Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nightmare would describe it as a matter of merely patience, really. For them to be dishonest on this—much more now, the very first time their truce was to make effect— would be senseless. The Guardian was the only one with something to lose, after all. Basic common sense and a healthy sense of self preservation would clearly scare them off that idea.

Even then, he couldn't lie. An hour or so, just waiting on the snow —far enough from the town of Snowdin no monsters but themselves could be seen— was less than desirable.

“Still nothing.” Killer said. Nightmare didn't bother to turn his head to look at him, knowing he wouldn't dare to come near. From the glimpse of his eye, he could see the way he toyed with the knife on his hand, throwing it in the air just to catch it, avoiding its edge. “What are we waiting for?”

“You will see,” Nightmare said, dry. He closed his eye, and reached for any feeling. Fear was felt first, common in its light presence. Anger. Annoyance. Common, expected. It wasn't time yet. He had all the time in the world. His eye opened once more.

Unsatisfied —or at least, it felt like that, his knife stilling in his hand—, Killer stood back, looking to the side as if hoping the view of the snow falling would make the minutes pass quicker. Deciding he needed no attention from there on, Nightmare glanced to the other side, quietly analysing the way Dust and Horror rested on site. 

Emotions didn't matter then —he could feel their growing annoyance— but rather the way they showed it. Finding them tense, but not enough to warrant preparing against the possibility of sudden aggression, was more than enough.

There was a slight change in the air, light. Gravity felt off, like the world itself stuttered in its cycle.

“What the…” Horror murmured under his breath. He heard the way his phalanges dug into the hard bone of the femur he used as a weapon. Whether he looked at Nightmare or not for guidance wasn't known. It didn't matter. Trained as his pets were, he knew they wouldn't rebel against a command even in their confusion.

Their confusion gave way to dread. He felt it on the very tip of his tendrils, on the liquid hatred that fell to the ground just to gather back at his feets like magnetic sand.

He felt it before he saw it, the way reality itself seemed to split in half just to let something —no, someone in. A portal appeared, unappealing in its appearance. Geometric, its edges shifting as if it couldn't quite stabilize.

The realization he felt from his own felt sweet in his mouth. He didn't walk forward, yet he didn't flinch. His tentacles extended, and as so, he made himself taller, bigger; a second or so before he snapped them back in place.

Keep still.

Wordless, the gang obeyed. Nightmare was merciful enough to avoid commenting on the less than dignified emotion he felt creeping up on them.

A head peeked through the portal, far enough to be unable to distinguish its face, much less the expression it bore. The sound of glitching, however, was more than enough.

Ink had not lied. 

“Stupid,” he heard. Error’s voice felt loud, echoing in the pale color of the snow. His hand went to the side of his head, like soothing a common headache, before it went forward, phalanges clawing into the blue of his cheekbones. “What kind of trash— what kind of trash—?”

Nightmare heard him laugh, light as if amused by an inner musing before it degraded into a full blown cackle. He couldn't quite contain a wince, a mix of disgust and annoyance mirroring the echoes of feeling he couldn't quite access. It wasn't fear that made him unable to do so, but something close. He despised him.

Error’s laughter stopped, as suddenly as it began. Any second of wondering the reason why was cut off as Nightmare saw it: the melting snow—damp with the firelight of a single lantern— defying gravity. It barely lasted more than a second, the water turning black in the air before it fell once more only to bounce back, materializing as something solid.

A wooden broom painted to Error’s face, leaking acidic paint; he heard Error’s growl as static as it splashed into the ground, barely missing his slipper.

“Ink,” he said, a mockery of a greeting. A step back; his hand pulled, the other joining its twin to tug on the tears of his cheeks. Leaking silk-like strings from the hollow of his eyelights, he somewhat resembled a spider. “Won’t you just know when to quit?”

Ink huffed lightly, almost a sigh. A step forward guided his movement, the distance between them shortening to what it was before. Silent, like the sizzling of his paint burning the ground was answer enough.

The absence of chatter was eerie. Error laughed, somewhat lacking the sharpness from before yet still holding some edge.

“Aww. What happened? So serious, ” Error drawled. As he stepped to the side, Ink followed. They kept on facing each other. They would not touch, not yet. “All that self-righteousness about not wanting to fight. But here you are, pointing your shitty excuse of a broom at me.”

Half a circle. There wasn't enough space for them to keep on walking forward. A waltz.

“I don't want to fight,” Ink said. He didn't turn to look at them, but Nightmare knew he would be able to feel his eye on him. His hold on his weapon didn't falter, still brought high, pointing at Error’s neck. The lack of tone in his voice made his words feel rehearsed, “but I won't let you touch this Creator’s ambitions. Their passion and ideas. They're not yours to destroy.”

“Trash wasting up space,” Error crooned. His glitching was noisy in the silence, crackling like a burning flame. “Someone has to do the dirty work, paint stain. They will thank me for this . They are thanking me for this.”

“Some of them,” Ink conceded, terse. A full circle was made. His weapon was readjusted in his hands, position changed slightly. Upper torso leaned forward, neck craned up to keep looking at Error in the eyes. “They are not happy about you being here, y’know?”

“They’ll get over it,” Error said. He could see his yellow smile from afar, wide. Excited, almost. “I wouldn't say the same about your losing streak. They're still rambling about it.”

Their eyes locked, Error’s feet stopping in place. He saw Ink’s scarf, the way it seemed to spike at the edges.

“Poor little Ink,” Error cooed, low voice stretched thin into a mocking higher pitch. “So overrated. Pathetic. Such a boring character, if he can't protect anything, why is he even here?”

Too quick for his eye to properly follow, Ink moved forward, scarf swishing behind him; Error stepped back, avoiding the burning touch of Ink’s paint, oozing aggressively as if it wanted to devour him. Maybe it wanted to. Error laughed again. 

He had expected it— no, wanted it.

Error attacked back, a quick snap of his wrist tearing a pine tree from its roots. It didn't touch Ink as it flew towards him, but it was close. A black Gaster Blaster met Ink as he jumped.

Ink dissolved in front of his eyes, barely missing the light that came out of the faux creature’s mandible. Reforming himself in front of his eye in barely a second, crouching low on his knees, he jumped, the bristles of his broom barely missing Error’s eyes for an inch or so. Slightly lower, it cut Error’s strings from the source instead.

Error’s growl sounded like overlapping thunder as he stood back, hands quickly clawing onto his eyelights. Blue connected face and fingertips, and his wrists flicked again. A taunt. Bones appeared behind Ink’s back; collisioning when he looked back, alerted by the sound of magic.

Their broom smoked black. He felt more than heard Ink’s growl as they flipped it, acid oozing from the bristled tip, falling onto the snow at Error’s feet. By the way he hissed, Nightmare could guess it also got his legs.

Gaster Blasters appeared by Ink’s sides just to fire, strings hanging up to avoid him moving. Ink jumped, slicing through them as if they were made of butter. His shirt got dirty, tainted black by his own blood. He wasn't unscathed.

Error dodged, missing the wave of black paint that went after him. His frown twitched in place, and his fist clenched. Bone after bone appeared on snow, dissonant in their red color against the pure white of the background. They didn't move. String after string made their way between the trees.

A short break came to be. He saw Ink fiddle with his sash just to raise a vial up to his teeth; throwing the glass aside when he was done. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’ve gotten softer. Weaker,” Error said. Nightmare could pinpoint the bitter echo of disappointment in him. “This isn't fun anymore, just sad.”

Ink’s weapon met his shoulder, strong enough to throw him to a nearby tree. His mouth moved, somewhat still keeping his volume tame even if he could see him—

“Shit,” Dust hissed. A Gaster Blaster faced them. It was meant for Ink. Its jaw opened. 

Burning light met nothingness. They had gotten away in time. The violent white noise of Error’s glitching pulled him back, the text that overlapped his shape twitching like the glow of a broken screen. He was bleeding from the mouth. He did not speak.

His magic did all the talking, instead. The bones that rested on the ground tilted, as if pulled by gravity; Error’s strings made them chase Ink’s shape, colliding into a mix of dust and smoke as they didn't reach him. A sizzle of acid melted down the skull of a Gaster Blaster before it fired, leaving only the horns to fall into the ground and fade into nothingness.

Paint fell to the ground, fragmenting like an attempt of a spiderweb. Ink jumped forward, uncaring of the way his naked feet touched the very same liquid that devoured pure magic. Error jumped back, already back on his steps, flinching back as if Ink touching him could have burnt him. Maybe it could.

They haven't touched yet. A realization.

“Don't you have any new tricks?” Error drawled, laughing as he saw their hold on their broom grew unsteady. “You're already looking kind of pale.”

“Shut up ,” Ink hissed, leaving his stance for a second in fluster. It was enough. Error’s strings wrapped around his broom and pulled . Ink bristled like a cat, full attention on the ceiling. He jumped, following his only weapon up.

A flash of blue immobilized him, arms snapping back to his torso. There was a second just before the strings tightened, straight lines at full capacity before they snapped. The snow floated up with the force of Ink’s fall, the slam echoing in the hollow.

Ink didn't get up.

"Son of a bitch,” Error hissed, fists clenching as Ink squirmed in place. He stilled again, immobile. A fly on the web. “You never learn, do you ?”

Ink didn't move. Nightmare had seen him dissolve, turn into paint just to slither away, unscathed. And yet— he did not. Like his magic, the very sense of self had been sapped away from him when he had been oh so lively. A machine running out of oil.

Ink’s weakness. The excuse he used to arrange their truce.

“Rusty. So awfully boring ,” Error said. He walked closer, shoe pressing onto glass. One of Ink’s vials had fallen in the struggle. His smile seemed strained, a mix between sick pleasure and pity mixing within the wrongness of his soul. Awfully sweet. “Don't worry, blodge. I can be entertaining enough for the both of us.”

Nightmare’s tentacles twitched as he saw Error’s hands claw onto the air, a mix of symbols and images glitching into reality itself. The world stuttered, suddenly too tight, smaller. An opening.

“Fetch,” Nightmare said. He felt Dust and Horror’s emotions, sharp, right after they moved. They had moved before feeling. It was enough.

Error’s hand dropped as Killer's knife grazed his scarf, smile hesitating in place, eyes widening in surprise as he barely evaded the sharp cut. He wasn't as lucky with the pure magic that was freed from Dust’s Blaster, exploding against the blindspot of his back.

String appeared before the smoke cleared, sharp against Horror’s soul before Killer cut it down with the sharpness of his knife. Error’s ribs were hit by Horror’s maze, glitching into abhorrent noise as he screeched in pain.

Reality dropped into normalcy as he did so, whatever hold he had on it snapping like a twig. Nightmare could perceive emotions again, the feeling of them popping open inside his cranium like a pressure change.

“Cheater. Cheating— ” Error bristled, strings pooling from his eyes like real tears. He stomped on the floor with one foot, hands clawing on his cheeks, like the idea of crying was really passing through his mind. “ Ink, your little friends—?!”

“Error,” Nightmare said instead, smirking when the amicable tone made Error stop. The presence of his anger, sharp as it was, was intoxicating. “So we see once—”

“Annoying,” Error growled, caring not of the way Nightmare’s team surrounded him. Gaster, knife, maze. A mockery of protectors, the Guardian of Fates still down, twitching like a squashed cockroach, still bent on fighting even if everything of him was broken. Defenseless. The idea that Ink, of everyone else there, deserved more respect than himself, dangerous as he was, was more than puzzling. Troubling. What did he see on him? “Go away .”

“Is this how you usually greet someone who just wants to talk, Destroyer of the AUs?” Nightmare wondered out loud, his tentacles rising as he saw the hint of string drag through the snow. They sharpened like knives, the substance that composed them compacting into solid. “I’m under the belief that one must… weigh his own words, before ordering fellow men around. I’m very sure you would never desire to be this impolite, much less to those that answer to me.”

Space between monsters was made smaller as his guard walked closer, string being touched and pulled. If Error moved, if his hand clenched, they would attack at the same time. A clear checkmate.

“Eat shit ,” Error grumbled, static growing in volume as he saw himself cornered. “This is between Ink and I . You’ve never bothered to bother me before . You opportunistic piece of shit.”

But Ink was his, now. All in exchange for a helping hand, if an opportunity just like this one arose. Cunning as Nightmare was, he always felt proud of just how strict he was on fulfilling his promises.

Nightmare's smiled, showing teeth. He felt Error’s repulsion before he saw it on his face, spreading like infection on the way his glitching spread, like some part of him hoped for it to be able to protect it from the pack of hyenas ready to feast on meat he didn't have.

It’d be so easy. It wasn't every day he had an opportunity like this. He could even mask it as a favor. Something Ink would owe him for.

A protector with nothing to protect against was barely a protector, however. And he still needed a leash. Appealing as the idea was, the downsides outweighed the benefits.

“Don’t kill him.”

Ink’s voice, void of any emotion, took him back. Faint. He had forgotten him. Nightmare looked back, eye roaming over the pitiful figure of Ink’s scarf, half-melting into black. Still restrained.

How humiliating. If Nightmare focused, he could almost feel the echo of where their shame should rest, thick like honey. He felt his team’s eyes on him, questioning. A claim to be made, waiting on his lips.

“Ah. Such a pitiful sight,” Nightmare said, almost a rumble. His eye went back to glance at Error’s indignant scowl, a smirk still shaping his mouth. “Did you hear that, Destroyer? Do you think you deserve mercy?”

Horror’s foot hit Error’s knees, making him drop. Symbols and numbers followed as if the corruption of himself seemed to follow him, called on by his bristling. Like a puppeteer, his strings snapped with him. No puppets. 

“Your life is not mine to take,” Nightmare decided, high enough so Ink could hear. A mercy to them both. “Be thankful. Your dust won't touch my shoes today.”

“You sick freak,” Error snarled, though he didn't attack once more. His eyes fell on Ink’s shape before they lost the light shine of his eyelights. “Don't think this is over.”

A portal opened on the floor, barely enough to let Error through. Blinding white, shockingly contrasting against the snow— an instant.

Error was gone.

He saw the trio relax, abandoning their stance. Naturally, they didn't see Ink as a threat. Even then, the trace of the battle itself was more than enough. Raw magic hollowed whole trees, devoured the floor itself. The ceiling. Cut strings weren't enough to cover the destruction that followed.

Such power. Most fascinating of it all, the battle seemed equal until it was very much not. As if mid-flying, one of the birds broke its wings, unable to bear the force of the wind. Unnatural.

His feet walked by themselves to where Ink laid on the floor. A tentacle of his own went around the back of his sash, picking him up like a cat. Dirty and scratched, he resembled a stray. Ink blinked at him, pale red and orange staring back. 

“And what should we do now with our little friend ?” Killer said, a smile in his voice. He was still panting lightly; Nightmare could hear the sound of his breathing even if he stood behind him. “Boss?”

“I thought I gave you enough nourishment for today,” Nightmare said, voice cold. “Don't tell me you’ve gotten greedy, Killer.”

“I thought you liked it when I got ambitious.”

“There’s a clear difference between the two,” Nightmare said. The tips of his tentacles flicked. “Silence, now. I'll let you know the moment your services are needed again.”

There was a single breath —loud enough for Nightmare to think Killer was about to complain— but it quickly dissipated into a single sigh. Defeated. Steps on the snow, light, let him know Killer walked away. Privacy.

“Hm? How weird,” Ink said, the same blank expression on his face. Nightmare brought him up, just enough so he could look down at him comfortably. “One would think that with how strict you are, your pets would know to shut up.”

“Don't flatter me, Guardian,” Nightmare said. He couldn't deny the smile that appeared, however. There was a fine line between stupidity and naivety. Did Ink truly think he wouldn't try to hurt him in his helplessness? “They are well trained, usually. They don't do well when they get impatient, you see.”

“My bad,” Ink said, light. A weird smile got on his mouth, as if he couldn't quite summon the illusion of courtesy yet trying to do so all the same. “I would have told you the exact time he’d come here, but y’know how Error gets.”

“I do know,” Nightmare said, well-humored. His eye lost some of its amusement, even if he made sure his words kept on rolling smoothly, like pebbles down a mountain. Amenable. “Is this how every little battle of yours has been? Every defeat? ”

“Yikes. Right for the kill, hm?” Ink said. He didn't wince. Somehow monotone. “Yes.”

“How verbose.”

“I don't remember most battles,” they said. “I have memory pools. I get thrown around a lot. Does weird things to me.”

“So I see. I hope you're aware that Error won't fall for this trick again,” Nightmare said. Ink’s face didn't tell him anything. They blinked at him. “However, I believe it's doable. My work hand may be yours, as long as you prioritize worlds that answer to me.”

Ink’s eyes squinted, a frown coming to be. Even then, it softened after not very long. As if he was testing emotions; attempting expressiveness with nothing behind to back them up. “Okay.”

Satisfied, Nightmare let him on his feet, politely letting him lean on the wideness of his tentacle as he stumbled. Still trapped. He didn't melt yet. The process probably was linked with his magic, unable to be called upon while exhausted by the battle, short and intense as it was.

“Think you can do me a favor?” Ink said, nose twitching as Nightmare’s tentacles passed through his back. String after string was cut, and he was free again. Instead of checking his numb arms, his hands quickly went to his sash, getting a vial out just to drink. He licked his lips once he was done. “...Mhm. You're the best.”

“I believe the word you wanted to say is ‘thank you’,” Nightmare said dryly, somewhat entertained. Ink didn't look at him after that, eyes glancing up to stare at the ceiling. He couldn't say that he was surprised. His weapon was still up there, after all. Nightmare couldn't help but glance up as well, as if he truly held the thought there was anything interesting to look at but the trace of weakness that laid up. “...A temporary partnership. Merely a coincidence.”

Ink looked back at him. His eyes resembled question symbols. “Ah?”

“My excuse,” Nightmare said, eyes jumping to the gang before he stared down at him. “To reveal what we have would be less than beneficial, would it not be? I assume the idea of my brother knowing of our little truce isn't particularly appealing.”

“Ha . No. It’d go super bad,” Ink said, hand on his nape. He seemed troubled. He blinked. Purple and cyan met his view. “I guess we’ll just have to run with the good old Enemies with Benefits tag.”

“...Could we not.”

Chapter Text

The silence felt oppressing. Even so, Nightmare couldn't just get up and go away. Delaying the inevitable was less than preferable, much more so when this action of his needed enough time as it was.

