Chapter Text
Hi, Dream.
Karl said I should do this. Write to you, I mean. I don’t think I’ll ever send any of these letters though. I feel kind of stupid doing this, so …
Yesterday I went on a walk through the woods. The old spruce woods where spawn was. Hannah cleaned up the spawn trap area, by the way. It looks a lot prettier now. She’s sort of taken up the job of cleaning up the server, all the messes we left behind over the months. Kind of crazy seeing things change though.
Do you ever miss the spruce forest? I kind of do. Everything is so unfamiliar but familiar at the same time, if that makes sense. Like in my head I can still see what it looked like at the beginning, where everything was forests and the only real structures were the community house and my house.
I destroyed that house the other day. Something about it … it was so lonely, just in the middle of the lake next to the half-built community house (it got destroyed again. Did you really blow it up the first time though? I have an awfully hard time believing you would do that. George says who knows what you would do now. I guess I agree.) But anyway, I just couldn’t really stand it being there and it was already half broken anyway so I just got some TNT and blew up the rest.
This still feels weird. Everything feels kind of weird without you around. George isn’t really around much anymore either, but that’s kind of fine by me. Things are weird when he’s around. I can’t really explain it, he just seems far away. Lost maybe.
I’m kind of lost too.
Karl won’t let me see the little room under the mushroom in the library. Oh, I haven’t even mentioned Kinoko Kingdom yet. Basically Karl came up to me and George one time and said he has to move his library, and now we have Kinoko. Foolish is building it.
Wait, have you even met Foolish? He’s … nevermind, it’s a long story. Back to the secret room: I feel like he’s hiding something from me, if that makes sense. Well, obviously he is, since it’s a secret, but even outside of the room. I can understand wanting privacy every once in a while, but I am his fiance. It just feels like he’s lying to my face half the time I talk to him.
It’s unsettling. It reminds me of you.
… Everything kind of does.
Sometimes Karl says things to me like he’s expecting me to understand. Some sort of reference or inside joke that just always flies over my head. It worries me how spacey he gets sometimes.
I don’t even know where Quackity is. I guess when I say everything’s changed it really has. We’re supposed to be fiancés. Me and Karl and Quackity. Karl and Quackity and Sapnap. You know? But it doesn’t … feel like that anymore.
I feel lost.
This feels like the kinds of things I used to talk about to you months and months ago, before you were this villain or whatever. It’s strangely comforting. I think I’ll be thanking Karl for this.
Maybe I will send this, it seems kind of pointless to keep them for myself. This is all for closure anyway, isn’t it? I think I will.
Don’t write back. Please.
Sapnap
He sighs, setting the pen down on the desk and scanning back over what he’s written. Spiky handwriting, spelling out his heart and thoughts to someone who used to know his heart and thoughts without needing it even said aloud.
His fingers drum restlessly on the wooden surface, nails clicking on it methodically. Does he really want to send it? He had prefaced the letter by saying he wasn’t going to, but … his gaze wanders to the window and the flower forest beyond it, lip caught between his teeth as he contemplates his decision. Then he folds up the paper and grabs an envelope, scribbling across the front.
The chair is pushed away from the table with a rattle as he stands, picks up the envelope and licks the seal to shut it. One last glance over, then he inhales and trudges outside to the mailbox. The slam when it shuts rings in his ears, and all he can do is hope that this somehow helps.
-
A few weeks later, the letter is sent back to him.
His heart pounds as he pulls the envelope out of the mailbox, his own handwriting untouched next to the large RETURN TO SENDER scrawled across the blank space. At first he wonders if his racing heart is from anger that Dream apparently wrote back when Sapnap explicitly said not to, but it quickly dissipates into pure nerves that spike up his arms and trail up his fingers to make them tremble. He drops into the desk chair roughly, tearing the envelope back open.
Once the paper is unfolded, he notices two things. One, there are darker spots that hadn’t been there before, and running his index over them, he can’t tell if they’re blood or tears. Two … there’s nothing new written on the page. At all.
Dream … didn’t write back. He just returned it.
The nerves sizzle and evaporate to some sort of confusion and … disappointment. Strangely frustrated, Sapnap folds the paper back up and shoves it under a pile of books so he doesn’t have to look at it. Frustrated with himself for getting almost excited, frustrated with himself for being disappointed.
He sits there for a few moments, tugging at his long hair and fiddling with the frayed edges of his bandana, trying to make heads or tails of his emotions.
Then he picks up the pen, dips it in the ink jar, and takes out a new sheet of paper.
Hello Dream.
So … you got my letter, huh? Thanks for not writing back.
Sapnap pauses.
Thanks for not writing back. There’s a breath where he reads it, over and over and over. He shakes his head.
A harsh line cuts through the words.
Hello Dream.
So … you got my letter, huh? Thanks for not writing back. I guess it’s more interesting to read than … nothing. You should try asking Sam if you can get some books in there. You used to love reading.
