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cucchi-dreams · 2 years

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I LOVE CORINTHIANS AND WANDERERS DYNAMICS. The way you describe Dream is so spot on too. My heartussy is shaking.

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐈𝐈𝐈.]

summary: “In this vast, terrible universe, you’re the only permanent I have.”

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 2.4k+

warnings: angsty, Dream is still Dream ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: you guys remain superior. thank you so much for your love and comments, that inspo goes straight to the vein. enjoy part 3!!!

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART THREE: YEAR 304

Eternity comes with a bitter aftertaste.

Or, rather, your particular brand of it does. Over three hundred years would wear on anyone. Being cursed to wander for eternity is another matter altogether. It’s not the first time things have gone wrong, of course. Your life since the curse has been a series of trials and errors, dos and redos. The Dreaming became an escape because it’s the first and only place you’ve found that has given you rest. Provided the slightest reprieve from running, hiding, and being spat on.

Forever sounds like a wonderful deal until you start breaking it apart. Everyone else dying, bringing misfortune on those you care about, being sick or hurt but never succumbing to these afflictions. Being thrown from one edge of this universe to another with nothing in your pocket. No name, no safe place to sleep, no currency to get by, no friendly face or a helping hand.

Eternity is a lonely and cold affair. Intercut only with nuggets of happiness that come with flapping butterfly wings found in Fiddler's Green. In the trails, rivers, lakes and mountains dotted across the Dreaming, stretching for the only eternity you care to taste. It's found in Lucienne's rustling books and how light bloats and crawls across the marble floor in Dream's throne room.

You’ve gotten stuck in the past. Caught on snags and tears in the world—the type that devours humans and never returns them. There’s a reason so many vanish seemingly without a trace, lost forever. There is no escaping time, though. When caught, every day stretches for eternity that was promised to you, that was cursed upon you. On those days, even that hardened hope, the resilience you’ve honed with decades, becomes no more than brittle bones and dust.

You’ve been stuck in the past, but never for five years.

And never in Hell.

Lucienne’s face makes you want to cry. She sits with a book in her lap, her head lowered, her glasses slanted on her nose. When she’s focused, like now, she doesn’t notice them slip down the bridge or how her nose curls as she tries to nudge them back up. She hasn’t changed one bit. She’s still the same Lucienne you’ve spent countless nights and days shadowing in the library, helping her catalogue books while chatting about anything and everything. Seeing her here, now, replacing the fire, smoke and torrid ash, stinging sulfur still coating your throat and lungs, is a miracle—a blessing.

The room you’re in is sprawling, bright, and peaceful. Pale stone and lacquered wood everywhere your gaze travels. A bed that’s a cloud beneath your worn body, big enough for three; a dresser and vanity; a small couch and some chairs. For company, no doubt, though you can’t imagine anyone caring enough to visit.

“Wanderer.”

Lucienne’s call resonates through the room, stark with relief and all at once, your defences crumble. Your eyes sting, and you reach for her hand blindly, cradling it in your own. Your hands are shaking, comes the distant realisation, but you can’t find it in yourself to care or to let go. The weight from the last five years squeezes you, wriggling free every suppressed pain and laying it bare.

“What happened?” Lucienne asks, leaning closer, her word hushed and troubled. “What befell you out there?”

When you don’t respond, trembling so badly your jaw sits rigidly beneath your skin, she adds a firm, “You are safe now. Lord Morpheus would never permit anyone under his protection to be harmed.”

She’s soothing in her own way, a presence so dearly missed, but you only grip her hand tighter in yours. All your remaining strength has been funnelled into this singular task. Few stray tears drip from the corner of your eye and down the bridge of your nose, hitting the covers beneath.

Lucienne hesitates, her mouth parted as if to insist further, but she stops herself. Whatever horrors she glimpses on your face must be severe enough that she understands how fragile you are. How delicate your state is—and how easy it would be to shatter it completely.

“It’s been five years,” she states, but not in accusation, a mere reflection. “Let me catch you up on all you’ve missed…”

“Admit it, you’ve missed me,” Corinthian drawls, smooth and self-assured, nothing in his countenance evincing diffidence. “I’m the only one in this realm you can have fun with.”

“Someone has a high opinion of himself.”

