Archive of Our Own

Dream was still glowing.

It had been hours since he and Cross had done the unthinkable in that abandoned universe, and Dream’s aura still flickered uncontrollably around him—gold dimming and brightening like a faulty star. Every few steps his knees threatened to give out beneath him, and the stupid smile he kept wearing appeared at the worst possible moments.

Dream couldn’t stop thinking about him. About Cross steadying him when his legs refused to work. About careful hands cleaning sweat and... other things—from his bones. About the way Cross looked at him afterward—not guilty, not ashamed, but soft. Reverent.

Loved.

Dream’s soul felt unbearably warm.

The worst part was that he still felt Cross everywhere. His magic had soaked into Dream’s very being; lingering beneath his ribs, clinging to his aura, staining him in ways no amount of scrubbing could remove.

Love, Dream realized, did not let you walk away clean.

Neither did forbidden things. And gods, had they done something forbidden.

Dream touched the marks scattered across his neck before immediately snatching his hand away again.

Stars—He was never surviving this.

The dead universe around him remained silent as he and Cross finally parted ways—reluctantly, carefully, like separating would physically hurt them.

Maybe it did.

Cross had offered to walk him home more than once. Dream refused every time. Lovers or not, they were still enemies to the rest of the multiverse. Their friends would never accept this.

Nightmare would probably kill Cross on sight—The thought alone made anxiety twist beneath Dream’s ribs. But even fear struggled to survive beneath the overwhelming afterglow still flooding his system.

Cross said he loved me—The thought hit him again, like a wave. Dream nearly walked directly into a tree.

“Oh, for stars’ sake,” he muttered to himself, covering his face with both hands as his aura flared brighter in response.

This was a disaster.

A wonderful, life-ruining disaster.

Because Dream—the Guardian of Positivity, beloved god of hope, symbol of restraint and purity—had finally let himself want something. Now he wasn’t sure he could survive being seen. And somehow, despite the anxiety clawing beneath his ribs, Dream couldn’t regret any of it.

That was the frightening part.

And it only got worse.

Dream had just managed to return to his home in the omega timeline. Every step felt like walking with sunlight trapped in his ribs, every step a burst of soreness that reminded him of what they've done.

The god was still a little unsteady physically, but also freshly corrupted and freshly… wrecked. Wrecked in a way no god should be. Wrecked in a way that made him feel too much, and his aura flared uncontrollably.

Even then, Dream was still a little worried—underneath all his giddiness. Worried whether his brother would kill Cross or not. Anxious about what Ink and Blue would think of him now that he wasn't "perfect" and "pure". Concerned about what being a corrupted god truly meant, and what it would do to him—What would he become? Would he corrupt and end just like his brother, or would he escape such fate?

Such uncertainty was killing Dream.

Luckily for him, those worries were still drowned—just faint whispers—under his afterglow.

All he could think now was how perfect everything had been.

There was still too much evidence of Cross on his bones; the faint scent of another, the ghost of hands roaming his body, the feeling of something inside that has long since retreated... Not to mention how Dream's aura kept quivering. His pupils were still shaped like two small yellow hearts, his magic refused to leave his cheeks, and the most telling symptom was that Dream still carried that "I ascended and descended in one night" look on his face.

But if asked, Dream would accept doing it all again. He already damned the consequences—now he had to face them.

For the first time, Dream realized love could expose him more easily than any enemy.

And exposed he was.

Because Blue… Blue was the worst possible person for Dream to walk past in this state—the most observant, the most caring, the most likely to panic. He was the kind of concerned mother hen who noticed if Dream’s shoelaces were tied differently.

Of course Blue would see the signs.

And Dream was stupid enough to forget that. His mind was on cloud nine, and he didn't pay attention to such details. 

He should've.

By the time Dream reached the door to the Star Sanses' shared house, he had convinced himself he looked normal. Presentable. Neutral.

A lie.

His aura betrayed him—every flicker a memory, every pulse a confession. But Dream, still drunk on affection, let himself believe he could fake composure for at least five minutes.

He couldn’t.

Dream had completely forgotten about how he currently looked when he opened the door to his house—their house. He had been an idiot—a lovesick idiot, sure. But one nevertheless...

And his friends were about to notice everything.

At first, everyone behaved normally. Blue went to the kitchen to prepare food for them, and Ink went to prepare the room for eating; including retrieving the retractable table kept on the spare room. Dream just helped where he could—mostly in the kitchen.

No one noticed the suspicious smile that appeared on the god's face when he thought about Cross, or the way his aura kept lightening the room more than any lamp could. No one noticed the newfound neutral temperature Dream's aura sported, or how he was slower to cut the vegetables than normal.

No one had noticed anything.

But that didn't last.

Blue had stopped his cooking to initiate some sort of small talk. It was at that moment he finally looked at the Guardian. It had been brief—but brief was all he needed.

Blue gave one small look at Dream, and then... did a double take. Dream's aura was the most obvious sign that something was wrong, and before Blue could process why, he latched onto that.

“… Dream?” Blue's tone was slow, shaking only the smallest bit. "...Why are you glowing like a wish lantern?"

Dream didn't notice—too lost inside his own rose-tinted memories to care.

Then—the words clicked.

Dream froze. "It's not what you—"

But Blue—smart, perceptive, protective Blue—started piercing the laid out evidence together faster than his friend could defend himself. Dream’s flustered, too-soft expression, the obvious love-bites, the way Dream seemed unstable in his own legs, the faint glitter-like purple magic clinging to his aura—The undeniable signature of Cross’.

Then, Blue's mind made the connections: How Dream and Cross stared at one another in battles. How they conveniently disappeared sometimes—just for Dream to return with a blush and a joyous far-away look. How Blue had caught Dream often doodling Cross on Ink's group drawing sessions. And, the most screaming evidence of all: how the Guardian looked right now.

And, in seconds—before Dream could even finish his phrase—sky-like eyes widened and Blue's face paled.

"Oh. My. Stars."

Dream gulped. "Blue, I can explain."

In fact, he could not explain. Not because he didn't try, but because Blue had become a mix of incomprehensible gasps, slightly panicked exclamations and rapid-fire questions. He had entered overprotective mode, and was panicking.

