Chapter Text
Dream doesn’t consider himself to be rude. Brash perhaps. Opinionated maybe. But never rude.
He likes to say he’s considerate. He’s not the type of college student to make too much noise when they’re at their tables, and even then he’d probably apologise for it. He’s not very pushy either; he does his assignments on time, makes his notes, not one for talking during lessons either. Dream isn’t a rude person.
“Open the door, asshole! I know you’re in there!” Dream wails his fist against the door, ignoring the pointed looks from across the halls and between half opened neighbouring dorm rooms. It’s not the first or second time he’s knocked, rather he hasn’t stopped banging since he waltzed in here.
He doesn’t fancy himself inconsiderate but—
The lock of the door twists and Dream drops his hand, folding them across his chest now. Technoblade’s wearing his glasses today; half circular spectacles that just barely hide his narrowed eyes and pursed lips.
“Can I help you?” He says, tone unbearably polite and Dream’s frown deepens. Honestly, this is the last place he'd rather be.
It's not like he wants to be around Technoblade for longer than necessary, but he has to be.
“Did you forget our favour?”
Dream doesn’t have too much to say about a person’s majors.
Honestly, he sees no use in judging someone for their degree— unless they’re native and taking only English; it’s just plain rude and granted he’s studying software engineering, he has no right to call anyone a nerd.
So really he shouldn’t base his whole opinion on someone just because they’re studying political science but he feels like he has a right given his circumstances.
He's never been the kind of guy to really enjoy jumping into conversations about politics so excuse him if he can’t really find it in him to shake that lingering distrust around anyone taking a major surrounding it.
Technoblade's whole persona didn't help to shake Dream's bias either.
Born into wealth, ignorant and studying political science were too many red flags checked out in Dream’s opinion. It's a surprise Technoblade doesn't sneer 'peasant' at him every chance he gets.
They take different majors, so the only reason they even see each other is because their friend groups occasionally overlap, causing them to be in the same place at the same time.
They don't talk. At least not for long. It's a bit bold to say they don't get along. Clipped greetings and sidelong glances and that’s it for them. They sit on opposite sides of tables and inch away from each other in groups. Even though at the time, they hadn’t said anything negative to the other, Technoblade must have realised Dream didn’t like him. Or maybe he saw Dream as beneath him and was glad to be away from him.
Either way, Technoblade stays in his bubble, only talking to people he deems worthy of his time and Dream hisses at him every time the soapy barrier so much as grazes him.
It becomes easy at first to ignore him. They never even glance at each other in between classes, their departments are on different floors, even their dorm rooms are on opposite sides of the hallway. The universe seems happy, very dead set on allowing them to keep their distance.
“Hey, Dream! Mind giving this bag to my brother?”
Wilbur fancies himself above the universe; not a revelation but it’s only today that it affects Dream.
It’s really through Wilbur that Dream is ‘introduced’ to Technoblade. Quackity has fun with him and Wilbur loved bringing his little group along. That group included his dearest twin brother, Technoblade.
Dream likes Wilbur. He’s kind of hard to put down since he doesn’t say a lot about himself but Dream knows he has a band. On occasion he resembles those pretentious music major assholes whenever he walks around campus with that big guitar case on his back but overall: good guy. (Dream asked if he did study music theory and Wilbur snickered before saying no.) He’s twins with Technoblade and Dream has trouble seeing how they could be cut from the same cloth.
He somehow manages to seem down to earth compared to Technoblade who always looked like anyone talking to him was wasting his time.
Wilbur waves a dark brown paper bag in front of Dream’s spaced out gaze. He scrunches his nose up at the smell; a bit earthy and Dream’s nose burns when it hits something chemical.
“I don’t even know where the guy sleeps,” Dream said, immediately hopping onto an excuse.
“Really? He’s got the one at the end of the hallway. Everybody knows that.” Wilbur snorts oblivious and shoves the bag in Dream’s empty hands. He’s given a pat, almost like a child would be given after saying something endearingly stupid. “Thanks a bunch for it. Just knock and he should just take it. And even if he’s not there, just put it down on his desk, he won’t mind if he knows why you’re there.”
