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As soon as Dream’s boots sunk into the staticy carpet, he dropped his strained grip on the glowing portal behind him, extinguishing it from existence. Then with legs of lead, he shuffled a few steps to his unmade bed. The temptation to collapse face first into the pillow was strong, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to move again if he did. So, begrudgingly, he sat down on the edge instead, propping his elbows on his knees and hanging his head in his hands.
Finally, he let the heavy sigh slip out into his blessedly silent bedroom. His whole body deflated as he did, only for the emptiness to be immediately replaced with all the exhaustion he had been repressing. No doubt he looked as pitiful and weak as he sounded.
Thankfully no one was around to see him in this state- one of the few perks of his home-away-from-home.
His “real home” was a small house located in the omegaverse where most other outcodes and worldless monsters lived. This place here was nothing more than a cheap apartment in a no-name neighborhood of a random post-surface universe. Not much, but exactly what he needed when he felt . . .
. . . well, tired.
When everything- the multiverse’s problems, his own problems, his responsibilities, even his friends sometimes- felt like too much for him. When he needed to take a step back from it all and just breathe. Oh, and sleep as well.
Actually, mostly just sleep.
It was probably a bit extreme to “go off the grid” (as Blue coined his temporary disappearances) for something as simple as a nap, but he didn’t care. Having time to himself where he wouldn’t be, couldn’t be disturbed; where he didn’t have to worry about anything, was all that mattered to him.
The feeling was nostalgically similar to what he felt as a kid when he and Nightmare found a cave and played inside, while the rest of the world revolved around them none the wiser.
Of course, life was no longer so simple- he and Nightmare were no longer kids, and while they’d both made a truce and were working on rebuilding their relationship, there was still too much work to be done in the multiverse for him to indulge the childish fantasy of hiding away forever.
But a few hours here and there wouldn’t hurt anything, right?
Lifting his head, Dream glanced over at his pillow for the answer and was instantly overcome with the desire to bury his face in it. He had to push the urge down with what little metal strength he had, though. Sure, Blue couldn’t walk in here to see him passed out in his day clothes, but he could do that at his other place and lecture him for it (again). Better to avoid slipping back into the habit.
So with Blue’s disappointed face in mind, Dream opened the drawer of his cheap nightstand and pulled out the clothes he’d haphazardly stuffed inside.
It was just a wrinkled white t-shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts that Blue had given him. Originally Blue had handed him a tank top and navy boxers with a bone pattern printed on them, but when he pushed back that the outfit was too “light” for him, the swap skeleton compromised with more casual wear.
(Apparently, anything counts as “pajamas” if it’s casual enough.)
Setting the clothes aside, Dream slowly began to undress; removing his gloves and boots, sliding out of his tunic, pulling the tight, temperature-regulating jumpsuit and arm sleeves off. With every piece he stripped, it was like a layer of his responsibilties, his reputation, his persona was peeling off. By the time he was bareboned, he was a skeleton of himself in more ways than one.
It took half the time to dress as it had been to undress; tugging his head through the perfectly sized shirt, pulling the shorts onto his pelvis, slipping on a pair of (probably) clean socks. The contrast of his suffocating normal attire with the breathable cheap cotton was so stark that as he sagged his shoulders he wondered, like he did everytime he changed, why he hadn’t changed sooner.
Perhaps it was a bit of an exaggeration, but he honestly felt like an entirely new skeleton. He would look like one too if he had taken off his crown as well. Why he always kept it on, he didn’t really know. Most likely out of habit, but maybe he also didn’t want to shed his every last speck of his identity.
He didn’t really have the mental energy to explore that existential crisis at the moment and shelved the thought for later. Right now he doesn't want to think about anything.
But before he could drop dead into the covers and drift into unconsciousness, a nagging voice that sounded awfully similar to Blue’s spoke up. It reminded him of how much energy he’d exerted over the past thirty four hours, and how going to sleep with such low magic reserves would have him waking up feeling worse than he did at the moment.
And as much as Dream hated to admit it, the nagging voice was right, as usual.
(Perhaps Blue was a stronger influence in his life than he’d realized.)
With another heavy, almost wistful sigh, he turned away from the messy bed and stepped out of the room for something to drink.
Thankfully he didn’t have far to go. The apartment was pathetically small- just a bedroom, a half bath, a kitchenette, and a main sitting area. The latter he shuffled through without giving it a single glance over on his way to the kitchenette. (It’s not like there was anything to see in the dimly sunlit room besides a couch and a lamp anyway.)