"Oh no, you two..." He started, "Was it consensual?! Are you safe?! Are you hurt?! Are you hydrated?! Did you—oh my god—did you?!"

Dream was dying inside.

Blue’s interrogation softened into worried muttering, the kind only a friend who loves too much can produce. Dream tried to piece together excuses, any excuse, but every sentence crumbled the moment it reached his tongue.

And just when Dream thought humiliation had peaked—

footsteps echoed down the hall.

Ink decided to appear there two minutes after Dream had been already humiliated with the most embarrassing questions he had ever heard come from his friend's voice.

Dream hoped Ink wouldn't understand anything. He hoped his friend was in one of his "slow days".

He had no such luck.

All it took was the time for Ink to settle the table down before he took one look at Dream and paused. His ever-changing eyes kept switching as if they were a luck game—trying to decide on a shape. Ink looked at Dream, then at Blue, and back to the god again. A tilt to his head, and his eyes changed again.

This trance-like dance continued for far too long—according to Dream's nervousness.

Blue stayed awfully quiet, just cringing a bit whenever he looked at the confetti-like marks on Dream's neck. Blue looked close to fainting, but while the behavior didn't escape the artist, Ink didn't seem worried about it, still entranced by who knows what he was seeing.

Ink did have the ability to see and do things many couldn't—Dream wouldn't be surprised if Ink somehow ascended into a god—so the thought wasn't that crazy.

"Uh... Ink?" Dream tried, waving a bit in front of his artist friend. "Hellooo?" 

That snapped Ink back to reality.

"Dream! You seem... wobbly?" Ink's eyes fixed on a question mark and a swirl. "Did you fall?"

Dream latched onto the lie like old gum under a table. "Yes."

"From where?"

Blue grumbled behind Dream, still processing everything. "From grace."

"... Oh.”

Five seconds of silence.

"—Oh, dear Creators!"

Then, Ink started squealing in delight. Two gloved hands found Dream's shoulders, and another set of eye-shapes were staring at him. Ink’s eyes flickered into bright stars and Dream felt his aura stutter, like a candle caught in wind.

"Who?!" Ink squeaked loudly.

Dream couldn't do more than hide his blush behind his gloved hands.

"No, no, no!" Ink started laughing, still grabbing onto Dream, but mindful to avoid putting pressure on the god's unstable legs. "You need to tell me whom you did the thing so I can stare at them! Please!"

Dream avoided the star-gaze, looking down in embarrassment while Ink suddenly went as still as a statue. The artist's eyes, though, went back to looking like a fortune's wheel: changing shapes and colors rapidly. Then, they settled into a star and an exclamation point, and Dream braced himself for what would follow:

A gasp. "Was it Cross?!"

Ink's stare was too intense to ignore.

Soon, Dream meekly nodded.

Ink squealed louder, and almost vibrated in place. "My ship is sinking! I knew this day would come!"

Blue hushed the artist, reprimanding him while giving him a bucket that was soon put to use—filled with ink, by Ink. But not even the frenzy—and the consequences it brought—were enough to stop the Protector of Universes from wooing over the Guardian of Positivity.

Ink was excited. Way too excited.

The artist immediately went to shipping, going on a tangent on how the Creators will love the news while he started writing his discovery on his scarf—immortalizing the moment so he wouldn't forget.

Embarrassment pooled in Dream like warm honey.

And for the whole day, his friends dedicated themselves on teasing Dream and trying to squeeze out all the details they could out of him.

All Dream could think was how lucky he was that his friends were supportive. 

But while Dream’s day dissolved into laughter, teasing, and far too many questions he’d never live down, somewhere across the multiverse, the afterglow did not inspire warmth.

It inspired fear.

Because Cross kept thinking: His boss would feel the change in him like a pulse under the floorboard, and he would be turned into a black-and-white carpet. Dream would loose him before they had the chance to publicly officialize their relationship.

Cross was worried.

It was normal for him to disappear from the castle for hours only to appear suddenly with no explanation whatsoever. But he was stretching the limits thin—stalling the encounter. It had been way too many hours already, and Dream's aura still hadn't faded from his bones.

Nightmare would know. There's no way he wouldn't. And Cross was getting worried that when he appeared, his boss would kill him.

"You tainted my brother, you filthy mortal. Die!"—That's the image his mind kept replaying in his head.

It wasn't comforting.

Even then, Cross refused to think about his death, and instead, kept walking towards the castle—his home—that he had been avoiding.
The moment he set foot on the castle was like the warning growl of a rabid animal before they bite. Cross immediately knew he wouldn't manage to get out unscratched.

And he was absolutely right.

Cross had mistakenly thought silence meant vacancy. He thought the living room of the castle was not occupied. He had walked right into a trap he would have noticed if he hadn't been basking into the afterglow still.

The moment he appeared in the doorway, he was met with sound.

A gasp. Dust's.

"For all the XP in the world—" A horrified pause. "Cross, you did not!"

Dust got morally offended—staring as if Cross had committed a heinous crime. Horror stayed eerily quiet—staring at him in pure unreadability. And Killer—the only source of noise—was crackling with laughter against the table. He was loud. Unhinged. Screaming. Loving every second of embarrassment he was giving his friend.

Killer laughed so hard his liquid hate mixed with tears. "No way! You did Sunshine? Like... Actually did him?!"

No response, but something on Cross' face must've betrayed him.

Killer wheezed. "Cross that’s illegal!" More laughter. "—I can't! This is priceless!"

There was no getting out of this with a lie. His arms still had scratches that refused to heal—even with his weird code trying its best. His back was still an artwork of lines that made it very obvious what activity he had just engaged in.

And to top it all off, he was glowing. Literally, and figuratively. The soldier was already blushing, the purple mixing with the faint yellow that he was constantly oozing. The sight reminded him of back then, and that only made things worse.

Cross wanted the earth to eat him whole.

He had no such luck.

Horror quietly squinted. Then, his deep voice came with a sigh, barely cutting through Killer's laughter. “… buddy, is the apple boy the reason you look like... that?”

"Uh..." Cross looked everywhere but at Horror.

Dust grumbled, almost pouting. "I can't believe you won't even admit it."

Then, in a burst of bravery, Cross said: "I did it."

It was the wrong set of words.

Killer hollered. "Cross, you can’t just—did he—did you—what was it like?!"

