's just you and the silence.

—

You're that sick and tired of this hallway to last for three lifetimes. You need a change of scenery. 

You need something to do. You crave it like a druggie. You need to sink your sharp magic into something soft, watch the life drain out, so you can pretend like you're soaking it up. You need the rush of it, the hit of raised EXP. You need the adrenaline of a fight. 

Or, at the very least, you need a change. The boredom is mind numbing. It's torture. It’s eating you alive. You feel like you're decaying with every breath.

You wonder if Dust’s offer is still on the table. Probably, right? Mm. One small issue, though. 

You have no way of contacting him. You only have company when someone else decides to come around. 

You settle for repeatedly slamming the back of your head into the wall. 

If you're in pain, maybe you're real.

—

Huh. Killer didn't think Night would dare show his face around again. But apparently he was a little more serious about the whole ‘not leaving you alone’ thing. 

Except... he did nothing. 

Killer didn't greet him back when he popped up, but Night didn't push. He just... sat down on the ground. Opened up a book. Started reading casually like he was in a comfy public library. 

At least he wasn't being a bother again. 

Killer avoided looking at him initially, but now, he observed. Just watched the way Night sat, legs crossed. 

He was dressed... proper. Fancy and regal, but far from anything grand — more on the simple side, a caplet with a clasp, that sort of thing. In purple. 

Killer watched him turn a page. Stance calm and easy. Like Killer wouldn't take every opportunity to hurt him. It was... annoying. 

“You really have nothing better to do?” Killer spoke up, almost surprising himself with it. But hey, even talking to this loser was more than the devouring silence. “No charity work? Fixed all the lives you ruined?” 

He watched Night intentionally keep his composure together, not showing that’d gotten to him. Killer knew he had, anyway. He chuckled. It was so easy. 

“There's always something to do,” Night said calmly, eyes on his book. “And right now I’m choosing to do this,” 

“Aww, you missed me that bad, baby?” Killer mocked. “Realized you can never fit among them? That they’ll always hate you?” he spoke cheerfully. 

Night gripped his book. Then pointedly relaxed his hands. 

“...I already knew that,” he said quietly. In the echo of the hallway it was audible enough. “And... I do miss you,” 

Killer fell silent. 

...That... hm. He huffed. 

That was stupid. That wasn't– he wanted to snap at Night to shut up. 

“Well of course you do,” he crooned instead, grin widening, “Who wouldn't want a brainless yes-man of a peon?” 

Night frowned slightly.

“...You're not brainless,” he countered, of all things. Hm. He wasn't rising to Killer’s bait. He was keeping himself a lot more level-headed compared to last time. Interesting. 

“Right, my mistake,” Killer mimed rolling his eyes, “I’m heartless,” 

Night’s gaze broke from his book, but he still didn't look at Killer, only to the side. Frowning lightly. 

“I...” he spoke, considering, “...I don't think you're that, either.” 

Killer immediately spat a laugh. 

“Oh so you've gone delusional!” he revelled, “We should call Dust and Horror here, get the whole Crazy Crew!” he jeered. 

“I’m serious,”

“I’m sure you are!” 

“You're not heartless, Killer,” Night insisted, Killer’s mockery only strengthening his defensive stance. “Dream told me what happened between the two of you. I know you felt his affective aura and you've always been able to feel mine–” 

“Woooww, I’m susceptible to emotions forced on me? You're right, I’m such an empath–”

“That's the thing,” Night now looked at him, closing his book. Oooh, getting serious? “Ink can't. He’s influenced only by his vials. Fresh is immune to our influence too — but you’re not. You can feel it, you feel it all,” 

Killer sighed, enduring the lecture with an almost familiar lack of care. Ahh, the amount of times he’s been scolded by Nightmare. Sadly this one probably won't end like those. What a shame.

“So what?” Killer shrugged. 

“I think,” Night spoke like this was far from the first time he’d thought on the matter, yet still treading carefully, “that... you could, hypothetically... feel on your own. You had the capability before, even if it has been a long time, right? It– it's like an atrophied muscle, you struggle to generate anything on your own, but the senses for it are still there–” 

“You have no way of knowing that,” Killer pointed out. 

Night paused. Squinted. He idly fidgeted with the top corners of his book, contemplative. 

“...You know what?” he chimed, “You're right. How about we test it?” 

