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'What do you mean…' Dream’s voice, usually a soft and calm melody, drops to a low and commanding tone. His brows furrowed tightly. Sitting straighter than usual, Dream’s hands curl into fists, trembling slightly despite his effort to still them. Dream’s eyes do not leave his counterpart’s. 'You don't have a place to sleep?'
Nightmare nearly flinches at the sight. A ghost of their shared past haunting him. That is the same look Dream wore when they were children. When he discovered the extent of the villagers’ cruel treatment.
But Night is no longer a defenseless little boy.
So his voice remains an even warble as he regards his brother. Nightmare’s manner does not change from his practiced indifference. Just barely.
Nightmare is slouched. His eyes are half closed, lazy. One hand is in his pocket; the other holds his head. The perfect picture of nonchalance. until his tentacles curl inward, trying to make themselves smaller. Almost no one would notice.
Judging by how Dream leans away with that incredible speed of his, he notices. Dream’s wide-eyed expression and furrowed brows are so, so painful to see. While they were fighting, neither had had the luxury to stop and think about what they were doing to each other.
Now, Nightmare sees his brother’s pain without any distractions. It is ridiculously hard to ignore.
'I mean,' he drawls, 'I do not have, nor need, a house.' Nightmare distracts himself with their surroundings. They are sitting on a warm bench. It is smooth in a way he didn't know was possible of wood. There are no people. Hey ran, wailing pathetically at the sight of Nightmare.
And though Dream was very careful to not show it, Nightmare felt his emotions. He thought the same of these small things, so unable to defend themselves.
The playground consists of three slides, monkey bars, swings, and a small rock climbing wall for any particularly daring child. Some feet away are swings, sitting still next to a sandbox. The entire park is covered with apple green grass, soft under his slippers. Sunshine is falling on them in waves, thanks to the clouds that leave large circles for Capri blue to peer through.
'Then where do you sleep?' Dream questions. His teeth are pressed into a firm line. His eyes are narrowed slightly. And his body, despite being tense, is open.
Trusting.
Nightmare could kill his brother so easily like this. It almost hurts, the genuine concern radiating from Dream wrapping around him like a warm and comforting blanket. 'Nowhere.'
Anger flashes across Dream’s features. A warning too late, before warm hands cradle Nightmare’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. His outraged cry is ignored. Dream’s thumbs brush gently beneath his sockets, as if the act could somehow erase years of buried pain.
'You have such awful eyebags... The way he says it is so tender, the musical lilt of his voice present once again.
The concern, Nightmare expected. What he didn't expect was anger, guilt, and determination. It is almost tangible. Dream's care is suffocating, yet all Nightmare can do is fight the urge to lean into the first touch he's shared since his skull was bashed in.
Nightmare's nonchalant facade finally slips. His mouth parts slightly, taking in breath he doesn't need. It fills his skull, running out his wide sockets. Nightmare's shoulders are tense. He grips Dream's arms for purchase against the sudden motion.
Night’s tentacles, damned things, wrap around his brother as though letting go means death. Dream’s bones are just as, if not more, smooth than they look. Snow-white rivers and ponds run across them, staining ghost-white bones. Somehow, it only makes him more beautiful.
Dream could easily kill him like this. Nightmare’s tentacles are once again betraying him, though he can’t decide if it is more or less embarrassing than before. At least then he was alone. But his tentacles did much worse things than cling to brothers.
Still, Nightmare is trapped. An unfamiliar, but not unknown, panic crashes into him. Before he can spiral, Dream hugs his brother.
He buries his face in the crook of Nightmare's neck, cradling his head with trembling hands. The sound of Dream’s quiet sobs filters through the silence. It takes a moment to register. 'I’m sorry,' he chokes out, his trembling voice heavy with guilt as he clings to Nightmare’s cold, viscous appendages.
Usually so stoic, a beacon of safety and stability. Rendered a sobbing mess from something so simple as Nightmare not sleeping. 'I'm so, so sorry I never took better care of you.' Dream tries to calm himself but fails miserably. For some ungodly reason Nightmare cannot bear to push his brother away.
Dream pauses, as if the next words are physically painful to speak. They very well may be, with how strained his voice is. It contrasts sharply with the overwhelming love and determination radiating from Dream, enough emotion that he wouldn't be surprised if an entire army was feeding them.
A one-odd army, perhaps.
'But that ends now. You're going to live with me, and I'm going to take such good care of you that you will never want for anything again.' Nightmare does not doubt that Dream will indeed give Night the world.
