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Dream is getting used to it.
It was the only word he could use in that sense now.
They helped him escape from prison. Amidst shouts, pushes, a chase, a nearly forced invisibility potion (he didn't resist: that never ended well), a struggle, noise, and snow.
The escape was both slow and fast. Although, lately, everything had been going like this—for the past few years, it felt like he was blinking, and the days were passing. It was entirely possible that his brain had simply stopped recording the same events over and over again.
He was saved by Technoblade. An old rival who owed him a favor. A life for a life. That's what they called their interactions, which boiled down to requests and promises kept. They weren't friends, comrades, or anything else. Just business partners who needed each other for strength, confidence, and power.
His own skin burned, like touching lava, as he was pushed out of the chamber. He fell because he had forgotten how to walk ; they lifted him, squeezed him, and it felt like it was breaking his bones all over again. But he got up. He needed to. They told him to get up, and he did. Because otherwise, everything would be bad. It didn't matter that it was a different voice and a different appearance that spoke: instead of short black hair, there was long pink, in place of a cap there was a crown, in place of the swinging scissors there was an outstretched hand.
Over the years, Dream has gotten used to obeying. Even if his body is almost dead. He honestly doesn't know how bad he looks: it's hard to conduct a full analysis in a confined space. But when he ran, everything ached—absolutely every muscle, bone, ligament, joint, tendon, and even vein.
There were people there. Other people, people he'd already managed to /forget/ because he only ever had one visit. Even if it wasn't a good one. At least someone was visiting, and the part of his battered, rotten brain was grateful for it.
There were others outside. He honestly doesn't remember who it was—their faces, names, or clothes. He only remembers dodging crossbow bolts and jumping to avoid negative potions flying at him. No one wanted to see him, either inside or outside. It was strange that he'd come to terms with it so quickly.
They were sailing away from the prison. Technoblade was leading the way, and Dream felt like he was about to die right behind him, feeling the eternal chill of ordinary weather. To be fair, they were approaching snow. Although even without it, everything felt icy. Years of lava hadn't done much for his climate control: he felt like his skin from hell was drier, rougher, peeling off in large chunks, like hard desert sandstone.
Then they walked through the snow. And again, Dream thought he'd collapse, fall, and be buried under the snow, his body left here, never to be found except in eternal peace. But somehow his legs kept moving, and Technoblade's cloak provided enough protection that the light wind didn't feel deadly. The snowdrifts pressed against his skin, it ached, hurt, and stretched, but he pressed his mouth shut. Because it was right.
They were sailing again. Technoblade parked the boat, climbed in, and waited for the extra weight behind him before moving. Dream sat up and let his head rest on Technoblade's back; after all, they'd tell him to fuck off if this was too much. But the other remained silent. Dream looked to the side.
Ocean. Water.
He knows it's translucent, with a blue tint due to the sky, reflections, and a bunch of other physics information. But his eyes see it more as gray. Like scorched sand in hell. Despite his perpetual fatigue for several years now and a desire to simply ask him to slaughter it, he watches the ripples of movement pass through the water, and small waves recede from their boat into the distance. Some of the coral below comes and goes, and fish swim past.
It's all familiar. He knows it, but he doesn't remember it. It's actually strange how distant his memories of just water are. He used to swim alone—in a boat, and without—driving away from others with his speed. He'd had fun and shouted, he loved it. Now, though, there's no emotion. Only quiet resignation.
Throughout the long journey, he felt as if he was about to fall asleep. Just like that—with the red cloak over his back, leaning against Technoblade and calmly breathing in the cool sea air, which now makes him cough from being unaccustomed to it. But all the while, he stares at the dull, drab water, which is clearly much darker than it was before; it just seems that way.
And then snow again. Technoblade puts the boat away and says something about them being close. Dream nods. He has nothing more to say. He probably won't even be able to: his previous visit to him had torn his vocal cords for hours or days, he's not sure. After a short nod, Technoblade looks at him. Long. Intently. It's just a fact. He turns and examines him, as if considering what to do next. And then decides: nothing, and continues on his way along the path known only to him. And Dream follows him. Because there's no other way.
They walk and walk, wading through yet another snowstorm, which has mentally killed him a hundred times in a variety of ways. But in reality, the snow simply lies there, and it serves no purpose. When Dream thinks about this, he imagines that it's the same now—existing without purpose. And the snow no longer seems so angry, but more like understanding. He quickly comes to terms with this, too.