Killer blinked. “Test it,” he repeated flatly. 

“Yes! Like an experiment,” Night nodded, a little livelier, “That would be at least a little interesting, right? We can bet on it, even, and it'd be a win-win for you — either you're right and you win, or I’m right and we can work on hea– recovering your emotional senses!” 

...What a nerd.

But he did know how to convince Killer. It was almost nasty, the way he used his intimate knowledge of the inner workings of Killer’s mind. 

It would be more interesting than doing nothing, though. And it would be a win-win for him. 

“Mmm,” Killer tapped a finger, acting indecisive, “A bet, huh? What are you betting?” 

Night paused again. “I meant it more figuratively,” he coughed. 

“And I’m making it literal,”

“Well what are you willing to bet on it?” what do you even have?

Clever, flipping it back to Killer. Night was showing his chess skills.

Hmm. What could he bet? Not like he had... anything, really. 

...But. There was something that Night had which Killer wanted. 

“...My soul,” Killer said, smirking. “If I win, you give it back. If you win, you can keep it.” 

And if Killer was right, and he was truly, provably hopeless, getting his soul back had an obvious next step. If Night somehow, ridiculously, proved to be right, Killer could hypothetically live with that. 

A win-win.

Night was hesitating. 

“...I don't–” he puffed an exhale, “Your soul is– that's too much. I’m not–” 

Killer cackled loudly, “Well then you better be pretty convinced in that little theory!” he prodded. “Come on, it’s my soul after all,” 

Night pushed himself to his feet, storing his book in his inventory. He took in a breath, let it out. 

“...I have a few terms.”

“Okay,” Killer indulged him, amused.

“You’ll also let Dream help. And you have to go about this fairly — give it an actual shot, don't just... shoot it all down.” Night kept his back straight as he spoke. 

“Sure,” 

“...Genuinely?” Night was taken back by his response. 

“Yeah whatever,” Killer shrugged, getting to his feet. “Win-win, right?” 

“...Right.” 

“Well?” Killer extended a hand. 

Night glanced at it, then at his face. Breathed in, breathed out. Steeled himself, committing to his decision. 

He strode closer, took Killer’s hand and shook it. It didn't hurt. Even Killer didn't take the opportunity to hit him with an attack. 

Alright then. Time to see how this unfolds.

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Extremophile" 1/4

Part 3 of ocean depths

Summary:

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. And here was the sun himself. Here was that gasp of air that burned. You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death. — Alt summary: It's not easy but boy do I drag Killer (and everyone around him) kicking and screaming towards a healing arc

Chapter 1: "catabolic seed" 4351 words

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

It's funny. The moth never did fly away. Maybe its wings were too burned up. Or, maybe, it didn't want to. 

It was the flame that was put out first. But with the lethal heat went away the entrancing shine that drew the lowly insect in, too. 

—

“Get out.” Killer didn't even bother with asking. 

“It's a letter,” Dream said instead, standing at the other side of the Final Corridor, across the path with his back to the large windows. Once, it would've made him glow with golden light. But it’s been dark for a long time. A very long time. Dream’s voice echoed throughout the ruins of the hallway.

He was holding said letter out towards Killer. If he wanted to take it, Killer would have to get up from where he sat leaned against one of the many ruined pillars.

Everything was ruined around here. Fitting, for this place’s one inhabitant. It was his own doing, anyway. Home sweet home, huh?

(He had nothing but Nightmare. He had nothing. Nowhere to go.

And now Nightmare was gone.)

He couldn't be bothered with any Dreamtale bullshit today.

“He–”

“Get out.” Killer snarled, eyes dripping with the same violent intent that dripped from his tone. 

“I’lll leave it here,” Dream calmly placed the letter on the ground. It was a dark purple, with a golden wax seal of a crescent moon. 

As soon as Dream was gone, Killer hurled as much magic was needed at the damn thing until there wasn't even dust left of it.

—

It was a big deal. A very, very, very big deal, when the Corrupted Nightmare’s soul was finally released, and he returned to his personhood. All the events leading up to it were so dramatic, and when it happened, the whole Multiverse cheered and celebrated. Probably. 

(Everyone but one.)

After years upon years of struggle and suffering, the balance of Positivity and Negativity was, at last, restored. No longer heavily tipped in the direction of darkness. 

