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Punz wakes slowly.
He blinks against a tide of sleep, shivering slightly as he becomes aware of the cold invading his space, a crude line of goosebumps splintering his back. The room is still dark, barely touched by the early morning light; Punz estimates it’s about five am by the fingertips of color creeping under the door, orange and caramel-brown against the wooden floor.
His head is fuzzy around the edges, and he scrubs a hand through his hair roughly. His bones pop when he stretches his arms above his head. Everything is calm, a blanket of quiet that leaves Punz strangely disoriented, helpless.
He inhales purposefully, grounding himself, trying to piece together what woke him up so early, why his chest is as heavy as the void, why the sleep crust in the corners of his eyes feels so much thicker than usual. Something tingles under his skin, mind sizzling on a hot pan of memory, hands in his hair, lips on his cheek, love in his throat—,
Dream.
His brain sharpens at the same time as his eyes, zeroing in on the figure curled up in the corner of the bedroom. On the floor. On the floor? Punz’s brain vibrates uneasily.
Why is Dream on the floor? Did he sleep there all night? Did he think Punz would kick him out of bed, or did he just not want to sleep in the same bed? Isn’t it uncomfortable, and cold, and hard?
Punz bites his lip, eyebrows creased. For all that he tries not to hover, he worries about Dream, constantly. They’re both aware of the way Punz observes his food intake, the tremors in his hands, the hunched skittishness in his walk. Neither of them have said anything about it yet, but Punz knows it’s inevitable.
The prison is not a conversation they can avoid forever.
And yeah, he knows Dream can take care of himself; he’s a capable fighter and a quick thinker, but that doesn’t mean Punz is just going to stop caring. That’s his partner — that’s his Dream — currently scrunched in on himself, hugging the hardwood floor.
“Hey,” Punz starts gently, sliding out of bed. He pads across the room, crouching beside Dream’s back, not touching yet. “Dream? You awake?”
“Yeah,” Dream’s voice is quiet and scratchy, but still Punz startles, not expecting a response.
“Well good morning, sleepyhead,” he replies, trying to put a smile into his voice. He watches the messy wave of Dream’s hair, curling at the ends, his neck soft and exposed.
“Hi,” Dream whispers, slowly turning over to look up at him. Even in the pre-dawn light, with red eyes and tangled hair, he’s the prettiest thing Punz has ever seen.
“Is touch okay? Can I hug you?”
“Mhm.”
Punz reaches forward, and Dream reaches back, palms open and trusting. They’re pressed together gracelessly, legs crumpled on the floor as they hold each other in an awkward half-embrace. Punz’s knee digs into the floor, Dream’s left arm crushed to his chest, but the world is soft and kind with the murmurs of the morning and Punz wouldn’t let go for anything.
“Why’re we on the floor, huh?” Punz asks softly, leaning back and tilting Dream’s chin up to scan the familiar planes of his face. “Is there something wrong with the bed? Were you too warm with all the covers?”
Dream looks embarrassed, not meeting Punz’s eyes as he plays with the hem of his shirt. Punz waits, patient as he scratches circles at Dream’s nape, playing with the soft hair there in the way he knows that Dream likes.
It scared him a little bit, finding Dream crumpled on the floor. All he wants is for Dream is feel comfortable and safe, to let his shaking fingertips grow soft and un-calloused and his pale skin to grow sunny and warm.
It’ll take time, Punz knows. Maybe they can start with the bed, and the floor, and fixing the thumbprint eye-bags on Dream’s pretty face.
“Dream?”
“I was—” Dream exhales sharply, cutting himself off. “Okay, it’s kind of stupid, but the bed just felt too—soft. I shouldn’t— I’m not used to that.” he admits simply.
“Too soft?” Punz asks dumbly, and he has the sudden thought that he’s not at all qualified for this. “Did they give you a really lumpy bed or something?”
“They didn’t give me a bed at all,” Dream whispers.
The bedroom suddenly feels darker, the harsh shadows purple like obsidian and Punz wants to throw up. “What did you—”
“I slept on the floor, mostly,” Dream shrugs, but his voice is wavering slightly. Punz’s heart beats in his throat, angry, and he squeezes Dream’s hand tightly, I’m going to kill them I love you I hate that you were hurting *are hurting fuck. Fuck. “There wasn’t— I wasn’t able to fall asleep on an actual mattress, so I slept down here.”
