Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

It… became a habit, as shameful as that was.

On lighter days, when his emotions weren't exhausted enough and therefore reached him, Dream would… well, first he would busy himself. When there was nothing obvious that needed him (uncommon occurrence), he sought out how to be helpful, how to be of use. When there was little of that (very rare occurrence), he trained with his teammates, or made preparations.

When that ended and he was home, Dream still looked for ways to make his time worthwhile. Even cleaning was better.

But when he was at a loss on how to do that, and he was thinking and feeling things the Guardian of Positivity shouldn't be… he drank.

The experience didn't get more pleasant, but he grew accustomed to it. The same way he'd learned to bear wounds. The same way he'd learned to bear his own bad emotions.

Go to the store. Internally writhe in shame as he got a bottle of alcohol (wine, since he was most familiar with it). Sometimes he lied that it was for a friend or a gift. Go back home.

Drink it all as fast as possible.

Get hit with the effects all too suddenly.

Feel miserable. Throw up. Go to bed. Sleep like a log.

He learned to keep a glass of water at his night stand. He learned to set an alarm so he wouldn't sleep until noon. He learned to take headache meds in the morning so his functionality wasn't impaired.

It wasn't a big deal, really. It rarely happened, once every several weeks at most.

It helped him sleep, when he did it. It helped him, well, drown his sorrow — make it dull and fuzzy, allowing him to wake up the next day and pretend like none of it existed in the first place, because it shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He was a Protector of the entire Multiverse. If this made him better at his job, at giving the people what they needed in a way that didn't affect them negatively at all, what's the harm in it?

—

Dream should get a mat or something. For his bathroom. The floor tiles were cold.

At some point, he figured it was easier to just drink in his bathroom, since he was inevitably going to end up throwing it up.

The floor… wasn't particularly comfortable, but that's fine. Dream just had to sit here for a bit. Knees pulled to his chest, breathing steadily. Waiting for the alcohol to kick in properly, for the nausea to really rear up. Everything was already fuzzy and tilting, so it was on its way.

And then his phone rang.

Dream winced. He felt his metaphorical heartrate pick up, because it was late, and today had been easier, so this had to be an emergency, and he was a useless mess–

"Hey Dream!" Blue's voice came through.

"Blue?" Dream swallowed. Oh, he hadn't yet… experienced talking to anyone in this state. And he knew alcohol changed the way people spoke. Stars, he really hoped Blue wouldn't pick up on it. He really, really hoped that.

Blue was one of his best friends. One of his teammates. He was… so nice. He genuinely… cared about Dream, not just– about what Dream could do for him, not just about Dream's role. Blue was a good person.

What would he think of Dream? Would he be disappointed?

Dream would not be able to handle that.

He couldn't let Blue know.

"–always for some emergency or another, soo I thought I'd just… you know… call to chat! Just as friends," Blue spoke. His voice was… calm and cheerful. No emergency.

His words caught up to Dream. He wanted to… chat. As friends. That was important. Dream… didn't want Blue to feel like they're just co-workers. They were friends. Blue mattered a lot to Dream.

He was right. Dream had to make more time to spend with his friends. As friends. The last thing he wanted was for them to feel like… like he didn't care about them because he spent all his time helping other people instead.

(He had to have learned from his mistakes. He had to.)

Dream exhaled through his nose, trying to string together a coherent reply. Come on, he wasn't that drunk. Liven up!

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding even if Blue couldn't see. "I– I also… I'd enjoy spending time with you too. As friends,"

"Yay mweheheh!" Blue exclaimed, and Dream huffed in mirth at his endearing laughter. "Unless you're tired, that is– oh no, did I wake you up? I should've asked if you were available to talk first, gah, please prioritize your rest–!" he rushed out.

Dream shook his head. "No, no, I'm available," he spoke slower than the other. It's like the words were fuzzy in his mouth. It was weird. But it didn't sound weird, at least not to him.

"Oh! Okay then, great! Anyway. I'm making dinner!"

Dream hummed. "What're you making?"

"Vegetable cream soup!!!" Blue exclaimed.

That simultaneously sounded really tasty and made Dream remember the upcoming nausea.

"Sounds lovely," he focused on.

"Uh-huh! I hope so. You can try it tomorrow! It's a bit pot. I'm making it with the usual ingredients — you know, carrots and onions and potatoes, but I also decided to add cauliflower because I quite enjoy cauliflower–" Blue started rambling. He enjoyed cooking, as was characteristic of many versions of Papyrus. Funnily enough, Dream had caught him and Horror discussing food prep in the middle of a fight once or twice. It was bizarre. Dream wasn't against it though.

He didn't… think hating Nightmare's gang would solve anyone's issues. He wished he could help them instead. They… hngh. People hated them for ruining and destroying, which was understandable. Dream also, well, highly disapproved of their actions. But they were people, too. And, occasionally, he could feel their hurt. And there's no way being with Nightmare helped.

He exhaled. Maybe someday, he'd figure out a way to help them too. If he tried harder. If he was better.