Letting loose an embarrassingly obnoxious yawn (or, it would be embarrassing if anyone were around to hear him), he turned on the light and reached for the kettle on his stove to make the golden flower tea he had stocked. Operating on autopilot, he swiped for the handle and missed, grabbing the body instead. Which wasn’t an issue. . . or at least, it shouldn’t have been.
But as soon as his bare hand met metal, he jerked it back with a somewhat pained, mostly shocked hiss.
“What the-” he muttered, brow furrowing.
It . . . it was hot.
In fact, he belatedly noticed now that there was steam pouring out of the spout. But . . . how? And why?
The reason that came to mind was ridiculous but he opened the creaky cabinet anyway to discover his hunch was right, his one chipped mug was missing.
He blinked once, then twice.
Had . . . someone broken into his dingy, sparse apartment and . . . made tea?
Who in the world would do that?
. . .
No . . . wait . . . . that wasn’t possible.
He didn’t know about this place.
. . .
Right?
A cold chill tickled his spine as Dream, with more speed that he thought he had left in him, spun around and stumbled out of the kitchenette. His hand caught the edge of the doorway, saving him from tumbling into the floor, and he used the momentum to swing himself leftward to face the beaten couch leaning against the wall.
Where, to his surprise and also not surprise, sat his brother, Nightmare.
The sight would have sent him staggering if he wasn’t still gripping the drywall. Instead, he stared stupefied as the goopy skeleton lazily lifted his head from the small book in his lap and stared back with his indifferent cyan eyelight.
“Nightmare?” Dream softly breathed, shock bleeding into his voice.
“Yes?” Nightmare replied cooley.
Before he could scramble a coherent thought together, Nightmare placed the book aside and stood up while holding the chipped mug, his chipped mug, aloft in his other hand.
So he was right, oh . . . oh stars- he had been sitting there this entire time?!
All of a sudden, every ache in his bones was overshadowed by burning mortification, while the heavy pounding in his skull was further exacerbated by the muddled mix of confusion and discomfort.
Though, strangely enough, he didn’t feel any panic, which he should have at being caught by his enemy weak and alone in a place no one could reach him . . . but then again, Nightmare was no longer his enemy.
“What are you doing here?” Dream finally asked, trying to hide what Nightmare could obviously sense behind as much annoyance as he could project.
“Looking for you, obviously,” Nightmare stated curtly.
Dream rolled his eyelights, his annoyance sincere now. “No, yeah, I figured that out, but how did you find me? No one knows about this place. Have you been- . . . I don’t know, tracking me or something?”
“No,” said Nightmare, nonchalantly sticking a hand in his pants pocket. “But Blue has been.”
Dream did a double take at that.
“Blue? He . . . he knew I was here?”
“Not exactly, but he knows about your little secret.”
Dream gave a short, sarcastic chuckle at the ceiling. “Of course he does . . .”
Although he knows Blue only has his best interests in mind, even good intentions couldn’t completely soothe this stinging betrayal of boundaries. Thankfully his mother hen of a friend had enough common sense to respect his alone time. But still, he was going to give Blue a taste of his own medicine and lecture him next time they both caught up.
“When you weren’t at your house in the Omega timeline, he suggested this place to me,” Nightmare said, drawing his attention back to him. “He said you like to come here after working yourself to the bone. Called it your ‘home-away-from-home’.”
Nightmare cast a cursory glance at the room.
“Though I’d hardly call this a home.”
Dream folded his arms at the judgemental tone. “Not everyone wants to live in a grand castle like you,” he argued.
“At least my castle looks lived in. I thought Blue had mistakenly sent me to a squatter’s den until I found this.” Nightmare held up the chipped mug as he spoke, displaying the bold-lettered “BEE POSITIVE” above a cooperately-designed honeybee.
“You’re the squatter here- breaking in my house, lounging on my couch, drinking my tea out of my mug,” Dream pointed out indignantly, more for his dignity’s sake than because he was actually offended. (He honestly didn’t care for the mocking mug, hence why he’d stashed it away here, being unable to throw out the corny gift.)
“It’s not my fault you only keep one mug,” said Nightmare as he insultingly sipped from it.
Dream shook his head with a grimace and waved his hands, “Okay, whatever, just- . . . tell me why you're here."
Nightmare lowered the mug and stared at him inquisitively. “Do you know what day it is?”
“It’s Thursday, isn’t it?” he asked, tilting his head. Then his face fell, “oh wait- it’s Thursday!”
He vigorously rubbed the heel of his palms into his sockets as the exhaustion returned with a vengeance. “Augh, I’m sorry Nightmare, I completely forgot . . .” he groaned.
