Chapter Text
They were in a naturally negative-leaning AU, though it had gone through its canonical plot, so Ink didn't complain. That was the deal they'd settled on — he was fine with Dream fighting Nightmare's sway over AUs that had finished their 'script'.
Still, said script wasn't especially nice to begin with, and it carried through to the current moment, too. And many of the monsters here (still in their Underground) did whatever they could to cope.
"It's alright," Dream assured one of them with a smile, healing their wounds, inflicted by several members of Nightmare's gang. "Everyone is alive, from here we just need to heal you, I promise,"
Several other injured monsters were huddled inside the bar, since it was a communal location. Somewhere they associated with togetherness and safety a little more, which is why Dream, Blue and Ink had brought them here for the medical aid. Some more waited around Dream for their turn to be healed — it was a rare ability for the native citizens.
It was warmer here than outside. It smelled like wood, and people, and alcohol and smoke and fried food a bit.
He… wasn't actually entirely sure if anyone was alive. They hadn't seen monster dust, but Nightmare's crew could've offed someone in a back alley of sorts, or in the middle of the forest. Dream really hoped not. He hated lying. People struggled to believe his comfort when they perceived him as a liar.
"Welp," one monster said gruffly, leaning against the bar, "Just more sorrow to drown in th' bottle," they declared, raising a glass of some liquid. Alcohol, Dream assumed, though he wasn't sure what kind. There was a weird lilt to their words.
"Hell yeah," another monster, maybe their friend, lifted their own glass and clinked them together.
"If it helps you feel better," Dream nodded. He'd tried alcohol once, one of the nearly clear types, but the sip had kind of burned, and it had an awful taste, and it didn't really do anything to him, so he didn't personally understand how it could help. But people drank it a lot, both when upset and when celebrating; he'd always assumed it was like some sort of medicine? That it worked in some specific way, like, it needed a certain quantity to work or it worked for some but not for others.
'More sorrow to drown in the bottle', huh? Maybe that's how it worked.
"Okay, your HP is back to full," Dream kept smiling gently, letting go of his current patient so he could move to the next injured.
—
"Thank you so much," another monster near-cried, holding onto his arm.
"Of course," Dream assured them, smiling. As he had the previous fourteen others.
It was another AU saved from destruction, and the people here were, understandably, relieved and ecstatic.
Even if Dream couldn't save everyone. Three dead. He didn't even know their faces, or even their names. Even still, their deaths clung to him the way his own post-battle injuries did. Sharp and painful and itching and shameful. Like pieces carved out of him. That's how every failure felt, even the "smallest".
He swallowed, and kept his smile on, as another family's member came to thank him profusely for their aid. Dream listened and assured them he was at their service, of course, any time, it was his duty, his honor.
He could feel all of their emotions. Everyone's relief, the happiness of surviving, the sheer gratitude they felt that they hadn't been forced to fight on their own — that the Protectors had come to them when they called for help. He also felt all the sorrow and the grief of the mourning, their anger, their bitterness, their hopelessness.
It was all so… so… so much.
He didn't complain, of course. There was nothing to complain about! Dream was happy to help, he truly was. He was happy to bring more hope and more life. It's what he was made for. It's what he was.
It was only the others' emotions. He didn't feel things like sadness or anger or exhaustion. Of course he didn't.
—
"Um, can I come in a moment?" Dream fidgeted, glancing back to one of the villagers (Sandiara, a sand monster, he was pretty sure, he had to remember, he couldn't just NOT know someone's name, then they'd be sad and Dream couldn't make people SAD). Then he glanced back to the Tree in the distance, trying to spot Night there.
"Aw but it's Palmela's birthday!" Sandiara (or maybe just Sandra?) insisted, reaching to take his upper arm. Dream let them, because– because of course he did. It didn't even cross his mind not to. It was– nice, right, it was polite.
"I know," Dream nodded vigorously, "and that's super great!" he insisted, "But um– can't… can't Night come too…?"
The other hesitated, unease mixing in with the rest of their emotions. Oh no.
"Ah… well… I'd love to but… well, do you really think he would want to? He isn't very…" they hesitated.
