Chapter Text
He hated him. Deep down, it seems at his very core, he hated Him. Pathetic rage boils beneath his skin as his eyes drift across the crowd in front of him, rapidly consuming the pride he had felt. Of course He would come here now, when he was at his peak performance. Of course only now, when he'd fought so hard to kill this affection and devotion. His fingers grip the podium harshly, knuckles turning white. He gives a smile filled with fake saccharine.
"Are you enjoying the show, milord?" The nightmare gives a sweeping motion to the crowd, and suddenly he blinks and his lord is beside him on the stage. He turns to face him.
"We do not prey on the dreamers, Corinthian; we do not take advantage of them, kill them, lay with them," So much disdain drips from his voice that The Corinthian feels his muscles clench, bile rises in his throat and tears group on his tongues, tangy and metallic. His right mouth grits its teeth, and his left follows suite. He bites back a growl.
"Since when do you care, what I've done? You've never looked for me, you've never cared. But I've found people like me now, Dream. I've inspired them," He gives a laugh filled with all of the hatred and bitterness he can't voice, and he takes a step back away from his creator. How dare he. How dare he have the nerve to come back here, acting as if nothing has happened. As if he himself did not abandon his creation, as if he did not breed this hatred with his own misdeeds. The Corinthian has tried, let it be known. He tried and tried and tried and tried, desperate to bury this devotion and replace it with bitter hatred, but instead they had mingled, leaving him desperate and wanting but repulsed and hate-filled, and he could stand it no longer.
"You have not inspired these people, little nightmare. You have spun them lies where they are victims that must prove themselves right, that must seek revenge based off faith. You have corrupted them... You, disappoint me, my nightmare," And at that the Corinthian bites back a sob, a whine, a horrible display of just how badly he craved validation from his god and his creator, how badly he wants to love and be loved, be used for his purpose correctly. He growls softly, reaching for his knife and plunging it through his creator's hands, relishing in the gasp of surprise and pain coming from him. He pulls back the blade and sheathes it once more, giving this vile, vitriol filled smile to him as he stands once more.
"Well, let it be known, then, the feeling of hatred is mutual. I, hate you," His right eye bites back a sob, and his left bites back a whimper. He will not let himself betray himself now, not when he is so close to not slipping his mask. Tears are beginning to pool in the corners of his mouths, and he desperately fights to hold them back. And yet, his lord, so cruel, knows better than to let this mask stay up. Of course he would.
Dream stands and rights himself once more, the wound on his hand already beginning to heal, scar if he is lucky. His endless eyes, filled with galaxies and stars, stares deep through The Corinthian's sunglasses, leaves him feeling more exposed than he even has naked. The Endless extends his hands, fingers barely gracing the frames of the glasses, before they begin to turn to sand, disintegrating and falling through the fingers of his lord. The nightmare bites back a gasp of shock, and surprise, and maybe even fear. He closes his mouth, acting like a bloody tear isn't close to falling from his right eye. The pity on his lord's face makes him want to punch him.
"Oh little one, do not cry. I have realized something now, Corinthian; I have not given you what you need," He flats his palm against his creation's cheek, lightly brushing his thumb under the right eye, brushing the tear away before it can fall. His jaw trembles, his brows are close to furrowing, and he's so very close to breaking. His left eye almost whimpers, and his right eye gasps. He tries not to lean into the touch, and instead does the only thing he knows how. He bites the hand that feeds, calls out for the attention and affection he so desperately craves with anger, aggression, vitriol that flows through his very being, starts from his core and ends in his teeth. He hates how that name makes him want to forget all of this and simply nuzzle into his hand, fall to his knees obediently and go back to his old self.
"I am sorry, little nightmare. I left and I did not give you what you needed, I apologize," Dream says softly, and The Corinthian can't help the sob that escapes his left mouth, ugly and pathetic and so, so genuine. Tears fall from both of his eyes now, and he can't make himself stop them. He's so tired. He's so tired of the running, and the hate, and the anger in his veins. He's so tired of who he is. He is tired of this life. He presses his face closer against the hand still cradling his jaw, nuzzling into the touch.
"Let me take you home, little one. Let me take you home and make it right," His voice is softer and more affectionate than it has any right to be, and all the nightmare can do is nod pathetically, another sob escaping him, and he's starting to shake, and his mask is so far past slipped now that there is no retrieving what he once had in this moment. A whirlwind of sand consumes them, leaving the people in that room put to sleep, and the two who had the stage no longer there, only a few, small drops of blood showing that they had existed.