Chapter Text
Everything is quiet.
Placid, in a way the world never has been before. There’s peace in the manner the men and boys trail along the streets - without a word, mindless and yet wholly seized by their surroundings. All done up in khaki uniform, pale green helmets, bolt action rifles loaded. Some clung close to their chests, fingers twitching over the trigger well at the sound of gunfire in the distance, or a too loud creak from within a settling house - while others kept them slung over their shoulders. A careless display, that of a man ready to die without a single sacrifice to his name. Scuffing the soles of their shoes against the stone and the cobble, one man tries a doorknob, gives it a shove under the weight of his shoulder, and ultimately steps away to check the mailbox pinned into the brick only to throw two envelopes to his feet carelessly. Another boy, a brit, is tedious in the way he holds discarded parchment and peels away at it. He’s making a shape, is what clicks in one dirty blonde’s brain as he sees the young soldier discard the scraps to step on them as he walks under the shade of the tightly packed buildings. He’s making something familiar, something akin to that of a heart.
Albeit distracted by such an oddly human display, this frenchman in concern sticks to the brick walls nearest to him of abandoned homes that had once been filled with exciting lives and warm fireplaces, his free hand trails the pads of his fingers against the reassuring rough texture that greeted him in odd gaps that made up alleyways and streets. His head twitches to attention, ear perking as he slows to a stop, index finger and thumb still barely brushing the brick as his neck twists, freckled cheeks bunching and subtly darker brows furrowing as he squints at the nearby roofs. Not a single helmet peers up, not a barrel of a gun catching the light in the silence only filled by the ambience of a world peacefully waiting to pick them off. The frenchman turns on his heels, jogging to catch up.
He never looks back.
They’d all seen it.
A glimpse into the world and what it was capable of doing to men so sure of themselves and boys so vibrant and proud. It was a given to lull them into silence - each man too terrified to open their mouths in fear their last words would bear no weight. That they would be tearful confessions or cries of injustice the temporal Earth simply had no time to lend an ear to, so they bite their tongues. Chewed on the inside of their lips and didn’t bother shouting when the first bullet ricochets off the brick directly beside the dirty blonde’s head. The scatter of dirt and debris is audible, deflects the scattered particles off the frenchman’s cheek. It rings a vicious tone in his ear that is quickly swept away by the sheer force of adrenaline, pumping blood in his ears and throbbing through his veins. It’s a mad dash. Scrambling past bodies that collapsed directly behind him, the frenchman’s arms flail as he tries to keep up with the reaction of his own body. He sucks in sharp breaths and heaves out great exhales as his feet slam against the ground. The dirty blonde’s head bows and his body recoils under every brutal shout of gunfire, reminding him of the pieces of brass still embedded in his thigh from months past.
His body had been put into motion far before anyone else had, sending him flying ahead of the others that had fallen victim to the instincts bred into humanity - no longer fight or flight but instead submission to fate and fear itself seizing their limbs, slumping to the ground in a pile. The dirty blonde barely dodges out of the way of one body that heavily tumbles to the ground, brain matter gushing across his front like fish guts in a blender and the sound of the bullet that follows so loud that it feels as if the inside of his skull is bleeding. Like it could purify the mind in one fell swoop, one good connection of brass to cranium. They hadn’t felt a thing, he claims to reassure himself even as he hears howls and shouts of agony of those less fortunate than the gore of the man clinging to the front of the frenchman’s uniform - barely audible beneath the scattering of gunfire and the pounding of his pulse. His legs pump and he skids around a corner only to feel a body collide with his own, a shoulder meeting his and an elbow in his gut. He snarls, grips onto the (much smaller, he realizes) frame and drags them around the corner before shoving both himself and this poor sap forward. It doesn’t take long for him to pass up the kid whose helmet barely fits on his head. Doesn’t take long to hear a, “wait! ” from a shrill, thick accent and realizes - it’s been days since he last heard someone speak. He doesn’t slow, but surely falters for a second as he sends a frantic glance over his shoulder.