You walk side by side, your arms linked at the elbows. Corinthian enjoys a spectacle and all the uneasy, leery stares that follow you two. It’s the first time you’ve gathered the strength to leave your room in three days. You’ve never had a room in the Dreaming until now. All this time, flower fields and private nooks have been your bedrooms. It’s a significant improvement to most places you’ve frequented over the decades and far safer even with nightmares roaming freely about.

You didn’t question it initially, but it has since become clear that being granted a room here, in the castle, is a big deal.

Maybe it’s lingering remorse. Dream didn’t notice your absence. What are five years for someone like him? And if he did notice, he certainly didn’t do anything about it, caught up in his duties as he is. Corinthian was all too happy to inform you of this. But you hadn’t expected Dream to go ripping through realms in search of you, certainly not after how you two parted ways last time, but it had…

It stings just a little to be reminded how inconsequential you are to him or his kingdom, but it also serves as a great reminder.

You have no home. The Dreaming is a pit stop, no more.

“Somebody has to.”

Corinthian’s words jerk you from your thoughts, your head lifting. “Corinthian—”

“Don’t bother.” He pats your hand with guileful ease, all smiles and teeth and shadows. “I know what you’re going to say. I’m simply not interested in hearing it.”

Sun glows and weaves through his golden hair, which, perhaps, is what makes him such an effective nightmare. He’s nothing like one until he is.

“Dream is not shunning you,” you defend, ignoring how his stride has become more rigid. “Everyone abides by the same rules.”

Corinthian tuts, turning his head from side to side as if he can physically shake your words off. “Now you sound just like him.” He sounds every bit disappointed, clicking his tongue. “Rules, rules, rules. You wander all you please. No one takes issue with that.”

Hellfire, ash, burning and peeling, screams and muffled moans of the damned—

“It’s not… it’s not that simple.” Words tumble from your mouth in a rush, strained and choked, and it catches him off-guard, however briefly. You can tell by the simple way Corinthian turns entirely in your direction; something he does for sparse few because he simply doesn’t care to hear anyone else. “I don’t go frolicking through flower fields, Corinthian. I’m cursed. It hurts. Every time. I’ve gotten better, but…”

The nightmare leans closer, his voice low against the shell of your ear, “Then you, better than most, should understand.”

The need to escape, to be free, to be more than your preordained purpose.

Sighing, you slow to a stop, unliking your arms to lean your palm onto the cool stone bridge instead. Jaggy stone cuts into your sensitive skin while you twist your palm, sparking immediate, tingling friction in the motion’s wake. Memories from Hell come crawling back, dark and insidious, unending, and you stop at once, swallowing.

“I do. I really do,” you stress, clearing your throat. Forcing a smile, you nudge Corinthian’s side with your elbow when you spot the downwards slant his mouth rests in. “And you’re right. I have missed you.”

His blonde head slants backwards, bright sun reflecting in his darkened glasses. A lazy smile curls across his mouth, canines on casual display. “Sweet talking me, huh?” His brows creep upwards, playful. “It might work.”

Turning, you lean into the bridge, halfway between the castle and beyond it, the Dreaming. In all its breathless, beguiling glory. You seek the sun, five years yearning for it sitting heavy in your chest. Warming under its rays, you let a slight, humorous smile creep across your face.

“Careful. I might start to think the big, bad nightmare actually likes little old me.”

Corinthian follows your example, leaning back against the bridge, his arms crossing over his chest. “You like nightmares too much.” He inclines closer, nudging your side this time, his tone honeyed and arch, “Haven’t you heard? We’re devious.”

It wasn’t a lie. You have missed him. There’s an odd, often biting, yet near amiable dynamic between you. He entertains you because he’s no doubt bored and prickly about the invisible leash he believes Dream is collaring him with. You’re the closest he can come to humanity without outright breaking rules. Such an act would no doubt evoke Dream’s wrath unlike anything else. You hope you never see the day.

Corinthian indulges in his digs and bites, snide or otherwise, but in the moments in between, like now, it’s nice. A friendship that’s entirely one-sided, no doubt—you’re not as naive as he might believe you to be—but it’s still a bond you can rely on. Others don’t like him and make no secret of hiding it. You’re perhaps the only one who willingly seeks him out. Two misfits.

