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Nightmare had stopped asking Error to work for him.
After the seventh refusal, there had seemed little point. The requests had gradually become less frequent, then stopped altogether—not because Nightmare had lost interest, but because there was little dignity in continuing to offer someone the same door after they had made it abundantly clear they had no intention of walking through it.
The first time, Error had laughed. The second time, he had looked offended. The third time, Error had explained at length why working under anyone was fundamentally beneath him. By the fourth, Nightmare had stopped listening.
The remaining refusals had become almost ceremonial.
So when Error appeared in Nightmare's domain one afternoon, leaned against the doorway as though he had every right to be there, and said, “I suppose I could help you,” Nightmare merely looked up from his work. For perhaps half a second, something in his expression shifted—
Then it was gone.
"No."
Error blinked.
Nightmare returned his attention to the papers in front of him.
“You've been asking me to work for you for years,” Error said.
“I have.”
“And now you're refusing me?”
“I am.”
A frown. “That makes no sense.”
“It made sense when you refused.”
Error stared at the Guardian—who just ignored him and continued reading.
The silence stretched. It was an impressive silence. The sort that only two immortals could sustain without either feeling particularly uncomfortable.
Eventually, Error crossed the room and dropped into the chair opposite the desk. “I've reconsidered,” he said.
“I noticed.”
“I am willing to assist you—”
“I heard you.”
Error continued as if the Guardian hadn't said anything. “—When you require additional help. But... not always.”
That caught Nightmare's attention.
“Occasionally?”
“Obviously.”
“So only when it benefits you—?”
Error frowned. “Why would I do otherwise?”
Nightmare considered this. “Good.” He said finally.
Error narrowed his eyes. “Good?”
“I don't want someone working for me who resents being here.”
“I don't resent being here.”
“You spent several centuries telling me that you did.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Error paused. “I was younger,” he added—as if that explained everything.
Nightmare's eye ridge rose—Partly because the statement was ridiculous. Partly because they were both older than most civilizations. Partly because that sounded like a flimsy excuse.
It was a flimsy excuse.
Error apparently realized that at the same time. “I was,” he amended, “less inclined to tolerate your personality.”
Nightmare's mouth twitched.
Error knew there were few things more irritating than Nightmare's ability to remember the smallest details about him while pretending none of them mattered. A particular argument from two centuries ago. A preference Error had mentioned only once. The exact wording of an insult Error had thrown at him in the middle of a war and immediately forgotten afterward.
Nightmare remembered—He always remembered.
Error wasn't sure whether that was impressive or deeply annoying—so he decided on annoying.
“I'm still not inclined to tolerate your personality,” Error muttered.
Nightmare scoffed. "You still aren't inclined to tolerate my personality—and yet, you're here."
It wasn't a question.
Error answered anyway.
“Exactly.”
“… What changed?”
Error looked away. For once, he didn't have an immediate answer. But Nightmare waited. And oh, if Error didn't hate that. That was one of the things Error disliked most about Nightmare. How the bastard could wait forever. Literally. His patience seemed to never wave out—It got on Error's nerves.
Eventually, Error sighed: “You kept asking…”
“I stopped.”
“Yes.”
“So you chose now.”
“Yes.”
“… Why?”
Error looked irritated. “Must there be a reason?”
His voice carried a sharpness that hadn't really affected the Guardian of Negativity. If anything, Nightmare looked amused by his annoyance. Of course, the bastard enjoyed mind games and suffering of all kinds. This would be merely a game for Nightmare—Error knew this.
He hated it.
“There usually is,” he said.
“Perhaps I was bored.”
“Perhaps,” Nightmare echoed, a subtle smile trapped in his mouth.
Error wanted to wipe that stupid smile off Nightmare's face like he could wipe entire cities. Quick, deliberate—and if particularly lucky, he would enjoy destroying that too.
“Perhaps I decided that being useful occasionally was preferable to finding something else to do.”
“Perhaps.”