“Dream! Wait! ” the small boy cries and he nearly tumbles over his own feet, eats shit, and swallows his very own teeth. But instead he's slamming his heels into the ground, taking a few skipping steps to veer sideways into the mouth of an alley. The frenchman takes in his surroundings, drinks it in like it was the last thing he would see - praying to whatever god may be above that the enemy hadn’t found them out, the possibility that they were being surrounded at this very moment increasing every second they wasted. As the boy catches up, slowing to a jog with heavy gasps and sweat matting his dark brunette hair to his forehead - Dream doesn’t even turn around to be able to snag the boy in his hand, grab him by his collar, and drag them further into a corridor. The dirty blonde hears the sound of the boy’s helmet connecting with the ground, like a metal bowl dropped on the kitchen floor. He doesn’t stop when the boy complains, strains against him in an attempt to retrieve the trivial thing. He doesn’t look back.
What used to be a market, now barren, makes up their brief moment of cover from the enemy fast closing in. They whisk past the scent of rotten fish, carts hanging meat, herbs, cheeses, breads, clothes - it’s as if everyone had simply vanished. Their hot, short breaths mingle in the air of decay - the first human beings to occupy this place in what had to be days. A space left all behind to the rats and the weather, subjecting the two soldiers to the horrible miasma of rot. The boy gags once he breaches the wall of still air and fetid stenches. A disgusted noise muffles into his sleeve as the boy tries to steady his breath, attempting to bodily turn away from the spill of what used to be a carcass now rotting into the wood beneath it. Dream simply pulls the collar of his uniform over his nose, eyes narrowing as he gives another tug of the boy’s shoulder. Peers down the narrow street before turning, sticking close to the walls - which earns a confused noise.
“Where… where are - ”
“Shh. ” he hisses out the curt noise as they jog beside each other, Dream not so much as daring to release his grip on the brit. He couldn’t rationalize why in this moment, his breaths still short, adrenaline and instinct ruling his every movement. Another turn, this time they hardly fit into this alley - shoulders roughly meeting brick, boxes and barrels being shoved aside by the older’s leg. It’s much darker here, the sun muted by the sheet of smoke covering the city - the unrelenting power of the German military a grim reminder. It lingers in their lungs, catches their breath, and stains their tongues with a lingering, unpleasant taste. Like death and gunpowder.
“You’re french, yes? I- je parle un-un peu- ”
“ Be quiet, kid. Just trust me. ” Dream snaps quietly and he can feel the embarrassed burn to the boy’s cheeks from his arms length distance as the frenchman’s words come out in flawless English - not even so much as a hint of an accent adorning his voice. The frenchman grunts as he takes the heel of his shoe and shoves a box aside, the sound of wood grinding against stone piercing through the air before lunging out into the street with the brit close on his heels. What comes from that though, is a shower of bullets aimed directly at them. The whiz of ammunition zipping by, the feeling of brass skimming right past his ear in a deafening shriek, earns another inhumane reaction from the dirty blonde. He flails wildly, drags the boy against his chest and bodily shields him from the oncoming assault - shoving the two back into the alley. The odd tango of their feet knocking into each other and the taller’s knee colliding into the boy’s thigh sends them tumbling to the ground. He lands atop the boy in a sprawl of limbs - which elicits a squeak, as if the kid deflated, flattening the poor sap under his weight and mutters a, “Shit. Sorry.”
Dream only earns a small groan in response, which is enough confirmation that he was alive to matter. After a moment, he lifts his head and peers up as the deafening volume is slowly depleted from the air, filling it with a pregnant silence. He rocks back onto his knees and leans towards the mouth of the alley without extending himself out, “English! Anglais!” Dream shouts once there is nothing but the ringing silence, voice breaking, extending his bolt action rifle out of the tight space the two were fit into as he waves it. There’s a moment of silence before he dares to peek his head out. a helmet just like his own had peered up from behind the bleeding bags of sand - slowly being sapped of the grains meant to protect their lines, spilling slowly onto the cobble street covered in brass and scattered remains of parchment. The head turns, glances at the barrels pointing out between the large bags before shouting out a, “ici!” and giving a sharp wave.