And destroy anyone who tries to get between them. Nightmare included. It is almost terrifying, but he can’t quite bring himself to feel the emotion.
Dream’s love is like a drug. Once given a taste, Night is helpless to the addiction. And Dream, the smug little bastard, knows. He knows that Nightmare is weak for his touch.
How could he not? Their emotions sing to each other like rain falling on still crystal ponds.
Neither comment on it. Not only would that acknowledge their stubborn stupidity, but it would also force them to confront their failures as well. Something neither perfectionist is willing to do.
So he doesn't protest as Dream's grip turns iron. Instead, Night allows his tentacles to wrap the little light in a protective cocoon. Nightmare's arms are much more hesitant, awkwardly coming up to cradle Dream's cervical and lumbar spine.
They sit there until the sun goes down and the waxing crescent is high above their skulls. Until Dream has no more tears to give. They simply hold each other, warming and cocooning, respectively. For the first time, neither feels like they are about to melt from heat or shatter from cold.
Finally, Dream pulls away, sleepily getting to his feet. He stumbles. Before Dream can fall, Night stands, cradling his brother close. With a start, he realizes that this is the first time he’s used his hands to handle a person. Since the Guardian’s corruption, at least.
He is pulled from his shock by Dream. He is trying to drag Night towards an oval leading to a dark and bare room. The portal is rimmed with glowing gold.
Nightmare sleepily follows. The lack of an immediate threat to his life culminates in centuries of insomnia finally catching up to him. They are so exhausted, it is a small miracle that Dream's portal takes them where he wants to go.
The gogodoll collapses in an ungraceful heap upon a thin and dusty mattress. Immediately, Dream wraps himself around Nightmare. Not wanting to sleep in their clothes, Night gently takes off their shoes and jackets. Satisfied, he coils around Dream in such a tangle of limbs that it is impossible to see where one ends and the other begins. Even with their contrasting color schemes.
The second they are in each other's arms, Nightmare passes out. The weight of their emotions and his sleep deprivation washes over him in a tidal wave of exhaustion that he can no longer resist.
He is awakened by gentle humming and sunlight streaming through windows. A cocoon of sleepiness wraps around him, gentle and soothing. Light. Nightmare's joints ache. But his mind has never felt more clear, more rested.
The Guardian hums along to whatever tune is being sung, pressing his skull into Dream's hand. Warmth surrounds Night from all sides. For the second time since his corruption, Nightmare no longer wonders when he will die from the frost.
Dream says something unintelligible. Gentle and kind, nudging him to get up. After much coaxing, Night finally opens his eye. Dream is leaning down, and even with Nightmare's blurry vision, he sees the love radiating from his counterpart. He can feel it sinking comfortably into his bones, urging him to fall back asleep. Back into the embrace of warmth, of vibrancy. Of beautiful colors.
Instead, he pulls himself up, using Dream for leverage. 'Good morning, moonlight.' Dream's delight, which can only be from him being there, washes over Nightmare as his brother cups his skull. They nuzzle into each other, and Night somehow finds his voice. 'Mornin'. . .' He slurs.
Dream holds him there for a moment before pulling away and dragging his brother to the kitchen.
'Come! We have a lot to do, you know.' He rambles, walking from the mattress in the corner of the…credibly dusty room to a simple kitchen.
Sunlight streams through the small kitchen window, illuminating Dream as he cooks. The golden light crowns him in a soft halo, making him look almost ethereal. So effortlessly beautiful.
Nightmare wonders briefly if his brother really did eat only one apple, for his radiance shines like a thousand stars, rather than a dying sun.
The dust is illuminated, giving their unbearably modest room the illusion of snow. There is no furniture, besides the mattress, if you could call it furniture. The cottage they are in looks like it's been abandoned for centuries, until someone very recently tried and failed to clean it.
Now fully awake, Nightmare moves to stand beside his brother. A wooden bowl is in the sink, along with a spoon. Dream has turned the heat to the highest setting and is in the process of scrambling eggs.
Nightmare's world smells of dust, burning oil and eggs, warm wood, and apples. He briefly wonders if he has died and gone to heaven.
Dream’s voice slices through Night’s thoughts, sharp as a knife. Would you wash the dishes?' He asks, a small and sugary voice echoing in Nightmare’s mind. It is not the calm, collected, and silky tone he uses with just about anyone else.
It is warm and open. Simple love and delight at nothing more than him being there. 'I don't like leaving things dirty,' he continues, as though Dream needs a reason to have Night help.
