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Escape is blinding.
Dream bounces on his toes in the snow, eyes squinted against the sunshine that reflects off the white ground. His head is messy with anticipation, eyes flicking over the horizon, looking for pursuers. He shivers, knowing that there are people searching for him, tracking him, hunting him. It is terrifyingly euphoric.
He picks at a stray scab under his sleeve. There are many more, courtesy of his time in the prison, a bloody gallery of his time under the knife of the first citizen of Las Nevadas. The wounds hidden under his clothes are the easiest to deal with, anyway; that sort of pain is visible, quantifiable, a narrow remainder of everything else.
Dream bites his lip, and allows himself to be anxious, because that anxiety means he is alive. There is a reason he is alive. There is a reason he is here, he reminds himself, fingers clutching his waist in a faint embrace as he rocks back and forth, building wicker confidence.
Punz is coming.
Punz. His ally, his partner in crime, a friendship further than friends. Dream didn’t allow himself to think of the other man while he was trapped inside countless obsidian walls and fake walls, traps and trickery, scared that his mind might slip and his tongue would grow loose with longing. It hurt to barricade himself inside his head, passing months without even the comfort of Punz’s memory - his rough, gentle palms, his loud smile and soft laugh.
Now, peering out at the snowy horizon, Dream breathes and breathes until the cold air bites his lungs raw, and imagines Punz tugging him over the slopes and pressing a kiss to his frosty hair, just the two of them. He shivers.
Startled back into his own body, Dream turns sharply to the sound of a glacier moving unevenly in the distance, splashing against the shore.
“Hello?” Dream calls, apprehensive.
A indistinguishable shout answers him, and his chest tingles with something new and brilliant as Punz comes over the ridge, tripping over his feet and waving wildly at Dream.
His heart spins wildly, like the needle of a compass breaking under pure magnetism. Dream stumbles forward a few steps, needing to be closer, closer, and it’s like the Grand Canyon is opening inside him. The snow crunches under Punz’s arrival, loud and welcome, and Dream feels sublime, exhilarated, exhausted. He doesn’t know if he’s holding his breath or if his lungs have finally given out, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because the only thing that matters right now is—
“Dream!”
“Punz!”
“How are you?” Punz asks eagerly, eyes bright. A tuft of blond hair pokes out from under his helmet, and god he looks good, shining in netherite and grinning wildly.
“Punz,” Dream says in response, still gasping with delight. “I’m—I’m—”
“It’s been too long,” Punz says softly, stepping closer, and sheds his armor like water. His eyes are kind, kinder than anything Dream’s seen in months, and Dream hates how he catalogues the potions on Punz’s belt, the crossbow slung over his back, the trident peeking over his shoulder—and he hates how he flinches back when Punz approaches with open arms, familiar hoodie rustling in the wind.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready for a hug,” Punz is quick to reassure him, “Ten months of isolation is no joke.”
“It wasn’t—it wasn’t what I thought it would be. I think it drove me a little bit mad,” Dream murmurs, closing his eyes against the memory of dark obsidian and ever-crackling lava. He shivers, not sure if his heart is pounding from the lingering adrenaline of running, the constant cautionary panic he developed in prison, or Punz—wanting Punz to hold him, wanting to relearn the feeling of a friendly touch. “Hugs are…okay, though.”
Punz gives him a crooked smile and opens his arms again. Dream doesn’t hesitate this time, carefully wrapping his arms around Punz’s back and sinking into the embrace as he feels Punz’s palms smooth over his shoulder-blades.
“I didn’t want to press, but you look like you needed one,” Punz whispers next to his ear, squeezing gently. “You’re too thin, Dream.”
Dream makes a small noise of agreement, letting himself cling to Punz’s sturdy frame for as long as he’s allowed. “I missed this,” Dream breathes. “The sky. The sun.” Freedom. You.