…Ah, he wasn't listening to Blue. What a friend he was. How could he help Nightmare's gang if he couldn't even be enough for one of his best friends?

"–with an egg, and then it's going to be all done. What about you, what are you up to??" Blue asked curiously, because he was a good friend.

Agh. Dream would have to lie again. He felt… ashamed and guilty. What should he answer?

"I was… cleaning earlier," he answered. He did clean just a little.

"Cleaning? Tsk tsk tsk Dream, I told you to go home and rest," Blue said, light-hearted, more teasing than anything. Though there was soft, disguised concern in his words.

Dream winced. He swallowed. He almost reached for the bottle again before he remembered it was already empty. It was really getting to him. As always, it left him feeling odd. Fuzzy at the face. Nauseated.

"Sorry," he said, sort of by reflex.

"N– it's alright," Blue was quick to assure, and then he paused for a moment. "Are… you alright, Dream?"

Oh no.

Good going, Dream, you couldn't even compose yourself enough for one phone call. Blue just wanted to spend time with you, and now you're making it all about yourself and your problems which you shouldn't be having in the first place. Selfish.

Ugh, and the wine wasn't helping him at all. Dream felt… messy, when he should be the pinnacle of put-togetherness. He couldn't cry now. He couldn't.

"I'm okayy," Dream tried to put a sincere inflection to it. He'd mastered that long ago, except now, it fell oddly, drawing out the end of the word just a bit. Dammit.

Blue was quiet for another moment. Dream had to fix this.

"…Dream, you can ta–"

"I'm just a bit distracted, sorry," Dream lied, "Planning. You know how it is. …Sorry for interrupting you," he winced.

"…Right," that didn't sound like Blue believed him. Dream hunched in on himself. He felt sick. "Just–" Blue took a breath, "–don't stay up all night planning, okay? …Take care of yourself. Please. You don't have to– …You… you'll need the strength, so we can, uh, help people the best we can!"

Right. He was right. Dream was so selfish to be doing this.

"…You're right," he agreed softly. "Thanks for the chat, Blue. I really enjoyed it. Can we… I… I really appreciate you as a friend, you know?" he swallowed. "We should… hang out more. I'm sorry we don't hang out more. I'm s– I… I think I'm gonna go to bed now," he finished on a bit of a lame note.

"I'd love to hang out another time," Blue said all warm, and Dream knew he meant it. "But right now, you going to bed will make me even happier! Good night, Dream! See you tomorrow!"

"Good night," Dream returned quietly. After a beat, the call ended.

Dream let his hand down, blinking bleary at the wall. The silence lingered. He was alone.

He shuffled over to the toilet to throw up so he could go to bed.

—

He was growing too accustomed to the alcohol. One bottle wasn't making him as sick. He had to get two.

The shame burned. Dream felt as though everyone knew. Knew that he was a failure, that he needed something additional to work (and he was already worse at his work than he'd like). Knew that he wasn't the beacon of happiness and hope that they believed in, that they needed, that they loved. That he was something flawed, which felt sorrow and exhaustion and shame.

…He was finding more varied places to get the alcohol from.

—

Several days later,

"Dream!" Ink grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Ink?" Dream was immediately aware, "What is it, why did you call me, are you alright?" did Error go too far again, did Dream need to heal him? Was an AU being destroyed?

"Oh I'm great," Ink waved a hand, and then once again grabbed Dream, "But I really really really need your help!"

"Yes? Of course!" Dream would always help his friends.

"I need you," Ink said gravely, "to have a beach day with me."

Dream stared back at Ink's intense stare.

He resisted the urge to sigh. That'd be rude. And he wasn't really irritated with Ink anyway. Both because he didn't feel irritation, and also because it was Ink, Ink was like this.

"Come on pleeasee! It's really important!" Ink shook him a little. "It's for one of my stories! It has to be realistic. I stayed up all night thinking of plot points to put to the test,"

It still often baffled Dream how Ink could use up his time and energy for fictional stories like this. Then again, he'd… learned Ink perceived real people as fictional too. And besides, he wasn't Dream. Other people needed breaks and hobbies to function and to feel alright, so it was justifiably important. Even if Dream, personally, wouldn't dare.

"…Right," he replied carefully. "How long is this going to take…?"

"Uhhhmmm about a day, less even, so it's basically nothing," Ink shrugged. "We'll leave if there's an emergency, too, I promise,"

Okay, that eased some of Dream's worry. And it's not like this was the first time Ink hauled them away to do stuff relating to his stories. Last time was a few months ago, a camping trip in the mountains. Blue enjoyed that one. Dream did too. He held the memory fondly.

"Okay," he relented with a sigh and a smile. He'd rather be used by his friends.

"YES!" Ink threw his hands up.

And so here they were. Having a beach day.

It wasn't some private beach — there were a bunch of monsters around, but it was very far from crowded. It made Dream feel less like everyone would be looking at him and disapproving of this unearned leisure.

They'd already gone into the water, which wasn't awfully cold. And either way, the sun was high up and hot, seeping warmth into Dream's bones. The air held a gentle breeze that smelled of salt and sand and seaweed.