Punz makes a noise, he thinks, an expression of pain, anger, bitterness. It’s not helpful; he’s not supposed to be the one breaking down when Dream’s hands are still trembling in his shirt, but he feels blind with hate, heartbroken with despair.
Obsidian bites at your skin, tears at your hair, unforgiving and immoveable, and crying obsidian is almost worse — the glow, the blood, the tears that burn if you touch them the wrong way — and all he can think about is Dream shivering on the prison floor, falling asleep on a bed of nails for months and months.
Punz knows that’s not the worst of Pandora’s box. There are bandages that Dream doesn’t let him change, objects that he refuses to touch— but somehow the little things feel just as inhumane. No bed. No safe, soft texture, no place to rest, no way to mentally reset.
Punz’s throat burns, bubbling with anger, as if he had drunk a soda too fast. “Dream—”
“Sorry,” Dream gasps, and Punz blinks back to reality, “I didn’t mean to abandon you during the night or make you feel bad or anything, I just wanted to sleep and- and I wanted to be close to you but the bed was too soft and—”
“It’s okay,” Punz jumps in, placating. Dream is getting too worked up, breaths coming shallow and nervous. “I’m not mad at you.”
“Yeah, but it’s weird, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I- why can’t I sleep in a stupid bed with my- with you?”
“Hey,” Punz interjects, carefully grabbing Dream’s wrists. His fingernails are digging into his forearms, leaving sharp red crescents when Punz pulls his hands away. “Let’s not do that, okay?”
“Sorry,” Dream whispers, flexing his fingers in Punz’s hands. “I’m trying.”
“I don’t care where you sleep,” Punz says, folding his fingers over Dream’s knuckles and pressing a kiss to the back of each palm. Dream twitches with every touch, eyes suspiciously shiny. “You can be wherever you want, though I will say that the bed is a pretty nice option— But we can work on that if you want, okay? You will always have a place here, in our house, in our bed, wherever. You never have to earn that, or worry about it being taken away.”
“Okay,” Dream replies, clenching and unclenching his jaw. He takes a shaky breath, letting his shoulders loosen. He looks much smaller this way, shrinking into the grey darkness like a penitent cat. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Punz echoes, giving him a weak smile. There’s not much he can do right now besides just being here, holding Dream’s hand and speaking quiet and soft. This is going to be one of the hard days, he thinks.
He drums his fingers on Dream’s knee affectionately. “Do you want something to eat?”
Dream hesitates. “M’not really hungry.”
“Can I make you breakfast?” Punz asks gently.
He’s found that sometimes it’s easier for Dream when to say yes to yes-or-no questions. Things like want and need can be rephrased into something less daunting, more digestible, where all Dream has to do is accept Punz’s offer. Even when Dream goes quiet, Punz can give him agency over his own decisions: When Dream toys with the edges of Punz’s hoodie, Punz asks if he wants to wear it; When Dream looks wistfully out the window, Punz brings him a freshly-picked flower; When Dream kisses Punz’s clothed shoulder, Punz turns and smiles and says I love you, I love you.
“Okay,” Dream murmurs this time, and Punz counts it as a win. Breakfast.
“I can toast some bread, do you think you can handle that?”
“Yeah,” Dream nods. “Can I have jam too?”
“Of course,” Punz answers, unfolding his legs and stretching briefly. “Raspberry, right?”
“Yeah,” Dream responds softly, and it’s so domestic, knowing the little details of each other’s habits, waking up and eating together in their shared home. It’s a broken kind of normal, a little less of the head-over-heels honeymoon-phase brightness, and a little more of the trembling-legs post-prison vulnerability.
Punz treasures it all the same.
He pulls Dream to his feet, letting their hands hang connected as Dream finds his footing. It’s nice, to be able to just reach out and touch him, and Punz keeps their fingers intertwined as he opens the door and leads Dream into the dining room.
“How are your arms?” Punz murmurs.
“Fine,” Dream shrugs, eyes flitting down to the marks on his forearms. He bruises easily, still pale from the prison, skin stretched thin over bone. “Didn’t really hurt. I’ve had worse.”
“You deserve better,” Punz says quietly.
“I guess.”
“You don’t have to pretend to be strong in front of me,” Punz chides him, mouth crooked in a wry smile. “I know all of your ticklish spots.”
“Do you?”
“Mhm,” Punz murmurs, guiding Dream over to a kitchen chair. He puts his hand on Dream’s waist lightly, “You’re ticklish here,” he breathes, fingers crawling up to Dream’s stomach, “and here,” he continues, tucking his face into Dream’s neck and mouthing over the warm skin, “and especially here.”