'Of course.'
They say nothing more. Nightmare's tentacles rest on Dream's lumbar spine. Night focuses intently on the dishes, his grip tightening slightly as he wills his creeping blush to recede.
Nightmare knows Dream senses his embarrassment, and that hiding physical tells will do absolutely nothing as he feels the wonder and love from his brother so clearly that it may as well be stabbing him through the soul.
Still, neither comments as Nightmare dries the dishes with a small purple towel and Dream puts half the scrambled eggs into the bowl while the other half is dumped on a wooden plate.
There is a notable, and there are no chairs in the bare room, so they stand while Dream takes the spoon and Nightmare is given the fork.
Now that he actually has a moment to pause and examine his surroundings, Nightmare cannot help but feel his own guilty anger. Is this truly how his brother lives? Atwo--room cottage with enough dust to put genocide timelines to shame, no furniture, barely enough cutlery for a single person, and a flimsy mattress that is almost worse than sleeping on the floor?
'Brother... The nightmare begins, deceptively mild even though he knows Dream sees straight through it. For stars' sake, he can feel Dream's dread like a beacon, screaming to be seen and yet far too bright to directly stare at. 'Is this how you have been living?'
Neither of them will look at the other, Nightmare glaring at his bowl, Dream staring intently out the window.
But he can still hear the soft inhale and still feel the sudden and unexpected spike of panic. Somehow, the negativity tastes more divine than the worst timelines of the worst AUs, and Night has to dig his distal phalanges into his palm to keep from feeding off his brother.
Nightmare's tentacle tightens around Dream, yet he is so lost to his imaginary threats that the Guardian of Positivity does not notice.
'I-' There is a tremulous tone to his voice, yet Nightmare can clearly hear his brother’s every word. 'I know it isn't the best, Night, but I'll make it better for you.' He feels Dream's gaze on him. Though he does not know why, Nightmare is compelled to meet Dream's stare.
'I'll add another room, I'll clean up all this dust, I'll get a better bed. Just please—'
He is interrupted by Nightmare, whose hands and tentacles are twitching with the urge to hold him close.
Dream, blasted empath that he is, senses this and immediately draws closer. Dream's arms wrap around his ribs, and his head rests on Nightmare's clavicle. Dream is almost immediately smothered by Nightmare's tentacles, but his brother doesn't seem to care. Night just tightens his grip.
Any words Nightmare would’ve said have been completely knocked out of him. As Night struggles to regain his composure, his thoughts are once again interrupted by a tender whisper. So faint, Nightmare wouldn’t have heard it were there any more background noise than their shared breaths and birdsong outside.
'Please stay.'
Somehow, he finds his voice. The warble of it hides the slight tremble. Nightmare keeps his voice low, not to impress quiet power, but to reassure.
'I will.'
Once again, such simple words cause his brother to break down completely, staining his sweater with golden tears. Dream shakes violently with silent sobs. Nightmare doesn’t think anyone has held him so tightly before.
To his annoyance, the Guardian feels nothing but concern for Dream and a longing to comfort him. How has this happened? Not three weeks ago were they warring. Doing everything they could to deter the other. Now here Nightmare is, wrapped around his brother's finger, and vice versa.
Their. . . understanding wraps them in comforting familiarity, almost palpable.
It is molten lava running towards the ocean, molding with the water to create an island anew, bare and fertile ground waiting to bear foliage. It is exploding stars being swallowed by black holes. It is everything Nightmare has ever wanted in the palm of his hand.
His brother's love, the power to make the multiverse his and his alone. . . Is that all he's ever wanted? Night is a god who has seen the entire multiverse shatter and grow from the ashes just to fall again. Has he really stayed so stationary in all that movement, to the point where he has only ever had two goals, both revolving around the god in his arms?
Nightmare sighs, resigning himself to this fate far more easily than he had ever thought he would cave to anything at all.
Dream, now calm enough to notice the change in his emotions, picks his head up from where it is buried in Night's sweater to gaze at his counterpart with wide eyes, cheeks stained a beautiful glowing gold with tears and blush. Neither of them knows what to say, so they simply hold each other.
Finally Nightmare gathers himself enough to remember some of the first words Dream said to him this truly lovely morning. 'Brother,' Night brings his head down to nuzzle Dream's forehead, circlet clinking dully against his frontal bone. 'What do we have to do that makes you so excited?'
