Chapter Text
Dream runs.
He sprints, clutching at the green fabric of his hoodie, choking on its tears. Empty houses blur by them, monotone and blue. Their bare feet pound the pavement, sending jolts of pain through him with every desperate, stumbling step. A sob forces its way past its lips and the concrete gives way to wet grass. It can't breathe.
Dream grits its teeth, tasting blood, and pushes themself harder.
His feet slide on the muddy ground, blood mixing with dirt and dirt mixing with salty tears.
If he's fast enough, the knots constricting his chest will unravel. If he runs hard enough, maybe he'll finally remember what breathing is like.
They can hardly feel the burning in their muscles and the sharp sting in its lungs over the pounding in their skull. Red drips into his eye, stinging and blocking out his vison, but he doesn't bother to wipe it away. It'll drip back down, anyway, it always does. It's always been drowning in red.
The glass shards shift in their bicep, drawing a strangled gasp. Blood runs into its mouth and it gags, trying futilely to spit it out. It splatters on this inside of their mask and drips down his soaked shirt. It clings on, coating his tongue and running into the gaps between his teeth, filling his senses with the familiar but suddenly unbearable taste. Spreading quickly it reaches its vile fingers down Dream's throat, obstructing its airway and it retches. They don't stop, though, can't stop running, so they throw themself forward, blindly staggering, ignoring the way his hazy vision is going black around the edges.
Something solid rams into his side and he falls face first, bringing its arms up last minute to protect his head. It hits the ground, and red fades to soothing, comforting, familiar black.
Something's wrong.
Dream wakes slowly, comfortably. There's a thick blanket lying over their shoulders, and soft sunlight on their face.
Wrong, wrong, this is wrong!
Dream never wakes up comfortable. Not unless its father wants something from it. And the last time his father wanted something of him...
Dream fights to keep their muscles relaxed so as not to give themself away. If it stealthily takes in his surroundings, he can figure out what he's in for, and hopefully avoid it with a well-placed word and a well-timed smile.
But-- its eyes snap open. This isn't their house. Their room doesn't have a window. They don't own any blankets that thick. And his house... his house doesn't have a man with giant bird wings hanging around in doorways.
"Philza?" Asks Dream, incredulous.
The bird-man hums in question, still watching them with sad eyes.
Dream struggles into a seated position. From there, it sees that the gash in his bicep is bandaged, fresh blood leaking slightly through and staining it a cheerful red. His heart drops in their throat and its hands fly to its mask, feeling around the edges for any sign that their privacy was violated just to wrap a measly cut.
Philza clears his throat. "Don't worry, mate. I didn't look, I just put a stick-on bandage on your head and rinsed out your mouth."
Lowering his shaky hands, Dream breathes out. "Thank you,"
Seemingly out of things to say, Philza simply hums noncommittally.
After a moment of stifling silence, Dream speaks up again. "Um. Thank you for... fixing me up. I should get going, though, my dad and brother must be worried sick."
The lie slips out with the ease of long practice. Philza frowns. "Are you..." But Dream was already off the bed and slipping past him into the hallway.
"Where's your front door?"
"Not even gonna stay for lunch?"
Dream freezes. Lunch? Oh, fuck, he was going to be in for so much worse than the night before. Their stomach falls into their boots, and he doesn't bother picking it back up.
"Uh, it's- I- could you- what time is it?" Dream stammers. It can feel its hands starting to shake again, and he shoves them in their pockets.
Dream brings out Philza's perpetual frown, apparently. Philza glances down at his watch. "It's fourteen and a quarter. Or, sorry, two-fifteen."
Dream curses under its breath and runs a hand through its hair. "Could you point me in the direction of the nearest bus stop?"
"It's down the street and to the left-- here." Philza rummages around in his pocket and presses a dollar bill into Dream's hand. "For the fare."
With only slight hesitation, Dream pockets the money. "Thank you. Again. I owe you."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do. I don't like having unpaid debts."
Philza runs a hand over his mouth. "You're-- Mate, you're a child. I don't expect anything from you."