"Ink, pass it!" Dream hollered, grinning.

"Incomiiing!" Ink laughed, turning so he could pass the ball to Dream. With a running start, Dream jumped to dunk it past the net.

Blue laughed loudly at that, whistling. Error couldn't be assed to rush to catch the ball, even if he was literally a few paces away from it.

Blue had the idea that they play beach volleyball, but they'd needed a fourth person. Ink ended up nagging the Destroyer until he finally agreed, though he wasn't exactly passionate about it. Still, it was really fun. Error made up for his lack of involvement by cheating. This was the third ball Ink had drawn, haha.

And honestly?

Dream was having fun. Even with just the four of them, he was having a great time. All those fighting skills turned out to be useful — agility and precision and team coordination. Both teams were about evenly matched, making the game just engaging enough. Though weirdly, Dream didn't feel drained by all the movement and emotions.

The other monsters around the beach were relaxing, wafting off pleasant contentedness. Blue and Ink were as cheerful as ever. Even Error, as much as he complained about the sand, didn't seem to loathe it too much (likely because he was sort of friends with Blue and was familiar Ink).

It all left Dream collapsing onto his towel with a grin that was so big it ached against his face and a pleasant buzzing in his bones. This was yet another memory he'd hold near and dear.

("Thank you," Dream said to Ink quietly, but from the heart, as they all were sat to eat lunch during a brief break.

Ink chuckled, sharing a brief glance with Blue. "Anytime," he nudged Dream with an elbow.)

.

.

.

…Unfortunately, Dream remained a mess.

He was trying to sleep, he really was. He'd gone to bed over half an hour ago and he'd stayed there. Feeling lighter after a fantastic day. Calmer. More put together. Hopeful, the positivity inside him fresh and sincere, braced to live.

But he just… couldn't sleep. Which, to be fair, was far from new. Actually, he struggled to sleep most of the time. Which wasn't ideal since he got to bed, hm, maybe once every three days, but he was still fully functional so it must be all he needed.

Dream sighed, rolling on his side. Purple teddy bear held to his chest as always.

He wanted to sleep. Bad dreams or not, selfish or not, he was tired and he needed energy to bring his best for the Multiverse. Simply laying around certainly wasn't better.

He didn't understand why he couldn't sleep. He felt so cozy and comforted after the day at the beach. Filled with an unmarred warmth.

…Maybe…

…Hm. Did he need to drink an entire bottle every time? Maybe… drinking only a little would be fine. Just enough to dull his hyperawareness. What's so different to using melatonin pills?

Carefully, still a little ashamed, Dream got out of bed.

His head didn't even hurt in the morning, so it must've been fine.

—

It's really not that bad. Dream remained Dream, the Guardian of Positivity, member of the Star Squad, Protectors of the Multiverse. He was just as reliable, endlessly and gladly inspiring hope in everyone around him. Everyone knew how Dream was. Dream helped and asked for nothing in return. Dream always saw the best in people. Dream determinedly kept his stance in the face of terror and destruction. Dream embodied goodness, in everything he did, everything he was. Always smiling sincerely, reaching out his hands. Dream and all that he was belonged to the people. He served his role dutifully, humble and dedicated, glad and proud.

After years, he'd eventually settled into this balance. Always outputting as much productivity as he could, and always looking to do it more. A worn routine.

This was just… another… tiny part of said routine. He never dared to overdo it — he never drank around people, the same way he never cried around people. He never did it two days in a row, never even did it twice in the same week. He was always very careful that he wasn't needed when he was… uhm, in that state. He didn't… always drink himself to sickness, some nights it was just to help him sleep.

No one was noticing. So it was fine. Dream was ensuring he was highly functional and stable. He could get out all these unwanted emotions and thoughts, flush them down the toilet, and then continue as if it wasn't needed in the first place.

Until he was taken off-guard.

His phone was ringing.

Dream picked up immediately, desperately hoping this was just Blue or Ink wanting to chat. Because here he was once again. Dressed in pajamas, on his bathroom floor. Staring at the swirling and swimming tiles with over one bottle of alcohol in his system. Waiting for the sickness to come and pass, as usual.

"Yeah–?"

"Dream, emergency," Blue's alarm was audible over the line. Dream's rolling stomach sank. "Nightmare and his gang attacked–"

"On m' way, give me– minute," Dream hauled himself to his feet, and promptly regretted it as sharp reflux burned his throat. He pushed it down.

To his credit, his awareness sharpened a bit, as he listened to Blue give him the details of where to go and what state they were in. Ink was already there, and he heard Blue go through one of his portals. At that point Blue had to hang up to engage in combat as well.

In the meanwhile, Dream tried to gather himself into something semi-functional. He knew he looked terrible when drinking, and he was far from dressed for fighting, he had to hurriedly put on more combat-appropriate clothes so he wouldn't earn himself unnecessary wounds or impede his movements. He also took barely a few short seconds to splash his face with cold water.

As always, his mind kicked into habit as soon as he heard 'emergency'. Settling into familiarity. Forcefully jammed into strategy and pragmatism, away from sorrow and pain and all those distractions.