Probably. 

Killer didn't particularly care.

Nightmare was gone. 

That... thing, the one that stared at his back sadly and couldn't look him in the eye? The one whose touch didn't burn? The one who said pathetic things like “sorry”?

That was not Nightmare.

And so back to emptiness Killer went. 

Here, in his familiar hell. Here, in this decrepit hallway. His own coffin. 

His original universe. Or what remained of it, at least.

There was nothing to do. There was no point to him. He didn't even have the agony anymore, the one that made him feel alive. 

It was gone. 

Killer had no purchase. No purpose. Nothing.

Nothing upon nothing upon nothing. 

His breaths were too shallow to even echo. The birds stopped singing forever ago. The weeds overtook the patches of decay. 

Killer had never felt colder. 

—

“Did... did you read the previous one?” Dream asked tentatively. Fidgeting with the new purple letter in his hands. 

You stare at him. Eyes empty and dead. A grinning corpse. 

You're so, so empty. If you were a monster, you probably would've Fallen Down a long time ago. 

But you're not.

You place a hand on the pillar behind your back. Slowly, lumbering, you push yourself to your feet. Dream watches your movements with pinched brow ridges. 

You start chuckling quietly. 

It takes a single movement for you to hurl the knife at Dream, so fast he yelps and barely dodges. The blade had enough force that half its length embeds itself into the solid rock. 

There is liquid despair-hate-determination leaking down your face. In a flash you are next to Dream, swinging a newly summoned knife and he dodges right into a third summoned knife. He sucks in a breath but you're already summoning the next attack. 

Dream is far stronger than he looks. He must be feeling better than ever, really, what with that thing that ate his brother now gone. 

But this place is a wreckage. 

Killer attacked mercilessly, relentlessly, again and again and again. You don't feel exhaustion. You don't feel pain. You don't feel anything. 

It's a mindless screaming of violence, the only thing holding your particles together. All sharpened to a point until Dream finally. Fucking. Flees. 

He leaves the letter with you. 

You destroy it in lieu of destroying its sender. 

—

He sat in a single spot. 

He slept to pass the time. 

It all blurred together.

There was nothing left for him. 

—

“Horror asked me to bring you this,” Dream said, holding two large tupperware containers in his hands. With food inside. You don't care what type of food. You don't care who sent it. You don't care.

“How many times,” you speak, low, reverberating with hateful intent, “do I have to tell you to leave?” 

“I’m not giving up on you,” Dream states, determination clear on his face. 

You would start laughing hysterically. You would attack him again. You've attacked him about a dozen times on these visits, now. So overtaken by violence you don't even really remember it. 

You're just... 

...too tired for it. 

“Okay,” even though it wasn’t, nothing is, it never was and it never will be, “then can do you something for me?” 

It's hilarious the way Dream’s eye sockets widened at that. It's pathetic the way his face brightened. So desperate. So foolish.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “Yes, anything! Of course!” 

“Tell that thing dirtying Nightmare’s name,” Killer’s grin stretched, “to let go of my soul.” 

Dream blinked, thrown off. 

“He– what? He still holds power over your soul?” he asked, incredulous, maybe angry, or maybe just crushed. 

You spit a laugh. “Of course.” 

“I’ll speak to him,” Dream nodded, serious. He lifted the tupperware containers a little, “I’ll just... leave these here?” 

He did.

Killer destroyed them. 

—

You wonder why this world still stands. You wish you could tear it apart with your own hands.

—

“...I’m sorry,” Dream said, standing sheepishly in the same spot across the width of the corridor. Another damned letter in his hands. Face twisted in upset. 

Killer barked a laugh. Him and Nightmare were twins, huh? He could see the resemblance.

(“I’m so sorry, I– I can't even describe– Killer, what I– he– it– the way you suffered was so wrong–” “Nightmare” had stammered.

Killer laughed in his face. 

“Oh it was!” he revelled, “That's what I liked about it,” he mocked.)

“Of course you are,” Killer muttered.

“Just...” Dream took a breath, “We're worried that if Night isn't... keeping a hold of your soul, that you might–” 

“Yup,” you pop the word brightly. “End this torture for good? That's the plan, sunshine boy,” 

Dream always looks devastated when you speak like that. It's hilarious. What a bleeding heart. It makes you want to slam him to the ground until he's really bleeding. 

