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Dream isn’t homeless.
There’s a newly built dirt and wood shack at his back and an empty flask of Jack Manifold’s homebrew moonshine at his feet. He’d never been one for drinking, never saw the point. It made his thoughts foggy, and he didn’t like it when his thoughts were foggy, because the server was a violent, violent place. All it took was one moment off guard. One moment for it all to turn against him, as it often tried to.
His head tips back, because his head feels so light right now—and it thunks against the haphazardly placed wooden planks that serve as this house’s—his house’s—foundation. The stars are so bright it hurts and yes, the server is a violent place, but it’s also a goddamn stunning one. From this angle, it feels like if he leans forward, he’ll tumble up into the sky, catching on the branches of the spruce trees before hitting open air. He blinks his eyes and sees Tommy for a second, soaring into the air with his trident, higher and higher till he’s just a red dot against the night.
Oh, he’s aware of where Tommy is, like he’s aware of where Technoblade is—a few meters away, invisible and crouched behind a tree, watching Dream. He wonders what Technoblade must make of all this. Dream showing up at his door, inquiring yet again about Tommy, clearly living there—and then building a pitiful shack just nearby after being teased for being homeless. Menace is a reputation he cultivates. Instability, less so.
Dream isn’t homeless. That’s—absurd. He built this little base to keep an eye on Tommy, one of many such bases on the server. It made strategic sense for a man like Dream to have a network of safe houses. Everything from massive underground cave systems with secret entrances to remote huts in the most inhospitable biomes all contained the necessary supplies, and then some: a pantry of dried meats and fruits, a full netherite armory, a potion stockpile that would make a drug cartel blush, and at least ten stacks of ender pearls.
Yes, he was a man prepared for the rainiest of days, in any location. He took pride in it, but it was not something he boasted about publicly. It was best to keep enemies guessing about these things—something about all warfare being based on deception. Technoblade knew that one well.
The world is starting to spin. Huh. He’s not sure if he likes it, but it’s making the newly falling snow look so pretty. He almost goes cross-eyed following the path of one snowflake before it lands on his tongue. There is the sensation of cold for half a second before it dissolves, gone as soon as it came. He smiles, propping one arm on his knee and stretching the other leg out. The campfire he’s set up before his uncharacteristic binge drinking session feels warm in the abstract sense. He knows he should probably get closer to it, but he also feels the cold in an abstract sense, so all of it put together just feels neutral.
No. Not neutral, that’s not the right word. Maybe distant, maybe removed. This, he likes. It feels fucking freeing, to not be involved. To not have to police the server and enforce Tommy’s exile, to not have to play petty politics with Tubbo and Eret and Quackity, to not have to care.
To not be burdened with what Schlatt’s book told him.
Oh, now there’s a sting in his eyes that he did not intend for there to be—he blinks it away and with surprisingly steady fingers, reaches into one of the many compartments on his person for another flask of that god awful liquor. Something to chase the reminder of Knowing away.
He takes a swig; perhaps too much. The sharp taste makes him cough, but it warms him as it goes down.
Lightweight, Sapnap would have teased him. Another sting in his eyes. He blinks again and staggers over to the crafting table. His holstered weapons bang against his body noisily as he crafts a torch, probably alerting any mob spawned just beyond his fence line. It’s alright. He’s feeling down for a fight.
Dream isn’t homeless. The crafting table reminds him of the community house. That was a Home for him once, not just a safe house. Dream was the one who had the idea to build in the center of the lake, the center of everything.
Home was soft spring nights fishing for nametags, giggles carried by the humidity in the air; it was getting sidetracked with pointless scuffles between George and Sapnap; it was hours of building made bearable by screeching or wheezing laughter, and one time, Sapnap’s voice cracking; it was jumping into the cool lake with Callahan, Alyssa, and Bad when the days got too hot and still, diving around the coral and letting the sun and wind dry them.
Dream attaches the torch to one of the fence gates, still clutching the flask in his other hand. He takes another burning gulp as zombies, skeletons, and creepers begin to take notice of him, ambling forward at their slow pace.
Home was. That’s the problem. Thinking about Sapnap and George hadn’t hurt like—like this, for a while. Like a hole being punched through his chest, leaving him breathless and empty. He thought he had that snarl of emotions properly compartmentalized, but if a bit of moonshine was enough to unbox it, then clearly, that was not the case.
The mobs are near enough that he’s can pick off some of them with his bow. He’s not hitting them where it matters, though, so they approach, barely impeded. He can feel the night. It crawls up in him, ice flowing through his veins. There is a howling wind now, and now he’s reminded of the elemental things, the ancient memories.
Dream isn’t homeless. The server is his home. It’s His, regardless of what he Knows he is unable to control. From the beginning, before he put on the mask, it had been only him, barefoot in the meadow of lilacs and lilies. He’s spent lifetimes climbing its mountains and trees, sailing its oceans and rivers, mining its caves and ravines. It's taught him bloodshed and power. It's taught him hell and death. The server is as much His as he is Its.
There’s a zombie immediately in front of him that barely scratches at his chestplate before it's neatly decapitated by his axe, head sliding off and landing in the snow without a sound. He dodges a skeleton’s arrow, ducking under its arm and swinging the axe across its torso. It collapses at his feet in a pile of bones. There’s nothing unsteady about Dream now. He laughs, the high wind carrying it into the night.
Two creepers are too near the shack, so he lets them explode. Dirt showers from the air, mixing with the snow. The rest of the mobs are easily slain, and when Dream’s done, he’s not even breathless. He flicks his axe to rid it of rotten viscera. Half of the dirt house is still intact, but not for long. Five sticks of TNT should do it.
Dream isn’t homeless. But he really ought to be. He’s left behind Spirit, left behind Sapnap and George. He had said he didn’t care about anything on the server, but until today, that hadn’t been entirely true. Not until his drunk and feverish revelation about homes.
“It’s just a house,” he murmurs, thinking of brick and wood. He lights the fuse and walks away.