Work Text:
The first thing that Ink feels when he comes to awareness is the fact that he is pleasantly warm. It’s a fiery kind of sensation— gentle as the sun, but firm in its total coverage. Like prepped watercolor paper, each and every part of Ink is totally and wholly kissed by the soft touch of heat. For a moment, he wonders if he’s outside beneath the rising day: it makes sense paired with the soft watercolor-like light; Serene and ever so wonderful, there are few places that Ink could feel so alive. Art with art: hand in hand.
The second thing that Ink feels is the fact that he is being smothered into a mattress.
Oh, right.
“Dreamy,” Ink mumbles, voice rumbling into the fabric of Dream’s shirt. The exact events that led him to the comfort of Dream’s embrace are far off and fuzzy: out of focus like a hazy photograph. But, despite the misplaced memory, Ink knows that he is safe. “I know you’re awake, Sunshine. Your lack of Multiverse shaking snores is giving you away,” he continues, honeydew-yellow pulling his words up.
It takes a moment. But, eventually, the bed creaks as Dream stretches and yawns. Ink snorts at the feline-esque actions. And, he’s only proven further as a trill-turned-purr hitches in the back of Dream’s throat. It’s a pastel kind of sound. Soothing, in its familiarity. And from where he now lays, Ink is able to watch as Dream slowly blinks at him, each and every movement basked in tones of honest adoration.
Amber and coral paint his gaze in wide, boundless strokes. It’s almost greedy how much he’s feeling. The detail of the scene; The colors that continue to swirl and mix. It doesn’t help when Dream cups the curve of his jaw with as much care and compassion as a sculptor that’s carved their final masterpiece. And, the kiss he settles against the dip of Ink’s brow— confident as hope itself, deep as summer heat— just about confirms it proper. Ink needs a refill. He’s not going to last for much longer, otherwise.
But, just as Ink has accepted his conclusion, Dream reaches out and pulls him even closer.
The feeling is nearly indecipherable from that of laying beneath the eternal sun. Dream’s hand rests upon the vulnerable expanse of Ink’s back, confident as he guides him into the intimacy of his chest. When Ink focuses, sockets closed and face once more pressed into well-worn fabric, he finds the gentle, quiet rhythm of life itself. Still beating; Still burning. Dream’s soul is exactly where it should be. Almost instinctively, Ink smiles. He lacks the cerulean shame to care, as he hooks a leg atop the strength of Dream’s thigh: worming his way even closer. Sadly, he seems to be as close as he can be. But, still, there is always room to yearn. If only he could wriggle his way into the sketch itself. Become one with the very concept. He is ink, after all. There should be a way.
But for now, Ink will just have to settle for a mirrored hand on Dream’s back and an arm— happily— numb beneath his weight.
Stars does he need something to balance out his palette.
…Just how much sunset-sweetness had he indulged last night?
Before Ink can fight against the endless buttercup-joy and cherry blossom-want that has taken root within his ribcage, Dream leans down and bestows a subtle kiss to the cusp of Ink’s cheek. “How did you sleep?” Dream asks, voice deepened by morning. He nuzzles into the availability of Ink’s bone, and Ink allows himself to snort when he realizes he’s tracing his ink splotch.
It is no question that Dream could overpower Ink. His strength was literally and fundamentally otherworldly. And, while Ink does possess the gift of being something else entirely, he’s still beholden to simple realities. There was always the option of escape. And yet, Dream had the power of knowledge. If he truly wished, he could hold Ink close: capture him, and never let him go.
But, he doesn’t. And, he wouldn’t. It itches like a palette knife against canvas, when Dream allows himself to be wrangled— pushed against the silk of his pillow, and pinned down like an idea upon a cork-board.
Dream smiles as he looks up at Ink. It feels like worship; It feels like… something. Something that Ink is struggling to swallow. Sweet and honest. Honey-like and true. Dream’s sockets are half lidded, his grin shaped like a hill’s gentle curve. It’s as if there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Ink breathes.
Quell the colors; Hold the feeling.
“Well,” Ink starts, drawing out the sound. Idly, he slips his hand into Dream’s. It’s indulgent. But, most things with Dream are. The sunlight pours through the half-open window, and Ink finds himself immersed in the scent of life and creation: awoken with the rise of day. But, even so, it isn’t as warm as Dream’s softening expression. He seems comfortable, from where Ink is laying atop him. Pleased. “I can’t sleep. So, gonna tell me which mistress you were confusing me for? Don’t tell me— Cross! Again!?”
It is something he lacks. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t live, he doesn’t feel.
All he can do is pretend.