That moment, Cross started contemplating self-dusting.

The teasing didn’t stop. If anything, it escalated—Killer dramatizing the entire event like a bard retelling a legendary scandal, Dust muttering curses about morality, and Horror offering Cross a glass of water because 'he looked dehydrated'.

Cross endured it. Barely.

The truth was written all over him. In scratches. In glow. In the stupid softness in his magic that hadn’t faded since Dream touched him. And that softness—that tenderness—was exactly what ended the laughter.

Killer froze mid-joke, staring at something over Cross’s shoulder.

The shift was immediate, jarring.

The room went quiet.

Too quiet.

And Cross could guess exactly what was happening.

Nightmare had specific aura pulses for each one of them. A different frequency only they could feel and identify. One brush of it, and they knew exactly what the Guardian wanted of them. But sometimes, when Nightmare's emotions were disorganized—and that usually meant trouble—there was only one person he managed to talk with using this method. The one person Nightmare had passed the most time with. His first "minion"—for lack of a better term.

Killer’s grin dropped. "Uh… Cross? Boss wants to see you." 

Cross’s stomach fell through the floor.

Killer swallowed, voice suddenly serious.

"Alone." 

That was all it took.

The afterglow curdled into dread.

Cross knew he was in deep trouble the moment Killer shoved him down the hallway with a look that was too sober. Not angry. Not mocking. Just… concerned.

Which was worse. Far, far worse.

The walk to Nightmare’s office felt like trudging into an execution chamber. Every step louder than the last.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Dream’s magic wouldn’t stop glowing. He wished—just once—that he could turn it off.

Cross swallowed, tugging his cloak tighter around himself. It didn’t help. The fabric was soaked—no, sparkling—with the remnants of Dream’s aura. He briefly thought about changing, but... it wouldn't matter. He could still feel it on his bones. His lips tingled with honey, apple, and residual positivity. His soul felt like it had been dipped in sunlight and left to dry. He was probably radiant.

Radiant was bad.

Radiant screamed, "Dream and I definitely did things."

It announced that they've sinned, and exactly how.

Cross stood in front of the office door for longer than necessary. He hoped he could hear his boss inside, feel his aura, know anything. Just wishful thinking.

It didn't help him calm down one bit.

Cross knocked once. The door didn’t creak open. It opened like a living thing. Not prompted by his hands, but by an invisible force.

Inviting.

Terrifying.

Nightmare sat behind his desk, quiet, still, unreadable. The temperature of the room wasn't freezing cold; his aura wasn't trying to choke him—like Cross expected—nor a single tendril of darkness curled from the god.

That was another flavor of terrifying.

"Cross, sit," Nightmare said, voice cool and clean as polished obsidian, motioning toward a low cushioned bench near the wall.

That alone told what type of conversation he was about to have.

Everyone in the castle knew: if Nightmare didn't offer you to sit, he was either asking for a report or about to give orders. If he motioned to the chair in front of his table, it was either normal talk or a correction of misbehavior. But the bench?

Purely personal.

Cross obeyed because—surprisingly—Nightmare didn’t radiate hostility. His aura was a neutral sort of cold—yes, oceans-deep and unsettling, but not violent.

Not aimed at him.

Nightmare sat across from him, folding his hands in his lap like someone who’d practiced a thousand calm conversations no one ever let him have.

For a long moment, the corrupted god simply studied him. And Cross... He tried his hardest to hide how nervous he was. He could deal with standing. He could deal with the chair. But the bench? That was rare—and the circumstances were less than ideal.

He wasn't so sure he could manage this.

His bones were creaking.

His soul was creaking.

Nightmare folded his hands, staring at him with a gaze like galaxies of corrupted cyan. “…You reek of my brother."

Cross felt everything in him collapse inward—like someone had punched straight through his ribs and scraped their hand through his soul. There was no hiding. Not from a god that ruled over emotions. Not from a being who could read fear like scripture.

Cross almost wished he had died immediately. Then, his embarrassment wouldn't be eating him alive.

"I did—it’s not—we didn’t—well, technically we—" He inhaled sharply, and the rest of the phrase died in his throat with a groan. Or a pitiful whimper.

Normally, Cross would immediately apologize—but not this time. He wasn't sorry about what he did. He didn't want to apologize for being with Dream, so he bit his tongue and stayed quiet.

Of course his boss noticed.

Nightmare blinked once. Then again, slower. "You don’t need to explain," he cut in gently. "You both are adults who knew exactly what you were doing. I didn’t drag you here for a confession. I only need you to listen."

Cross swallowed.

Something in Nightmare’s tone made his chest tighten—not with fear, but with a strange, aching gravity. But, of course, Cross was dealing with a Guardian of Feelings. If he couldn't hide from Dream, then thinking he could hide from Nightmare would be just as foolish.

His emotions were bare—whether he liked or not.

"You think I’m going to hurt you,” Nightmare said, merely stating facts. “That I’m angry with you. That I want something from you." His ruined, cyan eyes softened. "I don’t."

Cross hesitated. "...Really?"

Nightmare exhaled slowly. His aura dimmed, like a fading tide. "Cross," his voice gentled in a way it never did. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it to the bench."

That phrase had so many meanings... Cross wasn’t sure whether that was comforting or not.

Nightmare’s gaze drifted deliberately—unreadable—to the golden smear of Dream’s aura across Cross’s collarbone. His expression tightened.

Not angry.

But… uncomfortable.

"... Of all the things I expected from Dream," Nightmare murmured, pressing his knuckles to his lips, "this was not one of them."

Cross swallowed again.

This time it hurt.

"You’re… not mad?"

Nightmare’s gaze snapped back to him.

Sharp.

And strangely sad.

"I am…" He searched for the word. "Conflicted."

Cross tensed.

Nightmare continued quietly: "Because part of me wants to throw you into the void for touching him."

Cross paled, laughing nervously. "I–I just—Please don't, Nig–"

"But," Nightmare interrupted, leveling him with a look too honest to be cruel, "the other part of me is… relieved. Dream finally allowed himself to be something other than restraint. Stopped trying to be something he isn't."

Cross stared. He wasn't getting half of what the Guardian was telling him, and he had no words to share—but even if he had, he wouldn't dare interrupt the corrupted god when he was opening in such a vulnerable way.