“You’re out, now,” Punz says, stepping back. The air between them is cool with frost, the winter sun making nearby snowbanks sparkle in Punz’s eyes. “We’re not doing that again, like, ever.”
Dream laughs, the sound rough and unused, a sparrow finding wind under its wings. “God, no. That place… If I went back there, I think I’d die.”
He laughs it off with a smile that comes too easy, a tremor in his voice barely betraying the under-bellied truth of his words. There’s only so much he can practice away his fear, after all.
Punz notices, of course, but he makes no comment except to agree wholeheartedly, patting Dream’s shoulder firmly before he draws back, rummaging around pulling out his enderchest.
“What’re you doing?” Dream asks.
“You need armor,” Punz replies absently, sorting through his items. “And food, of course, but we’ll get that at home. Are you cold?”
Dream blinks. “Home?”
“Yeah, I’ve got some bread and things at my place. I’m not a great cook—which you know, obviously—but we’ll make it work. I’m not letting you starve to death.”
The deep ache of hunger pushes desperately at Dream’s ribs, but, to his surprise, it’s Punz’s words that make his eyes burn. Home? Punz wants to house him, and feed him, and give him a place to belong?
“Oh,” he replies in a small voice.
Punz pulls his hoodie over his head and tosses it at Dream, who catches it, surprised. The material is soft and well-loved, and it smells like apples and smoke and a warm hearth. Dream clutches it to his chest, still feeling fragile and unsettled by Punz’s easy generosity.
“Here, put that on, I bet you’re freezing” Punz says, coming over to him with a chest-plate and boots. His brows furrow. “You’re shaking, Dream, are you okay? Hey, are you—are you crying?”
“Only a little bit,” Dream answers with a watery smile. He slips the hoodie on quickly, admiring how it engulfs him, falling past his hips and surrounding him like a phantom embrace. Dream wants to keep it forever, to keep Punz wrapped around him like this in a permanent hug.
“You look nice in my hoodie,” Punz mumbles, and the hope in Dream’s chest strikes a new match.
He looks up at Punz with a wry smile, taking the spare armor. Here, under the wide mouth of the sky, completely exposed, he feels sincerely and unmistakably loved. “Let’s go home, then.”
___
He stays with Punz that night, and the next, and the next after that, because he’s a coward. Selfish. Wanting comfort, wanting safety, from the only person he can let his guard down with.
The giddiness of freedom from the first day fades quickly, dropping off hour by hour until Dream is left in a pit of guilt and anxiety. He worries about compromising Punz’s cover, taking his resources, and being an emotional drain in general. There’s already been several times that Punz has had to soothe him: silently changing old bandages, feeding him bits of bread to keep his strength up, pulling his hands away from his scabs and dutifully clipping his nails for him.
Dream loves him for every minute of it (though love still feels slippery and fluid between his ribs, a potion of healing that doesn’t quite swallow right anymore).
He wants Punz more than anything, yearns to go back to how they were before, when Punz would wake him up by draping his entire body weight on Dream’s half-conscious form and they would kiss each other under the orchard, in the broad daylight of the prime path, on the roof of the community house. Before, when they were unashamed of love and careless of politics. Before, when Dream wasn’t thirty pounds lighter and twenty scars heavier and broken in a way that hurts to breathe.
Now, they play a game of push and pull, swaying together like the moon and the sea. Dream lets Punz feed him watermelon slices, and Punz doesn’t ask about the wounds carved into his back. Dream sits crosslegged on the edge of Punz’s bed, and Punz quietly offers him a borrowed hoodie. Punz’s hand hovers over Dream’s back, carefully not touching, always giving him the option to step away from unwanted touch — and Dream doesn’t know how to tell him that his hands, mouth, anything, will never be unwelcome.
But Punz keeps his distance, and Dream spirals.
He can feel the pressure his escape has put on the SMP. The air outside feels alive with eyes and furtive glances, tension seeping all the way down his bones, and he worries about the suspicion they will garner with every day Punz is absent from the group, locked away and taking care of a fugitive.