"Then you're a fool." Dream snaps, and with that, slips through the doorway into the street.
The bus ride is short, unexpectedly so. It's only about five stops before Dream pulls the cord and steps back into the sunlight, ignoring the strange stares his mask gains him.
It doesn't knock when it reaches their front door. If he's lucky, he might be able to sneak past, and put off their father's confrontation until dinner.
He eases the door open in the only way that doesn't creak and quietly steps in, surveying the area, praying for it to be empty.
It isn't.
Tubbo glares at them from the couch. "Where were you!?" He hisses.
"I was out. Where's dad?" Dream whispers.
"Out? No shit you were out! Out where?"
"Just answer the question, Tubbo!"
"Dad's at an important meeting." He crosses his arms. "Of course you wouldn't know. You weren't here when he announced it. You're never here!"
"And just why do you think that is?" Dream asks lowly.
Tubbo sniffs haughtily and looks away. Shaking its head, Dream climbs the stairs to his room and shuts the door. They're safe, for the time being. No matter how angry Tubbo is at their absence, Dream knows he would never purposefully get it in trouble.
It's several hours later, just as night is beginning to fall, that it finally rethinks that. The front door creaks open, and immediately he hears Tubbo's voice, sounding pointed and annoyed. The dangerous rumble of their father's voice, and then footsteps on the stairs.
Its father's office is on the first floor.
Dream feels icy all over.
It freezes, even as the footsteps get closer and closer. He could flee-- if he could just get his feet to move, they could climb through the window, or bury themself in the closet-- but its door flies open and he still hasn't budged, just staring straight at the straight at the wall and shaking.
Not because of the beating it's about to endure. No, he's used to those. It's the fact that Tubbo-- Tubbo turned them in. Tubbo wanted them to get hurt.
It thought Tubbo loved him. Despite everything, it thought Tubbo would want to protect it, too--
"Clay," His father growls.
Dream winces. It hates that name.
They turn, and meet their father's eyes. "Hey dad," He says casually.
"What the hell were you thinking?" The man spits in return.
Dream opens its mouth to respond with a quip of some kind, but all they can do is grunt as they're grabbed by the shoulder and practically thrown out into the hallway. A shove to his back makes him stumble down the stairs, throwing their arms out wide to keep itself from fully falling. Once they reach the bottom, their father grasps his upper arm in a tight hold. Dream has to bite its lip hard to keep from crying out. He can already feel his wound weeping, more than likely staining its favorite hoodie brown.
He's dragged through the front room, where Tubbo's still sitting on the couch. It's a little strange; normally their father is better at hiding what he does from his other son, but Dream isn't complaining. It's tempted to glare at Tubbo, but it's angry often enough. A betrayed look would hurt Tubbo so much more.
A coldly satisfied feeling settles in their chest at the way Tubbo folds in on himself, avoiding any more eye contact.
Then he's being tossed down the steps into the cold and empty basement, and Tubbo is the last thing on their mind. They hit the concrete floor with a pained wheeze, all the breath knocked from its lungs. His head cracks on the floor and it feels like it's splitting open. They groan, tucking his face into his chest, absentmindedly pulling its mask, its armor, down over its face as he tries to gasp life back into his heaving lungs. A kick from a sharp-toed boot lands at the base of their spine and they bite down a guttural hiss. He struggles to its feet, and the walls sway around him.
They have a concussion, they're pretty sure.
His father glares at them with contempt. "What were you going to do, huh? Go run and tattle on daddy to the police? Pathetic,"
Dream snickers, staggering over to the wall and bracing itself on it. "Aww, afraid I'm gonna leave you like mom did?" He taunts.
Rage lights in the other man's face like wildfire. He snatches an empty bottle off the table in the corner-- Dream always wondered if he kept them for this specific purpose-- And cracks it down on Dream's forearm, where they had raised it to protect its face. Dream fights back a whimper as it feels glass imbed itself in his skin.