“Keep still,” Ink said, as uncaring as one could be on the cold wooden floor —they had tried to light the fire inside the firehouse to no avail, and as so, a weirdly ominous cold air permeated the air—. His front on the floor, sketchbook leaning on the broom of his, it was only natural for Nightmare to know what he planned to do. He may have found it flattering, had he been in a better mood. Ink tilted his head, eyes following the invisible line of his body’s gesture. “Just like that. Yup.”

There was silence once more, the sound of pen meeting paper the only sound. It barely resembled writing, Ink’s strokes long and smooth in their sound. It felt odd, out of place. Nightmare crossed his legs, his thumb digging onto the dusty sheet of the book he carried with his right hand.

“...One would think you, out of everyone, would… prefer imagination, to draw,” Nightmare said, voice low. Ink’s eyes didn't go up again, busy on the paper. They held the coal pen in an odd way, index and thumb grabbing it from the middle. His nose crinkled in distaste. “Unless there’s something particularly appealing about my person that I don't know about.”

“Not really,” Ink said, eyes going up to look at him, just a second of contact before they went down again. “You're pretty standard, for a Sans.”

“You say that as if you weren't a Sans yourself,” Nightmare said dryly, looking down onto the book with something like annoyance clouding his vision. Feeling the wrongness of the silence after Ink failed to answer, he added, glancing down at him, “don’t you have an AU of your own, Guardian? A brother to come home to?”

“Do you?” Ink said, without looking up. They shifted for a moment, awkwardly resting their weight on their left side to tug on the ends of their scarf, freeing them from the weight of their own body. His scarf pooled on the floor like a poodle when they weren't standing. Ink didn't mind the dust. “... Hm . Actually, don't answer that.”

Ink’s disinterest was a little more than annoying. It was a good glance at his personality, however. That was why Nightmare was here. He had to remind himself that as he heard Ink’s pen tap on the floor in thought. 

Ink didn't look up at him, the vulnerability of his back freely given to him. If Nightmare desired to, he could pierce his chest, devoid as it was. With their broom on the floor, obstructed by scarf and paper, it wouldn't leave them enough time to react. Ink should have known better than to reveal himself like this to him.

And yet. One must only wonder if he did it from confidence alone: whether he knew Nightmare wouldn't attack him or enough trust in his capacities to believe he would have fend him off even in disadvantage.

He knew better than to think Ink would trust him enough to completely believe in their little détente.

Nightmare needed to change that, of course. If he rushed with this —if he failed to acquire Ink’s trust— then all this planning would have been for nothing.

Well. For mostly nothing. The idea of his brother’s face, distorted with negativity in realization of Ink’s betrayal, would have been quite a consolation prize.

“What are you smirking at?” Ink said. Nightmare looked down, mouth thinning slightly as he saw the amused glint in Ink’s eyes. “Thinking of your evil plan already?”

“Why. I am indeed,” Nightmare said dryly. He closed his book, putting it over his femur, keeping it there with the plane of his hand. His eye squinted slightly as he looked at Ink’s sketchbook. The position he was in didn't let him see anything of importance. “How long until you're done with that?”

“You're kind of impatient, aren't you?” Ink said, something of a smile getting on his expression as he looked down at the paper once again. “Ungrateful, too. We haven't been goody-goody with each other for too long. You should be thankful I even came here. That I stayed here, after you decided to give me the clingy treatment. Not everyone does this kind of thing.”

“Pardon?” Nightmare huffed, a bit offended. He had expected a bit more of coyness with it, for Ink to act more like this interaction was anything less than natural. Nightmare was the one with nothing to lose between the both of them. It’d have been way more fitting if Ink just submitted and played along, mindful of the power he held over them, recognized outloud or not. “What makes you think I came here for anything but discussing our truce? If it was for anything else, I could have been more of a respectable individual, and approached you in a proper way."

“You want something from me. Reeeally badly,” Ink said noncommittally. His eyelights met Nightmare's. They looked troubled for a moment, before a blink turned them into sharp triangles. “Are you lonely, Nightmare?”

“No. I would dare to say that I’d prefer more loneliness, actually,” Nightmare said, a bit defensively. He cleared his throat, soothing the edge of his voice. “And even if I was indeed, I’d seek better company than yours. I would look for someone who could look me in the eyes.”

“I can look you in the eyes,” Ink said. He left his coal pen by his sides, using his own hands to guide his form into sitting. For a few seconds, at least. He plopped into his back, knees pressed together as his fingers dug into the cloth of his scarf. Smoothing it. The sketchbook rested on his lap, senseless and useless for the minute it took for Ink to get a paintbrush out of his sash. “See?”

“That was not what I…” Nightmare stopped. This didn't lead to anywhere constructive. He didn't want to show so many emotions, especially when they were unsightly. Counterproductive. “Don’t mind me. Don't you feel cold?”

Ink blinked. The appearance of a question mark on his right eye sparked some interest in him. He wondered if it was something they willed to shape as their eyelight, to try to let him glimpse into his feigned emotions, or if it was subconscious. “Ah?”

“You are… barefoot,” Nightmare said, eye on Ink’s knees. The twin triangles of brown clothing wrinkled, even if they should have been smoothed down by the gentle pull of gravity. “Those pants of yours don't look very thick. Your forearms are discovered. Your gloves are fingerless.”

“Not totally,” Ink said, showing him his pinky, clothed by the single finger of his glove. They looked to the side, considering. “But… Hm. Not really. I get what you're coming from, though. Dream asked me the same thing, when I changed my base design.”

“Ah, yes. You used to wear… multiple layers. A jacket on your waist,” Nightmare recalled, choosing to ignore the unfortunate mention of his brother's name. He remembered it, of course. He thought the change of clothing was well called for: more modest, less eye-catching. It resembled the way Ink showed himself, in a manner. Weakness could make you meeker, Nightmare knew that well. “You used to have an annoying voice. Squeaky.”

“Yikes,” Ink said, a huff. He didn't even look that bothered. Like he was indulging him; showing Nightmare what he thought he wanted to see. Could Nightmare truly make him angry? He’d have to try it later, once he knew Ink wouldn't be able to talk back with the same freedom. “I have the exact same voice now, y’know?”

“You don't,” Nightmare argued. His eye met Ink’s. “...No, you don't speak the same. You lack the energy you carried before.”

“We have never talked this much before, there's no way you can tell,” Ink said. He then stuck his tongue out, playful. As if Nightmare couldn't cut it off if given the chance. “What is this? Are you trying to characterize me?”

“I am simply making an observation,” Nightmare said dryly. It wasn't even that big of a guess; Ink’s lack of energy was more than evident, especially while battling. He had to warn the gang against hounding him up every time they noticed him visibly slowing down. One would prefer their future weapons whole, after all. “Must I assume it's somewhat related to your… magic shortage?”

“Pft. I have enough magic,” Ink said. Nightmare was merciful enough to not point out how obvious the lie was. “I’ve just gotten… rustier.”

An interesting choice of words. He couldn't help but think of a machine without proper oiling. It only opened more questions: if there was a mechanism, there was something that powered it up. Ink wasn't a traditional monster, so he doubted the answer would be simple enough to guess without some proper experimentation. 

He did know Ink’s paints were somewhat related to his magic, by the way he chugged on them like they were sugared water whenever he seemed particularly exhausted, as if they alone could get his magic levels to normalcy. But even then, he couldn't see why Ink wouldn't just drink more of them to try and fix his magic deficiency, instead of letting himself rot into timed helplessness. 

Were there any drawbacks related to raising his usual dose that Nightmare wasn’t aware of?

“One would think my brother would know how to keep his weapons sharp,” he said, instead, somewhat playful. He heard Ink’s sigh, light. “Does he not?”

“Dream doesn't own me.”

“I don't own my team,” Nightmare said back, amused. “I simply keep them close and let them pay what they owe me with their generous service.”

“Dream and I… our goals kind of. Y’know. They match. It’s not — not the same, with you and your guys,” Ink said, sounding somewhat disgusted by the idea of ownership. It was good to see his thoughts about indebted servitude; it would be quite an ironic thing to see in retrospect, if Nightmare had his way. “We are a team because we want similar things.”

“Oh, yes. Protecting the sensibilities of the poor AU dwellers,” Nightmare said, unable to keep the mocking tilt completely off his voice. “How kind of you.”

Ink’s mouth twitched, just for a moment. Even then, they didn't answer. Instead, they lifted their sketchbook just to pose it over their head, far back enough they wouldn't have to keep craning their neck awkwardly to look at it. 

There was a moment of charged silence before a whine of disappointment got off their lips, “aww. I made you look too stiff.”

“I’m sitting. I expected nothing more of you,” Nightmare said. His head tilted slightly, curious. “Let me see.”

“Nope.” A pity.

“Don't tell me you're one of those persons that get embarrassed for the things they make with their own hands,” Nightmare said, somewhat disappointed. “I never thought you’d be the type. Why, you walk around carrying that giant broom of yours around without any care in the world.”

“It’s a brush,” Ink argued, letting the sketchbook fall on his chest just to glare at him. True annoyance didn't look unfitting in his face; it wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes in a way that could be only described as natural. Endearing, almost, like the bark of an usually tame dog. “I’m literally named Ink. It's an ink brush.”

“Don't tell me,” Nightmare repeated, raising an eyebrow. He looked down, the sight of a somewhat respectable broom shaping to one of a comically oversized paintbrush before his very eyes. Perception was a funny thing. “You commissioned such an… interesting weapon, just so it would match your namesake?”

“Well, it’d be super lame if I had something that didn't match my overall theme, y’know?” Ink said, sitting up. They closed their sketchbook just to put it aside, hands going forward to take and cradle the wooden shape of his weapon like one would to a beloved pet. They nuzzled the bristles like a cat. “I chose my name after getting it.”

Nightmare opened his mouth just to then close it. Somewhat puzzled. He couldn't help but look at Ink’s clearly ink-spilled themed mark on his cheek. Then he looked back at his eyes. “You had that thing… tattooed?”

Ink blinked, taking a moment to blindly touch his face, his hand reaching for his painted cheek before he had a moment of realization.

“Pft. What? No, I was created like this,” Ink said, brushing his words off like one would to a particularly annoying fly, hand movements included. He smiled then, looking weirdly smug. “Part of the pack.”

Nightmare decided not to think too deeply about the implications of clear design theming in Ink’s existence. Chosen or not, it was definitely an… interesting way to live by. “How odd.”

“Huh! You're one to talk,” Ink said, snorting. He seemed to remember something, eyes closing in thought as his hand found the black vial on his sash. The negativity he could use to call his presence, if the situation arose. “...Y’know, I get why you did that thing, the day of our first… cooperative battle.”

“Pardon?” Nightmare said, a bit taken aback. It had been some time ago, after all. Enough for them to have fought together more than thrice. The vial of darkness in Ink’s sash only proved it. “What thing, precisely?”

“You waited there, up until Error appeared,” Ink said slowly, “and then didn't reveal yourself or your team until I was defeated. Why?”

“Is that what you assume to know?” Nightmare said, unable to help the way his hold on the arm of the sofa he was sitting on clenched slightly. “A reason to wait ? I believe it was obvious. It must have been, at least. Error is a dangerous opponent. It was only wise to wait for a clear opening.”

“I know,” Ink said, mouth thinning slightly, “but that wasn't your only reason, was it?”

“The idea that I have a hidden reason is… quite odd to have, to say the least,” Nightmare said, smooth. He couldn't quite deny the way his interest was picked. Misguided or not, whatever Ink came up with it would be quite telling. “If you may?”

Ink straightened his back, looking up at him. He frowned slightly, with the sort of expression of someone trying to conjure a memory. “Well— y’know. It was humiliating.”

“Oh?”

“...That was part of the idea, wasn't it?” Ink said, looking down at his hands. “Everything was going kind of crappy until you decided to step in. Made me feel kind of useless. Helpless.”

“You make me sound as if I desire to be your keeper,” Nightmare said, a bit ticked off. “Why would I desire to humiliate you, if that's the case?”

“I don't know. But it felt like that,” Ink said, a bit unsure. It wasn't a complaint: Ink’s voice lacked anger to count as such. It was somewhat like a defeated mutter. “I know how your team attacks. We could have outnumbered Error.”

“We could have,” Nightmare said, “until he decided to play puppeteer. Unlike you, Guardian, my guards can be controlled by their souls. I can, as well.”

“We could have made it quick. Quick enough he wouldn't be able to do it before he was down.”

Nightmare clicked his tongue. “I don't see why this has any importance. I analysed the situation and acted accordingly, as anyone would. It is past. Why, one would think you're trying to antagonize me.”

Ink opened his mouth before he closed it, as if finally deciding against speaking his mind. Such a shame. He found his spirited moments quite… amusing.

“Is defeat humiliating for you, Guardian?” Nightmare asked, tone low. He considered the possibility of Ink getting up just to run away. He would not stop him. Leashing him so soon would only scare him off; stop his progress on its tracks. “Or is it only when it is seen?”

“It’s always seen,” Ink said, something like a strained huff. He shook his head, as if trying to scare any heavy thought. It didn't work, it seemed. “I just— was it fun, to you? Funny?”

“Hm.” Nightmare considered it. It was… it had been a pitiful sight. He had not known how Ink could keep losing such an instinctual thing (confrontation of foils, equally strong) until he saw it happen. It was entertaining. Ink’s weakness was entertaining, much more so when he had seen him lie and joke, smug and satisfied with his own existence, carefree. He couldn't lie, “it was one of the most amusing things I’ve seen in some time.”

He expected Ink to close on him, defeated. Maybe tears of frustration, if he dared hope. Instead, Nightmare couldn't help but flinch as he heard him laugh, relieved. 

How puzzling.

“...I knew it,” Ink said under his breath, when his laughter stopped. “Okay. Okay! You’re that kind of guy. I just— ha. Of course.”

“You’re… off-putting,” Nightmare said after a moment, still taken aback. His mouth kept on twitching, as if undecided on whether to smile alongside Ink or frown in confusion. It was quite a frustrating thing. “What kind of person am I, exactly?”

“Oh, you know exactly what kind of person you are,” Ink said. Before Nightmare could reformulate his question, he added, “you… you enjoy suffering, don't you? You're kind of smart. Edgy. Somewhat lonely. Did I mention cruel? I feel like I’ve mentioned it.”

“All troubling things,” Nightmare said, dryly. He didn't like Ink’s eyes, sharp and uncaring. Like he was nothing but an accessory to him. Something to be studied; no. Something to be written about. “How mean-spirited that you are. Is it really that easy for you to think I enjoy your… indignity? I could have been simply indulging you, with that unusual question of yours.”

“Oh, but you do enjoy it.” Ink smiled, all teeth. Nightmare could see the hint of fangs, sharp against the cozy lighting. They leaned forward, getting on their knees before standing up, determined. They stretched, letting their brush balance on its tip to spread their arms. “But well! I think that was a good closing line. See you next month?”

“...Pardon? You’ll just go away?” Nightmare said, looking up at them. His mouth opened before it closed. He tried again, “just like that?”

“What, want me to give you a goodnight kiss?” Ink teased, snorting when Nightmare leaned back, disgusted. “Just joking. Y’know the deal, I have people to see, places to go…”

“We are not done.”

“Oh, we are,” Ink said, unbothered. They smoothed their scarf so its tails went down, like twin waterfalls. Once they were done with it, their pants were next. “I got everything I needed!”

“You…” 

“This thing. I get it now,” Ink said, leaning down to fetch their sketchbook. It found its way back to their inventory. They looked down, fixing their sash. They were ignoring him. “I know exaaactly what you are.”

Nightmare grabbed his scarf by one of its tails, and pulled, sharp enough to warn about his hold on it. Ink stopped, just a second, before they looked back at him. Their eyes met his, colder.

“And what am I, now?” Nightmare dared. He stood up as well, taking advantage of his height to make Ink crane his neck up. He stood a bit closer, fist clenching around cloth as Ink didn't even try to lean back. “If you could share your opinion?”

“I told you already,” Ink said. It wasn't enough. Ink’s hand pushed his own away, batting it off his scarf, somewhat tense. Their eyes met his. The same kind of look one would give a particularly persistent fly. “A weirdo. Definitely an opportunist. Are we done now?”

“...I suppose,” Nightmare huffed, taking a step back. He saw how Ink smoothed his scarf again, like a bird preening his feathers back down after a particularly strong gust of wind. It was quite an impolite thing to do. He didn't even try to mask how disgusting he found the touch of his hands. “I’ll see you in a month, if the Stars allow us. Same hour, same day.”

“They will,” Ink said, looking away. They opened a single portal with a sweep of their brush, sharp against the air. Their back turned to him, somehow confident in Nightmare's annoyance not showing traitorous aggressiveness. “I have a feeling at least some of Them find this interesting.”

Chapter Text

“I kind of was expecting more action, y’know,” Ink said, hip leaning onto the arm of Nightmare's chair. His right side. For whatever reason —though he suspected it was just Ink’s attempt to annoy him— they had really taken a liking to sneak on him when he least expected it.

As such, instead of flinching at their sudden appearance, Nightmare just sighed, long and tired. The tip of his quill submerged into the inkwell —a few seconds of waiting, intentionally stretching the moment— before he drew it up, slowly. He took care of the excess ink before he started writing again.

Ink, at his side, hummed. He saw the way they took the inkwell, and he couldn't help but follow the movement of his with his whole side. His whole head turned with it. “...Found anything of interest?”

“You took this one from UnderFell,” Ink said, voice somewhat awed. The idea that Ink could recognize his namesake’s original AU by its appearance alone was entertaining by itself. His eye twitched as Ink dipped the finger of his tip in, just enough to taint his fingertip black. “Weird. I thought you’d be into using modern pens.”

“It’s easier. More… efficient,” Nightmare said, somewhat defensive even if Ink’s tone was heard plain. Vaguely surprised, as if finding the day was to be cloudy instead of sunny the moment he got out. He looked back to his desk, the nib of his feather quill pressing onto the paper. “Why did you decide to come here?”

The inkwell was left on his desk again.

“Can't I visit a friend, Night?” He heard Ink’s steps, light in the floor before they appeared in his range of vision. His left side. As he looked at them, they popped their fingertip on their mouth, licking the pigment off. Ink smiled as they saw the way his mouth curled down in light disgust. “I thought you missed me.”