Nightmare’s voice dropped lower. "You don’t understand the significance yet. You don’t understand what happens to a god when they feel too much." Nightmare’s gaze drifted away. “Gods are made of emotion, Cross. When too much feeling builds without release, we corrupt.”

His fingers tightened together.

“That’s what happened to me.”

Cross froze.

Nightmare leaned back in his side of the bench, shadows shifting like tired wings.

“Tell me, Cross...” His tone changed—

In that moment, Nightmare wasn’t a king. He wasn't a god—or a Guardian. He wasn’t Cross' boss. He wasn’t a monster.

He was a brother.

"What do you know of my corruption?"

Cross opened his mouth—

but no sound came out.

Nightmare nodded. "Exactly. You know nothing."

Cross tried not to flinch—It was easier when all Nightmare's gaze reflected was softness. An expression that hurt to look at.

"Let me tell you," he said. "So that when Dream falls..." A pause. "I hope that, at least, he will fall into hands that won’t drop him. But for that, Cross, you need to understand what you are holding in your hands."

Nightmare exhaled slowly. His aura dimmed, like a fading tide.

"I wish I didn't have to do this..." Nightmare muttered. Cyan eyes unfocused, as if it pained him to say it.

"You don't need to—" 

"I do."

The tone of voice—resolute, firm, determined—was enough to shut Cross. Nervousness slowly left place for curiosity. And despite his sense of self-preservation, Cross couldn't help but lean in to hear more.

"Because Dream won’t listen to me," he said. "But he will listen to you. And you... You listen to me."

Nightmare leaned back, fingers tightening ever so slightly as if the next words physically pained him. "You need to understand how this war began. You deserve that truth. And Dream… needs the truth even more."

Cross braced himself. But nothing could prepare him. Nightmare didn’t raise his voice. Kept his tentacles out of view. Barely seemed angry.

That was the worst part.

Cross suddenly felt his mouth much drier than before. He really hoped Nightmare wouldn't take his next words as offense—because he didn't meant them as one.

"Then, will Dream become... like you?"

Nightmare shook his head. "Corruption," he said, "is not darkness. It's overflow. It's supposed to be gentle, and not an explosion of emotions. I became like this because I bottled up my feelings, and they burst. There was too much pain in me... just as there is too much love in Dream."

Cross blinked, stunned.

Nightmare’s eyes softened. "This form you see," he gestured to his body, the void-dark substance clinging to his bones, "is not corruption itself. It is a scar. It is what was left of me when I shattered."

His mouth twitched with a bitter curve.

“Dream will not become like me. Not unless he breaks the way I did." An easy smile found the Guardian's face. "And now I know that won't happen."

Cross frowned curiously. "How can you be so sure of it, boss?"

"Because things changed," he admitted with a satisfied smirk. "I once feared his breakage. My brother has always been restraining himself, suppressing his emotions, keeping himself controlled for centuries, containing his feelings like I once did—but now..."

Silence.

Agonizing silence.

The Guardian's gaze got lost in his hands—fingers trembling. Cross' lowered his head, pursuing the god's attention, but Nightmare seemed in a mental limbo.

"...Now what?" Cross couldn't help but search Nightmare's avoidant gaze. "What changed?"

Nightmare's cyan eye found Cross, burning with sincerity—and an even rarer emotion on them: love. Or hope. Or both.

Cross almost recoiled from the sight.

"...Now I know he won't follow my footsteps. His emotions overflowed, yes. But his was natural; not in a burst like mine. He gave in to his emotions... because of you, Cross." Nightmare looked at him, the easy smile still on his face. "He won't shatter like me. Not with you nearby."

Everything clicked in Cross' mind. The way Dream's aura seemed to go haywire whenever he came close. The way Dream yearned for him, but never acted on it. The way he always kept himself controlled, even when clearly bothered. The way Dream smiled easily, even if it was fake.

All forgotten. All because Cross had horrible self-control when it came to his emotions. All because he had kissed Dream that one day—and Dream reciprocated.

Cross’s shoulders trembled with silent relief—and dread.

"Is that... Is that what you wanted to tell me?"

"Not just that." Nightmare's voice turned low and almost fragile. "My brother believes I became a demon because I fell. But the truth is… I became like this because he left."

Cross froze.

"What—?"

"I have always known pain. Better than anyone else. But one day, it all combust. That happened when I thought Dream had left me." Nightmare pressed a hand over his sternum—not dramatic, not accusatory, simply factual. "When he came back, I already looked like this."

He lowered his hand.

"He fled after he saw me like this. Perhaps because he thought corruption was contagious—that touching me would turn him into this."

A pause.

"I thought he left because he hated what I became."

Cross opened his mouth, but it closed once again when he heard a whisper that Nightmare definitely hadn't intended for him to hear.

"I also hated what I became..." Then louder: "I don't blame him for it."

A really long pause.

“And... what about the war? If that's the case, then, how did it star—” Nightmare interrupted the soldier.

"I didn’t start the war, Cross. But neither did Dream." Nightmare closed his eyes, and his fingers crinkled the hem of his shorts. "None of us started it—intentionally, that is. It was merely a misunderstanding. I had just shattered, and my brother only saw the aftermath. The result. This form. I tried to reach for him, but he thought I was attacking, and retaliated." A shaky breath left the god. "He was scared of me. And fear... Fear breeds distance, and distance breeds war."

Cross held his breath.

It made sense. He could picture it happening: a young Dream coming back from who knows where, hoping to see his brother, and finding someone that looks like melting candle wax in his place. Deformed, considering Nightmare's previous form.

Still... One question wouldn't dislodge from Cross' mind:

"Why hadn't you tried to talk to him?"

Nightmare huffed. The same way teachers do when an student asks something painfully obvious.

"I did. For decades... I thought that I could talk to him, so I showed up in whatever universe he was. But... He always got to the conclusion that I was attacking that place. That he needed to protect that universe from harm—from me. I tried talking to him, but he never listened."

Cross frowned. "But... What about the killing?"

Nightmare laughed. It was broken, short, closer to a sob—but no tears flowed. "At some point, I was so angry at him that I thought 'fine. Wants to treat me like a demon? Then I'll be a demon'. So I..." A breath. "It was petty of me. I was too prideful to try something else. I... it was a mistake—a mistake that got too out of control."

