Chapter Text
Hood raised to shade his eyes, Punz stares at the massive, ominous dark shape of Pandora’s Vault, shoulder pressed against a tree and one arm held tight across his chest to dig fingers into his hoodie sleeve. His armor rests in his inventory and his sword leans onto his hip, tip stuck into the ground by his boots, the weight of both too claustrophobic to endure any longer. To any outside observer who may be looking his way, he looks calm, collected, bored, even; the businesslike ambivalence that his mercenary persona is crafted to project a clear warning against unwanted company. Beneath his placid expression there is a broiling anger in his gut as his mind’s eye can’t help but replay the sight of Dream being hauled off to prison by Sapnap and Sam, getting smaller and smaller as he slipped out of Punz’s reach.
Covered in dirt and dust and blood. Clothes torn with bruises and scraped red injuries blooming on exposed skin. Defeated and surrendered without weapons, without armor.
Twice dead. Executed. Allowed to live only because he was forced to reveal the existence of the revive book as a desperate bargain, the sneering crowd too enamored by the thought of killing him one final time to complete the set to even consider the gigantic prison that so conveniently was built by one of their own.
Live, he thinks, bitter to the core of him as he contemplates the fortress across the water. A feat of ingenuity on Sam’s part built over weeks and weeks of dedicated work. A blight on the landscape, a devouring black hole.
As if any time spent inside that wretched place could be called living.
And now Dream has been manhandled off in chains like some kind of feral beast to be locked away inside it without trial, without a sentence, without a plan in mind that doesn’t sound like shades of forever and until he dies. His remaining life placed in once-trusted hands already stained with his blood. Sapnap and Sam did not kill Dream themselves but they stood by in silence while it happened nonetheless, perfectly content to let Tommy’s vengeance take center stage.
After all, as far as everyone seems concerned, the only person whose wants and needs matter is Tommy. And Dream’s deaths would make Tommy happy, so obviously stepping aside to support Tommy’s comfort, Tommy’s peace, Tommy’s happiness is the right thing to do.
Who cares if that right thing to do is a triple execution on an unarmed and surrendered opponent outnumbered twelve to one?
It’s Tommy’s right to decide who lives and who dies.
Dream’s friends certainly aren’t going to contradict that, bent to the whims of someone who’s contributed to rewriting their own understanding of who Dream is. Wilbur may be responsible for the lion’s share—and his shadow persists, a lingering malaise—but now Tommy carries Wilbur’s legacy as a rallying banner in human form. And people are so eager to hitch their wagons to causes with Tommy at their head.
Why bother asserting their own forms of justice and independence when there’s a heroic cause to join right here? Certainly Tommy could never lead them astray.
A child to follow as readily as they once followed Wilbur; a continuation of that self-same and self-important L’manberg propaganda, where roles are already clearly defined for every person on the stage. Clean and simple for lazy hangers-on, merely Tommy’s soldiers and Tommy’s supporters in spite of claims to the contrary, their previous history with Dream—and even, their previous history with Tommy—spurned in favor of the easy answers to curiosity they don’t dare seek to sate with intent to listen.
Old friends, supposedly, who watched Dream die not once but twice at a teenager’s hands today. Nearly thrice, even, with nary a word in protest. Spineless to the last.
No questions asked, no attempt to understand.
Just highhanded justice that looks a lot like the shadow of L’manberg, of Manberg, of New L’manberg, and their love affairs with executions masquerading as festivals, half the server gathered for this nauseating spectacle.
Heroes valiantly banding together despite their differences to slay their terrible villain.
Nevermind that a good number of them had no reason to care about Dream, neither personal nor out of the goodness of their hearts, no genuine justification at hand to join the crusade. Nevermind that a couple had their sights set on Tommy until the attachment vault spiel distracted them, ire diverted to a new target the moment their personal items—and one Skeppy—were vaguely threatened. Nevermind the complex web of relationships built on endured hurts and caused hurts and the interpersonal drama therein, none of them free of their own sins as they nonetheless used Dream’s actions to position themselves as underdogs toppling a tyrant for the good of all. Such a righteous hunting party they are, the resurrected Butcher Army finally come to make Dream’s death a reality after the Green Festival failed.
Nevermind that the day’s main event is one-tenths concern over Tommy’s life—Tubbo, too, but mostly Tommy, as everything must be—and nine-tenths borne of a poisonous hatred aimed at Dream and only Dream.
