Chapter Text
Part of the exterior wall around Dream collapses, a splat of bricks on concrete far below the skyline. It's hopefully the final huff of the fight.
The villain sneers at him from across the light-exposed room, half shadowed by whatever glare the abandoned building could conjure up. It's over. They have a bruise turning a sickening purple over one cheek and a leg leaned on uncomfortably— neither of them wants to continue.
Dream only stares them down, mouth parted to draw in much-needed breaths from behind his mask. The rustle of other people spirals up through the staircase and Dream can only imagine it being other heroes, because otherwise, he might just leave through the destroyed outer wall.
“Well? Are you done?” He asks, voice hoarse in a way that only tea can fix. Maybe Sapnap will take an excuse of getting sick. The blood that he can feel coldly seeping down his face might take a bit more explaining.
They must notice what's going on in the stairwell, too, because fear swells in their face before dissolving back into indifference. They swallow and pin their gaze on the door— the only exit that isn't six stories high. “Tell them to let me go.”
Dream smiles tiredly. “What, don't have an escape route?” The confirmation that it's his own backup makes every ache in his chest and his arms re-emerge. Something might be broken, definitely bruised. He'll assess it after the adrenaline high.
Sapnap always worries over him when he comes home battered and bloodied. He hates that it's something he needs. He hates that Sapnap’s gentle bluntness is something he leans into.
“You can take the stuff. Just let me go.” Bags of disordered jewelry and precious gems sit along the floor, now caked in sawdust and dirt. “I will fight.” They bare their knuckles, and again Dream feels the effect of those titanium-padded hits.
He isn't sure what superpower they have. Something strength boosting for sure, because Dream remembers taking a few punches before it was unbearable, and then a few more.
“You really want to?” Dream brings his fists up in a resounding challenge. He doesn't want to fight. He just needs to stall enough for the people who won't collapse in ten minutes to take care of this.
They keep the stance, edging towards the crack in the brick that's just wide enough to squeeze through. Dream doubts there’s anything other than cement and sky on the other side. He holds still in a silent notice— you're getting through me first.
They back down. It's a bit awkward, having a once-sharp staredown with someone he got to know through combat. Everywhere hurts him and there has to be red stained somewhere on his clothes now but he keeps his quaking knees from giving in. The villain is much the same way, a stiff grey suit that looks a shade darker with all the debris covering it. Raven corkscrew curls that definitely need a wash after their fight.
The building around them is abandoned and has the imprints of punches tougher than diamond, probably left by them, and leafy vines twisting and lurching over bricks grabbing at air. He went a little overboard on that one.
The bang of the metal door on concrete startles both of them, and they meet eyes one last time— or, well, both have concealed their eyes, but it's easy to exchange goodbyes through them anyway. Dream takes his leave.
A familiar electric blue-suited figure walks past him on the way out through the stairwell.
“404,” Dream says, a bit too loud for just a passing call. The man glances back at him and 404 recoils exaggeratedly at the sight of a torn and bloodied outfit. “Yeah, I know. Have fun with that one.”
“Jesus, you got roughed up.” It's stark to hear the hero’s British accent in the city, and Dream has found a friend in it. The only person at the hero agency that seems to care about anything other than the bounty for the next villain. “Don't trip on your way home.”
He laughs. “I'll try not to.”
“Bye, XD.”
It's a bitter name to hear at the end of a long shift. Dream just waves and steps gingerly down jagged steps, ridding his hands of dust by wiping them on his woolen jacket.
He stops from groaning out loud when knocking into the guardrail presses against a bruise on his arm, a dull pain pinpointed right where he wants an ice pack. He needs at least a bag of ice, or Sapnap to sit with him on the couch and watch a good show. That's more of a want but it twists in his mind so much that his friend could cheer him up from anything.
He stumbles his way back along little-known streets, shrugging off the signature green coat of his hero persona and finding clothes in the inner pocket. It's a bubbling orange sky outside and he ducks into an alley where nobody can find him. The streets are empty anyway.
His persona’s outfit is a layer of flexible black clothing, a cactus green overcoat, and a dull white painted mask covering his entire face. It's recognizable yet blends easily out of mind.
He takes off his mask and tries to comb his hair to the side. It’s a failed attempt but it’ll look like he tried.
He puts on the red hoodie and sweatpants over the underlayer, enough to cover it from Sapnap when he first walks in— he has to use the front door of their apartment, which might as well be announcing to the whole building that he's a hero.
