Chapter Text
As crimson wings unfurled in the moonlight, Dream realized what he had done.
That was a century ago. He was still a demigod then, his golden wings not yet fully unfurled, while Nightmare—his brother, the one who always gazed at him tenderly with purple eyes—stood on the other side of the battlefield, his black hair disheveled, his staff broken.
"Do it, brother," Nightmare said, his voice as soft as a falling leaf.
Dream didn't remember how he had condensed his divine power into a blade. He only remembered the golden light engulfing his vision, the relieved smile on Nightmare's lips, and when the light faded, only a shard of purple crystal remained on the ground—Nightmare's core as a demigod.
He had killed his brother, devoured his divinity, and become a complete god.
And only at that moment, until Nightmare's presence completely vanished from this world, did Dream feel a heart-wrenching pain in his chest. That wasn't the feeling of becoming a god; it was loss—utter and complete loss, as if someone had ripped out his ribs one by one, ripped out his heart, and crushed it in the dirt.
He held Nightmare's still-warm body and wept for three days and three nights. Golden tears fell on Nightmare's pale face, but could not bring back any life.
Then came a hundred years of a daze.
Dream became a supreme god, residing in a palace in the clouds, overlooking the mortal world. He possessed eternal life, boundless power, and a perfect appearance. His golden hair flowed like molten gold, his golden eyes shone brighter than the sun, his body was tall and imposing, and every inch of his skin radiated an inhuman luster.
But he no longer smiled.
For a hundred years, he returned to that night countless times in his dreams. Countless times he tried to reach out and grasp Nightmare's vanishing soul, but only grasped emptiness. He began to understand what that feeling was—not brotherly love, not kinship, but something deeper, more painful, more desperate. He fell in love with the other only after his death. This is the cruelest joke.
Until that day, when Dream was wandering the mortal realm, he saw an infant in an ordinary family's home.
The infant had black baby hair and purple eyes—the same purple as Nightmare's, like blooming violets, or the deep night sky. When those eyes met Dream's, the god felt a tremor he hadn't felt in a century.
That was Nightmare's soul. A damaged, incomplete, reincarnated soul.
Dream stood by the cradle, looking at this fragile human infant, and made a decision.
Golden light enveloped him. The god folded his wings, compressed his divinity, and reshaped his body—becoming a golden-haired, golden-eyed infant, abandoned at that family's doorstep, adopted along with Nightmare.
He would accompany him as he grew up. This time, from the very beginning.
---
Twenty-three years later.
"Dream! You've put the book in the wrong place again!"
Nightmare's voice came from the second floor of the library, tinged with exasperated annoyance. Dream looked up and saw the young man standing on a ladder, struggling to reach the top shelf. His black hair swayed slightly with the movement, revealing the pale skin on the back of his neck.
"Which one?" Dream asked, his voice calm and gentle, with an inhuman rhythm. Even in this human body, his voice sounded like the distant, perfect tolling of a church bell.
"The Chronicles of the Northern Gods! I've said it three times, history books are on the third row from the left, not the right!" Nightmare complained, climbing down the ladder. He was half a head shorter than Dream—just like in his previous life, Nightmare was the older brother, but much smaller, his malnourished body wrapped in an oversized scholar's robe, looking so frail it was heartbreaking.
Dream looked at him, a flicker of pain deep in his golden eyes.
Nightmare's essence had been damaged during his reincarnation. He bore no trace of divinity. He was merely an ordinary human, physically frail and frequently ill, yet possessing astonishing academic talent, becoming the youngest archivist in the royal library.
And most importantly—he remembered nothing. Nothing at all.
He didn't know that the blond, golden-eyed "adopted brother" before him was actually the god who had killed him. He didn't know they had once stood on opposite sides of a battlefield. He didn't know of the golden tears and the centuries of solitude.
He simply regarded Dream as a younger brother he had grown up with, despite this "brother's" breathtakingly perfect appearance, towering stature that commanded respect, and an inexplicable, awe-inspiring aura that inspired submission.
"Sorry," Dream said, walking towards Nightmare and casually brushing non-existent dust from his shoulder. "I was thinking about something."
Nightmare stiffened, his purple eyes flickering uncertainly. "Don't...don't get so close all of a sudden..."
"Hmm?"
"You're too tall. I have to look up at you, and my neck hurts," Nightmare muttered, trying to back away, but Dream silently blocked his path.
