Chapter 6

[Light and dark, when the two cannot coexist]

He felt pulled out of his icy prison, torn from the devastating darkness. The pain, which he had finally forgotten, came back brutally, stronger than the last time, more terrible and haunting. His arm seemed to be slashed from all sides, his leg smashed against the ground. His rib cage, heavy and cumbersome, blocked his breathing.

He suddenly opened his eyes. The light blinded him, burned out his eye sockets, and before he could understand anything, he felt his stomach twist violently. His body moved on its own, rolled sharply to the side to regurgitate everything he had eaten lately, that is to say, nothing at all. There was nothing but bile, sour and foul, mixed with the peculiar taste of blood, a taste to which he should have been accustomed, but ...

[ But who could get used to that? ]

And like every time, like every fucking time, there were these disgusting noises, this nauseating smell, these elements that Dream would have wished to never know, never wanted to know again. He wished to forget them, to erase them from his memory, but each time he succeeded it was to better rediscover them the next time.

"He's awake!" he heard abruptly without being able to identify the voice.

- Go get Nightmare! I'll take care of him!" retorted a second person.

And Dream had a new high heart, vomited for the second time, almost choked on this filth until he felt two arms grasping and straightening him, two arms that helped him to get into a slightly more comfortable position, a position that would allow him to finish this regurgitation without ending up strangling him with his own bile.

He coughed violently, tried to catch his breath. The pain had wrung tears from him, tears of bitterness and suffering, tears that blurred his already blurred vision. Exhausted, he could no longer hold on, and put all his weight on those unknown arms, those arms which continued to hold him and which, it seemed, caressed his back hesitantly, like a feeble attempt to comfort him.

He closed his eyes, barely discerned the slamming of a door. But he clearly heard the cry that followed:

"DUST, IS HE AWAKE?"

He sank again.

He blinked slowly. The first thing that struck him was the smell of fresh sheets, a smell much more pleasant than what he was used to. Then he perceived a strange softness, the softness of a blanket covering him, although it could not overcome the pain that still ran through his bones. But his body was much less painful than he remembered, and breathing was no longer the worst of all calvaries.

He gently sniffed the air, taking time to adjust to the atmosphere... tranquil atmosphere. But... why... Why couldn't he fully enjoy it?

He rose with difficulty, still half asleep, emptied of all motivation. He looked around the room, an unknown room. Tidied up, cleaned, as if it were being taken care of regularly.

And he froze. He froze as he turned his head to the door, and saw Nightmare standing in the doorway.

He knew without a doubt that he wasn't dreaming.

"... How do you feel?"

IF Dream was surprised by his brother's gentleness, he showed nothing of it. He simply looked away, briefly shrugging his shoulders without making a sound. What could he have said, what could he have done? He was exhausted, exhausted from fighting and arguing.

He didn't want to make any more effort.

Nightmare frowned, but did not raise his eyebrows. He approached the bed slowly, his eyes glued to his twin:

"We're in my castle. You've been unconscious for a week.

- ... I'm not corrupt."

Those were his first words, and probably the hardest he had to say. His throat was sore, he could hardly raise his voice, and his sentence was close to a whisper. Nightmare seemed to shudder, but remained in control of himself:

"Indeed. I serve you... catalyst. I'm absorbing some of the negativity you've ingested, but I'm only doing a limited amount. It's enough to keep you from transforming. However... it only works if you're close to me. That's why I brought you here."

Dream listened to it silently before looking at it again. His dull and tired look made Nightmare shudder, shudder with anguish.

"... So you're going to sequester me here?"

The master of nightmares tensed up, got carried away in spite of himself:

"No! But I'm not letting you go until we get this shit out of your system!"

And Dream simply shrugged his shoulders, returning to his examination of the play:

"All right. Whatever."

This 'whatever' messed Nightmare up more than he admitted. He gritted his teeth, struggling not to let anger overwhelm him. It wasn't even Dream he was angry at, but this 'thing' that Dream had become. Against this 'thing' that Nightmare had created, that he had unleashed on himself.

"... I'll have a meal brought to you."

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and rushed across the hallway towards the kitchen. But he stopped in the middle of the deserted corridor, his body shaking all over. He saw his twin's gaze again, that lifeless gaze, devoid of the passion and innocence that had characterized Dream until then.

"... Fuck."

He smashed his fist against the wall, ignoring the pain that ran through his phalanges, a pain that was nothing compared to what his brother had surely experienced. His soul was twisted, consumed by a guilt that grew with every minute, and soon it was only a muffled sob that escaped him:

"...fuck…"

He screwed up. He screwed up all the way.