“I considered the possibility that you had reneged on our agreement,” Nightmare said, though he couldn't quite ignore the way he didn't deny it. Ink’s presence had become something… expected. He had felt its absence when the moment between each meeting stretched long enough to be antinatural. It bothered him. “You didn't come last week. Nor the week before that. I believed it could be a clear refusal to continue working together.”

“Well, it was not,” Ink said, like it was enough explanation. They swept the things off his desk with a single hand —barely avoiding knocking the decoration that laid on there— before they sat on it, getting up in a single jump. They fixed their scarf, making sure they weren't sitting on it. “Y’know. I’m still in, if you are.”

“...I am,” Nightmare said, his hands twitching slightly as he saw his work being moved so carelessly. It was merely organization, but it still managed to ruffle his feathers. His head went up to meet Ink’s eyes, crinkled with their smile. They looked somewhat confused. “Why didn't you go?”

“Hm?”

Nightmare cleared his throat. “Last week. The week before that. You were supposed to be in the Old Queen’s house, located in p-GP2045 OuterTale’s Ruins. Yet you weren't there. I’m asking you why.”

Ink tilted his head slightly, in just the way Nightmare had learned to relationate with acted confusion. Their eyes remained the same, cyan and orange swirling before a blink replaced them.

“...Oh. Forgot.”

Nightmare huffed, unsatisfied. He tilted his head as well, something like amusement leaking as he saw Ink’s eyes widen slightly when the angles of their faces matched. They straightened, just to cross their arms. How odd.

“Both occasions? I don't know why, but I’m not feeling particularly inclined to believe you,” Nightmare said, unable to help but lean in slightly just to see Ink lean back. “Why did you come here, if not to apologize? Give me an explanation, at least?”

“You want me to say sorry?” Ink said, lifting his eyebrows. It was quite an entertaining thing, seeing his expression struggle, like he didn't quite know what face he was expected to make. “Just that?”

“An honest explanation would be appreciated, too,” Nightmare said. One of his eyebrows lifted as Ink just stretched his mouth in a thin line. His confusion showed in the twin question marks of his eyes. “That would be enough to put those events behind us, yes.”

“That's not fun at all,” Ink murmured under his own breath, troubled. Their eyes looked down to his hands, to the quill he still held on. They tilted their head again. “You sure?”

Nightmare couldn't help the entertained smile, even if himself found it a bit exaggerated. From the months knowing Ink, he knew he wasn't that attached to the idea of pride, much less when it only was related to words. “It’s not an outlandish thing to ask.”

“I didn't go to our meetings. The meetings we use to discuss your kind of predatory… plot thingy—” Ink said, squinting his eyes, “—twice. I kind of disrespected your authority and all that.”

“You did,” Nightmare agreed, even if it felt somewhat exaggerated. The meetings have been less official lately, much more so as the frequency of them increased. There was only so much one could talk about a single thing, after all. “I would desire for you not to call it predatory, however.”

Ink tilted his head to the other side. Studying. Analysing. His voice blank, as if testing it, “I won't say sorry.”

“Your lack of apology won't keep me awake at night,” he said. Ink looked underwhelmed, faltering like a sunless plant. “And I’ll just assume you had more important things to do, those days. From there, I’ll forget it even happened, unless a similar instance happens again.”

“Wrong,” Ink said, uncrossing his arms. He didn't know what to say back about that. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Ink huffed, somewhat offended by his lack of reaction. “You— c’mon, don't give me that. You have to lend me a hand here!”

“I’m not quite sure of what you're talking about,” Nightmare said, eye going down as he saw Ink’s hand fiddle with the vials of his sash, just to drop before he even took one out. “Do you want me to… resent you?”

“No… Yes! Yes, actually!” Ink said, perking up. It was odd. Their excited demeanor faltered seconds after appearing. Disappointment— disappointment? “You… y’know. Think of it! What am I, to you?”

“...An ally?” Nightmare tried, looking to the side in an unreadable feeling when Ink just stared blankly at him. He looked back, eye slightly squinted. “You're my… associate.”

“Okay, besides all that. I’m your… y’know. I’ve got everything to lose while you set the pace— yadda, yadda, yadda,” Ink brushed his words to the side with the movement of his hands, like scaring off a fly. Nightmare could only stare. “Nightmare, you're, like, evil. You have to be more… y’know. Violent and all that jazz.”

The carelessness in which he said it was uncomfortable, much more so when everything that came out of his mouth was nonsense. “...Pardon?”

“Think of it like this.” Ink lifted his hands, moving one of them as if in waving. “You have more of an ego, so like— y’know. You get upset when you think something has done you wrong. That's one of your character traits.”

“Is it now?”

“So! You have to play along. Follow the flow! See, when I meticulously planned my not-going-there—” Ink shushed him as he saw him open his mouth. “—I insulted your sense of self… Dared to insinuate that you're not as important as you think you are— more outrageously, I did all that while we had a power dynamic thing going on! Right now, I’m considerably weaker than you and— are you following me?”

Nightmare blinked. “...Oh, I am.”

“Good.” Ink coughed, their eyes going down for a second. They leaned to the side, snatching the inkwell from the table before drinking from it. Once they were done, they sighed. “And— and. Uh. What were we talking about?”

“...The way you disrespected me?” Nightmare tried, still lost. Ink nodded, looking up for a moment before they nodded again. “Our… power dynamic.”

“Right, right,” Ink said, closing his eyes. “So like— obviously, the most fun option at the moment would be you playing and acting around this defined trait. Beat me up.”

“What.”

“I mean. Not thaaat bad of a beat up. You gotta give me a little taste, first. Itty-bitty taste,” Ink said, looking to the side before shrugging. “If it's too bad, then it would take people out of it because why would I stay after that, y’know? Make it gradual. I kind of sought after it, too, what-if-not with the whole coming here and messing your stuff up and all—”

“...You just got on my desk,” Nightmare said, confusion still warring in his mind. He felt a bit disgusted, though he couldn't quite exactly point out why. “What?”

“I just told you. You gotta do a better job about it if you want to keep your theme going on,” Ink said, squinting his eyes when Nightmare just looked at him with all the confusion he could muster. “Just. Hmm. Hm. As a critique.”

“You don't know what a critique is. For a critique, you need analysis. Feedback. You can't just go and insinuate— ”  Ink looked at him, eyes round. He could see the corners of his mouth still tinted black, dark with his namesake. Why was he even explaining this thing to him? Nightmare stood from his chair, defeated.  “Just— Just get off my desk.”

“Huh,” Ink said, tilting his head for a moment before he went down, standing on his tiptoes. Nightmare put his hands on his shoulders and pushed down, forcing him on the base of his feet. Ink blinked as he looked up at him. 

“Don't.”

“What?” Ink said, a shaky smile on his mouth. Nightmare could feel the corners of his mouth trembling, unsure of his own emotions. “Don't tell me you—”

“...I won't give you what you want,” Nightmare decided. Ink kept looking back at him, somewhat confused. He didn't understand. They didn't understand. “Don’t insinuate such things ever again.”

He saw Ink open his mouth before he closed it, unsure. He tilted his head. “But that's my role. I did all the things I had to, now it's only your turn to go and play antagonistic force—”

“I don't get enjoyment from… this particular idea,” Nightmare said, troubled. Truth be told, he couldn't fully deny that the concept was completely unappealing. Reasserting his position with pain was always quite effective, after all. “If you want pain, you won't get it from me.”

“While off-battle,” Ink said. Nightmare’s eye twitched, but he had to nod. Avoiding to attack each other while their teams were around would be quite problematic. Ink looked up at him, an uncomfortable look on his face. “...Y’know what? Forget it. My bad. Messed up by telling you the plot.”

“Why, yes. You're unnerving,” Nightmare said. Ink nodded. His behavior was odd, extremely so. It puzzled him, ideas and concepts tangling whenever he thought he had a solid idea of just who Ink was. “You disgust me.”

“So mean,” Ink said. He didn't look upset, however. His hands found Nightmare's wrists, pulling them off his shoulders. Their distance didn't close, but neither did it widen. He didn't let go, simply staring up at him, expression blank. “Do I scare you, Nightmare? Do you ever feel dread at the thought I could get here through your goop while you're sleeping and kill you?"

How morbid.

“It’d be out of character for you,” Nightmare said. Ink let his wrists go, like they burned them. They turned around, scarf swishing behind them. He added, “ besides, I thought it'd be common sense to stay quiet about a plan you tried to follow through. You would not dare, after this.”

“...Pft. This is so embarrassing,” Ink said, sounding ruffled. Somewhat sad. “Forget it. Forget whatever I said.”

Nightmare just looked at them, the weakness of their back. He was somewhat worried he’d hear sniffles, but they never came. Such an odd thing. “I can do that.”

There was silence. Ink turned back to look at him. Their eyes met each other’s before Ink snapped back to site, avoiding his gaze. No tears.

No sadness, even.

“...Y’know, now I’m showing you weakness so you can, like—”

“It’s not even genuine. I don't want it,” Nightmare huffed, smirking when Ink just turned around, offended. Hands on his hips, too. All bark and no bite. Playful, in a way. “Whatever bait you lay for me… well. It’s futile.”

“You don't know- know that… maybe it's working. Subconsciously,” Ink argued, torso leaning forward before he straightened his back. He looked to the side. “This is harder than I thought. You're too soft.”

“I’ve grown to expect your… quirks,” Nightmare said dryly, rolling his eye. He was speaking truly; there was a limit to how much Ink could surprise him before he noticed a pattern. Now, his efforts mostly went on figuring out just what exactly the pattern was. “Besides— well . I wouldn't start acting in any particular way just because of your odd behavior suggestions. Much less so when you word them in such a… particular way.”

“Hm.” Ink squinted his eyes at him. Whatever he saw on him made him sigh, deep and tired. “Whatever. Alright.”

Nightmare couldn't help but snort at the sight of his defeated demeanor, looking away to avoid Ink looking at his entertained smile. Of course, he needed to write. Ink’s presence was enough distraction as it was, and he wanted to be done by not later than tomorrow.

He walked to the chair again, sitting. He didn't hear Ink’s steps— but instead heard the bed make a light noise with the new weight over it. It wasn't particularly surprising; no one had gotten on it in some time. Nightmare didn't need to sleep, after all.

“Huh. Soft,” Ink commented from behind his back. He sounded oddly surprised. “...Aw. No goop in here?”

“I pride myself on being specially… neat,” Nightmare said, minding not of the way he heard the covers rustle. He could redo them later that night, the same way he did every day just to make sure no spider would ever make its nest in there. Besides, he wasn't particularly keen on giving Ink the demonstration of annoyance he so clearly desired. “Though I must admit how I worry about what you find so disappointing about that.”

“It's not— I mean. I’m definitely not disappointed,” Ink said, a bit defensively. “It’s good. It's a good bed. Good accessory overall.”

“But?” Nightmare urged, feeling the hesitance in Ink’s answer. He readjusted the feather quill in his hand, bringing the chair closer to the desk, ignoring the annoying song that resounded in the room as he did so.

There was a moment, the sound of Nightmare's bed covers stopping as Ink seemed to think about it. “...But— y’know. Doesn't look like you sleep in here. At all.”

“It may be because I don't,” Nightmare said. He reached for the inkwell, hesitating for a moment as the memory of Ink drinking directly out of it moments earlier appeared in his mind. He huffed, pinching his nose before he let the quill fall onto his desk.

“Wowzie. Dramatic,” Ink said, moments before he made a long whistle. “Is it because you're forever haunted by some kind of guilt or—?”

“The explanation is way more simple, I fear,” Nightmare said, standing up again as he finally decided the second best thing to do would be to organize his papers once more. “I’m not impaired by things such as… obligatory sleep hours. As such, there's no real need for me to use the bed.”

“You’re so missing out on recreational sleeping, Night,” Ink said. “Nothing beats a three day long nap after a near death experience.”

He wasn't quite sure on whether Ink was joking or not so he decided not to comment on it. Instead, he gathered all the papers on the desk, straightening them in his hands just to hit the bottom edge of the sheets to align them. As they were, he sighed, letting them down on the table.

Ink didn't seem satisfied with his lack of answer. He heard them sigh. “Really. Haven't you ever gone magic-dry and just… felt the cold embrace of death surrounding you?”

“Have you?” Nightmare asked, though he already knew it was an useless question. He had seen Ink run out of magic before, after all. He turned around, just to stop in his tracks when he saw Ink’s position on his bed. A bristle, “...what are you doing?”

Ink blinked at him, laying on his side by the bed. His torso was supported up by his forearm, hand on his cheek; one of his legs flexing in a triangle while the other was kept stretched. His free hand laid on the curve of his hip. His shirt rode up ever so slightly, hinting the shape of his curved spine, the angle of his pelvis. “I was just about to reference that one comic panel that went—”

Nightmare turned around to avoid continuing looking at him, already feeling the beginnings of a headache take root. He put his hands on the desk, feeling somewhat unsteady. How stupid.

“Aw. C’mon. It's not that old. Plenty of Them find it funny still”

“Are you unable to catch a hint? ” Nightmare huffed, taking a moment to put a hand over his face. It covered his left side, his own fingertips obscuring his vision. “Get off.”

“Tough crowd,” Ink said. He didn't hear them moving, however. A hum reached his ears. “...I think I get you more, now.”

“You don't,” he said. “We’re— We're barely friends, now. Don't just assume things about me.”

“You're more about… hm. Implications, y’know?” Ink said, voice smooth. He felt allured to look back, even if the impulse was quickly drowned as he made a sigh. “Don't sleep. Find odd things funny. Refuse to… y’know. Follow. You're an opportunist kinda guy too, aren't you? I expected more of you.”

“Stop implying it’d be more entertaining if I just hit you, Ink,” Nightmare huffed, straightening his back. He put both his hands down, grabbing onto the edges. His eye stuck to the shape of the feather quill, futile as it was. “You sound like a broken record. Repeating yourself like that won't make your words more sensible.”

“So you don't actually like the idea of hitting me and…—” Ink continued, careless as if talking about the weather, “—well. We’re close. I think.”

“You think,” Nightmare echoed, faint. He didn't know why he hadn't silenced Ink already.

“I’m in your room. We're definitely close. Somewhat close.” Ink hummed. Nightmare had to wonder if he'd moved from that particularly unsettling position. “Y’know, I saw you blushing. Super weird, and all. Didn't even pull the heavy guns.”

Nightmare didn't bother saying anything in particular in response. He grabbed the inkwell instead, focusing on its engraving.

“Maybe— hm. Maybe it'd be more entertaining if the tone of the overall story shifted a bit?” He heard Ink murmur, voice low. Like a thought that somehow sneaked his way out. “We're friends now.”

It somehow felt like a cord slowly going around his neck. He didn't say anything, unsure of his own opinion towards the way this conversation was going.

Ink’s voice sounded determined: “So. Nightmare, I’d let you hit it.”

He felt oddly relieved at the change of topic, even if it came back to the topic of inflicting injury. He put a hand over his chest, the same one he held the inkwell with, and exhaled. “Ink, no.”

“We could level up from enemies with benefits to friends with benefits,” Ink insisted, his voice turning grand with the kind of tone he learned to associate with the beginnings of his deliriums. “Think about it! Wouldn't that be super fun? Interesting? Don't you just want to know what comes from it?”

“I have a feeling you don't have any idea of what you're just talking about,” Nightmare said, somewhat tense. He turned his head, craning his neck enough to be able to glance at them. “We're friends, yes. Is that enough for you?”

“Where's your ambition? I’m in your bedroom, there's an overall theme going on—!” Ink squeaked when an inkwell was thrown just beside their head. He heard their laughter as they fell to the bed, abandoning their position. “And—! and. Y’know—”

“Oh, I know,” Nightmare said. He felt the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting to avoid going up into a smile. How embarrassing, much more so when he just knew Ink didn't know what he was offering. “You— You, ultracrepidarian thing—”

“That’s not even a real word—!”

“Well, it is,” Nightmare huffed. There was a moment of silence, and he looked to the side again, giving Ink the right side of his face just so he’d avoid the possibility of looking at him. “This meeting of ours has stretched long enough, if I dare say.”

“You're such a coward. Right when we were starting to go somewhere.”

“Well, you are a boor,” Nightmare said. He gave Ink his back as he turned around. “Depart, Guardian. My brother must be feeling lonely, don't you believe so?”

“Don’t think this is over,” Ink huffed, voice unusually lower, dramatic. They took a moment, before snorting. They added, voice lighter, playful, “you sick freak. Anyways. See ya.”

He heard the way they got out of the bed, taking something out of the floor just to do a little jump. He felt the swoop of their paintbrush, sharp in the air, moments before he heard the portal closing. As seconds of silence stretched, Nightmare knew he was alone once more. His cheeks still felt particularly warm.

There was something wrong with him.

Feeling dread, the only thing Nightmare could do about it was starting to walk just so he could fetch the fallen inkwell.

Chapter Text

He placed the empty vial on the kitchen table, eye squinting as he saw the flicker of recognition pass through Cross’ unmatched eyes. 

“I assume you must be familiar with… this. Aren't you, Cross?” He said, voice smooth. It wouldn't do much to scare him; less so for him to think this was a reprimand of some kind. He already knew the answer, after all. “With its owner, at least.”

Cross didn't answer at first, simply looking to the side, as if ashamed. It was an interesting reaction. He could wait for him to speak up, so he didn't rush him. They had all the time in the world, after all.

“It’s… Ink’s. One of his vials of paint,” Cross admitted, sighing deep and long as if tired before facing him. He could feel his remorse, but most of all, he could feel his betrayal. It came in waves, thick and steady. “...Y’know Ink. The one with the big paintbrush, from the Stars.”

“I’m familiar.” An understatement, of course. To say he was just familiar would be to deny the way Ink had clawed his way in his psyche, like the most entertaining of thoughts. It wasn't like he could say that, however. “You know him. How?”

“We—” Cross faltered. It was a good thing Nightmare didn't call him to his office, as he planned initially. He suspected that if he did, the stress that came with the feeling of entrapment would have fully silenced him. “He was my friend. Back in— Back in the void, he used to visit me.”

There he stood: the proof of Ink’s ideals, and the reason for the infighting between the Stars.

Inaction.