The god looked at his brother—shorter and more fragile than him, yet still the soul that stirred his heart. A hundred years hadn't extinguished this feeling; instead, it had fermented in guilt and longing, growing even stronger.
"Nightmare," Dream called softly.
"What?" Nightmare asked, head bowed, the tips of his ears slightly red. He had always secretly loved Dream, realizing the change in his feelings since adolescence. But he was the older brother, and Dream was the younger brother, and Dream was so perfect—so perfect he seemed inhuman, like a god descended to earth. He, on the other hand, was just an ordinary, sickly mortal, even his memories were incomplete.
He wasn't good enough for him. This realization gnawed at Nightmare's heart like poison.
"Let's have dinner together tonight," Dream said, gently lifting Nightmare's chin with his fingers, forcing him to look at him. "I made your favorite chestnut cake."
Nightmare's pupils contracted slightly. Dream's fingers were cool and smooth, unlike human hands, more like jade carvings. That touch made Nightmare tremble, wanting to get closer yet also wanting to escape.
"I...I have to work on some papers tonight..."
"Cancele it." Dream's tone left no room for argument, but his eyes held a gentle tenderness. "You've been working for seven days straight. Humans need rest."
"It's like you're not human..." Nightmare muttered softly, but didn't pull away from Dream's hand. Dream smiled. It was a smile so perfect it was heartbreaking, like the warm winter sun, or like the unattainable light of day: "Yeah, as if I'm not human."
---
Dinner was held at Dream's residence. It was a detached house in the suburbs, ordinary on the outside, but eerie inside—the space was much larger than it appeared, the light was always perfectly soft, and a faint golden dust filled the air.
Nightmare sat at the table, watching Dream's busy figure in the kitchen, feeling a sense of disorientation.
Dream's cooking was so perfect. His long, slender fingers handled the ingredients as if performing a ritual, every movement precise and elegant. His blond hair shimmered under the light, and his tall figure, even in simple loungewear, couldn't conceal his inhuman presence.
"Why are you so good to me?" Nightmare suddenly asked.
Dream paused. "What?"
"I mean…" Nightmare gripped the tablecloth tightly, his purple eyes fixed on the surface, "You can… you can go anywhere, do anything. You're so perfect, so… dazzling. And I'm just an ordinary librarian, not in good health, even my memory is worse than others…"
His voice trailed off, "Why are you wasting your time on me?"
Dream was silent for a moment, then walked over with the cake. He knelt on one knee before Nightmare—a posture that made the god appear to be proposing to a mortal, although in reality, their height difference meant that even kneeling, Dream could look Nightmare in the eye.
"Look at me," Dream commanded, his voice deep.
Nightmare looked up, plunging into the golden sea of light.
“You are no ordinary person,” Dream said, his fingers tracing Nightmare’s cheek. “Your soul is azure, like the distant sky. Your eyes…” His thumb gently caressed the corner of Nightmare’s eye, “more beautiful than any jewel.”
“Dream…”
“Don’t say you’re unworthy of me.” Dream’s voice carried a dangerous undertone, a light seemingly flowing deep within his golden eyes. “Never say such a thing. You don’t know…you don’t know what you mean to me.”
Nightmare’s heart pounded as if it would burst from his chest. Dream’s presence enveloped him, an inhuman, cold, yet burning presence that made him dizzy. He wanted to run away, yet he also wanted to drown in it.
“Then…what does that mean?” he mustered his courage to ask.
Dream looked at him, his gaze piercing through twenty years, seeing the battlefield of a hundred years ago, seeing that vanished soul, seeing countless lonely days and nights.
"It means everything," Dream whispered, then kissed him.
It was a kiss that brooked no refusal. Dream's lips were cool and soft, carrying a divine majesty and a century-suppressed longing. Nightmare's eyes widened, his mind went blank, until Dream's tongue pried open his teeth, and he let out a whimper.
"Ugh... Dream... wait..."
"No," Dream mumbled, his arms already wrapped around Nightmare's waist, lifting him from the chair. "I've waited a hundred years."
Nightmare didn't understand the meaning of those words, but he had no energy left to think. Dream carried him towards the bedroom, his steps steady, as if carrying a feather with ease. Nightmare then realized with a start that Dream's strength was inhuman—he should have realized it long ago, Dream had never been human.
"You... what are you..." Nightmare asked, trembling, between breaths.
Dream placed him on the bed, his golden eyes glowing in the darkness, like the pupils of a wild beast. He bent down, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a perfect chest—scar-free, flawless, skin as smooth as marble, gleaming like pearls in the moonlight.