Or perhaps, even to someone as dark and twisted as him, it means something to open his eyes for the first time and not have the one gazing back flinch away from him. Perhaps, sometimes, even a monster dreams of being something other than a monster.

You shrug, dismissive. “Eh, like is a strong word—”

Black catches your eye. You perk up immediately, pushing away from the bridge.

“Dream!”

The Dream King stands tall and dreary on the opposite side of the bridge, jaw set and features stony. He’s utterly out of place in an otherwise sunlit and syrupy vista. You raise your hand in a cheery wave.

“Aw, such a friendly greeting for someone who didn’t miss you much.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, elbowing Corinthian again.

But the nightmare keeps his attention focused on the Dream Lord; a faint, sneering smile perfectly in place.

“Ooh, look at that frown.” He couldn’t sound more quietly pleased if he tried. Corinthian straightens, smoothing invisible creases in his pale clothes. He taps your nose with a charming, cutting grin as he veers to go, “I’ll see you around, Wanderer.”

“Hate you,” you call sweetly after him.

He doesn’t turn, raising his hand to wriggle his fingers in the air, the amused smirk cutting into his cheeks still visible at this angle.

You approach Dream unhurriedly, basking in the fresh air, unsure how to read him, if one even could. He’s unequivocally closed off, and you hoard those sporadic softenings you do glimpse with greedy delight.

“You’re back.”

His guarded gaze flicks behind you, towards the castle, where Corinthian must have long since disappeared inside. “You have a strange affinity with my nightmares.”

It’s an anomalous observation coming from him but rather pointed. Jessamy caws from a nearby tree in a vocal agreement. Your lips pursue, humming under your breath as you halt several paces away from him. Crossing your arms at the wrists, you let them hang loosely over the bridge.

“You taught me they have a purpose. I like seeing beyond it.”

You examine the crystal clear water. Dream’s stare burns into one side of your head. It’s peaceful. Quiet. His presence alone relaxes some clenched nerve still throbbing inside you.

“Thank you, by the way,” you add quietly. “For the room.”

Not many stay at the castle, and fewer still can say they have a room granted solely for them. It’s a precious privilege, and even if it comes with an expiry date, it’s not one you plan to waste.

“You are my guest, and you were injured,” Dream replies. Deep, rumbling words, practical words—something in your chest deflates with them. “It would have been bad manners to leave you outside.”

Right, of course. Ever the pragmatist.

Scrubbing any emotion from your face, you bend over the bridge, letting your chin dig into your folded wrists as you observe the water below. Your distorted reflection splits and bobs, rippling. Fitting, oddly painful.

“I did not realise it… hurts.”

It takes a long moment to understand his meaning, to stop yourself from deciphering why he sounds so grave about it.

“Hm? Oh, you heard that, huh?” You give him a non-committal shrug, retreating inwards, burying deep. “It’s… uh, it’s nothing. The first few times were pretty terrible, I’ll admit, but after that, well. Practice.”

He doesn’t accept your flimsy attempt at nonchalance. Soft-spoken, but a tendril of power vibrates through his voice, “Where were you, Wanderer?”

Your throat parched, your skin crawling, you whisper a splintering, “Hell.”

For the first time in three hundred years, Dream goes as still as stone beside you. Birds, wind—even fluffy, large clouds floating leisurely through the hazy sky all settle into unnatural, bone-chilling stillness. You attempt to draw a steadying breath and find oxygen thin in your lungs.

“That cannot be.” Dream Lord’s voice is a silken caress, unshakable in his conviction. “No one leaves the netherworld unless it is through the Gate itself or by Lightbringer’s own will. Even the Endless require permission to enter.”

“I think… that was the point. To suffer. I couldn’t get out. I tried. I really did, Dream.” Your voice cracks. Forcing yourself to straighten, you inhale deeply through your nose, injecting levity in your voice, “Anyway, it took a while, but I managed. Sorry you had to see me like that.”

A beat. “You came here.”

“Not by choice,” you admit. Realising how that might sound, you hastily add, “I figured you’re still angry. But…”

Dream’s hand settles on the bridge, not too far from your own. “But?” he prompts.