The quiet contentment fades from his brother. His expression falls, his smile is not as wide, and his eyes are not as bright. Dream buries himself in Nightmare’s sweater. Despite how the two are laid bare before the other, unable to hide or ignore the emotions being broadcast to them, Nightmare cannot find the word for what Dream is feeling.
It is a strange mix of acceptance, joy, longing, and restless anxiety. Such a strange emotion, something he’s never before felt. Night almost laughs. Dream, wrapped snugly in the cool embrace of his counterpart, is giving Nightmare such gifts by simply existing.
He can’t remember the last time he felt something new. But maybe that’s because the Guardian of Negativity has filled his centuries with the same routine.
He absorbs the negativity. Dream tastes positively divine. He mumbles something, words lost in comforting gray. While Nightmare doesn’t understand him, it is quite clear that Dream wishes them to stay exactly where they are.
'We can stay here if you like, brother.' Nightmare chuckles, easy and calm.
Finally, Dream lifts his head up from where it was buried in Nightmare’s ribs. He trades the sweater for nuzzling Night’s frontal bone. They sigh in sync, and he closes his eyes, still tired. Dream’s gaze on him is palpable, burning into Nightmare’s bones.
With his eyes closed, every other sense is enhanced. The bird’s melodies float through the windows, unlike the spilling sunshine, lighting up dust that has disappeared to gold-tinted black. The wood is warm and smooth against his feet, and Dream. . .
He is running a distal phalange over his closed sockets in slow, soothing motions.
'As much as I’d love to stay here with you, Night,' Every word is a small sigh. Adoring and slow, as though they have all the time in the world. Which he supposes they do. The words sparkle around them, not unlike the glittering dust lit by the sun.
'I will never allow you to live in such a simple and filthy place. Come.'
Nightmare smiles, lopsided, unable to fully convince Dream or himself. The amused glint in his eye doesn’t cover the way his brow bones furrow or how his eye is slightly narrowed. Not that this is necessary, as ruefulness is unfortunately an emotion Dream is very accustomed to.
'We’d both be homeless if we didn’t have to take care of each other, huh?' It is not a question. Dream slows for a moment, a grin to match Night’s ghosting his usually happy face.
'Well then,' Dream grabs Nightmare’s hand and kisses his forehead. 'It’s a good thing we have each other.'
Then he is opening a portal to markettale, a golden oval cutting through the paintings of reality in a seamless split. Excess magic pours off it in waves of firefly light, joining the makeshift snow of their home.
Nightmare takes a step forward, ignoring the positivity washing over him and the subsequent shudder.
The portal closes behind them, cozy safety making way for bustling streets and gaping eyes.
Large cobblestones clack against Night’s boots, while Dream’s worn sneakers pad across the ground softly. There are baskets and racks of various colorful products on display. Smells and noise collect into an incoherent and chaotic backdrop, comforting to Dream and unsettling to Nightmare.
They stick close together, and Dream, despite wanting to show Nightmare around and spoil him rotten with gifts, feels both his unease and the shock from the people around them.
They both feel it, however. As shock wears off, room is made for hostility. If people were not so terrified of Nightmare, and did they not love Dream so much. . .
Well. The answer had already been learned in Dreamtale.
Nightmare strides at Dream’s side with practiced nonchalance and grace, though he is keeping careful track of the people around them. They are within about fifty people’s line of sight. He keeps a general score of them, more so looking for strong emotions than watching each individual.
While Nightmare watches their emotions, Dream watches their physicality. Their emotions sing so vividly, they can communicate their findings without so much as squeezing the others’ hand.
Dream does so anyway, seeking comfort. While this store is his element, he is unused to hostile glares directed anywhere near him. Let alone at him.
Dream makes a very good show of not noticing, however. Though he tells Night of a vendor who doesn’t stop glaring at the two, a child who runs past a little too quickly, and a whispering bad-time trio next to spices, no one feels his gaze on them.
Nightmare resolves to ask Dream where he learned such things when they go home.
They feel the hesitation and fear of a snowdrake long before he strikes. Nightmare scoffs at the boy hiding a knife so poorly. The snowdrake doesn’t even notice the apple twins as they move to a jewelry stand right next to it.
Not until Nightmare starts speaking. The boy jumps, tightly coiled tension unwinding like a rusty spring.
Before he can do anything else, Nightmare drains the frightened thing of his negativity. Just enough to realize what he was about to do. Shaking, the snowdrake curls in on itself and cries.
This, of course, shocks the villagers. Normally, Night would leave it at that, letting friends or kind strangers take care of any idiot who opposed him so aggressively. But the Guardian of Negativity is not here to instill fear.