Dream tugs the drawstrings of his hoodie to hide the high collar of his hero outfit. It feels too warm on his injuries, a swarm of heat over his skin, but he walks home without any complaint.
It's encouraged to hide your status as a hero from everyone, because who knows what person might secretly be a villain, too? Dream keeps it under wraps so that the people he holds close aren't used as some signal towards him.
It hurts. He crumbles a little more whenever Sapnap gives him a disbelieving look or promises to leave it alone.
He wants someone to kiss his forehead and bandage his wounds and promise he'll never hurt again. That just doesn't happen— he isn't sure how to approach his feelings for his best friend or talk to someone new.
His keys cut into his hands when he fumbles for a hold on them; new blood might as well be dribbling from his fingers. He shakes off the winces and clicks the door unlocked.
Sapnap is sitting by the kitchen counter, a medkit already propped on its side. He snaps out of watching the softly illuminating TV to peer up at Dream. “Oh, hey.”
The inside is dark, that empty moment of cracking the door open of a new dorm, clean white furniture shadowed grey with dimmed lights. The dark seems to be something Sapnap works fine in, a flame practically hopping from its base on a lit candle. It flickers whenever Sapnap taps his finger on the granite.
“Hello,” Dream replies softly. He feels like an open book with how Sapnap looks at him, care etched into his features, thick brows furrowed in concern. “I’ll go change first.”
Spanap doesn’t say anything as he passes, attention back on the TV, some new comedy floating in the distance.
It's a simple routine. Dream changes out of his hero outfit, usually tapping a few injuries and bruises on the way, until he can get on some simple sleepwear. Then he asks his friend to help him.
Sapnap isn't the best with cleaning injuries but Dream thinks that he does a damn good job, and they both ease up more during it than any other way to relax. It's their way to wind down.
He stares at himself in the mirror. His hair is ruffled beyond help, crimson sticky in his hairline where a line of blood tracked down his face. It’s a path of dry blood now. His mask protected him from the worst of the blows but there’s a red patch below his eye.
Dream can't ignore the bruise on his arm, right on his forearm and sensitive. He slips on a cotton shirt after shoving the black suit deep in his closet and a graze freshens any pain that was otherwise lingering.
A small “ow” slips through him, and he clenches his jaw waiting for the pain to pass. He gets on basketball shorts and finds another bruise, getting through it and taking note of where there’s a bad spot. He leaves his room feeling more injuries than he did before.
Sapnap looks him over with an uneasy hazel. “Dude.”
“Uhm. Yeah.” Dream walks closer towards him and sits on a barstool adjacent to the counter, stone digging into his arm for an awful moment. It's like sparking a fire all over again. “I just— I tripped over some stairs, I'm okay.”
He feels ungrounded for a moment. He really should have gotten used to pain due to how up-close his power tends to make things, instead of tearing up whenever he so much as grazes a wound.
Sapnap takes his arm in a careful grasp, staring at the blooming bruise. “No, you're not. And you said you tripped over stairs last weekend, too.” He stands over Dream for a moment, warm fingertips holding his hurt skin.
His raven hair is flopped over half of his face, hiding a scrunched look of concern. Dream feels small compared to that unwavering care.
Sapnap unwraps a few bandaids and nudges him by his shoulders to stand, moving them over to the sink. He tilts the handle until warm water seeps out and Dream relaxes his muscles.
They sit in silence. Sapnap threads his fingers through Dream’s, letting loose dirt and blood tumble towards the drain in a ribbon of red. Winces spill out of him in tandem with the water whenever Sapnap presses against a bruised spot, and Sapnap murmurs apologies that feel too whole for the moment.
“I wish you didn’t come home like this,” he mutters, eyes fixed on cleaning his hands. Dream isn’t sure what to say. It’s entirely his fault and yet he wishes the same.
Sapnap is slouched over his arm and studying the imperfections left there, Dream having to stand in an odd position above him. It’s close. It’s what is left of a normal routine for them, because of Dream’s fault for “choosing weird hours” at his supposed tech company job.
Sapnap would be a damn good hero, a heart of gold in a profession that’s been growing cold for far too long. Dream wouldn’t wish that on his friend. Their powers are opposites, at least in his head— control over vines and flames. Somehow, Sapnap would manage to use his power to heal others more than burn them down. It makes Dream woozy to think about.
He has feelings; that’s not something he can deny. His friend is strong where Dream isn’t and kinder than he can express with words. A down-to-earth pull on his thoughts. It was a terrible idea to move in with the guy he’s been in love with since junior year.