Your smile might be small this time, but it’s genuine and fond. You slant your chin towards him, giving him your first toothy grin in five years. “In this vast, terrible universe, you’re the only permanent I have. I wasn’t strong enough to choose, Dream. The Dreaming is safe. You’re safe.”

And you wonder what it means that the King of Dreams and Nightmare Realms has no response to that.

an: woweee, that's another wrap. thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts!!!

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cucchi-dreams · 2 years

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KAAAAAAAAT YOU OUTDID YOURSELF ONCE AGAIN. THE DYNAMIC BETWEEN THEM IS SO GOOD, COOCHIECLENCHINIOUS AMAZING.

DREAM MEETING WANDERER SUMMARISED (and yes he met her not the other way around):

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐈.]

summary: "What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?"

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 3.1k

warnings: pre the sandman so minimal spoilers, a lil angsty, some yearning, putting a thousand years into a slow burn, Dream is Dream ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: so I originally intended to write and post this as one massive fic but decided to split it up and do a snapshots series when/as I get inspired instead. yes, this really will span 1000 years because Dream is Like That™

series masterlist |

PART ONE: YEAR 0 TO 200

It begins with a cool, rasping: “Wake up.”

Butterfly wings beat against your cheek, sweet pollen dusting your skin while a yawn works your mouth. You smother it in your hand, or try, feeling oddly refreshed for a change.

“Good mornin’,” you mumble, blinking blearily up at the looming, dark silhouette above you. “Who are you?”

The man before you is neither tall nor short—he's somewhere in between human features and something old, ancient. A forgotten human instinct hums beneath your skin that this is no ordinary man. He's pale, drawn, clothed in all black. His stoic countenance doesn't shift. He doesn't leer or ogle. He simply stands there, a still statue in a backdrop of luscious green, and you blink owlishly up at him.

“I’m the King of Dreams and Nightmares, and this is my domain.”

Even his voice is at odds with this place. Deep, low, rasping drawl.

“Oh. That’s nice.”

He certainly has an intense stare, piercing despite the softness of his words, “Who are you?”

Rubbing dust off your cheek, you yawn again, stretching your arms over your head. You feel better than you have… in a long time.

“I’m a Wanderer. Or at least that’s what others call me. I don’t have any fancy titles though.”

The man in all black circles you slowly. Flowers beneath his feet seem to part for him, humming with life. It’s a casual display, one he likely doesn’t even notice, but you do. The air in the meadow is warm, sweet, and filled with pulsing power oozing from him.

“You are not a dream, nor are you a nightmare,” he concludes. “You’re mortal, and yet…”

You raise your hand. “Cursed mortal,” you clarify helpfully.

He turns towards you slowly. Wait. King. Right. “Uh, your liege,” you add lamely.

“A cursed mortal,” he repeats steadily. “You do not belong here, Wanderer. Leave my realm now, or I will have you removed.”

“Wait, wait…” You scramble to your feet, dusting your clothes. It’s pointless, of course, but old habits die hard. “One question before I go.”

He pauses midturn, not speaking. But you take it as a sign you should continue. Tilting your head to the side, you examine the black speck in an endless sea of wonderment, realising he’s created this. He’s the one who crafted this beauty. What an odd contradiction. Maybe that’s why your original question slips past your mind, latching onto another question altogether.

“What does the Lord of Dreams dream about?”

His pale stare snaps to you.

A blink, then he’s gone.

“Rude.”

“I told you to leave.”

“You did. But you didn’t say I couldn’t come back.”

The Lord of Dreams stares down at you. You twist a poppy between your lips with a grin, dropping one leg over your bent knee.

“You’re rather bold for a curse.”

You sit up, crossing your legs beneath you. The poppy flower drifts into your open palm. “I’ll make you a deal.”

His head slants slightly. On anyone else, such a gesture might be scornful or condescending. But on him, it’s no more than idle indifference. His black coat brushes over the flowers as he strolls ahead, his gait leisurely.

“And why would I care for such a thing?” he wonders idly. “Do not make me banish you. There’s no place for you here.”

There’s no venom or contempt to be found in his words. He’s stating facts and eventualities as casually as one might discuss the weather.

You choke down on a laugh, all the same, a distant helplessness lancing through your chest. “I know. Trust me, I know. I… look. I wander. It’s what I do. I swear I won’t cause you trouble. Your realm is a beautiful place, that’s all. I won’t stay here permanently anyway. I can’t. But may I please stop by occasionally? I’ll stay out of your way, I swear.”

