Chapter 7

[That sweet dream I have to protect]

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

His phalanges tensed on his crumpled scarf, like a meagre attempt to find comfort. To find comfort in this piece of cloth he had been dragging for so many years, which he thought he was attached to. But... (Sighs)

"You don't even have a soul."

Was he really attached to it? Where did he see only in this scarf a way to protect himself, to be sheltered from the cold while having a support to write down his thoughts, his ideas that he forgot so quickly because of his short memory.

"You don't even have a soul."

Ink slid his hand over his chest, grabbed his shirt in the very place where a soul should have been. But there was nothing there. There had never been anything.

"You don't even have a soul."

What had he thought of Dream all these years? What had he thought of Blue, of Error? Was it all a lie? If he couldn't even trust himself anymore, to what point should he turn, what could he be sure of?

"How can we be friends"

They'd never been friends. They were never friends, were they? Ink... had lied to Dream? Was he lying to himself?

He turned his head and looked at the pale reflection in the window pane, the window that was in the room that Nightmare had kindly lent him. He looked pathetic, the Creator. This mediocre Creator unable to protect his loved ones. How could he claim to protect the multiverse after that? How could he dare to walk with his head held high after his bitter failure towards Dream, after his inability to keep him happy and healthy?

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

He saw his reflection distort, wince with pain, and only escaped this vision by the intervention of his vision that had become blurred, of his tears of guilt that had come to drown his face in silent sobs, sobs that made him close his eyes, bury his face in his scarf, as if to hide, to conceal himself from the outside world. To create a shell, an abyss between himself and the others, to keep the burn that twisted his body in silence.

And cry. Crying like a child, feverish and helpless.

"Ink."

He jumped, petrified, and did not dare to make the slightest movement. That glitched voice that he would have recognized among a thousand had been heard behind his back, cold and bitter. That voice he would have preferred not to hear today, at this moment, while he was letting his weakness come out.

Ink clenched his teeth, silent, his scarf soaked by his tears.

He shivered.

He shuddered when he felt two arms hugging him gently from behind, pulling him gently against a familiar torso, hugging him possessively and comfortably, imprisoning him in a warm embrace, a cocoon of softness.

"... What happened?"

Ink didn't explain anything. He couldn't say anything, he couldn't accuse Dream. He couldn't put the blame on the guardian of Dreams, but he knew Error and his way of getting carried away. He knew his opposite would blame the Keeper, that he'd make him pay. But surely Dream didn't deserve that, let alone in a situation like this.

Then, for any answer, the Creator gently let go of his scarf, turned slowly towards the other skeleton without daring to look him in the eye. He loosened himself up in his arms, hid his face in his neck, and cracked for good.

He wept his tears, letting his regretful moans resound, and Error squeezed him tighter. Error did not let go of him at any time.

Dust leaned a little more against the wall, silently watching Dream's drowsy body. This body that seemed to him to be on the verge of shattering despite the care that had been applied to it. Because Dream didn't need bandages, compresses or any kind of magic care.
Dream only needed support. Support and attention. And Dust felt disheartened that no one had ever thought about it, as if everyone had taken it for granted that the Dream Keeper didn't need anyone, that it was others who needed him.

He stumbled, confused and confused in his feelings.

He loved Nightmare as a friend, a brother even. The master of nightmares had been able to reveal a softer, more loving part of him, a part that Dust had been quick to appreciate and protect. A part that had helped him to regain hope, to open himself up to the other Bad Sanses, to see a family. And he knew that Horror, Killer and Cross thought no less of him.

But damn it, ...Nightmare had crossed the line... and Dust couldn't entirely blame him. After all, he could have stepped in and tried to stop his master, he could have supported Dream and helped him escape. But instead he had just stood there, sniggering at the physical and psychological tortures, mocking the pathetic Dream keeper.

And those memories gripped his soul. So that was guilt and remorse? Oh, Dust knew these terrible feelings so well. Feelings he'd had since he'd killed his friends, killed his brother, all for what? For nothing, nothing at all. Just to leave his world a desolate, desolate world, only full of dust.

What a cruel irony.

Dust had had the crazy hope of becoming a real monster, the kind that no longer felt anything, no longer thought anything. Just taking pleasure in the killing, the barbarism. Just to indulge his impulses and forget his actions the next moment.

But it didn't work like that. The memories stayed there, rooted deep in his mind, in his bones, in his soul. Anchored in his pupils, anchored in his L.O.V.E. His memories that kept him awake too many times, that made him sleepless nights, that made him cry alone in the kitchen, talking to his ghostly brother, his brother who was only a figment of his imagination.