In about a dozen minutes, he arrived at the described location, more specifically in a version of Waterfall. The teleportation made his stomach do uncoordinated flips but Dream barely even noticed it, because he spotted Killer and Dust both engaging Blue in combat and jumped in to deal with at least one of them.

"Dream!" Blue exclaimed in relief.

"Here," Dream called back, parrying the swing of Killer's knife with his staff. Sometimes Killer preferred regular ranged attack bullets, but it seems today (or, tonight, according to the Omega Timeline's cycle) he was more for close-ranged combat. Which was fine because Dream was experienced in both.

"Well look who deigned to join!" Killer spat laughter in Dream's face, gladly engaging him in a fight. He was as vicious as ever, relentless and dirty with his attacks. Dream was used to him and knew to keep his guard up at all times, responding with fast, precise blocks and attacks of his own so as to not allow him openings to abuse.

Or… he was used to Killer.

But as they fought, and Killer kept taunting him as he usually did, Dream was… having a harder time than he should be.

It felt like he was reacting on time, except again and again, Killer managed to steal hits from him that Dream should've been perfectly capable of handling. His reflexes were… fuzzier than he'd like. In a normal fight, they would still hold up, but again, this was Killer. Nightmare had picked out the members of his gang for clear reasons.

Everything was just a little uncoordinated. Just a little unstable, like they were fighting in shallow water even though they were still on dry land, like Dream couldn't manage his footwork. Each hit that landed jarred Dream, even though the pain was muffled as well. Dream was lacking.

…And Killer was catching onto it.

"Heheheee did we catch you off-guard, dreamboy?" he jeered as he slammed his blade against Dream's staff once more, undistracted by his own words. "Are you losing your spark?"

Dream didn't reply, focused on matching him beat for beat as much as he could. Though that wasn't uncommon. He wasn't much for mid-fight banter. That was more Ink's thing. It's why Killer liked fighting Dream specifically. He wanted to crack his composure.

"You're sloppy," Killer hissed, grinning, dodging and slashing in the same movement, "Not usually your style, Mr. Perfect!" he mocked.

And he was right. Dream excused the rushing of his metaphorical heart on the adrenaline.

"This is who our enemies are? Pathetic," Killer successfully managed to slam the hilt of his blade against Dream's wrist, which weakened the grip on his staff, allowing Killer a wide swipe that landed despite Dream's attempt at dodging. Dream registered absentmindedly that, thankfully, it wasn't a lethal wound.

"What is up with you?" Killer crooned. "Am I scaring you, sunshine? Was this a bad time? Or…" he paused, in a dangerously considering way.

Dream's gut wrenched. His eyes widened, just the tiniest bit that people usually would not notice.

But this was Killer. Killer, when he wasn't drunk on violence and pain, could be terrifyingly observant. He was like a shark sensing a single droplet of blood in the water.

Killer barked out a hysterical laugh.

"Are you drunk?!" he loudly marveled.

Dream was too late to catch the wince he made at that. It was just the confirmation Killer needed.

"Oooohohoho oh this is incredible!" Killer laughed, fiercely back to attacking. "Your Guardian, everybody! A drunkard! I knew I could smell something familiar!" he declared it all loudly, even if there was nobody here to hear except the two opposing groups. And the echo flowers.

But even though there were no civilians here to hear, Dream was violently cringing inside. Please, no, he begged, please just let me handle this and go back home.

"What, got sick of living the life anyone else would kill for?!" Killer mocked, abusing his new knowledge to gain the upper hand in their fight. Dream was even sloppier, struggling to keep up with him, backing up as Killer pushed onwards. "I'm embarrassed to even fight you, Dream! Tsk tsk tsk!"

Usually, Dream mentally shielded himself from Killer's and Nightmare's and everyone's negative remarks as much as he could. Usually he knew the point of their words was to get to him, him specifically. To weaken his resolve, to hurt.

So why was it getting to him now?

Horrifyingly, Dream realized he wanted to cry.

All Killer needed was for him to stumble for a moment, and then Dream cried out as a knife was plunged directly into his chest. Killer seized the opportunity, shoving him towards the wall with it so he could push the blade in up to the hilt.

As soon as he accomplished it, he twisted the knife, Dream letting out another highly pained sound, and then ripped his knife out to let him bleed.

Dream, uncoordinated, sloppy, hurting, overwhelmed, slid down to the ground, trying to at least breathe. Everything was spinning, and the back of his throat stung sharply and discontentedly.

Dream didn't even process Killer lifting his knife and summoning four blasters with the same gesture, laughing hysterically above him. He flinched and cowered pathetically as a second shape jumped between them, and it was the final push as he leaned forwards and retched on the ground. Or… he aimed for the ground but didn't quite make it. The humiliation burned as he saw he caught the bottom of his pants and his shoes and it was gross and he wanted to cry. He was shaking.

"–eam are you okay?!" Blue's worried voice floated in from beside him, and Dream squeezed his eyes shut, pulling his knees closer in, hiding his face in them.

