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dreamsclock · 2 years ago

Note

no more sad cdnf ill cry :((

happy c!dteam for u :) i feel like i've posted this before but idk??? either way . this was written YEARS ago but it's still v sweet :D

“You’ve got to stop burning yourself out like this.”

Dream doesn’t even look behind him, training weary eyes on his target in front of him without a word. He knows what he’ll see if he turns - Sapnap, hands balled resolutely into fists behind him, face determined, concerned. It’s clear his best friend doesn’t understand, and he’s not about to start explaining.

“Seems like you’re trying to get yourself injured,” comes another voice casually from behind Sapnap’s, and this voice does make Dream stiffen and turn; Sapnap is standing exactly as he imagines, looking strangely out of place in the dark of the Syndicate training room, but behind him is George, eyebrows arched, face bored. He leans against the door like he doesn’t care less.

Dream knows better. He always does.

“Who sent you?” He asks, voice quiet, hushed.

Sapnap steps forwards. “Who d’you think, idiot?” He trades an uncertain glance with George. “Techno said you’d be down here. Think he’d kill us if we came down here otherwise.”

Biting back a snort of amusement, Dream knows it’s true. Techno is more than a little protective of the Syndicate grounds, and had been displeased enough when Dream had requested that his friends should be allowed to come and go as they pleased. But he knows why Techno has sent them - knows, because Techno is ridiculously transparent these days, and it’s obvious the other is worried about him.

Not that anyone should worry about him. Because he’s fine.

He says so himself.

“Tell Tech I said… thanks for the concern, but I’m good.” Dream spins back round to his straw training dummy, gives it a poke with his sword. His arm, exhausted after hours of desperately trying to work himself back up to full strength, trembles. “I’ll finish soon, and I’ll get sleep when I’m done.”

George scoffs. “It’s one in the morning. It’s past training time.”

“I slept plenty yesterday,” Dream says, unfazed, “look. I’ll finish soon. I promise.”

…It’s only partly a lie. Really, ‘soon’ could mean anything - five minutes, fifty minutes, five hours. He does plan on finishing at some point… though he doesn’t have to tell them when. He’s sick of feeling like he’s being babied, sick of hiding away waiting desperately to be completely healed - hell, Quackity and Sam had done a fantastic job of making sure Health and Regen potions got rid of every scar and open wound on his body - and he’s sick of feeling like he’s useless. Like he’s damaged.

He’s completely fine. He’s Dream.

When he sways on his feet, Sapnap doesn’t look sure, and steadies him. Annoyance rising, Dream pushes him off with a grimace.

“Sapnap.” The name comes out with force. “I’m fine.”

“Dream.” George mimics his voice, pushing himself off the doorframe and sauntering in. His eyes are heavy and framed with dark circles under his goggles. “You’ve been here seven hours.”

…Okay, so that’s true. Dream wilts a little, but stays stubborn. “I stopped for dinner.”

“Stopped to step out, take steak from Philza, and eat it.” Sapnap exhales, stepping round and getting between Dream’s sword and the training dummy. “Look, man. It’s clear you want to train. Nobody wants to stop you doing that–”

“Really?” He interrupts, words clipped. “Because that’s what it feels like.”

“No. Prime, you’re paranoid.”

“Really.” Dream’s laugh is dry, even in his own ears. “Astute, Sap.”

He doesn’t mean the nickname, he really doesn’t. It’s been months and months since he’d called him that - before the breakout, before prison, before the throne, and even then, it had mostly been a joke. Calling him Sap now feels too gentle, too vulnerable – but Sapnap softens anyway, sighing, running a hand through the back of his hair. “We just want you to rest,” he says quietly, “look, man. We all get that you want to train. Believe me, we get it. But you have so much time. You don’t need to exhaust yourself like this.”

Time. What do George and Sapnap know about time? Dream’s face hardens, and he lifts the sword to Sapnap’s throat - it’s not a genuine threat, though, and it stings to see Sapnap stiffen like it is.

“Sapnap, listen to me. I’m not going to stop training. I need to train.” He has to laugh, incredulously. “I lost so much time in prison. Ten months! And I lost six weeks recovering, and I lost two months building up strength again and focusing on recovering mentally, and I’ve only just managed to start training properly again! How can you ask me to stop when I’ve only just started?”

“Fight me, then.”

Sapnap and Dream both pause at George’s nonchalant offer. Swiveling round, eyes narrowing suspiciously, Dream stares at his best friend. “What?”

George saunters forwards, dropping his sword on the floor and rolling up his sleeves. Despite the tiredness on his face, he looks ready. “You heard me,” the older continues impatiently, “if you want to train, then fight me. Only if you lose, you rest. If you win, you can do what you want.”

Sapnap protests incoherently. Dream, seizing the opportunity to be left alone, agrees: “Deal,” he says, dropping his own sword, “fists only?”

George hums in agreement. “First to get the other to less than half health.”

And fighting with George – it’s different. It’s not as frightening as Dream had initially feared, nothing like prison, when his only ways of fighting back had been shielding his face from blows or throwing himself into lava to defy the Warden and Quackity. It’s not frightening, it doesn’t remind him of prison, Quackity, anything – instead, it’s exhilarating. It feels like his old life again when George yelps at a particularly sneaky hit, feels familiar and good when George’s fist connects with his shoulder.

He’s used to winning fights with George, especially this George, who spends half his life in a dream and certainly hasn’t trained for a long, long time. Maybe it’s this that makes him cocky - or maybe it’s because he’s tired, maybe it’s because he’s only just started back training himself, maybe it’s a thousand different reasons - but Dream underestimates George a few too many times.