His impassive bearing doesn’t soften, doesn’t shift an inch. Shrewd, old eyes—sad eyes, you conclude distantly—regarding you from beneath a wild mop of dark hair. “You presume I’m one to grant clemency?”

He has a point there, but you’re not about to point it out.

Sun bears down on you both, and it’s comical how much he sticks out in this prepossessing dream. Sulky and dark—it’s hard to comprehend this came from him. That someone so removed could craft such beauty solely for other humans to escape into. Dream Lord might be aloof, but he’s not all bad. No one putting so much care into their realm could be.

“No offence, but you’re not as bad as some of your other siblings,” you point out dryly.

Faint interest materialises in that bottomless, ancient gaze. Brief as it is. “You’ve met the Endless?”

You suppose that would be a big deal in anyone’s book, won’t it? You’ve stopped thinking about it, though. Had your human mind pondered the vastness making up this universe, you would have driven yourself mad on day one. Maybe that was the point of the curse. Oddly fitting, you suppose. Your real punishment would be eternal madness. You simply take it one day at a time now. Not belonging anywhere is better than not existing at all.

“Every realm and dimension in this universe is open to me, but I can’t stay there for long,” you explain, hoping that knowing more, understanding more, would help your case. “I get trapped in pockets between worlds. Have you ever been stuck in Despair’s domain? Your sister is not a fun person to be around.”

King of Dreams considers you with ponderous air. “Why can’t you stay?”

Shit. You hoped he won’t ask. Though hoping that an ancient, all-powerful god personified won’t work through all the threads swiftly was probably idiotic hope at best.

“Oh, you know,” you begin casually with a shrug and a faint laugh, tiptoeing through the flowers surrounding you. “The usual curse stuff. Death, misery and misfortune follow me everywhere I go. No place to belong bla bla bla.”

“All the more reason you should go.”

You pause, deflating. Your back to him, you nod, shoulders slumped. He has a reputation, doesn't he? You've asked about him since your last visit. Lonesome, reticent, fearsome if pushed. "Right. Uh, do you at least have a name? Or should I continue calling you my liege?"

You peek at him over your shoulder. You're not sure if you should laugh at his slightly sour expression or if that will potentially get you locked up in some dingy pocket universe. Nah. You're not important enough. He's also far too powerful and knows it. Nor does he seem like the type, either.

“Dream,” he says lastly.

Your grin is bright and immediate, pleasantly surprised by the fact that he answered. “Nice to meet you. I’m Wanderer.” Huffing, you hang your head in abashed amusement, continuing, “I already told you that, but just in case you forgot.”

You lift your head to find an empty meadow. Your look around wildly, groaning.

“That’s really rude, by the way!” you shout into the balmy air.

Your words bounce and slice through the Dreaming, as endless as its ruler. No reply comes.

The trees and the flowers around you rustle with the breeze as if silently agreeing with you.

“Before you say anything or pull apart my atoms, I’m sorry. I’m still pretty new at this. Sometimes I just end up in places. I can’t help it.”

Dream’s gaze is emotionless as all the previous times you’ve run into each other. It’s been a while this time. Time itself is an odd thing; slippery and woolly when you slip through dimensions and unfailingly confusing each time.

Dream’s hands remain clasped behind his back. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but he hasn’t torn you to pieces or thrown you out yet, so that’s something at least. Or maybe you’re too used to hostile company. He hasn’t done or said anything offputting, you remind yourself. He’s been distant, perhaps a touch protective of his realm, but hardly unpleasant. Or threatening.

Deam Lord strides alongside the river shore, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Who cursed you?”

You splash your legs in the sparkly water, delighted by how pleasant and authentic it feels. Everything about the Dreaming feels more solid than the waking world ever has. “I don’t know.”

He pauses, the same dark smear in an otherwise tableau, colourful scene. “You do not remember.”

So an ancient God is astute. Who would have figured that one?

“Okay, fine.” You shrug your shoulders, dipping your head back towards the blue sky above. “I don’t, I forgot. I don’t remember my human life. It was taken from me. Another quirky part of my curse, I suppose. I don’t know my name, who I was, or why I was cursed. Eternal torment, yay!”