Some distance away, a distance he would have easily discerned a few years ago but now only blinks, he hears the barking of dogs. He knows that too, like something from the past. It evokes no emotion other than the simple fact that he hears it. Distorted, quiet, not as clear. But he can still discern the sounds. Interesting. He thought Pandora had taken everything from him.
Technoblade's house comes into view: two houses opposite each other, connected by a bridge. To one side is a pen with dogs, who are already enthusiastically greeting them. Or, rather, their owner. Dream doesn't consider it necessary for the same reaction to apply to him. He doesn't pretend to.
They come closer, and his current ally doesn't approach the animals, but leads him up the steps. It feels like he'll trip, break his last brittle bones, and never rise again. But he holds onto the railing with one hand and finds it hard to climb—it feels like the identical steps are at different heights, so he looks at each one as he takes a step. His legs ache, his muscles ache, every artery screams in agony, but he keeps going. Because it's true.
Technoblade waits patiently for him, already building on the bridge, without any comments or grumbling. He simply stands and waits. Dream doesn't know whether he's grateful for this or disappointed by the lack of reaction. But he quickly comes to the conclusion that he's resigned himself to it.
Perhaps the only person on the server who never lies is Technoblade. It's as if he's genetically programmed to resist lying. Pants, a mercenary, is too good at this to notice, even though he always claimed to be honest, and Dream studied all his indicators of deception. So if Technoblade were dissatisfied with something, it would be immediately obvious. But none of that is true.
When Dream finally rises, accepting another pain, cold, pulsation of the entire blood flow in his body, Technoblade opens its door and holds it open for him.
This had never happened before. He prides himself on his ability to discern information that is now clearly corrupted by injuries, but Dream has never entered Technoblade's house before him. He makes a mental note of this, telling himself he'll tidy up his own archives later, and after a moment's hesitation, he meekly enters first. Not too close to the door, so the other one can enter as well, and not too far, so as not to be rude. He doesn't even think about it, carefully measuring the appropriate distance.
Behind him, Technoblade removes some of his excess clothing, hangs it on hooks, and places some items in a nearby chest. Dream hasn't been here often, but long enough to remember the location of some of his belongings after a cursory inspection. Nothing has changed much, frozen in its stability. Amid all the hustle and bustle of the server, he found it calming, each time he requested a service and knew it would be performed just as perfectly and efficiently. He doesn't need to move here and now: he has nothing to take off, nothing to put away, nowhere to go. So he just stands and waits.
The rustling behind him stops. The part of his brain that still remains in Pandora, among the obsidian walls and flowing lava, screams at him to move, to run, to turn around, and to protect himself somehow. But he stands because he sees the wood beneath his feet and on the walls, the hanging pictures , the chests at the edges. These are different places, different people. And that's another thing Technoblade is famous for: he never uses violence gratuitously.
So the owner of the house walks a little further, and then quietly calls him to follow him somewhere, and Dream goes, because he has nothing else to do.
He was led into a room that clearly didn't belong to anyone: bare walls, an empty open chest, a bed on the left, a window on the right. It was slightly larger than his cell.
"You can rest," Technoblade says behind him. Not too close to be oppressive, not too far to create a sense of danger. Everything is perfectly measured, down to the smallest details. Dream finds solace in this again. Fame is safe.
He takes off his cloak, not because he's warmed up enough—in fact, he feels like he'll be freezing forever for the rest of his life—but because he simply needs to reclaim what's not his. Handing it to the other, Technoblade looks at him first, calculating his next steps. Perhaps he's considering the past version of himself that knew what it was doing. This one simply exists. Like the snow that lies outside because it lies there. There are no plans for now or for the future. Finally, Technoblade takes the cloak, holding it hesitantly in his hand. Dream would have found this amusing and funny years ago, but now he simply turns toward the room and steps forward, reflexively suppressing a shiver from the cold.
"You can take a shower in the room next door," Technoblade says, and only now does Dream notice the door in the wall next to the bed, as if it hadn't been there before. Interesting. He nods, because his throat still hurts from screaming a few hours ago; it hurts even to swallow, without even thinking about what his /voice/ will sound like.
Silence behind him. Technoblade thinks again. And then he steps back, closing the door. Not completely. Not trapping. Not leaving it open. Not depriving him of privacy. Clear, pragmatic, and intelligent. Dream resigns himself to some lingering satisfaction that he can still notice these details. Although without it, this wouldn't have happened, but that's a different kind of resignation: he had to become the best version of the worst to achieve this. He didn't expect... This, but the goal was achieved, and that's the most important thing.