Don’t even know why I’m saying that. I guess I've been reminiscing lately. You didn’t really need to hear that from me though. I think everyone’s been reminiscing lately.
Remember Spirit? I found their grave the other day. I was just wandering around. Well, not really -- I was kind of avoiding Karl. He came back home yesterday, like super late, and I got mad. I was really just worried, just scared that he was going to leave. He already left, but I thought it was gonna be like y
Nevermind. Ignore that. I found their grave, and the little headstone (well it’s just a cross of wood) that you carved. I thought it might be nice for you to know that even though the grave is empty the cross still stands, or something I don’t know. I don’t know mu
An irritated huff leaves Sapnap’s mouth through gritted teeth and he sets the pen down. The ink on the nib threads across the paper, smooth black branches ruining his writing, but he can’t be bothered. He’s made the letter too personal to send, so he takes it and scrunches it up into a tiny ball. It hits the bottom of the waste basket with a rattle.
“Whatever,” he says to himself, grabbing his armour and strapping it on hastily. He’s not sure why he still wears it out and about. “Whatever.”
The door is tugged open roughly, slamming shut behind him. Foolish glances up from where he’s trimming one of the bushes, gives Sapnap a smile and a wave. He just nods back, practically jogging out of Kinoko Kingdom to the direction of Alyssa’s barn and the castle.
It’s a hot day, the humidity rolling off the lake causing him to sweat under the heavy plates of enchanted netherite, but he doesn’t have far to go. Dipping into the forest, he begins to maneuver his way to the path he’s only taken once, but that’s worn down anyway by different footsteps.
The end of it opens into a small clearing, roughly hacked off branches forming the gap in the undergrowth. Still, weeds and branches spill into the space since no one has been around to keep it clean. Sapnap brushes some of the leaves aside to sit in front of the rugged wooden cross that makes up Spirit’s grave. Moss climbs up the carved oak, and with an unsteady knife Sapnap cuts it away, careful not to scratch the wood.
When he’s done, he plants the cross back in the ground, leaning up against a tree and pulling his knees up toward him. His armour sits next to him; he’d taken it off once he had arrived, too distracted to bother with its bulk. The back of his head is tipped against the rough bark, heavily lidded eyes staring up into the blue sky that peeks through the gaps in the foliage.
Not everything has to be written down, he thinks, picking at the grass by his side. Sometimes you just have to say it out loud.
He doesn’t know where to start, so he looks to his surroundings for help. The breeze carries the scent of coming rain and the faint chirping of birds, but no answers to unspoken questions. Then his wandering gaze lands back on the cross.
Spirit.
Dream had been so disbelieving when Sapnap had accidentally caused Spirit’s death. He can still remember the white horse, how fast they were, how affectionate and gentle. They were a good companion to Dream, and Sapnap suspects he’ll never truly rid the feeling of guilt that spikes in his chest whenever he thinks about them.
Inadvertently his mind stumbles upon a different painful echo: I don’t give a fuck about Spirit. Or maybe another that Tommy had shared, I cut my attachments. I lost my pets.
The worn down trail to this grave feels even sadder now. The picture of Dream in a similar position to how Sapnap currently sits, knees tucked up close to his chest, arms wrapped around them, staring at the memorial, stings.
Staring at the memorial. Scrunching his face into his knees and fighting off tears. A shaky breath stutters through Sapnap’s lips, and he drags the back of his hand across his eyes. Did Dream feel this too, all the times he came back to the grave? The guilt and bitterness? Or did he only blame Sapnap just as much as he blames himself?
Maybe things would’ve been easier if Dream had hated him for every time Sapnap had fucked up.
The ghost of a memory flickers in his mind’s eye, of Dream clutching him, nails digging into upper arms and his face buried in the crook of Sapnap’s neck as hot tears stained the front of his shirt. He doesn’t remember why his friend was crying, or when, but sobs bubble again up Sapnap’s throat. He chokes them back with difficulty.
Fuck. Fuck. He stands, and he puts his armour back on, and he heads back through the woods.
It hurts in a strange way to be turning away from the castle and the greater SMP.
-
Dear Dream,
People are rebuilding the community house and it looks so different now. I don’t think you’d like it. I don’t really like it either
Dream,
I don’t really know what to do without you and George
Hi Dream,
Yesterday I went out and I just stood in front of the prison, staring at the portal that I really could just walk into at any moment but I just didn’t why didn’t I? Do you want to see me?
Hey Dream,
George sleeps so much more often lately. It’s strange. Who needs that much sleep? I think he’s avoiding me
Dear Dream,
Why wasn’t I enough for you? Did you really have to leave? Wh
To stupid fucking Dream,
Fuck you, fuck you for everything, I hate you and I hope you rot in that fucki
“Sapnap?”