Nightmare hummed, looking down at the glass on the table. He could still faintly see the traces of red inside, careless. He had found it on the snow, the day Ink and him had tested the promise of a truce. 

With Cross’ confession under his sleeve, Nightmare could have way more than that. His winning card.

He knew his brother wouldn't be content with the idea Ink had willingly let Cross’ despair grow and fester. Much less so when it could have been so easily taken care of.

Nightmare guessed it could have been a boring story, however. He’d known Ink for more than enough time to know he wouldn't settle for that.

“I see,” he said at first, fighting off the smirk that threatened his way into his face. “Were you two close, I wonder?”

Cross looked uncomfortable, expression mirroring the mix of emotions that came out of him, dense. He hadn't trained himself to dilute his feelings, but he would, soon. He could bask in the warmth until then.

Nightmare let out an amused huff when the silence stretched too long. He took the vial before Cross could think about taking it himself, whether in melancholy or another feeling he’d rather not name. “So tense. One would think you're hiding something from me.”

“Boss, I’m not—” 

“You’ve been useful to me, Cross,” he said instead, stopping what he was sure would quickly devolve into a show of feeling he wasn't particularly looking to. “The memories of your home universe aren't of my concern. You are free to go.”

Cross opened his mouth, as if ready to retort and argue, but something guided him against it. He closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side, as if trying to hear something before he nodded. “...Yes, of course.”

His steps were controlled and measured as he walked away to his quarters, the sound of them soon lowering into nothing. He was alone again.

Nightmare took the vial out of his pocket, bringing it up. The lantern on his ceiling made its heart-shaped cap shine and glisten. He forced his face to still and down, shaking his head to wipe his smirk off. Not yet.

He finally had the answer. This was the way he would tie Ink to him. Cross’ silence would be conditional; his truth would be the answer. Nightmare would be the one to get the prize, once his brother decided that Ink’s sins outweighed his virtues.

To catch a fallen Star.

The idea itself was more than enough to make him feel somewhat weightless, aswoon. 

The vial found its way back in his pocket as he walked to his room, steps quick and determined. He closed the door behind him, walking just enough so he could find his hands on the wooden surface of his desk.

Nightmare sat. He needed to write about it, lest he’d forget it once his moment of rightness wore off. He grasped the paper, inkwell and quill— only to falter when he remembered how he hadn't yet refilled it after Ink’s last visit home. They had somehow taken a liking to drinking out of it ever since they tried it in one of their first visits, Stars-know-why.

He fiddled with the drawer, opening it up just to take one of Ink’s coal pens, forgotten and half its usual size. He had stepped on it once, breaking it in half, and as such, he didn't have the will on him to tell Ink he did so; simply replacing it instead with a new one he got in one of his usual raids.

It felt smooth and pigment heavy against the paper, even if the way to hold it was quite awkward, given its size. 

For some reason, as he was about to write, he hesitated. Just what should he write?

He leaned back on the chair, tilting his head to the side slightly. The plan, of course. Vague enough that even if Ink stumbled upon it, whether by accident or not, he wouldn't be spoilered on what Nightmare has planned. 

Ink liked to be surprised, he was sure of that.

The tip of his pen pressed against the paper, following a trail: the curve of a C .

Cross was the answer, after all. The missing piece. Or as Ink would put it, a very important narrative device. He could hold Cross’ truth over Ink’s head, somewhat similar to blackmail. He’d call it something else, of course, but the principle would be the same.

Cross spent too much time in the Void , he tried, wincing at the way the coal seemed to squeak. A phantom noise. They could have been his way out, yet they weren't.

Inaction.

Dream won't like it: a truth. Ink and his brother’s relationship was tense, Nightmare was aware. He doubted it would be able to handle such a conflict. They’ll be cast away from the Stars.

If Dream was the leader, and if his idea about his temperament was to be right, he would be devastated at the idea Ink let Cross stay in XTale just to rot, script involved or not. Their ideals weren't compatible, and as such, Dream would feel the need to push him away; unconsciously depriving him of all support. 

All support but him, of course.

The thing that followed was somewhat clumsy: the letters blurred when the side of Nightmare's hand passed over it while writing. Ink will be alone. Ownerless.

Dream didn't own Ink, not in the way Nightmare owned his own team. But it wasn't necessary for him to do so if his morals were the ones that owned Ink, instead. He was held hostage over them; his actions were to be suppressed by them unless something like what he planned was to happen, after all.

A moment. His hand shook slightly as he wrote next, Ink will be mine to take.

The words sounded oddly incriminating, dark and unsteady against the dirty paper. He heard his own breath, heavy and warm against the coolness of the air.

He scribbled over the sentence, until it was barely distinguishable against the dark stain he forced upon it. He straightened his back, letting a sigh fall from his lips. A hand on his forehead.

Maybe Nightmare was more exhausted than he thought. Mentally, at least. How was it that Ink had called it? Recreational sleep?

He took the paper in his hands, wrinkling it until it was compacted into a shapeless ball. He threw it to the bin beside his desk, seeing it fall to its bottom before he got to the bed, getting up by sitting on it before letting himself fall into the covers.

His knees bent just by the triangle of the edge. He knew the theoricals of napping, of course. It was no position to sleep. Not comfortably, at least.

The vial found its way outside of his pocket, beckoning him to see it in his hand once more. The way the light hit it made it shine, like a prism in the sunlight.

A suncatcher.

His eye squinted, and he brought his hand down, pressing the vial to the hint of his soul. A sigh.

His brother would cast Ink away. They didn't care about the people: no, they cared about the plot. A fun story. A Guardian of Emotions, conflicted with a Guardian of Fates.

Dream and Ink. 

He would know when it’d happen, he was sure. A big part of his normal interactions with Ink involved incentivizing their closeness. He’d know: Ink would either tell him themself in one of their normal meetings, or they’d seek him out the moment it happened.

They would be agitated. Devastated. He could almost picture it: his scarf rustled, marks of tears on his cheeks. He never pictured Ink as a big crier, but even if he was, he was sure it would have been such an enthralling sight.

He was so used to Ink, proud and tall, back straight, uncaring of the world. The contrast would be such an interesting thing to witness.

Nightmare, they’d say. He wondered whether they’d be angry. Would they suspect foul play? He’d have to calm their suspicions. Be the rock for them to hold until the storm passed. What did you do? How?—

Nightmare would tut, of course. Show himself smaller, maybe. He couldn't be too smug, much less he’d accidentally let it slip how everything had been intentional. I have no idea of what you're referencing, Guardian. Is it something to do with the Destroyer?

Ink wouldn't believe him. He knew they would be smart enough to see through him. However, he also knew they would be smart enough not to attack their only ally in the cruel, wide multiverse.

Maybe they’d sob? Oh, but Ink would never. Maybe they’d tremble, shaky like a leaf in the wind, but his true sadness wouldn't be quite as loud. He’d make Nightmare fight for it.

Dream— Dream told me we would never— their voice would be rough, raspy with emotion. Nightmare would be patient, of course. He wouldn't want to miss anything. I’m alone. I’m helpless!

Would Ink admit it? 

The thought made him pause. Ink was finicky with his weakness— he gambled with it, unless he thought of it as boring enough to go unmentioned. Ink would admit it, if he thought it’d give way to a good story. 

An interesting story. Nightmare could give it to him. He could give him everything.

He turned in the bed, chest pressed to the cover while his crossed arms made a pillow to his face. Yes , he could give Ink an interesting story. They’d like it enough that it could almost be considered a mutual benefit. Would they be thankful?

Nightmare closed his eye, and hummed.

So you are, he’d say, then. That would make Ink pause. He knew they liked it when he was indecisive with both mercy and hostility. A thing about entertainment. He could give it to him. And yet, you came to me. Why?

I need you, Ink would say. I want you to take me.

Nightmare opened his eye and blinked. He needed to mind the wording. 

I want to be a part of your gang, Night. Please, Ink would say. Maybe he would have fallen to the floor, overcome by emotion? At Nightmare's feet, defeated. He suspected Ink would like to exaggerate it, make it more dramatic than what it already was. I have nowhere to go…

Nightmare would be merciful, of course. Cordial, at least. If you insist. We’ve become close, haven't we? You can be mine, if you desire it with that insistence.

Ink wouldn't thank him, then. Ink never seemed the type to be courteous— with how careless he was. He’d simply breathe, trying to compose himself. He’d try to make himself whole again. 

Such a shameless thing, he’d comment. That’d make Ink smile, somewhat amused even if his words were designed to cut. Showing yourself like this, so pitiful. Is this, too, about showing weakness?

Ink would look at him, maybe— he’d be slightly flushed, the hurry and a mix of self-consciousness deepening his cheeks to iridescence. He would have still smiled, however. Oh, shut up. You think you're sooo smart, hm?

His cheeks hurt. He opened his eye again, taking a moment to force his mouth down. Such a weird thing.

He kicked his shoes off to better get on the bed, crawling until he reached the area of the pillows. His right side touched the mattress, and he forced a pillow between his arms. Head and chin on different pillows, he felt somewhat freshened.

You didn't answer me, Guardian, he’d say. His tone would be playful, inciting Ink to forget. Do you enjoy it, knowing I hold everything that makes you in my hand? Does it thrill you?

It’s… fun. Entertaining. You're fun, Nightmare, Ink would say. Y’know, you are—

He was something to Ink. They would tell him so, then.

Loneliness has softened you already, Ink, Nightmare would say. He felt warm. It would be true. Ink would be pliant in his arms, foolishly trusting. A million pieces, just for him. Has it not?

He knew that Ink would like to think of himself as quick-witted, highly adaptable to change. Prepared for any situation. Even if Ink wasn't, he would claim he’d have seen it coming from miles ahead.

Waiting for it. Hoping.

Ink wouldn't answer, simply looking away, as if ashamed. Nightmare would lean down and grab his scarf, pulling onto it to catch his attention. Like pulling on a fox’s tail.

Ink would look at him, then, eyes round and oddly trusting. Surprising. They’d glance down at the scarf, the way his hand held it, and then he’d look up at him.

You’ve made me like this, Night, Ink would confess. They’d take his hand, holding it in place by the angle of his scarf. Keeping it there, close to the vulnerability of his name. I’m sorry. I have nothing else to say.

But they would have more to say. 

I’m sorry, Ink would say. They wouldn't look particularly embarrassed. Maybe they'd be smug, instead. Confident they were saying the right words at the right time. It must have been hard for you, hm? My bad. I wanted you like this, too. You're just so fun, so quick of mind! We match in that way, y’know? It's not like I could resist you.

It was Ink’s fault. 

And— Well. Y’know, it's not like you could resist me.

His tentacles were out. He had to force them back into his spine. He couldn't sleep, not like this.

This was all Ink’s fault.

Nightmare sat on the mattress, putting a hand on his forehead. His mind was playing games again. He kept on stumbling upon their shadow, like Ink was an unwanted memory.

Ink would never apologize.

I know what you did, y’know? They’d croon at him one day. Ink would be on his bed, on the spot he seemed to favor ever since he visited him for the first time. Can you guess what?

It would be about his plan to isolate him, of course. But he wouldn't give it to him that easily. 

You're so boring, they would say. They’d hug his arm, lean in. Ink’s cheek would nuzzle his shoulder, the way they nuzzled their paintbrush with untold affection. Like a secret, they’d whisper, but I guess that's part of your charm.

It was Ink’s fault.

My Night, they would purr. Sooo mean to me. Such a fun character you are.

It was getting out of topic again. Nightmare wanted to see Ink’s anger. His hand tightened around the vial. He had brought it to his chest again.

The red vial. Ink drank it while battling. The magic rush it gave him— it made him spirited. More willing to aggression.

He had broken vials of this color before, just so Ink wouldn't be able to reach a level of hostility anymore. Same magic, but his composure was unchanging unless he drank the specific color.

Ink’s emotions seemed to dilute, the longer the battle stretched on. Was that the root of his magic problem?

The vials. They were connected to Ink’s emotions. Were they not?

He stood up from the bed, wiping his face with his cold hands. He was leaking liquid hatred. Nightmare forced it to solidify, to become one with him once again.

Red. Red was anger, aggression. What was pink?

He got out of the room, bothering not to hear the loud noise the door made as it opened. Hurried step and step got him to the kitchen.

He opened the drawers, one by one; closing them when there was nothing of his interest in them. Food, boxes, spices.

The sight of a jar caught his attention, and he took it out. With that done, he turned around to search for a spoon. A specific one: the type one would use to drink soup. When Nightmare found one, he turned around. He sat on the chair of the kitchen table, and brought the jar closer, its glass material rumbling against the wood.

Nightmare opened it, dipping the spoon just to fill it to the brim with its content. Before he had a chance to think twice about what he was about to do, he brought it to his mouth.

His head went down as he grimaced. White sugar. It tasted like hell, and, much worse, felt like sand on his mouth. He forced himself to swallow, just to cough right after.

This was definitely Ink’s fault.

Another spoon of sugar went to his mouth, and his mind briefly flashed to simpler, harsher times. Apples. Apples and the sky, bright and blue. Cloudless.

Nightmare swallowed, a bit more calmly this time. His fingers found the line of his mouth, and he wiped any particle of the sugar that may have been left there. Such disgusting, awful things sweets were. But they helped him focus.

His mind briefly considered to prove his hypothesis in the simplest of ways; forcing Ink to drink them in sequence, just to see if there was any emotional change of importance. But again, it would surely make him lose Ink’s trust. He knew it wouldn't be easily gained back.

It’d have to be a thing about observation, then. He could do that, of course. It aligned quite well with his newfound whim, childish as it was.

Ink had done something to him.

Nightmare couldn't hide behind his weakness anymore. Ink’s fault or not, his little infatuation would not hinder him. They would make no slave of him, after all. He would make sure of that.

A truce between lovers could be quite a solid thing. But he needed to make sure Ink’s power over him didn't surpass the one he wielded himself over them. Blackmailing or not. Infatuation or not.

Until then, Nightmare could indulge himself, however. He would not pass through any second more of despair over such a… natural phenomenon. His eye closed once more.

I know what you did, Ink would say, one day far in the future. He’d laugh about it, Nightmare was sure. Would find it funny, entertaining. He’d be satisfied. Did you think I wouldn't know?

Nightmare would have expected nothing less of him. No. Never.

Ink would— he would smile then. He’d cup his cheeks, hold mind and desire together with the faint warmth of his fingers. He’d sound amused. You're such an opportunist, Nightmare.

He would know. So I’ve been told.

You're so… derpy. Y’know that, right? Ink would murmur. A secret. Coward. Making me sound like a siren, which is like super unfair, by the way. It takes two to tango and all that jazz. 

He blinked. Another spoon of sugar.

“...I think he’s sleepwalking,” Dust murmured. Horror, by his side, nodded, somewhat troubled. They were hiding behind the door, called by the noise. “Do we do something?”

Of course . He remained dignified. Nightmare ate another spoonful of sugar, just to assert his dominance. “...Not necessary.”

Chapter Text

A promise of protection. It had been— quite an impulsive thing. But it was done.

Nightmare was no coward. He had been no coward. The moment he accepted the way Ink had caught his attention —in that way of his, annoying and haunting as it was— he couldn't do anything more except play into it. 

A hunger to be soothed. 

He could barely remember the confession, as hectic as it was. But it was no matter, for he already knew the important parts: Ink had accepted to be his. To be courted, at least. It was enough.

“...You okay? You’ve barely even touched your heart-shaped Delimeow Ccino’s Exclusive Sweet friends’ Valentine Pancakes,” Ink asked, taking him out of his daydreaming. They sat just in front of him, elbows on the table. Funnily enough, their own food was untouched. “...Trademark registered .”  

“Why, I’m perfectly fine,” Nightmare said, forcing himself to take the fork in his right hand. The blurt of nonsense Ink could muster with a straight face somehow kept him calm, even if it did basically nothing to help the way he felt himself leak liquid hatred. Ccino's café was situated in neutral grounds, so he couldn't even fault it to rising negativity. “I was just… waiting for my food to cool down. I prefer it when it's colder, you see.”

“Hm, really?” Ink said, sounding somewhat unconvinced. They tilted their head, eyes sharp as they roamed Nightmare's face. Searching for weakness, maybe. “Do you, now?”

“Yes,” Nightmare said, leaving it as that. He looked down, the little cat face made out of honey —just in the middle of the heart-shaped pastry— seemed to mock him. He would have to convince Ccino to get these out of the menu. “I don't usually… eat. Sharp temperature changes are quite uncomfortable.”

“That's why you gotta blow on it, hm?” Ink said. As Nightmare looked up, he saw them smile at him with their eyes. They held a fork, too. “C’mon, try it with me. Or else this thing will get real awkward real fast.”

Nightmare snorted, though he couldn't say Ink didn't hold truth in his words. He waited until Ink focused on his own food —a cheesecake, a mouse hastily drawn over it with chocolate sauce— to look down at his own food.

He cut it in half —somewhat entertained by the idea of breaking the heart of the pancake—, erasing the image of the cat with the fork just to spread the honey. He could really do with more coffee, now that he thought about it.

He raised his hand to get Ccino’s attention; though he heavily suspected he was snooping into their conversation. It wouldn't exactly surprise him, seeing as they were the only ones in his shop.

Ccino perked up from his place on the counter, his slumped form straightening before he quickly walked to their table, bouncy. “Yes?”

“More black coffee, if you may,” Nightmare said, pointing at his cup. Ink was staring at him, so he forced himself to add, “and… whatever this gentleman wants. On me.”

“Oh! Uh. Uhh—” Ink took a moment, his eyes squinted as he looked down at the menu card on the table. Spiral eyes.  His overwhelmed expression was somewhat endearing. “—...Warm milk?”

“Got it,” Ccino said, smiling at Ink in reassurance. He took their menu, a look of vague confusion appearing on his mind before he managed to soothe it into calm professionalism. The feeling itself wasn't particularly negative, so Nightmare decided not to pay it any mind. “It'll be done in five minutes, if you're willing to wait.”

“We are,” Nightmare said, nodding. The idea of being alone with Ink once more made his mind swirl with something similar to battle readiness; it made him antsy, as if his body foolishly prepared him for the impossibility of him deciding to run.

Ccino smiled at him —something uncomfortably like pride in his eyes— and nodded, taking a moment to pat his shoulder before going to the back of the counter once more. 