Dream’s huff of laughter is colored apricot sweet. He pulls Ink down, and places another kiss to his cheek. “No,” he giggles, expression scrunching as Ink blows a raspberry into the corner of his mouth. Gently, he pushes Ink’s face away, still golden in everything he does. “No… not this time, at least,” he jests, words still hesitant around the shape of sarcasm.
It’s endearing, though. Cute. Ink gives a sloppy kiss just beneath Dream’s circlet. He simmers in how Dream doesn’t complain.
With skill, Ink rolls off of Dream to sit up. His bandolier is hanging safely from the edge of the nightstand. It’s easy to grab; It’s even easier to begin the ritual of refilling. Dream watches, now laying on his side, with what can only be described as reverence. The green settles like a sprawling background. Yellow blooms within him; Orange coats the ambrosia taste. Red deepens, pink yearns, and purple squirms. Blue is next— joining the mixture like a raindrop into ocean. And, then, cyan flows down within.
Still, the heat rises; Still, the indulgence begs.
“...You were sleeping,” Dream says, almost hesitant. He’s as proper as he always is. But, Ink can pick up on the carefulness of his tone: the light blue uncertainty that coats his words. Carefully, Ink sets his bandolier— vials included— back where it may rest. He plops back down in front of Dream. And without judgment, he trails the curiosity that paints Dream’s expression: still confident despite the apprehension. “I was watching you. You were asleep, I believe.”
“Weirdo,” Ink snorts, tucking away the memory of hours spent staring as Dream slumbered. Dream sighs, still smiling, and Ink takes the chance to press their foreheads together. It’s warm. Nice. “So Mr. Stalker, what made you think I was snoozing the night away?”
Somehow Dream’s expression softens even further. It’s almost too sweet— too kind— how his smile widens: golden blush dappling his features hand in hand with the morning light. Ink nearly has to look away; The feeling is nearly too much. But, before he can indulge or ignore, Dream reaches out and tugs him close.
The comfort of Dream’s chest is a wonderful place to hide. Ink smashes his face as close as he can manage. He is rewarded, kindly, with the gentle rumble of Dream’s voice.
“It… it scared me at first, but you stopped breathing. You had your eyes closed and you weren’t moving— for a moment I thought you’d lost yourself. But… your magic was still running. It was as if you’d passed out. It was then I realized,” Dream explains. He pauses for a moment. And then, he adds, “...You started to twitch and grumble. It was cute.”
Oh.
Huh.
Ink attempts to call upon his memory. All he finds is a golden, sunset haze. He buries his face deeper into the softness of Dream’s pajamas. He forces himself to breathe.
When he looks up at Dream, he’s able to school his voice into casual playfulness as he says,
“I could have been pretending, y’know.”
“Were you?”
Again, something bubbles up. Again, Ink struggles to swallow it back down.
But, before Ink can begin to dig through the coating of colors, Dream is rolling the both of them over. Once more, Ink is pleasantly smothered into the mattress. He breathes in the tranquility. Slowly, the serene heat continues to blossom. Ink allows his hands to rest across Dream’s back.
He is safe; He is known.
“I don’t remember,” Ink admits. He stares up at the ceiling and traces the splotched, scattered colors.
Dream hums. He pulls himself closer, and Ink allows the indulgence. “That doesn’t mean it never happened. You could have been awake,” he reminds: kind despite the mantra. His memory does not dictate reality; Some part of him holds the experience— good or bad— despite what he knows. When art is painted over, what remains beneath still remains. Dream doesn’t need to speak it aloud. Ink knows the words: what matters is that it happened.
Still, the lack of evidence chills.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” Dream apologizes. His words settle like the sun beneath the horizon: still warm despite what surrounds. Carefully, he leans himself forward. Ink sighs into the kiss he’s pulled into. Dream’s weight feels like a blanket of paint. Knowledge that he will always be safe— always be real. “...Either way, you were cute.”
Ink snorts. Dream dodges the flimsy kick, laughs as Ink rolls and pins him down, and attacks with a final, sunny-sweet kiss.
It’s wonderful. It feels like daylight and endless creation. Ink indulges in the sensation; He allows his palette to blossom throughout his marrow— to grow and reach until it feels like he will never stop feeling again.
Ink doesn’t remember much after that.
The morning continued; The day passed. The cycle, as always, turned with time. It would be silly to guess at the details. Even if he wanted to, Ink would be left with fuzzy colors and out of reach feelings.
And yet, Ink knows that the sun rose. Ink knows that the warmth bloomed within. Ink knows that Dream was there.
Dream was there. That’s what mattered.
That’s how it is. And, that’s how it will always be.