He was collapsing in the middle of a fight. His friends needed him. He was letting them down. He was letting everyone see his composure break. He was broadcasting his weaknesses, his wrongness to their enemies. What was wrong with him? Why was he like this? Why couldn't he just work?

Adrenaline and shame and sheer overstimulation wracked him inwardly and he felt sick, he felt so sick, he was going to throw up again.

"Dream, hey, hey, listen to me, it's okay, focus on my voice," Blue spoke. He was– he was kneeling next to Dream, blocking his view of the rest of the fight. If both of them were dealing with Dream's mess, then Ink had to be handling the rest on his own. And Ink was strong and incredibly capable, he was creative and didn't let things get to him, but Dream was letting him down.

They were both going to be disappointed in him. The thought felt like getting stabbed in the chest again.

Dream– Dream couldn't do this. He was a disappointment. He was a useless. A mess. He was a failure.

In barely a flash, he was back in his bathroom, bending forward to throw up into the toilet. Everything was spinning, and he clutched the bowl to stop the shaking of his hands. His face felt hot with shame and the blubbery tears breaking out of their prison.

Dream was struggling to breathe. It felt like his rib cage was made of stone, and he couldn't breathe in right. He was– he was trying to gasp in air but every inhale got cut off sharply, he couldn't breathe, everything was vibrating like pins and needles.

Dream let his forehead thunk down on the toilet seat, the cutting breaths starting to sound more like hiccups, like sobs. He couldn't get himself under control, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even think. It was all just a barrage of emotions he shouldn't be capable of even having, uselessness and panic and sorrow and self-hatred and guilt and disappointment and shame shame shame. He was a ruin. He felt so damn sorry the Multiverse depended on this thing.

Suck it up. Pull yourself together. Handle this. Be better. Be better!

But he couldn't. He couldn't. Every desperate attempt to pull himself together only made him more overwhelmed, only made him feel more incapable. He wanted to claw out the emotions. He wanted it out.

It hurt as he retched into the toilet again, acidic magic trailing down his chin. It was gross, it was so gross, he hated it. He hated the way his uncontrolled sobs echoed in the bathroom. He hated the way he couldn't even get up, trembling and weak and aching all over. He hated hating, he shouldn't even be capable of it.

How was he going to sleep like this? How was he going to look his friends in the eyes like this tomorrow? How was he going to look at anyone? Maybe they wouldn't know how much of a useless disappointment he was, if Nightmare didn't broadcast it to the whole Multiverse, but Dream would know. It would be in the background of all his actions, following him, never allowing him to forget because he had to remember his mistakes, he had to learn from them, he had to be better.

Who would need– who would want a Guardian of Positivity who wasn't even positive?

He tried to reign in the sobbing, he tried, he swore he tried. He always tried so, so hard but it was never enough. He was never enough. People always needed more, there was always more to do, he always had to be more. He couldn't even stop crying, when he shouldn't be crying in the first place.

Dream raised his hands, slamming them into the sides of his head. Just stop it. Just stop it. You're the one that messed up, you're the one who always messes up! It's your fault! It's always been your fault! Why are you crying? How dare you feel sorry for yourself you useless thing? People suffer constantly, and here you are, sniveling!

"I'm sorry, 'm sorry," Dream blubbered incoherently, not even sure to who. It was just– instinct, deep inside him. Sorry that he was wrong, sorry that he wasn't enough, sorry sorry sorry.

The tears didn't stop coming. It's like every tear he'd ever repressed was coming back for him with vengeance. He just kept crying and crying and crying, like he was trying to hold back the tears with his own hands but they just kept slipping through. How was he supposed to calm anyone else's tears when he couldn't even deal with his own?

He was made to help people, it was the definition of his existence to exist through others and for others. If he couldn't be theirs then he was nothing, he was as good as de–

"–shh, shh, it's okay,"

Dream jumped as a hand was placed on his shoulder, no, no, what? There wasn't supposed to be anyone here, he was alone, he–

"Dream, it's okay, it's alright," Blue was kneeling next to him, keeping up a stream of reassurances, and the sudden shame Dream felt, like someone had grabbed his nonexistent intestines and squeezed.

"Blue– you– n– m– I–" he stammered, words slurred in a way he hated.

"It's okay," Blue insisted, "Look, look at me, hey," his hands came to cup Dream's face, and Dream felt borderline scared as he looked at Blue's gaze. It was gentle, but sure. "You're okay. Everything is okay. Stop thinking, just– breathe with me, please?" he said.

More tears bubbled into Dream's eye sockets because he couldn't, he couldn't–

"I need you to remind me how we did it, please? Please? How did we do it? How do we breathe deep?" Blue tried desperately.

He needed Dream. He needed Dream's help, and that's all Dream's shattered thoughts could focus on. His friend needed him.

Dream forced himself to gasp in air even as it burned, his chest and his throat.

"There we go, that's right," Blue encouraged, still holding his face, keeping Dream's eyes on him. "I think I'm remembering, keep showing me, okay?"