Dream didn't know if he'd gone back to sleep or not. In any case, it was only a few knocks on his door that made him open his eyes again, turning his head towards the newcomer who had allowed himself to enter without being invited.

And he could not help but feel the sight of Ink carrying a meal tray for him.

They stayed for long minutes looking at each other without any of them daring to make the slightest gesture, daring to say a word. The silence, which had become embarrassing from the first few seconds, only became more tense when the painter finally decided to approach the bed, put the tray on the bedside table and turned his attention to Dream.

The Dream Keeper had no trouble perceiving the dark circles under the eyes of the Creator, but he did not deign to speak up. On the contrary: he turned his eyes away, looked out of the window to contemplate the sun, which was gently declining.

Ink tightened up, his throat tied. His friend's reaction had been enough to add to the weight on his shoulders.

"... Hey, Dream... It's been a while... !"

He had tried a poor smile, a light greeting, but his clumsiness and anxiety did not help him, nor did the ignorance of the guard. But the Creator was known to persevere, so he insisted:

"... How do you...

- Don't do that."

Ink froze, confused, his smile vanished. Dream's voice had been weak... weak but cold.

"I'm alive as you can see. You don't have to worry about the multiverse anymore."

The painter became paler than he already was, his mouth trembling under the veiled accusations of his best friend:

"Dream, I don't understand... What does it have to do with the multiverse? Well, I just...

- Were you worried about me, about my health? Oh, well... Ahah... don't make me laugh…"

Dream looked at him again. But if it was to receive an accusing look, full of anger and regret, Ink would have preferred that he continue to ignore it.

"It seems you don't know this Ink... but now the multiverse can live without harm, even with the guardians gone. Really, you don't have to worry about that anymore.

- ... Do you realize what you're saying?"

The creator felt a painful sensation in his chest, where his soul should have been. A sensation he usually only had when he drank his sorrow potion. A feeling he hated to have, even more in the presence of Dream, and this feeling only became stronger, more painful, almost making him want to cry if he could only cry by himself.

"Dream, right now it's not the multiverse that matters to me but you... !

- I told you to stop."

Dream looked away again:

"Stop with the fake compassion, the overplayed friendship...

- ... on ... ? Dream, what the hell are you talking about? We're friends! We're friends for real!"

Ink had raised his voice, had raised his voice like never before, his body trembling under another sensation, the sensation that twisted him when he swallowed his potion of anger. He had felt the effects of his potions before, but never before had it been so strong, so hard, so unbearable to feel.

And he petrified. The few emotions he was feeling escaped him, evaporated with the understanding of these last words, words he never thought he would hear from Dream:

"How can we be friends, you don't even have a soul."

The Creator stood there, his eyes wide open, his pupils turning back into simple white circles. Silence fell again, and lasted so long that the atmosphere became suffocating.

And as quickly as he had come, Ink left the room.

Dream looked at the ceiling without worrying about the meal. He wasn't hungry, he didn't want anything. Nothing except this calm that had just been established, this serenity that had won him after the words he had finally said to Ink, these words that had been burning his puck for so long already. These hurtful words, these painful words, ...these words that didn't sound like him. Those words that he should never have said.

[ Freeze]

His world collapsed again as he became aware of what he had done.

[ Straightens up ]

His mouth ajar could not make any sound. What could he have said anyway?

Was he sorry? Was he really sorry?

[ Why, as he took pleasure in saying those words, pleasure in guessing Ink...'s discombobulated look ]

WHY WAS HE IN SO MUCH PAIN?

[ FUCKIN' HELL, WHY DID YOU WANT TO CRY? WHY DID HE WANT TO CRY AFTER THAT? ]

He took his head in his hands, repressed the flood of tears that came to him, which seemed to crack him from the inside.
He needed to let off steam, he needed to hurt, he needed to hurt someone, anyone!
But it wasn't him, no it wasn't him! He needed to help others, not push them down! He was supposed to be kind, not mean! Gentle, not offensive! He was supposed to be ...

WHAT WAS HE SUPPOSED TO BE?

He screamed, he screamed from the depths of his being, his rage and incomprehension taking over, suffocating him with this guilt that he could no longer feel.
But what was bothering him? What was really bothering him? Why couldn't he put clear thoughts into it?
He didn't want it to turn out this way, he didn't want to end Ink this way, he didn't want to become a horrible being, he didn't want... he didn't want this anymore, he didn't want this shit, this life, these terrors, these... ...

