Chapter Text
The blood was black.
Dream stood amidst the ruins; his golden wings gleamed coldly in the setting sun, looking like some sort of mocking crown. He gazed at the figure before him—or rather, the thing that had once been human—unable to utter a sound.
Nightmare lay there, his limbs severed cleanly at the joints, dark blood soaking the stone slabs beneath him. His eyes remained open, his purple pupils staring vacantly at the sky; his lips moved faintly, as if trying to speak, though the words were no longer audible.
"...Is that you?"
Dream knelt, his fingers trembling as he touched Nightmare’s cheek. The skin was still warm, yet rapidly losing its heat. He noticed a trace of a wry smile at the corner of Nightmare’s mouth—an expression that seemed to say, "I knew it would come to this."
"Don't speak." Dream’s voice was hoarse, sounding nothing like his own. "I'm taking you back."
"Back where?" Nightmare asked softly, his voice light as a feather. "To your castle? To your dungeon?"
Dream did not answer. He unfastened his jacket and carefully wrapped it around the broken body. Nightmare did not struggle—he no longer had the strength, nor the limbs, to do so. As Dream lifted him up, Nightmare’s head rested limply against his shoulder, his breathing faint but steady.
"You've become lighter," Dream said.
"Well, I am missing four limbs, after all." Nightmare actually laughed—a sound filled with a shattered, breathy quality. "It saves you some trouble, doesn't it? I can't run away anymore."
Dream tightened his embrace, folding his golden wings inward to completely shield the figure in his arms within their shadow.
The castle bedroom remained unchanged: the double bed, the writing desk, and the view of the manicured garden outside the window. Dream laid Nightmare onto the bed, moving as gently as if handling something fragile.
"Should I call a doctor?" Dream asked. "What did you call the doctor for?" Nightmare tilted his head to look at him, his expression terrifyingly calm. "To show off what a perfect work of art the JR leader's captive has become?"
"You aren't a captive."
"Then what am I? Your pet? Your—"
"Shut up." Dream cut him off, his fingers already pressing against Nightmare's shoulder to examine the severed edges of the wound. "Who did this?"
Nightmare was silent for a moment, then said softly, "Your subordinates. The 'bringers of justice' of Justice Reigns. They thought this was... convenient."
Dream's fingers froze.
"They said you wanted me alive but didn't want me running away," Nightmare continued, his tone as flat as if he were recounting someone else's story. "So they came up with a compromise. Quite creative, isn't it?"
Dream stood up and walked to the window. Outside lay reality—manicured lawns, a fountain, and guards patrolling in the distance. Everything was so normal, so "beautiful."
"I'll deal with them," Dream said.
"Deal with what?" Nightmare's voice came from behind him, laced with a hint of mockery. "Deal with your justice? Your ideals? This world you built with your own hands?"
Dream didn't turn around. He gazed out the window; the golden sunset bathed everything in warm hues. Yet, for some reason, the color suddenly seemed glaringly harsh to him.
"Doesn't it hurt?" he asked.
"It does," Nightmare said. "But you get used to the pain. Besides... it's not the first time I've been hurt by your lot."
Dream turned around. Nightmare lay on the bed; he had used magic to roughly treat the severed ends of his limbs, and black mist swirled around the wounds to stem the flow of blood. He looked at Dream, his eyes devoid of resentment, holding only a weary sort of calm.
"Why don't you hate me?" Dream asked.
Nightmare smiled—a genuine smile this time. "Hating takes energy, Dream. Right now... I don't have much energy left."
The first month was the hardest.
Nightmare refused all help. He refused to be fed, refused to be cleaned, and refused to be moved. When Dream tried to help him turn over, he would slam the remaining part of his body against the bedframe until Dream backed away.
"I can do it myself," he said, even though he clearly couldn't.
Dream watched as he made a futile attempt to shift his position using only his torso, eventually sliding off the edge of the bed and onto the floor; dark blood seeped from his wounds. Nightmare lay prone, his face pressed against the cold tiles, expressionless.
"...Do you need help?" Dream asked from the doorway.
"Get lost."
Dream didn't leave. He walked over and lifted Nightmare back onto the bed. Nightmare didn't struggle—he had long since learned that struggling only exhausted him further.
