Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hey,

I know it’s been a while since we last spoke…not that this really counts as speaking, does it? You won’t answer this letter, hell, you won’t even get it. Not like you can.

I’m twenty-one fifteen now which means it’s been six years since we met for the first time. Crazy how fast time flies—sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday I wish it had been yesterday because that would mean you’re still alive.

I would ask you how you are, but that’s a question I can answer myself. I wish things were different, you know? That I had the courage to run away before you had to die—before I fucked up so badly that you were killed because that’s what happened, isn’t it? Saying you died makes it sound like you died of a natural cause. Makes it sound like you weren’t murdered.

It’s still hard to believe you’re gone. That you’re dead. That you will never come back—it’s been how many years? Four? I should be over this, don’t you think? It’s been such a long time ago, longer than how long I actually knew you, and yet…

I honestly can’t tell you why I’m writing you, why I never “wrote you” before this. I had a lot of time in Pandora’s Vault I could have used to write you, but instead—because of whatever reason there is—I decided now is a good time to do this.

Or maybe it’s not weird because when I was stuck in prison, I didn’t know how to continue. You know, technically I had a life sentence—not anymore though, obviously. I had a life sentence, and in all honesty, I didn’t expect to ever get out again. No, that’s not entirely true; I expected to be released at some point, just not that early. And definitely not because of the reason why I got out in the end.

Well. I still don’t know if it was a good decision or not to never tell them my real age…if I had told them earlier, maybe things wouldn’t have turned out like this. I don’t get it, but they all have some weird morals when it comes to age and how minors should be treated. I wouldn’t have wanted to be treated like a child (I’m not blind, I see how they treat the other minors—Tommy and Tubbo, Ranboo, Purpled), and I guess that would’ve happened if I told them—I mean now that they know, it happened anyway.

They know. My age, I mean. I don’t think anyone really knows what happened—Phil probably knows the most. They know about the Army and about me being a former soldier, but they don’t know what has happened in detail, and I hope they will never learn about it. I know they would pity me—because I know they would find some stupid reason. Maybe because of my parents and my sister? My age? Probably— no, definitely because of you.

And I…I don’t think I can do that. Their guilt and their regrets are already bad enough…they—mostly Puffy, Sam, Phil. Sapnap and George, but Sam isn’t as bad as the rest, not anymore at least.

I have Punz though and Bad. And Hope, I can’t forget about Hope. She’s my cat, I’m sure you would have loved her. She found me when I was walking around the Mainland of the SMP—my SMP. I don’t know if I can really call it that anymore. I created this world, I’m the Admin of it, I’m still the owner, but I don’t I don’t know.

Gods. I’m jumping between topics. Hope. Right. She’s probably the best thing that has happened to me in the last years. Maybe the best thing that has ever happened—excluding the duel with Techno. She’s just I don’t know how to explain, but she’s probably the only reason why I’m still here. I can’t leave her alone, you know? The SMP isn’t a good place for animals.

There were wars—it feels weird to call them that. Somehow, it’s not really fitting—there were…fights because people killed other people’s pets. I don’t know how you can do that; I always took care of the animals around me those I used for my plan included.

If something happened to Hope…no. Nothing will ever happen to her, I swear. Nothing can happen to her. I don’t think I would survive that.

Why am I even writing you all of these? There’s not really a point except for the fact that it feels like you’re the only one listening to me. Really listening. Everyone else…I don’t know. I just…I just I guess I wish things would be different. Would be better. But there’s not a lot I can still do, is there?

I still haven’t found the family and the home I promised you I would have—it makes me wonder, you know. It makes me wonder if a family has ever been a part of my fate.

I think you’ve been my only

 It It doesn’t matter anymore I think. I have Hope. She’s as much family as anyone ever could be. You and Hope. What would I give to see you again, that you could meet Hope.

I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I could travel in time instead of raising the dead.

There’s a lot I regret—your death might be the thing I regret the most. I’m sorry. Gods, no matter how often I will say it, it won’t change anything. It won’t bring you back, and it won’t make things right.

But at least At least, the war is over.

Maybe I can finally rest .

:)

His fingers glide through Hope’s fur carefully. Punz is still here, sitting in front of him, hands twisted in the fabric of their hoodie.

For him this conversation has already ended, but for Punz apparently not—not that he has a problem with it. Punz has always been someone he liked to be around; they never tried to make him talk, never pushed him to explain himself, never forced him to talk about something he wasn’t willing to share with them.

There are also the hoodies he got from Punz.

“You do know I always saw you as more than an employer?” Punz asks him after a few minutes of silence.