The fear is chilling. Losing Punz is even scarier.
Dream blinks back into reality, picking at the hem of his sweatpants, listening to Punz bustle around the kitchen. It feels domestic and cozy and eerily normal, and he clings to each moment like a lifeline. “How much soup do you want, Dream?”
Punz’s voice is quiet and calm. Dream wants to drown in it.
“Um,” he mumbles, tempted by the hearty smell. He’s still adjusting to eating three times a day instead of once every three days, relearning the feeling of a full stomach. Famine has ripped through his body like a needy thunderstorm, leaving him all bones and bruises, and the food Punz is offering feels too sweet and abundant.
(Dream doesn’t know how to stomach that kindness yet.)
“Here,” Punz says, setting a steaming bowl in front of him. He presses it into Dream’s hands, warm, fingers brushing Dream’s.
“Thank you,” Dream replies, ignoring how his voice cracks in the middle. It’s a night soft with stars, and Dream’s head rings fuzzy with sleep and stress. He feels a little bit out of control in this innocent world, safe enough inside this tiny, warm room to let go, his lungs slipping closed and eyes misting over as he watches Punz burn his tongue tasting the soup he made for them.
His chest hurts all of a sudden, and he wonders if he recognizes this overwhelming, all-encompassing feeling as love. He wants it so badly: love, and with Punz.
He must make a noise at some point, a keening sort of cry that has Punz looking up with a look of panicked concern on his face, and he figures that the feeling is probably not love, but anxiety. Maybe insecurity. Maybe panic. Fuck.
“Dream?”
Dream pulls his hands over his eyes, smearing hot tears down his cheeks, and realizes this is the first time he’s ever cried in front of Punz. He rubs the tears into his skin as if they’re life-giving, trying to draw color back into his face. His heart burns, the kind of ache that comes from running too fast, too far, too much; he presses a hand against his chest, hard.
“Breathe,” Punz says firmly, his voice unexpectedly close to Dream’s ear. Dream jumps, feeling his fingers go tingly.
“Sorry,” he gasps, and inhales twice in three seconds. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Punz reassures him immediately, soft. “You don’t get to be sorry with me, anyways. What do you need?”
Dream’s mouth opens and closes like a fish; he runs his tongue over his dry lips and tries to form the words You I need you Please.
But he is not brave enough to ask for the things that he wants and needs and dreams of. His heart is still singed from the prison’s lava, his voice still weak from disuse, and all he can do is tip his head backwards against Punz’s chin and close his eyes against stray tears.
“Oh,” Punz whispers, sounding breathless. “Yeah, of course. I got you.”
Dream keeps his eyes closed—blissful darkness—as Punz rearranges them so that his back is pressed to Punz’s chest and his hand rests in Punz’s palm, the other rubbing a thumb over his knuckles. Punz breathes slow and deep, a comforting rhythm that soothes the hiccups trapped in Dream’s throat.
They stay there for a long time, quiet except for Dream’s uneven exhales as he relaxes into Punz’s arms. He takes a breath, purposeful, inhaling the apple soap Punz has always used, his heartbeat softening. It almost feels like old times when Punz presses a quick kiss to his hair, disguised under the excuse of careless movement as he shifts them so that he can see Dream’s face.
“Hi,” Punz starts, giving him a gentle smile. His face takes up almost all of Dream’s periphery.
“Hi,” Dream murmurs.
“The soup was that bad, huh?” Punz jokes. His tone is light, and he’s still holding Dream’s hand, and Dream thaws like a young spring.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says, trying a wobbly smile, and pushes back into Punz’s chest.
“I can reheat some for you if you want.”
“That would be nice,” Dream replies dutifully. He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to scratch the tear tracks off of his cheeks. He feels safe, enclosed in Punz’s arms, but the vulnerability of tears is still too much right now. “This is nice.”
