Chapter Text
Domestic was the last thing anyone ever thought of when looking at Dream. Domesticity was soft, kind, slow and sweet. Like a white picket fence, a trophy wife with a working husband and 2.5 kids. A life that didn’t, and would never suit Dream.
Dream was like the wind. Constantly moving and working and being in a way that wasn’t and would never be domestic. Fast? Yes. Strong? Yep. Deadly? Absolutely. A warrior who was quick on his feet and an even quicker thinker. Someone who could come up with strategies on the fly and seemed to be able to learn fighting styles as he was fighting, taking joy in beating an opponent at their own game.
Pvp was his strong suit, going hand in hand with his parkour. It was easy, not at first but he made it be. Practiced till his hands bled and blisters broke out over his feet. Through sprained ankles and busted noses until he was good, great, the best, better than the best. He learned to take pride in each opponent defeated, each racer outran. Until it was nothing more than instinct, not even a thought.
Quick, simple, moving . That’s all Dream boiled down to in the end. Always going, always moving, always doing . Despite everything that ever tried to stop him. And oh did people try to stop him. He started young, as most do. A small fry, even smaller and lankier than the rest at first. Easy pickings who never seemed to stay down. Nothing got in his way. If it did? He was quick to barrel over it. Never seeming to rest, to tire. Sometimes stumbling but never falling. An unstoppable force of nature that even other admins feared.
Ever wondered what would happen if an unstoppable force met an immovable object? No? Dream didn’t either. But the metaphor stands strong. Dream was that unstoppable force, refusing to fall to the wayside and refusing to stop. He’d just never met his immovable object.
But, yeah, the word ‘domestice’ was never something associated with Dream, rarely in the same sentence except with ‘not’. The word had likely never heard of him. Strangers, those two. ‘Violent’, ‘Powerful’, sometimes even ‘god’ was associated with him in times past and in times to come. But domestic? Cute homes and peaceful farmland? Unheard of.
Maybe… maybe that meant the Smp was doomed from the start. Foreshadowing, if you will. Even with his simple rules and repeated claims of ‘taking it slow this time’, of not ‘rushing anything’. No speedrunning, no griefing, no traps unless it’s a prank. Just a simple, calm, slow life. A phrase that was the antithesis of Dream. The Dream who was made up of anarchy servers and hardcore worlds. Blood and tournaments and Wither’s slain by his blade alone.
So, maybe a peaceful Smp was an idea that was doomed from the day it was born.
Maybe it was never meant to be?
There was a hope, at first. That something light and fluffy could come from it. Chaos would come for him as it always did but that was just his friends. They matched each other like puzzle pieces and none of them knew a life that wasn’t at least a little chaotic. Yet rules stayed mostly followed. No hard feelings. Just the occasional prank, the occasional revenge. A comradery between best friends that could never be broken.
More people came, one after another. Invited on out of friendship or respect. Some people came far apart, weeks or a month. Some came banded together like the original two. It was still simple and nice, at first, because there were rules, they were followed, but only mostly.
People tended to stay with their own business and it was like everything was okay. Sometimes it felt a little distant but he had his friends and that was okay. Sapnap and George, Bad and Skeppy, Awesamdude and Alyssa. More and more people, friends or acquaintances. Tubbo and Wilbur and everyone after. It was okay, it was nice. A little more chaotic but still friendly enough.
Then Tommy arrived
Then the problems started. Like an earthquake that only Dream seemed to feel. Every rule broken, shattered maybe as they seemed to quickly become ignored. A non-issue at first. Maybe that was the start of Dream’s downfall. Those few rules, so easy to follow yet so easily torn apart.
But with every broken rule comes consequences. Personally, Dream thought the penance given out was more than fair. A couple of measly music discs that held little importance beyond the sentimental stuff. Something the kid could easily live without. It wasn’t like he’d taken his armor and burned it. He’d never want to ruin someone’s hard work like that.
Dream thought he was being nice. He’d given out a fair punishment that hadn’t even hurt and didn’t ask for anything more than that the rules continued to be followed. Then the drug van started up. A drug van of all things. Selling potions, and hopefully just potions.
It was another pinch, another itch, another ant to burrow under his skin with those from every broken shattered rule. Not that he knew exactly why this bothered him so much, not at first. Didn’t everyone fear losing control? But while annoying, he could ignore it. Then he couldn’t. It irked him and he couldn’t… he couldn’t even explain why. He needed it gone.
He was kind, he asked nicely. Then a bit harsher. Then he demanded. It didn’t go away, they didn’t listen, it grew and festered into something that Dream could’ve never expected all because he couldn’t help but push . In a way the unstoppable force created his immovable object. Dream was fast, he was strong, he was deadly, he ranked among the most elite players in existence. If he put his mind to something, there was no one who could stop him.
