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    Summary

    His hands shake—fear, anger, regret, guilt; they all come crashing down on those shoulders of his that were far too small to hold the world. He crumples to the ground, pathetic and weak. No one's around to see it.

    (Maybe he wants someone around to see it.)

    Dream is not Atlas. He fell from the storm of his conscience far before he held the sky on his shoulders.

    "Sorry," he tries to say to nobody and everybody, the words tasting like blood on his lips. It comes out as a pained wheeze.

    Ah, well. He thinks he has time to practice.

    (Or in which Dream says sorry in all the ways possible without those words ever leaving his lips.

    Then he leaves, because that's exactly what everybody wants, isn't it? )

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