Chapter Text
The first thing Dream registers is the smell of bacon. They slowly come back into itself, feeling oddly light and empty, confused at the unfamiliar scent.
The second thing he registers is the sound of someone sobbing.
Alarmed, Dream squints its eyes open, trying to rid himself of the ache by force of will alone.
They’re missing their mask, and for a moment razor sharp panic takes hold before their memories do and they reach a hand up to their face in hopes that it would miraculously appear. Then Dream remembers what happened to it, and the fear turns to a sinking sensation. He lets his hand fall back down, and lays silently on the bed in some odd moment of mourning. His protection, his guard; gone. They’d had the mask for years, and it helped him in every one of them. At this point, it was a companion. Dream’s eyes sting.
After a minute or so, he takes a fortifying breath and looks around.
The room it's in is dim and unfamiliar, the bed too soft to be theirs or Tubbo's. The walls are white, the blinds are drawn, and the door is ajar. They shove themself upright, ignoring the way its body screams at it-- head pounding, fingers throbbing, arms stinging, and its lungs-- oh, god, its lungs-- disregarding the way the walls wobble as his vision swims.
That crying is familiar, they realize as it stumbles its way onto its feet.
They’re... not wearing the clothes they were when they passed out.
Oh fuck, they passed out!
They passed out on top of a near stranger! For the second time, no less!
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," it chants to itself, hobbling past the doorway and into the hallway of what must be Philza's home, again.
The crying comes into clearer focus as it makes his way toward the sound. Fuck, fuck, that's Tubbo crying, fuck, they notice with a pang, and pick up the pace as best they can, ignoring the shooting pain every time it so much as breathes.
He can discern other voices, now, softly comforting. A few more steps, and Dream finds itself at the top of a wooden stairway. They step down, stiffly, both trying not to fall and trying not to aggravate their wounds. He sinks his teeth into his lip when his movement sends a jolt of fire through his lungs.
They’re so focused on not killing themself on a set of stairs that they don't notice the voices going quiet, and they shriek, nearly slipping, at the sudden shout of "BIG D!"
It grips the railing tightly, cursing. "Jesus fuck, Tommy, you sure know how to greet a guy," Dream complains, voice gravelly with sleep and only slightly strained, turning to face the source of the shout.
The stairs had taken them down into the view of an open living room, and behind that, a kitchen. On the navy blue couch sat Tommy and some dude with curly brown hair and a beanie clustered around a tearstained Tubbo. Technoblade and Phil watched from the kitchen, and all were fixing them with looks in various shades of delight and concern. Or, in Techno's case, the same apathy as usual.
“Dream,” Tubbo breaks the silence, his voice cracking.
Dream shoves down the icy shards in his chest as best he can.
Tubbo didn’t mean to hurt them. Tubbo didn’t want them in pain.
Right?
Dream smiles, and it’s only a little forced. “Hey, Tubs,” It says lightly.
It doesn’t manage to fully keep the cold from leaking into its voice, and Tubbo’s face crumples even further. He pulls his legs tighter against his chest and blinks hard at his knees, eyes shining and breath hiccuping, and Dream feels the anger melt in their chest, leaving behind only its skeleton of hurt and insecurity. He hates when Tubbo’s in pain. Tubbo, so kind and funny and soft and far too old for his age, shouldn’t be crying. He shouldn’t be hugging his knees and looking like the world had crashed down around him. It didn’t sit right, especially when Dream themself was the one that caused it.
Dream wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around his little brother and shield him from anything that made him look so hopeless and hopelessly guilty. It could practically hear Tubbo beating himself up, cursing and blaming himself for every patch of pain Dream had ever gone through, scouring through his memories for any other times he could have put Dream in danger.
Instead, it looks away, just as much of a coward as always, and makes its way down into the kitchen, pretending not to see the tears spilling back onto Tubbo’s cheeks.
“Bacon?” He inquires, tilting his head at the sizzling pan in Technoblade’s hand.
Technoblade sends it a glare that would have any lesser person crying on the floor, brandishing the spatula at them. “Don’t you dare call me that. I will skewer you.”
Dream furrows their brows in confusion, gaze darting between the pan of bacon and Techno’s affronted face.
“I meant… I meant are you making bacon,” Dream says, slowly starting to grin.