Dream shivers in his arms, clearly affected, and Punz smiles. He steps back out of Dream’s personal space, and is rewarded by the soft blush decorating Dream’s cheeks. God, even with the heavy healing running through his bones, it feels so good to have Dream so close again; his hair is stuck up on one side, curling over his forehead, eyes kaleidoscoping between yellow and green in the morning light.
“You’re also ticklish on the bottoms of your feet, but I’m not really into that shit.”
“Punz,” Dream gapes at him. “Okay. Okay, for the record, I don’t want you kissing my feet either, that’s disgusting.”
“Well I just had to check, I don’t know,” Punz shrugs casually. Dream makes a face at him, and Punz’s heart sings.
“I’m going to put the toast in and grab some bandages for your arm, okay?”
Dream gives him a small, tense nod, and Punz starts the toaster and quickly slips into the hallways, rummaging around for supplies. He doesn’t need much, the injury isn’t that bad, but he’s determined to care for every wound and blemish on Dream’s body, no matter now small. It’s the least he can do, after everything.
He comes back to Dream picking his nails, fingers twitching anxiously, and he knows they’re not done here — not even close.
“Hey,” he says lightly, sitting down next to Dream, preparing a wipe for the dried blood on his arm. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” Dream answers quickly. His eyes are hooded. Punz doesn’t push.
“Well,” he says, trying to bridge the space between them, “I was thinking about you.”
“Me?” Dream huffs. “Were you thinking about how I’m stupid and useless and disgusting and- and weak?”
He spits the words out like they hurt him, cringing into himself with every syllable, and Punz aches, too, each one of Dream’s throwaway comments opening up a new chasm in his chest. He says nothing, Dream’s words settling around them like a wallowing ghost, and instead reaches for Dream’s elbow, steadying his trembling arms as he cleans the blood off of the marks from Dream’s own fingernails. Dream lets him, almost leaning into the touch, eyes squeezed shut and breathing carefully.
“You’re not any of those things,” Punz says quietly. “You’re brave and strong and so, so beautiful. I was just thinking about how lucky I am to have you.”
“You’re… an idiot,” Dream replies slowly, almost inaudible.
“You’re the idiot,” Punz shoots back, too fond to be misconstrued as anything else. “You just don’t know how to take a compliment.”
“Thank you,” Dream answers, soft and sincere as Punz presses a bandaid over the angry marks on his arm. “I- I can’t, I really appreciate— I missed you a lot, in there.”
In there.
“Me too,” Punz swallows. “You’re out now, though, with me. You’re safe.”
There’s a pregnant pause as Dream chews on the inside of his lip, hands clenching and unclenching nervously. It looks like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, brow set with a stubborn kind of fear that makes Punz want to gather him in his arms and never let go.
“If you ever want to talk, about anything, I’m h—”
Suddenly, it’s loud—ringing, piercing, unexpected noise. Dream startles violently, chair scraping as he jolts backwards, eyes wild.
“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Punz hurries to soothe, heart in his throat. “It’s just the toaster, see? The toast is done, that’s all, there’s nothing wrong!”
Dream breathes shakily, in, out, in, out. “Yeah.”
The toaster stops beeping as abruptly as it had started, leaving them in a fragile silence.
“Yeah? You okay?”
“It just— the prison alarms—”
Punz sighs, rubbing a hand over Dream’s knee. Everything is different now; things that used to be safe and familiar are now foreign and mangled by the prison. They both have to keep relearning how to live around that. “I know, Dream, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” he mumbles, and Punz smiles sadly.
“Do you still want breakfast?”
Dream is quiet for a minute, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. His eyes drift across the room, searching absently for an answer.
“It’s sunrise,” he remarks softly.
“It is,” Punz confirms, trying to read between the lines on his face. He watches as Dream’s gaze glances hopefully across the sunlight filtering in through the kitchen window. “Do you— do you want to sit outside on the steps and eat while we watch it?”
Dream nods, and that’s— that’s something.
Punz pulls him up from the chair, routing him gently towards the door as he hurries to grab a knife and jam for the toast. There a strange kind of normalcy to this; the early morning excitement of bustling around the kitchen, eager to spend time with Dream. “I’ll join you in a second, just let me get our breakfast ready.”
“Um,” Dream’s voice is a whisper, paper-thin and imploring. “Can I wait and stay with you?”