There’s little joy to be found in your quiet, tight words. There’s only emptiness, a drawn-out eternity you will spend drifting from one place to another, yawning before you. Never wanted anywhere, never happy. Every day is about making peace with that knowledge and trying to continue despite it. On days like today, it’s almost easy.

Dream stands facing away from you, but his head is slanted in your direction ever-so-slightly. The quiet intensity burns into your skin, pecking under it. There's nothing he will find there—no power, no secrets—that you haven't already divulged to him.

“And if you could?” His words come out quieter than usual. You’re not naive enough to consider it curiosity, not with how lifeless he sounds. “Would you seek absolution—”

“Sleep.”

A beat, then, “So you’re slothful.”

How can someone sound so flat yet so unimpressed at the same time? You almost snort.

Your feet drop back into the stream, splashing water around you. Beneath the current, your heels dig into the pebbled river floor. “I can’t sleep.”

Air tightens and coils around you. The temperature drops several degrees in a single breath. Black, treacherous clouds swell on the horizon in mere seconds. There’s a tickle of air, and then the King of Dreams is beside you in a rustle of cloth, except this time, some nameless darkness swirls beneath his skin, in the shadow his hunched form casts. He’s King of Nightmares, too, and it’s all too easy to forget it.

“Do not…” he rasps, “lie to me, Wanderer.”

“I’m not,” you retort weakly, breathless.

Dream stretches to his full height, still expressionless, shadows gone in a breath. He doesn't lunge, doesn't sneer. He hadn't even raised his voice. He's serene in the most terrifying way possible. "Do you take me for a fool? You were sleeping the first time we met."

Your fingers dig into the dirt beneath your palms.

“Yes, why do you think I want to come here so badly?” You force out a breath, levelling your voice, reminding yourself that while Dream might not be cruel, it doesn’t mean he will tolerate disrespect in his kingdom. “This… is the only place I can rest, Dream. Ever. I can’t sleep, and I can’t dream.”

He appears unconvinced. “Every mortal dreams.”

Iron-like self-assurance—as if the thought of an exception doesn’t compute because his knowledge is absolute.

A sad, wobbling smile works across your mouth. “Not someone like me.”

This time, he says nothing.

“What about that one?”

The dream in question is a creation between a unicorn and a butterfly. Golden shimmer drips from its body every time it moves, munching on virescent, tall grass.

“I created it three hundred years ago.”

For nearly two hundred years, you’ve been slipping in and out of the Dreaming, and its ruler remains as frustrating as the first time you met. With Dream, some things are routine: his indulgence in your conversation, monotonous as he can sound during them; strolling through the Dreaming and meeting its many occupants, dreams and nightmares he’s crafted.

It’s not quite chaperoning, but it’s not quite friendship, either. Dream permits you to visit, but you never stay long or are invited to do so. At best, he tolerates you. Which is still better than outright contempt. He’s holding something back, a wall between him and any other creation well and truly erect—solid and impenetrable. Dream Lord rules over his domain and follows his rules. Unchanged and preferring it that way. He savours his solitary existence, and it’s sad, in a way, because he lives in a place of such impossible beauty and wonder.

You’ve learned some things about him with your visits. His love for his creations is fierce despite no sentimental displays toward them. He’s impersonal even to those you would assume he trusts the most, like Lucienne. He can, you’ve also found, be unforgiving to those who break his rules. It’s a necessity, not cruelty, but it doesn’t change the fact you’ve seen first-hand how he rules.

“Wow, thank you for that riveting detail,” you drawl sarcastically, kicking a small rock in your path. “I’m feeling so inspired.” Leaning closer, you squint at him suspiciously, “Are you sure you’re not secretly Despair in there?”

Not a twitch of jaw or a quirk of his brows. “I am not.”

Pursing your lips, you grin gleefully, “Prove it.”

Dream doesn’t slow. On such occasions, he must surely consider you a nuisance at best, a pest at worst. None of it shows on his face.

“What makes you think I care about proving myself to someone like you?” he asks softly.

He’s not endeavouring to insult you. To him, you must be no more than an exceedingly resilient ant.