“...Killer–”

“Don't worry,” you laugh, “The determination will probably force me to keep at it instead, what a joy,” you shrug. You're doomed to suffer. You can't escape it, not even in death. 

“We can try something else–” Dream begs.

“Night, huh?” Killer interrupted him, coldly uncaring. Venomously mocking. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days? How cute. Very harmless and gentle. You should tell him it really fixes all the lives he’s ruined,”

Dream’s expression flitted to something angry. Immediately he took a breath, held it, and let it out. Ohoo, so he’s not letting you get to him? You start laughing. That’s a challenge if you’ve ever seen one.

“He’s trying–” 

“I can see that,” Killer nodded at the purple letter that Dream still held. “How cutesy. Did he, by any chance, put a time machine in there?” 

“He’s working hard to change.” Dream was resolute. “He’s helping people.”

“Atoning for his sins, huh? Veery saintly. Someone better get some nails and call Cross,” Killer joked, and surprisingly, Dream had to smother a snort.

“He wasn’t himself when he did those things. It wasn’t his fault.” Dream insisted, calm, but sure of it. Seems he really believed that. How... humanitarian. 

Killer leaned further back. Tilted his head at the dreamboy. 

“So what?”

“...What?”

“You’re here to deliver a beautiful final speech?” Killer was grinning, mocking. “Tell me how everyone deserves a second chance? How everyone can change, if they really wanted to? For the better, even? Hit me with that ‘Killer, I believe in you’ maybe?” he chuckled flatly. 

Dream’s mouth was twisted flatly, brow ridges pinched together again. 

“...I do,” Dream said quietly. In the silence of the corridor, it echoed loudly enough. “I do believe that.” 

Killer let out a breathy laugh, letting his head thunk back against the pillar. How absurd. Dream was trying so very hard to make something out of nothing. It’s you. You are the nothing.

“...In every universe I know,” you start. “The character that holds that stand is the one who dies oh so tragically. Pretty early on, even,” you lament, eyes dark, darker. It’s all hopeless. There hasn’t been light at the end of the tunnel for... so, so very long now. It’s just the vast ocean depths.

A red scarf in the snow. You were upset about it, the first many times. Then you started taking it in stride. Then you were numb to it.

“Either that, or, well,” you shrug, “Or they’re forced to change said stand. So where does that put you, sunshine?” 

Quiet. It’s always so quiet. Sometimes you’d rather Dream take the matter in his own hands and just kill you already. You’ll never understand why he still bothers. How he still has the energy to bother. 

“...I’m still alive.” is Dream’s quiet argument. You bark a laugh. You suppose that’s true. Some people are just lucky like that. 

Dream leaves the letter with you. You rip it in half and watch it burn. 

—

“Hey,” 

It was almost startling, and immediately Killer’s eyes snapped open from his tired dozing. 

“Dust??” 

And– dammit. That... there was a flash of an emotion from Dust’s unexpected presence here, but as Killer tried to pinpoint it now, it was already gone. He couldn’t decipher what it’d been.

“Heyo,” Dust wiggled his fingers in a greeting. His appearance hadn’t changed much — still with the hood up, still with that red scarf. But there was no longer radioactivity in the lights of his eyes. He didn’t have, well, dust clinging to him anymore. He seemed... more stable. More present. Good for him, Killer thought, neutrally, not particularly caring.

...Good for him.

He stood where Dream usually did, but he shuffled to walk to Killer’s side, unafraid. Sat down slumped with his back at the pillar Killer always sat against. 

“Not worried I’ll go Stage Three on you?” Killer teased. That was the highest stage, as opposed to his usual ‘Stage One’ — his regular soul, with two red circles and a white one between them, like a target. As far as he knew, there were only three variations it could shape itself. There's been... a lot of Two and even Three these days.

“Go ahead, I’ll kick your ass anyday,” Dust shrugged, grinning. “Just like old times, huh?”

Just like old times. Huh. 

(Memories of staying awake at ungodly hours and chatting to keep the whispers of silence at bay. Memories of competing for how much EXP they could gain without outright killing anybody. Memories of just the two of them in a room, after Horror wasn’t with ‘em anymore.

...But it’s not Killer who left.)