How noble it is to be brought under the same metaphorical flag, its blood-soaked fabric labeled murder. How noble it is to attribute all the server’s ills to one person and believe that the price of ‘peace’ lies in erasing him from existence.
What is meting out death as justice but this server’s modus operandi and its highest possible form of glory?
(go forth, young hero, and destroy, steal, kill to your heart’s content! you are a savior and a saint and the nexus around which the world turns and you alone have the right)
Everyone who came and bore arms against Dream, whether for themselves or for Tommy, is a shortsighted, sanctimonious idiot fatally allergic to self-reflection. One day they’ll be forced to know their sins and be unable to look away, unable to blame others for their own thoughts and choices but today is, unfortunately, not that day.
Accessories one and all now parading around in cocksure celebratory pleasure as if they have any semblance of moral high ground with their vicious cruelties and the assertion that the root of all evil has been thoroughly dethroned.
Fools, one and all, to pretend that their troubles are forever over now that Dream is locked away. Out of sight and out of mind, the server’s supposed horrors under the ‘oppressive tyranny’ wrought by Dream’s nebulous ‘power’ brought to heel and left in the past as this chapter of everyone’s lives has so decisively closed.
Back cover shut, villain defeated, heroes victorious, a rewarding ride off into the sunset embarked upon.
A nice, neat happy ending. Saccharine and sweet. Cue the upswell of hopeful music as it fades to black and the story ends.
It makes Punz feel simultaneously sick and homicidal, a banked fire in his chest threatening to roar to life and burn everything to ash. The only reason Sapnap hadn’t died on his sword in a convenient heat-of-the-moment accident—
(how dare someone who was Dream’s best friend, his brother, who’s been so utterly, willfully blind turn to him and express confusion when Punz refused to participate in carting Dream off to that terrible obsidian blight?
On principle, to keep his work options open and reduce the number of burnt bridges, Punz doesn’t hate many people. Dislike, sure. Hate? Very few manage to reach that point in his esteem. He may not tend to hate but he finds himself loathing Sapnap. How could he not when he’s watched that friendship die and witnessed both Sapnap’s vitriol and Dream’s pained longing?
A cold comfort it may be, considering the presence of other once-friends who’d also shown up, yet George at least wasn’t here to play judge, jury, and executioner. There’s an aching dislike that sprouts between his ribs when Punz thinks about George, who’s essentially dropped off the map, but at least Dream was spared a little mercy from that direction. An absentee old friend is more forgivable than one who damn near led the charge to end Dream’s life, all righteous anger and violence and terrible silence…yes, Punz may feel less than charitable toward George, but he does indeed hate Sapnap)
—is thanks to Ranboo’s will-timed intervention. Sure, it would’ve jeopardized the plan if he just up and killed Sapnap but it was so tempting. His palms had itched, muscles taut and fingers tight around his sword hilt as he breathed through the red haze that briefly consumed his vision. As it was, he drew upon all his experience as a blank-faced mercenary to stare, emotionless, at the hypocritical asshole without speaking a single word. Cataloged each and every one of Sapnap’s weak points while Sapnap tried to pressure him to help, hidden contempt simmering beneath his skin at the thorough decrying of and hunting down of Dream.
(best friends, once, supposedly; brothers, once, supposedly; and yet there is supportive silence for dream’s murderer as dream’s blood spills onto the floor over and over, as dream is slain in execution, weaponless, armorless, helpless, as sapnap does not protest and does not ask)
(punz was silent too, horrified and sick behind his facade of unconcern; to speak up would be to potentially be placed on the chopping block next, sympathy for the devil forbidden as the heroes of the hour began their victory lap; he knows very intimately why he was silent…sapnap, though…)
At the ridiculous idea that they were suddenly buddy-buddy brothers-in-arms when he’d been incredibly clear that his presence and his aid was based on money, not altruism. For fuck’s sake he mentioned payment in his whole traitor reveal schtick! Planted it right front and center as his motivation to swap sides, even. He’d vaguely made sympathetic noises to the server’s current crisis—the better to sell his betrayal to any heart-led skeptics—but that hadn’t lessened his professionalism an inch, nor had it overwritten his projected lack of interest in the petty vendettas on display.
He was working with Dream, then he was paid. After he had payment in hand, he wasn’t working with Dream. It’s very simple and clearcut, he feels. Punz certainly wasn’t looking to bond with anyone there. Keep some inroads open for later, maybe, but seeking anything more than that from him smacks of delusions of grandeur over how true loyalty is earned.
