Chapter Text
There’s blood on his sleeve. He can’t bring himself to care. He hasn’t had the motivation to care about much of anything these past few months. His hair is greasy and matted, and he knows there are bruises under his eyes, and his clothes hang off his once fit frame. He still can’t care. He doesn’t really know when things got bad. Was it when his parents finally returned home, after months of leaving him alone without a word, reeking of alcohol and something stronger? Or was it when he got into the fight with Sapnap and George, spitting vitriol he didn’t mean, rendering him friendless save for one? It doesn’t matter anymore, not really. He’s gotten used to it. The hatred spilling from whiskey-stained lips. The rocks of insults hurled towards him by people he used to call friends.
But then there’s Techno. The one who, for some reason, doesn’t hate him. His anchor, his wall, protecting him from his personal Hell. His friend. He doesn’t know why the other hasn’t left, hasn’t deemed him useless and a burden like everyone else had. If anything, the pinkette tries to keep him alive harder than he tries himself. Brings him lunch because he knows the blonde won’t eat on his own, bandages his wounds behind the school with no questions, just soft reassurances. Techno is one thing he will never understand. He doesn’t get why he tries so hard. Doesn’t he know that he’s a lost cause?
A shout brings him back to himself, and he looks up from where he had been scribbling on his paper, dull eyes meeting the annoyed teacher’s.
“Mr. Wastaken, if you’re not going to pay attention in my class, then I suggest you leave.”
There are snickers from behind him, and he doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. He hates this class. The teacher seems to hold a personal grudge against him, only fueled by the ridicule of his peers.
“Are you done, Clay?”
A pencil snaps. He called him Clay. No one called him Clay. That name wasn’t even on his school records. He had changed it to Dream years ago. So how the fuck did this old bastard figure it out? He looked down, one point of the broken pencil was digging into his thumb, blood pooling onto the wood, staining it red. The room was silent, and he could feel the eyes boring into him. He stands, hooking his bag over one shoulder. He’s kept his face neutral this entire time, but when he faces the teacher he lets a bit of anger show in his eyes, satisfied when the man takes a half-step back. He walks past the desks, pausing as he rests his hand on the classroom door handle. He turns, locking eyes with his teacher.
“For the record, asshole, this is a sh*t class anyways.”
Delight fills him at the furious look on his teacher’s face, and he leaves, the sound of the teacher cursing his name echoing behind him. He walks towards one of the school exits, pushing the door open and squinting at the sun. The tree on the hill is waiting for him, as it always is. He shrugs off his bag, leaning against the tree and shutting his eyes.
A body plops down next to him exactly 17 minutes later, close enough that he can feel their warmth. He opens his hand and brings the food placed in it to his mouth, eyes opening in surprise at what it is. He turns his head and is met with a sheepish smile.
“A muffin?” He questions the pinkette, taking another bite.
“I got it from Puffy. She was insistent I give it to you.” The other answers, handing him a bottle of water.
He hums, wrapping the rest of the muffin in its lining. Techno doesn’t insist he eat more, so he thinks it’s okay. They lapse into a comfortable silence, broken only when Techno speaks.
“You can come over today, if you want.”
There it is. Techno asked him the same question every day, worded differently, but always the same. It’s his way of asking if Dream’s okay, a silent message that he understands but knows that Dream will push him away if he asks if he’s okay. Dream understands the undertones of the question. I know you’re hurting, let me help.
And like always, he answers the same way.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Techno sighs, and reaches out, taking one of Dream’s hands in his. He traces the scars crisscrossing the back of it quietly. He’s never asked where they came from. Dream thinks today’s the day he tells him.
“I got a bottle smashed on my hand.”
Techno whips his head around so fast he nearly gets whiplash. “What?”
“The scars. The ones on the back of my hand are from a glass bottle, from when me and a couple of friends were screwing around.” Who the friends are is left unsaid.
Techno’s silent for a minute, staring at his hand like it’ll break. “Interesting.”
“Interesting.” Dream repeats.
“Yes, interesting!” Techno says again. “I didn’t know that.”
“Of course you didn’t! I just told you!”
Techno groans, pushing him. “You’re such an ass.”
“You know you love me.” Dream flutters his eyelids, making an obnoxious kissy face.
“Only in your dreams.”
Dream blows a raspberry, crossing his arms and pouting. “You’re a meanie.”
Techno laughs.
They fall into a fit of banter, and Dream finds himself more willing to participate in their conversation than usual. Maybe it’s because he walked out in the middle of class, and it gave him a burst of confidence. It doesn’t matter though. Techno seems happy that he’s talking, and that’s enough. Eventually, though, he has to go, and he bids the pinkette a quiet goodbye before starting the walk to where he lived.
---
The first thing he noticed when he stepped through the door was that it reeked of alcohol. Which, within itself, wasn’t that out of the ordinary, his parents were hardcore alcoholics. But the stench hit him full force the minute he opened his front door, and that meant they had company. They were in the kitchen, judging from the sound of bottles clinking and boisterous laughter. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and walked in.
The stench was so much worse at the source. Bottles of beer littered the ground, a few broken, shards of glass sticking out haphazardly. A game of poker was in progress.
“Hey Dream. How was school?” That wasn’t his father’s voice. Or his mother’s. Which meant-
“Hi, Schlatt. School was good.”
Schlatt. He was a close friend of his parents, showing up every party night without fail. It was after the first few times he watched Dream pick up the mess while everyone was passed out that he stayed a little less drunk. He was always the soberest, willing to help before he too conked out for the night. The man also asked Dream about his day, every time they met. He wasn’t a bad guy, even if he was a drunk.
Today, it looked like there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in his system. “C’mere kid. I wanna talk to you about somethin’.”
The man stood, beckoning for Dream to follow. He did, even if he was a bit nervous. Schlatt had never asked to speak to him privately, opting to keep their conversations dancing on the line of family friend and parental figure. They stopped in the hallway leading to the bathroom.
“Your pa got a call from the school today.”
Dream cringed. If his parents looked the way they did now, he can’t imagine how that conversation went.
“I took the call.”
What? He-?
“You walked out in the middle of class today? Your teacher seemed pissed.”
“Yeah. Bitch called me Clay.” He spat, eyebrows furrowing again as another rush of anger washed over him. Still annoyed. Still pissed.
“He called you...Clay?” Schlatt questioned.
He sighed. “Clay. Was my name before Dream. Hate it, holds bad memories. I don’t know how that fire-hydrant-looking ass even knew it, considering I haven’t used it for years.”
He watched Schlatt’s hands balled into fists, face contorting into a mix of unreadable expressions. It wasn’t the alcohol, running his emotions rampant. He was genuinely upset. Dream wasn't expecting it.
“That bastard. Do you need me to teach him a lesson? Show him what I did in 1999?”
“S’fine Schlatt, really.” He reassures, trying to calm down the increasingly angry man. “I can handle it.”
Schlatt sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright. Fine. I trust you kid.” He moves past Dream, towards the kitchen. “But if you ever need help, you know where to find me.”
Hours later, when it’s finally quiet, Dream goes downstairs and is met with a surprise. The mess has been cleaned up, and Schlatt is gone.