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

His raspy voice only made his cry more pathetic, more laughable, and suddenly he started to laugh. Laughing at the person he had become, the person he had always been. Laughing at this miserable being that everyone had loved for so long, this miserable being who was just a stupid, stupid, stupid skeleton...!

And his faint laughter that mingled with his muffled cry was interspersed with his jolts, his incomprehensible and confused sobs that accompanied the bitter tears that flooded his face, which made him feel like he was going completely mad.

Laughing and crying at the same time, shouting and smiling as if it were natural, wasn't that the beginning of dementia, the announcement of the madness that possessed him?

"DREAM!"

He cowered, like a defence mechanism, defence against that voice he could no longer bear. No, no he couldn't hear Nightmare anymore, he didn't want to hear or see it anymore!
He tightened the grip on his skull, his dying laughter to leave only his tears of terror. He knew, he knew what his brother would do, he was preparing for the impact, he was preparing for his horrors, his tentacles, his sermon, his torture ...!

...

There was nothing.
None of that.

...

There was no ...

...

There was only soft touch. Soft and feverish. Soft but trembling.

...

A ...hug.

...

How long has it been ...

...

[When was the last time he hugged him?]

...

Dream didn't even have the presence of mind to struggle, to shout again, to try to escape this hold. The shock was far too great, too violent. It remained just ...like that. Mute with stupor. Eyes wide open.

Unable to raise his head to his brother.

Unable to believe it was real.

When his twin let go of him, walking a few steps away, Dream remained silent again, his eyes devoid of pupils, as if he had been disconnected, that he had bugged. He remained with his arms dangling, sitting in his bed, head down, as if emptied of any notion of life.

"...Dream...?"

He's not responding to his brother's voice. He didn't know how to react. He didn't know ... didn't understand who he was, what his role was, what his identity was for him and for others.

It seemed to him ...

[It seemed empty to him.]
[ Emotionally void ]

Nightmare came out of the room even more feverishly than the last time. He imperceptibly clenched the fist he'd hurt himself earlier, waking up the pain that had eased ...slightly, and threw it back against the wall, with all the rage that inhabited him at that moment.
But he couldn't break his bones as he wished: a hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him in his gesture. He clenched his teeth, his eyes glued to the wall, not deigning to look at the newcomer:

"...let go of me, Cross.
- Hurting you won't change anything."

Nightmare strongly repulsed him:

"AND THEN? AT LEAST IT BLOWS! -
It's no us...
- IT WON'T DO ANYTHING BUT IT'S DOING GOOD, YOU SEE? IT'S USELESS BUT IT'S A WAY TO PUNISH THE ASSHOLE WHO HURT HIS BROTHER, THE ASSHOLE WHO PUSHED HIM OVER THE EDGE! IT'S NO USE AT ALL M…"

He almost choked on Cross, almost cracked when he felt him hugging him, clutching him, holding him to his chest in his warm but trembling embrace. ...
Cross lowered his voice, as if he was afraid to break it by raising his voice too much:

"...you're not the only one responsible... why... why do you always go to extremes? Why does everything have to be all black and white? Why do you have to be the one and only bad guy?"

The swordsman tightened his grip, hardly swallowing his saliva:

"... "Black apples darken you. Night... is what made you hurt your brother... You have your share of responsibility, but it's not entirely your fault..."

His throat tied, pushing him to hide his face in the neck of his superior, to conceal his treacherous tears that troubled his life:

"...I have no excuse. I don't have the black apples, I don't have Chara anymore. I'm just... just me. Just me who spent time with your brother, who took advantage of his kindness, his smile, without ever seeing... without ever seeing me…"

His words died as did his will. He gritted his teeth, shamefully stepping aside, but wondered at being restrained, at being brought back against the body of his superior.
And Nightmare clumsily stroked his back, trembling. He gave him little comfort when he himself was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Cross couldn't even smile. He closed his eyes, his soul clenched, as the voice of his leader rose:

"...aren't you going to see Dream?
- I'd like to... I just wish... I wish he'd hit me if it would make him happy, hurt me if it would make him happy... But I'm too scared that just seeing me will make him worse. He'll…"

"He hates me now, he'll never want me again," said his weak sobs instead of his voice. Nightmare remained silent.

Silence was the only adequate response.

Dream hadn't taken his eyes off the sheets, hadn't changed his position, hadn't moved a millimetre since his last 'interview' with his brother. His notion of time was flawed, abstract, just like his feelings, his thoughts.

He didn't know how he felt. He didn't know what he wanted anymore.

But his body wasn't of the same opinion.

He clearly heard the gurgling that escaped him, betraying the hunger that had finally caught up with him. Yet he did not feel like swallowing anything, but his mind was no longer able to make any decision, and it was not automatic that he stood up, shivering at the contact of his bare feet against the cool ground.