"You didn't used to be like this," Dream said, wiping the dust from Nightmare's face with a damp cloth. "You used to curse at me, mock me, try to run away."
"I had legs back then," Nightmare said. "What can I do now? Ram you with my torso?"
"You could use magic."
"My magic is for killing, Dream. Not for walking."
Dream fell silent for a moment, then resumed wiping. His movements were gentle, as if handling something precious. Nightmare studied his profile and suddenly asked, "Why do you still take care of me? I'm no threat to you anymore."
"You never were."
"Then why did you found Justice Reigns to hunt me down?"
Dream’s hand paused. He set the cloth aside and looked into Nightmare’s eyes. "Because I thought... if I made the world a better place, you might change for the better, too."
Nightmare froze, then burst into laughter. The sound echoed through the room, tinged with a touch of madness. "Dream! Have you got it all wrong? I am the guardian of negative emotions! My very existence depends on absorbing pain! If you make the world 'better' and pain diminishes, I’ll starve to death!"
"I know," Dream said softly.
"You know?" Nightmare’s smile faltered.
"I know," Dream repeated, his fingers brushing against Nightmare’s cheek. "I know you’re starving. I know you’re in constant pain. I know... you ate that apple because I ate the golden one."
Silence filled the room. Nightmare gazed at Dream, something flickering deep within his purple eyes. "Then why do you still do this?" he asked, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper to himself.
Dream didn't answer. He lowered his head, resting his forehead against Nightmare's, and slowly unfurled his golden wings, enveloping them both in a warm glow.
"Sleep now," he said. "We'll talk about it tomorrow."
By the second month, Nightmare had begun to get used to being cared for.
He no longer refused Dream's help, though he couldn't exactly be called grateful. When Dream lifted him into his wheelchair, he would stare blankly out the window; when Dream fed him, he swallowed mechanically, his eyes vacant.
Only when Dream wasn't looking would his expression shift—revealing a deep, bottomless exhaustion.
Dream discovered this late one night. He had returned home late from work and quietly opened the door, only to find Nightmare still awake, sitting up in bed and gazing at the moon. His face was expressionless, yet tears slid silently down his cheeks, shimmering in the moonlight.
Dream stood in the doorway, unable to step inside.
He began to realize that he might have made a mistake. A terrible mistake.
By the third month, things began to change.
Nightmare started to speak. Not with sarcasm or defensiveness, but in genuine communication. He would tell Dream whether his wounds hurt, say what he wanted to eat, and point out where he itched while Dream bathed him.
"A little to the left... yes, right there."
Dream’s fingers moved across his back, lathering soap over his pale skin. The line of Nightmare’s spine remained graceful, yet the jagged scars where the arms had been severed stood as a gruesome reminder of what had happened.
"Why don't you hate me?" Dream asked the question again—this time in the bathroom, where the sound of running water masked his voice. "Hate you for what?" Nightmare asked, eyes closed, his head resting on Dream's shoulder. "For creating a perfect world? For realizing your ideals? Wasn't that your dream, Dream? To make everything 'better'?"
"I thought it would make things better for you, too."
"But you know now, don't you?" Nightmare opened his eyes and stared at the bathroom tiles. "You know this world isn't worth making 'better.' At least... not in that way."
Dream's hand rested at Nightmare's waist. He gazed at their reflections in the mirror—golden wings and a broken body, light and darkness huddled together in a twisted embrace.
"I'll find a way," Dream said.
"A way to do what?"
"A way to make you whole again. Or..." Dream paused, "a way to let you be at least a little happy."
Nightmare turned his head to look into Dream's eyes. Something had shifted in that golden gaze—it was no longer the look of blind idealism, but something far more complex and heavy.
"You've changed," Nightmare said.
"You've changed, too," Dream replied, his fingers gently brushing Nightmare's lips. "We both have."
By the fourth month, they began sharing a bed.
Not in *that* sense—at least, not at first. Dream simply noticed that Nightmare would tremble, have nightmares, and weep silently in the night. So, he moved his pillow next to Nightmare's and draped his wings over him until the trembling ceased.
"You don't have to do this," Nightmare said one morning, his voice muffled as he buried his face in the crook of Dream's shoulder. "I know," Dream said, his fingers combing through Nightmare's hair. "But I want to do this."