Right. Night didn't like big events full of people. Dream understood — they were super loud and all full of all kinds of emotions and experiences, but that was supposed to be a good thing! He always thought maybe Night just didn't have as much energy as him — Dream found them just as exhausting as everyone else surely did, but he could push through it. But he didn't understand why everyone acted like it was a bad thing. He didn't understand why they didn't even invite Night.
But he also didn't wanna make Sandiara or Palmela uncomfortable. He didn't like that he'd made them uneasy, he wasn't supposed to make people uneasy. Everyone agreed — he was really nice and what he did was make people happy always! That's why they liked him so much and invited him everywhere. All the time.
"…Okay," he relented, and remembered to smile because he remembered people could sometimes be uneased just by your expression.
"Yess!" Sandiara exclaimed, back to excited, taking off to lead him to Palmela's birthday celebration.
Dream glanced back at the tree again. He hadn't even said 'good morning' to Night today. It made him feel really bad, because he wanted Night to have a good morning and a good day and a good night. He wanted to make Night happy the most.
But he shouldn't be feeling bad at a birthday! It could show and then people would be uneased and it would be all wrong. So he smiled and went to celebrate a birthday. At least it would be fun and exciting.
—
"Dream, sir! Here, from me and Lilac!"
"Oh– ah, thank you," Dream accepted the gift from the monster's hands, careful to still smile and not cringe at it. He also didn't say 'no thank you, I don't drink' and return the bottle because refusing gifts was quite rude. People tended to insist you take them anyway. Neither Blue nor Ink drank, either, so Dream couldn't pass it off to them at the moment.
Ah. Well, alright, he was just about to head home from yet another celebration. He'd just find someone to gift it to. Later, because it was already getting late and Dream didn't want to miss the chance to sleep.
(He didn't get many of those. There was always something to do. That fact kept him up even when he did have the time to lay down.)
In barely a flash, he was back in his house, leaving the bottle of alcohol on his living room table. It looked like wine, maybe? Which he was pretty sure was common for celebrations. It was wrapped with a pretty yellow ribbon. He kind of wanted just the ribbon. He had a teddy bear (another gift, one that he's selfishly kept because it was from his friends and a really nice shade of purple) that it would look cute on.
But then he reconsidered. If he passed the bottle onto someone else, it might be rude to give it without a ribbon. It would be impolite to squirrel away just the ribbon, right?
He sighed, rubbing his face. Okay, he should just… go to bed. He hurried to get into pajamas, expecting to receive a phone call for an emergency at any moment. Not for any particular reason. Just… mentally preparing himself, because it was a common (very common) occurrence.
Especially here. Since he'd been unable to stay in Dreamtale, Dream had, at last, decided to live directly in the Omega Timeline. Blue helped him with acquiring a house, which was a weirdly confusing and complicated process even here. Or maybe it was confusing and complicated to Dream, who was, at the time, barely a couple months out of stone–
Don't think about stone.
Anyway.
It was a pragmatic decision, to live in a house in the Omega Timeline. That way he didn't even need to jump AUs to help its residents, who frequently needed him, considering they were most commonly survivors of destroyed universes. Victims. He was happy to be as available as possible to them. At any time. For anything they needed.
Until then, though, he finally laid in bed. Burying himself into the comfortable blanket and pillows. He really liked his bed. It had more than one pillow even though he only needed one (zero, technically) to sleep on. And a few stuffed toys! Which was a bit embarrassing. It made him feel childish.
The plushies were mainly from Blue and Ink, because Dream would've felt incredibly bad giving away the gifts from his closest friends. And they knew that. They knew he tended to give plushies and such to kids in need. And his clothes, to those in need. And just about anything he could that people needed. But Blue and Ink had practically threatened Dream that they'd be really sad if Dream gave away their gifts. Especially since several of them were handmade (Ink was amazing with crafts).
Which is why Dream now got to reach over and drag that purple teddy bear close to his chest. It was really nice, because he ha– preferred to not sleep alone. Hugging it tightly. Making sure it was warm under the blankets too, and that it knew he loved it so much and cared about it a lot and would never, ever leave it.
"Good night," he whispered quietly, face pressed to the top of its head, because he hoped it would have a good night.
(He never named it.)
—
"Fantastic form, Dream!" Blue encouraged from a few paces away.
"Thank you!" Dream called back, a grin coming over his face. Blue was really nice. Dream highly appreciated how encouraging he was.