There was amusement in the dark Guardian's voice. An almost chuckle hiding between the letters—amidst the word. Just hearing that tone shot displeasure through Error's bones, and he felt ready to pounce on Nightmare's throat.
“Perhaps I simply changed my mind,” he said through gritted teeth.
A hum. “Seems likely.”
Error frowned. “That is all you're going to say?”
Nightmare stared at the Destroyer with an unreadable look—the perfect picture of impassiveness. His calmness hiding a storm behind quiet waves. Error knew how Nightmare operated, how he acted, and he hated it that he knew it.
“What would you prefer?”
“I don't know.”
Nightmare returned to work.
Error remained where he was.
After a few minutes, Nightmare pushed a document across the desk. “You can start with this,” he said.
Error looked down at it. Then back up. Then back to the document again—a conflicted emotion crossing his face.
“You already had something for me?” He asked.
“I suspected you might eventually accept.”
An incredulous huff. “You were expecting this?”
“I have known you for a long time.”
Error's fingers tightened slightly around the document.
There it was again. That infuriating certainty that Nightmare knew him better than he would have liked. Not perfectly, of course. No one knew anyone perfectly—not after centuries, not after wars, arguments, alliances, and all the things that had happened between them.
But enough.
Enough to know what Error would refuse. Enough to know what would make him hesitate. Enough to have prepared for him before he had even decided to walk through that door.
Error lowered his gaze to the contract again.
He suddenly found himself far more interested in the wording than he had been a moment ago.
“You're annoyingly thorough,” he muttered. “And that is an irritatingly vague answer.”
Nightmare smiled—that same ridiculous smile he wore when he could see right through Error. “It was intended to be,” he stated.
Error read the first page. Then the second. Then the third, paying attention to the clauses and specific wording that only Nightmare could have written. Error noticed all the freedom and overall... favoritism displayed in the sheets of paper. He also ignored how that made his chest tighten.
“This is tedious,” he said instead.
“... I guess.”
"You could have filled this yourself."
"Perhaps..."
Error felt like growling at the vagueness. At the way Nightmare was practically trying to tip him off trails and get him to become insane with anger. At that stupid, ridiculous smile, and the easy way the cyan eye enchanted him.
Error stared at him.
Nightmare stared back.
Something almost resembling amusement appeared in Error's expression. “You're insufferable.”
A soft chuckle followed.
“Not the first time you say that.”
Error expected the usual satisfaction—the smugness of someone who had managed to irritate him yet again. Instead, Nightmare merely looked at him. There was something strangely gentle in the expression. Not pity. Certainly not amusement. But something... quieter. Error couldn't quite place it, and that annoyed him almost as much as everything else that involved the person in front of him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Error opened his mouth.
He had no answer.
Nightmare's mouth twitched.
Error narrowed his eyes. “Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I wasn't.”
“You were.”
The faintest trace of a smile appeared on Nightmare's face. Error hated that smile—but he was beginning to suspect that the smile bothered him for reasons unrelated to irritation.
“I'll do it.”
Nightmare nodded.
Error took three steps toward the door. Then stopped.
“Nightmare.”
“… Yes?”
“I am just assisting you, okay? I'm not your employee.”
A smile. Genuine.
Error stared at it—and for some reason, that was worse than the teasing. He had expected an argument. A correction. Perhaps some teasing remark about how he had already agreed to the arrangement and therefore had no reason to keep repeating himself.
Instead, Nightmare simply smiled. That small gesture left Error strangely off-balance.
He looked away first.
“I know.”
“And you don't command me,” he added.
“I know.”
“And if I decide I no longer wish to do this—”
Nightmare interrupted him to say: “You're allowed to leave.”
Error turned around. “You really aren't going to argue?” He inquired—just for good measure.
“No.”
“… Why?”
Nightmare was silent for a moment. Then, very quietly, he said:
“Because you came here willingly.”
Error's expression changed before he could stop it.
It was a ridiculous thing to be affected by.