To avoid looking at Ink’s eyes the moment he was gone, Nightmare focused instead on the purring tailless cat by his side. It didn't even search for his affection, simply leaning beside him in the chair as if it owned the place. It kinda did, in a way. He was familiar with the way Ccino let his pets order him around. Such a tiny thing couldn't be the exception.

It got on his lap when Nightmare dared to pet it. He sighed. Of course . His eye snapped up when he heard Ink snort in amusement; it made him straighten up. He didn't desire to look too undignified, much more so now. The way he had to push the plate away from the edge so the cat on his lap didn't eat his food wasn't much help.

“Splotch hasn't changed much, hm?” Ink said, somewhat wistful. It was an odd tone to hear of him. “Well, at least she's not over the table yet.”

The implication wasn't lost on him. “You’ve been here before.”

“Well, this is neutral ground. You don't know just how many times I’ve defended this AU against—” Ink popped a fork of cheesecake into his mouth, taking a moment to bite and swallow. It looked somewhat practiced. “—... and — well. Y’know. The café is the main appeal of FluffyTale.”

“I didn't know Error frequented this place so often,” Nightmare said, somewhat ticked off. Ccino had never mentioned such a thing to him, even if he had so kindly declared anything protection wise would fall to him. “I may have to look into it. I don't want him to have the wrong idea about this place.”

“Defensive over Ccino, huh?” Ink said, not really a question. They licked their lips, wiping the corner of his mouth with a thumb only to lap it clean after. Nightmare looked down, feeling somewhat flushed. “Good job being his friend, diversifying the character cast and all that.”

“Don’t patronize me, Ink,” he huffed, feeling slightly tingly. His hand met the head of the cat on his lap, his index tracing the pattern of its fur before he let it go. He still had to eat, after all. The cut of his knife cut the pancakes into more manageable pieces. “We’re… associates.”

“Yeah? Well, I was your associate, too” Ink said, sounding amused. As he glimpsed up, he saw the smirk that shaped their expression. “Hope you're not thinking of making a harem.”

Whatever Nightmare was about to say was stopped when Ccino came into view, carrying with him the trail. His black coffee met the table, a glass of milk pairing it from the other side. Ink’s drink. Before he went away, however, Ink whistled.

Nightmare felt dreadful. He stuffed a cut piece of pancake into his mouth, nose slightly wrinkling at the sweet, saccharin taste of the honey. Ew.

Ccino turned around. He blinked. “...Ink, you know I’m not a— nevermind. Do you need anything?”

“...Hm. Not really? ” Ink said, tilting his head for a second before he perked up. “ Oh! Wait, yeah. So— Nighty and I—”

He couldn't help but wince at the awful nickname.

“—are… dating! Any contrarian opinions on that? Drama? Do you have drama?”

Ccino just stared blankly at them. His pale eyes looked back to Nightmare’s, searching and doubtful. Whatever he saw on it made him gasp, light and quiet. 

“No way,” Ccino said, wiping his hands off with his apron just to put them over the table. “No fucking way. Honest?” 

“It's— It’s a recent thing—” Nightmare tried to explain, somewhat ruffled, but Ccino just turned around. He lifted his arms for a moment, shaking his fists before turning back, grinning wide. Scary. “There’s no need for you to—”

Ccino shook him by the shoulders, surprising enough it cut Nightmare’s reaction by the root. “ No. Wait, wait, wait— this is great. Gonna make my special just for you— for you two!”

“Ccino, you're running in two hours of sleep, I’m sure, just— there's no —” Ccino let his shoulders go and just turned around, running behind the counter back to the room of his kitchen. Nightmare just sat there, hand extended as if he could still reach it. He blinked when he heard Ink laugh.

“Okay. Okay , definitely misinterpreted that one,” they admitted, hand fiddling with the vials of his sash. They took it off just to open it, letting the paint fall into the pale milk of his glass. “Close but not that kind. Okay. Good to be sure.”

“You're a menace,” Nightmare huffed. His hand was tucked back, just so he could wipe his face. He was leaking hatred again, yet by the way the cat on his lap was eating his food, paws on the table, he could tell it didn't exactly mind. He sighed. “Couldn't you just wait to tell him until the date is over?”

“Less entertaining that way, Night,” Ink said, fiddling with other of his vials just to repeat the process again. Seeing it unused, he leaned forward into the desk just to take Nightmare's spoon, wiping it clean with a napkin —even if he hadn't touched it— just to use it to stir his brew. The colors didn't mix, simply separating from the milk and each other like oil from water. “We gotta keep the show going. Fireworks. Dancers. Exploding glitter!”

“You're sounding like a Mettaton,” Nightmare said, already accepting that his dinner was to be stolen. He took the plate off the table just to put it down on the floor, the tailless calico readily jumping off his lap to continue eating. He couldn't help but snort when he saw it unhinging his jaw just to try and eat the pancake whole. Kind of a choking hazard, if he thought about it. “...Huh.”

“...Hm? Oh, she never did that when I came here with— y’know,” Ink said, tilting his head slightly before he huffed. Somewhat of an amused smile got into his mouth. “You're lucky Ccino doesn't bake with stuff that's bad for cats. He would definitely try to kill you for feeding them with the stuff.”

“He wouldn't dare,” Nightmare argued, though he couldn't quite say he was sure of that fact. From the time he had known Ccino, he grew to learn he wasn't the type to play around whenever his pets were related. “I wouldn't try such a lowly thing, anyway.”

“No?” Ink said. Instead of following through with what Nightmare was quite sure would have been one of the worst things he had ever heard, Ink brought his glass up, downing the pink-purple mixture in one go. He wondered which emotions they represented.

Nightmare briefly remembered he still had his coffee cooling down, and as such he took a moment to grab his cup. Its warmth was reassuring. “I pride myself on not touching animals.”

“...Whew!  Principles. We love those,” Ink said, voice muffled by the way he still held the glass on his lips. He put it down, softly enough it didn't clink in any way. There was a moment of silence as Ink looked down into the glass, checking on whether he had stained it. 

Nightmare was about to try the coffee before Ink straightened himself.

“...Y’know. Cats usually don't like me much,” Ink said, voice neutral as if talking about the weather. They looked troubled, their mouth stretched thin as a line, eyes crinkling with the way their nose scrunched slightly. “Well. Most animals don't, anyway.”

“Oh, I can't see why,” Nightmare said dryly, almost playful. Energetic as Ink was, he had somewhat expected for them to drive felines away; they preferred their space, after all. “Did you mention it because of the fact there's… only one cat vaguing around? Ccino’s pets tend to be shyer at this hour. They're not accustomed to visitors so late at night.”

Instead of answering, Ink just looked away, uncomfortable. The view of it —the way their neck showed slightly, highlighting the angle of his spine— was devastating in a way he couldn't quite describe. “Night. Y’know I’m soulless, right?”

“Why, I do,” Nightmare said, unsure of why Ink even brought it up. He saw them turn their head back to him, an unreadable expression on their face. He didn't pay it any mind. “I figured it out before we started working together.”

Ink didn't say anything else. They tilted their head to one side, staring long and quiet before they turned their head to the other side. Their confusion was quite endearing, so Nightmare decided against clearing it.

It would do it by itself, on time.

“Okay, here it is,” Ccino said, his presence well called for. He brought a pastry he couldn't quite identify on his trail, paired by a big glass. Milkshake. He put the trail on the table, just enough so it wouldn't fall as he mingled with the food. The glass came first, followed by the pastry on a big pink plate. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything, you lovebirds.”

The way Ccino winked at him —all knowing and smug— disgusted him. “Well, you are doing so. Begone.”

Ccino just smiled at him, taking a moment to pat the top of his shoulder —after he collected the empty glasses and plate— before walking away, almost falling over as a black cat got in between his feet. Nightmare sighed at the knowledge karma didn't fulfill its purpose this time.

“She’s going to eat your stuff again,” Ink chirped. Nightmare didn't bother to look back to push the cat off the table, ignoring Ink’s snort when it just jumped back to his lap. Waiting for a moment of weakness, he was sure. “I think you have a fan.”

“I’d rather not,” Nightmare said, turning back to look at Ink. They were smiling at him, eyes somewhat softened by the bluish and pink glow of their eyelights even if they were quirked slightly up by the edge of their amusement. Like a painting, almost. “This is… a date, is it not? I prefer to have your attention and only yours.”

“Mreow. Smooth,” Ink said, lips twitching as if they couldn't decide whether to abandon the shape of his smile. They looked down. “Huh. Look at Splotch.”

“On it,” Nightmare sighed, putting the cat down by the empty plate it left behind. He ignored its pitiful meowing, simply putting a hand by his side so it couldn't find its way back to the table by jumping on his seat. He could find a sort of humour in the situation, as annoying as it was. “Almost like having a chaperone, don't you think?”

Ink just hummed noncommittally, eyes roaming Nightmare’s shape as if searching something. They stood up, ignoring Nightmare's questioning stare just to walk to the other side of the table.

Nightmare slid closer to the wall as Ink decided to sit on his side, bold enough to let his hip and thigh touch Nightmare’s own. 

It was a thing about hunger, almost.

Ink leaned forward, his chest touching the edge of the table just to pull the plate towards them both. Nightmare caught onto it and, following, took the milkshake to bring it closer to them both.

It had two swirly straws, one of them making a heart. Nightmare's eye twitched.

“Oh? That's fun,” Ink said, noticing the troubling glass in Nightmare's grasp. They licked his lips before leaning down, catching one of the straws just to drink. They took a moment —a few sips— before they leaned back, smiling up at him with the curve of their eyes. “...Cacao.”

Nightmare found he couldn't muster any words, so he didn't try. He didn't say anything as Ink leaned onto him, their shoulder against the line of his arm. 

“Y’know? This is nice,” Ink declared, stretching a hand forward, as if he wanted to touch the seat in front of the table, longing to go back. Nightmare hesitated for a moment before putting an arm around their shoulders, just in case they tried to. “Feels… normal.”

“Did you think it would feel like anything else?” Nightmare asked, fingers twitching slightly. Ink felt small on his arms. He couldn't quite describe it, but the feeling was… different than what he pictured it would be like. Ink felt small, yet not fragile, like he could squish and worry not of crumbling them into a million pieces like porcelain falling to the floor. He cleared his throat. “We should eat.”

“Yeah,” Ink agreed, taking a moment to reach for a spoon. As he did so, he took a spoonful out of the cake. He brought it to his mouth, tongue peeking out —he could see its tip showing pink— yet brought the spoon away from his mouth at the very last second, frowning lightly.

Ink glanced at him.

“Think we can do a date thing, Night?” They said, their fingers on the spoon flexing slightly. Nightmare blinked, somewhat confused. “ For … As a… y’know. Plot device? No — like—”

“As a whim, you mean,” Nightmare aided, something coiling tight on his chest when Ink didn't deny it, simply nodding. He could read in between the lines. “Why, yes. I believe I can indulge you.”

“Neat,” Ink said instead, somewhat tense. They shifted, torso rotating slightly to somewhat face him better. They were still frowning with focus, spoon on hand. “Say ah.”

Nightmare couldn't help but smirk, the motion clumsy like it was his first time tasting the emotion. He licked his lips, before obliging: “ah.”

They leaned closer, a second, before Ink brought the spoon to his lips. Somewhat docile, he closed his mouth around it, his eye closing in reflex to focus on the flavour.

He winced, nose scrunching up at the taste. Way too sweet.

Ink’s laughter made his eye to open again, half-lidded. They turned around, as if somehow embarrassed by his gaze on the widening of their smile. He squeezed their shoulder beneath his hand as he heard them snort, felt them tremble.

It was oddly endearing.

Even so, he still wanted to get rid of the flavour. He reached for their milkshake, carefully choosing the one straw that wasn't used, and started to drink.

It was cacao, indeed. He felt Ink push back against him, their laughter dying off with the lightness of a sigh. Their face went up to look at him, round and pale like a full moon. Their hand twitched before it fell on Nightmare's thigh. “Y’know…”

Nightmare saw as their hand drifted up, teasing the seam of his jacket with the slowness of a dying yarn sweater, slowly being tugged by its end into nothingness. They touched the glass, before both index and thumb took a hold of the straw. 

“This is such a…  cliché thing, y’know? Give me a moment,” Ink murmured, eyes going up from the contents of the glass to meet Nightmare's own. They licked the straw, just an instant, before they too started drinking.

Nightmare had to lean back, hold on the glass tightening strongly enough he feared it would break. He turned his head to the wall, feeling oddly flushed. Ink stopped, and, thankfully wordless, didn't comment on it. Their hand went back to his thigh, however, awfully hot.

Nightmare left the milkshake on the table once more, ignoring the way he saw his hand shake slightly. He took the spoon, filling it with the cut of the cake before he brought it back to his mouth, forcing it down.

Then another. And, after that, another.

Ink took his wrist when he went for the fourth. Their eyes met his, crinkled like half-moons, just before they let his hand go. They pointed to themself with the gesture of their index, a coquettish wink. “I want you to give me one.”

He did. 

“...Y’know, I like how it's— strawberry? Vanilla…?” Ink said around the spoon, voice muffled before he leaned back, wiping the cream off his mouth with a thumb just to lick it after. “Don't know why you don't like it. It's a pretty standard thing.”

“Sweet,” Nightmare said. When Ink just stared at him, somehow portraying teasing amusement in the angle of their neck, he added, “it is— it is too sweet. I don't like it.”

“I was kind of expecting bigger words for your explanation, honestly,” Ink said, taking the spoon out of Nightmare's hand just to leave it on the plate. The cake was almost done. “The whole sweet thing sounds… kinda childish, not gonna lie. Though I guess someone could find it cute…?”

He didn't know when, but his hand had gone down to rest on the curvature of the small of their back. His throat was dry, even as he reached for the glass just to drink again. He didn't even care which straw he used to sip. “...yes?”

“Yeah,” Ink said. “It's… y’know what? Yeah , it's kinda cute. Gives you some depth.”

“…How interesting,” Nightmare said, seeing how Ink straightened again. His hand brought them slightly closer, bending their back. How odd, they were frowning again. “Is there something wrong?”

Ink took the glass off his hand, bringing it to the table. However, he wasn't quite done with it: their hand reached his, and squeezed. 

Their fingers interlaced. The texture of Ink’s gloves was smooth, kind of silky by his pinky finger, where it held a different color.

Ink seemed troubled. “Night. This is— y’know how this is a date, right? A— A ship scenario date? Romantic date?”

“I believe I made my intentions clear when I asked you, yes,” he said. He saw the way Ink opened his mouth just to close it again, squirming with barely contained energy. He squeezed his hand by the hold that brought them together.

“And— And y’know how there's somewhat of a theme going on…—” Ink continued, looking down. Their eyes snapped up. “—about how you're kind of an opportunist. Cunning. Sly kinda guy.”

“...Why, yes.” He could play along. Ink was going somewhere. He could tell where; the thought of it made his insides churn and twist.

“I’m gonna— y’know. Y’know! You gotta follow me in this one,” Ink said, still frowning. They pulled him by their hold on his hand, only to falter when Nightmare just pulled them back in by the hold he had on their back. “ Or — Or I’ll ruin this. And They’ll be mad at me for fumbling you. And everyone will be miserable. And this will just change into a hurt no comfort thing. And—”

“I’m listening,” Nightmare said, not unkindly. He saw Ink’s blush, hue after hue decorating the curve of his cheeks. If he squinted his eye, it was almost like he could see star-like freckles decorating the angle of his face. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, Guardian. Go ahead.”

“Right,” Ink said, somewhat smiling even if Nightmare could see the gentle stress on the way their hold tightened. “I’m gonna— just. I’ll turn around. Fake being distracted a bit— you got— you need to say something cool. Smooth.”

“...Something cool?”

“Yes!” Ink looked to the side before turning back. “That’ll make me turn around. And then— then…”

“Then…” Nightmare continued, squinting his eye when Ink just nodded at him. “It’d be only proper for me to take the chance.”

“You got it,” Ink said, frown somewhat softening, even if he could see how it tried to fight its way back into their face. “Just— ha. This must be in your ref sheet or something. There should be a little note in there— that— just do what feels natural.”

They followed through.

Nightmare was quite surprised by the fact he actually didn't mind the way paint tasted on his mouth after a kiss.

Chapter Text

The sky was pale. Pale enough he could have mistaken it with white. Funnily enough, as Nightmare looked up, he noticed that there wasn't a sun.

“This—” Ink said, doing a twirl over the messy mix of flowers that covered the ground, wide and abundant, “—is the one.”

The place for their date, of course. Nightmare closed his eye —focusing on trying to catch any hint of presence but their own— and breathed deeply. It felt lonely, blank of all emotions. Lonelier than most AUs. 

There was no breeze, so it wasn't exactly cold. There was no sun, so it wasn't exactly hot, either. Something in the middle.

“I don't recognize this place,” Nightmare commented, feeling a bit unsure as his foot crushed a pair of flowers when he shifted in place. It wasn't like he had any option, either. Whoever lived here seemed to have held the idea that the ground was better off completely unseen. “Is this an… alternative universe? A trace of one, at least?”

Ink considered it, humming as he took off the blanket they brought off Nightmare's arms. They walked confidently, uncaring of the way the flowers yielded to his weight with every step he took. “I’d say… not exactly?”

Ink put the blanket down on the floor, grass and flora cushioning it like natural pillows. He took Broomie off his sash, just to put it right beside it, bristles on the mantle while the handle squished the plants underneath.

“It’s more like…” Ink tilted his head, as if trying to find the words. He looked back at him, smiling shakily before he took Nightmare’s hand, gently pulling him in, closer. “Y’know… there's the Antivoid. And there's the Void…”

“I assume this is… neither of them. Not an AU, either. Something else entirely,” Nightmare slowly considered, letting them guide his steps. He looked to the side. If he squinted his eye, he could swear that he was able to see just the moment the recess of the scenario stopped existing. He said, tone playful, “why, you're full of surprises. How did you even find such a thing?”

“I was made here,” Ink said. Nightmare turned back to look at him, unsure if he had heard him well. They looked back at him, still smiling. Troubled. Such an odd choice of words. “Well, not right here, y’know? Maybe— Maybe somewhere close. It's hard to tell.”

