Chapter Text
"I'm going to kill it," Nightmare says calmly. Dream's soul seems to stop. He knows exactly who Nightmare is talking about, and he knows Nightmare does not make empty threats.
He'd be infuriated by the way he speaks about them, if not for the fear entirely consuming his thoughts.
Dream should pay attention. He should know what he's up against. But he struggles anyway to pull his wrists away from the thick tentacles, too overwhelmed by the negativity and fear to do anything but flail helplessly. Nightmare's grip is crushingly tight, squeezing Dream's wrists hard enough to make the radius and ulna bend. The corruption burns like acid.
"Listen," Nightmare orders. That voice, the threat behind it, is enough to make Dream at least try to stop.
He stops struggling, eye sockets wide, seconds before one of his wrists fractures under the pressure anyway. He gasps, pained tears running down his face, but stops himself from screaming. Nightmare doesn't even adjust his grip.
Dream doesn't want to listen. He doesn't want to know what Nightmare is going to do, doesn't want it to feel real, anything but that, please--
"Next time I find it, I will catch it, and that will be the last time you ever see it," Nightmare says. "And I'll make it hurt much worse than this."
Nightmare's grip tightens around Dream's wrists, shattering the bones with an excruciatingly painful crunch. This time, he does scream.
Nightmare disappears, leaving Dream to gasp and sob on the ground.
-
Of course, Ink is horrified when they're finally able to get to him. Tears run down their face as they carefully scoop Dream into their arms to take home. Dream had been trying to act calm for them, but just the sight of their face makes him break down again. He'll say it's from the pain, if they ask what's wrong.
They're safety, to Dream, they're the only person he wants to be held by, the only one who could make him feel truly safe in their arms. He nuzzles his skull into their quiet chest, trusts them completely with his broken arms and weakened body and shameful tears.
And they're not safe, now. All because he loves them.
He adores Ink. He doesn't want to live without them.
Really, he wouldn't know how, anymore. The time between losing Nightmare and meeting Ink was short, other than nearly five hundred years he wasn't really awake for.
It was the worst time of Dream's life, starting with the day Nightmare died. He was completely alone, crushed by guilt, clueless and terrified and thrown right into a whole multiverse without any context beyond his tiny village. And he was meant to be a hero, if only to make up for the villain taking Nightmare's place.
And then he met Ink, and they were there for him, only seeking friendship in return. They feared they were weird, wrong, unpleasant, not enough, that he'd see through them and find nothing there.
To Dream, they were-- and are-- truly perfect.
Their cute face is scrunched into a worried expression as they lay Dream down on a bed. They fuss over him, tears still rolling down their cheekbones, afraid to leave for even a minute, until Dream winces at the pain in his bloodied wrists and they can't stand not to run off in search of healing items.
It takes all the willpower Dream has not to call after them. He doesn't want them out of his sight, after what Nightmare promised.
The room seems to twist and spin around him. He breathes in and out, harsh gasps that don't feel like enough air, and each breath moves him just enough to shock his broken bones with new pain. A mix of Nightmare's negativity and Dream's own fear keep him feeling sick and disoriented. It's difficult to think too hard about anything else, so he just waits, trying to focus on taking stable breaths.
Ink comes back safely, a couple long minutes later.
They're so gentle, lifting him slowly so as not to disturb his injuries. When he's sitting up enough to drink safely, a cup of warm tea is held to his mouth, and he sips it without hesitation.
One of Ink's pleasantly cold hands caresses Dream's skull as the other slowly tilts the cup. The magic in the tea starts to work, soothing the pain in his crushed arm-bones.
"Good," Ink says quietly as he finishes the tea. Dream leans into their hand, closing his tired eye sockets. It feels nice to hear Ink say that.
He's doing good, even if all he's been asked to do is drink tea.
He's safe here, with them. All he needs to do is wait, and trust them. His wrists will heal, and Ink will be here for him the whole time.
That's all he wants to know right now, but he can't forget that it's not safe for Ink.
He loves them.
He never should have let them so close to him at all. At least if he were alone, Nightmare could only hurt Dream.
He'd be curled up, in some unsettlingly empty AU, cradling his own broken wrists. Waiting weeks for himself to heal. He'd keep passing out from the pain, images of the real Nightmare floating through his head, until he healed enough to lie there awake and know exactly how helpless he was. He'd be hungry and thirsty, without working hands or magic to get anything for himself. Lonely, constantly daydreaming of someone coming to save him, despite knowing it would never happen.
And he wouldn't be afraid. Not like he is now.
He'd flinch at shadows that look too much like tendrils, at hands that move too quickly, and only have his own temporary pain to fear.
He should have known he couldn't have a friend, not with an enemy like Nightmare to punish him for it.
That's all that Ink's murder would be, to Nightmare. A punishment for Dream.