“I’m sorry if I made you upset,” Punz says abruptly, a note of guilt in his voice. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything, you know you can tell me if something’s wrong or—”
“Wasn’t you,” Dream shakes his head, “never you.”
“I just hate seeing you cry,” Punz finishes, squeezing his hand tightly, almost instinctive. “I hate seeing you cry,” he repeats, sincere, bitter, sad.
“Sorry,” Dream whispers, ignoring how Punz frowns at the useless apology. There’s no better way to articulate the way his flesh has been mangled by fear and fire, no way to explain the days when he wanted to rip his heart out just to check if it was still beating.
“Dream,” Punz says helplessly, and Dream can tell he’s searching for a way to help, to heal. Endlessly kind.
“I like when you hold me,” Dream offers, words purple and shy. “It makes me feel, um, safe,” he mumbles.
Punz takes a shuddery breath behind him, and his hands come up to sift through Dream’s hair, combing out the knots and matted bits. He says nothing, just presses close and smoothes easy fingers behind Dream’s ears.
Nobody has touched him there in ages. Nobody has cared enough to find the tiny, remaining, unblemished pieces of his skin and love him so tenderly. Dream’s eyes go misty again, his chest splintering like hot glass under cool water, aching deeper than the foreign initials carved into his bones.
“I know you were giving me space, which is— which is really nice. Thank you,” Dream rushes, when Punz has been silent for too long. “But I’m okay with—with stuff. Like, you can hug me and touch my back and stuff. If it’s not too weird. I mean, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but I’m just— It’s nice.”
He sucks in a breath, cursing himself for rambling like that and not even saying what he wants, gentleness, a cheek kiss, the dip of fingers over trembling skin. An “I love you” whispered into his mouth like a promise.
Punz stops him before he can apologize again, taking a shaky breath against the back of Dream’s neck, and when he speaks, Dream is shocked to hear tears in his voice.
“Let me,” he whispers disjointedly, hands winding around Dream’s stomach. The touch sends fireworks racing down his spine, and Punz doesn’t stop. His hands cover Dream’s, chin tucked neatly over Dream’s shoulder, and Dream is made of flint and steel—sparking and sparking.
“Let me make you feel safe,” Punz breathes, almost desperate. “Let me do this for you.”
“Okay.”
“I missed you,” he murmurs. “You already know that, though.”
Dream smiles into his shoulder as his heart swoops. “Still nice to hear.”
Punz hums, and Dream sinks further back into his chest in comfortable silence. It’s late now, and the hearth simmers with embers that flake off into the air like tiny grey moths, thin and fragile, caught in the firelight.
They stay there until Dream’s eyelids start to droop, riding a wave of imminent sleep that makes them both soft and blurry. His hand slackens in Punz’s sweater and Punz loosens his arm around Dream’s waist, never letting go. It feels like a switch has been flipped, in the early hours of the morning when the world spins upside down and everything is allowed; they cling to each like symbiotic parasites, armor discarded, floodgates open.
It’s not the same as it was, exactly, but the warm smell of Punz’s neck when he cuddles close is as familiar as the earth beneath his feet. And they stay like that, messy and contented, until Dream’s uneaten soup grows cold.
___
Burned flesh. It tastes like rot, sickening and ashy. Dream looks down—numb, unfeeling. His hand, smoldering, charcoal, blackened.
Black like the floor beneath him inky dark purple bluemagentavoid and wait, wait, oh god oh no and he is screaming and screaming and counting one two three walls Obsidian they’re made of obsidian, this cage this prison and a universe of lava surrounding him, scalding him, burning him, his hand—
He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand.
How is he back he can’t be back he’s safe please— Punz where’s Punz in his brain and his heart-rate is spiking like Everest and all of his old scars ache and cry at the dusty scorching heat of the orangewhite lava blinding him and his hand is still burning—
“Dream! Dream!”
His shoulders shake with a personal earthquake while the prison stands tall and solid and menacing. Who is calling for him like that? It couldn’t be the Warden, or the tormentor he still refuses to name… Dream trembles again, more now.
