Archive of Our Own

“dude, are you sure?”

dream groans. “come on, i told you i’m fine!”

“okay, it’s just that…” punz looks at their sword, then at the armourless, shirtless dream in front of them. “okay, no– i’m giving you a weakness–”

“punz!”

“no! i’m giving you a numbing agent. you are drinking this.”

punz hands dream the bottle of thick, stringy fluid. dream looks at it with a grimace. “i have to drink this?”

“it’ll be slower and less effective if you rub it in.”

“this is like… worse than sapnap’s cooking,” he mumbles, then opens it. “i forgot how gross weakness is.”

“it is literally rotten, dream. stop delaying and just drink it.”

he gulps, takes a deep breath, and tips the bottle into his mouth.

punz hums. “good swallower.”

dream chokes at the words but keeps drinking until it’s all gone. when he takes it away his teeth are stained and he’s doing his best not to throw it up. “thanks,” he slurs, already swaying.

“okay, sit down.” dream sits down. “alright. i just– stab you?”

“this is stronger than it should be.” dream inspects the empty bottle. “did you like– drug me?”

“you’re malnourished, i literally just did, answer the question.”

“oh, uh… yeah.” he blinks a few times, then yawns. “just do it before i fall asleep.”

“if you insist.”

dream isn’t sure which happens first – him passing out or punz stabbing his heart.

dream wakes up on wood.

it's quiet, too quiet. he sleeps with music on. why is it quiet?

he lifts his head to see the red brick walls, the spiral staircase made of birch, the crafting tables along the floor. the sky is blue outside.

he lifts himself to stand. he must be dreaming.

for what must be a dream it's... very realistic. the smell brings back memories, most bittersweet. taste of gunpowder on his teeth, blood on his hands, he tugs at his hair and tries to breathe. is it a dream? at least he's not in the vault. he's happy to not be there. the community house is calm. his hands are tangled in his somewhat greasy hair. he taps his socked feet on the ground, and it's weird to not hear the clank of netherite, diamond, iron, combat boots with it. he draws his sweater-paw sleeves lower. he's dressed in sleep clothes, soft and too big, hands still smelling of the new cream tommy got him. it's vanilla scented.

he shakes himself out of his thoughts. if he's dreaming, he could just pinch himself and figure out if it's real. but he doesn't, because he hasn't been here in lifetimes. his last memories of this place are of rubble among waterlogged sand.

he steps outside. the castle, the path – this is before his– his–

he shakes himself again. "focus," he mouths, "focus." he can't think of the vault right now. he's back before manburg, isn't he? before everything went to hell.

there's a gentle breeze in the air, and it's odd, still, after so many years barely leaving his house. he's getting better. he sat outside in the garden yesterday, and tommy grilled because he wanted to treat them a little, and george helped dream with some of his writing. the air of the smp will forever be cleaner than the new world, though; despite its immutability, the server is his true home. maybe it's the memories that still haven't been neatly shelved, maybe it's nostalgia, maybe it's some deep-rooted, stubborn hope.

he breathes deeply. it smells different, feels different, the temperature is pleasant. he doesn't want to be here, not really. as pleasant as his memories of this time are, the place itself... he has too many bad roots in this soil.

he walks back inside. it's still a little too wide for comfort but at least there's six sides around him. the brick feels familiar under his hands. he remembers, one of his last days alive, hoping he'd had some bricks in his cell. he'd wished for a lot of things, then. he knows it got really bad, especially after his death. he's happy he died when he did. he wouldn't have wanted to see that.

he misses home. whether that's his house in florida or every block of this server, that's for him to know and him to say.

this place just makes him sad, now. something about hindsight, or whatever.

Dream wakes up on sand.

There’s an easy shuffle of waves to his right, the sound of wind through trees to his left. It’s calm. It’s peaceful.

He opens his eyes and is met with a familiar sight.

Two wooden cabins, some animal pens, lightposts and trees and a crop field and all of it empty.

He lifts himself to stand, wings itching at the sand now stuck between the scales and feathers. His head still aches from the revival.

Dream starts walking, limbs stiff. What’s he doing back in Logstedshire? Wasn’t he in the arctic just yesterday?

It’s cloudy. The air doesn’t taste thick quite yet, but he knows it could rain sometime soon.