That one Cross could understand. Acting out of anger, and creating a huge snowball of problems. His universe, his life, his decisions... Most were mistakes. He had thought kissing Dream was a mistake too—and that got way out of control as well.

A humorless exhale. "Yeah, I can relate to that."

Nightmare knew exactly what he was talking about—if the slow nod was any indication. 

"I only realized all this when it was too late. Only after..." His cyan eye bore into Cross. "After my brother started cracking his perfect shell—for you."

"... Oh." Cross' eyes widened.

Suddenly everything made double sense.

Dream thought Nightmare’s shattered corruption was what happens when a god "falls". Nightmare thought Dream abandoned him out of disgust.

Both were wrong.

Both hurt.

Both started a war—a meaningless war—out of love, fear, and hurt.

Nightmare's eyes trembled a sincerity—a type of vulnerability—that Cross had never seen in the other's face before. "I know it's low of me to ask you to fix my mistakes, but... This mistake... I can't fix it alone. I've tried; Dream won’t listen to me. But I know he will listen to you, Cross."

"You want me to talk to him." Cross had meant it to sound like a question, but the intonation died mid-phrase.

He knew that was precisely the task his boss was giving him.

Luckily, Cross was good with tasks.

"And hopefully, he will want to end this war as much as I do." Nightmare finished, and stood.

Slowly—as if to avoid spooking the mortal—he released his tentacles from his back. One of the four appendages got offered to Cross, giving him something to hold as he stood too. Cross accepted the offer. But when he was about to turn to leave, he noticed the tentacle still hadn't left his hand. He showed his trapped hand to Nightmare, but while the Guardian looked at it, he made no move to separate himself from the mortal.

Nightmare stared at Cross with, once again, an unreadable look.

"Uh... Boss?"

Silence.

"I have another selfish request, Cross."

The words came like thunder in a quiet night.

"...Don’t let Dream fear his own corruption for fear of what I became. Don't let others run over him, or let my brother give more than he can offer. Don’t let him run from what he feels—that'll only make him break," he hesitated, and then, Cross had a very intense, fragile and honest gaze boring on him. "Please... take care of him, Cross."

Finally, Cross felt confidence in what he spoke. Promises were loaded for any Sans, but still, Cross could—and would—make an exception to Nightmare's wishes. It didn't matter; Cross would do that anyway—requested or not.

"I will."

After all, Cross will make sure that, if Dream falls... He will fall into hands that won’t ever drop him—Now more than ever, considering he knows the fragile being he has in his hands: A god. A forbidden fruit. An addictive aftertaste. The reason for his afterglow, yes, but also a glass cup overflowing with emotions. A Guardian. A good friend. A symbol of hope for many. The dearest brother of his boss. A lover.

Cross' lover—his only one.

Dream is someone strong, who takes care of others, but who deserves to be cared just as strongly. And Cross wouldn't mind one bit to fulfill that role.

Sincerity dripped out of Cross, and Nightmare felt every single wave. He knew the words weren't empty.

Nightmare could finally smile in relief, and he did just that.

"Good." Then, the tentacle released him, and a smile not short of sly found the god's face—something that would put Killer's smirks to shambles. "And please, go take a shower. I'm already having trouble to process how you're kind of my brother-in-law; I don't want to send you to the void out of embarrassment."

Cross' eyes widened. "I–You–Brother-in-law?"

He hadn't thought of that.

Then, Cross realized that Nightmare was teasing him, and his purple blush returned—dialed up tenfold. He could handle being teased from his friends, but Nightmare? That was a level of insanity that Cross knew would kill him if it became a constant.

He had a feeling it would become constant.

"What? You do my brother and didn't think about what that would mean between us?" At his stunned silence, Nightmare rolled his eye playfully. "...Dream sure knows how to pick them."

And then, he found himself being hushed out of the office by a relaxed—and happy—Nightmare. And Cross not just thought how he didn't die, but how he could get used to that.

Now, though, he had a duty to fulfill:

End a centuries-long war by talking to his lover.

Yeah... That was a first in his book.

Nightmare’s castle felt too small after that conversation.

Cross stepped out into the corridor carrying the weight of truths that should have cracked him in half. The castle halls stretched endlessly ahead, dark stone breathing cold around him, but his thoughts were louder than the silence.

Dream is breaking. No—Worse.

Dream is suffocating.

Cross slowed.

That realization lodged itself under his ribs with horrifying clarity. Nightmare had survived by excess. By overflow. By drowning. Dream was doing the opposite. Holding. Restraining. Compressing every feeling until there was no room left inside him.

Cross stopped walking entirely.

For the first time since this entire disaster began, he understood why Dream always smiled like someone apologizing for existing too loudly. Why his joy looked practiced. Why his anger vanished too fast.

Why every kiss had felt starved.

Cross leaned against the wall and pressed a hand over his face.

“...You idiot,” he whispered—but whether he meant Dream or himself, he didn’t know.

Because suddenly everything connected.

Dream feared becoming Nightmare. So he treated emotions like poison. Measured them.Trimmed them. Swallowed them down before they could become “too much.” But feelings were not meant to stay trapped forever. Hold your breath long enough and your lungs start begging. Longer than that, and they start failing.

Gods, apparently, were no different.

Cross thought back to Dream’s aura earlier that day.

Not warm.

Not cold.

Wrong.

Beautiful, but wrong. Like a dying star pretending it was still burning.

Nightmare overflowed because he inhaled pain and never released it. Dream was collapsing because he kept exhaling himself away. And corruption—Cross frowned.

No.

No, corruption wasn’t the right word anymore. That was just the name people gave to imbalance once it became visible. Corruption—when Nightmare’s form had warped under pressure because he shattered outward. Corruption—when Dream’s would warp inward. Except—gods don't die permanently. They are reborn; but their form... That changes.

That scar.

Cross swallowed hard.

For one awful second, an image flashed through his mind: Dream becoming dimmer. Smaller. Hollowed. A golden light stretched so thin it finally tore apart. Not exploding. Imploding. A star collapsing under the weight of its own restraint.

Cross' soul twisted painfully. 

