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It’s crowded, the people shouting and screaming with glee and jubilation at the kingdom’s highest event of the year. Flags flutter wildly in the perfect breeze, orchestrated by the graceful fingers of the elements and guiding giggling faeries who dance high above any of the distracted, drunken folk. It’s a wonderful, colorful sea of swirling fabric and layers of skirts and shiny boots and elation. There are brightly blooming flowers that are floating down from high spires, where guards throw them down to the laughing, pretty dancers and flush as kisses are thrown back.
He does not belong here, he knows.
Nightmare’s domain is the drab and morose. Funeral processions, battlefields after war has ate its fill, the morgues, hospitals where bodies line cots wall to wall- but even those events have all paused for one glorious day and night of celebration.
He’s always wanted to see what it was like. To attend one of these grand festivals.
But his touch and presence leaves dark marks on the festivities, so he watches from afar- on the roof of a spire high above anyone, where he can tuck away the grasping, shadowy tendrils of his domain and long to dance like those below. It is only after these festivals that the Night steps upon the cobblestone, touches the colorful confetti, now sighing their colors into the puddles of sweet juice and liquor, and wonders where the color black fits into such a beautiful display.
The breeze is nice, up high. He has only been up here since the sun began to lower. It was the most he could risk before the moon fully arose. Nightmare thinks that he would not fit among the throngs of people anyway- his typical garb is much too dark for the uniformed attire they prefer. Still, he couldn’t help the slightest excitement he felt, changing his usual black robes for something purple and blue. He always wanted a reason to wear something else.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
If not for his sure skill and sensory, he would have flown off the roof and plummeted below. He thanks his grip strength internally, and his reflexes more for squeezing him tighter to the roof rather than sending him off.
“It is, Laughter. You’ve done a fine job on the festival.”
There’s a scoff, though he can see the other preening. “Oh please, just call me Dream. You’ve met me before.” The God of Laughter waves a hand, smiling at him from the other spire. His voice travels well, despite the distance and air. “I’d hardly call you Tears.”
“It’s my name,” Nightmare, God of Tears, obliges. He dips his head, as a cheer rises from below. “Any title is the same as a name. But if you insist… Dream.”
The other god grins at him, standing upon the shingles as his cape flutters in the wind. It’s gaudy and bright and golden, just like much of Dream, attention catching in every way. Like he’s dressed in sunbeams. Nightmare doesn’t detest it, though it’s a bit much.
“There you are! Need I remind you every time we have a chance meeting that I’d love for you to call me such?”
“Perhaps you ought to.” Night turns his gaze back to the people dancing below, watching their steps with familiar longing. Dream watches him, instead. “It seems our time continues to be far apart.”
“There are not many occasions that tears and laughter join hands,” Dream muses. “Unless you’ve gone mad or listened to a very funny joke. Even then I suppose it doesn’t quite warrant your arrival.”
Nightmare scoffs, a strange sound he’s come to mimic from the few times he’s heard Dream do it. “Suppose so. Not many mortals seek tears so willingly, anyway. Fewer shed tears upon madness.”
The God of Laughter chuckles, swinging around the spire and dancing across the rooftops. Night clapped for him as he did tricks and risky jumps, smiling softly at the bows he did. Still, Dream’s voice sounded close, as if he were not flying about at all. The wind caresses Night’s cheek.
“These days are busy for us both, are they not? War brings both of us to toil,” the immortal sighs, one hand about the rough iron of a fence, leaning from it precariously as if it were a dance partner. His legging comes up in a show of control and strength, balancing his weight as he hangs off the roof. His companion is just a hair’s breadth from leaping for him, should he fall. “Laughter for the victors. Tears for the dead. Endless toil on both, as the drunk get drunker, as war brings both celebration-“
The crowds roar with approval. A canon fires off, and Nightmare looks back upon them again.
“-and funerals numerous.”
Gold flits across the rooftops like light dancing across water. He reflects the sun in a multitude of colors, brilliant as a star comes to life, and Nightmare is as cold and still as a lump of coal. Still, Dream appears at his side, requesting his drab company. “May I?”
“Do as you may.” Nightmare tilts his head.
The other slides into a sitting position with him, legs dangling off the edge. They watch the processions down below, bemused how so few mortals will look up in their lives. “This is the first time I’ve seen you at one of these. I always took you for the dutiful type.”