A breath of relief, and Dream is dragging the brit to his feet with a hushed, “ quickly - quickly, quickly ,” as he jogs beside him to the cover of allied forces. The boy is still gasping and Dream realizes he must have knocked the air right out of his lungs. Only when they meet the French face to face, does Dream finally release his bruising grip on the brit, and only then does he realize he had kept this boy on such a short leash because he couldn’t live with himself if he let a kid die . It was funny, he realized. As if it mattered in the first place. Their climb over the sandbags and scattered remains of chokepoints is less than graceful, tossing a weapon haphazardly over broken pieces of wood splintered by bullets and mortars and clearing them in a single jump (albeit Dream has to help the small boy over the barrier, watching him scrabble at the wood and hiss from the splinters digging into his delicate hands). He pities the kid as he drags him up from beneath the arms, tucking the brit’s shoulder under his arm to steady him. Men wearing the same uniform as him unabashedly stare at the frenchman from under the same helmet. It’s a look of violent, animalistic envy. That, had they been given the chance, they would rip him limb for limb if that meant they could go where he’s going. Dream stares right back, chin brushing the top of dark brunette hair as he gazes forward.
He turns his head, shoulders following closely after as he picks up his MAS-36, checks it’s chamber, clears the weapon, and slings it over his shoulder as he pockets the spare ammunition he’d emptied from the hollows of his rifle. The back of his hand presses against his cheek, the rasp of his stubble smearing away the dirt and grime marking his skin - before he’s striding forward. Gaining distance from the brit as he slips his arm away, silent and focused. He hears the tap of boots quickly trying to catch up to him as he strolls down the cobblestone path and the short breaths of the kid he’d dragged to safety. There’s a minute of silence, a quiet solidarity of two human beings who’d scraped their teeth on the sharpened scythe of death itself - and lived.
“How do you know my name? ” the Frenchman begins slowly, huffs that question out between even breaths as he pushes calloused fingertips under his helmet to wipe away the sweat. The boy’s expression flickers with surprise before he fidgets with the straps of his backpack and Dream sees it. The heart shaped parchment, now crumpled in the brit’s hand. Of course it was him.
“I-I’m… my friend said it - uh ,” the boy sputters, a thick accent adorning a still youthful voice as he swallows thickly. Dream pities him, “I’m Tubbo! I’m… I’m a friend of Innit. Teammate, uh, the 12th motorized Infantry Division! He said you were about yea big… dirty blonde, freckles, Frenchman... An’ a scar on your left cheek. Said you fought with him at the Maginot Line and lost y’somewhere there. Thought you died, he said.”
Dream blinks. His jaw visibly clenches, throat working down a thick swallow as he walks, his eyes the only thing that moves - piercing into the boy’s wide, cornflower orbs. He’s silently searching for an answer in that forlorn face of a boy forced to see men die and countries fall. He sees such a visceral, human pain that Dream himself held close to his chest and preserved desperately - because the moment he became satiated with the suffering in this world, he would lose himself entirely. But by the way that hurt seemed worldly, kept on the outer layers of skin and not reaching into Tubbo’s heart, did he realize how fortunate they both were. Tommy was still alive somewhere out there, hopefully on the beach - hell, even on the Mole and on his way across the channel and that’s all he needed to think about. They walk beside one another, hobbling their way towards the pale sands of Dunkirk that whip around their feet as if it were plumes of smoke welcoming them into a house fire, the grains that had been scattered to the wind by the explosion of mortars and bombs that left gaping holes in the sand scattering through the city. The layers of dunes stick to skin drenched in sweat and dampen with blood and raw bruises. Dream gives a huff, eyes squinting subtly as the two step out into the sand, shoes sinking in and the feeling of individual grains drain into their socks. Embedding themselves in between their toes and digging into the sores on their skin as they simply stand there in awe.