"Are you feeling up to close range combat?" Blue asked, starting to remove some bullet constructs from the targets.
"Yes," Dream answered. Today was one of those incredibly rare lighter days, where they'd mainly dealt with issues in the morning. After that, Blue had dragged Dream away from his duties (finding people to help) to Underswap to train instead. Because training was also important.
Combat was one of the skills Dream rapidly picked up as soon as he was freed from his decades-long imprisonment, because it was one of the most necessary ones. Of course it was. He was the Guardian of Positivity — born, made to protect and nurture the positivity in the entire Multiverse. He was the opposition to his– to the Corrupted Nightmare. It was his duty. A unique role that was made just for him, that he embodied; nobody could take his place in it because it was him.
(Not– not his brother. His brother died when he bit that apple. Dream had to accept that already.)
And so now, Dream was a highly proficient fighter. That– that wasn't bragging! He had to be humble. He never quite won against Nightmare — even when he'd get the other to retreat in a battle, that was never winning the war. Dream was not arrogant. But he'd also learned to give himself credit, so he'd stay encouraged to keep going. And objectively, he was great at fighting.
Sure, he had no idea what people were talking about when they spoke about the weight of… taxes or something. But he could fight. He opposed Nightmare — the epitome of Negativity himself — readily, protected the people of the Multiverse. He had to. Being a bad fighter wasn't an option.
He was grateful that Blue reminded him to train.
And so they sparred. It was a lighter day, because Dream got to go home at a reasonable time. It was a lighter day, because no one died in front of him today. It was a lighter day, because Dream didn't need to sit down and heal his injuries.
(It was a lighter day because the guilt was stronger. The shame. The feeling that he just wasn't doing enough, he was never doing enough. Every second spent not helping and uplifting others and improving the world might as well be a second spent giving said world up to his– to Nightmare on a silver platter.)
Dream was itching with something to do. He– he had to be active. Just doing nothing felt… wrong. Blue was never harsh with training, though he definitely didn't baby Dream — but it left Dream with more energy than he was used to. He was used to being active for days at a time, that was his normal. And when he did rest, it was always 'coming home and immediately crashing for as long as he could'.
So he took a page from Blue's book and decided to clean.
Just a bit. Just to wait in case he got called for an emergency because that would be the more normal course of the day (it always felt odd to just… have time for himself). Nothing big — wipe away some dust built atop his furniture, put away stray items, that sort of thing. He… really didn't stay much in his house. It reminded him to check his stash of medical supplies, ensure he had everything. That way he'd know he could always bring people here to treat their injuries, if needed.
Yes. That was good. Sorting the medical supplies, noting what was running out — he was helping. Preparation for future tragedy, prevention, they're just as important for his work. It lifted just a bit of… the tight ball of emotions in his metaphorical gut.
The emotions that Dream wasn't supposed to be having in the first place. That he wasn't having, because he was happy to be responsible and prepared and to think of others' well-being, of course. Of course he was happy there was less tragedy today. Or at least, he was pretty sure there was.
…Unless they'd missed something.
Unless Dream had sparred and laughed with his friends, ignorant that the whole time, someone out there was suffering and he was doing nothing–
He blinked to try and clear that thought, rereading the label of the blister pack he was holding. And then again. Squinted. Medication always had such difficult names… how was this supposed to be pronounced–? There were only a few left, so clearly it got used a lot. So he had to get more.
Maybe he could just bring the pack to the drug store and show it to them. But… then they might think he wasn't capable enough for his work, and they wouldn't have faith in his abilities, so they wouldn't rely on him. He couldn't lose people's faith. He could write it down on a piece of paper and bring that, say it's for a friend? But… agh, he really hated lying. But this might be one of those times it was necessary (there was a horrible amount of such moments).
…It wouldn't be if Dream knew how to read well. It's not that he was illiterate! He just… his reading abilities weren't exactly… he just couldn't read complicated medication names.
(Sitting under the tree, pressed close to Night. Following along the written sentences that Night trailed with a finger as he read about… stars and fairy tales and anything and everything. Reading was one of the things he loved. Dream had tried to bring him every interesting book he came across. Especially since… Night never felt comfortable going to the village's library.