The shade hums. “I don’t particularly enjoy crowds, and I don’t have business in festivals. Unless there’s some death to be had.”
“Aye, but I’ve seen you on both occasions of festivity and crowding now, despite your reasoning. Do you require a companion?”
Nightmare scoffs. “You’re here, are you not?”
Dream blinks, and briefly the darker god wants to backpedal, but he’s already been captured in a one armed hug. “Why, Night! I thought you didn’t care for me at all!” He sways them back and forth with his excitement, his namesake like music to his counterpart, filling his hollow chest with light. His smile is infectious, his obvious and sincere elation too much to deny. It is comfortable to be shoulder to shoulder with him, as if he belongs there. Ridiculous, yet so right. A greediness in Nightmare festers, crying out for Dream to be stolen away into the dark. But he denies himself.
“If it will get your hands off me, I’d rather you still think that.” Nightmare flatly replies, playfully elbowing his ribs. Dream makes a mocked, injured sound, releasing him reluctantly. His chest constricts, but Nightmare has always been skilled at hiding his woe.
Come back, he thinks. Dream chats onwards, guileless. Touch me again, hold me. Don’t let go, even when I tell you too. I won’t let go of you if you let me.
“Have you tried the mead? I had a hand in it myself this year! One swell fellow offered up quite the amount for me to interact with it!”
“Hmm.” Night watches the intricate golden thread of his cape glint and capture the sunlight. Dream tilts his head, smiling at him like always, sweet and open despite his slow responses. “Perhaps this year I will, if it’s good.”
His counterpart gasps, pressing a glove to his chest. His cravat flutters against it as the breeze blows stronger. “Why, you doubt my ability, Nightmare?”
He fights a smile at the exaggerated outrage, but God of Laughter he is, Dream catches it immediately and leans in for a better look. Night allows him, stalwartly looking away with a playfully guilty gaze. “I’ve done no such thing,” he smoothly replies.
The smile grows as Dream’s mirth is infectious, and he carefully pushes him away with but a gloved finger. It feels strange between them, more so for him, as if the heat radiating off of Dream’s body was coloring him in the same tones of gold that he wore. He thought perhaps he may end up like the daughter of King Midas, a beautiful statue, should he prolong contact with his counterpart too much.
Unbeknownst to him, there is a fleeting glance of something identical to the greed that festers in his own heart. But Dream hides it well, as he is skilled at hiding many of his emotions behind a smile.
“Then let me retrieve a mug, one we may share!” With another gust of wind, he flickers away. Nightmare watches him happily weave through the crowd, unseen, a trail of mirth glittering behind him.
“He plans something, Lord of Nightmares.” A faerie lingers, his small hands clutched together. He peeks out, his wings fluttering anxiously. His expression is stern and closed, his white and black clothing buffeting much of the winds from his small body. “Will you truly partake in another god’s creation?”
“I understand the risks, my little guard. You do not take your Lordship for a fool, do you?” He watches the faerie stand upright, embarrassed.
“Of course not, my Lord! I seek to protect you, is all…” he bravely responds. His wings flutter quickly. “It is my duty to you.”
Fondly, Nightmare allows the smile to breach his mask, and watches Cross bloom under its glory. “I am always thankful for your efforts. But I understand the implications. I will not allow more than I can handle.”
His little guard puffs up, reminding him of a white snowbird, before flying upward. He folds his arms behind himself, gearing up to ask for something but not wanting to say it. “Then…” he trails off.
Nightmare meets his eye knowingly, gesturing for him to be dismissed. “Enjoy time with your friends. Go on and experience the festival, there is no safer place than the watch of two gods.”
“Thank you, my lord!” Cross grins at him, before flitting off.
The shade watches him trail over to a tree where numerous faerie lounge, a small cheer rising as he approaches. Even from here, he can see how Cross grows pleased with their response, perching on a branch with a friend Night has seen hanging around occasionally. They linger around an offered, small cup of mead and another of cream and honey, feasting together with the berries growing off bushes nearby.
“Here we are!”