“What even is this?” Dream presses his fingers against the lip of the bag and Wilbur grabs his wrist, hard. When Dream’s gaze flits back up the carefree expression Wilbur wears is nothing like the firm grip on his arm and Dream nearly winces at how much it hurts.
“Don’t ask questions,” Wilbur insists, giving a laugh. It sounds hollow compared to the boisterous booms that usually escape his chest, almost involuntary when Quackity blurts out something funny. This one sounds forced, almost like a warning to not question it. “Just give it to Techno.”
His hand is given one more complementary squeeze before Wilbur lets go. Dream is about to complain, now for his aching wrist and for the fact that he didn’t agree to this when Wilbur’s phone buzzes and he huffs, digging in his pocket for it, already looking like he’s about to leave and Dream’s words die in his throat. “Ash is persistent— anyway! I gotta go! Thanks again!”
Wilbur waves as he runs off and Dream is left in the dust, a mystery bag in hand and far too many questions.
Honestly, he doesn't care for answers anymore. To be fair, it was probably best to just deliver what needed to be delivered and just go back to never speaking to Technoblade again.
Just drop the bag off and that’ll be the end of it.
It’s a bit strange still, getting there; he rarely ever needed to go to the end of the hallway and the further Dream goes, the more it seems like he’s about to enter some kind of dungeon.
Technoblade’s room was pushed into a corner, at the very end of the hallway. Compared to Dream, whose room was one door away from the entrance, it was a far walk and every step closer was filling his stomach with slow growing dread.
He doesn’t know why he’s intimidated, it’s not like it’s lined with spikes, there’s no smoke escaping it from a pool of lava and Dream didn't have to hop on the heads of skeletal creatures to get here.
It’s a regular door, dark with a clean whiteboard on it. There’re dark blue streak marks on it, like someone did write on it before erasing it. Dream doesn’t need a sign to tell him that this is Technoblade’s door though, he’s been avoiding it the entire semester, he doesn’t think he can forget it.
There’s no large fire breathing, sharp toothed shelled monster behind it, Dream assures himself and the fact that it helps the clambering inside his chest makes him feel like a fool. At most he’s gonna get a weird look and be speedily shooed after the package is delivered.
As embarrassing as it sounds, Dream wouldn’t have it any other way.
Ignoring the tremors in his hands, Dream knocks on the door.
…
No answer.
He isn’t sure if this is better or worse.
Oh god, Dream doesn’t want to go into Technoblade’s room without his permission. Hell, Dream didn’t even want to enter his room. But the bag sits heavy in Dream’s hands and with how Wilbur had warned him about it, albeit with a smile, he doesn’t want to keep it for any longer than he has to.
The door thankfully gives away easily in Dream’s hand and his stomach flips as it creeks as he pushes it open.
Dream’s eyes dart around the room for a moment before he frowns.
Oh god, he’s one of those.
Technoblade’s room, like his clothes and his jewellery, like his stationary and his attitude (from what Dream assumes), is a testament to his wealth.
It is a private academy they’re going to, so it made sense that they got their own dorm rooms but even Dream thought his room was a bit much. It’s totally not envy Dream feels at the monster of a PC Technoblade has on his desk. His laptop is fine, better than his old one that crashed at the worst times.
Dream just finds it a bit unnecessary that one of Technoblade’s walls is lined with bookshelves. Has he no concern for his space? Okay Dream takes that last sentence back when he catches sight of the loft bed over his desk. Technoblade either went out of his way to build or at the very least paid someone to build and both options just manage to make Dream even more upset.
He has a big dresser and mirror, one Dream suspects he spends far too much time looking in. There are photos and little ornate boxes where he guesses that’s where Technoblade stores whatever accessories he decides to wear for the day.
Where Technoblade decorates himself in gold, Wilbur sports silver. For Wilbur it’s in small accents, those fake wire rims he has to match with Techno’s golden ones, the occasional ring or chain. For Technoblade? They’re a part of his brand almost.