“Punz?” he dares to ask, gasping.
“Dream,” and it sounds so much like Punz, voice stricken with aching relief, that Dream cracks an eyelid to peek.
“It’s you,” he exhales sharply, profoundly, and everything makes sense.
He blinks, and the darkness in his vision dissipates to reveal the wooden ceiling of Punz’s room. They’re both in bed, sheets tangled around Dream’s waist and three pillows stacked behind his head. Punz hovers over him nervously.
“Are you okay?” Punz asks, brows drawn together in concern.
Dream heaves out a long breath, letting himself settle back into his bones. He takes account of his body, still shaking minutely with aftershocks. His blood feels hot and frenzied under his skin, like fire ants crawling up and down his veins, and his arm is tingling. Slowly, he extracts his hand from where it was trapped under his side, burning, smoldering. “My hand fell asleep,” he realizes out loud, quietly. The pieces slowly fall into place.
Punz’s hands come up to cradle his face, cold and smooth. He uses the edge of his sleeve to wipe away the sweat on Dream’s forehead, gliding gently over his skin, and the side of Dream’s mouth quirks up minutely at the gesture, touched. His heartbeat slows, gradually, as Punz rubs circles against his jaw with his cool hands.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Dream whispers, trying to hold himself back from from leaning into the touch as Punz combs the heat of the nightmare out of his scalp.
“Do you… want to talk about it?”
“Nothing to talk about,” Dream sighs, letting it drain from his chest. He can feel himself shutting down, shutting it in. It’s probably the best way he can keep going right now; there’s no good way to work through all the hurt he endured. Not with words.
“I’m sorry,” Punz murmurs, stroking along Dream’s hairline.
Dream nudges his head against Punz’s thigh. Everything about Punz is solid and grounding, from the warm line of his body to the fingers in his hair, and Dream is so glad that he’s here, so lucky to have someone treat with this much care and respect even after everything that’s happened. “What happened to ‘no apologizing?’” he says, trying to pitch his voice into more lighthearted.
“You’re hot,” Punz comments with a frown, ignoring him.
Dream grins, a crooked bandaid over his fading anxiety. “Oh, I know.”
“You’re so dumb,” Punz shakes his head, smiling as he sits back and reaches for the bedside table. Dream whines at the loss, sinking into the cool, Punz-less pillow. “You know I meant it in the temperature way. You’re burning up.”
“But you mean it in the non-temperature way too, right?” Dream presses, peering up at Punz as he leans back over, holding a wet towel.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and Dream does, immediate and trusting. Under his eyelids, the world is black and orange and splotchy. It’s almost claustrophobic, and he kind of wants to itch his eyeballs at the feeling, but then Punz’s fingers are back at his temples and a cool cloth is being draped over his forehead and eyes, heavy and dark and calming.
“You mean it in the non-temperature way too, right?” Dream asks again. Even with the soothing chill of the towel, the question still itches inside his brain. He has to check. He has to know.
“Yes,” Punz replies quietly, sincere. His fingers are back in Dream’s hair, carding through the sweaty strands just how he knows Dream likes, and Dream thinks his skull has dissolved into sand. “You’re pretty.”
“I think you’re pretty too,” Dream replies. He feels startlingly calm, soul settling after the heavy rush of panic, mind cooling down underneath the towel. Being blind like this has made him brave, when he can’t see how the shape of his mouth makes Punz’s face crease into a painfully fond smile. “Can you hold me again?”
“Sure.”
“Sure,” Dream imitates playfully. He tilts back into Punz’s chest so that his shoulders curl into Punz’s collarbone, shrugging off the damp towel in the process. He keeps his eyes closed and sighs contentedly. “I could stay here all day.”
“What do you think this is, a weekend?” Punz replies, amused, and god, Dream wishes he could live in the soft rumble of his laugh. “We can cuddle for five more minutes, tops,” he jokes.