He was wearing just a simple t-shirt and Bermuda shorts, nothing good going down or very hot. But in all honesty he didn't even notice his outfit, concentrating instead on the pain going through his body, trying to take one step at a time without collapsing.

With muffled footsteps he moved forward while brushing against the walls. His gaze lingered slightly on what surrounded him, on his corridors so familiar and yet so different ... The castle of his childhood, the one where he had lived and grew up with his brother.

He lowered his eyes, unable to look down at the place, unable to remember the so-called 'good memories' without feeling the pinch in his soul, the pain in his chest.

He sniffed softly, feverishly passing his arm over his swollen eyes for fear of crying again. He couldn't stand the cracking, the sobbing for nothing...

He dragged himself pitifully into the kitchen, finding his way around with difficulty. Night had fallen, only making the place darker and more terrifying, but it was nothing for Dream. It was nothing after the place of darkness where his mind had been locked during that week of coma.

A sigh escaped him, weary and difficult, pulling slightly on his irritated throat. He reached, after an interminable journey, to the kitchen door. But as he was about to enter, he froze in the doorway.

At first it was violent, painful feelings that hit him hard. Negative feelings mixed with resentment, regret, anger and bitterness. Chaotic feelings, but controlled enough not to be projected beyond a certain perimeter, as if the person releasing them did not want them to be felt. Didn't want Nightmare to feel them.

Dream finally dared to look up, feverish, touched by this unknown suffering ... and his eyes fell on Dust. Dust who was sitting at the table, his face immersed in his hands, trembling and sobbing, whispering 'sorry, I'm sorry' interspersed with a strong breath, vein attempts to contain himself.

Dream didn't know what to do. He hesitated to turn back, to pretend he hadn't seen or heard anything, for fear of embarrassing his counterpart ... but his distress prevented him from moving, from abandoning him to his fate.

[He couldn't leave him like that.]

"Dust…"

The other one jumped violently, petrified at the understanding of this frail voice. He did not turn back to him, probably ashamed to be surprised at such a moment.

Dream didn't insist. He didn't say another word. He simply took one step, then another, then another, and another before reaching the height of the table, to take a seat next to the other skeleton. He didn't look at him, he didn't want to show him that he had seen him crying. But gently, delicately, he slid his hand over the wooden furniture, reached Dust's arm and pulled slightly on it.

He met with no resistance. Probably caught the killer off guard.

[ Slipped his hand in his]

[ Gently intertwined their knuckles ]

Dust shuddered, confused by the heat that crept into him, which swept away the terror that tugged at his soul. He timidly observed Dream who had lowered his eyes and at last, at last he understood: for the first time in his life he was dealing with the warm aura of the little guardian, this aura at the antipodes of that of Nightmare. A delicate aura, as tender as marshmallow, which enveloped him with love and gave him the impression of floating on a cloud, of being rid of his worries even if only for a while ...

[ He understood better why some people went crazy... ]

Dust became more perplexed. Now that he was no longer in the grip of his crying fit, he was better able to think properly, and this surprised him. He tightened his grip on the youngest's hand, looking at it with curiosity:

"Why are you doing this? You should take care of yourself before you worry about other people. »

Dream raised his head, looking stunned, stunned by his comment.

"But... you weren't well…"

Dust frowned:

"So what? You count less than the others?

- ... I..."

Yes. His eyes screamed yes, his body screamed yes, his panic screamed yes. His whole being screamed YES, YES he counted less than the others!

And Dust was struck by that feverish look, by that little scared and terrified skeleton, that little innocent skeleton who, in spite of his anxiety and suffering, had come to comfort and support him. This little guardian that he was rediscovering, not as a naive kid who knew nothing about real life, but as an injured young adult who was trying to hold his head high.

Dust no longer felt the warm aura. All he felt was an icy embrace, a spike that struck his soul. He gritted his teeth.

He pulled Dream against him.

"... It's time to think of you, little caretaker."

The little dream opened up. This strangely familiar embrace had something different, different from what Nightmare had given him earlier. Something snapped in his throat, pushed him to crack, again, pushed him to cry, again... He buried his face against the torso of the tallest one, came to hug him, grabbed him like he would have grabbed a lifebuoy.

He stopped trying to repress his sobs. Dust didn't once try to calm him down.

They simply stayed, for a long time, embraced one another, in the deserted kitchen.

Thank you for following this story! Most of you are silent readers, but knowing that there are a few people to read makes me very happy, I hope this story makes you live a great adventure!