The pens are empty, fence falling apart. That makes sense – he’d torn the planks off when Tommy left to make sure the animals wouldn’t starve – but it does feel eerie. He ignores it.

“Tommy?” he shouts, “Ghostbur?”

There’s no response except his own echo. It feels unsafe out here. Like something’s horribly wrong.

“Tommy!” he tries again, but no luck. He swishes his tail along the ground in agitation. He feels fine enough – aches and sickness notwithstanding. He’s just… in Logstedshire.

He can just walk back, right? He knows where the arctic is… probably. It’s a bit of a hike, sure, but he needs to get back somehow.

He starts his journey. The grass is taller now, uncut. It reaches his midcalf and activates his luminescence. The blades tickle his skin.

Maybe him and Tommy could come back here someday. Away from all the people on mainland. His family can visit, but Dream doesn’t want anyone else. They all lied and made stuff up. They didn’t want to listen to either of them. Why should Dream let them hurt him again? Why shouldn’t Dream get to rest, finally? No fighting, just– no fighting. He’s had enough violence in his life, already.

As he walks he thinks back to the previous day. He’s still weak; why would he travel by himself? If he wasn’t alone, where’s the other person?

“XD?” he calls. Dream thinks they might be near if they’re to blame, but no new emotion fills his chest and XD wouldn’t lie to him. The server wouldn’t do this, probably can’t either. If one of the players wanted him gone they would have just killed him, and this isn’t a very funny prank. What’s going on?

The air is colder around this part of the server. He remembers knitting sweaters with Tommy, when they’d both realised they liked living in their semi-self-imposed exile. They’d made some real disasters, too, garish colours and inconsistent stitches. He probably still has his in his ender chest, though.

…he hurries his steps. He doesn’t like being alone.

Dream wakes up on stone.

He groans, lifting his head. Where is he?

The world around him is… well, it’s dark. The floor is rough, so he stands up instead. He doesn’t recognise this.

“Uh, guys?” he yells, “Is this a prank?”

He rubs his wrists. There’s no response. He shuffles his wings in agitation. “It’s… not funny, whatever it is.”

He inspects the environment. There are no windows here, the only light coming from a crack in the wall. He goes to inspect it but the clatter of chain stops him.

He turns around. One of his legs has a cuff around it, similar to the ones he’d worn previously, and it’s attached to the floor with about a block or two of chain, also netherite. “What?” He shakes his leg but the cuff persists. “What the hell?”

He sits back down. He scratches at his neck. “I… don’t know what’s going on.”

Where is he? Why is he chained? He’s exactly as he remembers himself from yesterday – although maybe it was more time ago? He’s not sure. After all, he has no way to tell the time.

He opts to preen instead, just to pass the time. The claws through his wings feel nice enough, although they keep shuffling and pushing up dust, ruining his progress. When it happens for the fourth time he scowls. “What is fucking happening?”

He grits his teeth. He’s an elytrian, right? He’s strong. He’s– he’s scary, as much as he hates it. He moves closer to the anchor in the middle of the cell and takes a chain link into his hands. It’s cold and thrums with an enchantment he can’t quite identify.

“Come on. Come on.” he tugs on it, thanking however many gods he knows for his toughened palms. “Break. Fucking break!”

The chain doesn’t even bend.

“I can shatter iron, god damn it!” he throws the chain down, stands up and starts pacing. “What is this, unbreaking twelve?”

His wings twitch again. He spins in a circle and screams, “Shut UP!”

He winces at his own volume and runs a hand along one to flatten his bristled feathers. Why’s he so agitated? This isn’t a familiar place. He doesn’t remember–

He doesn’t remember.

Should he remember? Is this a place from before the cuffs? Is–

Oh god, is this the place? Is this where he got his life wiped from him?

He doesn’t want this. “No, no, get me–” He’s made his peace. He doesn’t want to know. His wings brush the ceiling and only then does he realise it is barely a slab above his head. “Out. Out!”

Is this the place? It has to be, right? The weird feeling he gets in enclosed rooms and around stone walls and chains and cuffs – How long as he here? What did a younger Dream do to survive?

Did his wings still clip the ceiling? Did his talons scrape the floor? Did he grow up here, or was it only a few days? He knows nothing. This part is a blank.