Techno blinks and lowers the spatula. “Ah.”
And it’s so absurdly funny that Dream suddenly finds himself doubled over, wheezing.
It knows people find their laugh strange, constantly likening them to a tea kettle or a deflating balloon, or, in one particularly notable instance, “what cut grass would sound like if it could scream”, but Dream can’t find it in themself to be self-conscious at the moment. It feels so good to laugh after so long. It missed the ache in its stomach and the lightness in its chest. It feels oddly freeing, with the excruciation in his chest, the screaming cackles of Tommy and drunk giggles of Tubbo filling the air, even Techno joining in with a self-deprecating chuckle.
But then Dream chokes on his spit, inhaling too soon and coughing. Their good mood splinters as icy, flaming hot pain shoots through their spasming lungs. They let out a pathetic noise as they slide to the ground, bracing himself on the counter behind him and kneeling on the cold tile, body shuddering with the force with which its lungs try to expel all their air. It brings a hand to cover its mouth. Its palm is wet and red.
There’s fire in his lungs and around him cries of shock, blurry shapes kneeling and reaching out to their face. it flinches away, curling into a tighter ball and trying to blink the tears from their streaming eyes. They can’t breathe-- they can’t get enough air into the raging inferno in its red red lungs and he presses the side of his face into the floor, trying to protect its head as best it can with one hand still over his dripping red lips. The nails on their free hand dig hard into his palms, carving crescents until he has to let go to steady its spasming body with an open grip. The tile in front of their eyes is red. It’s red, everything around him, red-- red digging its unwanted fingers deep into its lungs and throat and clinging, burying its claws in deep no matter how hard Dream’s body shook to expel it.
It’s wrong. That red isn’t supposed to be there. Red, with its sharp, gritty familiarity shifting in their skin-- it shouldn’t be there, making them burn and itch. It’s wrong.
Something firm and cool touches its back, rubbing circles into its shoulder blades.
The soft touch-- not icy like the floor, but cold enough that it feels so good in contrast to the wildfire-- grounds it slightly, enough that they can spit into their hand and take a gulping, dry breath before the coughs pull him under again.
Slowly, slowly, with the help of the comforting hand, the burning turns to embers and the full body hacking dies down. Dream takes in another shuddering breath, wiping his mouth on the back of their hand, and finally lets himself go limp, sinking down on the tile with a sigh.
The hand stops in its movement and withdraws. Dream has half a mind to call after it-- come back, please, it feels so good to be touched-- but instead it wipes his mouth once more, carefully this time, and rolls over, making sure to surreptitiously cover the blood on the tile with his body. They gaze blearily at the faces above them; Phil kneeling at its feet, hand resting on the ground in front of him like he’d just pulled it back, Techno hovering behind him looking as concerned as Techno could look (which wasn’t very; Techno just looked constipated), Tubbo and Tommy’s horrified faces gaping at it over the counter, and the evidently very tall man-- Dream decided to dub him beanie boy-- holding out a glass of water.
Letting out one last pitiful, croaking cough, Dream tries to speak. “Quick--” It starts, stopping and clearing his throat. “Quick question, uh-- not that I mind or anything but-- why am I not at the,” another small cough, “At the hospital?” They rasp, voice wet with the blood coating his throat.
“What the fuck, dude, how do you even have any fucking lungs left!?” Tommy shouts, making Dream jolt at the sudden noise, knocking their head on the floor.
“Tommy, mate, quiet down,” Philza sighs, before turning his attention back to the boy sprawled on the floor. “The hospital would call your father if I put you in there. I will never risk you going back to him, not when you should be fine with just a first aid kit.”
Dream blinks at the somber in Philza’s voice. “Uh, yeah. Cool. Thanks. But, uh, you do know I can’t stay away from him forever or anything right? I mean, I appreciate you letting Tubbo and I stay, but we don’t have money for rent, and even though da-- our father won’t come looking for us, someone will.”
Propping himself up on his elbows, Dream takes the proffered glass of water, taking a sip and swishing the cold around in its mouth.