Nightmare hadn't said I wanted you here. Hadn't said I was waiting for you. Hadn't even asked him to stay. He had simply acknowledged the choice as Error's.
And somehow, that was worse.
Error looked down at the document in his hand, knowing that, for centuries, he had made freedom into something sharp enough to defend himself with. He had guarded it so fiercely that even the suggestion of belonging had felt like a threat.
Nightmare, somehow, had never tried to take it from him. The Guardian had just opened the door for him and never once had threatened to close it if he decided to enter.
“... Right,” Error said, noticing too late that the word came out quieter than he intended.
He left.
Error did not return the following day. Nor the day after that. Nightmare did not ask where he was—That, perhaps, was what Error had expected.
What he had not expected was how often he found himself thinking about the contract.
It was absurd.
He had dealt with treaties between gods, negotiated the terms of alliances that had lasted longer than entire mortal civilizations, and once spent nearly a century arguing over a single clause in an agreement that ultimately became irrelevant when the reason for said clause ceased to exist. Either way, a contract should not have bothered him. Especially not this one. And yet, every so often, his thoughts returned to it. The lack of restrictions. The complete absence of demands. The clauses that ensured he could refuse any task he deemed unreasonable. The words that said he could refuse to participate any time. The fact that Nightmare had explicitly stated that Error's assistance would not constitute subordination. Even the compensation was unnecessarily generous.
It was almost insulting.
Nightmare had thought of everything—And, somehow, that was the part Error found most vexing.
That was the problem. Not the contract itself—but the fact that Nightmare had known him well enough to write it. Because Nightmare had known he would object. He had known exactly what Error would demand before Error himself had even made those demands. Which meant that, somewhere along the way, without Error noticing, Nightmare had learned him—not merely his abilities or his habits, but the things he would refuse, the things he would tolerate, and the things that would make him turn around and walk away.
Error disliked that thought.
It should not have mattered—But it mattered enough that, on the fourth day, he returned.
Nightmare was exactly where he had left him—still as a statue if not for the way his hand moved as he wrote something. The Guardian didn't even have the grace to pretend to look surprised to see Error return.
The Destroyer stood in the doorway, watching him for several moments until Nightmare eventually decided to acknowledge his presence.
“You're back,” he said stoically.
Error almost scoffed. “Were you expecting me?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Error narrowed his eyes. “You're lying.”
Nightmare's expression remained perfectly neutral. “I expected you to return eventually.”
“That is not the same thing.”
No answer.
Error crossed the room. There was no particular reason for him to feel as though he was being watched. Nightmare's attention had already returned to his work. Still, Error was acutely aware of every movement he made.
He stopped beside the desk. “I have a question.”
Nightmare glanced up again. “What is it?”
“The contract.”
A pause.
“What about it?”
“You wrote it knowing I would accept.”
Nightmare's gaze lingered on him. “I wrote it knowing what terms you were most likely to accept, yes.”
Error's jaw tightened.
He hated this.
Hated how Nightmare could make every conversation feel like a game in which the rules had been written before Error arrived. He hated that Nightmare could read him so easily—while Error struggled to understand even the simplest glance of the other. He hated how the consideration made Nightmare a little more… tolerable.
“You made it unnecessarily generous.”
“I don't believe so.”
“You did.”
There was that faint amusement again.
Error stared at him. “You're enjoying this.”
“... A little.”
“You're insufferable.”
“You've mentioned that countless times already.”
Error leaned forward, placing both hands against the desk. “You knew I would refuse anything that made me subordinate to you.”
An agreeable hum.
“You knew I wouldn't accept being controlled.”
A small nod.
“You knew I would object to being treated like an ordinary employee.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
For the first time since Error had entered the room, Nightmare seemed to consider his answer carefully. “I wanted you to have the choice,” he revealed.
It was such a simple answer—Perhaps that was why it unsettled him. Nightmare had not tried to convince him. Had not tried to outmaneuver him. Had not tried to make the refusal costly. They had simply left the choice in his hands.