Dream gasped for air again, and Blue followed, inhaling deeply. Much more steadily than him. Dream tried to hold the breath but it burned and escaped him, and Blue held and exhaled with him, although slower.

Dream was still shaking with sobs but he pushed through, hands clutching tightly onto nothing, forcing himself to breathe in, hold, breathe out, hold, repeat. Blue following him beat for beat.

They barely spent a few minutes that way before another presence joined them and Dream flinched, his already unsteady rhythm knocked off again.

"It's just Ink, it's okay," Blue reassured quickly. "He's got some medical supplies–"

Dream's eye lights snapped back to Blue in alarm, "Who's hurt?" he asked immediately, still struggling with cohesion.

Blue's face saddened, and that only panicked Dream more. There was someone injured who needed his help and he was sitting here freaking out–

"You are," Ink said next to them and flicked Dream's head with two fingers. Dream startled at it. He saw Blue send Ink a look at that, but he sensed no regret from Ink.

His mind grappled to process the words.

He was? He was what? Hurt?

…Oh wait. Yes. He was hurt. Killer stabbed him in the chest, he was still bleeding from it.

And then– then he'd–

More tears and shame pricked at his face. He shook his head insistently, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey.

"Dream, please let Ink help," Blue pleaded, worry lacing every word.

Dream hated to make him worry, especially over him, so in guilt, he relented.

With shaking hands, he removed his capelet and his shirt so it would be easier for Ink. Looking at it now, the wound was bad. It wouldn't kill him, it would take a lot to kill him, but it was bad. His blood dripping down from his severed ribs. It'd soaked into his clothes. It explained the burning of his breathing only partially.

"It's going to be okay," Blue lifted his face up again. "Just let Ink heal it, it's going to be okay Dream,"

He shouldn't be the one reassuring Dream. Ink shouldn't be the one cleaning his wound carefully to heal him. Dream should be the one taking care of them, not the other way around.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through hiccups, not even flinching as Ink gently cleaned his wound out with rubbing alcohol.

However the smell reached up to Dream's nose and nausea rolled in his stomach.

He shoved himself away from Blue to gag, pressing a hand to his mouth because he'd hate himself even more if he threw up on his friend.

"Whoops, sorry about that," Ink said casually, assuming he'd done something wrong.

"Not– not your fault," Dream reassured him, struggling to breathe through the nausea.

"Oh, I thought that's what we're doing? Apologizing for things that aren't our fault?" Ink said with a mischievously innocent smile.

Blue whacked his shoulder. Ink showed no regret, chuckling.

Dream was trying not to throw up again. He didn't usually vomit this much, but he usually stayed in his bathroom with little physical strain too.

He really, really wished they didn't see him like this.

"Oh, you still feel sick?" Ink spoke again, pushing himself to his feet, "I'll be back in a mo, keep an eye on him," he told Blue and then disappeared through a swipe of inky magic.

"Okay–" Blue exhaled through his nose, picking up the cotton and the rubbing alcohol, "I'll treat your wounds for now then, is that okay?"

Dream stared at the plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. Just the thought of the smell made him feel sick and ashamed and guilty, like he wanted to hide under his blanket.

"Oh–" Blue looked down at the bottle and then put it down.

"No, no, it's fine–" Dream was quick to reassure. His words were slightly clearer even though everything still felt like pins and needles. He was still intermittently hiccuping and sobbing, breathing shakily. And bleeding.

"No, we'll think of something else," Blue insisted, and Dream cringed. He couldn't even give it to them to not be a difficult patient. Way to burden your friends with what shouldn't even be their job, Dream.

He reached for the plastic bottle. He could patch his wound up himself, it was far from the first time.

Blue grabbed his wrist.

"Dream." he said sternly, and Dream couldn't help but hunch in on himself at the tone.

"Sorry,"

Blue breathed in and out in a measured manner.

"It's okay, I'm not mad at you," he said gently, and Dream could feel he wasn't. Mostly, he felt– frustration, worry and care, and sadness.

"Are– are you okay?" Dream asked. He didn't want Blue to feel frustrated and sad and all.

The frustration reared up at that, and then Dream felt it get intentionally shoved down.

"'S okay to be frustrated," he reassured, hand reaching up to Blue's shoulder in sloppy comfort.

"I'm–" Blue exhaled, "I'm not frustrated because you've done something wrong," he explained, "I just– I want to help you but I don't know how, and I'm... frustrated you're not letting us,"

Oh.

"Sorry," Dream mumbled, "I'm– I'm alright,"

"You're not," Ink reappeared, and Dream saw Blue wince at the bluntness. "Maybe this will help though?" Ink crouched down next to them, holding out a blister pack to Dream.

Dream let go of the rubbing alcohol, so Blue let go of his wrist. He accepted the blister pack, reading the name on the back.

'DETOX' and underneath, in smaller letters, 'active charcoal'.

"Charcoal?" he frowned.

"Yup!" Ink exclaimed. "It helps draw out, uh, bad things from your digestive system! Like food poisoning. Or alcohol,"

Dream stiffened, deeply uncomfortable and ashamed. Maybe they'd just heard Killer. Maybe they'd connected the dots. The two bottles still remained in the bathroom, after all, which is where they were sitting right now.

