Chapter Text
“I take no responsibility for this,” Dee said when Dream was sixteen and had taken Technoblade—the infamous half-Augment who gallivanted around the world, bringing chaos with him whenever he wasn’t within the gentle leash of Philza Minecraft-Watson—to the throne room.
Puffy sighed for the tenth time and wished he wasn’t the unofficial baby sitter for these ‘gods’. “I know, Deimos.”
“I also take no responsibility for that,” Lucid from her seat, clicking away at a game she was playing heatedly with Nightmare, who was glaring at her across the room because he was a sore loser and a terrible player.
“I know, Lucifer,” Puffy repeated. She massaged her temple when Dream cackled maniacally at Technoblade’s irritated face, and prayed to whatever god that still existed out there that she’d get an overseas mission soon, a very long mission. She had been here since they were born and with each year, she felt like she was losing every inch of lifespan in her reserve.
“I hope the Blood God takes him to a war where he’ll die horribly,” Nightmare cursed as he clicked harder on the buttons, as if that’d make him win.
“I hope so too, Nirvana,” Puffy said without remorse, because it was impossible. Dream was born for war; it was within his blood and it was a playground instead of a battlefield. There was no chance of him whining and complaining if he were to be sent there, again. At least this time they’d know about it, because the last two were completely without their knowledge and they only knew that Dream had taken over when someone reported that a child was ordering them around. Puffy had to explain that the ‘child’ was their prince and, unofficially, because the whole family might be insane but they weren’t crazy enough to give Dream the right, their General, and thus their superior.
“That’s mean,” Dream called out, but he had wrangled Techno to the seat and was in the process of whispering terrible, terrible thing in the man’s ear. “You are all so mean to me. Aren’t I supposed to be your baby brother?”
“Yes,” Dee said firmly, and lifted Dream away from Techno, who looked both scandalized and intrigued. “And baby brothers don’t go around sitting on older men’s lap in front of their siblings. Now, bring him to the War Meeting Room and don’t enter my peripheral vision until I’m done being sick of the sight of you.”
“Using fancy words won’t make you smarter,” Dream said, and took Techno’s hand to take him away to an adventure of unwise decisions and, most possibly, massacre. “Pretentious fucker.”
Dee sighed, and because he was biased and had a severe case of favoritism, said, “I will kill you on your birthday, and put your remains in the cake.”
***
Here was how it went for Nightmare: he hated Dream for killing Mother, even though he knew that it wasn’t his baby brother’s fault; then he learned to make peace with his hatred and tried to heal in his own way after the loss; he tolerated the presence of the ‘perfect god’ in their family as opposed to him, the failure; and finally, he saw Dream kill someone for the first time, and it was akin to a revelation.
Dee had always favored Dream, out of all of them. His first love and first understanding of love; his true ward; his only successor for the throne after he descended, because they all knew that Dee would ascend before he was even twenty-five. Dream was the one who made Xavier Deimos understand that he had a family, and that he could choose who would be included within his protection and absolute power.
But it came later, after Lucid and Nightmare were left behind, put aside like the unused pawn on the board, as Dee taught Dream everything he knew. He was there for their baby brother’s first step, took the responsibility of feeding and taking care of Dream despite the myriads of nannies they had in their disposal, refused to let Dream sleep with anyone else or let him out of his sight, was Dream’s first word and, at last, first love as well.
Then, when Dream was old enough to hold something without dropping it, Dee was the one who taught him how to hold a knife, and later, taught him how to use everything he could use as a weapon in dire situations. Dee taught him how to wield a knife and a sword, how to aim an arrow and a gun, and how to swallow mercy and compassion in order to fulfill duty, to protect, to claim his birthright: a conqueror.
It didn’t surprise any of them that Dream took to it like fish to water, like a dragon to a town, like shadow to the darkness. He was, after all, the one who inherited their father’s Augment blood the most, and even surpassed their predecessors from how inherent his Augment gene was. He was the perfect product, the perfect soldier—the perfect God who deserved to sit alongside Dee on the throne. Lucid and Nightmare knew this; everyone knew this. Dream knew this.
Nightmare had accepted his fate by then, had known that his weak blood would amount to nothing despite his right to the throne still standing by tradition. But they weren’t a conventional kingdom, and they dictated everything by power. He thought that, perhaps, it was yet another thing they recognized in their blood, and was the reason why Dee loved Dream in the first place, why Dream returned that unlikely affection with almost a reverence in his strangely bright, green eyes.