And yet it was a fantastic idea to move in with his best friend, the one person who he can lean on and love unconditionally. Dream just so happens to be an idiot.
Sapnap wraps bandaids over his fingers, careful not to pinch them too tight. Dream flexes his fingers and feels the immediate punch of the day’s work. Sore, sore to the bone. It hurts to even move his hand.
Sapnap notices his pain, maybe from unconscious groans or he read it on his face, and he wraps his hands over Dream’s to gently ball his fists. “Please, be careful. Dude, every time you do this, you come back worse.” Sapnap pats his wrist before walking over to the freezer and coming back with a neon blue ice pack and paper towels.
It feels a little humiliating to have colorful ice packs by his side three times a week. They don’t have much else. “I will,” Dream promises.
Sapnap doesn’t look to believe it. Dream has been trying to take easier jobs, eventually demote himself to crossing guard or something. Sapnap never complains about taking care of Dream’s injuries after a long day but Dream can tell the emotional tax of it.
Dream wants them to get away from it all. Find a smaller city, maybe, where Dream can work with a less efficient set of villains. They could make enough to fund Sapnap’s dream of going to a prestigious college and work on his comp sci degree.
The chill is a nice relief to his bruise. Sapnap wets a washcloth and wipes it down his forehead without notice, making Dream scrunch his face at the rough texture. It comes away with a faint pink. Sapnap laughs carefreely and bops his nose.
“You looked so cute.” Sapnap smiles with the mischief of a guilty cat, leaning closer to flaunt his statement.
Dream uses the attack as an excuse to cover his face, cheeks bright with his joy. “No, I did not.” He chuckles warmly.
Sapnap goes for it again, this time scrubbing under his eye and finally on his cheek. This time Dream waits and the washcloth flops on the counter with a newer red hue.
They stand too close for a moment, the shorter nearly holding him against the counter where the head of the sink is only inches away. Peering up at his face for entirely too long, Sapnap’s fingers tapping against the granite. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Uh, you pick.”
“Chipotle it is. I’ll go get it.” He snatches his wallet and keys from the counter, leaving Dream stuck in place. He offers an over the shoulder grin, “Stay here and rest, my sweet prince.”
He blushes too easily for his own good. “Shut up.”
His roommate is out skating with some friends. Dream normally wouldn't have an issue with that, but now his only second set of hands is gone and he needs to wrap a cut without prolonging every reason why he wants to quit.
His hands are shaking like loose dirt in an earthquake. It's hard to reach into his pockets for his keys, even worse when the sharp grooves catch on his sore skin.
He wants to cry, but before that, get out of this street alley and take off his mask. Breaths come out ragged, his cut stings with every new breeze.
His skin goes numb around the cut, whether it be from his mind or too much pain. A dull throb of hurt, fuck, why does it hurt so much today?
Dream picks a spot hidden from the street by the outline of a dumpster and collapses into the ground. He slumps over, legs outstretched in front of him with his hurt arm held in front.
The mask almost gets taken off. Almost. It's too risky, though, so he limits it to just a quick rest before running back to the apartment.
There's regret bubbling in his chest. Why does he let himself get injured? Sapnap won't be home until early hours of the morning, and Dream can't even wrap his own cut. He chuckles bitterly to himself.
A rustle scares him out of staring emptily at the concrete, and his eyes raise to none other than 404. Worse than an alley cat but better than it being a villain.
“What are you doing here?” 404 asks, still in the same dumb costume that he's is always in. Concern laces his voice in tight consideration.
Dream knows he looks like a mess. It wouldn't be Dream if he didn't look like a mess. “Thought I would take a break. Lounge around, maybe.” His arm gives him another sting as a retort and he winces. “I could ask you the same question.”
404 scoffs. “I saw that you were hurt, and then you jumped into an alley with only one exit. You're either an idiot or in pain.”
He pulls something from his pocket— the silly spandex costumes most heroes opt for have small ones like jeans— and offers a roll of bandages. He stands against the brick wall with his arms crossed. Dream takes it and wearily unwinds it.
“It doesn't bite.”
“Okay, I got it.” His hands feel clumsy every time he tries to wrap it, and well, fuck cleaning the wound, he guesses. 404 gives him a few seconds before stopping him.
Anyone who doesn't know 404 would say he doesn't care. If he didn't care, he would have let Dream die in a roof collapse months ago, or let him do his own bandages right now.
“Please, just… let me do it.” Dream accepts his help with a sigh. 404 kneels beside him to help him wrap his arm. “Does someone usually do this for you? Genuinely asking.”