The path ahead is winding, with no visible end in sight, but to the right, in the far distance, sits a stone bridge. Over it, more marvels this word contains. Everything here is fantastical and beautiful and frightening all at once. You can’t get enough. You doubt you’ll ever be able to get enough of the Dreaming. Perhaps the most confusing thing is how readily Dream himself chooses to see this only as a duty. One he seemingly enjoys, but not one to bring him much joy personally. You’ve never once seen him smile.

He cuts for a lonely figure up on his throne. In a sprawling castle where his subjects choose to step out from his path rather than into it.

“Then race me,” you challenge, spinning on your heels until you’re walking backwards. Another grin, toothy and exigent, bites into your cheeks. “Just to the bridge over there. Have some fun for once, Dream King.”

“I do not—”

But you’re sprinting ahead before he’s finished, a happy shriek piercing the air, “See ya!”

A kaleidoscope of colour blinds you, smears and twines around you—rich, syrupy power seeps into your skin and mouth as you sprint ahead with reckless abandon. In your acceleration, the edges of the Dreaming blur and expand; in those edges, Dream is everywhere. He is the Dreaming. He’s life and death, joy and terror, and—

Black blots the path ahead. Dream stands next to the bridge, regarding you impassively. But for a second, just one, you think there’s a brief glimmer of amusement at your gaping mouth and wide-eyed stare before it’s blinked away.

“What—how—cheater.”

He nods towards the bridge, his demeanour as orderly as ever. “You never clarified the terms.”

“Does it ever get irritating? Doing this?”

Your thumb works through another page, legs crossed as you prop the thick volume on your knee. Muted candlelight illuminates the library, ink and paper thick in the air and your lungs. It’s quiet here. You talk because staying silent would make your eyes droop and defences lower. This is your resting pace, but it’s been at least a year or two since you’ve last spoken with Dream. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity.

He doesn’t look up at you from whatever he’s working on. “No.”

Digging through your thoughts, you find another question, “Do you ever get bored?”

You’ve learned to read his minute tells. Days when he’s in the mood for your incessant questions and days when it’s better to sit with him in mutual quiet. Recognising this need has only helped you capitalise on moments such as these.

A gargantuan wooden table separates you. Dream's messy hair is even wilder today, his head edging marginally in your direction to indicate he's paying attention. "This job is not boring. It is demanding, but someone must do it. That is why my siblings and I exist."

“Do you ever get lonely?”

That gives him a pause. A second pulse throbs through the library, perhaps the foundation of this world, which was built upon him, from him, and when the King of Dreams slowly raises his head to gaze at you, there’s mild consideration to be found in his features.

“Do you, Wanderer?” he drawls quietly, and your heart stings, twisting in your ribcage.

“Of course.” You’re not ashamed to admit it. You might have been once, but those parts of you have eroded away long ago. The same way you’ve felt your humanity ebb away for years now, a stone being worn down by an endless storm. Small creases appear around Dream’s eyes, possibly intrigued by your candour, so you add, “So much so that I often find it unbearable. I felt lonely for so long it’s like…”

Long silence stretches between you. You don’t realise your head has lowered back towards the pages until his deep voice reaches you across the quiet space, “Like what?”

Clearing your throat, you shrug your shoulders, pressing your chin briefly into your shoulder. “I don’t remember what not being alone feels like, you know?”

You avoid his stare prickling your cheek, refocusing on your novel.

“You’re not alone right now.”

You’re perfectly aware those words mean nothing. That he’s stating the obvious in the same empirical, matter-of-fact manner he often does. He’s right. After all, you’re not alone. You’re sharing this moment together. Two beings alive in the same instance, floating through an endless void of time and chances. A God and an ant. You’re so tiny when compared to him. Despite your brazen words and conduct, you’re a speck for someone like him, his siblings too, and you’re well aware.

The Endless will be here until this universe ceases to exist. You will eat yourself alive one day. There's only one way this ends.

But until that day comes, Dream is right. You’re not alone.

You don’t glance his way, but you do smile. “Neither are you.”

notes: and that's a wrap. god, i'm so rusty when it comes to fics. I do hope to write more for this, the same way I'm hoping for more sandman in general. this will eventually hit canon timeline and potentially go into things past the show (recently bought the comics so I'll be starting them soonish). any thoughts, ideas, or want more? let me know & thank you for reading!!!

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