Hanging golden earrings and studs decorating his ears, gold septum piercings, gold rings, necklaces, the like. It’s rare to see him not wearing anything golden no matter how small.
Dream reaches up, catching sight of a polaroid hanging from the edge of the mirror. They’re all of Wilbur and him with two other blondes Dream doesn’t recognise. Dream wouldn’t say they’re out of place with the other framed photos in the room, rather they stand out enough for Dream to stare for a moment.
Looking at it for a while, Technoblade really is just Wilbur’s face but with blue eyes. Still, it’s a surprise how different they look; or rather it’s amazing how Technoblade is able to distinguish himself from his twin. Much longer hair dyed fiercely pink, the only remnants of his brother being the roots.
Dream stops looking after he catches sight of the couch and table nestled in the corner and speed walks to Technoblade’s desk to put the bag down— and there’s a mini-fridge there, right opposite to the tower, of course there is.
Dream scoffs, resisting the urge to pour whatever is in this bag onto Technoblade’s glowing keyboard and instead not-so-gently rests it next to it. Nothing cracks thankfully and Dream sighs. The power of that man to give him psychic damage even while not even being here is worthy of applause but the most Dream is comfortable with is him stomping out of the room.
He almost does. Until his gaze catches something.
Technoblade’s room is colour coordinated; as most rich kids' rooms are. With that much money, you might as well waste it. It’s made up of fairly cold colours: dark greys and deep blues. So when Dream sees something bright and orange he pauses.
Technoblade has curtains, really thick ones that practically block out all the light and in the sliver of the dark grey fabric, he sees orange. Intrigue overpowers his thoughts of leaving and Dream pulls the curtain back.
Flowers. Large wooden pots hang out from Technoblade’s windowsill and in them are flowers. Curiously, Dream pats at the bottom of the window and gently slides it open. There are two types of flowers; both are just as bright as the other. A bunch of orange daisy-like beauties sprout from a podium of leaves that blanketed the dirt around them. Next to it in its own pot are similarly shaded globular florets above more skinny neat stems.
Dream tips his head out more to get a closer look at them, surprised to realise they’re actually real and sees yet another pot from Technoblade’s second window and pulls back, now with a second mission in mind when—
The door creeks open, a lot louder than when Dream did it with the pride of someone who wasn’t worried someone was inside. What worried Dream wasn’t just the fact that the door swung open, it was that it was quiet afterwards. Quiet enough that Dream could hear the blood thudding against his ears and the single bead of sweat dripping down his temples.
He could feel eyes on his frozen form, most likely just as frozen as he was and Dream bit the bullet. He glances over his shoulder. It's exactly the last person he wanted to see.
Technoblade is just as still as Dream is. His hand is still closed over the doorknob, eyes trained firmly on his face.
Surely there’s something poetic about the face of the person who got you into a mess being the same to kill you.
They don’t say anything for far too long than necessary (this is your room, Technoblade. Just kick me out already!) before Technoblade just clears his throat and very awkwardly shuffles in place— what?
“Gotta say, last person I expected to be in my room, not gonna lie,” He said finally. His gaze flits around his room before they drawback to Dream eyebrow raised. “What did you take?”
Dream splutters. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t see what you stole, at least tell me so I can replace it or something,” he says, waving Dream off. The audacity—
“I didn’t take your shit— what kind of question—”
“Sure, of course,” Technoblade scoffs and leans against his door, arm crossed, waiting. Dream can’t believe what he’s hearing. In defiance he crosses his arms as well, brows furrowed upset. Technoblade frowns. “Come on, man, why else are you in my room then?”
It was probably a valid thought to have. Dream was also spending a bit too much time in Technoblade’s room than what was deemed necessary. The bag was on his desk, Dream could just give his reason and end this peacefully but—
“Who cares? I’m leaving,” Dream drops his arms, only just missing bumping past Technoblade who swerved out of the way. The way Technoblade looked at him, that smug overbearing stare blocked out all reason.
He wasn’t called back and he could feel the steam begin to erupt from his skull when the door closed shut.