“Clearly,” his sibling scoffed.
Dream felt the urge to groan again, but what came out was a strangled sigh. He rubbed his face over for good measure and said resignedly, “Alright, give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll be ready to go.”
Dream took a step toward the bedroom, gaze fixed on the carpet, but Nightmare’s voice stopped him. “Go where?”
He looked up and met Nightmare’s confused stare with a confused one of his own. “Uh, go with you to play chess? Unless, you don't want to do it at your place, which is fine, it doesn’t matter to me-”
“No, there is no way we are playing chess today,” Nightmare cut him off firmly.
“Ah- Wha- Why?” he sputtered, turning back toward him. “Is it because I forgot? I didn’t mean to, it was accident-”
“It’s because you’re barely conscious enough to have this conversation, much less to play a game like chess,” said the other plainly, transferring the tea mug to a tentacle before placing it on the floor.
Dream stepped unsteadily forward, his hand outstretched as if to yank him back from the portal he hadn’t created yet. “Wait, don’t go- we could do something else other than chess!”
Nightmare arched his brow bone. “Like what?”
“Um . . . we could . . . I don’t know, uh . . . maybe we can . . .” he stammered dumbly, his frazzled mind chosing the worst time to draw a blank.
“See, you can’t even think anymore,” said Nightmare. He picked his book off the couch before turning back with a stern expression. “Get some rest, Dream. We’ll reschedule the chess match for next Thursday.”
As much as the concern underlining the command warmed Dream’s soul, it simultaneously sent a spike of anxiety through it.
“No, no- wait- wait, um, how about we just hang out here? And . . .” his eyelights flickered to the book. “ . . . read.”
”Read?” Nightmare echoed incredulously.
“Yeah,” he shrugged. “I mean, that’s something you like to do. And you even brought a book with you-”
“I always bring one with me.”
“-so it works out. We can read it together. Just give it a shot, I'm sure it’ll be fun,” he stressed, stretching his mouth into a grin. It was a lame argument and he knew it, but he hoped it was persuasive enough to work.
But Nightmare’s frown only deepened. “Why are you being so stubborn about this? You're clearly exhausted. You should be kicking me out, not begging me to stay." His scowl turned suspicious. "Is something wrong?”
Dream grabbed one arm as he dropped his gaze like a kicked puppy. “No, nothing’s wrong, I just . . .”
He just didn’t want Nightmare to think that he didn’t care about spending time with him. That he was using his tired state as an excuse to avoid him. That he was prioritizing the wants of others above him, his own brother.
He would never make that mistake again.
And yeah, maybe his stubbornness came off as a little clingy, but he couldn’t afford to mess up again. They had made so much progress so far, he wasn’t about to start stepping back now. So if sacrificing some sleep would prove to Nightmare how much he cared, then he was willing to do so.
But of course, he couldn’t tell him that, so all he said was, “I feel bad for forgetting. We both have busy lives and it’s not fair that you took the time to be with me and I not honor that. I just . . . want to spend time with you, that’s all . . .”
There was a momentary pause before Nightmare tsked, “Seems more like you’re avoiding sleep to me.”
Dream started to retort, but his brother quickly raised his hand. “However, you’re right. I did take the time off and since I have an hour left with nothing of precedence to do, I might as well waste it here with you.”
“Wait, really?” Dream asked, his groggy mind slow to process that his persistence had actually paid off. It finally clicked when Nightmare sat back down on the couch, his tentacles curling lazily in all directions.
“Oh. Okay. Great!” he said, perking up enough for a small smile. “So . . . what do you want to do then?”
Nightmare flipped his book open. “I’m going to read, and you’re going to sleep.” This time it sounded like a statement more than a command.
Dream’s hopeful smile soured. “How is that spending time together?”
“It’s called compromising,” replied Nightmare nonchalant like.
“It’s not compromising if I’m lying dead asleep in the other room!” he gestured exasperatedly at the door.
“Then come lie dead asleep here,” the darker twin said, patting the seat beside him
Dream studied him suspiciously for a second, but Nightmare looked nothing but genuine (albeit aloofly, as always) so he sagged forward with a whiny sigh.
“Fine . . .” It was better to take half the pie than none after all.
Nightmare’s eyelight followed him as he walked over to the empty spot; it honestly was a bit unnerving. Not because he suspected Nightmare of doing anything, his tentacles weren’t even twitching. Just something about his scrutinizing gaze made his bones itch with self-consciousness.
Sitting down, Dream crossed his arms to thumb the crawling feeling away and that’s when it slapped his sleepy mind.