“I can see why,” Nightmare said, eye going down to glance at the multiple flowers that hid their feet. There was no order; bold colors clashing against each other with the lack of taste only a child would have. It was oddly charming. “Should I assume you’re the one responsible for the decoration, or was this a part of the pack, too?”

Ink snorted, letting his hand go just to lean back, torso turning to the side to invite him close and down onto the smoothness of the blanket. “Guess.”

“I can guess,” Nightmare said amusedly, following Ink’s example as they sat down on the ground, blanket separating the cloth of his pants from the crushed petals beneath. The flowers felt soft underneath his body as he sat just beside him. “But I have a feeling you don't want me to.”

“Aw. But what's this interpretation?” Ink huffed, crawling closer to him. They didn't embrace him, not yet, simply teasing him with the possibility as their hip touched his own. “But okay, yeah. I’ll bite. The flowers are mine.”

“Are they, now? Why, I would never…” Nightmare said, intentionally drawing the words long and tiring, looking up and to the side before Ink elbowed him. He couldn't help but snort as he looked back, facing Ink’s unimpressed smile. “I would have assumed they would have wilted already. Unless someone else takes care of them, that is?”

“Not really,” Ink said, leaning towards him —as if asking for a kiss— only to lean back when Nightmare tried to oblige. There was a flower on their hand, now, index and thumb taking hold of its stem. “See? They can't die.”

Nightmare took the flower when Ink offered it to him. A daisy, somewhat tinted blue. When Nightmare brought it up to its stem, he could see why: instead of bleeding green, it leaked black. Paint. “Oh. So that's why they're not affected by the lack of sunlight.”

“Yup, painted on,” Ink said, letting him keep the flower. They looked at Broomie, its top still pillowed by the gingham-patterned blanket. “I— well, y’know. When I got Broomie, I wanted to try just what I could do, cuz my magic didn't use to… well. Do stuff like this. And it suggested flowers.”

“I’m glad it did. They are a beautiful sight,” Nightmare said, eye going down to look at the flower on his hand again. 

The implications were not lost on him: Ink didn't know he could paint things into reality until Broomie was given to him. He wondered if the realization he could was the final push it took for him to choose a name. 

Nightmare looked at them once more. “I’ll have to make good use of you and make you paint some of these in my garden.”

“Pf. What, and ruin that thing? No thanks,” Ink said, turning to face him. Nightmare’s hands itched to touch them. “You don't want dead flowers there, trust me. They don't even— they waste a lot of ground. They have roots, y’know?”

“They don't look dead to me,” Nightmare argued, smiling when Ink just looked back at him, unimpressed. He brought the daisy up, just so he could both glance at Ink and the flower itself at the same time. “If they look like flowers…”

“They don't drink water, though. Don't need sun,” Ink said, tilting their head. Confused. “Can they even count as flowers anymore?”

“They smell sweet,” Nightmare said simply. When Ink just stared blankly at him, he snorted, bringing the flower up to catch onto its scent. It smelled the same as a real one. “Who cares if they were not brought by sun and water? Doesn't make what they are any less real.”

“You're funny,” Ink said, something of a laugh ghosting in their expression before they schooled it. Nightmare let them take the flower out of his hand just so Ink could hug him instead. Arms around his chest and their face on his shoulder. “...You just say that because I was the one that made them, aren't you?”

The way their voice was muffled against the angle of his expression was particularly charming. “Is it so wrong for me to express my favoritism for you?”

“Yeah. You suck,” Ink murmured. There was a moment before they got on his lap, and as such, his hands went down to his hips, supportive. “You gotta tone it down or people will start saying you're too obvious.”

“Obvious on what?” Nightmare dared. He knew the answer, of course. “On my affections?”

“You got it,” Ink said. They leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth, merciful enough to ignore the way his smile trembled under their lips. “You gotta lay it low. What would They say, if I got the King of Negativity dying for my approval so… shamelessly, y’know?”

“Probably something similar to what anyone would say seeing how I let you be so freely, while I could have been very well have you on your knees if I so desired,” Nightmare said, feeling somewhat flustered when Ink just smiled at him, all edge with no warmth. He really needed to mind his wording around them. “They’d suggest I’m a simp.”

At his words, Ink choked up on air, almost squeaky. Amusingly scandalized, he gasped, “ don't say that! Who taught you that?”

“You,” Nightmare said, simply. He snorted when Ink visibly wilted, like a dried out leaf. “Be thankful that I find your way of speech particularly unappealing to mimic. You’ve taught me worse words, y’know?”

“Stop,” Ink said, troubled in the way their smile twitched, as if unknowing of whether it'd be best to laugh or groan. When they tried to get off his lap, Nightmare hugged them closer, ignoring the way they squirmed like a cat that didn't want to be raised. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Ah, how cold-hearted you are,” Nightmare teased. Ink pushed his face away with the palms of his hands, and he was kind enough to give that to him. He closed his eye, dramatic in his affections. “Is that the way you decide to talk to me, when I take care of your heart with such attention?”

“I don't have a heart,” Ink huffed, somewhat amused. When they lowered their hands to his shoulders, Nightmare looked back at him. Their smiles mirrored each other's. “Freak.”

“Oh, so that's what you think of me, hm?” Nightmare said, smiling when Ink just nodded, suddenly serious. He squeezed their hips —welcoming under his hands— just to make a point. “Say it again, but with a bit more conviction.”

“Freak,” Ink just said, blank. When Nightmare gave him a look, he snorted again, but he didn't repeat himself. What a pity. “You’ve gotten too… ditzy. Silly.”

“You say it like it's a bad thing,” Nightmare said, almost a purr. “Don't you feel proud of what you did to me?”

Ink pushed him fully to the ground; a gentle huff getting out of Nightmare’s mouth. They shifted in place, a bit more firm as they pinned his shoulders to the ground with the light weight of his palms. There was a frown in their expression, almost confused in its half-heartedness. “...Not really, nope.”

Nightmare couldn't help it; he laughed, the sound awfully discordant. It unnerved his own ears, but he soon found out that he couldn't stop. The flowers pillowed the back of his head, caressed his cheeks. Ink let him, their expression blurring as he couldn't quite keep their eye open.

“See? All ditzy,” Ink said, snorting when Nightmare let his hip go just to cover his face. Their own hands left his shoulders, somewhat hesitating. Their palm pressed against the back of his hand. “Y’know… hm. Let me see you.”

Nightmare took a moment, somewhat flustered by how Ink didn't pull nor push. Patient. As if they were aware how he could give them everything, if they only asked.

His moment of amusement died off eventually, and as such, Nightmare let his hand fall to his side. Ink tilted his head as he looked down at him, bringing a hand down to brush a single daisy off Nightmare’s cheek, by the uselessness of his eye. “You look like a painting.”

Nightmare felt oddly flustered by the low, fond tone that creeped in Ink’s voice, light like the summer breeze. He found out he didn't quite mind Ink’s eyes meeting the trace of his cheeks, warm as they were. “Do I now?”

“You do,” Ink said, voice unwavering. He felt like the moon, its pull strong and gentle against the sea. Ink leaned in closer, arms supporting his weight like he too could feel it. Maybe he could. He smiled at Nightmare, surely noticing the way he stole his words away from him with the angle of his playful eyes.

Ink’s face was haloed by the emptiness of the sky, like the first hint of spring in the snow.

It was their fault he was like this. But he guessed he could share the guilt, if just for mercy alone.

Their mouths met— Ink’s own allowing him touch when their foreheads touched. Nightmare cupped their cheeks as, for a single moment, they moved as one. A glimpse of what they could do, if only they allowed themselves to desire.

Ink separated, snorting at the disgruntled noise Nightmare couldn't help but make. “...Pf. Don’t be like that, we can continue later.”

“We can continue now,” Nightmare argued. He licked his lips, just to chase the trace of Ink’s affection that clung to them. “Surely you don't expect me to… wait?”

Ink snorted, and leaned back. Their fingers fumbled with their sash, quickly finding the hint of one of his vials before taking it off. Pink. The color of warmth. “You're a patient man. You can wait.”

He could. But the ability to do so wasn't the same as wanting it. Ink took the cap off the glass, glancing at him one last time, eyes half-lidded as if taunting him for his inaction before drinking. The silhouette of him, covered by emptiness by all sides, did something to him. “White looks stunning on you.”

Ink coughed, seemingly taken aback by his words. Nightmare held them by the hips, grip softening into a caress when they looked down at him, eyes wide and round. “Night.”

“What? It’s the truth,” Nightmare said, smiling when Ink just looked down at him, ruffled. Taking advantage of their surprise, he gently guided them to sit to his side instead, just so he could once more look at them eye to eye. “I’m pretty sure paler colors of clothing would… look quite charming on you.”

“Where did this all come from, even?” Ink wondered, something like fluster being snitched on them with the way their fingers twitched. “You're so weird.”

“You’ve made me so.”

Ink didn't have any answer to that, but they didn't argue when Nightmare reached for his hands, just to kiss the tips of his fingers. The silk cloth of his pinky always called to him, like this. He separated for a second to look at him properly. 

The trace of a blush framed the angles of their cheeks; devastating. “...I wish you would wear white for me.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ink said after a moment of quiet consideration. It was as close to a victory as it could be. They looked up to the sky —just a moment— before they looked back at him, as if giving up on waiting for rain that wouldn't come. 

The stare that threatened to eat him whole. He’d seen it in a daydream, once or twice. Instead of talking —charming him with promises of more— however, Ink just leaned back, glancing at him while they let themself fall into the blanket, inviting. Silent still.

Like a mirror, Nightmare followed. His side met the blanket, and he saw Ink smile at him with the curve of his eyes. When Nightmare reached out — pressing the warmth of his palm against the cloth of their scarf— Ink just put their hand over his own, allowing him to stay close to them as he was yet inviting him even closer.

He loved them.

“I love you,” he said, more of a blurt than anything truly concise. “I… I dote upon you. I need to see you happy, Ink. I need you to be mine.”

“I am,” Ink said, voice light as if talking about the weather. It could have sounded unserious, just a lie to indulge him, but Ink insisted, “I’m— I just need to see you. I want to know everything about you. Everything that… makes you. I want it all.”

“Then you’ll have it,” Nightmare said. It was a bit embarrassing, the way he couldn't keep on talking; his words betraying him the moment they felt the way his chest tightened. He hoped the apology in his tone could be felt more than heard, “that's— That’s all.”

“It's enough for me,” Ink said. He didn't force him to talk, simply cradling him back when Nightmare hugged him by the ribs. The silence of them was comforting, familiar in a way nothing else was. 

He could have died, then. But Ink decided to talk, voice low. A murmur:

“I was created here, y’know,” they said. When they looked up, hand reaching up to the empty sky, Nightmare's eye couldn't quite follow the gesture of his hands. The gentle light of their eyelights kept stealing his attention away. “This— This place. It was all white. The floor, the sky— all of it. Pure white.”

A void in itself. Similar to the Antivoid, to the trace of what was once Xtale.

“I was all by myself, purposeless, but I didn't care. I couldn't care at all,” Ink said. For a moment, it seemed like he would continue his tale, but his hand faltered. It fell back onto the blanket, and Ink looked back at him again. They blinked, a single second, before they smiled at him again, feigning lighthearted playfulness. “The sky… it looks so wide and big from down here. Don't you think so?”

“Ah. You don't like it,” Nightmare realized. Ink simply smiled at him, the troubled look in his eyes softening as Nightmare cupped their cheek. “Give me a moment.”

Nightmare shifted, slowly sitting again just to get on Ink’s lap, arms supporting him as he hovered over them. He was the only thing they could see, now.

“Is this better?” He asked, a look of gentle satisfaction getting on his eye when Ink nodded. They stopped smiling, but he could see the way their eyelights were kept soft and wanting. Trusting. Awfully, awfully trusting.

Loneliness was devastating. He couldn't do that to Ink. To reveal what they’ve done —even if it was to own them— would be devastating. 

He was weak. Ink had made him weak.

A realization.

“I won't know until you tell me,” he said, smiling when Ink just snorted. “That could very well be a refusal.”

“You're such an opportunist, y’know that? You just want to have me praising you,” Ink said, huffing amusedly. “Yeah, this is definitely better. You’re kinda like a… how did-chu call it? A morning light?”

Nightmare needed to think of a way— a truce. He could minimize the damages. The fall would still happen, but it’d have less consequences. Less harmful.

Ink could be his, still. But he needed to make sure they didn't break in the process. Unneeded suffering would be something to evade, not something to be sought after. Novel.

“You are the morning,” Nightmare corrected, even if he couldn't quite keep the awfully fond tone away from the way he spoke. “Ink…”

Ink tilted his head, inviting. A hint of neck was revealed to him; the perfect shape for his hand to wrap around and squeeze until they moved no more. He wouldn't dare, however. “Hm?”

“If the sky unnerves you so—” he said, their eyes meeting, “—I’ll make sure you won't ever have to look up for anything but me. If everything of you is to be mine— then I want your fear, too. I’ll take it; I’ll make you care about it as much as I do. You won't ever be all by yourself again.”

“You're so silly,” Ink said. Their lips trembled, however; they forced them into a line. The shape of their hand covered one of their eyes before they forced it down, as if they felt like they owed Nightmare the sight of their tears. “That's so stupid. You're so stupid. Get in character already, you're ruining it. They’ll think it's so lame and— y’know…”

“You can wait,” Nightmare said, although not unkindly. “They can wait. You're mine.”

By the way Ink didn't deny it, he knew it was true.

Chapter Text

Even if it was in a shipping situation, Ink really liked playing a part.

Don't get him wrong, he was all into ominously guarding stuff —for Ink knew better than to disturb ongoing script, even if he had to silence some active part of him that ached to just gasp, laugh, and cry whenever he felt like those emotions could fit in the scenario— but acting was just… invigorating. Another thing entirely: fun. Entertaining.

By now, it felt almost as natural as breathing— no, definitely way more natural. He had forgotten how to breathe before, though it wasn't like that was anything else but decoration.

“Blue likes to spike those. Alcohol, y’know?” Ink said, smiling with his eyes when Nightmare just looked at him, unimpressed. The party was still early, so it wasn't like he had drunk much, anyway. “Gyftmas is always crazy. You should go to one of his parties at some point.”

Nightmare just wrinkled his nose, getting his glass (filled with punch— a quite refreshing #F46D24 shade) away from his lips. He looked at Ink up and down, as if searching for something he had somehow lost, even if he had seen Ink in all possible poses at some point. “Oh. I wasn't aware.”

“Yup. I think I was… supposed to mention it? Wheeen… your team arrived? I think?” Ink said, frowning a bit as he checked his scarf— right by the tail of it. It wasn't that urgent to mention, so it didn't deserve a space higher up on the meatier part of the cloth. Such was the cruelty he bore. “Aaand— yup. Here it is. Wrote this one in italics. #CF0F2F. Very bright.”

“Must be very important,” Nightmare said dryly. When Ink looked up, huffing amusedly, he just looked away for a second, as if proud of himself. Not exactly surprising; Ink had already somewhat catalogued all his character traits in the space of their mind reserved for the things they just wouldn't allow themself to Forget. He knew what to expect of him. “I’ll inform my team, then. It wouldn't be wise to let any of them become too intoxicated in enemy territory.”

“Awww, don't jinx it,” Ink said. It was clear foreshadowing; an Event would happen any time soon. He’d have to eye the alcohol and its drinkers to document it when it happened. “This is— y’know. It has to go well . The anniversary of the truce is a very important thing, it has to, much more so when it's in Blue’s house! Or Dream will kill me. And then you. And then he’d cry himself to sleep.”

“Ah, yes, the truce,” Nightmare said. Something of a smile got into his expression; almost a smirk. “Are you using me for an info dump, Ink?”

Ah, he knew them too well by now. Kinda scary, in a way.

Ink shrugged. In his defense, he really needed to get the information across, just in case some of Them were watching. It would be pretty sad to leave Them contextless, after all. “I mean, if the shoe fits…”

Nightmare snorted, taking a moment before he seemingly decided to keep on drinking. Accepting the plot unfolding, then. “How depressing, to be merely a device for you.”

Ink just winked at him in response. He went to fetch a glass as well —there were quite a few in the center of the table, inviting people to serve themselves some juice slash other stuff—, filling it to the brim with tequila before he remembered that it was the kind of thing he wanted mixed with other kinds of drinks.

Nightmare took his glass, and dumped at least one fourth of its content into his. Ink looked at the punch mix for a second before he snapped back to the present to grab his glass back. “Here.”

“You're the best,” Ink said absentmindedly, now struck by the choice of just what to put into his drink. Instinctively, his hands reached for the vials in his sash. Paint it was, then. “Are you sure you can't read my mind?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Nightmare said, corners of his mouth twitching. Funnily enough, Ink could see his attempt to hide his smile by drinking more. Pretty pathetic, in a kinda cute way. “I wouldn't let you drink that much, anyway. Much less so quickly. It’d be quite improper.”

Aww. So controlling. It was always fun when those traits showed themselves. He needed to reward Nightmare for that later.

He popped the caps of his pink and yellow vials open —they had already somewhat become his default whenever he was dealing with anything that included Night— and let the paint fall from them down to his glass. It would definitely help with the strong perfume flavor it had, that's for sure. 

“...Would you mind using more pink for tonight?”

What a freak. “Sure.”

It was quite a fascinating thing, to see Nightmare get so excited over things he brought up himself. Had Ink ever said no to one of his odd requests? He needed to check whether he had written about that somewhere on his scarf.

Dunking more pink than his usual Nightmare-accounted dose —which was already quite high, since it somehow always got wasted quicker with him around— seemed to do the trick. Now, the contents of his glass somewhat resembled a fancy looking slime he could have bought from a small business. Except— well , more liquid-y.

He felt somewhat inclined to show the mix to Nightmare for a reason he couldn't exactly point out, the same way a cat would show their owner the lost mouse they managed to catch. Not quite proud of what he made, but something close. He guessed.

“Wanna taste?”

Nightmare seemed to think about it, longer than he thought he would. Finally, he shook his head. He looked to both sides, surely trying to pinpoint just where everyone was before he looked back at Ink, nodding. When his hand reached out for his drink, Ink gave it to him.

Nightmare sipped, face scrunching in distaste before he licked his lips. “...Ah. Strong.”