"I am yours," Dream said, his voice low and menacing, as if from the abyss. "I killed you once, Nightmare. I won't lose you a second time."
Before Nightmare could process the terrifying meaning of those words, Dream was already on top of him. His cool lips landed on Nightmare's neck, leaving a trail of kisses. Dream's fingers deftly unbuttoned Nightmare's shirt, the movements practiced as if rehearsed a thousand times.
In fact, he had rehearsed it in his mind for a century.
"Dream…wait…we grew up together…this isn't right…" Nightmare protested weakly, his body trembling honestly under Dream's touch.
“Nothing’s wrong.” Dream bit his earlobe, his breath icy. “We were brothers in our past lives, and we are in this one. But I don’t care. I only want you.”
His hand slipped inside Nightmare’s waistband, grasping the half-erect, burning erection. Nightmare gasped, his body arching. “Ah… wait…”
“Don’t be afraid,” Dream soothed softly, his fingers beginning to slowly caress him. “Let me take care of you. Let me… make amends.”
“Make amends for what… ah…” Nightmare’s question turned into a groan. Dream’s technique was too good—no, it wasn’t just “good”; it was divine skill, every touch precisely stimulating the most sensitive spot.
“You don’t need to know.” Dream kissed away the tears welling in Nightmare’s eyes. “You just need to feel. Feel how much I love you.”
Golden light began to fill the room. It wasn’t lamplight, but Dream’s divine power spiraling out of control—a century of repression, once released, was like a flood bursting its banks. In the light, Nightmare saw a vision—a blood-red battlefield, a broken staff, golden wings stained with blood, and Dream's figure weeping over a corpse.
What was that…?
"Don't look," Dream covered Nightmare's eyes, his other hand continuing to pleasure his lower body. "That's the past. Now it's just us."
Nightmare wanted to ask, but pleasure had overwhelmed his reason. Dream stripped him of all his clothes, exposing him completely, then kissed his skin inch by inch—from collarbone to chest, from waist to inner thighs. Wherever those cold lips touched, fire ignited. Nightmare writhed, his fingers digging into Dream's blond hair.
"Dream…Dream…" he called the name unconsciously, his voice trembling with sobs.
"I'm here," Dream responded, lifting his head, his golden eyes filled with adoration. "I've always been here."
He removed his clothes, revealing a completely divine body—flawless, tall and imposing, every muscle a meticulously sculpted work of art. Nightmare looked at that body and felt a pang of inferiority—his own frailty, paleness, and ribcage starkly contrasting with Dream's inhuman perfection.
"Don't compare," Dream seemed to read his mind, leaning down to completely envelop him in shadow. "You are perfect to me. Your imperfections, your vulnerability, your purple eyes… I love them all."
He parted Nightmare's legs, his fingers probing towards that hidden entrance. Nightmare tensed, his body trembling. "Wait, wait… I haven't done this before…"
"I know," Dream's voice was incredibly gentle. "I'll be careful. I'll make you comfortable."
His fingers were coated with a golden liquid—a condensation of divine power, more effective than any mortal lubricant. When the first finger probed inside, Nightmare cried out in pain, but the pain was quickly replaced by a strange, tingling sensation.
Dream's fingers explored the warm, tight passage, searching for the spot that could drive Nightmare mad. He remembered everything about Nightmare—his physical structure as a demigod, the sensitive spots deep within his soul. Even in his reincarnation as a human, those essential things remained unchanged.
"Ah! There…" Nightmare suddenly screamed, his body trembling violently.
Dream had found it. He chuckled with satisfaction and began pressing repeatedly on that spot, while simultaneously adding a second finger.
"No…it’s too strange…" Nightmare shook his head, tears streaming from his purple eyes, but his body responded to Dream’s fingers, his waist involuntarily arching.
"Relax," Dream kissed his tear tracks, "Let me in. Let me have you."
When Dream finally pressed his burning heat against the entrance, Nightmare went limp. He looked into Dream’s golden eyes and saw in them a century of loneliness and endless love—emotions that shouldn’t be possessed by humans, as deep as the starry sky, as heavy as eternity.
"Who are you…" Nightmare asked, trembling, "Are you really Dream?"
Dream paused, then slowly pushed in. Nightmare cried out in pain, his fingernails leaving scratches on Dream's back.
"I am Dream," the god answered as he penetrated deeper, his voice hoarse with suppressed desire, "I am your Dream. Your brother. Your... murderer."