He is here to bring about peace.
So Nightmare takes advantage of the people’s shock and leans down before they do anything. ‘Hello, young man.’ His voice is calm and steady. Well, as much as it can be with his ever-present warble. Startled to be addressed so kindly, the snowdrake stops crying and looks at him with wide eyes.
Nightmare gives him a small smile. Gently, he takes the knife from trembling hands and tucks it away in his corruption. ‘Why were you about to attempt murder?’
The snowdrake’s negativity skyrockets, fear coursing through him like a trapped animal. Before the boy can do anything with the emotions, Nightmare drains them. ‘I. . .’ The snowdrake looks at Night with a relaxed posture and unfocused eyes. Such sudden and violent shifts in emotion are tiring, as Night has come to learn.
Still, he has a job to do. Nightmare ignores the prying eyes and emotions from their audience. Dream is keeping an eye on them. Night is confident in his brother’s abilities to keep the masses under control.
So he waits. ‘I. . .’ The snowdrake speaks softly, voice scratchy from his breakdown. Still, Nightmare hears him. ‘I was afraid that you would hurt them.’
Them. Not me, not even us. How noble.
‘I was afraid that this “peace treaty” was a front to get into positive universes and destroy them.’
Night senses quite a few flaws in this endeavor. There are four possible answers. Either the snowdrake is an idiot, arrogant, both, or he values others more than himself. The Guardian does not let his anger show on his face.
For he has a sneaking suspicion his last guess is correct. The thought of someone holding themselves so low stirs a calm, black anger deep inside his soul.
‘Well—’ The snowdrake seems to realize what is happening. Since Nightmare is sapping its negativity, the small thing stays relatively calm. It collects itself quickly, no further assistance needed from either twin.
The boy takes a deep breath. All at once, his scrunched face, clenched fists, and tense shoulders relax. He opens his eyes, clears his throat, and looks at Nightmare with a certain clarity that wasn’t there before.
If this snowdrake were a human, it would be quite the formidable indigo soul.
‘I had to try. Who else will keep them safe? Besides, I need to help.’ It looks at Nightmare with fear. Fear and a quiet integrity. The snowdrake speaks with an earnest severity, reminding Nightmare far too much of . . .
‘Uh. . . Brother?’ The uncertain amusement in Dream’s voice rouses Night from his anger.
He looks up at Dream to discover his tentacles have wound around the little light. Around his spine, his legs, and his arms. It takes a monumental effort to not blush, especially when he sees that Dream is gently holding the tip of a tentacle.
But keep his composure he does, and Nightmare’s appendages retract upon his stern command. They know better than to reveal they have minds of their own in public.
‘I’m sorry, brother.’ He replies, curt and sincere in the tone reserved for Dream. The guardian looks like he wants to say more but simply nods and looks away.
Nightmare turns his attention back to the snowdrake. ‘I’m sorry about that interruption.’ The poor thing stops again, terribly shocked. Small wonder. No matter. Night wants to leave quickly. Somewhat from the embarrassment of losing his temper and his tentacles. Mostly because he wants to spend more time with Dream.
‘I will leave you with this.’ The snowdrake perks up at that, listening attentively. His feathers stand straight, he sits still, and his eyes do not waver from Night’s. ‘You are useless dead. And if you cannot take care of yourself, how could you ever hope to help anyone?’
With this, Night stands. ‘Goodbye.’
The next hour is spent peacefully, as the apple twins are left well alone.
They go to another jewelry shop, with large and colorful gems displayed in glass cases. It has a cold, clean white light, accenting the indigo carpet nicely.
They don’t buy anything, as the two have very particular tastes. Dream resolves to make something for the two himself. ‘You don’t have to go to all that trouble for me, Dream.’ The king keeps a neutral expression out of habit. Not that he needs to, as Dream senses his confusion, impatience, and curiosity.
‘Yeah, I don’t.’ Dream turns around and beams. His circlet glints in the light, a crisp sort of white with blue undertones. It brings out blue dots in his eyes, so small Nightmare is sure he imagined it. ‘But I get bored easily. And there’s no real downside to learning new skills, is there?’
Nightmare pauses, startled at the sheer beauty of his brother. He feels his expression become soft, hard lines edging away for the first time in . . . How long? ‘No,’ His voice is soft and sincere. Meant only for Dream. ‘I suppose not.’
They are startled by a drop falling from the hanging sky. Another quickly falls, and soon, everyone is rushing into stores, waiting out the rain in comfortable, if crowded, warmth. The twins stay.