Dream steps just far enough to feel the tension in the chain pull him back, and–

His leg gives out, dropping him onto the floor full force. He lands on his side and cries out, then lays for a few seconds as his brain catches up, panting. His wing comes to cover him fully.

He starts crying at some point. He’s not sure when.

dream wakes up between obsidian walls.

he smells the blood first. then he starts screaming.

"please! please!"

he bangs his fists on the wall, slicing up his hands even if he can't see them. they feel sore already and it's been so little time. why is he back here? what took him back?

he pulls his arms close to himself and falls down into one of the corners. he's not as warm as puffy, not at all. at least it's cold here unlike the vault. is that good? he's losing feeling in his fingers.

he tries to calm his breathing but he rubs his hands together and feels the raw skin and the warm blood. it tugs at his brain, somewhere deeper – probably something he's forgotten – yet it also makes his breaths quicken and– oh, he's hyperventilating. that's why he's losing feeling. that's what puffy said, right? panic makes your limbs all tingly.

he tries again. he counts, he traces his fingers, he counts again – he curls up, he whimpers, he shakes against the stone.

it's too dark. he's scared. it's quiet, too, just his own breaths. he can practically hear his blood rushing in his ears.

"why, why– why? why!?" he tugs at his hair. could be a flashback– he has those, right? he feels the stinging of his knuckles and doubts everything he knows.

he tries to hum something, just for the sake of it, just to fill the silence, but his breathing isn't steady enough and he doesn't know what to do.

"help. help." he doesn't know who or what he's pleading to, nobody's there to hear it anyway, if they even can. he doesn't know how thick these walls are – is there lava around them, or not? is there a door, or not?

he hits his hand against the obsidian again. the fight-flight is taking its toll on him already, weakening his hits and making each breath shallower than the last. he can't think anything beyond im dying, help until all that's filled his brain is yet more fear at the walls. is this where his fear of the dark comes from? it must be. it has to be.

he slams his head into the obsidian. it makes him remember doing this before, crying just like right now, but he hadn't hoped for safety back then. he hadn't had anyone. now he... he has puffy, right? he has... has...

dream can't think of anyone. there's nobody else who would save him, is there? would puffy save him? he must've done something bad to end up in here. maybe he deserves this. maybe he earned it.

dream's cries quiet as he passes out, too tired to continue. he doesn't sleep well.

dream wakes up under his desk.

he's too big to fit under it. the wood grain is familiar.

the walls are adorned in various decade-old football memorabilia. he spots a few posters of bands he used to enjoy before the memories turned caustic.

he crawls out from under the desk. it's his childhood bedroom, obviously. but why's he back here?

he's a few feet too tall to be here again. he got out. he made it, he lives with his best friend above all and he's successful and he's not what they said he'd be, not at all, and–

he hears it, then.

"shut the fuck up, you–!"

(maybe he's not a few feet taller, after all.)

the room suddenly feels so exposed. muscle memory brings him to the closet, crouching down. it's still big enough to fit him inside, somehow. it's the only safe place in this whole house. the screams are muffled just enough, the walls are small, and he is, too, just for this moment.

he closes the door enough to only peek through.

this is definitely not a nightmare – it's not at all bad enough, and this isn't a memory, either. why's he here? why now?

he whimpers at the sound of skin across skin. he doesn't want this. he wants to go home, not this– this facsimile of what a home should be.

"please," he cries, wiping away the beginnings of tears. he doesn't know what he's pleading for.

he blindly reaches out, finding a worn and very dear cat plushie and hugging her tight to his chest. he wonders where she went in the past decade because she's definitely not in his bed anymore. her fur isn't soft.

it isn't comfortable, but at least it's safe – or... safer. it isn't safe. this house hasn't been safe for a long time.

dream wants to get out. he wants a hug, and buttered jam sandwiches, and games of smash that end in wrestling, and dad, he just wants dad, where's dad,

"no, you are the worst thing to–"

he cries. he wants sapnap back. sapnap would give him a hug and play minecraft with him and tell him nice things and say he loves him, because they love each other, and even with the crackle of teamspeak and bad mics it would make dream so emotional he'd mute and he'd write it in his notebook just so he could remember it every time–

there's a loud crash.

(he doesn't feel 22, not right now.)

dream wakes up in the void.

it's just dark. there isn't much out here, as far as he can see, which– well, it isn't far.