There’s miles of it. The beach. It’s anything but empty, unlike the rest of the city. Up to the frothing sea, there are lines of men standing there, gazing out into the dark waves and bowing their heads under the thick, heavy clouds muffling the world around them. At first, it’s hundreds - but only as Dream slowly shuffles his ruined shoes further into the openness, does he see. It’s hundreds of thousands , simply standing there. Waiting to die or to spend another day pretending it will change. It takes the dirty blonde a moment of pure and utter awe to let his views change, fester, and settle in his chest like he’d been crushed under the weight of a tank. He swallows thickly, shakes his head, and slinks forward with the boy close on his heels, veers away from the Mole and instead begins towards a dune tucked against one of the buildings. He doesn't stop to acknowledge the lost puppy he'd picked up until he's collapsing his knees into fine grains of sand, sinking down beside the body of a British man haphazardly dumped into the sand. Pale, lifeless eyes gaze right back up at Dream and yet he doesn't hesitate to dig under the collar of his shirt and pat down his pockets. Lifting a canteen, popping it open, giving the lip a sniff before taking a swig and offering it to the boy over his shoulder.
“What’re you doing? Go find your unit. ”
“...But you’re French. ”
Dream is quiet for a moment as his rough, greedy hands pause in their way of stripping this man of his uniform. Hears Tubbo take a long swig, then another, before he’s sputtering and coughing out the water he’d most likely inhaled. The dirty blonde swallows thickly, sucks in a sharp breath and understands. He would be the last of the men to get off the beach if he wore what he was wearing - the proud uniform of a French Army soldier. If things continued the way they seemed to be, ships slowly rotating in and out the Mole that extend far out into the ocean, he’d be forced to stand here and die. They all would, the Belgians, the French, every ally - until all the British were evacuated across the English Channel. He could only hope he’d be able to get to safety with at least one limb intact and a heart still beating in his chest. The frenchman’s head hangs with a shuddering noise - and for a moment, Tubbo firmly believes he’d broken the man with those simple words, maybe offended him, and takes a half step back. But instead, Dream rises to his feet, pats the chest of the corpse discarded in the dune without even a dog tag to his name and begins to move forward again. Further away from the Mole, closer to the line blurred between Allied forces at the German's unrelenting power.
“Wh- Dream! No offense but, there’s no way they’re prioritizing the French - but that doesn't mean you give up! ” Tubbo scurries after him, scrambling to walk beside the taller as he grips onto Dream’s bicep, only to feel a cold, rough hand lay over his own. Prying his fingers off with ease, the dirty blonde gazes down at the boy from the corner of his eye and it’s terrifying. Something about the way the frenchman’s gaze bore directly through Tubbo sent a shiver down his spine, the brit’s steps slowing involuntarily. Sinking his shoes into the sand, planting himself there in defiance.
“Well you don’t have to die for the French, Tubbo. Go find Tommy. Go home. ” Dream murmurs as he continues forward, adjusting his grip on the strap to his bolt action rifle. The boy knew Dream was right, that one could practically see it. Home. His home. His Tommy, somewhere amongst the crowd. Tubbo could stroll down the beach and be welcomed right into the arms of his British allies, could probably be paraded forward as a child hero. After all, he looked like he was barely twelve years old, and a young medic who returns home looking like he does - with the lives he’s saved? Was sure to make the papers and place him securely in medevacs from here on out. Get him a job that wouldn't kill him in a month, give or take. Tubbo glances over his shoulder towards the Mole, sucks in a deep breath, takes three quick glances. One to the back of Dream's head, one to the paper in his grip, and one final trembling glance to the Mole. He neatly folds the heart, tucks it into his breast pocket -and begins to walk. A lone figure, shrinking in on himself, shuffles towards home.
For Dream, home was far behind him. Crushed under the heel of the enemy, his family scattered, his house most likely reduced to its bare, hollow shape - burnt to the ground or pillaged and maimed.
Yet all the same, the home he was yet to find has been flying towards him at approximately 300 miles per hour - the loud roar of a formation of three Spitfires the only thing rattling through the air.