And also presumes entirely too much about his personal investment in the narrative that’s been woven.
Thankfully for the continued integrity of Sapnap’s spine, Ranboo spoke up to point out the obvious: Punz’s contract fee was very specific and he already did his part by bringing the dumbass cavalry to save the two irritating morons who took the bait. He may’ve given them a hand to take Dream ‘down’—albeit…he hadn’t thought they’d go for a blithe triple execution and that had his heart taking up residence in his throat—to ensure his payment was well-received, but technically he didn’t need to, although it did work to foster a laughable, headache-inducing amount of trust in him.
Punz unclenches his fingers so he can reach up to massage his temples, despairing over the complete lack of critical thinking shown by the majority of the server. It’s already bad enough that no one questioned anything about Dream’s theatrics or the lazy, childish logic couched in menacing verbal delivery, the so-called plan having creeper-sized holes in it visible from fifty chunks away while rendered blind. Dream may as well have allowed them all to gather and said hey, this is a bunch of bullshit by the way and brought Skeppy along to laugh at the stupid ‘cage’ just to highlight the implicit joke…but no, they’d have still thought it was real. He’s not disparaging the setup or Dream’s acting, it’s more that Dream’s reputation is a sour, blackened thing which no one wants to acknowledge.
Not even if acknowledging it gives them long-awaited answers as to Dream’s behavior. Because as they’ve proven, even with the opportunity to know handed to them on a silver platter, they don’t actually want to know.
(not when acknowledging it—not when knowing it—means having to look in a mirror and see their own rot reflected back, stripped bare and so very ugly)
Dream’s bad and they’re all good. To fight against Dream is to be a good person, always. Somehow. End of story, stop asking questions.
He was on thin ice from working with Dream, if kept in a somewhat neutral position due to his profession and his lack of aggression against the human rallying banner and said banner’s visible interests. At least, until he accepted payment to betray Dream. Lo and behold, despite his history and his help being bought, since he fought against Dream he was suddenly deemed trustworthy and welcomed as if he’d always been part of that group. He’d ‘seen the light’ or whatever, so no need to hound him for answers either.
Accepted, just like that. Trusted, just like that.
This black and white view of the world and people’s motivations is enough to give him a migraine. He was paid to be there, he didn’t show up out of the ‘goodness of his heart’ but because he was hired. He made it no secret that he didn’t care about whatever was going on, that he wasn’t interested in selling Dream out, until the money offer. Granted, as per the plan he did need to find a way to bring backup to the vault and so the payment was a great excuse, but either way, all he had to do was get help, which he did. His performative sympathetic noises aside, his presence and his aid relied on money and, again, he made it no secret that his reasons were anchored in greed. It was them who ended up changing their minds from wanton murder after Dream brought forth the revive book and then wanted additional assistance for free, their baffling mental gymnastics leading to the bizarre belief that Punz’s participation was truly about defeating their so-called ‘evil’ and so he had to be as gung-ho as they were.
Of course he didn’t leap to offer more of himself for their new, begrudging concession to leave Dream alive. Why the hell would he? Punz’s work was done once Dream surrendered, anything else beyond that wasn’t covered by what they’d previously paid him; Punz is first and foremost a mercenary, so as far as anyone is concerned his morals start and end at cold hard cash.
(It’s not true, of course. It’s not the whole of who Punz is, even if it’s a useful guise. He has his own thoughts and feelings, his own opinions, preferences, likes and dislikes, his own goals and dreams and desires. But who actually sees him enough to understand that? Who’s ever taken the time to look past his purposeful flat affect and profession to see a person? To see someone who can be more, who is more than the sum of his parts?
Who has chosen to look at Punz and seen someone worthy and valued him for more than his skills? For more than what he can do for them? Who hasn’t treated him like a disposable, empty-headed tool easily bought with cash and thrown him nothing but the shadiest, most unpleasant and most dangerous jobs simply because he couldn’t possibly mind?
Who has appreciated his company and opinions and support and chosen, in spite of countless unknowns, to place a dizzying amount of their trust in his hands?
At least, other than Dream?
Ranboo may have an inkling of his character from the time they’ve spent working together but still doesn’t know, not like Dream does.)