He startles, pausing in crumpling up yet another unfinished letter, turning towards the voice. Karl is standing in the doorway, the dark night sky filling the space behind him. Pouring rain patters against the windows and on the porch, and Karl is dripping with it, hair stuck slick to his forehead. He opens his mouth to say something, but Sapnap cuts him off, already frustrated with himself for being unable to write a stupid letter and the feeling only heightening that his fiancé is home so late for the 6th time that week.
“Where were you?” he snaps, standing up roughly. Karl closes the door behind himself, hanging up his coat, eyebrows furrowed.
“I … lost track of the time,” he says, voice subdued, and peers past Sapnap’s frame to the desk. “Were you writing?”
He grits his teeth. “But where were you?”
Karl’s eyes snap back, and he steps closer, scanning Sapnap’s face. “You’re mad at me?”
Sapnap glances down to the crumpled page in his hand. “I just … want to know you’re not avoiding me.”
“Wha -- Sapnap, of course I’m not --” he reaches for Sapnap’s hand, but he flinches away, jaw clenched. Still not meeting his eyes, because he thinks that if he does he won’t be able to control the growing ache of tears in his chest.
“Feels like everyone’s avoiding me,” he mutters. He knows what he really wants to say, the letters on the tip of his tongue: leaving. His friends are leaving.
Karl sighs. Like he doesn’t have the time to deal with this. Like Sapnap is a bothersome obstacle he just has to get through. The ache wraps its fingers around his heart.
“No one’s avoiding you. Okay? Is that all you’re mad about, because I’m pretty tired and I’d like to go to bed.” Tone weary and condescending, Karl moves to pass Sapnap to the stairs. He ascends them quietly but quickly, disappearing upstairs without another word.
A groan builds in Sapnap’s throat and he chucks the ball of paper against the window. Sitting back down at the desk, he buries his face in his hands, rubbing the bridge of his nose before sliding his fingers into his hair and pulling it. He just wants to scream out of frustration, and he wants to yell at Karl, and he wants to know why George is sleeping so much, and he’s tired of being alone.
He pulls out another piece of paper and tells himself this is the one he’s going to send, no matter what it says.
Hi Dream,
I’ve tried writing and rewriting this letter a million times already, so I don’t care anymore. This is the one I’m going to send, no matter what stupid bullshit I put in it.
I’m getting the feeling that my friends are sick of me. George is never around, Karl treats me like I’m just something there that he has to forcefully ignore. Quackity … I still don’t even know where Quackity is.
Remember when I said my biggest fear was losing my friends? Abandonment, total abandonment where they’re just gone and vanished. I think I underestimated how much more it would hurt for them to still be here, but not with me. I thought it would hurt for them to have never existed one day, for them to vanish and leave. Death, maybe, or something tearing us apart against our will, y’know? But they’re leaving on their own.
They want to leave. I don’t want them to leave.
Is that how you feel? When people visit you and stare at you like you’re some sort of animal at a zoo and they want to get you to do something but you’re doing the wrong thing so they leave. Do you want them to stay? Or do you prefer the silence?
You left me too, you know. And for a while I hated your guts, for changing and expecting George and I to go along with it. I never understood your motives for anything you did, but you were still there. I should’ve done more, probably. Do you think I could’ve done more?
Is it my fault? Is all of this my fault?
My friends don’t want to be my friends anymore, but I think they haven’t been for a while. We were still friends but they weren’t mine . George wasn’t the boy who used to demand his bed be magenta, who loved flower forests, who laughed and smiled and was full of light. Karl wasn’t the goofy boy who I could make blush and who made me blush, always overflowing with energy and Quackity wasn’t the person who could always make me laugh but who was still serious and comforting at the times that he needed to be.
You’re not the boy who I used to do fighting practice with, in the middle of the forest alone. You’re not the boy who would sing softly around the fire at night then break off into an embarrassed wheeze-laugh when we were all staring at you in awe. You’re not the boy who smiled and the entire room would light up. Your freckles have probably faded since when was the last time you saw the sun? And it hurts because you loved the sun and the warmth but you still stared with wide-eyed wonder at the snow that came down during winter and
I just miss you guys, I guess.
I’ll get over it.
Sapnap
Tears are welling up that he hadn’t even noticed and he quickly swipes at his eyes, closing the letter abruptly. His handwriting looks sort of shaky at the end. He folds it up, slips it into the envelope, and puts it into the mailbox.
I’ll get over it. Faint snoring can be heard upstairs; Karl must’ve been tired. So is Sapnap, but he hovers at the bottom of the staircase with hesitance regardless. They hadn’t really argued like that before, and the blankness that fills his mind when he wonders what to do next confuses him.
With a shaky inhale, he takes his foot off the stairs and lies down on the sofa instead. The ceiling flashes with each bolt of lightning, watery reflections from the windows splattering across it methodically. I’ll get over it.