"Dust…"

He jumped, looked up at Dream. But he was still sleeping tight, with the difference that he had gently frowned. The killer almost had a tender smile: even in his sleep, the guard felt his negative emotions? Even in this state, he continued to worry about him?

"It's all right, little warden..."

He delicately caressed his skull, covering it with a gentle glance, before turning his back and walking away. He didn't want to impose his bad emotions on her...
He came into the living room and slumped on the sofa, joining Horror who was reading quietly. There was a short silence between them, before the cannibal looked up from his book:

"So, how's he doing?
- He's bad. Injured and exhausted. He really needs to rest.
- Have you started enjoying your nanny role?"

What looked like a joke was taken very seriously by Dust, who leaned his chin on his hand while looking into the wave.

"... He reminds me of Papyrus. Young and innocent, trying to support others despite his weakness."

Horror tightened its grip, its soul tightened. He understood perfectly what his comrade meant. And then Dust said:

"I want to help him. Really help him."

The other didn't know what to say, just nodded.
Silence fell again.

Dream opened his eyes to wake up as always in this room that wasn't his, this room he was struggling to get used to. But it was nice, that room. So he didn't feel sorry for it, just taking advantage of the rays of light that filtered through the shutters.

The young skeleton was feeling strange, in a kind of a state. That kind of state when you haven't slept enough to be rested, but when you've slept too much to be really tired. That kind of strange, unspeakable in-between.

He rubbed his eyes, yawned softly, and took time to smell the air. A smell caught his attention, a smell that contrasted with the smell of freshness and cleanliness. He turned his head with curiosity, saw a new tray on his bedside table and was surprised: there were only pastries, from chocolate bread to apple pie. The quantity was far too much for his poor little belly, but he still felt salivated.

Shyly he grabbed a piece of chocolate cake and took a bite. The flavor crept into his mouth and spilled onto his puck, making him shiver with pleasure. He quickly took one bite, then another, and in a few minutes the slice was finished. Only a few traces remained on his phalanges, the only evidence of his misdeed, which he hastened to erase with skillful strokes of his tongue.

"You seem to like it."

He hiccupped, turned his head to the doorway and became embarrassed at the sight of Dust. Dust approached, with a slight smile on his face:

"Horror wasn't sure what you liked, so he did a little bit of everything. Don't force yourself to finish. »

The goalkeeper nodded his head timidly before lowering his eyes, unable to sustain the gaze of the other. But he already felt more comfortable in his presence than with Nightmare's one.

Suddenly he squealed as he felt a hand resting on his head and gently caressing him. If he was suspicious at first, Dream quickly let himself go to this pleasant contact, intensifying it even by daring to rub himself with it.
Dust swallowed. The young guardian almost looked like a little kitten in his attitude, he could almost hear him purring with pleasure under his phalanxes.
Embarrassed, he looked away without trying to move away. He wasn't used to being the one to give comfort...

There were timid knocks at the door, which surprised the two skeletons who suddenly moved away, as if they had been caught at fault. Their faces blushed, and they turned their attention to the entrance, where a visibly amused Horror stood.

"Hey Dust, I'm waiting for you."

The concerned one grunted:

"Oh, yeah, that's right…"

Dream looked at them shyly, confused:

"Are you going somewhere...?
- Yeah," Horror replied. We're going to visit Lust.
- Didn't he live in the castle?
- Yes, but he left the badlands some time ago, to resume a 'normal' life. We're still seeing him anyway."

The young caretaker was surprised. Even knowing that the Bad Sanses were close, they didn't think he would keep in touch with each other in this way. It was heartwarming: Lust was emitting many more positive emotions than before, he understood better why now. Finding people who didn't denigrate him for his perpetual heat must have been a great help to the purple skeleton.

Dream gave his two comrades a lovely smile:

"Have fun then."

This petrified Dust and Horror, their faces taking on a beautiful red hue as they wondered how on earth this little one could also be ...so ...there was not the slightest adjective to qualify him. Cute was a real euphemism to describe Dream!
Dust exchanged a glance with the cannibal before clearing his throat:

"... Mm... you want to come with us?"

The guard widened his eyes. Coming with... them? To finally get out of this gloomy castle in which he had been locked up for days, to reconnect with the sun, to feel free again? He would have liked, he would have liked ...so much,
but he hadn't forgotten his brother's words.

"I'm serving as your 'catalyst'. It only works if you're close to me."