At least for a while, everyone stopped fighting each other and united. Against him, of course, but that's a nuance.
He walks into a side room, noticing a full barrel of water. Touching it, he thinks it will hurt, as if he's become part of the eternally boiling lava, and all the water will evaporate in that instant. But no—his fingers register the warm water with their battered sensory nerves; his skin sensors are terrible, but when he moves them, he feels a stretch. Like a viscous mass, but not too viscous; it's completely different from touching lava in search of something.
Looking down, he can still see the prison uniform: dark orange, cut, covered in blood and ash, barely hanging on, clearly showing the stripes of scars. He doesn't know how many there are. He doesn't know if he wants to know that.
As he peels off piece by piece, he notices parts of his suit clearly stuck to it by the blood. He winces, takes a handful of water from the barrel, and drips it onto these areas, leaving it for a while. This, too, is something from the old days, when he would come back from a long battle and try to remove his clothes with his friends. Once upon a time, he wasn't alone.
He's resigned to it. He's gotten used to being alone for several years now.
Getting into the water is the most unusual sensation. His body doesn't function as he expects, his coordination is poor, so he holds on by any means necessary to keep from falling, and he succeeds.
And then just... Rests.
He's getting used to the silence, which frightens him deep down, but reminds him more of something old, something that existed before the eternal seething lava. In the first days of his imprisonment, he couldn't sleep because of it: it was always too loud, the sound and heat gave him headaches, and he felt irritated. Now, though, it's nothing.
He closes his eyes and gets used to what he feels with his remaining nerve endings: the embrace of water, the freshness. There's no longer the smell of lava with its metallic compounds, and there's no dampness of obsidian.
Raising his hands, filled with water, he lowers them to his head. A tingling sensation runs through his scalp, but he simply doesn't think about anything. He resigns himself, rubbing his hair, completely tangled, dirty, and tangled, first with just water. There's soap somewhere, he knows, but he doesn't want to touch it yet.
As he climbs out of the barrel, clutching the edges tightly with his hands, he experiences a flurry of new sensations: he's cold, so damn cold that his limbs are shaking and his skin is covered in goosebumps; he's damp, but not from sweat or any liquid spilled on him. This water doesn't corrode his skin, causing it to peel and ache for weeks. He's wet and damp, and this—he doesn't remember this from the past. He knows he's washed before, and even simply climbed out of the water, but the sensation has faded. As if it never happened.
Part of him mourns that such a normal sense of ordinary life has become alien to him. But he exhales and adjusts. Like drops trickling down his skin, they travel along dead nerves, touching some of the remaining ones.
Piglins would feel if they emerged from the underworld into the upper world? Dream feels more like a denizen of hell than a human right now. His skin is still red. Rough. It has scars and stripes – straight, curved, and jagged. Sometimes... it didn't bother to leave him whole, taking full advantage. Until Dream could see nothing before his eyes except a sadistic smile.
He doesn't immediately pick up the towel. Instead, he simply stands there naked. The water cools, runs, and drips openly from his hair onto the floor. It makes a dull, quiet thud as the drop hits the wood—a dot turns into a jagged stain. Time had once been a resource for him; another thing he used to his advantage, never allowing himself to stop. He ran, ran, ran... Then he came up against the cage. And beyond that, he feels the hands of a clock ticking away.
Cap.
Cap.
Cap.
He's dripping, and he's been standing there all day after a simple shower. His legs ache and ache, screaming at him for his effort and begging him to at least sit up.
In Pandora, when no one was looking, he stood up. Without a mask, in tattered robes stained with his blood. And he stood. Facing the lava, the wall, the... other wall. Just to remind himself that he could still do this, that his body hadn't atrophied or broken to this degree. It hurt. But it was the little that kept him going.
Finally grabbing a towel hanging on a nail from the wall, Dream wraps himself in it. The fabric touches his skin, which is unpleasant, but it provides a little warmth. Just a little. He hasn't stood next to the warmth of lava in a small room with poor ventilation in years. But he's getting used to it. He has to do this.
There's some clothes lying on a stool to the side. A brown sweater and blue jeans. Clearly Wilbur 's . Of course, Dream knows he and Technoblade are related, but he's never delved into it that deeply because it's never been of any use. They both kept their distance anyway.