“Nothing to say about the paint?” Ink wondered, snorting when Nightmare shook his head. “Weirdo.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Nightmare said; the quirk of his mouth left him unsure if he was joking or not. He gave Ink his glass back, taking a moment to drink off his punch to wash the taste away. He looked to the side, something like guilt clouding his eye. 

Ink wondered what was up with that. “Don’t worry, I won't make you taste more. Yet.”

“How disappointing,” Nightmare said dryly. He looked back at Ink. The color of his tongue was somewhat pinker; a #92ADD6 shade instead of its usual charming #1FCFD2. He straightened his back, tone turning somewhat serious, “it had been a pleasure talking to you, Guardian. Now, I believe I must… take care of what belongs to me.”

Ink snorted. Right. Staying together for too long would be suspicious. They were still in the secret relationship arc; it wouldn't be too fun to ruin it by something so lackluster. “Alright.”

Nightmare gave him a parting glance —the roundness of his eye betraying his true feelings— before he turned around to go check on his gang; more of a power move than anything else. Ink sighed, bringing his glass up to gulp deep and quick in what he hoped was reminiscing of the woe of a wife as her partner abandoned her for war.

He coughed; suddenly reminded of why he didn't do this kind of thing recreatively. He stuck his tongue out, displaying his disgust more as a courtesy thing than anything truly real. “Yikes.”

Ink drank more, of course. Wouldn't want to waste anything he mentioned in his inner narrative.

“Ink!” He heard. It was Blue’s voice, so he didn't think much about turning his head to look at him. He was smiling, big and wide in an expression that could only fit an UnderSwap Sans. “There you are!”

“Heeey, Blueby!” Ink said, unable to help but smile when he hugged him by the ribs, squishing almost short of feeling. Blue let him go just to pat his head, either channeling older brother or owner of a newly obedient dog. Ink pushed him off, satisfied by the way Blue just laughed. “Didn't see you while we were getting the room ready.”

“Ah, yes. I was on the Surface, buying the… good stuff.” Blue winked at him. “The prize of being the only one with an ID.”

Ink didn't feel funny enough to pinpoint how they could have just stolen all the booze instead, so he didn't. Ink closed his eyes, wiping an imaginary tear off his cheek. “Our hero…”

“You got it,” Blue said. There was a moment of silence, and as such, Ink stopped the drama to drink more. They felt his gloved hand grab his shoulder, and as such, they stopped, lowering the glass. They licked their lips. “Ink, you know…”

Ink opened one of his eyes to look at him, confused. Blue’s eyes were still as caring as ever. It was a bit annoying, much more so when Ink knew he didn't need his concern. There were no feelings to look after. “Hm?”

“Nightmare… he’s your friend, right?” How sudden. He must have seen the character interaction from afar. Did Blue hear their banter?

“Ah? Yeah. Sorta,” he finally decided. Not really a lie, but it wasn't like Ink was being completely honest, either. More alcohol went into his mouth as he brought the glass up again. A moment. “He’s actually a pretty funny guy once you go past all the sociopathic behavior and stuff.”

Blue made a hum. “Yeah?”

Oh, so that's how it was. Ink licked his lips, eyes closing as he already started to feel both pink and yellow start to finally do their thing. Word-triggered emotions weren't new, but they still made him feel a bit like a trained dog. “Yup. He’s like… y’know. Neat.”

Blue hummed, considering. “You're not being buddies with him just to get back at Dream, aren't you?”

“What? Nooo. Nope. No,” Ink said, somewhat offended by the idea. If he really wanted to offend Dream, he could have brought out how Nightmare was definitely the cuter twin. This was merely strategy. Advancing the plot by doing the unexpected. “I tell you, he’s nice. He’s fuuun! Fun.”

Blue just hummed at him, eyes squinted. Whatever he saw on Ink made him huff amusedly. Before they could blink, he grabbed them by their arm and pulled. He insisted even when Ink almost dropped the glass; bringing them to stand over the funny looking carpet that refused to be killed —though not for lack of trying—.

“Here,” Blue said, mouth twitching. When Ink turned around, —something inside them already noticed the way Nightmare had glanced at them, attracted by the commotion— Blue just pulled his arm again. Not harsh, but rather playful. “Give me your scarf. You're gonna play The Party Guy.”

“Not even gonna invite me for a drink before?” Ink said, though he couldn't deny that he wasn't that eager to just refuse him. He downed his drink —ignoring the way its burn somewhat lessened into a vague warmth over his face— and put a hand on the cloth on his neck. Alright. So that was a thing that was gonna happen. “Swap…”

“Ink,” Blue said, still lively. Ink wasn't sure if he had caught onto their warning tone —they would definitely kill over their scarf— but the pink kept on urging him to trust because Blue was such a nice friend and he loved him and whatever. Disgusting. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave it in my room. We don't want to repeat what happened for Dream’s birthday, right?”

The memory of having to hand-wash his scarf with nothing but a pinecone was the push he needed to finally take his scarf off; Blue took it just to fold it into pieces in what Ink assumed was to avoid accidentally sweeping the floor. He was so caring. “I still don't know why we had to get Dream off jail the day after. He’s always so…”

“Oh? Oh, yeah . Right. You blacked out for that, haha,” Blue said, smiling awkwardly. He visibly shivered, hugging Ink’s scarf closer to his battle armor. “Anyway, see you later. I’ll get the food ready.”

“Thought Dream was taking care of that,” Ink said, tilting his head. He winced slightly as he felt the harsher part of the alcohol hit. Funky. “Isn't he making like— y’know. The mini sandwiches and stuff.”

Blue patted his shoulder, oddly serious. “He doesn't have to fight his battles alone. That's what friends are for.”

Ink preferred falling for schemes masquerading as promises of protection, personally. But the idea that they would help him if he just asked made him feel weirdly bluish; it mixed oddly with the pinkish tones. “Y’know, I could help, too.”

Blue looked troubled, looking to the side before looking back. His hand left Ink’s shoulder. “Don't worry bout that, Ink. We have everything controlled. Just stay here, yeah? I’ll come back once I’m done.”

Welp, he guessed he couldn't always play the friend role. That was totally okay with him. To show that he was, he nodded, just before he gave him a dramatic salute, “captain yes captain.”

“Pft. At rest, soldier. See ya,” Blue said, smiling at him before turning to reach the stairs. Ink didn't stare at him for long enough to be sure, however. He was alone again.

It was kind of awkward. As such, he decided to go to the table of drinks again. He was going to get wasted anyway; he knew enough to recognize it as a good subplot.

Another glass. Then— well, half of another. It was the strong stuff, after all. His neck felt cold. His chest felt empty. People were dying. The icebergs were defrosting. 

It was kind of boring, actually. Maybe he could play hooky?

“Blue, I can't— ” Ink perked up, recognizing Dream’s voice. It was a bit muffled; like harsh whispers. “What if—?”

“Shush, they're there, and you’ve been—”

He really needed to sit down. Not because he was somewhat scared of the possibility he was hallucinating all the stuff —he was super confident in his senses— but because his vision really seemed off. Like a noise layer on overlay was forever imprinted into his eyelights. Not fun.

There was silence —not really silence, for there was a lot of mutter their ears weren't able to catch on— before they heard steps. Ink recognized the way Blue walked, but still struggled lightly as he just grabbed his forearm and pulled. Blue really liked doing that, for some reason.

To the kitchen they went. There were no doors, so he wasn't exactly surprised when Blue just stepped in between the rooms, like a barrier. Pft. Blue barrier.

“You two—” Blue said, voice tense with the kind of feeling Ink wasn't able to identify yet, “—need to talk.”

Dream’s expression met his when Ink turned his head. It had been some time since— well. They have seen each other a lot, coworkers as they were.

Dream had been his best friend, once. He hadn't been in some time.

Ink turned his head to Blue, somewhat awkward, but he had already given them their back. They were fundamentally trapped in the same room. That was, unless they talked something out.

The realization sobered him up. 

“Ink, I’m—” Dream said, voice strained. Shaky, even. “It's— well. How have you been?”

Aw. So he did care. Was. Was Ink supposed to be upset? His hand twitched, aching to reach the red, just before he finally decided it’d probably wouldn't be the best choice. “Oh, y’know. Have been… there and there. Doing. Stuff.”

“I see,” Dream said. He got quiet then, as if he planned for the conversation to fall on Ink. Was that the way it used to be before? He missed the past. Seemed so simple. If only he didn't—

His fist clenched. He really hoped the feeling deep on his chest wasn't blue. He dug his heel on the ground, preparing himself to sneak in between Blue and the wall. “...If that ’s all, then—”

“Ink, I was wrong.”

That made him stop. He felt like he was going to puke for a moment, but it calmed down when he took a deep breath. “What?”

Dream squirmed under his eyes. It was quite different; Ink remembered him taller. Louder, his words strong in determination as only words could be. “Our fight, Ink. I fucked up.”

“It— It wasn't a fight…” Ink argued, though he knew he couldn't even convince himself of that. It had been ugly. There was a reason why he never asked the Stars for help, when his own weakness came to picture. “It was just a— y’know. Difference in opinions.”

“I broke at least six of your ribs, Ink,” Dream said, a defeated sigh. He took a moment to fix his circlet. “It wasn't— I was out of it and you— you didn't deserve it. Doesn't matter what I thought you were…”

“Dream, y’know I don't feel pain that way. It’s not a big deal, it was just—”

“Please, just— let me finish.” His hand was up. He still wore his gloves, even if he was supposed to be cooking. It was such a Dream thing Ink couldn't help but smile, somewhat confused. “You… I was such a jerk to you, Ink.”

“I mean, kinda?”

Dream raised his arms, dramatic. “I was! And you just— I don't know. We— We’ve been… it feels wrong. And Blue—”

A comment: “ah, so Blue made you do this.”

“He— He made me see reason. I was being a jerk,” Dream said. He looked like he wanted to cry. Something inside him —probably the pink— made him put a hand over his shoulder soothingly. “I was unfair. Very unfair and— and—”

“I told you, don't worry about— Oh. Oh! You're drunk,” Ink noticed. Dream just nodded, looking uncomfortably close to breaking into tears. He didn't fight when Dream hugged him, placing his chin on Ink’s shoulder. “Tell you what? I’m drunk too.”

Dream sighed, shaky and deep against the triangle of his neck. Ink embraced him back, ignoring the way his circlet dug into his temple. He patted his back in just the way he recognized from the movies.

It was— It was nice. Dream felt warm and solid in his arms. “Dream. Sunshine. I don't— y’know. I had a whole speech planned if this ever happened but I so forgot it.”

Dream laughed, kind of wet sounding, and he separated. They could see eye to eye again. Dream was tall —perhaps even taller than Nightmare, in most AUs— but he always made the effort to avoid making Ink feel short. It was kind of useless since Ink noticed it but he valued the intention.  “...Yes?”

They looked at each other for a second. It felt kind of lighter.

“I just— I always feel so guilty,” Dream said, an explanation. “You're not— what we want isn't the same. I know I can't really… make you change your mind. But you can't change… mine. You know?”

“You always have such a way with words,” Ink said, snorting when Dream pushed him by the shoulders. They patted their arm, feigning to soothe pain that just wasn't there. “I— well. Y’know. I never wanted to make you go all out of character on me. I knew about… us. I kind of expected the thing to explode at some point.”

“Expected the explosion… Like a ticking bomb,” Dream said, smiling when Ink decided to nod seriously in response. “And— well. It exploded.”

It had. It was quite a dramatic thing. “Yup. But think about it like this… Could someone have died in the climax? Realistically? ”

Dream thought about it for a second, lips trembling slightly. “I thought about stabbing you. Once or twice.”

“Aww, that doesn't count. I could have let you. Sounds fun,” Ink said. Dream leaned down to hug him again, less strong but somewhat heavier. “You— Yeah. I think— I forgive you, Dreamland. If no one died I don't see why we can't just… y’know. Put this whole thing under Blue’s half-chewed carpet.”

“I still feel so guilty about that,” Dream said. Ink patted his back comfortingly. “I get why alcohol is a sin. It makes weird things to me.”

Ink didn't like the implications going on. He decided not to think too deeply about it, trying instead to get into the topic before he forgot just what the topic was: “I hope you know that I’ll definitely beat your ass if you ever try to interfere with any random AU, though.”

“Then— Then I hope you know that I’ll fight back. I’ll fight for people’s hopes and dreams. I won't— I won't be passive. I’ll fight for what I believe in, even if it kills me.”

“Neat.” Ink could accept that. They hugged Dream a bit tighter, and let him think that they couldn't hear his soft sniffles; the same way Dream was nice enough to ignore the way Ink breathed a bit oddly, unable to let go.

He would have been satisfied if that was the main event going on, if he could dare say. The pink kept on filling any gaps the experience could have; it was kind of sweet. Sentimental like few things were… Maybe climatic? He needed more words, but the sentiment was quite simple: he felt whole.

Maybe too whole. He needed drama. “Dream, I’m fucking your brother.”

“I know you fuck with Nightmare, Ink,” Dream said. Ink choke up, something like dread filling him when Dream just hugged tighter. “Blue told me. You said you two were… friends? Vibrating… vibing. Buddy pals.”

“Uhhh. Something like that, yeah.”

“I’m glad,” Dream said after a moment. “I never… I could never pass through him. He never let me be his brother again, not even— not even a friend. I— I’m glad you could be that for him.”

Oh, he wasn't getting it . Maybe he had to be more direct? He could be more direct. “Eh. Y’know. You’re like a brother in law to me. Kinda.”

The silence that followed —with a clear lack of aggressiveness— was enough for Ink to guess it wouldn't be a realization he could have that day. Dream hummed; confused. “...You're like a brother in law to me, too…?”

Ink snorted. 

They separated again; Dream wiped his golden-ish tears with the side of his fingers. He looked taller again, lighter. His smile was as awkward-looking as Ink remembered. They had missed the look of it, warm and sunny. “Alright. I— then… I believe we're… fine?”

“Yup,” Ink said. Dream patted his shoulders, as if testing if he was real. Like he was nothing but a daydream, like he truly valued the idea of Ink’s— He needed to check Blue’s punch, now that he thought about it. “We can— hm. Revisit it tomorrow, I think. We're a bit drunk… I think.”

“You think,” Dream echoed. He shook his head, smiling. “Yes, I— I think that, too.”

They hugged again, a bit more roguishly. Ink pushed Dream’s face away when he hugged him a bit too hard to be comfortable, snorting when Dream just laughed.

As if called by the sound —maybe he was—, Blue walked towards them, his expression softening as he saw how Dream’s smile didn't falter. When he glanced back at Ink’s face, they couldn't help but notice how his smile mirrored Dream’s. 

Blue took a moment, before finally speaking, “do we… Are we okay, now?”

“I’ll duel Dream to death before the week’s through,” Ink blurted, almost falling over when Dream pushed him from the side, “—with knives! There’ll be knives there.”

“You’re literally obsessed with me,” Dream said. He straightened when he heard Blue’s laughter, however, his mock frown disappearing as Blue hugged them both.

Both. At the same time. Naturally, Ink started to squirm.

“That’s just great, guys,” Blue said, barely reacting when Ink tried to get him off by pushing his face away with his hands. Dream, the coward, wasn't struggling; he looked like he was going to cry again. Typical. “Buddies. Friends. My friends…”

“Friends… yes. We’re— We’re all friends,” Dream said, a wet whisper. The group hug got tighter. Ink squirmed, unable to help the way he eventually lost the will to do so; movements getting slower. Feelings. “I’m glad.”

They were Ink’s best friends. “Aww, fuck the duel. I love y'all.”

They kept on hugging for an awfully long amount of time; the only thing stopping them being the smell of smoke. Smoke… smoke?

Blue separated, gasping, “the Mediterranean Pastry Pinwheels!”

Dream gasped as well —both hands getting to his mouth to complete That One Scream Painting reference— and he made his way to the furnace, Blue on tow. “Shit, shit, shit—”

Looking at them from behind, Ink felt compelled to paint some cooking gloves for them —the furnace was very hot. He thought. Guessed. Somewhat deduced—, and as so he reached back for Broomie.

Nothing. He blinked, squinting his eyes before he remembered he left it by the couch when he came. Well.

Giving a parting glance to Blue and Dream —they were trying to put out a little fire that creeped the walls— he decided to go fetch Broomie.

The passing of the limit between kitchen and main room was a bit odd, mainly because Ink noticed he kept on trying to raise his legs higher than needed to walk. His balance was off; somewhat reminding him of how gravity always seemed to get funny whenever Error forced his way through code.

He kinda missed Error, now that he thought about it. He had to visit him again, at some point. Bring some chocolate, maybe. It served pretty nicely as a bribe.

Ink plopped down on the couch the moment he reached it, closing his eyes tightly and breathing the coldness of the air to try to reboot. Odd. Evil.

A moment. He opened one of his eyes to look at Dust; red scarf being the first thing that pulled his attention. Ink smiled at him, all teeth. “Sup.”

“Hello,” Dust said back after a few seconds, hands clenching and unclenching lightly. His eyes went down to stop on Ink’s neck. He looked back at his eyes, hoodie obscuring most of his expression but the quirk down of his mouth. “...Where is it?”

Ink shrugged. His scarf was a very big part of his character design, so he wasn't that surprised when its absence was noticed. He looked up, brushing Dust’s question off with a hand. “Eh. Dunno? I’ll look for it tomorrow and— oh, hey Paps, what's up.”

Ghost Papyrus waved at him from the ceiling, still as funny looking as ever. Just as Ink was about to tell him so, however, he started to get away— Dust had stood up and left, his hallucination (well, their , if Ink wanted to get technical) following him close behind.

What a boomer. Then again, it wasn't like he had a big relationship with anyone from the gang, besides— well. Their leader. He kind of missed the guy already, now that he thought about it.

Ink sighed, getting up just to fetch Broomie —it really liked to lay on the floor unmoving every once in a while—, who was just beside the sofa. Once he had it in his arms, he sat again, putting it on his lap.

“I miss my wife, Broomie. I miss him a lot,” Ink said. He winced when it decided to nag at him, high-pitched and annoying even if their communication resembled telepathy more than anything else. Ink made it stand so he could shake it violently, just in the way one would try to see if the coin that one dropped inside a guitar— “I know my metaphors suck, Broomie. Shut up. At least I have arms.”