Dream tried to talk to him about it. As time went on, Night began only shutting him down more and more. Dream tried to take matters into his own hands — again, get the books and bring them to Night himself. It worked, until it didn't; until Night started shutting that down too, putting them aside and not even looking at them. Even though he loved reading. And yet, because of Dream, he couldn't even enjoy that–)
Dream squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled. Did he get hit in the chest today? It ached.
(He knew it wasn't physical pain.)
…What sort of Guardian of Positivity couldn't even read past a middle school level?
How was he supposed to protect the whole Multiverse when he couldn't even do that? It was… embarrassing. It's why he hadn't approached anyone to teach him, either. Well, that and the lack of time for it. There were more important things than Dream stumbling over syllables.
…And… and maybe it reminded him of his brother. Maybe there was a stupid, selfish child in him that wanted his brother to sit down with him, and show him how to pronounce the complicated words, how to know when a letter was pronounced this way or that way.
It was so stupid. So selfish. What if Dream's ability to read was imperative to help someone, and there was no one around to do it instead? What if someone needed this medication and Dream didn't have it because he couldn't say the name and felt too embarrassed about it to bring it to the drug store?
He pocketed it away into his Inventory. He'd think of something. He solved problems. It's what his job was.
Even when he was terrible at it.
He felt sorry for the Multiverse, sometimes. For everyone else, Nightmare had decades upon decades to build his power and spread his influence. For Dream, life had passed in a stony vegetative blur, and he woke up what felt like mere days after his brother's corruption. Now, it's only been several years since he was freed from his stone prison.
And now he was still learning. He still stumbled. He still struggled to help people because of things he just… didn't understand. The simplest everyday things.
He didn't know how to mop floors. He wasn't sure if glasses were supposed to be put into the cabinet upside down or right side up. He stared at the bottle of alcohol that he'd moved to his kitchen counter, because where was he supposed to put that away?
He didn't know how to reply when somebody was getting divorced from their toxic spouse who they nevertheless missed ("I'm sorry"? "Congratulations"?). He sometimes wasn't sure what the polite thing to say was, because there were so many unspoken rules about it, and all he got were abstract emotional cues.
Sometimes he understood Ink's confusion when it came to empathy.
He stared at the cutlery and wondered if he should take the time to wash the dust with soap, considering nobody really came to his house to use it. They usually went to Blue's house or Ink's Doodle Sphere, and the rest of the time he was busy, always busy. He himself ate on the move.
Hm. Maybe Dream should just give it away. Yeah. Someone definitely needed it more than his underused cabinets.
He sighed. He was tired, but he'd barely done anything today, so there was no good reason for it. No good justification for his desire to rest.
…On the other hand, if he didn't rest, his fighting skills and problem solving and emotional intelligence would be worse the next day…
Dream… felt a bit bad, but he headed off to get in bed.
His bed, as always, was soft. And warm. It was one of the pieces of furniture he used a little more than the rest, though that didn't say much. He was pretty sure he used his shower more.
(The sight of blood and dust swirling down the drain haunted his dreams, sickening. Then again, many things haunted his dreams, so that wasn't anything special.)
Dream stared up at the dark ceiling. His purple teddy bear held close. His blanket soft under his ungloved fingertips. He liked running his hands over it. Feeling the texture. It was soothing.
With every next minute, no phone call came to inform him of an emergency and demand his presence.
It was quiet. His house wasn't in the center of the Omega Timeline.
By all means, it was comfortable. It was ideal sleeping conditions.
And yet.
Dream couldn't sleep.
The minutes ticked on.
And he just couldn't sleep.
…This, unfortunately, wasn't anything new.
I should be doing more, the thought was ever-present in his mind. I'm not doing enough. I can't be sleeping. I have to… I have to…
…He… wanted to talk to his brother.
Dream squeezed his eyes shut again. Gripping the blanket.
That… wasn't a new thought. It was a very, very old thought, actually. Before the… Incident, even.
Dream had been busy all the time back then, too. There was always somebody to help. When night fell and he could finally walk back to the Tree, when he could finally lay down…
So, so very long ago, Night would start chatting with him, quietly. It would be one of the (depleting) times they'd get to talk. Just the two of them. As time went on, Dream… started becoming more and more tired, however.
Selfishly, so selfishly, he'd wanted to sleep. Idiotically, he'd sacrificed his time with Night for it.