L’manberg, Manberg. It wasn’t a person. It was an idea, a belief, not quite a being and didn’t feel like a place beyond a tree of all things. It wasn’t something that could be killed. How do you kill an idea? You can’t So it grew and it festered beyond control… then came the war. Not the first, that revolved around the discs or maybe the railway. But it was the first war that felt… real .
War… war was always a funny thought to Dream. Always so far away and never holding the weight that it should. Sure, he’d been in fights, more than he could count even. He’s been chased and hunted. Had more blood on his hands second only to Techno, and maybe Phil. He’s one of the few people in the world to kill the ender dragon alone, fewer with people actively trying to stop him and fewer still that have gone up against a wither without help. But he’s never experienced war. Not a full one, with all the bits and bobs and bloodshed that came with it.
Call him too young, because while Dream’s definitely not naïve he is young. Despite all of his accomplishments and ability most seem to forget he was barely even of drinking age when the smp started. He was rooted squarely between Techno and Quackity in age, which probably didn’t help much because Techno acted much older than merely being 21. War has never been something he had to experience, certainly not on the frontlines and certainly not leading. The closest thing he could imagine was a Pilliger Raid but just… bigger.
At least Dream’s a quick learner, it’s how he got so far in such little time. It’s always been a necessity for him and it’s saved his life more times than he could count. So Dream hunkered down and he learned. He learned war like he did everything else, the push and the pull. The loud battles and quiet strategy. The benefits subterfuge, though he’d argue that’s a skill long since learned. His mask became his face, stoic and cold beneath the ceramic sheet. That smile became a nightmare. The face under the blank smile lost to time, though that is another thing he’d say happened a long, long time ago.
Dream never meant to tear his family apart. He never wanted to hurt them. Maybe in Manhunts but at least then it was for a reason. Now, the war, it didn’t feel like a reason and still he couldn’t stop. He grew angry and cold with each passing day, planning and plotting things he’d never share. Trusting no one as one by one they all fell away. Leaving a mask as cold and fake as the man sometimes felt.
L’manberg got its independence even though it lost the war, the spy betrayed his side yet they rebuilt like it never happened. He shot Tommy.
He Killed A Child ,
But the war was over.
The war really was over. L’manberg traded back the discs for freedom. There was no more reason to fight
It was all finally over.
It should’ve been over
The blast of Eret’s TnT and the sting of his betrayal should’ve gone away. With patience, with time.
It never went away
If Dream was in a better state of mind he might’ve considered it to be like the law of matter, never created and never destroyed, but he wasn’t and maybe never will be (?) He isn’t sure. Dream didn’t feel very sure of much of anything these days. For all he pretended to, he tried his best to act like everything was okay now. That might’ve been his mistake really.
Maybe it was long in the making, maybe he’d been caught up in himself and the war and the pain He killed a child and just didn’t notice. But somehow it happened and he only became aware of it far too late. Or maybe his subconscious already knew and just wanted to spare him the pain. Maybe that’s why he’d been going off on his own so much recently, even if he didn’t have much to do.
Dream was suddenly, had always been?, enemy number one. The members of the smp had been torn apart, broken, shattered?, During the war as friends turned on each other. Rifts were made even among allies, torn with the shrapnel of Eret’s bombs. Everyone was still reeling after the tides of war. It was nothing like those ‘wars’, no, skirmishes before. Those were nothing more than kids playing in a sandbox in comparison. A game of make believe. No, it was real. Definitely to them. Definitely to him. A fight over land and freedom and a man who was too stubborn to let go of it all. The unstoppable force versus an immovable object.
They banded together over a common enemy, it was almost poetic. Friendship picked from the leftovers of chaos and pain and forged in blood. Maybe peace would finally be regained. After all this time, a time that felt like more than just a few months. They could all be one big, dysfunctional family. Wasn’t that the intention after all?
All Dream had to do was tough it out. He was strong and deadly, he’d won with worse odds and he had great gear this. Some of the best gear on the server even. He had plans, long since stewed over in the back of his mind. Knowledge gained from everything in his life. He didn’t even have to win, just tie. An eye for and eye. He felt more prepared for this than anything in his life.
It stung they all turned on him so easily
So why was he running?
He killed a child
Why did he flee?
He started this all
He could have fought them all, they had less gear.
He tore families apart
He’d killed them all before, it wouldn’t be hard.
He tore his family apart
But then he was looking at their faces.
Was it all just a game to you?
Their hurt, their sorrow, their anger and revenge.
Didn’t it hurt you too?
How quickly they attacked, coordinated in some places and chaos in others.
Didn’t you care?
They looked not at him but at the cold, ruthless mask.
Was it not true?
He fought. He punched and kicked, slashed his sword and fought back.