So, really, he understood. Lucid understood. They weren’t meant for the world Dee and Dream had made for themselves, the nearly chaining love they had enclosed themselves within. It just wasn’t meant to be. Because neither of them had every looked at anyone but each other, spent time with one another—always, always in the same space of breath they seemingly guarded possessively.
Until, the alarm in the castle blared so loudly on Nightmare’s birthday, the ringing in Nightmare’s ears overshadowed only slightly by the screams of the castle’s occupants. He readied his weapon and he fought valiantly the intruders scattered throughout the place, but he knew he was no match against these many people, and he’d die, he’d die, he’d die—he was going to die alone, with no one by his side, living his life just as a disappointment and dying as one as well. There was going to be a ceremony and no one would remember him by the third day because he wasn’t important to this kingdom.
And then—and then Dream came, gun blazing and eyes so bright they were nearly unnatural, blood splattered on the side of his face and neck, staining his fingers and his clothes. He stood there, amongst the corpses of the intruders, so small and so young and so much than Nightmare could ever hope to be. But his hold on the gun didn’t waver, and he didn’t pause as he took Nightmare’s hand, smearing blood and slicking the skin as they held on tight to each other.
He didn’t waver as they walked towards the throne room, bullets and knives flying on their journey as Dream weaved through the battle just like he was meant to be. It was horrifying, the sight of a child fighting against people thrice his age and size, leaving behind a carnage that burned itself forever in Nightmare’s memory, but it was beautiful within its own understanding and he could see what Dee saw all this time.
Dream was lethal, and he was meant to be the greatest weapon of them all, and he was the most beautiful when he was deranged and dangerous.
But they didn’t stop, and Nightmare wondered, why Dream shielded him when it was supposed to be his older brother protecting him; why his baby brother kept holding onto him as if he didn’t want to let go. Then, they arrived on the throne room, where their father had escaped death under Dee’s obligated protection. Their father, who abandoned them when the alarm started echoing through the castle; their father, who only ever saw Dee and disregarded the failures that his wife produced, failures like Lucifer and Nirvana; who was terrified of Dream when he was born because he was a pathetic man who couldn’t let go of his throne, couldn’t admit that there was someone greater than him, meant to dethrone, king him.
“Dream,” Dee breathed out, relief evident in his usually controlled voice, emotions bleeding through at the sight of his baby brother covered in blood.
Dream didn’t heed him however, didn’t even deign him a glance. He said, “The King died today because of the raid, killed by one of the intruders. He was cornered into the throne room, and his children and guards got to him by a minute too late.” Dee’s eyes widened, and Dream’s shone. Nightmare’s breath stuttered to a halt, pausing as his brother’s small hand squeezed tightly once, before he aimed, and whispered, “Long live the King.”
Dream shot, and neither of them stopped it; watched in silence as the king fell down with a bullet between his eyes. Their baby brother stared at their dead father, then heaved a deep breath and turned towards Nightmare, smiled dimly at him, an emotion too deep for a face so youthful. “I’m sorry it took me this long,” he said. Then, with a more sincere smile, “Happy birthday, Nirvana.”
So, here was how it went, and it was how Nightmare understood—that Dream, no, Somnium, the name their mother had given with love, was perfect not only because of his blood, but because he had what each of them lacked. He had the strength, the brutality, the ruthlessness, but he also knew love, and his love was delicate, held that within his small palms; carefully, gently, wholeheartedly.
***
“I take no responsibility for this,” Lucid said, but her voice was shaking along with her shoulders, and she couldn’t hold back her laughter as she keeled over, holding onto Nightmare as they both laughed until they were breathless with it.
“I also—” Nightmare hiccupped, glanced at Dream’s sleepy smile and neck smeared with bruises and bitemarks, then couldn’t continue his sentence, too busy choking on his rambunctious laughter.
Dee sighed, and pulled his gun out of the holster, then aimed it at Wilbur Soot’s head, still sleeping away the night of fucking a nineteen-year-old into the royal mattress. “If you don’t wake him up and get him the fuck out of my sight on the count of ten, I’ll kill him and feed you his remains.”