6. Reminders (I'd cut them off if I could)
Dream winces as he arrives in the AU, closing the portal behind him swiftly, leaning against the nearest tree for support, adrenaline coming to a stop now that the fight is over. There are still open cuts on his arms, blood sluggishly running down to his fingertips. His chest ached, so his ribs might've been bruised. Leaning on the tree, he slowly slips to the ground, where he rests on his knees, head hanging as he catches his breath.
His back ached the worst. It was a constant throbbing, sending waves of pain through his spine and down his arms when he shifted or walked. Unlike the other injuries, though, this wasn't related to the fighting.
This was already present before today.
Usually, he's used to it and can manage the sparks. Stars, at this point, he might even welcome it, since it's something to keep him grounded, rooted in the present. Can't daydream too much with the reminder of it on his back. It helps him sometimes, it does, even if Blue and Ink say it's unhealthy and that he's only making things worse for himself in the long run.
Exactly, he remembers thinking when they scolded him about it last time, worrying and fretting and upset. The only one it's hurting is him, so why should it matter?
Once his chest has settled, Dream breaths out, letting it linger longer than usual, closing his eyes and briefly resting his forehead against the tree. The bark is familiar, comforting. Nostalgic. Then, though it pains him to pull himself away so soon, he forces himself to get up before he can lose himself in the past again and find a river to wash himself up at. If he showed up back home looking like he does, Blue and Ink would worry even more, and he hates seeing them worked up over him like that.
It's different if one of them were injured. As he's said before, he can handle himself. He can heal, knows how to patch himself up. Prefers it to the pinched brow, the frown on Blue's face as he cleans his wounds in silence. Prefers it to Ink's gaze from the corner, the hovering he does as he fills the silence with a silly, unrelated story to distract the team from the lost battle.
At the river, Dream lowers himself gingerly to the bank, wincing again as his back gets worse. He stares down into his reflection, taking in the dark smudge under his eyes, the hollow cheekbones and sockets, the downward pull to his mouth, so different from the smile he usually has on. What happened here? Why is it that whenever he's alone, he cannot smile like that? What is he doing wrong if he can't even keep himself happy?
Some Guardian of Positivity he was...
Sighing to himself, he disturbs the reflection his his hand, letting the blood wash away and stain the water. The cuts sting as he cleans them, but that's by far the calmest pain he's ever experienced, so he doesn't react. Doesn't even feel it, really. He heals the cuts, too, the warmth of his magic lighting up the surroundings with a soft golden glow. The cuts knit themselves back together, fading until just a faint scar and sting remained.
He moved up to his ribs, which hurt more as they healed. They flared up, throbbing up his neck before calming down and quieting into a whimper of what it was. Breathing out in relief, he lets his magic fade, closing his eyes again. He'd be sore the rest of the day, and tired from the spent magic, but he'd be fine. He can handle it.
It was time for the part he'd been putting off.
Bracing himself, Dream moved slowly as he took off his scarf, folding it up neatly and placing it beside him. Even with just one layer off, his back doubled it's complaining. Breathing steadily through it, he continued removing his clothes, placing his gloves on top of his scarf, folding up his jacket and placing it beside the stack. His back gets worse with each layer he removes, the pain increasing, yet also getting better, more manageable now that it has room to move.
He can feel it twitching now, eager for the last layer to go and for him to stretch it out, let it breath for the first time in months.
Slipping his arms out of his leotard, he pauses for a minute, bracing himself again as he pushes the garment down to bunch at his hips where it's out of the way. He has to brace himself because it drags against his back, against it, rubs against the pain, even for a brief moment, making it flare. A whimper escapes him before he can catch it, and he swiftly clenches his jaw to stop anymore. It doesn't matter that he's alone. He can't let himself be weak now. He can't. At least, he refuses to, because if he cannot contain himself, cannot be strong when he's alone, how can he expect himself to do it in front of people? In front of the Multiverse?
Besides, he's fine. He can handle it. He's done this before.
Once the garment's down, the pain finally dulls into a regular ache, making him sigh in relief again, rolling his shoulders back as the weight is lifted, as he concedes and stretches it out, feeling loose feathers fall. It still hurts to move it, still hurts to touch it, but it's far easier to handle than it being pressed up against his back, unable to move under the layers of clothes he hides it under.
Dream stretches his wings out, lifting a hand to reach behind his neck, trying to massage the joint where it meets his back. It helps a bit, soothing the ache like a balm.
He can't see how bad the wings are, but he can feel how messy the feathers are, can feel that it could do with a wash. He brings the right wing around as he massages himself, as much as he can, reaching his opposite hand over to half-heartedly swipe through the ends, taking out the old feathers, the broken ones. He can only do a little, his wings barely reach his elbows normally, so he can't reach any further without twisting himself into a knot. But he does what he can and lets it return to its place behind him. Finished with his massage, he lowers himself onto his stomach, looking down at the water again to wait out the rest of the breathing period before he wrangles the limbs back underneath.
Nightmare doesn't know about his wings.
Nobody in the multiverse does except for Blue and Ink, and they only knew because they caught him when he was stretching it out. Now, they try and make him do it more often. Ink gives him shirts with holes for the limbs, or shirts without a back at all. Blue tries to get the three of them to do more activities that include beaches or swimming pools, anything to get him out of his usual uniform and into something else. Something breathable.
He appreciates their efforts, even if he doesn't listen to them a lot. Even if they'll do this for him and he'll just sit to the side, smiling and indulging as much as he can without giving in to the main problem.
The thing is, he hates his wings.
The reason why is complicated, clouded. He can't really put it into words. He just knows that when he sees his wings, when his wings are perceived by other people, it makes him feel uncomfortable, like the limbs are something wrong with him. He sees them and can't think of anything but the fact that they're a lie.
Wings are for freedom. Wings are for flying away from everything, for putting the past behind you and soaring into the future. Wings are for moving on.
Dream wants nothing to do with any of that.
(If he could cut the wings off, he would. He would welcome the searing, burning feel of them, would sob in thanks to whoever cut them, himself or someone else, would hug himself in relief of being free from the burden. From the reminder. From the pressure to follow along, to be on his pedestal, to free everyone from their negativity.
He would welcome being grounded if it meant people would stop telling him he was the only thing that could fly them away from this place.)
He hates his wings. He hates being reminded he should be over what happened. He should be fighting his brother to stop him from hurting others, not to bring him back, make things as they were. He should be fulfilling his role as an angelic presence here to carry those in misfortune off to better lands, better futures. He hates his wings, hates the burden of them, hates the feel of them.