Philza looks, again, like Dream had punched him. “I--” He stops and sighs. “I would never ask you to pay rent, mate, you’re a kid. We’re still going to send you to school, so you won’t be reported missing or anything. Your father likely assumes you’re homeless or dead. I will not let you go back. Please, Dream, we have an extra room that you and Tubbo can share. I can’t force you, but just-- stay with us.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate it,” Dream speaks up after a silent moment, voice still weaker than usual, “But I can’t. It’s really kind of you to offer and I’m sorry--”
“Dream! You-- get your head out of your ass!” Tubbo snaps, cutting him off.
Dream gapes up at Tubbo where he leans over the counter. “What?”
“Just accept the help! It doesn’t make you weak, it doesn’t make you vulnerable, not every adult is out to--” Tubbo chokes on the words in his throat like he can’t force them out of his mouth. “Just let them help! Please, please don’t make us go back there!”
The shock at Tubbo’s anger starts to wear off, and Dream’s eyes harden. “What does it matter to you? It’s not like he beats you until you pass out, is it?”
Tubbo looks stricken, but he pushes on. “I don’t want to see you hurt, Dream!”
“Oh, so now you give a shit about that?”
“Dream-- please, I want to protect you--”
“That’s my job, not yours!” Dream yells, struggling to their feet. “I’ve protected you for years, and suddenly you want to return the favor? Suddenly you care?”
“I didn’t know! Why didn’t you tell me he was still hurting you!?”
Dream scoffs in disbelief. “You didn’t know? Don’t bullshit me, Tubbo, you’ve always known. You’ve just grown very skilled at lying to yourself.”
Tears are starting to leak from the corners of Tubbo’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Clay, please--”
“Don’t fucking call me that!” Dream shouts, livid, voice unstable and cracking.
The bystanders are gaping; Tommy taking a step back, beanie boy with his hand slightly up like he wants to interject but doesn’t know how. Tubbo flinches, but presses on.
“Dream, I’m sorry, I really am, but I’m not going to just let you leave. I will not see you hurt any more when I could’ve stopped it.”
Tubbo’s voice is shaking.
Shaking like he’s scared. Like he’s scared of Dream.
Suddenly unsteady, Dream grabs the edge of the countertop. Tubbo flinches back at the movement, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless.
Dream’s stomach drops into his throat, his anger evaporating. Terror and guilt guilt guilt flood into the space it leaves behind.
Tubbo is scared of him.
Tubbo is scared of him.
They failed. First he failed to protect Tubbo, then they couldn’t even– they couldn’t even be a brother to Tubbo-- they– god, they should have jumped–
“Okay,” It says weakly.
A moment of shocked silence. Then, “YEAAAAAAH GREEN BOY IS SIBLING NUMBER FIVE!” Tommy screeches, making everyone wince.
Beanie boy snaps his fingers in front of Tommy’s face, mouthing something about reading the room. Tubbo is trying to catch his eyes, smiling hesitantly, but Dream turns away. Nausea rolls through them in waves.
They don’t want to be their father.
They really don’t want to be their father.
But Dream knows that look.
It knows the look on Tubbo’s face, because it’s worn it.
Living with the Sleepy Boys Inc, as the four had dubbed themselves, was surprisingly similar to its routine before the move. The main difference was Getting His Shit Kicked o’clock turned into Being Bullied By A Child, and Avoiding His Father o’clock turned into Avoiding Death-By-Adoptive-Brothers.
Tommy was the most annoying thirteen year-old Dream had ever had the luck to meet. Every day, at 3:15 sharp, when Dream and Techno arrived home from school, Tommy would fling himself out onto the front lawn with some new torture method. Some days it was paint-filled water balloons-- Dream had relished the sounds of Tommy’s screams when Techno finally caught him-- some days it was disgustingly sticky hands from his latest cooking attempt, and some days it was newly acquired nerf guns, but most days it was his ear-piercing shrieks as he went on about whatever new atrocity he and Tubbo had committed.
That was another thing Dream had learned about Tommy. He and Tubbo together were explosive. Quite literally-- Dream didn’t want to count the number of times the duo had run home screaming in delight about a fire that they had started.
Luckily for Dream, Techno always got the brunt of the assaults. It was surprising, given how Techno would immediately resort to physical violence, but the first time the two ran screaming directly towards them they flinched so hard that they almost fell over, and they hadn't done it since.