He did not show up to become one of them, bonded through distasteful group murder, he was there because he was paid to be and he refused to do more than he’d been paid for. There was no explicit agenda besides his fulfillment of his contract, save for the ones none of them could’ve ever guessed. Yes, it was useful to gain their trust by doing the bare minimum but even still, he did not intend to sacrifice his line in the sand by genuinely throwing his lot in with them. Not ever. They were loose allies at best, and only for the duration of the immediate conflict. Which is why Sapnap’s annoying and presumptive attempts to cajole him into more were as unwanted as they were tone deaf. Had he been able to unclench his jaw and speak, Punz’s own response would’ve turned into a bloodbath, so Ranboo’s contribution to telling them to fuck off was its own miracle for his fraying patience.
Well, Ranboo phrased the reminder of Punz’s mercenary status nicer to soothe any ruffled feathers, but the gist was there.
Punz had then flicked his gaze around the stragglers—dismissively ignoring Dream where he was propped up between Sam and Sapnap—and posited that if they wanted him to do more than he already had, then he expected another payment for his troubles. The integrity of his mercenary persona relied on transactions with clearly defined lines of cash-in, action-out, and he wanted nothing less than to give the charade another minute of his time. To Sapnap’s inability to take the hint he reemphasized his contract and that he’d rather head home…unless they wanted to offer him a new contract and fresh money to extend his stay, of course.
Then, at least, they could talk business and hammer something out.
Did they want to do so, he’d prompted with raised brows, posture kept relaxed as he sheathed his sword and tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket. Sapnap hadn’t liked him standing his ground against the incessant badgering, a mulish furrow between dark brows and an unhappy twist to Sapnap’s mouth that boded another oncoming argument to appeal to Punz’s nonexistent desire to engage in shoddy, self-interested heroism. As useless as the last several attempts were, the continual wheedling a testament to Sapnap’s stubbornness and unwillingness to actually listen to anything Punz said.
(sapnap was never punz’s best friend so it’s not exactly the same, but he understands dream’s reluctance to speak true better, now; he is exhausted and irritated by sapnap’s bullheaded nature and the constant belittlement of his own words and feelings without that emotional connection; he can’t imagine how much worse it is for dream, who’s been silenced by ex-friend and foe alike)
(be silent and let us speak for you, these liars coax, your truths are so very inconvenient to what we believe of you)
Sapnap did eventually relent enough to back off, although not without a pointed look and a huffy fine, as if Punz might decide to change his mind out of guilt or something if enough disappointment was projected at him. Which is yet more evidence of Sapnap’s idiotic assumptions about Punz’s level of care about both Sapnap himself and the entire situation. And not that Sapnap even gave up on his own merits, either, since the switch only came after Sam and Bad pointed out the obvious: no one who remained had any money either on-hand or leftover to offer Punz for more help.
Since they didn’t have money, they had no bargaining chip for his services. Since they were all broke, they should leave him alone and do their own dirty work. Which, luckily for their continued ability to breathe, they did finally fuck off and do.
Quite frankly, as much as he pushed the mercenary angle, he’s not sure any amount of money could convince him to step foot inside the prison even if they miraculously scrounged up enough cash to meet his standards. While he would if push came to shove in order to cement his merc’s honor, he very much would rather not. Ever. Especially not after it was his own insistence that meant they were able to alter the plan to make the whole damnable thing entirely superfluous…theater upon theater, as it were. Dream’s financed house of horrors holds no pleasantness in Punz’s mind—it isn’t meant to, he knows, an exercise in paranoia and morbid curiosity, an escalation and an experiment—and, regardless of Sam’s presence, even if he and Dream had the run of the place, if he never walks through those doors he’ll die happy.
As it stood, even without his intolerance of the prison hiking his rates, he already had to pretend as if the modest payout previously given to him was a jaw-dropping amount of never-before-seen money and therefore enough motivation for him to immediately swap sides.
To be fair it wasn’t the least amount he’s ever been offered and he does try not to act like a dick about people’s means, but it wasn’t a glittering treasure hoard of endless riches. On many other servers it’d be a comfortable addition to his preexisting stash that he wouldn’t think twice about accepting. Here, though? He’d been grateful for his pokerface at seeing the haul, his first instinct to scoff and toss it back and question if they were really trying to disrespect him and his time. That instinct then quickly squashed as he realized he was handed the perfect excuse to ensure he could play his part as he and Dream outlined, so he tamped down on his initial reaction and used the in he was so kindly given for his own ends.