He was still wearing his pajamas.
He had never worn something so casual around anyone save Blue and Ink, and certainly not Nightmare, not since . . . everything happened. And although they were no longer at each other’s throats, sitting right next to him in such loose, wrinkled clothing made him feel awkward. Exposed. Vulnerable.
But . . . that was a good thing, right?
That’s what people in healthy relationships are with each other: vulnerable. They trust each other and can be comfortably casual with one another. And while Dream wanted that to feel that kind of comfortableness with his brother again . . .
. . . Nightmare’s relentless staring into the back of his skull was making it rather difficult to resist hunching further into himself.
“You’d be more comfortable if you leaned back,” his twin flatly nettled him.
Dream shifted but didn’t move. “It’s not very comfortable either way,” he snipped back.
Nightmare hummed. “Mmm, true. My back has been wondering for the past half hour why you didn’t choose something nicer, especially considering it is your only piece of furniture. Poor taste, perhaps?”
Dream glanced over his shoulder. “I didn’t choose this couch, the previous residents just left it, so it came with the apartment,” he explained tersely.
To be honest, he occasionally considered getting a nicer couch, along with a few other things to make the place a proper home. But in the end he knew it would be a waste of time and energy. After all, he’d done all he could to make his OT house a home and it still never felt quite like one
There was something or most likely, someone missing . . .
Nightmare suddenly grinned a sly grin that Dream immediately countered with a scowl.
“So you are a squatter then,” he purred amusedly.
Pure, childish anger surfaced inside Dream, and in a moment of weakness thanks to his exhausted mind’s loosened inhibitions, he gave into the whim of pettiness.
That is to say- he scooted his back into the couch corner with his front facing Nightmare and stretched his legs out, before smugly setting his socked feet into Nightmare’s lap (which earned him a indignit yelp as Nightmare snatched his book out of harm's way).
“What do you think you’re doing?” said the other, shoving his legs off with one hand.
Dream just as easily shoved them back on, fueled by a sudden burst of energy though it was more likey just the fumes of his exhaustion.
“I’m getting comfortable,” he said, crossing his arms with a smirk.
Nightmare tried throwing them off one more time, but when he pushed them right back on, he stopped fighting and glared at him.
“Are you comfortable now,” he sarcastically asked.
“Very,” Dream nodded, feeling a little giddy for some reason.
Nightmare huffed and rested his arms atop his legs, appearing apathetic to their presence, but Dream could see his tentacles twitch here and there like an annoyed cat’s tail.
“Then go to sleep,” he said, turning back to his book.
Dream’s impish smile twisted down into a pout. “But I thought you wanted to read?”
“I am reading.”
“I want to read it together,” he whined rather immaturely, but he didn’t care.
Nightmare side-eyed him. “And I want you to sleep.”
“Aw, please Nighty? If you read outloud to me, I’ll go to sleep, I promise.” When Nightmare didn’t look convinced, he added teasingly, “Your reading always used to put me to sleep, remember?”
Or at least, he meant for it to come out teasingly, but the last word sounded dangerously sentimental and nostalgic. He would have worried about his brother’s reaction to it if he was still thinking straight. But he didn’t, his brain blissfully empty as he waited for the answer.
“Oh? Is my monologuing boring to you?” was all Nightmare asked factiously.
Dream replied with a lopsided smile, “boring? More like snoring, heh heh.”
Nightmare looked at him like he was being weird or something, then glanced at his book with an odd expression Dream was too tired to analyze. “Alright then, let’s see here . . .”
He cleared his throat with a gruff cough and lifted his chin in the air as he peered down at the page. “There once was a skeleton named Dream who overworked himself to the point of exhaustion and forced his brother to sit with him so he could torment him with the worst sense of humor and-”
“-Hey! It doesn’t say that!” Dream exclaimed, reaching over and ripping the book right out of his hands without a second thought.
Nightmare tried re-snatching it, but he leaned back and held it above his head and out of reach of Nightmare’s tiny, tiny arms.
“Once was a skeleton named Nighty who was sooo ugly, he died, the- mmMPHHH!”
A tentacle suddenly wrapped itself around his mouth, rudely cutting him off. He instinctively tried to pry it off, but in doing so he let go of the book, which Nightmare of course took. Dream was seconds from impulsively biting the tentacle right as it finally detached itself.
“Ugly, really? That was the best you could come up with?” Nightmare asked, his socket lidded.
Dream grabbed the hoovering tentacle before he realized what he was doing and hugged it to his chest with a yawn. “You’re . . . good with words, not me.”