Dream takes the clothes emotionlessly. What would he have thought of this before, before his emotions were so completely broken and dulled, like a sword during a centuries-old war? Would he have been angry at the thought of wearing someone else's clothes, the one at whose hands he was forced to become a villain? Would he have asked for new clothes because he wanted nothing to do with someone who disobeyed his rules?
What would have happened?
As Dream puts on his clothes, he feels a sense of relief that he doesn't care anymore. What difference does it make—he's already killed Wilbur several times, blown his country to bits, achieved his goal of uniting everyone. He has nothing left to chase.
Entering the room with the bed, he first looks at it. Moonlight falls on the white blanket, the wooden frame supporting the mattress. He knows beds are soft: he's slept on them before, exhausted beyond belief, and simply crawled to the closest one and passed out. He couldn't imagine sleeping on the floor before. He couldn't bear to lose his self-respect so completely.
Well.
Everything changes. He had to change too.
Now, sitting down on the bed, he closes his eyes. He grips the mattress with his hands and feels not the hot obsidian, its sharp edges touching every cell, but the soft wool filling. Soft. Dream opens his eyes and slowly lies on his side: he feels a strange need to look at everything due to the loss of complete spatial coordination. Touching the pillow, he notices... Calm. Something he hasn't felt in a very long time.
Looking out the window, he sees the snow slowly falling. Like background noise, an unstable image in the middle of the wooden wall, both constant and not at the same time. He's never been drawn to snow, never having had enough time to pay attention to it. But now his hands have long since run out; he no longer has hours, minutes, or seconds. He's stuck in the absence of time. The snowflakes fall one after another, clinging together, only to end up at the bottom. Where, sooner or later, they'll be stepped on and broken.
Sleep comes quickly—he simply blinks, and suddenly it's night. He knows this with surprise, noting the darkness outside the window and the snowfall that has turned into a storm. It must have been several hours before he woke up. He hadn't been able to sleep properly in Pandora for a long time.
Since the visits. It's not that he's weak, remembering this person's appearance or names, or how they treated him. He just doesn't want to see it before his eyes anymore.
Oh, the first day. The first day he met his friend, he was happy. That someone had come to him, someone who didn't take him seriously as a villain. Someone he could talk to.
It was the first time he'd made such a big mistake. He didn't plan to do it again.
The next time, with his eyes closed, Dream can tell he hears the sound of lava twenty feet away. It gurgles and flows slowly, boils, gurgles, bursting with the music of the air. It becomes hot. So hot that it would burn him, but he's long since gotten used to it. So hot that it's hard to breathe, the air feels heavy and liquid, like water. Blinking, he lies on his side on the obsidian, the only source of light before him. His head touches the floor, one hand in front of his gaze, the other behind him, and he feels it.
Slowly, the lava creeps inside the obsidian. It's unhurried, just like he is now, as if it doesn't care about time. It rolls away from the circumference, like the hump of something tired. He watches it from below, watching its slow, leisurely movement toward him. Not a single limb moves, not even a twitch; no muscles tense.
He's not going to run away.
The lava flows slowly toward him, without interest or motive, simply existing. And then, after a few days, it approaches. His fingertips feel the approach of the burning heat, but they don't move. And then it touches him. His skin is so hot that it turns cold. It slowly floods his hand from the edge, rolling further—to his knuckles, wrist, forearm. It feels as if this limb is being chopped off, and he looks at the burning flesh, but does nothing. He doesn't even scream.
Elbow. Shoulder. And then he sees her before his eyes, before they close, and his nerve endings are covered in the pain of searing lava. They burn and melt, he wants to scream, beg for help, humiliate himself for a potion of fire resistance and regeneration. But he still lies on the hard obsidian, burning alive.
Then he opens his eyes and, with a ragged breath, sees the wooden wall opposite. The darkness in the room is slightly larger than the cell. He hasn't changed his position since he lay down. A scream is caught in his throat, painful, cutting and scraping . So a cough escapes on its own. He rises up on the mattress and bends, trying to clear his lungs of the scream. It goes on for a long time, but he calms down and still breathes heavily.
Emotional dissonance. He still remembers the sensation of lava from his sleep, but he can't see it in front of him. Adrenaline surges through his blood, telling him to run or fight, but he doesn't need either.
Having calmed down enough, he lies back down, but rolls over onto his back. It doesn't hurt. Not that much. It feels good. He folds one arm at his side and raises the other in front of him, his muscles protesting. His vision is much worse than before, but he's satisfied that nothing's burned enough to lower her onto his stomach.
It was just a dream.