Then, to be perfectly honest, saying that Dream should’ve paid him more was as much an in-joke as it was a lie. Dream hasn’t needed to pay him to maintain his support; Punz willingly works with Dream for free. Of course, Dream being Dream, Punz has accrued a vast amount of money and resources over time anyway, stacks and chests and shulker boxes deposited in Punz’s hands or dropped off in Punz’s private spaces like an afterthought. He has more wealth at his fingertips than he’s ever had before in his life and for once it’s not attached to any strings—no demands, no contracts, no obligations, no slimy sense of ownership looming over him; money can’t buy happiness but it can buy comfort and peace of mind and soothe worries about his next meal, keeping a roof over his head, and his ability to protect himself.
In any other circumstances he’d probably have been obnoxiously smug about being so well-off for such little effort on his part…here, though…he’s both grateful and humbled. Dream knows he doesn’t want payment, not for his support, not for his trust, not for his loyalty, not for his friendship. At this stage it’d be insulting, really. After one too many cautious, and then progressively less cautious, overtures to ensure that Dream understood Punz’s feelings on the subject, he finally received a weary slice of vulnerability as to why Dream was so dead-set on doing it anyway.
(Punz tries not to think about that soft, hesitant admittance that Dream liked to provide for him, liked to know that Punz was well taken care of, liked to do nice things for him not just as thanks but also as circumvention of the fact that Dream continues to stumble over the word friend and the shadows it brings. There’s an aching wound in Dream’s heart in the shape of Sapnap and George and a handful of others and Punz can’t heal it.
If he thinks for too long about how Dream’s nervousness melted into a sweet, pleased surprise when Punz finally got it and then expressed his own thanks…well, if he lets himself remember that exchange with any clarity he’s likely to commit all the murder dream keeps talking him out of.)
(dream gave and gave and gave and it was never enough; dream carved himself into pieces for people who forgot and then denied the core of kindness intrinsic to dream’s self until dream withered into blade-sharp edges and endless lies and masks upon masks upon masks; punz is not a man who hates, except in this he very much is)
He sucks air through his teeth and sighs, gusty and frustrated by the weight of, well, everything. The day’s drama, the tiresome urge to strangle Sapnap that’s become a staple, his uncharitable thoughts, his worries about Dream…all of it feels like someone’s boxed him in with anvil-laden traps and the only thing standing between him and death-by-anvil is a thin, cracked glass pane. Squinting at Pandora’s Vault, he scrubs a hand over his face and lets his still-raised arm drop loose to his side, flexing his still-clenched fingers around his hoodie fabric and shifting his stance to alleviate the vague unhappiness of his muscles. While he looks unbothered on the surface, he’s a coiled-tight ball of anticipation and he’ll likely be sore in the morning from being so damn tense.
As he’s been doing, he waits.
Patient and quiet and watchful.
Until he finally catches the softest crunch of grass approaching from his right and has to fight down the impulse to let a smile unfurl across his face. Fingers slip between his own, easily slotting in the empty spaces. The warmth of another body, stepping close, is a balm along his right side. An anchor, even. He breathes, relaxing his shoulders little at the sense of safety and relief that fills him in equal measure, and lifts their joined hands to act as though he’s covering a yawn, presses his lips briefly to invisible skin.
Murmurs, “They bought it.”
His hand receives a gentle squeeze in acknowledgment, careful movements leading to a more solid pressure resting against him that unearths a shaky, stuttering, wet-sounding exhale from deep in his chest. He wants to turn, to look, to see, the exultation of today’s victory paltry in comparison to laying eyes on the only man insane enough to gallivant around the server baying for his blood with nothing but a stack of invis potions and skills refined from being hunted to prevent their ruse from shattering apart. Even if he did turn his head he wouldn’t find anything to see, of course, since that’s what the invisibility potions are for—
(and as selfish as he is to see with his own eyes that Dream’s fine and well and in one piece, he’s terrified of his selfishness ruining the planned routing Dream mapped out for efficient potion use. If the invis effect were to run out at a poor moment and Dream be spotted, simply because he couldn’t wait awhile longer…Punz would never forgive himself.
It was a testament to his own stubbornness battling Dream’s pervasive bedrock-deep self-worth that their original plan for this trumped-up confrontation got its alterations that kept Dream free; the absolute last thing Punz wants is to repeat today’s fucking mess for the real Dream…especially not after he got a front-row seat to horrors he’s sure to have nightmares about.
He doesn’t want to wait, yet waiting will keep Dream safe. So how can he do anything else but wait?)