Nightmare had been right. Dream wasn’t dangerous because he felt too much. He was dangerous because he barely let himself feel at all.

“Absolutely not.” The words came out sharp.

Because now he understood why Nightmare looked relieved after hearing Dream finally let go. Why the corrupted god had smiled instead of raging.

Dream had breathed. Maybe for the first time in centuries, love had forced open lungs Dream didn’t even realize were collapsing.

Cross looked down at his glowing hands. Dream’s magic still clung there faintly, woven through his phalanges like sunlight caught in cracks. He thought about what that meant. A god had opened himself to him completely. Not just physically or emotionally.

Existentially.

And Cross suddenly understood the terrifying responsibility hidden inside that trust.

Cross laughed once under his breath. Small. Disbelieving.

“Great,” he muttered.

A beat.

Then another.

“…I can work with that.”

And for the first time since Nightmare summoned him, Cross didn’t feel dread. Terrified? Yes. Unprepared? Absolutely. But not hopeless. Because Dream wasn’t doomed yet. Not if imbalance could still be corrected—and gods could still learn how to breathe.

Cross pushed himself off the wall and started walking again. This time with purpose.

The war suddenly felt smaller now. Not unimportant. But secondary. Because underneath all the battles and hatred and misunderstandings was something painfully simple: Two brothers who loved each other so much they destroyed themselves trying not to hurt the other. One drowned in feeling. One starved from it. And somewhere in the middle—

there had to be balance.

Cross intended to drag both of them there if he had to do it kicking and screaming. Because now Cross knew what Dream’s afterglow truly was. It wasn’t corruption. It wasn’t damnation, or impurity.

It was relief.

The relief of a god finally taking a full breath after centuries spent suffocating.

And Cross—

Cross intended to make sure Dream never forgot how to breathe again.

Cross found Dream three universes away.

Not because Dream was hiding well; but because he was hiding predictably.

The Guardian sat alone at the edge of a quiet stargazing AU, knees drawn loosely to his chest atop the roof of some abandoned observatory. Golden light spilled dimly around him in soft pulses, illuminating cracked stone and dust-covered glass.

Dream didn’t look up when Cross approached.

“You talked to Nightmare.”

Not a question.

Cross stopped beside him. “…Yeah.”

Silence stretched.

Dream’s fingers tightened slightly around his sleeves. “And?”

Cross exhaled slowly.

How was he supposed to say this?

How was he supposed to explain centuries of grief in a way that wouldn’t shatter the person he loved?

“He told me about corruption.”

That got Dream’s attention immediately.

The god looked up too fast. “What did he say?”

Fear.

Raw fear.

Cross felt his chest twist painfully at the sight. “He said you’re wrong about it.”

Dream froze.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

Dream stood abruptly. “No.” His aura flickered violently now, gold light stuttering around his body. “No, Cross, you don’t understand—”

“I do understand.”

“You can’t.” Dream’s voice sharpened. “You aren’t a god.”

Cross flinched.

Dream immediately looked guilty—but he kept going anyway, words rushing now like something breaking loose inside him.

“You didn’t grow up hearing what happens to people like us when we lose control. You didn’t see what he became.” Dream gestured wildly, breathing unevenly now. “You didn’t watch him turn into—”

“A victim?”

Dream stopped.

Cross stepped forward carefully. “That’s what he is, Dream.”

The Guardian’s expression twisted.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“He killed people.”

“He was hurt.”

“I was hurt too!”

The words ripped out of Dream so suddenly that even he looked startled by them.

Silence.

Then Dream laughed weakly and covered his face. “…See?” he whispered. “This is exactly what I mean.”

Cross frowned softly. “What?”

“That.” Dream lowered his hands slowly. “That feeling.” His aura crackled around him unevenly. “I’m not supposed to say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s selfish.”

Cross stared at him in disbelief. “Dream,” he said carefully, “being hurt is not selfish.”

The god looked away immediately.

Dream genuinely believed his own pain only mattered when it was useful to someone else. That realization hit Cross harder than any battlefield injury ever had.

“You’ve been doing this the entire time, haven’t you?” Cross asked quietly.

Dream stayed silent.

“Every feeling.” Cross stepped closer again. “Every bad thought. Every selfish impulse. Every moment you needed something.” His voice lowered. “You kept cutting pieces off yourself before anyone else could see them.”

Dream’s breathing hitched. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did!” Dream snapped suddenly. “You don’t understand what happens when gods lose balance!”

Cross grabbed his wrist before he could turn away. “Then explain it to me!”

Dream went still.

Cross’s voice cracked slightly now under the weight of everything Nightmare had told him. “Because from where I’m standing?” he whispered, “it looks like you’ve been suffocating yourself for centuries because you were scared to feel too much.”

Dream’s expression shattered.

Cross softened immediately. “I’m not saying this to hurt you.”

Dream laughed again—but this time it sounded awful. Thin. Exhausted.

“You know the worst part?” he murmured. “A part of me already knew.”

Cross’s grip loosened slightly.

Dream looked down at their joined hands.

“When I kissed you…” His voice trembled. “It felt like breathing after drowning. And that terrified me,” Dream admitted. “Because I liked it too much.”

For a long moment neither of them spoke.

Then Cross stepped fully into Dream’s space and cupped his face carefully. “Hey,” he said softly.

Dream’s eyes lifted toward him.

“You are allowed to feel things.” Cross continued before he could retreat again. “You are allowed to want. Allowed to hurt. Allowed to love people so much it scares you.” His thumb brushed beneath Dream's eye. “And if your corruption is loving too much?”

A small smile tugged at Cross' mouth.

“Then I think you're the most beautiful god in the multiverse.”

Dream made a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. And finally—

Finally—

he stopped resisting being held.

The war did not end dramatically. No final battle split the sky. No prophecy unfolded. No one died in sacrifice.

The war did not vanish overnight, but without the brothers fueling it, the multiverse finally had room to heal. And, honestly, the multiverse didn’t even realize history had changed until weeks later. Because the thing that ended the war was not violence.

It was a conversation.

And unfortunately for everyone involved, that conversation happened in the loudest possible place imaginable.

Dream had chosen neutral ground. Which, in hindsight, was a terrible decision.