His face still burns with embarrassment. “Yeah. My… friend.” He's lucky to have someone, because having to do his own first aid each night would be too much of a depressant.
404 doesn't look up from where he's securing the bandages. “‘Friend’?”
“He usually does this kind of stuff. Uhm, he's out doing something today.” Dream isn't used to having himself alone in the apartment. Maybe it was a blessing to run into 404. “It's just, like. A habit at this point.”
“He sounds… nice. Same guy who nearly burnt your apartment building down with a toaster?”
Dream smiles. “Yeah. Same guy. Very, uh, lovable.”
He hits his fist against his leg when fresh sparks rattle in his forearm. He'll remember to never forget his coat if it leads to injuries like this.
404 notices. He looks Dream in the eyes, impeded by two pairs of masks. 404’s simply goes over the eyes in a style that mimics rectangular glasses. His dark hair is curled unkempt around his face. The hero takes a lot of things like that casually.
His lips quirk to the side in a thinking face. “Is there anything that would make this less… terrible for you?” He shrugs after saying it. 404 finishes with the bandage roll and tosses it up in the air, his telekinesis letting it hover frozen.
“Aw, you do have some compassion in you,” Dream teases. He gets a very slight elbow nudge in return. “I… nevermind, it's… dumb.”
“You sure?” He looks over, and it doesn't take much to get Dream to unravel. It never has.
“I like to, uhm… it helps when S— when he holds my hand.” Dream looks sharply to the side, avoiding a prominent stare. He feels like he needs to cover his face, but the mask already does that job. “But like, that's not— it's different with him.”
“Different as in…?” 404 doesn't continue, and Dream can see him going two different ways with it. “Are you and him?—”
“No, no, it's… not that.” But it is. It doesn't feel very platonic when Dream has to wonder at what point is he in too deep. “I wasn't, like… you don't have to.”
“I'm okay with it if it helps you,” 404 says, his standstill expression cracking for just a moment, “if it's comforting, I get it.”
They settle on the alley floor to something more comfortable, 404 now sitting with crossed legs beside him and Dream leaning against the brick wall with bent knees. It digs into his back but he can't find the will to care.
404 offers his hand out. Dream takes it, and their gloves make everything uselessly padded and slippery. Dream squeezes.
It's not the same. It's a heavy comfort that takes some of the burden of his injury off of his shoulders, the gentleness of being there for someone.
It's not Sapnap. And hell, if that isn't a big indicator of his feelings. There's a foundation of trust when they do it, slowly cooled magma under the surface that’s worth everything it's waited for.
He clutches 404’s hand like a lifeline when a bruise gets grabbed wrong or something feels like too much. 404 doesn't seem to mind. Dream lucked out finding someone so easy to talk to and can understand him.
“Are you a fan of hypotheticals?” Dream asks offhandedly.
“It depends.” He glances over as if to usher him on, and Dream feels reminiscent of the blurry admittance from nights on a rooftop, staring into strained stars. The alley doesn't feel so far away from that.
He could say anything at all. That's the plus of having a hero friend. The tension around his thoughts uncoils.
404 waits patiently, head tilted as if saying I'm listening. “So, if I, uhm. Let's say I liked someone, romantically.”
“Toaster roommate?”
“I— I can't say. Just… how would you deal with that?” He inhales, pricks of cold to his nose and an acrid scent from the alley that he chooses to ignore. 404 keeps a clear expression. “Like, being a hero and having to hide that stuff? Sorry if that's… dumb.”
“It's not,” he says, offering a little squeeze to his hand, “just think of it as… a friendship, basically. Same thing.” Dream nods. “If you keep it out of the public eye, then no big deal, it's like… normal, I guess.”
It never occurred to him in a way that was… feasibly in reach for him. A wispy sigh leaves him. “I never thought about it that way. Thank you— thanks for all of this, actually.”
“Whatever. Have fun on your date.” He playfully scrunches his nose, laughing when a punch lands on his shoulder. “Somehow, I just know it's toaster roommate.”
He doesn't want to think about how right he is. “It's because of your telekinesis.”
404 considers it for a moment, connecting dots. He smirks. “Okay, it's easy words to confuse, but…”
He sputters a laugh, loud and boyish. “Oh my— wait, which one did I say? I meant the other one—”
“I should be offended that you mixed up my power with mind fuckery, but I can forgive you, because I'm nice.” 404 smiles, and Dream is still trying to grapple with his breaths, woozy on the night sky.
“I hate you.”
“Mm, no. You love me.”