Error's expression faltered—only for a moment. But Nightmare continued before he could hide it—he was certain of that. Nightmare had always been infuriatingly observant when it came to him.
“You never wanted to belong to me,” he said.
Nightmare looked at him.
Error couldn't sustain his gaze. “Then why keep asking?” He queried.
The silence that followed was driving Error mad. But then—
“Because I wanted you here.” A pause. “Just… not at the cost of your freedom.”
Oh.
Error looked away.
His throat felt strangely tight. He hated that something uncomfortable had settled beneath his ribs. He hated the feeling.
He hated even more that he understood it.
For centuries, Nightmare had asked, and he had refused. Yet Nightmare had never tried to force the matter. Never once turned those refusals into debts. Never punished him for them. Never made him regret saying no. Never demanded obedience, or attempted to bind him with promises or threats—even if he could've done that. He could have—and yet... Nightmare had simply kept the door open. And now, for reasons Error still refused to examine too closely, Error had finally walked through it.
Did that mean Error hated Nightmare a little less?
He didn't want to think about the answer…
“You could have started with that,” he muttered.
Nightmare tilted his head. “You would not have believed me.”
Error looked back at him. He opened his mouth—but nothing came out. Because Nightmare was right. And, somehow, that was the most infuriating part of all.
Silence settled between them again.
This one felt different.
Error glanced toward the documents scattered across the desk. “So,” he said, deliberately casual, “what exactly do you need help with?”
Nightmare's mouth curved into that small, bothersome smile. “I was beginning to wonder when you'd ask.”
Error rolled his eyes. “Don't make me leave.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
And there it was again. That strange certainty. That quiet acceptance. As though Nightmare had already made peace with the fact that Error could leave whenever he wished—and somehow trusted that he wouldn't.
Error took the offered document. Their fingers brushed—but that was nothing. Barely anything. Just an accidental touch that lasted less than a second.
Neither moved.
Error became suddenly, painfully aware of the warmth of Nightmare's hand against his fingers.
It was ridiculous.
They had fought beside each other. Against each other. Stood close enough to hear one another breathe while entire cities burned around them. Error had watched Nightmare tear through armies without so much as blinking.
A brief touch should have meant nothing.
And yet neither of them pulled away.
Error looked down.
Nightmare's hand remained where it was.
For one strange, suspended moment, neither seemed willing to be the first to break the contact. Then—perhaps a little reluctantly—Error withdrew.
He hated the small sense of loss that followed.
“Don't get used to this,” he added, just in case.
Nightmare's expression softened by the smallest fraction. “I'm not.”
Error looked at him suspiciously; then, despite himself, smiled.
“Good.”
He sat down.
He didn't leave.
For a while, neither of them said anything.
Error actually worked.
That, in itself, was probably more surprising than anything else that had happened that afternoon.
He read through the documents Nightmare had given him, occasionally making a note in the margins or pointing out some inconsistency that the Guardian had either overlooked or deliberately left there for someone else to find. Nightmare listened. Sometimes he disagreed. More often, he didn't.
It was almost peaceful.
Error found that... aggravating.
He had expected this arrangement to be difficult. He had expected arguments, perhaps even the occasional attempt from Nightmare to give him an order just to see whether he would obey.
There were none.
Nightmare simply treated him as though his presence were the most natural thing in the world. As though Error had always belonged in that chair.
Error caught himself thinking that and immediately frowned at the page.
No. Not belonged. That was precisely the sort of thought he did not need.
He crossed out a sentence with more force than necessary.
Nightmare glanced up, but Error ignored him.
A few minutes passed.
“You're staring.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I was looking at the document.”
“It's upside down.”
Error looked down.
It was.
He slowly turned the page over, cleaning his throat awkwardly.
Nightmare said nothing.
Error could feel the amusement radiating from him.
“Don't.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Nightmare's mouth twitched.
