Chapter Text
Isolation really gives a man time to think.
It lets him reflect on what he’s done, who he was, who he’s been. For all the sacrifices he’s made that none will ever know or appreciate. For all he’s lost, and for all that has led him here. Locked away for eternity, left only to decay.
Being alone makes his longing so much worse. Before, Dream had his own plans to keep him busy. But now? When there’s nothing but a cell to keep him company? His yearning is all but crippling.
He doesn’t want the people he once knew, though he does miss them. No, they’ve made their choices. And if that choice was to stand against him, so be it. It’s what he wanted from the start, why he told Punz to take any bribes to hand him over. Dream’s side is anything but safe, and he can’t let anyone that he cares about stand by it.
Not since Wilbur.
It was ironic, wasn’t it? How his former greatest enemy had somehow become his dearest companion before being forcibly ripped away by the slash of a sword. How the man that he once looked down upon became the one he would share so many conversations with. It was funny, how quickly tense glares turned into hands brushing for just a little too long while they rigged the bombs beneath the former’s old country. Dream had planned on speaking up, after it was blown to bits. But he never got to do that.
Never got to hold the other, never got to sleep in the taller’s embrace.
He never got to tell Wilbur that he loved him.
Potentially, he could have -- After all, Ghostbur was a thing. But Ghostbur didn’t remember him, nor anything that they had done. It would have been fair to tell him, yes, but…
He just looked so happy.
So Dream avoided the ghost like the plague, unable to bear seeing the echo of the man he once loved.
He had heard talks, yes, that they were going to revive him. After all, it’s why Dream had wanted the Necronomicon in the first place. That, and Spirit, of course. But as earlier stated, Ghostbur seemed happy, and to revive him would have been cruel. He never did get to bring back Spirit, either -- because by the time he had memorized the book from front to back, his fate was set in stone. Dream would be locked away, so that the others could have their happy ending.
The sacrificial lamb, so to speak.
Literally.
Regardless, if the others did revive Wilbur, what would happen? Surely he would see how much they cared about him, and choose to stay in their happy ending. He would see Dream as the monster he was, and leave him to rot.
Would he come to laugh? Or simply ignore his existence? The sheep hybrid isn’t sure which one is worse. After all, there’s no way that the other felt the same in the first place, let alone now.
---
It’s maybe a few more days of isolation before Dream is awoken from his sleep by someone shaking him vigorously.
At first, he thinks it’s Sam -- but why would the warden bother dealing with him? Dream hasn’t done anything wrong, so there was no need to give him the time of day. But who else would be in here?
“Dream, get up.”
The voice is familiar -- frantic and whispered, but it’s still a voice that he knows by heart. But why would Ghostbur be here? And why would his hands feel… so…
Warm.
Dream snaps his eyes open and sees the face that had been haunting his every moment for the past year. But although he’s pale, his skin isn’t gray, and he’s wearing that old trenchcoat again, and…
And Wilbur is alive.
“Wil…?” Dream’s voice is soft -- He’s asleep. He has to be -- there’s no way that this is real.
“Hey,” the other whispers, eyes going soft. “I’ll explain later, but right now, we gotta go. ”
---
That’s how Dream finds himself here, holding his old friend’s hand as the other all but drags him out of Pandora’s Vault. It’s terrifying, it’s exhilarating, and it’s giving Dream that rush of adrenaline that he hasn’t felt in a long time. They don’t stop for anything, and the masked man wonders how the hell Wilbur even got there in the first place.
“I’m dreaming,” he says, once they’re out and slowing down and who-knows-where in the wilderness. “This isn’t real.” Because Dream has given up on hope long ago. He knows that there’s nothing here for him but a cell and isolation. All of this? It’s too good to be true.
“No, no, no…” Wilbur’s voice is soft and breathy -- It’s a tone that Dream knows means adoration towards whatever plan or explosion he’s talking about. “Daydream, I’m right here, see?” The masked man’s heart skips a beat at the nickname. It had been given to him as a playful taunt, once, and it still makes him feel the same way now as it did then. But before he can truly react to that, Wilbur is reaching forward and gently lifting up his mask. Dream doesn’t stop him -- doesn’t care enough to.
Especially not when there’s a pair of lips slamming into his.
The kiss is rough, frantic, and dominating. He’s being held close and all but devoured like it’s the end of the world, and really, maybe it is. Dream clings to Wilbur as if they could possibly be any closer, as if it was possible for the two of them to merge into a single person if they just tried hard enough. By the time they break apart, both are panting heavily, and Dream is pretty sure that his lips are going to bruise.
There’s a million words running through his head, a million questions that he still needs to ask. So many things that he needs to say.
“You’re here,” is all he can get out.
“I’m here,” is Wilbur’s reply, and then he’s kissing him again.