"I, I–" he scrambled.

"You don't have to explain yourself," Ink cut him off with a raised hand. "If you think that'll help, take it. You can even take two, it's not dangerous," he pointed at the active charcoal pack Dream held.

He hesitated.

"...Okay," Dream accepted, popping two out and swallowing them dry. It didn't taste like anything. He was thirsty. He felt completely drained, which didn't help the shaking and the wooziness.

"Wanna know what would help right now?" Blue spoke, and Dream looked at him hopefully.

"What?"

"Telling me how this upsets you so I can think of something else?" Blue pointed at the bottle of rubbing alcohol tentatively.

Dream cringed again. He should just tough it out. He was making things needlessly complicated, when he should be the person that makes things easier.

...But... Blue said it would help.

Dream took a wobbling breath in, then let it out. He was still blinking tears out of his eyes. Even though they weren't wracking through him anymore, he couldn't stop them.

"It's– the smell," he admitted quickly.

"Oh! Psh, well that's not a problem," Ink said easily, for some reason unraveling his (very long and thick) brown scarf that he loved. And then, bizzarely, he started wrapping it around Dream's neck, pulling it up so it rested over the lower half of his face too.

When Dream breathed in through his nose, all he could smell was Ink's natural scent, ink and paint and cloth.

"I– but what if I throw up again?" he looked up at Ink, voice small, eyes wet.

Ink stood with his arms crossed, smiling.

"You realize I throw up when I get overwhelmed, like, half the time, right?"

...Oh.

They were being… so nice. Showing him so much care, even though they shouldn't. But because they… wanted to?

It made him want to cry all over again, expression wobbling. They were so nice, and warm. He could feel their care.

"Thank you," he said softly to both of them.

"Anytime!" Ink beamed. "So is it gonna work?"

"I– yeah, I think so," Dream nodded, raising a hand to press the scarf to his face.

When Blue brought a cotton swab soaked in rubbing alcohol to try cleaning his stab wound again, the smell didn't hit Dream's nasal cavity, it didn't make him want to bend over and retch.

They spent some time in the quiet like that. Blue and Ink cleaning up his wound, healing it, and dressing it in a practiced manner. There were still tears half-heartedly streaming down from Dream's eyes, no matter how much he wiped them away with his hands and tried to hold them back.

He could feel the ache of the wound settling in, sharper now that it wasn't covered up by alcohol and adrenaline, but it wasn't more than what he could handle. His metaphysical stomach felt desolate, and he was so thirsty, but he worried he'd just throw it up again. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs and his eye lids, from the amount of energy he'd wasted in throwing up and freaking out.

And in the middle of a fight, too. And his teammates had rushed after him to help him, oh stars.

"What about Nightmare's gang?" Dream suddenly piped up in alarm.

"Oh don't worry," Ink waved a hand, "I ditched them at Error's," he cackled. Blue snorted.

Oh. Okay then.

"Good job," Dream praised them both. He really couldn't ask for better, more capable, more reliable teammates. Friends. "And… thank you. And– I'm–" his mouth wobbled more, and he tried to breathe the uprising tears away. "I'm sorry, I... I just– this–" how could he explain this? How could he justify himself?

He didn't want to lie to them. He hated lying. Especially to his friends.

"I thought it would help," his voice broke against his will. He stared at the floor, starting on the damned crying again. Get a hold of yourself, Dream. "I was trying to– I thought it would–"

Wordlessly, Blue reached over and dragged him into a hug. A second later Ink flopped into the embrace too, both of them sandwiching him like endearing annoyances.

Dream was… a bit stupefied. Here he was, drunk (post-drunk?), having botched a fight. Vomited magic dried on the bottom of his pants (he'd kicked his shoes off). Sitting with his best friends on his bathroom floor, an undignified mess in all ways.

And they just… hugged him.

Blue's arms around him were solid and strong, an unflinching aura of care. Ink had a steady calm presence, for all his hyperactivity, never overwhelming Dream with emotions due to their artificial nature.

They were… so warm.

Dream pressed his face to Blue's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut painfully. Blue rubbed his back, as much as he could with Ink there at least.

"It's okay," Blue comforted him gently. "You're okay. Everything is alright. You didn't do anything wrong, alright? You can let it out,"

Dream shook his head.

"Heeyy! There's room for only one emotionless Protector!" Ink whined, "Don't infringe on my copyright!"

Dream laughed wetly at that.

"I'm– but it's wrong," he argued, daring to voice his inner turmoil. Uncertain how exactly to describe the way he felt about it to someone else. "I– I wasn't made to cry," he tried.

"I mean, you can cry though, right?" Ink pointed out. "Sounds to me like you were made to do it, then,"

And… and Dream couldn't really argue with that. He was left speechless.

"Come on, what do you always tell other people?" Blue guided. "What do you say when someone's crying?"