Until Dream was the one to be begging Night to talk. Until Night would only lay with his back turned to Dream, pretending to be asleep so he wouldn't have to.
(It hurt, it hurt so much but Night was so upset, Dream didn't dare take away his rest too. He wanted his brother to feel okay. He didn't want Night to feel uneasy, forced to talk when he didn't want to.)
The sorrow was like an ocean wave. One moment, you're laying on the shore, dry and warm. The next, it's the almost gentle enveloping of cold and salty water over your face.
Dream squeezed his favorite plushie in a tight hug, trying to swallow down the upset.
He wanted to talk to his brother. He missed his brother.
No matter how hard he tried to deal with it, no matter how many lives Nightmare ruined, the sorrow never went away. Ever. It clung to Dream the way a ghost would haunt an abandoned house.
The Multiverse despised Nightmare. It was… fair, it had to be, because he destroyed anything he could reach, it's just the creature that he was. Pure Negativity given the form of Dream's long gone twin.
And yet. And yet, Dream just…
He looked at Nightmare and it was just that day, on repeat. That moment. The bite of the apple. All of Dream's failures, his shortcomings, his mistakes, compounding into one single calamity.
If he'd just shown Night that he loved him more. If he'd just pushed to talk to Night more. If he'd just protected him from the villagers' harassment. If Dream had just done more.
The sorrow wanted to physically push out through his eye sockets. He refused to let it. Always did. He had to accept that it happened, he had to move on and grow. Instead he was stuck, selfishly wanting to cry about what was his own fault in the first place.
He could never get rid of the sorrow. At times, it incapacitated him. Despite everything, there was a desperation in him to believe, to hope that somewhere deep, deep inside, his brother was alive. And if Dream just did enough for once, he could save him.
And yet here he was. Wasting precious time wanting to weep instead of sleeping. If he didn't sleep, he'd be worse off tomorrow, he'd make more mistakes, he wouldn't be able to give enough.
He needed– he needed a way to handle this. To just drown this out in one swoop.
…
…
…He remembered the bottle on his kitchen counter.
Maybe…?
Shakily, he pushed himself up. Out of bed. And padded over to his quiet kitchen. Turned on the light.
Yeah. It was still there. A yellow ribbon still wrapped around it, a shade just a bit lighter than the floor tiles. Did… did alcohol expire?
Dream went over and picked it up. Checking over the bottle. It was made of dark glass, he couldn't see much inside, but he thought it was… a red wine maybe? It didn't say anything about an expiry date anywhere on the label…
He tried unscrewing the cap, but it was kind of weird. Wrapped in plastic. He fetched a knife to carefully cut the thin plastic off. Hopefully that wouldn't ruin it…?
Finally, he managed to figure out how to open the bottle. He sniffed it, and then grimaced.
It was sharp, like rubbing alcohol, which he was more familiar with. Which… he… supposed made sense, it was 'rubbing alcohol' after all. But there was more to it. It was… weird. Maybe it had gone bad…?
Except… whenever people drank it around him, it always smelled kind of bad. And, again, it was a bit similar to rubbing alcohol. So maybe his theory was correct, and it was kind of like medicine, and medicine often smelled and tasted terrible. So…
Tentatively, Dream lifted the bottle to take a sip.
"Eugh," he grimaced immediately. It was a bitter, breathy taste. He recalled overhearing people comment things like 'Oh I love that wine!' around him, which was even more confusing now. It tasted awful.
Then again, so did coffee. But when he'd been given a cup with milk and honey to try, that had tasted good. Did Dream need to dilute this too, mix it with something?
…Well, coffee was stronger plain. And… Dream wasn't going to be drinking this for the taste.
Usually, his emotions were cut up into tiny pieces and distributed to everyone he interacted with throughout the day, leaving him spent at the end. Making the grief duller. It's why it hit him harder on lighter days. It actually had time and energy to be felt.
He really hoped this would help him get rid of it.
Dream took a larger sip, shivering as the taste got even less bearable.
.
.
.
Somewhere along the line, he had to sit down.
He wasn't taking his time at all. He tried to do this quickly, down it like medicine. It was difficult, but not much.
He'd chug a bit of the wine, and then wait to see if… anything happened. And then drink more when nothing felt different. At least at first.