“Better make the most of it, then,” Dream says, lips curling into a smile as he tugs Punz’s arm over his waist, guiding his hand to the hem of his shirt. He plays with Punz’s fingers, twining them together and inching their hands just under the fabric so that Punz’s palm is pressed against his bare hip, and waits, hopeful.
“Dream—” Punz’s fingers scrabble against his skin. His voice is cautious, and the butterfly-bright heartbeat in Dream’s chest crumples like a wet napkin.
“What?”
Punz is unbelievably gentle as he slides his hand back and smoothes the fabric down. “I don’t want to take advantage of you while you’re still healing.”
“I’m probably going to be healing for a long time,” Dream whispers, because he knows himself, and the wounds in his soul were sown with salt and suffering. He feels small as shrinks further into Punz’s arms, and his heart aches, cataclysmic. “I want you there with me, Punz. I want you everywhere.”
“I just don’t want to go too fast,” Punz murmurs. His mouth brushes the back of Dream’s neck. “I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I know,” Dream breathes. He swallows, and it sounds so loud in the small, dark room. “But I want this. I—I haven’t had anyone touch me in, like, a good way, in a long time.”
Punz makes a pained sound in response, and Dream can’t help flipping around and settling against his chest to look at him properly; light stubble, pink lips, downturned, strong eyebrows dented with concern. Pretty.
“Don’t you—” he tries haltingly, throat constricting around the sentence. I miss you. God, I missed you so much. I miss us more than anything. “Are we still—?”
“Yes,” Punz answers roughly, arms tightening around his waist, and his eyes are piercing, pinning Dream in place with a careful sort of longing. “Yes, Dream, are you sure?”
“Please kiss me,” he begs simply.
He’s gone as soon as he feels Punz’s soft exhales against his chin, a surge of need rushing down his spine. His eyes slip closed automatically, and it’s all so familiar, the way Punz cups his hand under Dream’s jaw and holds him by the dip of his waist. His heart-rate leaps like a smooth stone skipping across an endless lake, and he feels utterly weightless under Punz’s hands.
Fresh air is nothing compared to freedom that tastes like this.
His fingers crawl up Punz’s back and settle between his shoulder-blades, leaning up into the kiss, drinking him in; apple and smoke and laundry. But despite their needy hands, the kiss remains soft, derived and spun out of tenderness.
It’s their first kiss in almost a year, and it feels as new as it does familiar; open mouths sharing silent promises, silent sins—loud in their gentleness with each other.
It’s just enough to make Dream breathless when they draw apart, staring into Punz’s eyes like a man obsessed. Punz gazes back at him, a smile growing over his like a slow sunrise, and Dream doesn’t know how he’s supposed to breathe with someone looking at him like that.
“I missed you,” Punz admits. He tucks a piece of hair behind Dream’s ear, and Dream’s heart sings. “Was that okay?”
“Do it again,” Dream asks, voice cracking, a little too choked up with affection, with love. “Please.”
“As many times as you want,” Punz replies, swooping in to peck his lips, his nose, his cheeks. He peppers Dream’s entire face with kisses, not stopping until a strawberry blush blooms under Dream’s skin. “As much as you need, darling.”
Dream melts, tucking his face into the hollow of Punz’s shoulder and finding a home in the warmth of his neck. He plants a quick kiss to the underside of Punz’s jaw, comforted by the soft hum he can feel all the way through his throat.
“Just need you,” he murmurs, reaching for Punz’s hand. He finds it combing through his hair again and grabs it, linking their fingers, wrists pressed together so that Punz can feel his heartbeat, steady and unwavering.
“Yeah?”
He leaves a kiss on Punz’s knuckles and smiles at him, eyes soft in the low light. His tongue is slack with affection, and in a moment of absolute truth, he feels his heart start to heal as he looks up at the one person he loves to the ends of the earth. “I wouldn’t be happier with anyone else.”