"Why?"
"Because..." Dream paused for a long time—so long that Nightmare thought he wouldn't answer—"because I want to look at you. I want to make sure you're still here. I want to... make amends for some things."
"You can't make amends for this," Nightmare said, his tone flat. "My legs won't grow back, Dream. Neither will my hands. You can't fix that."
"I know," Dream said, tightening his embrace. "But I can give you something else."
"What?"
"Me."
Nightmare froze. He looked up into Dream's eyes, searching for a lie or a deception, but found only a weary sincerity.
"You're crazy," Nightmare said.
"Maybe." Dream smiled—a bitter, self-deprecating smile. "I built a kingdom of justice, yet I turned my own brother into a limbless wreck. I pursued the light, yet I dragged you into the deepest darkness. If that isn't madness, what is?"
"You aren't crazy," Nightmare said softly. "You never were. You just... believed in this world too much."
"And you believed in it too little."
"Because I've seen the truth of this world," Nightmare said. His fingers—no, he had no fingers left—his stumps gently touched Dream's cheek. "I've seen what people do in the name of 'justice.' I saw how your men laughed, Dream. They were laughing while they cut off my legs. They thought it was justice—that it was for the good of the world."
Dream closed his eyes, feeling that rough touch against his skin.
"I'll make them pay," he said.
"No," Nightmare said. "Don't. Let them live. Let them go on believing they're doing the right thing. That way... that way I'll at least know my suffering had meaning. It nourished this beautiful world, didn't it?"
"Nightmare..."
"Kiss me," Nightmare said suddenly.
Dream opened his eyes and looked at Nightmare. The other's expression remained calm, yet something was burning in his eyes—that desperate, final spark of light. "What?"
"I said, kiss me," Nightmare repeated. "Before I turn into a complete wreck—before I lose even this last bit of usefulness. Kiss me, Dream. Let me know... let me know that at least this moment is real."
Dream didn't hesitate. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Nightmare's.
The kiss was gentle, as if he were handling something fragile. Nightmare’s lips were dry, tasting of blood and medicine, but Dream didn't care. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping inside to seek a response.
Nightmare let out a whimper—a sound heavy with so much emotion: pain, longing, loneliness, and a sense of release, finally set free. He wrapped his remaining limbs around Dream, clinging to him like a drowning man grasping at a final piece of driftwood.
"Don't stop," Nightmare gasped between kisses. "Please, don't stop."
Dream didn't stop. His wings unfurled fully, bathing them both in a golden glow—a cocoon, a world that belonged only to them. In this world, there was no justice, no evil, no duties as a Guardian; there were only two broken souls trying to find wholeness within each other's fragments.
When they finally pulled apart, color had returned to Nightmare's face—a feverish, flushed glow. His eyes were glistening, his lips slightly swollen; he looked almost... happy.
"You know," Nightmare said softly, his voice hoarse, "I used to imagine this scene all the time."
"What scene?"
"You kissing me." Nightmare smiled—a genuine smile, unguarded and open. "Back when I was still whole... when I could still run and jump. I used to imagine you pinning me against a wall, or onto the bed, or anywhere else, and then... then doing exactly what you just did."
Dream watched him in silence, waiting for him to go on. "But I never imagined it would be like this," Nightmare said, looking down at his mutilated body. "I never imagined... I would end up like this, and that you would still want me."
"I want you," Dream said, his voice firm. "Not because you are whole, not because you are useful, not even because you are Nightmare. I want you simply because..."
"...You are you."
"That sounds like a lover's words."
"That *is* what they are," Dream said, kissing his forehead again. "I’m whispering sweet nothings to my enemy. I’m crazy, remember?"
Nightmare laughed, the sound echoing through the room. There was no madness this time, no bitterness—only pure, unburdened joy.
"So what are you waiting for?" Nightmare asked, a playful, challenging glint in his eyes—that familiar, spirited spark finally returning. "Your enemy is inviting you to bed, Dream. Are you going to say no?"
Dream looked into his eyes and saw so much within that violet depths—pain, hope, fear, and love. A love that had been suppressed for far too long, twisted and deep.
"No," Dream said, beginning to undo the buttons of his own clothes. "I won't say no."
It was an awkward, painful attempt.