A warrior born of fire and spite.
He lost, he ran, they followed, and he fell .
You reap what you sow
Call him a tyrant, that just made L'manberg his guillotine.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Adrenaline was a funny thing. It could make the human body do things that it usually wasn’t able to. Push it further and harder than ever before. It was something Dream was long since familiar with. Something he’d learn to control
Buzzing through his veins and skirting past the ants under his skin as it was now, he felt anything but in control. Wind burned his lungs and his eyes. He could numbly hear twigs snap and low hanging branches smack across his face. He stumbled, he regained, he ran. They followed step for step. Arrows shot, some hitting their marks with sparks of pain and other skirting and cutting at clothing and exposed flesh. They’d broken his armor, how had they broken his armor?
Dream ran and he ran. There was nothing to do but run. It was something he was good at, the only thing , even as broken as he looked now. It was something he could always do. Couldn’t handle not doing. He was like the wind and he would not be contained. Not even by those he thought were his friends.
Yet each step throbbed, Spikes of pain running up his numb burning legs as he jostled wounds he barely felt. His heart pounded in his ears. He couldn’t see them but he could feel his hunters close behind him. They were his friends, they called out to him, they weren’t his friends, they hurt him.
He hurt them first
Arrows stuck out of him, one his his shoulder -his right, he was right handed-, one in his side -it burned as he breathed-, one in his thigh -to stop him from running?- There was a crack in his mask. Blood visible dripping over his chin from where the thing had been pushed askew by a wayward strike. A gash marked a crescent over his left wrist, his shield hand.
A large slash covered his ruined hoodie, though that could be mended the blood wouldn’t wash out easily would it? His shield hand had a large gash marking a crescent around his wrist. A thin line ripped and bled down his other leg, not the one with the arrow thank god for that or he might’ve had to stop by now. His ankle was probably, definitely, sprained but he’s run with fractured ones before, this was fine.
His hood had been caught at some point, nearly torn off. His hair matted with blood. He wasn’t sure who it belonged to but it probably wasn’t his, probably. Dirt matted most his clothes from the fight and his back would definitely ache after being thrown down more than once. At least Manhunt taught him quick recovery. It was that or death, death was a great motivator. Who knew.
So, yeah, he looked broken Shattered and maybe if everything wasn’t so dull and far away he’d have felt it too. The adrenaline numbed it all, wasn’t that amazing? It spiking at every noise till he heard when suddenly someone scream ed. It wasn’t a Tommy scream, he knew what that sounded like. It felt distant, far away, so unlike the hunters who always sounded far too close.
Dream wasn’t proud of the way he startled. He lost his footing at the mountain’s ledge, when had he climbed it? Maybe the scream was himself. Did it happen before or during the fall? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
Dream’s attackers stopped, though only a few had really continued the chase at this point. Sapnap, George, Ant, Bad, Tommy, Tubbo, Eret, Wiblur, those particularly angry or used to such long hunts. If anyone voiced concerns for the falling man, Dream didn’t hear it. They probably didn’t. That didn’t matter.
Dream wasn’t really hearing anything over the pounding of his ears, rushing winds drowning out anything else. For a moment he felt still, black spots dancing in front of his vision. Something was ringing, maybe he had a concussion? Was that blood really his? This too, didn’t seem to matter. It felt like it should. But it didn’t.
His sight went black, eyes snapping shut from an impact he didn’t quite feel. Something cold caressed him, red flowed and dissipated from each of his injuries, the arrow that was only loosely held in his side knocked out from the force… or maybe the force was stronger than he thought? At least it was out. Or was that a bad thing?
Slowly, his lungs started to burn. He didn’t notice at first, so many dolphin experiences made him used to long bouts in water so holding his breath was another thing he was good at. Holding his breath… water… His spinning, ringing, throbbing skull, his brain that felt too big for the space it had realized he was underwater… maybe the murky, darkened surroundings should’ve given that away. Maybe that blood on his head was his… who hit him there? It might’ve been Wilbur, or maybe it was Tommy. It was probably Tommy.
For a moment, a quick terrifying moment, Dream considered staying under. Was there even a reason to surface if he was so injured? He’d just respawn at his bed, a little worse for wear and missing a life but ultimately okay… but they were probably expecting that, huh? Waiting by his bed for him to respawn unarmed so they could knock out another life. They definitely wanted him dead, some maybe permanently? He wouldn’t be surprised. He ruined their home.
It was his home too
Survival won out over that cold, dark consideration, breaking shattering that train of thought as quickly as it came this time . His tired, why was he so tired, limbs went into motion and pulled his head above water, gasping as air rushed abruptly into his lungs. It almost hurt, the sudden lightheadedness. He was used to it though, manhunt experiences and all, it was fine.