Cold. Icy. Black and bitter. Hands clenched. A fuzz around the edges of your vision at the memory of emptiness. Of endless, looming, silent walls. The feeling dissipates, leaving only dark stains against your psyche. Maybe you will go Stage Three on him. 

“Right.” you don’t look at him. Your voice remains neutral and unbothered. It always does. “Soo. Which one sent you?” 

“Neither,” Dust shrugs, paying no mind to your aura. “I just used them as a bridge to get here. I wanted to see you,” 

That... what?

You snort. “Why?” 

“Just wanted to. Haven’t in a while. I told you you could visit at any time,” Dust reminded. “But you never did,”

“Sure I did,” Killer argued. 

“Yeah, like two times in the beginning,” Dust elbowed him, teasing. “And when Nightmare turned, you could’ve come and stayed with me and Red, not here,”

That’s not Killer’s place. This is Killer’s place. 

“You’re my friend,” Dust said quietly, smile gaining some other tinge. “I would’ve welcomed you,”

You’re my friend.

Killer exhaled through his nose, shaky with amusement. 

You’re my friend.

He started chuckling. He started laughing. It was cracking out from his ribcage. He couldn’t pin down the feeling it mimicked. Amusement? Incredulity? Absurdity? Irony? 

“No I’m not,” you kindly inform through your laughter. “I think you’re forgetting I couldn’t feel less about you,” it’s hilarious. It’s bonkers. Dust really is fucking insane.

Dust didn’t let it get to him, just rolled his eye lights. “Sure buddy, whatever helps you sleep at night,” he teases, but you know he knows what you’re truly like. He knows you’re not lying. Which begs the question: how did that delusion still manage to take root? 

Hah. 

“I mean it though,” Dust rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms idly. “You’re welcome at any time. We could go right now,”

Killer snorted. “Yeah, I’ll take you up on that offer when I need some free EXP,” 

Dust paused. Huh. Funny reaction. He really cared about those from the ‘fell verse, huh? 

“...No, you won’t,” Dust said, tone reserved to himself. “But that’s fine. Mind if I stay with you instead?”

Killer huffed in mirth. “...I couldn’t care less,” he said, like it was an inside joke between them.

Dust chuckled. And stayed with him. 

(It...

...It was so much better than the emptiness.)

—

You wish it was as easy as sleeping all the time, but that’s not exactly possible. Instead, when you’re awake, you’re in a sleep-like haze. 

Time passing far too slowly and yet all at once. You blink and it’s been hours. Probably because those hours are all the same, they feel like a single unchanging moment, playing on loop. The rise and fall of your chest. The faint change of light outside those grand, cracked, dusty windows.

It’s...

It’s agony. 

It’s a constant, unyielding numbness. An empty existence. A corpse with awareness.

The hours are all the same. None of it feels real, because there’s nothing to differentiate it at all. Fantasy and dreams and reality, it’s all the same, always unchanging, horrible. It’s like being so deeply starved that you stop feeling even the pains from hunger. Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters.

It’s just a soul-deep craving. 

For something. Anything. Whether it be your own blades faintly cracking along your bones, the back of your skull repeatedly slammed against the pillar, something, something. You’d raze the entire fucking Multiverse to ashes and launch your body into its fires if it let you feel something. 

Your soul... 

...Metaphysically, it’s here, with you. At the center of your chest, bare and vulnerable like an open wound. When you hold it, the red and white circlets glow against your sickly bones. It’s been more unstable than ever, messy and erratic. 

The red glow is fitting against the knife in your hand. 

The pain is horrible. It’s something that feels mildly real, it’s all you have. Until it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and you are screaming just for there to be a sound. 

It’s all pointless anyway. You bring it into the decimals, shaking and burning with your own self-inflicted violence, but it doesn’t break apart. DETERMINATION holds back just as tightly. 

Hah. Haha. 

Horror and Dust never had quite the same arrangement with Nightmare that you did. And that fucker, that poor excuse of an existence that insists he is Nightmare now still hasn’t let your cursed, rotten soul go. Not fully. 

Dream implied it’s because he knows you want nothing more than to destroy it. 

You hope it’s because he is selfish, because he wants you hurt and ruined like always, because he wants you. You wish you could bludgeon him until the pitying expressions he gives you are unrecognizable. 

You wish he’d go back to how he was before.

—

“Hey,” Dream appeared once again. Just like always, right across the hallway’s width at the other row of pillars. Or, well, what remained of them, which wasn't much. 