The last word was so soft it was almost inaudible, but Nightmare still caught it. He wanted to ask more, but Dream was already fully inside him, the feeling of being filled was too intense, too stimulating, leaving him only with broken moans.
Dream's movements were slow at first, as if handling fragile porcelain. But when he felt Nightmare's body begin to adapt, to actively contract and welcome him, his sanity began to crumble.
A century of longing, a century of regret, a century of loneliness, all erupted in this moment.
"Nightmare…" Dream growled, quickening his pace, "My Nightmare…"
The bed creaked, golden light swirling wildly in the room. Nightmare felt like a small boat tossed about in a storm, rising and falling with Dream's thrusts. The pleasure was overwhelming, not just physical, but also spiritual—as if Dream was not only possessing his body but also touching his soul.
"Ah…Dream…it's too deep…" Nightmare cried out, his legs involuntarily wrapping around Dream's waist.
Dream lifted him up, placing him on his lap, a position that allowed for even deeper penetration. Nightmare tilted his head back, revealing his vulnerable Adam's apple, which Dream immediately bit down on, leaving a deep mark.
"You are mine," Dream declared between thrusts, his voice carrying a divine majesty, "In past lives, in this life, and forever."
"I…ah…I am…" Nightmare was already incoherent, waves of pleasure washing over him, and he felt himself being overwhelmed.
Dream's hand reached back to where they were joined, grasping Nightmare's throbbing, erect desire, and began to stroke it in unison. The dual stimulation caused Nightmare to scream, his purple eyes losing focus.
"It's...it's coming..." he warned, trembling.
"Together," Dream commanded, then thrust hard into that spot, increasing the speed of his hand.
Nightmare let out a high-pitched scream, his body convulsing violently, white fluid spraying between them. Dream released at the same time, golden divine essence flowing into Nightmare's body, bringing a strange warmth.
It was more than just an ordinary release. It was a part of God, Dream infusing his own essence into Nightmare's damaged soul, mending the rifts inflicted a century ago.
Nightmare passed out in the throes of ultimate pleasure. In his last moments of consciousness, he felt Dream holding him tightly in his arms, cold lips brushing against his ear as he whispered:
"I'm sorry. I love you. Forever."
When Nightmare awoke, it was noon the next day. He lay on Dream's bed, covered with a golden velvet blanket. All traces of his past had been cleaned away, leaving only the lingering feeling of being possessed deep within him.
Dream sat by the bed, dressed in a white robe, his blond hair shimmering in the morning light, like a perfect oil painting. Seeing Nightmare awake, he smiled—a smile tinged with the tenderness of a century of loneliness finally finding solace, and a hint of obsessive madness.
"Good morning," Dream said, reaching out to stroke Nightmare's cheek. "How are you feeling?"
Nightmare opened his mouth, wanting to ask about the hallucinations, about the meaning of "murderer," about who Dream truly was. But when he saw the vulnerability and pleading in those golden eyes, all the questions stuck in his throat.
"...My back aches," he finally mumbled.
Dream smiled, a smile that became more genuine: "I'll massage it for you."
"Wait...you're not going to...?"
"No." Dream picked him up, his movements as gentle as if handling a precious treasure. "I'm just taking care of you today. I made you breakfast, and some medicine—your body is too weak; it needs conditioning."
Nightmare nestled in Dream's arms, listening to that steady heartbeat—if gods have heartbeats. He felt a strange sense of peace, even though he knew this being held a terrible secret, even though he felt the weight and danger of that love.
But he was so tired. Both body and soul found belonging in Dream's embrace.
"Dream," he whispered.
"Hmm?"
"I love you too," Nightmare said, his purple eyes gazing directly into the golden abyss. "Though I don't know what you truly are, though I feel unworthy of you… I love you. I've loved you since childhood."
Dream's movements froze. A tear glistened in his golden eyes—the tears of a god, only the second time in a hundred years.
"I know," he whispered, kissing Nightmare's forehead. "I know. And in this life, I will give you a happy ending. I swear."
Outside the window, the sunlight was perfect. Gold and violet embraced in the morning light, the blood and tears of the past temporarily buried, leaving only the warmth of the present.
But Dream knew that the secret would eventually be revealed. And when Nightmare regained his memories, when he remembered how he died under the golden wings, could this hard-won happiness continue?
The god held the human in his arms tighter, a shadow crossing his eyes.
No matter what, he would not let go. Even in hell, he would drag Nightmare down with him.
This was his selfishness, but also his redemption.