Error returned to the document. Though it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. Not because the work was complicated. Quite the opposite. Error had done things far more difficult than this without needing to think about them. But Nightmare's presence had become distracting in a way Error couldn't quite explain.
Perhaps it was because they were sitting so close.
Perhaps it was because Nightmare had stopped pretending not to watch him.
Perhaps—
“You're doing it again.”
Nightmare's voice interrupted his thoughts.
Error looked up.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me.”
Error blinked. “I wasn't.”
“You were.”
“So are you.”
A pause.
“... I guess.”
Error stared at him.
Nightmare stared back.
Neither moved.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
That was the problem.
Error had spent centuries learning how to tolerate Nightmare's presence. He knew how to argue with him, fight beside him, insult him, threaten him. He knew how to recognize the faint shifts in his expression and the almost imperceptible changes in his voice.
This had none of that. This was different.
There was nothing to fight against. No argument to win, no threat to answer. It was just Nightmare looking at him—and Error looking back.
“Why?” Error finally asked.
Nightmare's brow lifted slightly. “Why what?”
“Why are you looking at me?”
No answer.
Neither moved.
Error's fingers tightened around the edge of the document.
He should look away.
He didn't.
There was something in Nightmare's expression that he couldn't quite understand. The same quietness that had unsettled him earlier was there again, but now Error had the uncomfortable suspicion that he knew what it meant. Or, at least, he knew what it might mean.
That was worse.
Error swallowed. “Nightmare.”
“Yes?”
The word came quietly.
Error suddenly found himself unsure of what he had intended to say.
He wanted to leave.
He could leave.
He had always been able to leave—Nightmare had made certain of that. And yet he was still sitting there. Still looking at him. Still waiting. Waiting for... something.
Error exhaled slowly.
“If I do something stupid…” He started.
Nightmare's expression changed.
Only slightly.
Error looked away—He hated how vulnerable the words felt before he even finished saying them.
“Please forgive me.”
Silence.
Error's heart seemed to stop.
For one awful second, Nightmare said nothing.
Then Error leaned forward.
The movement was hesitant enough that he almost stopped himself. But he didn't. Instead, his fingers caught lightly against the edge of Nightmare's sleeve, more for balance than anything else, and then Error closed the remaining distance between them.
Their lips met.
For one heartbeat, Nightmare didn't move—and Error's entire body went rigid.
Oh, fuck. He had made a mistake. A stupid, humiliating, catastrophic mistake.
He started to pull away—
Then, against all odds... Nightmare kissed him back.
The realization came before the movement did.
Nightmare's hand rose slowly, almost cautiously, as though giving Error every opportunity to change his mind. His fingers settled against Error's cheek, gentle enough that the gesture barely felt real.
Error stopped thinking.
For once, there was nothing to analyze. Nothing to defend. Nothing to escape from. Nothing to hate.
Just Nightmare.
The kiss was nothing like the battles they had shared. There was no force to it, no struggle for dominance, no victory to be claimed. It was simply an answer.
Error's hand tightened slightly against Nightmare's sleeve—and Nightmare's thumb brushed his cheek. And Error, despite every instinct that had spent centuries teaching him to run from anything that felt like a cage, stayed.
When they finally separated, neither spoke.
Error stared at him.
Nightmare stared back.
Error's face felt unbearably warm.
“That,” he said eventually, “was stupid.”
Nightmare's mouth curved. “Perhaps,” he agreed.
Error narrowed his eyes. “You're supposed to deny that.”
“I thought you asked me to forgive you.”
“I did.”
“And I have.”
Error looked away—but he couldn't stop the small smile that appeared on his face.
“You're smiling,” Nightmare observed.
“I'm not.”
“You are.”
“Shut up.”
Nightmare chuckled.
Error leaned back in his chair, still close enough that their hands remained only inches apart. Neither of them made any attempt to move away—Error didn't feel the need to.
The door remained open.
It always had.
And perhaps that was why, when Nightmare eventually returned to his work, Error simply reached for the next document—
And stayed.