He couldn't leave the castle, otherwise corruption would gain him. Corruption could turn him into Shattered ... or even his brother. And if that happened, he would put others at risk again. He would hurt again.
He didn't mean to.

"No, it's okay…"

He had lowered his eyes, attracting the worried looks of the other two. Dust insisted:

"Dream you can...
- Don't force yourself, the guardian cup. You don't need to bring me pity. I'm fine here."

After all, that was the reason he asked him to come, wasn't it? He felt sorry for himself. He felt sorry for the kid who had started crying in his arms, too feverish to even walk properly. He pitied this being who served as a brother to the nightmare master, pitied this guardian who was unable to do his job properly.

"Dream…"

He hiccupped, turned his back on the other two for fear of showing them his tears. But it was too late, they had seen. They had seen that grimace of bitterness, his tears of rage, which had once again come to undo his face.

"Dust, Horror."

The trio froze in terror. Horror and Dust turned around sharply, uncomfortable. The last thing they wanted to do at that moment had just happened: Nightmare stood behind them, as terrifying as ever, and shot his two subordinates with his eyes. But soon he turned his attention back to his brother with his back to him and his expression softened.

"... I'll accompany you to UnderLust."

Dream was the first to react, turning around abruptly with a livid expression:

"Q... Wha...? But if you go...

- You're coming with us, get ready."

Nightmare left as quickly as he had come, leaving the other three with a stunned expression, especially Dream who didn't know how to welcome this news.

Horror turned to him:

"You've got clothes in the cupboards. Take whatever you want."

With that, he left in his turn, and Dusty followed suit. At least, before he stopped in the doorway, addressing Dream without looking at him:

"I never felt sorry for you, little warden."

And the young skeleton was once again alone, confused by the attention and kindness that was suddenly given to him.

He decided to get out of bed after a few minutes for fear of keeping the three skeletons waiting. He didn't want to attract their lightning by taking too long, who could they do to him? But after this morning, he could hardly see Dust and Horror coming after him. But could he really say so? He didn't know them well enough, he couldn't know if... if they were really being nice to him. And as far as Nightmare was concerned, it was no better. His brother's attitude didn't make sense to him anymore: one time he hurt him, then he saved him, then he yelled at him, then he hugged him...

Dream shook his head. He got lost in his thoughts, wasting only more time. He approached the closet and cautiously opened it, took a shy look inside, and his soul missed a beat. He opened the doors even wider, so that he could see the outfits, his outfits that he thought he would never see again. His outfits that he would recognize among a thousand, even though he hadn't seen them in years.

These were his brother's outfits before he was corrupted. Magical outfits that had grown over time, so that they would always fit the wearer.

Dream feverishly grabbed a midnight blue shirt, shivering on contact with the silk, the silk so soft that he used to touch it when he was little. He didn't have the slightest hesitation when he put it on, leaving his wealthy clothes on the bed. He then grabbed a pair of purple trousers which he put on in addition to a jacket of the same colour. Thus dressed, he felt ... strange. He couldn't look at himself properly, the absence of a mirror didn't help him, but he knew that at that moment anyone could have confused him with the Nightmare of the past. Anyone who had seen his brother when he wasn't corrupt.

But all those people were dead. Only Dream could still remember those days.

He grabbed the jacket trembling, clutching it at the place of his soul. How would Nightmare react when he saw him?

Suddenly he froze, the incomprehension reading on his features. Now that he thought about it... Why were Nightmare's clothes in that room?

He turned around and looked around the room as he always did. Apart from these clothes, there was no personal belongings here, nothing that could prove that this room belonged to anyone. It looked like a simple unoccupied room, reserved for guests. But then... why did he have that strange feeling?

"Are you ready?"

He jumped, looked at Horror who had just returned to the room. There was a brief silence during which the cannibal looked at him, visibly astonished, before he spoke again:

"Wow, it's weird to see you dressed so darkly. But it looks good on you."

He approached him and suddenly held out an object. An object very familiar to Dream: his crown.

"It was damaged, Horror explained. But Cross managed to repair it."

The guard tensed up. He lowered his eyes to the object, looked at it as if he had discovered it for the first time, before turning his eyes away :

"... I don't want it anymore."

Horror made no secret of his astonishment, but even though he wanted to insist, Dream's defeated face silenced him. He sighed and shrugged:

"Okay, suit yourself. We'd better hurry, the others are waiting for us."

Dream nodded and left the room first. Horror pretended to follow him but stopped in his tracks. He gently placed the crown on the bedside table, praying that the little skeleton wouldn't take it the wrong way.

After all, that crown meant a lot to the keeper. Far too much...