And Punz melts, forever weak for Dream’s shy requests and the subdued way his eyes skitter around the floor by Punz’s feet. Moments like these, when Dream looks so small and plaintive, he wonders how anyone could ever see Dream as the big bad evil of the server, but then again, he knows — Dream is only ever like this with him.
“Yeah, of course,” he answers, chest bubbling with fierce love.
He opens the raspberry jam with a satisfying pop, spreading it evenly over the toast, and cuts the crust away before Dream can say anything. Putting it on a plate, he turns to find Dream hovering by his shoulder, watching silently.
Punz smiles on reflex, wobbly, his chest tight.
There’s something inexplicable in the way they look at each other. Punz traces the crooked spine of Dream’s nose, bittersweet honeydew sticking in the back of his throat. It almost hurts to breathe, when the world stops like this and the only thing he knows is the bittersweet burn of love and grief.
Dream looks back at him, head tilted to the side like a drooping flower. His eyes have the same forlorn understanding that Punz feels deep in his bones, seeping through his veins like molten glass; he doesn’t think he could do this with anyone else.
He isn’t surprised when Dream grabs his wrist in a soundless question, and he isn’t surprised when Dream leans forward and connects their lips, chaste and comforting. It means more than Punz can say, and he kisses back, desperate to taste the perpetual thrum of anxiety under Dream’s tongue and know I am not alone in this.
“I’m allowed to do that again now, right?” Dream asks when they pull apart, the corners of his mouth upturned slightly.
“Anytime,” Punz replies, voice oddly rough, the warmth of Dream’s kiss still lingering in his mouth, tangy with fear, sweet with hope. He smiles back anyway, picking up the plate with their toast and nodding his head towards the door.
Dream follows him outside, sticking close, almost stepping on his toes. Punz doesn’t mind. They have plenty of distance to make up for.
“Toast?” Punz offers.
Dream takes one and sits down, perching on the steps, his shoulders curved inward as he nibbles at his toast. Punz sighs gently as he sits beside him, pressing their sides together and winding a long arm over Dream’s back.
The sun is a perfect orange disk, hovering over the horizon in a shimmery haze. It’s not quite dawn anymore, but not yet morning; everything feels suspended in a stasis of amber-colored glass. Even the temperature is an indecisive mix of shadow and sun, the lingering coolness of the night prickling the hair on Punz’s arms as golden light glances off the wooden steps, slowly creeping towards them.
It’s in these in-between times that Punz feels the most uncertain, when each moment blinks by in an instant, too fluid to hold onto or make sense of. Somehow, there’s a certain amount of safety in that, where conversations are shrouded by the blur of the spin of the earth and hazy angle of the morning light. Every second is unreal, like he’s breathing in gold instead of air.
He purses his lips, looking over at his partner. Dream’s face is open, but blank, looking without seeing, eyes glassy and shuttered. His apathy feels out of place against the beautiful green hills, the rising sun, trees casting slender swathes of shade, dew clinging to the grass.
“You seem… pensive,” Punz tries, carefully breaking the quiet.
“Big word.” Dream nibbles on his toast, seemingly nonchalant, but he doesn’t move a muscle from where he’s tucked under Punz’s arm.
Punz scoffs. “It’s not that big, it’s only like seven letters.”
Dream shrugs, noncommittal.
“What’s wrong?” Punz tries gently, stroking tiny circles over Dream’s shoulder. “It’s just me.”
“I’m nervous,” Dream admits softly, wringing his wrists in his lap. “I- I want to tell you… something, but I don’t know how.”
So this is it.
The prison, Pandora’s box, the unspoken thing that makes Dream’s hands shake and his eyes wet. This is that conversation, right now.
Punz nods. “Take your time.”
“I’m not going to panic or pass out again,” he assures Punz. “Probably.”
“Dream—”
“I need to tell you. I think… for the things I have planned for us, you need to know what happened. It’s the only way you’ll understand,” Dream exhales sharply. “And… I owe it to you, for- for everything.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Punz murmurs.
“But we’re partners,” Dream starts, “We’re supposed to share information, share resources— I’m supposed to pay you—”
“It was never about the money,” Punz interrupts, pulling Dream closer to him almost instinctively. He finds Dream’s free hand, linking their fingers messily and holding tight. “Are you sure you’re okay to talk about this? You don’t have to, now or ever, I would never force you to.”