Sighing, Dream closes his eyes again. Fortunately, nothing else comes of the night, and he wakes up as the sky begins to brighten. The white snow reflects the first rays of the sun, as if it wants to shine.
Having risen and realized, without surprise, that he hadn't rested at all, he plans to leave the room. Still, he has something he wants to do. He always thinks about his safety and tries to ensure it, even if he constantly wishes it were all over. It's interesting how the psyche simultaneously welcomes death and avoids it as much as possible.
He thinks Technoblade hasn't woken up yet. His rival isn't usually one for early mornings, preferring to evenly distribute the sun's energy over its primary glow rather than its beginning or end. Thinking about this, Dream finds it ironic that the roles of rivals and allies have been so completely reversed.
So he stares out the window. Until the sky turns a little whiter and the light begins to penetrate further. He gets used to the silence—the way it rings in his ears, much louder than the flowing lava, as if pressing down on him. He gets used to the cold, starting to shiver again, because his body hasn't yet had time to adjust to the temperature change.
The clock's hands have clearly shifted position when he braces himself with his hands and slowly rises to his feet. It's hard, painful, and aching, but he resigns himself to it. And then he begins to walk leisurely toward the door. Neither closed nor open. Just the same as last time. Opening it, he notices Technoblade, wearing a regular shirt and pants, his hair tied back with a ponytail, leaning over the chest. Hearing the sound, Technoblade turns his head and freezes. Not as if from a threat, danger, or trouble. As if from something that demands his attention more than the things in the chest.
"Dream," Technoblade greets, clearly not fully grasping what he's up to, turning the name into a question. It's nice to still be able to read his old acquaintance. Former cellmate. Comrade. Friend. Ally. Rival.
"I have," Dream breaks off, suddenly feeling as if his throat had been slit open. He raises his hand and presses it to his skin, naively hoping it might help, and clears his throat slightly. Usually, his voice took a long time to return to normal after something like this, but even before, he hadn't been given much time to rest. Technoblade doesn't comment or react in any way, other than the fact clearly stored in his head. "I have to see you," he tries again, but pauses to swallow: he's in so much pain that it's hard to speak. "But it's necessary." A request.
Period. Technoblade is silent and thinking. Probably about the fact that these are Dream's first words since leaving prison. Not "thank you," not "hello," not "what a nice house." But a request for a favor. Spoken in a hoarse, broken voice, much lower than usual, devoid of strength and any emotion. And Dream stands as straight as he can, ignoring the eternal fatigue, pain, cold, and the cracking of his muscles from overexertion. I wonder if he looks like he's ready to start a revolution again, or as if he'd fall unconscious to the floor right now?
Nobody is commenting on this.
"The first thing you want to ask of me after prison," Technoblade repeats monotonously, making sure he's not imagining it. Since the answer to this could be expressed in less effort, Dream nods. Not as vigorously as before, not as strongly or deeply. Simply and succinctly: yes, that's right, you're not mistaken. "What is it?"
Dream had been thinking about this for a long time, actually. In the breaks between guests in Pandora, begging someone else to do it. In the escapes between time skips. Somewhere deep in the seclusion of feelings, when words weren't needed to understand what he wanted.
"If you," he pauses again with hostility, which they both ignore; Technoblade must have seen what Dream looks like and understands that voice problems are a small part of the whole list, "want to kill me," another pause, "then do it quickly."
He likes boundaries. Boundaries provide structure. Structure is clear. Clarity provides safety. And that's exactly what he needs now, after so many years.
They remain silent. His opponent doesn't move. This is a favor for life. They never throw it away casually, as if it meant nothing. It is the most precious thing they ask for. A life for a life.
Technoblade still looms over the chest, his expression unchanging, even as he mentally records this information as fact. It's unlikely this could be used against him or sold to anyone: he's generally not one to sell information unless he gets something very valuable in return.
Then something changes. Just a little. But Dream is surprised to realize he notices how the decision was made: a slightly longer exhalation, a drop in the shoulders a centimeter, a slight lowering of the eyebrows. Defeat. The other person won't be able to change this or somehow convince him otherwise. He can only accept it.
- I will do it.
And Dream finds solace in Technoblade's words. Because he's not lying. He's never lied before and sees no reason to anymore. So he repeats his nod: I understand. That means: the deal is done, we've agreed. And he turns to go to the designated room, feeling eyes on his back and thoughts of what happened to him. Dream has no intention of explaining. His request speaks louder than any words.