And now here he was.
There was… more in the bottle… he was pretty sure. But he was sitting on his kitchen floor, leaned back against the cabinets. And everything was… woozy.
He swallowed, then swallowed again. His mouth felt weird, but only a little. More than that, his head felt weird.
Everything was kinda… spinning and… tilting this way and that. Including his metaphorical stomach. Ugh, he felt queasy. Dream struggled to focus much, too. Thoughts slipping, and he'd only notice seconds after, and then he was unable to chase them.
Which was… which was good, right? He'd wanted to… get rid of it. Of the… bad thoughts.
The kitchen floor was cold. Not very comfy.
Mm. His mouth felt weird. And so did his stomach. He really hoped he wasn't getting sick from this. Could he be allergic or something...? He couldn't, right? His body wasn't, like, him, it was… just a shape, sort of.
He didn't… really feel better, either. He just felt sick. And thirsty. And kind of… pathetic.
Look everyone. The great Guardian of Positivity. Needing alcohol to get rid of… his… wrongness. It was downright humiliating.
He swallowed again, squinting to try and… get a grasp on his thoughts. Ugh. He lifted the bottle again, as shameful as that felt, to drink again, because he was thirsty and he wasn't feeling any better and maybe drinking more would finally make it work.
Oh. That was… after the last sip, Dream pulled the bottle away, looking at it. It was… empty now. Oh. Ah. He hadn't…
He should… throw it out. But not with the ribbon, that'd be a waste and wasting was bad. It was a really pretty ribbon. He liked yellow. Yellow was warm.
Dream lifted his second hand to pick at the ribbon. Slide it off the bottle clumsily, putting it in his Inventory. Now, he could throw the bottle out. He'd have to… he hoped no one would see it.
Dream placed a hand on the cabinets, and one on the floor. Shuffling into a different position made everything tilt one way and then the other. He squeezed his eyes, and then opened them again.
He felt… sick. Was he sick? He really hoped he wasn't sick. If he was sick, he'd be useless tomorrow and if he was useless, then… then…
…Dream should– get up. Just get up. Don't cry. Stop wanting to cry. Just stop. Why wasn't this working? He just wanted to be…
He refocused again. Okay. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He's suffered through debilitating injuries in the past, he wasn't unfamiliar with nausea. Just breathe through it.
One hand at the kitchen counter, he pushed himself to his feet. And stumbled. And everything swayed dangerously, stomach rolling, his mind struggling to catch up with it. But he remained upright. He wasn't that out of it.
Okay. Good. He opened the cabinet with the trash and threw the bottle out. He swallowed. He was still thirsty. The bitter taste lingered in his mouth and didn't help at all with the nausea.
Carefully, Dream shuffled over to his kitchen sink, turning it on. Cupped both his hands under the cold stream. Leaned down and drank some water. Washing away the taste. Feeling it go down his metaphorical throat. It was nice. He drank more.
He turned off the faucet. He took a breath.
Okay. Experiment… failed. Maybe. He felt awful. Although… it did substantially dull the sharp pains of his previous thoughts.
He should… go to bed. Right. He had to walk to his bedroom first.
Dream walked to his bedroom. It was slow and far less coordinated than he'd like. He prided himself on good form. A steady archer hand, a… whatever it was called when you hit targets good. He wasn't the best with words. It was really an issue when he needed to… talk with people. Let them talk to him and then help them, that is.
Okay. He made it to his bedroom door. And then to his bed. And then collapsed into his bed.
Finally, he could curl up in the dark of his bedroom. He couldn't be bothered to pull his blanket over himself. He feel-searched for his teddy bear, eyes closed, and hugged it close.
He…
…He hated being alone.
It felt wrong, the way being sad felt wrong, the way sitting idly felt wrong. Like it was against his existence or something, like it shouldn't be happening. The house was so quiet.
But Dream didn't– he was the one who… supported others. The one who cared for them. He was the one who kept others company. Not the other way around. So this should be right. Maybe. It was confusing.
He curled further in on himself, nausea sloshing around his metaphorical insides. He felt so sick. It's like it was at his throat. He could almost feel it in his mou–
Dream barely had the reaction time to teleport into his bathroom before he bent over the toilet and threw up.