Which was, again, something new and strange to Dream. Having people accommodate it-- telegraphing their movements when approaching, asking if it was okay to touch it, always catching themselves before yelling at it-- was something he had never experienced, and never thought he would, except for Tubbo.
Tubbo.
Things between them were still tense. It had been a week of the same daily routine, the biggest common denominator being the tension in the air. The elephant in the room lifted its trunk and trumpeted every time Dream had one of his rapidly worsening coughing fits, but the siblings still stubbornly ignored it. They hadn’t had a full conversation in days, one always getting up and leaving the room in blatant avoidance whenever the two were alone.
Things, of course, came to a head. Sooner than Dream expected. Too soon for the skin rubbed raw by stinging words to have healed.
Things start out normally, obviously, or as normally as they can be after only a week.
Dream is sitting at the dining room table, shoving spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth and getting milk everywhere. Phil is waiting for his toast to pop up, watching Dream with mild amusement.
Tubbo arrives at the top of the stairs with a small yawn, catching the other two’s attention. Immediately, Dream’s hands feel long and awkward, and he doesn’t know where to put his elbows. “Hey,” it greets, stifling the tension as best they can.
Phil smiles warmly, grabbing his toast from the toaster. “Morning mate! You sleep well?”
Tubbo grumbles, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand as he steps into the kitchen. “No. Someone kept fucking coughing.”
Dream resists the urge to get defensive. Picking fights with their brother, who they’re already on rocky ground with, this early in the morning no less, wasn’t worth it. Especially over something so small.
Dream was working on controlling his anger.
Instead, Dream smiles apologetically and goes back to shoveling its cereal down its throat.
Tubbo sits down with a huff.
Philza eyes the two of them warily, then says something offhand about fetching Tommy, and flees. The traitor.
Tubbo, parental guard out of the way, levels a tired, unfiltered glare at Dream. Dream blinks slowly, pointedly avoiding eye contact.
It took about a minute of silence broken only by Dream’s spoon clinking against their bowl for Tubbo to crack. He slams his fist down on the table, only pausing slightly at the way Dream flinched. “What did I do?” He demands, the edge of a rasp in his voice.
“...I don’t know what you mean.”
“Bullshit! Bullshit, Dream, you haven’t been this cold to me since-- since-- I don’t fucking know! And I know this isn’t about me telling dad, even though it fucking should be!” At Dream’s incredulous look, Tubbo barrels on. “You’re not mad, this isn’t what you act like when you’re punishing me, just-- fucking--” Tubbo cuts off with a muffled sound of frustration.
“Tubbo.” Dream warns.
Tubbo pulls his hands away from his face, hitting them hard on the table again. “You always fucking do this!” he explodes.
Dream stiffens. “Oh, I always do this--” It spits.
“Dream, you need to fucking talk to me! What’s wrong! I don’t know how to fix it if you don’t fucking tell me! I’ve almost lost you-- almost killed you-- once this week already, I don’t want to lose you just because we can’t see past our our own egos to fucking communicate!”
Dream groans incredulously. “Just leave it be, Tubbo!”
“No! I won’t!”
“God, you really don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, huh?”
Tubbo blanches. Dream feels suddenly sick again.
“I – Look, we –” Tubbo starts again, quieter, anger fading in the face of hurt.
“I’m sorry.” Dream interrupts.
“...What?”
“I – just –” Dream sighs, starting over. “I’m sorry, Tubbo.”
“What... the fuck are you sorry for?”
Dream makes a sound of agitation, unable to put it to words. “You just – fuck, Tubbo, I should have – you – you can’t – I can’t –” they cut themself off with a shuddering breath, trying to organize their thoughts into something remotely coherent. But sitting there, the cold of the countertop sinking through the bandages on Dream’s forearms, their brother silent beside them, all they can come up with is another hollow “I’m sorry.”
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND SCENE! that was as far as i got before i lost the fandom drive lmao. the outline of the rest of the fic is as follows:
dream and tubbo finally healthily communicate (dream manages to apologize for being too much like their dad, tubbo is like "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT") and then dream coughs again but its not as bad and they think theyre getting better, and so it goes to sleep, and then it fucking dies of Glass In Lungs Disease, which i for sure researched for accuracy when i came up w the premise.
hope you enjoyed, goodbye dsmpers i'll miss you xx