Nightmare looks to him as the light flashes, and then reveals his form. It haloes around him. In one divine hand is a generous mug of alcohol, which is golden in color. “I admit I had a bit on my way, but there’s enough that if you actually enjoy it you might have the rest, I can go get more-“
“Dream.” He bemused interrupts. The sunray squeaks, offering him the mug sheepishly. He takes it. Their fingers almost brush. Both of them look down and then look back up at each other. Dream grins, and Nightmare allows a tiniest smile. “Thank you.”
His counterpart giggles. “I really hope you like it.” His eyes trail after the mug as he raises it to his mouth to blow, steam wafting off and distorting the light that passes through.
“Is it meant to be served so hot?” He asks. Dream’s smile grows, and he laughs awkwardly, flushing a pretty color. “I think that’s just because I was holding it.”
Night huffs in amusement before inhaling the steam. It smells good, sweet and honeyed, with an undertone of apple crisp to it. He was always fond of that fruit, especially after he first met Dream. He blows on it again to cool it, before taking a small sip.
“Mmm.” The god blinks, something fizzy dancing on his tongue. It feels a bit like small fireworks going off inside his mouth. It’s not as overwhelming and sweet as he anticipated, though rich with flavor and an aftertaste of that apple he smelled earlier. “Is it supposed to feel like-?”
“Yes, yes that’s from the brewing!” Dream replies, eyes wide and eager. He beams. “Do you like it?” He’s leaning forward, the closest he’s ever been, and Night thinks if he wraps his arm around the other, he could steal him away very easily.
“Hmmm. I don’t know yet.” Nightmare swirls it around in the mug, smiling at Dream’s pout. The other seems to glow immediately after he looks upon him, breathless from the smallest expression. “I’ll have another taste just to be sure.”
He takes a large sip now, letting the warm fluid rest on his palette for longer before swallowing with a small, satisfied sigh. His throat feels strangely dry afterwards, and he thinks to wash it with more mead. Night rarely enjoys wines or such, mainly for the reason that he’s of a morose personality, but the sweet warmth that travels through him and heats him from the inside is undeniably pleasant. It tickles the inside of his skull with soft and coaxing touches, and strangely, he wants to taste the flavor of apples again, the fruit escaping him too soon. He feels his reservations slacken, and Dream presses closer yet. Nightmare does not stop him.
“It’s quite good,” he sighs, steam escaping in a small white cloud. He’s never thought of himself as a lightweight, but then again, he didn’t often drink. “You’ve outdone yourself. It’s no wonder the kingdom is in such high spirits.” He huffs in amusement. The breeze is hardly noticeable now, though the shade is prone to cold. Dream is shoulder to shoulder with him again, gently taking the mug and having a sip himself.
“Thank you, Night.” Dream chuckles. Carefully, he leans his head against Nightmare’s shoulder. “I may have overdone it a bit on my blessing, but it’s only for a single day, so it’s alright to indulge so much.”
His arm feels rather lax, which alarms him under a blanket of thick honey mead like amber melting over his body, but Nightmare still lifts it to wrap around Dream’s waist. The other gasps quietly, pressing against his side, warm and so right, fitting exactly where he belongs.
“Suppose. Just for a special occasion.” Nightmare hums. His eye is lidded as the dancers and the singing slowly turn to raucous laughter. His tendrils are limp and pliant when he tries to move them, spotting a young boy lost in the throes of the chaos. He is pushed over by the stampede of legs as people begin to rush to the giant barrel of mead. He hears them muffled, shouts of more and need and thirsty. The music is discordant, the performers frightened before running with their instruments out of the fray. People push and pull against the crowds, women and children holding onto one another against seas of bodies. Brave few stand upon barrels to guide the sober from the crushing weight of mortal greed.
The god chuckles, his head heavy. Underneath, there is a spark of concern and agency, but it is washed away by the smell of honey and apples again. When did he take the mug back? Dream smiles at him adoringly, nuzzling into his chest. “This is quite the special occasion, don’t you think?”
“Quite.” He lowly agrees, the mug to his mouth again. It smells so good, but he’s had his fill. Dream frowns slightly as he places it on the shingles beside them. “Don’t you want some more?”
“I’ve had enough.” Nightmare reassures him, before he tries to unwind his arm from around Dream. The other god frowns further, a low and pleading whine escaping him, before his grasp tightens around the shade.