The cliff far above him was empty. Just stone and andesite and gravel waiting to be disturbed. No one seemed to have bothered to peer over and check if he died. If they did they probably thought he died on impact, he was under there for a while. He probably should be dead actually, at least one of the arrows that nicked him were poisoned. Was that why he was so tired? Or maybe it was blood loss. It didn’t matter. He didn’t like it but he could deal with it, like everything else.
Dream dragged himself to the bank, stumbling out of the water on his knees, probably scraping them on the rocky shore. The wound on his side was slowly turning his green hoodie red. That had to be dealt with first, he liked this hoodie. It was the only one he had left now… Dream didn’t bother with the fact it was far too gone to be repaired. It held memories, that was enough.
Slowly, mechanically, Dream pulled out the arrows, they were getting in the way, and shucked off his sopping wet clothes. The repetition of having bandaged himself many times before guiding his motions. He certainly didn’t look alive enough for it to be anything else.
The arrows were removed, blood washed away as best as his cold, trembling hands could. Bandages taken from his inventory, wrapped tightly -too tightly- around each wound as best he could. He ended up covering most of his chest, his shoulder, thigh and wrapping his left leg completely, that long thin wound was deeper than he thought.
If Dream was more lucid, maybe he would’ve laughed, called himself a mummy. Looked at someone as if there was anyone around to joke with, out of habit more than anything. There would be if he hadn’t just been hunted down by his former best friends, and this time not for fun. He might’ve joked about it with them. He had before. Maybe even enjoyed the playful ribbing over being defeated so easily. They did that too.
But that didn’t matter, did it? It wasn’t like he was going to be welcomed back anytime soon anyway, right? They all hated him. The fact he was just hunted down like a wild pig was more than enough evidence of that. Especially considering the words they spat. Did they burn down his house? If not yet, they probably would eventually. Dream knew he would’ve if it were him.
He wasn’t a very good person, was he?
His clothes were still wet, now they were sandy too. That ringing was getting really annoying as well. The ants under his skin were crawling and scratching. Scratching back wasn’t really doing anything either, he’d mess up his bandaged wrist if he tired too hard. He knew that from experience… Dream knew from experience he should probably get moving again too… preferably not almost naked.
Sand was annoying, especially wet sand but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He thought about pulling his hoodie on, at least until he got a shirt. Dream decided against it, the large rip down the center matching the one on his chest made it pretty much useless anyway. While his jeans were wet, sandy and cold, they were mostly in one piece. It didn’t matter if he got a fever from the cold, he was hardy. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t happen at all… not that he seemed to be lucky very often recently. He tied it around his waist for now.
Stumbling to his feet, Dream looked back up at the ledge, not quite staring at it as he was staring through the mountain. Back there was Bad and Sapnap and George, Tommy and Tubbo, the smp, L’manberg. He could just wade across the river, go back, maybe hide out in the forest and heal a little. It wouldn’t be hard. With his skillset it would be easy, certainly easier than if he were anything else. He was great at hiding, even in plain sight if need be. But he wouldn’t steal anything, that was against the rules. Even if he’d broken so many recently.
This was his punishment
Maybe when he healed up enough Dream could make a comeback of some sort. Push back against his immovable object again, continue being that unstoppable force that everyone knew and hated. Maybe, at some point, he could even try to mend his friendships…
But the trust that was required had already been broken, hadn’t it? By him, by them. It was broken… How long had it even been since then? Weeks? Months? Maybe he couldn’t fix it, maybe he could. He would just have to try, wouldn’t he? Dream was supposed to be an unstoppable force, something that would never break. Someone who kept going despite it all. That was all anyone knew of him, all he knew of himself… was there even anything else? Did he want to know?
Could he be anything else. Dream had never really been anything but the fighter, the master of pvp, the self taught wonder. More recently he was the general, the selfish leader, the tyrant. But that was all really the same thing, wasn’t it? Dream was violence. Maybe that was why he’d gotten alone so well with Techno. Two violent forces of nature clashing… but that had turned out well.
Did he want to be violence anymore? Had he ever wanted to?
…
Was there even another choice?
Dream turned away. His body felt like lead as he dragged himself away from the river and into the forest that stood beyond the mountain, beyond the smp. Whether that was from exhaustion or injury or reluctance he didn’t know. But it felt like he was breaking someone’s trust again. Like he was ruining things further by leaving. Yet it didn’t turn back.
That ‘trust’ was long since broken, that was a fact. Maybe it was their fault, maybe it was his. If he was honest, it was his. He was stubborn and he started this. Now, he couldn’t stay there, not anymore, not like this. Maybe never again or maybe one day? Maybe one day… if he was ever welcomed back he could… but this was his fault. He had to face the consequences. He was the one that broke their trust.
And he shattered with it