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Dream faced the sun, eyes closed, as it reflected on his pale skin. He sat on the grass, pulling it out and throwing it elsewhere. His feet ached and his back was tired.
The sky was clear; once the admin of the server had escaped and reformed a connection they had both missed, the constant combination of storms and droughts had ceased. The air had returned to its usual, pleasant warmth – the warmth fuelled by Dream’s love for all within his world.
He kept his eyes closed, breathing as deeply as he could, as deeply as his scarred lungs let him. The air inside the prison had been suffocating, from the warmth of the lava, from the lack of proper ventilation, and from the constant smell of blood and rot which later stuck to the cell. Even when, due to Techno visiting, Sam had cleaned the cell, it had still reeked.
Through the ringing in his ears, Dream heard light footsteps approach him, accompanied by the shuffling of the person’s signature forest-floor cloak against the soft grass.
“Hey Dream,” George said, crouching down. His voice was still strained, a rough rasp under it – from his long periods of sleep, most likely – but it held a softer note, one he had gained from helping Dream when he had been at his most vulnerable and raw.
Dream lowered his head, sluggishly blinking his eyes open. They were both covered by a light fog, an indicator of his damaged vision. He raised his gaze to George’s sternum, avoiding eye contact. He nodded to show he was listening.
George sighed, not unkindly, “We have to start heading somewhere else,” his hands fidgeted with the edge of his cape, rolling the leaves between his fingers. He was trying to hide it, but Dream could, even then, read him like an open book. George was nervous.
Dream tilted his head in a silent question. George’s eyes grew more concerned.
“I-” he stuttered, unusually for him, “I don’t want to worry you any more, but…” he let the cape fall from his hands, “I got news the server has- they’re hunting for us, Dream.”
And Dream’s breath stopped.
Because he’d thought they’d be safe; he’d thought they could live here, live with George in a house they’d build together, with fields of animals they’d care for, and they’d finally feel peace in what felt like decades.
But no, they’d take him back, back to his obsidian cell and the wall of lava and the potatoes and the blades and blood and Sir’s hands holding him down-
He could distantly feel George holding him, hear him counting to guide his breath. He did his best to follow along, a deeply hurt part of him screaming to follow the instructions or he’d be hurt.
“-two, three, four,” George’s voice faded back in as his mind returned to reality, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. You’re doing so well, it’s okay.”
Dream’s head fell to George’s chest. He listened to his heartbeat, keeping his breaths slow and even. The panic was still set deep within his skin, hands trembling more than the usual nerve damage caused them to.
They stayed on the grass, breathing deeply in sync, one hand close enough to hold, yet not connected. Almost as if the world had slowed down, just for them.
Yet, their fingers intertwined when the bushes behind them rustled, shadowed by a clanking of netherite armour.
George pulled them both upright – keeping one arm firm to support Dream – and stared forward. From the set of his shoulders and the subtle downward turn at the corners of his mouth, Dream knew George was angry.
He also knew it wasn’t directed at him.
Finally, a teenager stepped out from the bushes, waving branches from his face. In his right hand, with such a loose grip Dream thought it’d fall out any second, was a netherite sword.
When the teen finally looked up, Dream knew their stories had been deeply intertwined.
When Dream looked for a second longer, he knew this was yet another person he’d lost to the obsidian walls.
George summoned a sword to his hand, “What are you doing here.”
The other, taking slow, yet forceful steps forward, sneered, “I could ask him,” vaguely gesturing at Dream, “the same thing. I never took you for a traitor, Gogs.”
George tilted his head to the side, just enough for his glasses to shift. He huffed, “Tommy,” Dream recognised that as the teen’s name, “I never said I was on your side. Not everyone has to play by your rules all the time.”
Dream couldn’t remember much about Tommy. Most of it had been beaten out of him, like a rabid dog that wouldn’t stop biting its owner.
He wasn’t sure who that said more about: Him, Tommy, or Sir.
Tommy kept walking closer, only stopping when the tip of George’s sword was a finger’s width away from his chestplate. He threw a glance at Dream, at the scars on his skin, at the way his cheeks caved in and at the permanent shake in every part of his body.