"hello?" he calls, and it doesn't echo. "anyone– where am i?"

"dream?"

the voice makes him flinch. it comes from all around him, as if the void itself is speaking. "what was that?"

"dream? is that you?"

"how do you know my name? who are you?" he shouts. it's too much, the darkness, it feels like– like–

it's gone, the moment he thinks it. "is– is that better?"

when he looks around again, there's someone behind him, and the stars of the void blink around them both. "who are you?"

"it's– oh. you've never seen me before." the figure raises a hand as if to shake. "dae."

"oh!" dream rejects the hand, instead rushing in for a hug. "dae! i wondered where you'd gone!"

"i’m here! i’m here. uhm–" they laugh awkwardly, separating. "where is here, though?"

"i thought you'd know. uh, i– i don't know! we're just–" he looks away from the being, towards the ever-expansive void. "just here, now. suddenly."

"well," dae says, then shrugs. "guess we're here."

"oh my god, this is so cool, i get to actually–" dream goes to touch dae's cheek, but stops when they flinch away. "oh, sorry, yeah. uhm, i get to see you!"

dae looks down. their clothes are very similar to dream's own, but their body is very different – little muscle, pale skin blackened at the limbs, buzzed white hair sticking out beneath the hood. their slitted eyes fret about. "well, hard to see someone that's possessing you."

"but you didn't change us at all! it's unfair." dream pouts. he looks at their hands. "oh, that's why our hands are weird to you."

"what?" they lift one, showing the voidblack claws at the ends of darkened fingers. "oh, that. yeah, my skin is uh... different. from yours."

"dude, i just– i can't process that it's you. you– you're cool!" he laughs. dae joins in quietly. "i wish we had your nails."

"oh, so you could paint them?" they laugh, examining said nails.

"you know me well."

both laugh.

"you know, as long as we get out of here... this is pretty chill," dae says, pulling at their sleeves. "im glad we met."

"same, honestly." dream smiles at them softly. "you know, you're not that bad after all."

dae laughs. "you've said that many, many times."

"and i’ll say it again. i wouldn't trade you for anything."

"stop being sappy."

"well, one of us has to be the emotional one."

"you cried in front of tommyinnit once. that's more than enough for our whole lifetime."

"okay, i was stressed. you– you wouldn't get it."

"i live in your brain. there isn't much more to get, green boy."

"oh, so you not knowing what a smoker was is acceptable, but me showing a little emotion is not?"

"yeah. precisely."

"oh shut up," dream grumbles, pushing dae away. they both end up in giggles.

dream wakes up on marble.

it's cold, and strange. his hair gets in his eyes as he sits up, stretching. he's sore.

he yawns, then looks around himself. it's dark, like there's a light shining on only him with no walls anywhere he can see. it's an unfamiliar room.

off to the side by some feet, diagonally behind him, is a simple full-height standing mirror. he crawls over, not wanting to stand up. he doesn't know where the ceiling is, or if there even is one.

his reflection stares back. he traces a hand along where blue and purple paints its – his – skin, usually covered. of course, he'd been asleep, so it makes sense he wouldn't have his collar, but– where is he?

he looks around again, just in case, but there's nothing. just the mirror, the cold marble floor slowly sapping his warmth, and the darkness surrounding him.

his hair is a bit of a mess. maybe he should ask one of the boys to cut it? it's a bit long – even for the reasons he usually keeps it long for.

he tilts his head. the phantom weight doesn't match the reflection.

he's wearing a loose hoodie – george’s, maybe – and some shorts. he runs a hand along his calf for the texture of his fur. hair. fur.

he doesn't like looking in mirrors. it just makes him... it makes him feel weird. he pulls back his lip to look at his teeth. he's sitting criss-cross on the floor. is his hair too long? does he have to shave? maybe he should try makeup out. why does he keep having phantom twitches?

he rips his eyes away from the mirror. his hands– he focuses on them. he flexes each finger, then again, until the floating subsides. "my paws," he whispers, just to hear his voice say his words. maybe he deepens it a little. nobody will know.

"hello?" he calls, voice shaky. it echoes back to him. he sweeps hair out of his eyes. "anybody there?"

there's no response. he looks at the mirror and finds his own, concerned face looking back. "what's going on?" he asks, and it feels weird to watch himself say it.

the mirror is the only thing he has, here. he's alone without the mirror. it's ironic, really, with the years he spent avoiding it. he misses his collar. he misses his owners.

what can he even do? stare at the mirror like he's fifteen again? like he's twenty again?