The Fluffytale café existed in one of Ink’s favorite neutral universes—a small place between timelines where travelers, soldiers, murderers, merchants, anomalies, and cosmic accidents all crossed paths without asking too many questions.

Meaning it was public.

Very public.

Cross had pointed this out several times.

Dream insisted it would be “less intimidating.”

Cross suspected Dream simply didn’t want either side murdering the other before they spoke.

Which, honestly—fair.

Still, the situation was surreal.

No one was wearing their usual clothing choice—Again: Dream's idea. He said that by changing something small, everyone could start changing behaviors more easily. Everyone agreed.

Still—it was weird.

There were a bunch of cats mewing around; some more curious than others. But just three cats managed to catch Cross's attention: the ones that mirrored his situation right now.

The cats that resembled the twin gods were staring at each other, both a second away from deciding between pouncing to fight or giving up their attack. The monocular black cat was sitting elegantly on the ground, but his guard was up—his tail flinching apprehensively. Not even once did he take his sight off the yellow cat—who was doing the same.

Ccino had told Cross once that those two cats—despite being from the same litter—didn't get along very well. They usually kept their distance from one another—because, when they got close, they always fought. And fought ugly.

He remembered how Ink once told him that the cats' behavior mirrored the person they resembled. Considering that, the animosity between the cats wasn't surprising.

The twins also didn't get along.

Still, Cross felt like Fluffytale was mocking him—because, just between the cats, sat a black and white cat that looked just like him—mediating the twin cats' conflict: just like him.

The Guardian of Positivity sat on one side of the table; glowing softly beneath an oversized sweater that absolutely did not hide the way his aura pulsed; ready to summon his bow or daggers to fight—if necessary. Nightmare sat opposite him with all four tentacles limp behind his back like someone trying very hard to appear non-threatening despite looking like a living eldritch omen. Cross saw how his boss' tentacles kept sharpening on instinct—associating Dream with danger—before forcefully dulling them over and over again.

The twins' clashing auras turned the air heavy, keeping both the cats and customers away—to the dismay of Ccino—who watched everything from behind the counter with an apprehensive expression.

Cross sat between the gods.

A hostage to circumstance.

The bridge between both sides—and he wanted to evaporate.

Dream stared into his tea like it personally offended him.

Nightmare stared at Dream like someone afraid sudden movement would scare away a wounded animal.

The silence stretched.

Tense.

Fragile.

Then—

“I was scared of you.” Dream’s voice nearly vanished beneath the café noise.

Nightmare froze.

Cross paled—disbelief painted his face as he expected the worst outcome. He couldn't believe that's how they would start this conversation—not even a "hello, brother", before going into deep matters.

The sad realization burst through Cross' mind:

Neither of them knew how to speak like brothers anymore.

Dream's fingers tightened around his cup. “When I came back that day…” he continued carefully, “you looked like you were hurting. And I didn’t understand what corruption was yet, so I thought—”

“That I became a demon,” Nightmare finished quietly.

Dream’s expression crumpled. “Yes.”

Nightmare's fingers clenched. He looked down—getting confirmation hurt; but the honesty hurt more than shouting ever could.

Cross watched Nightmare inhale slowly—not because he needed air, but because gods apparently mirrored the shape of emotion even when they didn’t need mortal habits.

“I know,” Nightmare said.

Dream blinked.

“I tried to talk to you,” Nightmare admitted softly. “For years.”

"No, you didn't," came the immediate reply.

On the corner, Cross heard the yellow cat hiss loudly.

Nightmare closed his eye, his posture slumping. "Yes, I did—" He paused. "But you never listened to me. Always welcomed my attempts with an arrow to my shoulder."

Realization dawned on Dream; he looked devastated.

“I thought you were attacking universes.”

“I know—but I wasn't.”

“I thought corruption made you violent.”

“I know.”

“I thought if I got too close to you, I’d become…” Dream gestured helplessly toward Nightmare’s form before immediately looking guilty for it.

Nightmare surprised everyone by laughing softly. “You thought corruption itself looked like this.”

Dream lowered his head. “…Yes.”

Nightmare leaned back slightly. Then, after a pause: “This isn’t corruption, Dream.”

The Guardian of Positivity looked up slowly. Nightmare tapped clawed fingers lightly against his own chest.

“This is what happened after I broke.”

Silence.

Then Dream whispered: “…There’s a difference?”

Cross watched realization begin dawning behind golden eyes. Slowly. Painfully.

Nightmare nodded. “Corruption is imbalance,” he explained. “Not evil. Not impurity. Not falling.” His gaze softened. “We were taught emotions are something to control; but gods are made of feeling, Dream. The villagers were wrong. Everyone's wrong. We are not meant to suppress it.”

Dream’s aura flickered uncertainly.

Nightmare continued: “Too much emotion all at once tears us apart.”

One tentacle appeared from his back, shifting slightly forward. Nightmare looked at the extra appendage with a loaded look. One that told histories of regret, grief and defeated acceptance with a single glance.

“But too little…” His gaze sharpened. “That destroys us too.”

Cross saw the exact moment those words landed; because Dream went very still.

“…Too little?” He echoed faintly.

Nightmare’s expression turned unbearably gentle. “You’ve been starving yourself for centuries.”

Dream looked horrified.

“No, I—”

“You ration your feelings,” Nightmare interrupted softly. “You permit yourself only what is manageable. Only what is useful. You compress every emotion before it becomes inconvenient.”

Dream opened his mouth. Closed it.

Cross could practically see every memory rearranging itself behind those gold eyes. Every swallowed scream. Every forced smile. Every “I’m okay.”

Every time Dream cut pieces off himself trying to remain good.

“Oh,” Dream breathed.

Just that—Oh.

Dream looked at his brother with naked grief. “All this time…” he whispered, “you thought I abandoned you.”

Nightmare looked away, but the reply left his mouth anyway.

“Yes.”

Dream’s face twisted immediately.

“I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Dream’s voice cracked. “If I had known—”

“You were scared.”

The simplicity of Nightmare’s response shattered something. Because there was no accusation in it. No anger. Only understanding. And somehow that made it worse.

Dream laughed once. Brokenly.

“Stars,” he whispered, covering his face, “we’re idiots.”

That got Nightmare to snort unexpectedly.

Cross blinked.

Dream blinked.