Many things. But among those things,

"That it's... normal, and... healthy," Dream replied, quiet, uneasy. "But I'm not– it's not the same,"

"Why not?" Blue exclaimed. "Didn't it feel nice just now? Letting it out? Everything that was built up?"

…Miserably, Dream had to admit it did. Like there had been a dam accumulating inside of him, turbulent and heavy, metric tons of tears built up. And finally, he'd let some of it out. He was exhausted, and ashamed, but he did feel… eased, in a way.

"You're allowed to cry, Dream," Blue insisted softly. "Heck, you of all people should get to cry!"

"Don't worry, we won't tell anyone," Ink said in a jokey tone, "It's going to be a Star Secret,"

"Yeah, Ink will probably forget in a day," Blue teased.

"Heeyy!" Ink complained with no upset behind it, instead amused. "Maybe you should forget it too, did you consider that?"

"Nope! I'm a magnificent keeper of secrets, mweheheh!"

Dream giggled wetly. They were so nice. He sobbed again, muffling it into Ink's scarf. He loved his friends so, so much.

"There we go," Blue encouraged, amused but sincere. Patting his back gently. "Do you still feel sick? Do you think we can move to your room–?"

"Yeah, it's alright," Dream swallowed.

"Dream,"

"No– it is, it really is, I– I want to change my clothes," he insisted, it was the truth.

"Alright, Ink, move a little please,"

Ink complained and there was a bit of shuffling. Dream also got ready to disengage from the hug, but instead he was taken off guard as Blue lifted upwards, still holding him. Easily picking Dream up, making him yelp. Jeez, he sometimes forgot how much sheer physical strength Blue had.

Blue cackled, having definitely done that on purpose.

Dream sighed in feigned annoyance, but considering how tired he was, he honestly appreciated the lift to his bed where Blue deposited him. Ink happily trailed after, and flopped down right beside him.

"Do you need anything else? Where are your clothes?" Blue hovered, still on his feet.

"I can get it," Dream pushed himself up.

"Noooooo," Ink complained, wrapping around him like a squid.

"Guys,"

"Dream,"

"Just–" Dream sighed, "please? I swear I'm better," either from the DETOX or he'd thrown it all up, or both. And from the sheer comfort and positivity of his friends. He was just… tired. So tired.

But… not in a hopeless way. Rather in a really sleepy way.

Blue was visibly unsure, but relented, sitting at the bed. Dream smiled at him. Ink unlatched from him, letting him get up. He got into pajamas, brushed his teeth because yuck, and also went to get himself a glass of cold water from the kitchen. He drank it slowly and crossed his fingers, hoping he wouldn't throw up again.

He lingered in his kitchen for a moment, just… breathing. His body was tired. Heavy and dragging. It was so much more than simple lack of sleep. It felt like he'd bled out. Not just literally. A part of him dreaded how this would all crash down on him tomorrow.

And he was still highly in danger of crying.

…But…

…Maybe, he was made for it. Maybe, it was good and healthy for him. That's what Ink and Blue thought. And Dream both trusted them and trusted their view. They were some of the most truly kind, capable, honest, caring, dedicated– ah, he could go on. Point was: he appreciated them. Maybe... maybe he should take them as a guide instead.

It was a bit terrifying? Because what if he was wrong? What if Dream was daring to go against everything that'd kept the multiversal balance intact this far?

…But he hadn't been enough, this far. So... clearly something wasn't working. It was time he tried to change things up Just a little. For the sake of goodness.

(And maybe, just a little, for his own sake.)

Dream refilled the glass, taking it with him. Pattering back to his bedroom.

Ink and Blue were still laying there, their collective aura easy and light and warm, though with mix-ins. They were chatting about something. Ink was holding up the purple teddy bear, making it move as though it was acting out their conversation.

Dream passed by and primly snatched it out of his hands.

"Heeyy!" Ink protested, and then his mental track switched as he grinned, "Oh I'm so happy you kept him!"

"Of course I kept him," Dream rolled his eye lights. "He's a gift from you doofuses,"

"Mweheheh!"

"I like his ribbon," Ink pointed out. "Purple and yellow, complementary colors,"

…Yeah.

"Dream. Bed. Sleep. Don't make me make you," Blue threatened.

"I dare you to try," Dream grinned.

"Oh Dreamy Mr. Guardian," Ink clasped his hands together theatrically, making his eyes big and sparkling, "I need aid remembering how to get into bed, can you please show me–!"

Blue mercilessly whacked him over the head, making Ink kick his feet and laugh loudly.

Blue sent Dream a glance, but Dream was laughing too. He wasn't particularly offended. Partially because it was Ink, but mostly because Ink was... pretty accurate with it, haha. Oh stars.

Oh so benevolently, he flopped into bed, laughing quietly as he got dragged in for cuddles. Holding the plushie close.

Tomorrow, the shame and guilt would crawl up his spine. Tomorrow, he was probably in for… difficult conversations.

Tonight, instead of alone, Dream was held by his teammates, his friends, listening to them chat and breathe, and he felt... alright. Tonight, instead of lying, Dream had cried and it was alright. Tonight, Dream slept alright.