He seemed to be appearing at similar times of the day, even. Not that Killer cared to track. For him, the moments when he wasn't alone weren't even real, and then suddenly, here's the Dream Boy. 

It was funny to call the centuries old Guardian ‘boy’. It always felt unfitting that someone who seemed so weak was so... not that.

Killer didn't care to reply to him either. He was tired. He didn't care about anything. Why bother? 

“It's not a letter this time,” Dream informed, smiling politely as always. You really do believe him when he says he believes in the good in people and that he cares. You just don't care. 

Dream produced a couple stapled papers. “I thought about what you said,” he started, “And we did some research. Turns out, actually, statistically,” he held out the papers to Killer, “It's Papyrus — his archetype — that has the highest track record of turning Players away from the Genocide route,” he was grinning. 

...Huh. 

That's... mildly interesting, actually. You suppose he does have the resources for something like this at his disposal. 

“Also,” Dream continued, pulling out a bar of chocolate. “Night sends you this,” 

...Damn. Damn. So he was switching up tactics, huh? Curse his knowledge of Killer. He was a fan of chocolate. Something about the cocoa and the sugar giving you a mild artificial high, the strong flavor. Or maybe whatever remained of Chara in him, hah. 

Killer couldn't be bothered to push himself up. “Toss it,”

Dream tossed him the chocolate bar and Killer caught it. It wasn't the cheap kind. Maybe there were some upsides to having a sorry little insult like ‘Night’ feeling, well, sorry for you. Killer could abuse this. 

“Stop giving me that expression,” he told Dream, who was beaming. Eyes sparkling like sunshine glitter on the surface of the ocean. “Before I peel it off of you.” 

Dream, the nuisance that he was, just laughed brightly. 

“Want the research too?” he waved the papers at Killer.

Killer sighed, stashing the chocolate in his inventory. 

Reading about Papyrus-es in the Geno runs? That could hurt, hopefully. Nice. Or he’d feel nothing, but he always felt nothing. Plus, he supposed just reading anything at all would fill in the emptiness.

Or he’d just use it as kindling, haha. 

“Sure. Leave me alone now.” 

—

Another chocolate, of a different kind this time but no less high quality. Hah! They thought they were being smart. They thought they had a foot in the door with him. Hilarious. He was just using them for his own personal gain. 

Well, if they wanted to be used so badly, Killer sure wasn't going to stop them!

“Dust has been asking for you,” Dream said as he tossed over the chocolate. “Told me to remind you. He didn't specify remind you what though, so I just assumed you'd know,”

Who appointed Dream to be everyone’s messenger to Killer? They could haul their ass over here too. Killer held zero warmth for Dream. Negative warmth, even. Night could transport anyone here too; same went for Ink, yada yada. But whatever. Not like Killer cared. It would've been more fun if it was someone fun that kept visiting him, though. Maybe Dust himself, and they could hurl bullets at each other and trade insult-quips. Or Horror, or someone. 

“Yeah, I know,” Killer stated plainly, stashing this chocolate in his inventory too. He had actually eaten the other one. It was... nice, actually. He enjoyed it. 

“You know what?” Killer placed a hand on the dilapidated pillar he always sat leaned against. Pushing himself to his feet. Tired. “Sure.” 

Dream blinked.

“Sure?”

“Yeah,” Killer shrugged, grinning mean (aka his go-to). “Take me to Dust and his bitey puppies, why not? Can't be worse than this,” 

It would be something. It would be people and sounds and sensations and it won't be empty. Killer could even score some EXP no one would miss. 

“Oh. Oh!” Dream beamed again. It's hilarious, the way he thought hope still existed for Killer. “Yes, I’ll take you there! But first. Can I ask for a favor?” he gained a look in his eyes. Hopeful, mischievous? Opportunistic maybe. 

Killer raised his brow ridges. “Very transactional of you, Mister Selfless,” he teased. 

Dream rolled his eyes. “I’ll still take you there if you refuse,” he reasoned. Always so reasonable. What a diplomat, hah. 

“Well, if you insist,” Killer said in a low voice, grin stretching. He was in a mood to be entertained by cheery fools, why not? 

“How about... a hug?” Dream opened his arms. Calm. The very opposite of pushy about it. 