Distracted by the pain, Dream doesn't have enough time to brace themself when their father grabs the front of his shirt and slams his knee into Dream's stomach. It lets out a choked whine as its breath leaves him for the second time that night, and then his father is grabbing their head and forcing it down and there's a burning pain in its nose and a sting on his cheekbone and white fragments all over the floor. He hears a crunch when his father puts his foot back down.
"No," Dream breathes, and they're on their knees scrambling for the shards of his armor. A boot slams down on its fingers, forcing porcelain into its palm and making a gut-wrenching cracking noise. Dream almost screams, but it gets stuck halfway in its throat and he just exhales harshly, desperation coloring the edge of a wail in their voice.
"Look at you. Attached to a piece of goddamn pottery. You're useless."
"Fuck you," Dream spits, "Fuck you, oh my god. All you are is an old man trying to find some sense of power in the only way he can, and it's by beating on a child. You're so fucking weak, you can't-- won't even stand up for yourself anywhere but this godforsaken basement."
A foot slams into his shoulder, throwing him back against the wall.
Dream laughs, a high, mocking sound. "Does it make you feel better, dad? Does hitting a kid make all the bad feelings go away?" their voice is saccharine sweet poison, and they spit blood when another kick lands to its gut. Coughing, it looks his father in the eyes, dripping disgust. "I'm useless? I'm pathetic? When was the last time you looked in a fucking mirror?"
His mind is whirling with sick adrenaline and reckless, self-destructive delight at the brief flicker of hurt in his father's eyes. It's laughing still, it thinks, as he relishes in the fiery cold power of causing pain. "I think you're just scared," mocks Dream. They're digging their bony fingers into every crack it can find, pouring salt on every cut and scrape he knows the monster has. "Terrified I'm gonna leave you in the dust just like everyone else. Just like everyone you've ever known, because you're not worth shit. You're nothing, you're replaceable, you're thrown away like trash because everyone knows that's what you are, you--"
Their head hits the wall with a sickening snap, and everything blurs. The dusty grey walls gibe him, swirling when he looks directly at them but stilling in the corners of their eyes. Even when seated, dizziness overcomes them and it sways, squinting black spots out of his eyes and gasping for breath. He doesn't try to struggle to its feet. It knows the routine by now; it's ingrained in him, practically muscle memory. Anger its father, keep him away from Tubbo, taunt him, have their shit kicked, pass out. It's useless to fight the inevitable. Yet, still, they find himself glaring up at its dad, eyes alight with some kind of sick glee as the bottle comes down over its head.
He's still laughing, he thinks, as he blinks the glass from his eyelashes. It clings on, glittering at the edge of their vision like morning dewdrops.
The pain is sharp and bright and all-encompassing.
Dream hasn't felt anything bright in months.
It closes their eyes and savors the feeling. For a moment, it's just Dream and the white and the white-hot, the familiar ache in his bones and agony in its mind keeping him in close company. But then the beast lunges again, his shadow on the backdrop of Dream's red eyelids making them flinch open, and he's being dragged bodily to its feet. They sag against the wall, pitiful screams at the grinding of glass against their skull and the feeling of hair ripping from his torn scalp just barely locked behind its teeth.
"Fucking face me like a man, then, huh? If you can't stand up to trash, what does that make you!?"
Dream scoffs, opening its mouth for another quip, but his father pulls him forward and slams them back before they can make a sound. He hears a crunch as it hits the concrete and it screams, its vision going black at the edges as red red red pain drips and radiates and they can't breathe, can't feel, can't feel anything--
At some point his laughter turns to screams. At some point, its father throws it bodily to the floor. At some point, their father leaves.
All Dream knows is that they're lying in the bare concrete, shivering and bleeding and trying not to pass out-- concussion, you're not supposed to sleep with a concussion-- and someone's coming into the basement again.
When he finally lifts his gaze, the sight of Tubbo standing in the stairway with a hand over his mouth and tears streaming down his face greets them.
"Dream," he chokes.
"Fuck you," Dream says, but there's no venom in it. Just exhaustion.
Spell seemingly broken, Tubbo flies to its side. "Dream," He says again, helpless hands everywhere.