“You could be more creative if you tried,” Nightmare scolded.
“But you are ugly,” he bluntly thought in his head, only for it to also came out of his mouth. Huh.
“Says the one with sunken sockets."
Dream wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but he scoffed anyway. “Meanie.”
“Tch’ . . . I forgot how immature you act when you’re this tired,” said Nightmare.
Or at least, that’s what Dream thought he said. But then it was hard to think about anything with how foggy everything was. He let out a low groan and closed his sockets, hoping it would help the dizziness go away.
“. . . Do you still want me to read to you?”
At his brother’s soft, gentle tone, Dream lifted his head off the couch (when had he rested it there?) and forced his sockets to open just enough to see.
It was pointless though- everything was too blurry and dim to make out, so he shut them again.
“Mmm . . . yeah . . . be nice . . .” he said, slurring his words.
There was a moment of silence during which Dream felt himself start to slip under the first dark waves of drowsiness, but before he could drift away, he was roused out of his doze by Nightmare’s deep voice. He couldn’t focus enough to make out the words, only his brother’s monotone voice reading.
This was nothing like it was in his childhood.
There were no sun rays dappling his bones through the leaves in their Tree. There was no smell of grass and honeysuckle carried on a warm breeze. There was no crack in Nightmare’s voice as he droned on through the story.
And yet . . . .
Sitting on the springy cushion beside his brother as his reading filled the silence of the musty apartment, it still felt right.
It felt . . . like home.
It was a comforting feeling to feel before he finally succumbed to sleep.
Nightmare glanced slowly over to his brother as his words faded from the air.
He hadn’t even made it through an entire paragraph, and here was Dream, already fast asleep. Just as Nightmare expected he would be. He wasn’t exaggerating about Dream’s sunken sockets- though now that he stared at them, they looked more like mini moon craters.
The stupid, stubborn fool . . .
Dream thought he could carry the world on his shoulders as a child, and now that he was grown, it had broken his back. But not his spirit, not yet at least. But his self sacrificing twin seemed set on giving until they had drained him of that too.
The disturbing idea curled unpleasantly in the bell of his soul, dragging his gaze away from Dream’s face . . . .
. . . . and down to the bare arms still clutching his tentacle like a child holding a stuffed toy.
For once, Nightmare wished he didn’t have such sharp vision in the dark. Because then he wouldn’t be able to see the scars littering Dream’s ulnas and metacarpals. No doubt there were some on his neck and legs and even ribs as well, but he couldn’t bear to look at them. Not when he was mostly, if not completely, responsible for them.
And that’s not even counting the emotional and mental scars he’d left on his brother.
Nightmare had his own fair share of scars, physical and otherwise, he was just better at concealing them under his tarry magic and centuries of control.
But Dream . . . Dream was never meant to get scars.
He was the golden child, untouchable, destined to live out his days in unmarred happiness in a world that loved him. Instead, the world and he abused him, bruised him, into becoming a tired, broken, husk of himself.
At least now, they could be tired, broken husks together.
Nightmare sighed quietly and ran a hand over his face, trying to swipe off the sticky feeling of guilt and regret, but all he did was smear the magic staining his skull.
He gazed again at his brother, avoiding lingering on the scars again.
Carefully, he lifted Dream’s legs and propped them on the couch beside him. Then just as carefully, he slipped his tentacle out of Dream’s grip and stood up, wincing at the metal creaking under him. But Dream continued to breathe slowly and deeply as Nightmare shuffled silently into the bedroom.
After grabbing the light tan sheet from the messy bed (disgraceful), Nightmare returned to the couch.
While he didn’t need to worry about waking his brother, Nightmare still drapped the fabric over his unusually frail-looking brother with tender, almost sentimental care. As he pulled it securely over his shoulders, a memory came to mind. A memory of covering his much tinier twin in a much yellower cloth while promising that it would magically protect him.
A promise that failed him.
A cape that failed him.
A brother that failed him.
Looking down at sleeping sibling, Nightmare knew he couldn’t afford to fail him again. He had been given a second chance he didn’t deserve. And while he couldn’t undo Dream’s scars anymore than he could his own, he would protect him from acquiring any more.
He couldn’t promise that, but he didn’t need to.
Lowering himself back into his seat, Nightmare laid a tentacle in Dream’s curled up lap and picked up his novel.
Later, he would carry Dream to bed for a more comfortable rest, along with a note on his nightstand to remind him of their rescheduled match and to not burn himself into the ground next time or there would be consequences and a threat of more intervention.
But for now he still had forty five minutes to spare, and he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather spend them than right here.