Killer blinked at him, and promptly burst out into laughter. 

“And they call me a maniac!” he gasped, slapping his knee. Oh this was golden. A hug? From Killer? How Papyrus of him!

“Oh, oh, or have you finally gone on a mean streak?” Killer kept laughing. To his credit, Dream wasn't faltering, just waited out his fit calmly. “Gonna dunk on me? Finally finish me off, Peaceful Pea?” Killer kept mocking, his voice echoing throughout the empty Judgement Hall. It was rare that he raised it these days. 

“No,” Dream replied timidly. “I just want a hug, from you,” he said like that was normal. Like they were besties who embraced all the time! Like Killer wouldn't take the first opportunity to stab him in the back, literally! 

“Sure buddy, bring it in!” Killer accepted cheerfully, opening his arms. If the idiot wanted to get dunked on so badly, who was Killer to rain on his parade? In this world, it's dunk or get dunked on!

Insane, the way Dream stepped forward with a warm smile for an embrace. This sucker didn't know the oldest tricks in the book apparently. Because as soon as Killer’s hands wrapped around him, past Dream’s vision, he was summoning a sharp, sharp knife. 

And then–

And–

They hugged. 

...The thing about the Corrupted Nightmare’s aura — and touch — is that they were concentrated negativity. Negativity completely out of balance, off the rocker. He could turn the mood of everyone in an AU abysmal simply by going there. He could kill you with a touch if he didn’t actively keep it reigned in, because physical contact, being the closest you can get to him, was also the most intense. 

When he turned Passive, that disappeared. Or so Killer had assumed. 

Because Dream was–

He was–

He... was... warm.

Not just ‘body heat’ warm. Not ‘nervous’ warm. Warm like healing magic, like eating soup with your friends, like– like sunshine. Like happiness and excitement and hope and–

Like Nightmare’s icy fire but with none of the lethality, just light and warm warm warm–

“Killer–?” 

You’ve been buried in the depths of the ocean for so, so, so very long. 

You are a shipwreck. 

Your construction is frail and jagged and rotten. Even the concept of ever moving from where you’re stuck died long ago.

You drown every minute, every second, with every breath you take. You haven’t breathed for so, so long. The icy waters are inside you, deep, deep inside you. All you could ever feel is cold and colder. You haven’t seen the sun in... so... long. It was so far away from you that you couldn’t even picture it anymore. 

And here was the sun himself. 

Here was that gasp of air that burned. 

You’ve been so cold for so long, the warmth feels like death.

(...all this time...

...Dream had an aura too?)

Dream cries out as your blade sinks into his back. You planned to keep him in the embrace to hurt him, but you only twist the knife deeper once before you’re wrenching yourself away from– from–

“Killer–!” the idiot extends a hand towards you like you didn’t just fucking stab him– “Wait–”

“SHUT UP.” you snarl, and you’re not angry, not really, you can’t feel anything, you haven’t felt anything in what feels like centuries. An eternity. 

(Warm like sunshine and happiness and excitement and hope–)

“You’re LEAVING if you know what’s GOOD for you.” you inform him kindly, violent intent thrumming through your bones, your soul, echoing off the grand walls. Surrounding and unstable. 

“I'm not leaving you,” Dream refused adamantly, and you’re laughing as you attack. You're ruthless as you attack. You hurl a barrage of violence at him, cheap hacks and traps to ensure the numbers tick down, bit by bit. You wreak destruction on this already rundown hallway. It's what you do. You are destruction. 

You want to be alone. You want to snuff him out. You need to snuff him out. You need it existentially. 

It was an irrevocable truth: this light, this warmth, it doesn't exist. And even if others claimed it does, it does not for you, not for you. It never has. It never will. It's not that it’s too far out of your reach — it doesn't. Exist. 

...Except.

Except, here it is. Expertly doing its best to dodge the onslaught of your hateful violence. 

You need it gone, because if it's real...

“I hate you,” you snarl when you're up close, hands almost shaking with the effort you're putting in stabbing Dream. But he holds his block. “I hate you so, so much.” you spit black hatred like venom. 

Maybe it's the sheer intensity of your negativity that finally gets him to relent. Maybe he just gives up on you as he should've ages ago. 

You stand among the ruins of your life, the echoes of your harsh breaths. Blood dripping from your blade like the despair from your face. 

Alone.