Dream sits up, ignoring the way the world tilts and spins, bracing itself on the wall and hauling himself to his feet. They stagger past their brother, pretending not to hear when Tubbo calls his name again, desperately, frozen somewhere behind them. Somehow, he makes it out the door and down the street, wandering aimlessly under the stars, relishing in the loneliness of the city at dark. It has no clue how he's still upright-- adrenaline or spite, maybe hysterical strength-- but it is, and after a while they find themself at a very familiar spot.
It's the highway bridge. Far above the river, the railings beckon to it. It obliges, leaning his forearms on the cold metal and staring emptily down at the churning water. From this high up, if they fell, they would be killed on impact. A split second of pain, then the bliss of nothing.
Dream is used to pain.
Before it can really think about what he's doing, it's slipping off their shoes and swinging his legs up onto the railing, perching himself on the edge.
The cool breeze soothes its bleeding face. They watch in morbid fascination as their feet kick far above the glittering water.
Just an inch or two forward, and he would be over.
Carefully, they lift itself up, sliding its feet down to one of the rungs of the fence and hooking his fingers on the other side of the rail. They lean its whole body out over the abyss. With nothing in the way of his vision, they can already feel the freefall. They close their eyes and loosens his fingers, inhaling slowly--
"What are you doing?"
Heart leaping into its throat, Dream whips around.
The sudden movement makes it lose their grip for a moment, and he scrabbles along the cold metal until he has a safe hold, life flashing dangerously before their eyes.
Philza Minecraft stands a few feet from where Dream hangs.
He looks anguished, and Dream feels sick.
"Dream--" Philza steps forward, but stops in his tracks when Dream swings its body back over the water, pressing itself as far away from the man as he can get.
"Dream," He says again, voice soft and pained. "Please. Come back over. Don't do this, please."
Dream swallows, eyes flickering between the emptiness below them and the kind face before him. "Wh..." Its voice cracks. They lick their lips nervously and try again. "Why?"
Philza makes a sound like the air was punched out of him. He looks at Dream silently for a moment, hurt in his eyes, and Dream glances away, tears forming in his own. Something about being faced with a-- a caring authority figure makes their insides turn to leaden shame.
"I'm sorry," Dream breathes. Sorry for what, it doesn't know.
"No--" Philza starts toward them again, "No, don't be sorry, mate, I'm sorry--"
Tears slip down Dream's cheeks and it grips the railing tighter, avoiding Philza's eyes.
When he doesn't back away again, Philza hesitantly extends a hand over the railing. "Come down, please. Everyone's worried sick about you."
Slowly, Dream puts a shaking hand in Philza's. The bird-man's hands are sturdy and far larger than Dream's own. He whimpers, terror coursing through their veins, as Philza grips him tighter and yanks him back over the fence and onto the bridge, forcing it to scramble for footholds and nearly drop to the asphalt, scraping its knee as he goes over.
Dream launches themself at Philza at the same time that Philza tugs them back toward himself, and the two crash together in a desperate, bone crushing embrace. Dream buries its face into Philza's chest, muffling his sobs, and Philza wraps his wings around Dream protectively, as if the edge of the bridge would reach up and snatch them right back off.
This feels nice, Dream thinks distantly. He hasn't been held, or even touched in a way that didn't bring pain since he can remember. They'd always flinched and shied away when its friends went in for a hug or a pat on the back, and soon enough they stopped trying to touch him at all. It didn't realize how much they missed it until now, and it sinks its face deeper into the fabric of Philza's shirt, sniffling.
"God, mate, don't ever scare me like that again," Phil pleads, muffled slightly by Dream's hair.
Dream swallows, thick with tears and dehydration. "Um," he whispers, pulling back from the hug just enough to look at Phil's face.
Slowly but surely, the sharp awareness that the cold air brought them is fading. Its ears are ringing, the rushing of the water below becoming dull as the pains of its body make themselves known again, insistent. He's swaying where he stands. "Sorry, don't think I can do that," He rasps.
Dream barely catches Philza's "What?" before the world tilts up toward their face and black nothing reaches out again to cradle them in overdue, gentle, unforgiving arms.