Once all the people are gone, and it is just him and Dream, Night feels a strange sort of peace. It fills his soul as rain fills his skull, arms, and tentacles open to receive the rain.
Nightmare is acutely aware of every drop glistening in the cloudy light. Each shining moment a beautiful flash stored in his mind.
He stays like this for a while. Whether it be a minute or an hour, Night cannot say.
The guardian turns to his brother. Water gushes out of his sockets in a cold flurry. It sounds like a small waterfall, falling down the short path from his face to his already drenched t-shirt. It hits with a splash. If Night was bothered by the sudden cool rush, you wouldn’t be able to tell.
You would be hard-pressed to find anyone more content than them.
‘What is it?’ he hums, corruption still rattling his voice in that familiar warble. Beneath the goop covering his being and giving his already sharp fangs a terrifying edge, beneath his tentacles most assume to be in a constant state of bone-tearing acidity.
There is much beneath it all, though the corruption is still part of the Lord of Nightmares. Dream sees him, sees the grace with which he lets his arms fall and turns toward Dream. The glow of his ancient eyes, appearing both lighter and darker than they are. The curious way his head tilts, like a cat.
As Dream stares at him, soft in a way Nightmare has only ever heard described in stories, he finds himself. . .
Not shy. Not guarded. Not even overwhelmed.
And though his brother knows exactly what it is, Dream answers. ‘You’re beautiful, Nightlight.’ His voice is barely audible over the splishing and splattering rain. But Nightmare hears anyway, because it is Dream. And in his millennium, he has never heard a voice quite so tenderly musical.
‘As are you.’
They say nothing more, walking through the now deserted streets in comfortable silence. Nightmare’s hand is cold in Dream’s, and Dream’s hand, though wet, is still molten in that wonderful, homely way only he is capable of.
They pass many shops.
One store has a flummadiddley high ceiling, meant to house colorful lamps and enormous bookshelves. Though there is nothing about the tall, chocolate walls and dusty tomes scattered about the place to suggest it, if Night closes his eyes he can almost convince himself he is sitting on a battered stone wall in a grassy field.
Another is a coffee shop. While the shop itself is unimpressive, there is a certain atmosphere about it that sets the twins at ease. Entering the cafe is like being bathed in purple. Everything from the yellow lamps to the wooden floors to the city beyond the balcony has a calm, quiet look about it.
So much so that Night falls asleep.
A two-story apothecary that looks more like the home of a kind and isolated mage than a store you’d find on a busy, cobbled street. Vibrant raspberry, tangelo, and jungle flowers hang from the second story. They fall over shelves displaying potions of various colors, volumes, and textures. Soft light spills from a bay window, highlighting Dream with glowing coral.
There are three teens resting on basketweave pillows. They wave at Dream. Ever the charmer, he waves back with that sunny smile. Nightmare stands a few feet away, not wanting to ruin the moment. Until his brother calls Night.
He can almost see it. Golden swirls of light beckoning Nightmare into warm, safe comfort. Despite his better judgement, Nightmare listens.
The reactions vary. A girl with a purple shirt and long black hair cocks her head and waves. Not hesitant in the slightest. They can feel her emotions, curious without a hint of fear. A boy with white shorts and a black tank top stares at Nightmare, wary. The last one, almost an adult, freezes in fear. Only for a moment, however.
The two silently admire his reflexes. He jumps from the couch, pulling the other two with him. Neither bothers to stay. Dream takes Nightmare’s hand, surprisingly gentle for the angry turn of his teeth and narrowed sockets.
Before they get far, a door creaks open behind them.
The girl with a purple shirt is standing in the doorway. Warm light frames her, acting as a shield against the dark cold. She reminds Night of a fire-spirit in “Subtle Myths & Magic”.
‘Come inside.’ She beckons, matter-of-fact and serene. ‘The shopkeeper says she doesn’t mind.’ There is something so relaxed about her demeanor, almost lazy in its stillness. Something so confident. She knows that they will come inside. There is not a single doubt in her mind.
Needless to say, the twins are curious.
‘You’ll get sick if you stay in the rain.’
Upon hearing this, Nightmare can’t help but laugh. He and Dream, abstract emotion given physical form, sick? Let alone that those physical forms happen to be skeletons? The very idea is absurd.
The girl jumps at the sound of it. Even Dream stares at his brother, wide eyes and stupid smile taking all the space of his face.
Dream answers for both of them. ‘Alright’.