(he spends too much time having identity crises.)

he closes his eyes and leans into the phantom feeling. he's always imagined himself with big floppy ears, and a tail with long fur, and it'd be blonde and soft and he would like to be able to bark. he's close already, anyway, but it's just... not enough. it will never quite be enough. just like his skin used to be wrong, or his stature too small. that part doesn't bother him much, anymore. now it's just the dog-ness he has to cope with.

he tries to imagine someone standing next to him, just so he can be smaller than them. sit at their side obediently. it only works when he closes his eyes.

Dream wakes up in his bed.

He opens his eyes, looking around the dark room. The door is closed, the blinds are closed, and there’s nobody in the room with him.

Dream sighs. It’s just his limbo.

He lifts the blanket and sits up. The lack of burn is strange, of course – a canon death is a death, even if they don’t wake him up – but he’s thankful. He’s just… alone, in this room. It’ll be fine. It’s alright.

“Could be worse,” he murmurs, thinking back to the experiments.

He hasn’t been here in a while. It’s a strange snapshot of his life, a year or two back. A few empty mugs on the desk, an older PC than his current, less clothes on the wall, no things on the other bedside table, he twirls a finger through his hair and finds it short.

He stands and walks to the closet. He’s wearing sweats and a hoodie he knows he doesn’t own anymore. This mirror isn’t here anymore. His cheekbones stick out – he knows he looks only barely healthier, now.

He wanders to his desk instead. He powers his computer on – misses once because the button is in a different spot – and stares at his desktop once he’s logged in. The date reads 11/01/20, as it always has.

There’s some unopened fanmail, ones he’s read enough times to remember the names of every person. There’s none of Sapnap’s things, or even George’s. It feels… empty in the room. Lifeless. He remembers this part of his life too well, and he doesn’t like it.

He breathes the silent air.

“It’s too quiet.”

Nobody answers him, of course. He’s alone here.

“Thank Prime I’m not, like, triggered right now,” he laughs quietly, “this place would look so weird all clean.”

Limbo makes time feel slower but he forgot how much it drags on your bones, too. He opens Minecraft.

“It is twenty-twenty after all.” He searches for Livesplit. “It’s like a… a private stream.”

It feels less lonely if he speaks. He wonders what Sapnap would think if he knew Dream spent his time literally dead still playing Minecraft. He wonders what Punz would think if he knew Dream was playing the game his reality was based on in said reality. How does his subconscious manage to run this? It’s impressive. If only his brain would stop hogging RAM with an entire server maybe he’d function a little better.

Nevermind.

The first seed sucks. He makes that clear to his imaginary chat, complaining about the lack of villages, or ruined portals, or shipwrecks. It’s still 1.16, he has to remember, and he’s probably playing some forbidden meta that nobody’s ever seen.

He dies to lava. He has game sounds muted.

i woke up with what i think was a headache, today.

it's weird, i don't know. like, i don't really feel pain anymorei've felt enough., you know, but there's just kind of a... a fatigue. is it a headache? don't care.

...

i found another visitor log. i think sam's hiding them – well, he's doing a really shitty job, but at least he's moving around again.

sam is like... like a pet right now.

i don't care about him, not... really. for all i care about he could fuck himself in a corner in a puddle of his own tears. okay, maybe not– not that harsh. that's something q would do. sam deserves... respect.

(i do hate him, though. don't misunderstand.)

i wonder if i'll ever get out. it's... it's getting boring, actually. like, yeah, fine, take me out of the cell and then trap me in the prison like this instead. cool, thanks guys, really needed that.

...why did i die and come here? i've died before. maybe because i spent so long here? by that logic i would haunt the community house.george opens the door, walks in, walks out. there's not enough... greenery. but i guess we can't all have what we want. sometimes you end up as the torture box.

i hope punz is okay. wonder why they haven't revived me yet.
sapnap derailed the whole plan with his stupid hallucinations, but what can they do about that? take away the one thing keeping him sane?
this server really is fucked, huh? ...believe me, i know.

being dead is dull. how many times can i think about sam and q and punz and sapnap and being dead and–

nevermind. i need to go feed sam, somehow.