Broomie didn't have any clever answer to that. As such, Ink just smirked, shaking his head as a sigh soothed his spirits. He hugged Broomie close, cheek nuzzling into its bristles apologetically.

“Alright, I know you didn't say it with bad intentions…” Ink murmured, eyes closed. If he focused enough, he could feel Broomie’s bristles brush back against his face, welcoming and warm. “My bad, bud. Shaken brush syndrome isn't anything to joke about, hmmm?”

The cushion of the sofa sank slightly, and Ink perked up, separating from Broomie just to meet Nightmare’s face. 

Ink blinked. Nightmare blinked— winked? Could it count as winking?

They saw how he looked away after a moment, glass in hand. Night sipped from his fun-looking cup, —it wasn't clear glass, but rather something Mew Mew Kissy Cutie themed— licking his lips once he felt satisfied enough to get it off. “...Guardian.”

Ink took a moment to look at him; just— to stare. His jacket wasn’t open anymore, the zipper brought up to his neckline. Funnily enough, they could see the hint of tentacles dropping weakly from his back, short and stubby like seeds that grew out wrong.

Nightmare looked back at him, the circle of his eye round and inviting; it always had been such a pretty cyan (a very nice looking #02C2F2!), but the gentle shadows of the room somehow made it particularly appealing. His smirk followed a perfect curve, its angle unique. “Is there a reason for your… less than modest wear?”

Ink blinked, straightening up instinctively. He brought Broomie to his lap, laying it down horizontally. Ink wanted something in his hands; he supported Broomie’s shape with the circle of his hold while his other hand covered his neck protectively. He even had a turtleneck. “Why are you such a weirdo?”

Nightmare just snorted, leaning back onto the backrest. He glanced away from Ink —eye jumping in the room, surely noticing the way the rest were sprinkled all over like spray paint— before he looked back. “Why, I was just wondering.”

He was so cute when he got in the mood to annoy Ink. They blamed the pink, of course. “I— hmm. Y’know… got it off. Just in case stuff gets messy.”

“Oh, just in case?” Nightmare said, almost a purr. It was like the rumble of a well oiled machine; efficient and smooth. Ink shimmied a bit closer, hoping to see whether it resonated in his chest. “I was wondering whether you had a hidden reason behind it.”

Ink saw how he drank just after talking; Nightmare’s eyelight half-lidding as he kept on looking at them while he did so. Ink felt very much seduced: there was a clear intent there, they were sure. In response, Ink frowned at him, putting both hands onto Broomie’s handle and leaning their torso towards him. “Night, think we can get home already? I want to play moon landing.”

Nightmare choked on his drink, punch leaking down to his chin before he wiped it off with his sleeve. “What— Now?”

Ink shrugged. “I mean… y’know.”

The way he seemed to squirm under their eyes was kinda pathetic: it kind of called him to do worse stuff than just staring. Maybe betraying all his friends just to get a bite out of that. Or cooing. Ink hadn't decided yet. “It’s not— you must be aware that it’s still too early for that not to look—”

“—suspicious?” Ink said, tilting his head when Nightmare didn't even nod. He shimmied a bit closer, snorting when Nightmare did the same but to the same side, parallel. They weren't touching yet. “Maaaybe. Do you have a clock? I don't have a clock.”

“Do you fancy me as someone who would carry a clock?” Nightmare wondered instead, eyeing Ink even if they decided to stop trying to get closer. For now. He leaned down just to let his cup on the ground, just in front of the foot of the sofa.

“I mean. You do look like one of those guys that’d have one of those… pocket clocks?” Ink tilted his head before shrugging. “Fancy… you look fancy, y’know? Fancying… fancy. It’s a nice theme, though I’d say it kind of clashes with how you dress like a hobo.”

“You’re… inebriated,” Nightmare noticed, hands twitching when Ink just looked at him. “Are you not?”

“Though I would say it's pretty charming, mostly because it shows how you still follow a specific theme for practical reasons even if it sooo goes against your whole…”

Nightmare just looked at him, a rare look on his eye shaping his expression; oddly similar to fondness. Ink closed his mouth as he saw it be, feeling oddly warm even as—

Broomie was straightened up as someone sat in between them, balancing on its own tip as Ink couldn't help but drop it in surprise.

“Hey guys!” Blue said, smiling at Ink. He looked back at Nightmare, surely smiling at him as well. “What are you two doing?”

“...Nothing of importance,” Nightmare said dryly. His torso leaned forward, just enough so he could show Ink his eye. “Isn't that right… Guardian?”

Ink felt kind of flustered. He shrugged again —putting his whole body into it, as he couldn't quite calculate his body’s movement with how high on paint he was—, shaking his head. “Eh. Forgot.”

Blue just hummed, tilting his head as he looked down at Ink. His gloves were slightly ashy, black on its fingertips. He had some cinder on his face too, now that he saw him well.

How ominous. “Did you fight with the furnace?”

“Oh? Oh! Yes. Kinda,” Blue said after a second, laughing a bit. He took his bandana off just to wipe the stains from his face with it. Ink could try the same with his paint spot, now that he thought about it. Maybe later. “Thought you got… well. Scared. Of the fire.”

“Of the what,” Nightmare said. Ink and Blue ignored him, of course. Though he did admit the baffled look on his face was pretty endearing.

“Nah, I can handle the flames.” Ink winked at Blue, snorting when their finger guns were pushed off his nearness with practiced ease. “Was just gonna— do something? I think...? Huh. Where's Dream?”

“He’s playing entertainer,” Blue said. He took a moment before glancing back to meet Nightmare's eye. “Being… you know. Making friends with the gang.”

“Neat,” Ink said. He tilted his head, squinting before he put Broomie on the sofa— it was now balancing on the cushion, looking awfully tall. He brought his hands up, moving them wide and big into an arch. “Gotta charm them to our side. The side of… not-terrorism.”

“I hope not, they get paid for working hours,” Nightmare huffed dryly, sighing when that just made Blue laugh. “Besides, we are barely able to call ourselves… terrorists, as we are now.”

“Aww. He's sooo funny when he’s full of crap,” Ink crooned dreamily, taking a moment to put a hand on Blue’s shoulder, just to press his forehead over its back. “My favorite sociopath ever. A fan’s favorite...”

Nightmare echoed his words in silence, mouthing them as if tasting the feel of them in his mouth. He huffed, amused. “I need a drink.”

“Try my punch ,” Blue said, ignoring the wheezing Ink let out in response at the way he said it with such quick conviction. Blue tried to cover their mouth blindly, his face still pointing Nightmare’s. “It's fruity, tasty—”

“Is it now?” Nightmare said, eye jumping from Blue’s to Ink’s in quick succession, mouth twitching slightly. “How will I know if it's not merely a device in your scheme to poison me, I wonder?”

“Yolo ? Have you heard about yolo?” Ink said, leaning back to avoid Blue’s hand. “Or maybe the good old Don't Be a Coward?”

“Ink,” Blue gasped, hand stilling as he took a moment to laugh, turning to look back at them. “Don't say that!”

Nightmare covered his face with a hand as he looked away, expression obscured. He was trembling lightly. “Why, I haven't ever heard of a thing like that.”

Ink wanted to kiss him. The thought was revolting, especially because it didn't appear enough to be this problematic. Blue was still sandwiched between them. “Liar.”

“Bold thing to deem me as, don't you think?” Nightmare said, still looking away. He shook his head. “We’re amicable enough, Guardian. I would never lie to you, not now.”

Pink. Pink, pink, pink, pink—

“ Ink, where are you—?”

Ink stood up as quickly as he could, leaning to the side just to expel paint. Orally. He was trembling when he was done. “...My bad.”

Blue sighed —he felt his gloved hands patting his back—, gently pulling him back to the sofa. His blue eyelights were warm with the gentle care of someone who just knew what to do. “Don't worry. We can clean that tomorrow.”

“Next time you can do that in my mouth,” Nightmare said, mouth straightening into a line after a second passed. Late self-awareness. Blue stared back at him with homophobia in his eyes.

Blue opened his mouth, just to close it right after. He crossed his arms. Uncrossed them. There was a moment before he pointed at Nightmare, voice sharp like when one would command a dog to sit. “No more punch for you, good sir.”

“Awww,” Ink said sadly, straightening when Blue just looked back at him, a weird quirk shaping his mouth. “I mean— I mean. Y’know. It could be like… mama bird and the birdlings? Chicks? You know chicks?”

“Ink, you're drunk. Shut up. Shush,” Blue said, giving him a shove. He somewhat relaxed when Ink just laughed at him. “Don't. Look , I know what you're thinking. I get it. I get the sociopathic appeal. Don't."

“Pardon?” Nightmare said, staring at them with a weird expression when Ink just laughed harder. “I’m not quite sure of what you're implying.”

“Wait till Blue tells you about his—” Blue covered his mouth before Ink could finish speaking, mouth trembling. He let go just before Ink licked his glove, pure instinct saving him, not for the first time. It was kind of a shame, he really wanted to try the ash. “Whole— fic thingies he wrote about joining the dark side after Dream and I forgot him in the Omega Timeline.”

“It was only once and I was very distraught emotionally!” Blue said, defensive. “And it was— early! Early on! I felt neglected!”

“...You fantasized about joining my attacking team?” Nightmare said, confused. When Blue just nodded, defeated, Nightmare repeated himself, squinting his eye, “you fantasized about joining my… terrorist attacking team?”

“I’m feeling very attacked right now,” Blue huffed, embarrassed. Ink hugged him by the ribs, nuzzling into his shoulder soothingly. “Very attacked!”

“Are you aware we kill people? I feel like you should have been aware we killed people,” Nightmare said, puzzled. He tilted his head, as if that would have made it make more sense.

“Canon body count, yeah.”

Blue covered his face with both hands. Defeat. Ink prepped his chin into his shoulder just to see it show. “Look, I was in a very specific mood for Murder.”

Nightmare was very cute when he looked like he just saw someone get shot, Ink thought. “Ah.”

“I’m not proud about it, Nightmare. I’m not.” Blue said, voice slightly muffled by the press of his gloves against his mouth. Ink looked away for a second, trying to ignore the Implications. Oh. Oh!

The carpet. There was someone over the carpet— well, someones. Ink blinked. Was that dancing? Could that be considered dancing?

“Bee, look. Dream’s pulling the forbidden moves,” they said instead. Blue stopped to pity himself for a moment as a new subject for that feeling seemed to appear out of nowhere like a gyftmas miracle. It could have been, but it definitely wasn't gyftmas. 

“...He’s not,” Blue said, almost a hiss, perking up as he looked to the center of the room, hands being brought down in a snap. Faint, “...dancing with Killer? No way.”

“Yup. Awful. Go protect our lord and master from that evil guy, Bluenaut,” Ink said, separating —hug stopping to exist—. He shook Blue by the shoulder, leaning in to murmur into the side of his skull like a secret. “Remember that one time the Killer guy pushed you to the mud and hit you with steel bats.”

Blue turned to look at him, and blinked. Slowly. “What. When did that happen.”

“Just trust me,” Ink said. “It was bad. Vile. Disgusting. Awful. Golden flower. Weird route. FIGHT button. All the evil things in this world.”

When Blue didn't get it, Ink just snorted. He conjured all his strength just to try and push him off the sofa. 

“There you go,” Ink said, once Blue got the memo and stood up. To avoid him sitting again, Ink quickly filled the blank he left; leaning into Nightmare and putting his legs into the sofa. “Go show Dream the twist. Don't let him go full shattered or else you’ll get all early fanon on us.”

“...Yes?” Nightmare tried blankly. His arm went around Ink’s shoulders after a second, pulling them closer. “Please do that. As a favor.”

Blue just looked at them with suspicion. He looked like he wanted to cross his arms. “Hmmm.”

“I’ll make sure Ink behaves correctly while you check on my blood-bounds,” Nightmare added. Ink snorted, but finally decided on nodding; putting their hands together as in faithful praying. “No more punch, but… something sweeter. Do you have sugar?”

“Kitchen,” Blue said. He opened his mouth just to close it. He finally crossed his arms, squinting his eyes. “Whatever you do to them I’ll do to you.”

“Could you not,” Nightmare said, faint. The quirk of his mouth showed the inner trouble stirring inside his mind. Ink wanted to kiss it off. He still blamed the pink for that. Nightmare tilted his head. “But well… I guess I can. Accept that.”

Ink pumped his fist like he just striked a home run. “See, Bluebert? See? Shoo. Do you want Dream to execute a Birthday dot exe? No? No, I don't think so. Go fetch. I hate you.”

Blue rolled his eyelights, though the smile that he still made was all too real. He was so fitting in his friend role. Ink didn't hate him. “You don't. Alright. Have fun. Not too much! But have it. See chu.”

Blue turned around, his steps decisive as he went to fetch Dream before he made another Big Plot Changing mistake that could have very well triggered a bad ending he rather not think about. Ink sighed, relieved.

There was a moment before Nightmare hugged him with both arms, pulling him in closer. Pink. Wait. Too pink. “...So it seems we're alone once more.”

“I’m gonna puke,” Ink said, tone blank. Nightmare clicked his tongue, a sigh leaving him. “Like. Right now.”

“I don't mind if you do, not even one bit,” Nightmare said, a murmur. “Did you… did you know? Some types of birds regurgitate their food as a courtship strategy to show they're suitable mates…”

“I think I love you,” Ink said. He didn't mean to, but he said it anyway. “You're so stupid when you flirt like a weirdo, it's so cute. You're such a funny guy. Your design is so special to me. Your color palette—”

“My color palette,” Nightmare echoed. That made Ink shut up. “I love you too. I want to kiss you. I want to show you around like… like a purse. A well beloved one, at the very least.”

Ink snorted. He put his legs down on the floor just to be able to turn towards Nightmare's face. “Yes?”

“Of course,” Nightmare said. His hands moved, he brought them up to cup Ink’s cheeks. “I want you to know how loved you are. The hours you steal from me by just existing, the way you make me hope and dream for more of you.”

“You're so funny,” Ink said. Pink. He forced himself to swallow. The world seemed to disappear as his own hands cupped Nightmare’s cheeks back. He was leaking goop. “Say it again and— and. Y’know. Look at me.”

Nightmare’s eye was such a haunting cyan. “I love you.”

They started to kiss, a bit clumsy. There wasn't enough tongue to be that obviously romantic, Ink guessed. But again, maybe it would have been for the best. He fought the urge to get on Nightmare's lap.

They separated after a second. Neither of them needed to breathe. It was a bit overkill, so Ink cut it short. Their mouths met again, messier. Paint, punch— oh, goop as well. That was nice.

Ink licked Nightmare’s lips just to catch the taste. They parted, and Ink felt cold. He was smiling still, however— the could feel the curve of his mouth, dumb and wide. Like he just caught a FUN event happening without any code manipulation going on.

“...Ah. You didn't,” Nightmare said, disappointed. “There wasn't— there was no paint…”

Ink started laughing, putting a hand over his mouth to try and muffle the sound. “Shut up. You're such a freak.”

“I thought I was an opportunist,” Nightmare said. Argued. Was it arguing? “You’ve deemed me so, all this time.”

“Character development, baby,” Ink said, making finger guns. He looked to the side, stopping when he saw Dream staring at him. The same just-saw-someone-get-shot look in his eyes. Must be genetic. His mouth did a weird thing. “You got updated. Changed. I messed up your core traits and— Guess what.”

“...what?”

“Bet,” Ink said. He stood up, grabbing Nightmare by the arm just to pull him up. “I still wanna ride the carousel, y’know.”

The blush on Nightmare’s face almost made them forget what was going on; there was a frown on his face even if he smiled. Somewhat confused. It was cute. “...Yes?”

“Y’know it,” Ink said. When he walked backwards, Nightmare followed, close. They were somewhat running out of time. “Let's hide in the kitchen sink. Blue’s abnormally tall kitchen sink.”

Nightmare snorted, but he followed him all the same. Ink could hear Dream starting to walk— boots sounding on the wooden floor.

It was a thing about trying to avoid triggering character events.

Step and step brought them together to the kitchen. Ink could see the way Blue stepped just in between Dream and them. They were talking calmly. He could hear the exact moment where they broke into laughing.

Ink let Nightmare’s arm go just to go for the drawers. Golden flower tea, coffee, salt— some moldy looking monster candy, too. Or maybe they were just mint flavored?

“Ah, it's— it's abnormally tall, indeed,” Nightmare commented, giving him his back. Ink found the sugar, and as such he started to go for the spoon. Got it. “Common for a Sans’ house, I imagine.”

“Yup,” Ink said. “C’mon, open the… door? Fun looking door? Kitchen sinkers.”

Nightmare snorted, but he did it all the same. There was a hidden room in there— they would have found Mew Mew there, if this was a classic-leaning AU. Or if the Player here had never reached the Pacifist Ending. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. You got it,” Ink said. He pushed Nightmare inside with one arm, entering the room right after. He closed the door with the same arm, as the other one still held the sugar close, like one would cradle a dead child to see some basic-looking flowers. “See? Like a Dark World. We even got a Night right here. Ominous.”

“You're quite odd,” Nightmare said. He eyed the thing Ink was carrying, and took it from him instead. Now he was the one carrying it like a mourning sibling. “It's… dark.”

“Darker than dark…” Ink said. Enigmatically. He looked to the sides, squinting. “...Think there's mold?”

“I hope not,” Nightmare said. When Ink turned around, he didn't look that bothered. Nightmare leaned down just to leave the sugar on the floor. He straightened. “Shall we continue?”

“Heck yeah,” Ink said. He winked at him, the only warning before he pounced. Nightmare, of course, caught him right before he fell, holding him up and to the wall in a single turn. It was a like a dance, almost. Just what he expected.

All part of his evil plan. (Scheme? Was he supposed to say the title now?)

“...Hm. Wait— wait, wait, wait, we don't want to bring the rating up,” Ink said, right as he saw Nightmare’s face get closer. He saw him squint right before Ink pushed his face away with a hand. “This is like… a fade to black moment. Give it a minute.”

“Why are you so fond of making me wait, Ink?” Nightmare asked, puzzled. He still smiled, however, even i f it was very much accusatory. Pretty pink. “One would think you enjoy my suffering.”

“What? Nooo, I just think it's funny to follow predesigned tropes for Their enjoyment! And— well. Y’know. It's kind of hot to raise the anticipation and all that.”

They kissed again.