—so he swallows down the visceral need and continues his forward-facing vigil of the prison, though his eyes flicker to the right where his hood blocks his vision. A light touch on his other hand has him blink at his white knuckles, grip easing and fingers untangling from his sleeve before he tucks them into his front pocket, his faked-yawn hand once more falling to his side.
With another squeeze of his hand, that familiar voice whispers, tone the barest hint solemn and contrite, “…Thank you, Punz. I’ll see you at base, okay? Take your time.”
And then both voice and hand are gone, slipping slowly through his fingers again as footsteps slowly fade away, the echo of cloth and body heat grounding him even as he huffs.
Take your time, he thinks, fondly rolling his eyes. What a ridiculous thing to tell him when what he’d prefer is to hightail it straight to base, yank Dream into a bruising hug, and then shake the man by the shoulders. And then hug him again.
Punz studies the dark blot called Pandora’s Vault, absorbing the gross, disturbing majesty of its ravenous visage. Can’t hold back a shudder, exceedingly aware that if it hadn’t been for a persistent hounding on his end, and Dream’s curiosity allowing Punz’s guidance, that Pandora’s hungry maw would have truly eaten Dream whole.
(had punz not been curious too, had punz simply nodded and accepted dream’s plan; had dream been less clever, had dream refused him…)
You don’t get to have him, he directs toward the Vault, teeth bared and lip curled. He helped create you but I get to keep him, not you.
Taunting a building is simultaneously the stupidest thing and the most important thing; Punz won, and that victory has nothing to do with the petty slapfight-turned-executions from earlier. Somehow, he beat Dream’s self-sacrificing bullshit and managed to keep Dream safe and alive and free, both of the trappings of a cell and of Sam’s control over him. It still hasn’t sunk in properly yet that he did, and it probably won’t until he’s woken up a week from now to find Dream puttering around the base, freefreefree.
Plainly, simply, free. Hopefully…happy with his choice, with the plan’s changes. Less manic and more settled, as he’d started to be as the shape of their research began to look more promising. When Punz achieved the impossible: getting him to genuinely consider the worth of his own life. As he began to see a path forward that didn’t rely solely on cruelties, luck, and the idealistic uncertainty of relying on the same people who hate him so much they’d rather he be fully dead than continue existing.
Miracles upon miracles, all while Punz tried not to outright collapse in thankfulness that Dream did value him enough to listen to his suggestions. To respect his opinions, his insights, his viewpoint. To change, scary as the prospect is. Which has led them here, today. Roles played, secrets kept, goal achieved.
Schooling his expression back into mild disinterest, he stays leaning against his trusty tree for a while yet. Watching. Waiting. Idly scratches at one palm where both his trembling hands rest in his hoodie pocket. His gaze drops from the wide black expanse of Pandora’s Vault, lashes fluttering as he blinks, unable to get the image of Dream bloodied and killed and hauled off to spend the rest of his life—however short and miserable that life would be—in the server’s idea of hell out of his head.
Breathes.
They put on a show today, they emerged victorious…knowing that truth doesn’t prevent the cold pit in his stomach from forming at all the loud, jumbled could’ve beens rattling around his brain. Dream is safe but he so easily might not have been, if not for Punz and how much Punz cares, enough to chase unorthodox knowledge and learn magic and always, always offer the support Dream desperately needs.
He’s not George or Sapnap or any of the others Dream cared about—continues to care about, even now—he’s just Punz. And just Punz saved Dream. Not completely, not entirely. He isn’t such an idiot as to think Dream any less of a fragile, wounded creature battered in body and mind and spirit, not when Dream is constantly and decisively denied a place in his own home. Something that, along with the loss of his friends and their refusal to actually talk to him, has led to a lingering hollowness in the man’s eyes and voice and affect, as though only the thinnest threads prevent him from spiraling too far, too fast to catch.
No, Dream’s not doing great. But. Punz has helped, is helping, will help.
Dream doesn’t have much, but he does have Punz.
Maybe it’ll be enough, maybe it won’t, but it’s not going to change.
Punz pries his eyes open to send one final glare at the prison, just barely refraining from the rude gesture he’s tempted to make, then leans down to pick up his sword. Brushing the dirt on the tip off, he sheathes it and, with a lazy roll of his shoulders, he turns away from his vigil.
Home first, he chides himself as he reflexively twitches in the direction of where he knows Dream is, boots reluctantly twisting toward his tower.
He’ll go home, and then he’ll go home.