“I’m okay,” Dream smiles crookedly, and Punz’s world stops for a second. “I mean, you’re right here.”
“God,” he breathes, “I fucking love you.”
And I will love you forever, and I will love all the broken parts of you with everything I have; And it’s not healthy, and it’s not a solution for all the pain you’ve endured - but if it’s me and you, maybe it’s enough.
Dream squeezes his hand three times, and a fourth for courage. Punz is already proud of him.
“Tell me,” Punz says simply.
Dream shrugs, and Punz can already feel him trying to minimize his story, his emotions, shrinking back into Punz’s chest. His fingers, bound together with medical tape, twitch nervously, and Punz holds his breath as he waits.
“I guess… the best way to describe it is, like, I don’t even know,” Dream exhales heavily. “It feels weird to explain, now that I’m out, but it — It ruined me.”
“How?” Punz asks, anxious. He presses his lips to Dream’s temple. He suspects they’ll both need it, that contact, that comfort, if they’re going to get through this conversation. “What happened in there?”
“Just, like, Quackity would come visit me, right? He would- the Warden would let him in, and he would come, everyday. And I didn’t like it.” Dream’s voice is very small. “I didn’t like it at all.”
Punz closes his eyes, the dots suddenly connected in bloody scarlet. His throat bobs with terrible grief, heart withering like an apple core, twisting in on itself in a sickly-sweet death.
“Dream,” he starts, wavering. “Did Quackity torture you?”
The man in his arms chokes on a bitter laugh, gazing stubbornly into the sunrise. Punz turns his face into Dream’s hair, and leaves a kiss there, and another, and another — soft and helpless.
“Yeah,” Dream replies, voice trembling, “I guess you could call it that.”
Punz hesitates, words thin as he feels Dream’s body shaking minutely against his own. “I thought no one was allowed to bring any items into the cell.”
Dream swallows. “I don’t know when S—the Warden stopped caring about the rules, but Quackity would- He came, everyday, for at least a month, and… talked to me. It was always kind of a one-way conversation, though.”
Punz clenches his teeth. He knows that Dream’s not telling him everything, dancing around the painful truth. “He did more than talk. He hurt you."
“What do you want me to say?” Dream whispers, and it sounds like heartbreak. “Yeah, he fucking hurt me. Axe, sword, shears, potions, flint and steel—fuck, he even beat me unconscious with my own food.”
“Dream,” and that’s all he can manage to say; that’s the only word he can hold onto in the face of this scarlet-rimmed, obsidian nightmare.
“He was creative, I’ll give him that,” Dream continues shakily, but it’s all pouring out of him now like a dam collapsing in on itself; he needs this. Punz tightens his grip on Dream’s hand, aching. “I never knew what to expect. Sometimes, when I hadn’t had food in a couple days, he would give me weakness pots to try and get me to give him information when I… wasn’t really there. Or he would burn his cigarettes onto my arms, or carve into my skin like a canvas, o-or chase me around the cell with a fire-aspect sword while I burned and bled.”
“He never killed me though. He came close, so many times, but whenever I was about to die, he would heal me with splash pots, or give me food, actual food, like steak. And I hated him for that,” Dream’s voice cracks, quiet and remorseful. “I-I wanted to die, sometimes, just to be able to, but I couldn’t. He wouldn’t let me. And I hated him more, because the food tasted so good, Punz, it felt so good—and I felt so bad about wanting more, wanting him to come back just so I could have that little bit of a reprieve.”
Dream sniffs quietly, wiping a hand over his face. Punz can see the remnants of tears on his cheeks, lit up by the shining sun, and his chest burns sharply; so much anger - so much more sadness.
“No part of that was your fault,” he says to Dream quickly, emotion making his voice tight. Guilt builds up in his throat, the aftertaste of bitter fury. “Quackity had no right to hurt you like that, fuck, the prison was supposed to be safe, you were supposed to be safe, Dream— I’m so sorry.”
Dream simply shrugs, looking down at his lap.
“You don’t feel like that anymore, right? You don’t want to…”
“No,” Dream mutters, biting his lip anxiously. “I’m just- I’m frustrated that I let him affect me so much. I didn’t want to give him anything.”
“What did he want?” Punz asks, incredulous, scathing. “Why did he do all of that to you? You were in prison, what could he possibly gain?”
“The revival book,” Dream says quietly, and despite the morning sunshine, a chill runs down Punz’s back. “He wanted the revival book.”