For a brief moment, Tommy’s eyes softened and his lips parted. But it was gone just as quick as it had come.
“But he’s a- he’s a wrongun! You can’t defend him, he’s-” Tommy paused to inhale. His hands were very slightly trembling, maybe from fear?”
“He shouldn’t even go to prison. He deserves death, he deserves an eternity in limbo!”
Dream, as fearful as he may have been, breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn’t be sent back there.
At least he’d die a free man.
He’d like that.
Before George could stop him, Dream had already stepped in front of him, staring ahead at Tommy, yet still not letting his eyes wander to meet the other’s. Tommy had taken steps back, giving Dream the space to collapse down into a kneel.
He kept his eyes to the grass, hands in his lap and head tilted down, enough to expose the poker chip branded right below his hairline.
A show of submission. A show of defeat. Of surrender.
Dream closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the cell.
“What the fuck are you doing? Are you- are you trying to manipulate me again?” Tommy screamed. Dream didn’t flinch; he was used to being screamed at.
When Dream remained unresponsive, George squatted down, placing a hand on his shoulder, wishing for a reaction yet getting none, “Dream? You don’t have to do this, we can just fight them, or leave, or-”
Dream tried to speak, but fell into a coughing fit from not being used to speaking after being essentially mute for a year. When he could finally talk, he rasped out, “I could die with you.”
George gasped, both at what Dream had said and at Tommy’s reaction.
His axe was now buried into the dirt by the blade. Tommy himself paced in a small circle as he grumbled, frustrated but no longer angry.
While Dream’s eyes still remained closed, he could guess Tommy was covering his face with his hands. He was correct.
“What the fuck is your goal? Come on man, yell at me! Tell me to put my things in a hole, Tommy,” he mimicked Dream’s accent, “or- or something like that!”
“Tommy-”
“What could have possibly happened to you, Dream, for you to become such a pussy?”
“Stop it.”
At George’s command, Tommy huffed but finally quieted. He spared another glance at Dream, who seemed to be trying to stay still, yet failing as Tommy could still see him trembling. He hesitated, because suddenly, the man at his feet reminded him of himself. When he’d looked into Dream’s eyes, they’d been a reflection of his own right after he’d escaped from exile, after he’d been revived. The same look of hopelessness, echoed right back at him in a shifted hue.
While he stared as George comforted Dream, the pieces in his head began to slot together, the formed puzzle a painting of blood.
He wanted to ignore the thought, to brush it off easily, yet suddenly, every feature of the former villain seemed more fit for a beaten child than Dream. It was simply… incorrect, to see him like this. Suddenly, it seemed almost morally wrong to kill him.
“Holy shit-” Tommy stuttered, taking a step back, eyes wide in shock.
George looking up prompted him to continue, “Who did that to him?”
George’s expression lost its edge, yet his voice was full of a rage Tommy hadn’t before quite heard from him as he spat, “Q did it.”
And “Oh god,” Tommy muttered, because of course, Quackity had been the most confusing person to see so invested in the search. While Tommy had independently gone out, he had still sat through their meetings. That look in Quackity’s eyes, Tommy knew, had sent shivers down more backs than just his.
Tommy pulled his axe out of the ground where it still stood, and searched his head for a plan, “I can leave, and not tell anyone I found you, and- I can keep them off your track, okay? This isn’t- I can’t let him do this.”
George still sat on the grass, arms wrapped around Dream, who appeared to be halfway asleep in the cloak George had wrapped him in. He thought about it before asking, “Remember, if you don’t keep your end of the deal, I have a god on my side who’d gladly obliterate you. I will keep this agreement a secret. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Tommy turned around, storing his axe back into his inventory. He started walking away, but called back, “They’re about a thousand north of spawn. Stay away from bases and you’ll be good. I’ll keep you updated,” before he disappeared into the forest he’d come from, until the sound of the leaves rustling faded as well.
George looked up, eyes closed, as the sun slowly lowered to the horizon. He sat on the grass, holding Dream and rocking them both side to side. His body ached, and his thoughts were tired.