It ends with him flat on his back, cursing under his breath as George stands above him smugly, and calling out a defeated, “half health!”

(It’s a lie. He’s on quarter health. That makes it more bitter.)

George crouches beside him, a smug smile playing about his face. “You look surprised,” he smirks, and then turns to Sapnap, who is also standing with his mouth agape, and then George scowls, “oh, come on. You didn’t think I’d win either?”

“In Dream’s defence,” Sapnap says, “you lose, like, ninety percent of the time.”

George looks offended, kicking at his best friend, who dodges with a grin. “You’re lying,” George says mournfully, “I’m better than both of you. You’re both lame.”

“Lame?” Sapnap complains. “Says the guy who loses all his good items every time he gets outta bed because I keep killing him. How am I the lame one?”

“Dream,” George wheedles, “defend me.”

Dream doesn’t reply. He yawns instead, tilting his head up and studying the roof of the Syndicate room sleepily. When it did at all, exhaustion has always hit him strongest and out of nowhere – he remembers curling up and falling asleep in the strangest of places as a child, only woken sleepily by Bad or Sapnap finding him hours later, and as old as the memory is, it’s comforting to him now.

“He’s dying,” George says gravely, “I killed him. Someone prepare the funeral.”

Sapnap laughs, covering his mouth and rolling his eyes. “Idiot.” He flops down beside Dream on the hay floor, tucking his arms behind his head and turning to his best friend with a mischievous look. “What was that, about not being tired?”

Dream stifles another yawn. “Maybe ‘m a little tired,” he admits, eyes heavy and warm, and Sapnap’s chuckle sits light in his stomach, “still not goin’ to bed, though. I’ve got to train.”

“Train by sleeping on the floor?” When Dream only grunts, Sapnap grins. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

George sits too, but places down a bed first, sitting down on it cross-legged and haughty. “I’m not sleeping on the floor. You two have fun, though.”

“How’d y’ beat me?” Dream mumbles, blinking sleepily. “I wasn’t expectin’ it.”

George looks pleased with himself. “Because I’m the best and you’re dogwater,” he says plainly, and then, seeing Sapnap’s eye roll: “And because you’re obviously tired. You can’t do any good training while you’re tired. Obviously. It’s, like, the first thing you learn in training.”

Dream chuckles, the sound heavy and warm. It’s been a while since he’s felt like this: he feels so normal, he feels like how he had felt pre-prison, pre-wars, pre-SMP – it’s nice. It’s really nice. “You’re an idiot.”

“Says you.” George returns, but it’s fond, and makes Dream’s eyes crinkle.

“I’m so sick of DNF,” Sapnap says dramatically, and Dream grins as Sapnap loops an arm around him, “time for Dreamnap. DN.”

“Deez nuts,” George yawns, closing his eyes, “goodnight, DN. Deez Nuts.”

He’s asleep before either Dream or Sapnap can comment. Clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh, Dream turns to Sapnap, who doesn’t look tired, but does gaze at him fondly.

“Glad you’re resting, dude,” Sapnap tells him, “really. I know you hate me an’ George and Techno and stuff talking about it and stuff, but you’ll train better with sleep. You really will.”

Dream doesn’t argue. “I just feel like–” He shifts, trying to shake off some of his exhaustion. “I hate feeling like I’m useless. I hate sitting about doing nothing, I hate feeling like an invalid, or– or like I’m some kind of victim, you know?”

Sapnap sighs. “I know. And there’s nothing wrong with training. Hell, I’ll train with you. I want to. But you have to be patient with your body.”

He gestures to Dream’s leg-brace; to the cane, propped up awkwardly in the corner; to the tremor in his hands and the sunken skin of his cheeks.

“Healing takes time, buddy.”

Buddy. Despite feeling defensive, Dream’s chest warms at the familiar nickname. “I… know,” he says, reluctantly, “I’m just not used to going slow.”

“Who said anything about going slow?” Sapnap laughs. “You went fast enough with George fighting him tonight. You’re not– I dunno, you’ve not suddenly forgotten how to fight. You just have to look after yourself a little better, man. And, you know. Let people help you from time to time.”

His oldest friend shoots him a fond look.

“You’re pretty shit at doing that, still. Even as a kid, you were dumb with that.”

Dream nudges him with a yawn. “I’m not dumb. You’re dumb.”

“You’re dumber.”

“You’re dumbest.”

“You’re the dumber-dumbest.”

“You’re… that multiplied by infinity.”

Sapnap scoffs. “Just go to sleep, dumbass.” There’s fondness layered into his voice. “G’night. I’m gonna kick your ass when you train tomorrow if you wake me before nine in the morning tomorrow.”

Nine? Dream tries not to look flabbergasted. “That’s so late.”

“Nine o’clock,” Sapnap says, “any earlier and I’ll literally just beat you up.”

Dream pouts, but turns away, tugging the blankets from George’s bed and wrapping them around himself. “G’night, Sap.” And then, after a long pause, he says, almost shyly: “Thanks. For helping.”

Sapnap doesn’t reply, but he does nudge him gently and fix his blankets, which is his code for don’t mention it. Dream, warm and content and so, so tired, lets himself drift off to sleep, deep and dreamless, for the first time in three days.

When he wakes the next morning, it’s eight in the morning, and Sapnap and George are still asleep beside him. Instead of jumping to his feet and rushing to get ready, Dream yawns, and lets himself drift back to sleep.

Another hour won’t hurt. Not when his best friends are there to support him.

#> au: syndicate c!dream #> c!dteam #> sparrow's writing !!#> nat tag 🏷️

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