Punz sits back in shock. “All that,” the scars, the panic attacks, the gaps between Dream’s ribs, “all that just for the revival book?”
“Yeah,” Dream pauses.. He lets out a croaky, broken laugh, “And he didn’t even get it in the end. What a loser.”
Punz stares at him, watching as Dream’s shoulders shake, and he feels slightly sick, bile in the back of his throat when he thinks about Dream, wide-eyed and bleeding under Quackity’s blade. We make quite a pair, Punz thinks, waiting sadly as he gazes at his partner, whose chest is still heaving with anxious humor.
He waits - and when Dream’s scratchy laughter turns into a quiet sob, Punz is right there, arms open wide.
It’s all out there now - All of the insecurities and fears Dream has been hiding under his bandages bleed anew, wounds stitched by denial and disassociation coming undone in a heap of stitches. Punz rubs Dream’s back soothingly, brows furrowed as Dream burrows into his chest, trying not to shake apart.
He wonders if this is what healing looks like.
There will be a time, maybe tomorrow, maybe weeks later, when he will be absolutely furious with the world for allowing Dream to hurt so much, for so long — but not today. He doesn’t have the energy to be angry; he feels completely drained, his heart flipped inside-out in grief. He can’t afford to be mad right now, not when Dream needs him so badly, clinging to his sleeve as he wet Punz’s shirt with tears.
They sit there for a long time, long enough that the orange dawn turns into proper day and the morning dew melts into the soil. Dream’s breathing calms down, and he settles into Punz’s lap, face tucked into the cavity of his collarbone.
“Hey baby,” Punz prompts gently, because he can’t help but be soft when Dream is curled into him like this.
“Hi,” Dream murmurs against his skin, not moving.
“You okay? Okay-ish?”
“Mm,” he hums, exhausted, and Punz’s heart twinges. He scratches Dream’s hair, carding a hand through the copper tufts, comforting.
“You’re a remarkably strong person, you know,” Punz says, voice foggy with melancholic affection as he watches the sun warm Dream’s faded freckles. “You didn’t deserve anything that happened to you in that godawful place. I hate that they did that to you, and I hate that I can’t take that pain away. All I can do is hold you, and make you breakfast, and give you a safe place to sleep.”
Dream picks his head up, tilting his chin up so he can see Punz’s face. “Can you kiss me too?” he asks softly.
“Idiot,” Punz breathes, immediately cupping Dream’s jaw. He watches Dream’s eyes slip closed, red-rimmed lashes still dark and beautiful against his pale skin; He’s completely vulnerable, completely trusting as he offers himself, blind, for Punz’s love.
Punz brushes their foreheads together, lips tingling. “Thank you for telling me.”
Dream swallows the words with a kiss, surging up to connect them wholly and entirely. Punz keeps a hand under his jaw, tangled in his hair, kissing back with everything he has, his heart pounding in his ears. He wants to be breathless, he wants to be flustered, he wants to be Dream’s.
There’s something about kissing in the fresh, open air that feels like freedom — and then there’s something about kissing Dream that feels like revolution.
We could be gods, Punz thinks, as Dream whines into his mouth, their hands tangled together.
They break apart to breathe, drinking heavily from the atmosphere, eyes never leaving each other. Punz doesn’t think they’ve separated all morning; there’s barely been a moment that Dream wasn’t at his side.
“I’m tired,” Dream tells him, fingers tapping absently in Punz’s palm. It doesn’t take much for Punz to read between the lines.
Thank you. Thank you for listening. I love you.
He smiles. “Do you want to go back to bed? We got up pretty early.”
Dream nods. “Carry me?” he asks hopefully.
Punz rolls his eyes, and this—this is familiar. Even if Dream’s limbs weren’t shaky from the last couple months, Punz would still pick him up and bring him anywhere he wanted to go. He is a weak, weak man when it comes to Dream.
Dream is lighter than before, but he’s still a comforting weight against Punz’s back as he lays his head between Punz’s shoulder-blades and presses his lips to his neck. Punz shakes his head with a rush of fondness, carrying him five steps inside and ten steps to their bed.
It’s easy, so easy, to lay beside him again, and Punz sighs as he tucks the memory of Dream’s smile close to his heart, all of his uneasy anxiety dissipating as he watches the steady rise and fall of Dream’s chest.
Tomorrow could be better, could be worse, but right now, nothing exists but Punz and Dream, safety and sweetness.
Punz falls asleep with the taste of raspberry toast under his tongue.