“Stay.” He whispers. The wind blows again, but it is never strong enough to fight his voice. Nightmare hears it well, feels his heart stir where it is encased in amber, and the longing rises again. Dream looks up at him, the sun and stars, radiant and gorgeous and undeniable, his eyes mead golden and sweet, his mouth parted and the inside showing a delicious hint of what he could have, and Nightmare-
He tears himself away, stumbling gracefully to his feet. He almost slips off the edge of the rooftop, now highly aware of how tall and compact the space is. Dream rises with him, reaching out to steady him with a panicked yell. “Careful, Night!”
A tall shadow is cast upon the bloodshed below. Caterwauling and hysterical cackling laughter mix into frightened and terrified sobs, wails echoing off the stones. The people below are mashed into pulp, mead coating the dirty cobblestone as they grovel for it, mindless and wounded. Those who are not laughing are crying, and those who are both are mad, the loudest and most dangerous.
He steadies his feet and keeps his gaze on the god before him. Everything feels bogged down by an extra drip of honey, as if he’s soaked in it. He worries for Cross, hoping his small guard is alright, but Dream advances and he has to focus. “Dream…” his voice rumbles like thunder between them. “What have you done? What happened to the kingdom?”
Dream presses his mouth into a thin line before protesting. “It wasn’t on purpose!”
Nightmare’s shadows lash, and the kingdom is coated in darkness. “I don’t care! Fix this!” He waves a hand at the sheep below, and the harrowing cacophony of sound. His eye is wide.
His counterpart stutters, stepping towards him with hands raised placatingly. He bares a snarl, and Dream halts. “I-I cannot revoke a blessing, Night. If you would allow me to explain…”
The shade stares in disbelief before rubbing his face, the glow of the mead in him still unwelcomingly present.
“I… I wanted you to enjoy it.” Dream attempts. “It had to be strong…”
“Mortals cannot handle divine food and drink, Dream,” he groans, looking back down at the crowds as he hopes help will arrive for the wounded. His shadow may have tamed the worst and brought some to soberness, but it will need an outside intervention of the mortal kind to fix this mess. “At the least, take away the mead, that will solve any new addiction.”
Hastily, the other obeys, the liquid gone entirely. He advances further, and Nightmare realizes he cannot flee further or risk his back to Dream. He takes Night’s hand in his own, pleading with him. “Forgive me my foolishness, Night, I meant not to cause you undue stress.”
He shakes his head, and Dream follows closer, just a hand between the two of them now. Nightmare feels the mead in his system burn inside of him like the way his heart desperately wants for Dream to hold him, but his mind revolts. The wind carries the scent of honey and blood on it, grounding him. But pressed against him, Dream is warm, is solid, and smells… so delicious.
“Please forgive me, Night,” Dream insists, and Night parts his mouth to speak. Then, there is a rush of laughter inside of him, of breathless glee and wonder and affection, of madness and despair and fury and he is overwhelmed- so much that he feels his feet slip.
They pitch off the side of the roof, falling down and air rushing past as Dream gasps into his mouth. He feels the other’s fingers squeeze his waist, the two gods tangled in one another. Nightmare grasps his hip and presses him closer, stealing from him what more of that taste he can get, before his shadows whisk them away into his domain.
They land on his mattress, Nightmare impacting the bed with a grunt and cushioning Dream’s fall. Their teeth clank together. Despite that, the other god eagerly clambers onto him, only to be pushed away by Night unceremoniously. “Down.” He flatly says.
Dream reluctantly retreats, appearing appropriately chastised. He sits on his folded legs before him, hands in his lap. Night expected him to be much smaller in appearance when surrounded by darkness, but the black makes his brilliance so much more evident.
“You,” he sighs. Nightmare rubs his face again, trailing fingers over his missing eye. “You are a mess.”
“You kissed me, though.”
“And what an idiot I, too, must be.” He retorts. Dream finds the audacity to weakly giggle.
He recalls the chaos in the mortal realm and abruptly stands. His faerie is still there, he needs to check on him. “Stay here. I will be back.”
“Alright.” Dream meekly accepts.
Then, Nightmare is gone to fix his mess.
The lone god falls back on his counterpart’s bed, groaning aloud and shoving his face in his hands. He rolls around and kicks his feet, lying face down in the sheets. Then, he slackens.
“Fuck.” Comes muffled.