Nightmare couldn't move on his own, couldn't adjust his position, couldn't do many of the things he once could. Dream had to hold, support, and guide him the entire time. Every movement required extreme care, avoiding wounds that were still healing and the sensitive, newly formed skin.
But it was also a gentle, patient exploration.
Dream spent a long time kissing every inch of Nightmare's skin—the intact parts and the damaged ones alike. He kissed the scars on his shoulders, the marks on his sides, and the tender new flesh where limbs had been severed. His touch was as reverent as if he were handling a sacred offering, making Nightmare tremble and let out soft, broken moans.
"...Here?" Dream asked, his fingers pausing at a certain spot.
"Mmm..." Nightmare closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "A little higher... yes, right there..."
Dream’s fingers moved, golden magical light swirling at their tips to provide a warm, soothing touch. Nightmare’s breathing grew ragged, and his remaining limbs instinctively wrapped tightly around Dream, as if trying to embed himself into the other’s body.
"Dream..." Nightmare gasped. "I want... I want..."
"I know." "Dream whispered, folding his wings to envelop them both in a golden darkness. 'I know what you want. I’ll give it to you. All of it.'"
"When Dream finally entered him, Nightmare let out a long sigh—a sound holding so much: pain, fulfillment, and a sense of peace, as if something had finally fallen into place. Dream paused, waiting for him to adjust, his fingers interlaced with Nightmare’s (interlaced with those limbs that no longer existed), their foreheads pressed together."
"'Are you okay?' Dream asked."
"'...Better than I imagined,' Nightmare whispered, a smile playing on his lips. 'Go on. Don't stop.'"
"Dream began to move, slow and steady. Each thrust drew a moan from Nightmare—sounds no longer stifled, but released and authentic. Golden light swirled through the room, weaving with the black mist to form strange, beautiful patterns."
"'Look at me,' Dream said, his voice hoarse. 'Nightmare, look at me.'"
"Nightmare opened his eyes; the golden light was reflected in his purple pupils. In that glow, Dream saw himself—not the Guardian of Positivity, not the seeker of ideals, but simply a man—a man who wanted to save his brother."
"'I love you,' Dream said, between movements and gasps. 'I hate myself, I hate this world, but I love you. I love you, Nightmare. I always have.'"
"Nightmare’s eyes welled up. He lifted his remaining limbs to wrap them around Dream’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss."
"The kiss was salty, tasting of tears. Yet, neither of them stopped."
"When they finally finished, Nightmare was utterly exhausted. He lay in Dream’s arms as his breathing gradually steadied; the black mist and golden light remained intertwined, creating a strange, harmonious balance."
"'What are you thinking about?' Dream asked, his fingers combing through Nightmare’s sweat-dampened bangs."
"'I was thinking,' Nightmare whispered, his voice filled with drowsy contentment, 'that maybe... this is our happy ending.'"
"'What?'" "Imperfect, incomplete, unjust," Nightmare said, his eyes half-closed. "But at least... we are together. At least this time, you didn't leave me."
Dream tightened his arms, holding Nightmare even closer.
"I won't leave," he said. "Never. I swear it."
"Vows are meant to be broken, Dream."
"Not this one." Dream kissed Nightmare's forehead. "This vow... I will spend the rest of my life proving it."
Nightmare didn't answer. He had already fallen asleep, a rare, peaceful expression on his face. Dream gazed at him—at the man who had once been so lively and active, now broken and incomplete—and a complex mix of emotions welled up within him.
He thought back to the grand ambitions he’d held when founding Justice Reigns, the unwavering conviction with which he had hunted Nightmare, and the naive belief that the world could be made better.
Now he knew the world wouldn't get better. At least, not the kind of "better" he had imagined.
But perhaps... perhaps in this broken, imperfect world, there was still one thing he could do.
He could still love Nightmare.
And that was enough.
Dream closed his eyes, folding his golden wings completely around the figure in his arms, shielding him within their softest embrace. Outside the window, the moon rose, casting a silvery glow into the room and illuminating the two figures entwined on the bed.
In this silent castle, on this silent night, the two guardians had finally found their sanctuary—not in the light, nor in the darkness, but in each other's arms.
It might not be a fairy-tale ending. But for them, it was enough.