It was horrible. The forceful expulsion of liquid magic out of him, burning the back of his mouth like stomach acid would. He felt sluggish and uncomfortable and still so upset.
He watched the warm color of his magic swirl in the clear toilet water. Head leaned on the seat. Breathing deeply through his teeth.
He felt like crying again. Not like earlier. More like whenever he had serious injuries that threatened his composure. Like the sadness just looked for any opportunity to break out of him. Dream wouldn't let it. He shouldn't be sad.
He was… so loved and appreciated. He was so needed. He had an incredibly good life, compared to so many out there who suffered. What's there to be sad about? He's Dream, he's happy!
Maybe this had worked, after all. Maybe this is how it worked. Drink until you throw up all those bad feelings. Physically, forcefully expelling them from your body. That made sense.
—
Dream woke up with a horrible headache.
He'd only cracked his eye sockets open a little, but closed them immediately as the daylight pricked his brain through them.
He groaned quietly, rubbing his face.
He… didn't quite remember it clearly, but it seems he did end up making it back to bed last night. And then falling asleep. And then…
Huh. He actually felt like he'd slept pretty deeply. His dreams were uncharacteristically blurry, too, slipping between his fingers.
He didn't feel amazing, but he certainly felt better than last night. A little ashamed, but if he was functional today, then it would be justified he had to do it, right?
He pushed himself up, breathing deeply. His throat was parched. And his breath smelled terrible. And he felt heavy and sluggish. And he was starving. At least one of those must be from the alcohol. The last one could also be just from the vomiting.
Eugh.
Dream picked up his phone to check, just in case, for any missed calls or messages, check what he had to do toda–
One p.m.?!
Dream shot to his feet, and then immediately regretted it. What?! He never slept in this late! Did he really sleep that deeply?!
Oh angel, he'd wasted so much time, people needed him, he was so selfish, this was bad. He had to get moving now, random headache or not!
In barely a few minutes, Dream hurried to start the day.
—
"Dream?"
Dream abruptly raised his head from the table.
He'd only rested it down for a moment, in hopes it would ease his headache. Blue and Ink were talking between the two of them so he'd thought it would be fine.
"Yes?" he looked back at Blue, who called his name, and Ink, both of them looking at him. What do you need?
"Are you okay?" Blue asked, with a bit of concern, which made Dream cringe internally.
"What's up?" Ink sat on the table, idly swinging his legs. His voice lacked such a tilt, neutrally cheery as always.
"Nothing," Dream assured them, returning a smile. "I'm okay,"
"You were later than usual today," Ink wondered aloud. "You're usually an early type of guy,"
"Did you sleep at all toni– recently?" Blue asked, hovering near the table. They were in his house for a brief reconvening. They'd be back to work after that. At least Dream would be.
"I did," Dream answered, and it was the truth. He'd slept deeper tonight than he did usually, actually.
He felt Blue's brief hesitation. Whether he should prod more or not. Dream was worrying him.
"I promise I'm fine," he put as much sincerity into it as he could. But he didn't like lying, so he swallowed down the discomfort and admitted, "I just have a tiny headache, it will go away soon," he waved a hand.
"Oh!" Ink hopped off the table and skidded off into Blue's kitchen. Dream wasn't sure why and didn't question it — Ink was like that. He could've just remembered he had something to do.
"It's…" Blue was still hesitant, "…You know you can take a break if you're not feeling alright," he reminded, gently. Sincerely caring. It made Dream warm.
"I know," his smile softened. But he was alright. He was always alright, so he never needed a break.
Ink skidded back into the room, carrying a cup. The water almost sloshed out of it with his movements. He placed it down in front of Dream, and Dream blinked at it.
There were tiny bubbles in the water.
"Sparkling water?" he questioned, picking up the cup.
"Nope!" Ink said. "For your headache!"
…Oh. Right. Medicine. Because that helped with headaches.
Dream… forgot. That he could take medicine. For benign pains. And not just health-threatening ones.
"Oh." he voiced. "…Thank you, Ink," since Ink struggled with emotional stuff sometimes, he'd instead focused on fixing the issue in a tangible way. Showing he cared in that way, where Blue had asked after his well-being. It was sweet. The way they both cared in their own manner.
Ink gave him two thumbs up. Blue snorted.
Dream downed the medication and soon, his headache eased up.