Then, against all logic, both brothers started laughing. Not because anything was funny. But because after centuries of war, betrayal, grief, fear, and loneliness—

the truth was absurdly simple.

They loved each other.

They always had.

The intense aura the Guardians had been constantly releasing had subdued, and Cross could finally breathe normally. He leaned back on his chair as tension bled from the air around them. Not vanished—But softened. Like lungs finally unclenching after years spent holding breath.

Dream lowered his hands eventually. His eyes were wet. “So…” he said weakly, “what now?”

Nightmare looked at him for a long moment. Then shrugged one shoulder. “…I suppose we learn how to be brothers... properly.”

Dream huffed a laugh. “Yeah... that sounds fake.”

“Can't do anything about that.”

Cross smiled before he could stop himself. And then—because the universe apparently refused to let sincerity survive uninterrupted—

The yellow and black cat slammed on the table dramatically, almost tipping it over.

Ccino came back from the counter hurriedly, telling the cats not to fight as the cats tumbled one against the other. Nipping. Mewing. Except—

They weren't fighting. 

They were playing.

All worry left the café owner as he—and the sole three customers in the café—turned to stare.

"That's... new." Ccino muttered—incredulity and awe mixed in his expression—looking between his cats and the monsters they represented. "These two never got along before; but now..."

Cross didn't knew which pair the café owner was talking about—the phrase fitting both the cats and the gods' situation. And he, once again, realized how anyone could gather intel about them just by watching the cats' behavior. How the cats were much more open about their real feelings than the gods. But also—

how the cats playing with each other sealed the fact that the war between the siblings was finally over.

And maybe that was the true ending. Not forgiveness, or perfection. Not even the complete disappearance of pain.

Just this: Dream finally stopping fearing his own feelings. Nightmare finally stopping believing he was unlovable. And somewhere between them, the war ran out of reasons to exist. After all—

lungs were never meant to hold air forever.

They were meant to breathe.

With the war officially over, and the misunderstanding undone, Nightmare decided to leave. 

Without the presence of the most feared person of the multiverse, the café slowly refilled as the night stretched on—bristling with customers, until the end of working hours came, and suddenly—

it became quiet.

Just Cross and Dream remaining at the little table near window.

The multiverse drifted outside the glass in ribbons of distant starlight and fractured timelines. Soft gold from Dream’s aura reflected against the window, dimmer now—not weakened, but calmer. Steadier.

Breathing.

Cross noticed immediately.

Dream followed his gaze downward toward his own hands. “…It feels different,” he admitted softly.

Cross tilted his head. “Different bad?”

Dream was quiet for a moment. Then:

“…Different alive.”

Something warm twisted painfully in Cross’s chest. Dream looked exhausted. Like someone who had spent centuries carrying a mountain and had only now realized he was allowed to put it down.

The soldier reached across the table carefully. Dream stared at the hand for exactly half a second before taking it with both of his like he was terrified the offer might disappear.

Cross’s soul ached at the desperation hidden in such a small gesture.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly.

Dream laughed weakly. “I think I scared everyone.”

“No.” Cross squeezed his hands gently. “I mean before... all this.” His thumb brushed against Dream’s knuckles. “You looked like someone trying very hard not to exist too loudly.”

Dream froze.

Cross immediately regretted saying it aloud—until Dream’s grip tightened.

“That obvious?” Dream whispered.

“To me? Yeah.”

The god lowered his gaze again. “…I didn’t know how to stop.”

Cross believed him.

That was the tragedy of it.

Dream had not been pretending out of dishonesty. He genuinely thought restraint was goodness. Thought self-denial was safety. Thought loving too much would turn him into something monstrous. Then Cross kissed him—and the world split open.

A tiny laugh escaped Dream suddenly, startling both of them.

Cross blinked. “What?”

Dream hid part of his face behind one sleeve, embarrassed. “I just realized…” His aura flickered gold around his cheeks. “Our relationship accidentally ended a multiversal war.”

Cross stared at him—Then barked out a laugh so abrupt it nearly hurt. “Oh my stars,” he wheezed. “It did.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“We are ridiculous.” Dream’s smile widened; Cross felt his soul melt a little.

Stars.

There it was again. That unbearably soft expression Cross would burn universes to protect.

Not performed.

Real.

“You know,” Dream murmured after a while, “forbidden love was significantly less tragic than I expected.”

Cross snorted. “Speak for yourself. I almost died six separate times today.”

Dream’s eyes sparkled mischievously now. “But you didn’t.”

“No thanks to Killer,” he grumbled. “He already loved to tease the hell out of me—but now? Now he has blackmail!”

Dream laughed quietly again; The sound settled into Cross’s ribs like warmth after winter.

For a while they simply sat there together, fingers intertwined over cooling tea.

No war. No pretending.

Just breathing; In and out.

Balanced.

Then Dream’s expression softened into something vulnerable again. “…Cross?”

“Yeah?”

The god hesitated.

And for the first time since they met, Cross watched Dream look genuinely uncertain about asking for something.

“…Can I be selfish?”

Cross didn’t even need to think.

“With me?” he said softly. “Always.”

Dream’s eyes widened slightly. Like no one had ever given him permission before.

Maybe no one had.

The Guardian of Positivity inhaled shakily. Then: “…Stay tonight.”

Not seductive. Not playful. Just honest—painfully honest. Cross understood immediately what Dream was truly asking. Stay now that the afterglow is fading. Stay now that reality returned. Stay now that I am no longer overwhelmed enough to forget being afraid. Stay because I don’t know how to do this yet. Stay—

Because I love you.

Cross stood from his chair without a word, walked around the table, and pulled Dream gently into his arms. The soldier buried his face against the god's glowing body and held him carefully, like something holy and heartbreakingly fragile.

"I will," he said. "But only if you promise me something." 

Dream gave an affirmative hum.

“You won't ever again diminish yourself to something you aren't. You'll remember that you don’t have to earn being loved,” Cross whispered. “That you already have me. Always had. Always will.”

Dream made a small, wounded sound against his shoulder. Cross held him tighter.

“I—I promise.”

Outside Fluffytale, universes continued spinning endlessly forward. Creation. Destruction. Change. Balance.

And there, between all of it—

a god who had finally learned how to breathe, and the mortal who loved him enough to remind him.