They used to be friends before they became mercenary and employer, but he doesn’t know—can’t say for sure—that they still are. It’s been a long time since he called anyone his friend. And it’s been even a longer time since he believed it.

He lifts his eyes from Hope, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”

Punz meets his gaze. “In my eyes, we were never just employer and mercenary. The real— I saw you as a friend. I still see you as a friend. That’s…that’s actually the reason why I stayed.” He’s serious; there’s nothing remotely joking in his face, in their voice. And somehow it still feels like a lie, like a bad joke, like an easy way to make him forget and forgive.

No one ever stays because of him.

“Because of me?” he repeats, scoffing. “You’re joking.” He wishes he could believe it, could believe it, just like he wishes he could believe every lie that has left Puffy’s lips, like every promise Bad made, like every help that has been offered to him.

He doesn’t think he can believe it even if it’s coming from Punz. Punz who’s been on his side from the beginning of the SMP, who’s never once faltered in his decision to stay by him, who’s followed his plan without the smallest hint of doubt, who used to be a friend. Who still is?

Punz shakes his head. “I’m not. I…I wanted to make sure you’re alright. That you’re not doing something stupid— that kind of didn’t work out all that well, but…yeah.”

There’s nothing in Punz’s voice, in their posture, in his words that might suggest, they’re lying, and yet it’s hard impossible for him to believe it’s more than just Punz trying to make him feel better.

He laughs humorlessly, “Okay.”

Punz sighs, leaning back, careful to not fall over. “I know you don’t believe me, and that’s fine. Just…just know that there are people who care about you, alright?” Who’s there except for Punz who truly cares? Maybe Bad. Maybe Phil. Maybe. The others…he doesn’t doubt they care, he just doubts it will forever stay like this.

The next time he fucks up, the next time he makes a mistake, the next time he lets them know that there’s something he’s working on, that there’s a plan—

He doesn’t know if they would take kindly to it— actually, he knows they wouldn’t take kindly to it.

Despite the fact they tell him he can change, despite the fact they tell him they want to help, he knows that they still fear him. That they still expect him to disappear and come back with an army, taking back what’s rightfully his their homes and their land. (No one has to know that there’s no plan like this—that there’s never been a plan like this. He would never. He doesn’t think he could.)

Punz might care. Bad does. Sam is gone gone gone. Puffy doesn’t understand. Phil is Phil—the father of the children he’s hurt, whose homes he took away a third time. (He still doesn’t understand why Phil wants to help him, but maybe it’s just the bleeding heart of a father who thinks he might be able to save a lost child.)

“That sounds like a lie, too, Punz,” he says, voice shakier than he’d like it to be. (Not that there’s a lot to hide. He’s cried in front of Punz, clung to them like he was drowning. Maybe he was. Maybe he still is.) “But fine, I believe you, and now?”

“What do you mean ‘and now’?” There’s confusion in Punz’s voice.

“What does it change?” he settles on because there’s nothing else to ask. People care and now what? What does it change for him? What does it change for them? They don’t care.

Punz splutters. “I just…it might not change anything in the grand scheme of things, but just— it might change things for you.”

“For me,” he repeats, trailing off.

Change things for him? He absentmindedly starts petting Hope again. Will there ever come a day something truly changes for him? Will there ever be a day that changes his life so much it might make it worth living? Maybe he’s always just been damned to bring misfortune and harm and death.

He doesn’t know.

“For you,” Punz confirms; he can feel their eyes on him.

He wants to agree, wants to confirm that he thinks things could change because of that. He wants to. He can’t. Not yet anyway.

“Maybe…one day,” he murmurs, watching Hope rub her head against his leg.

“You know,” Punz begins, their fingers drumming against their leg. “You know you don’t have to believe that suddenly things will be better because they obviously won’t just— they won’t just change within a day. Things can’t get better in a day or two. It takes time.” He pauses. “A lot of time.”

It’s a task he doesn’t know if he can sustain. It’s hard to breathe some days. It’s hard to admit to himself that he’s not fine, that he’s not okay like he wants the others to believe. That he’s not just Dream, the confident speedrunner who kills ender dragons easily. That he’s not just a tyrant in netherite and a deadly axe.

It takes effort, and it takes time. Time. Time he knows he doesn’t have although he’s just twenty-one fifteen. Time he should have. Time that should be easy to spare.

“Time I don’t have,” he says before he can stop himself. He didn’t mean to say it out loud, didn’t mean to let Punz know.

“What did you say?” There’s a crease between Punz’s brows.

He just shakes his head. “Nothing.” He breathes out. “I just meant it’ll take a lot of time.”

It’s obvious that Punz knows better, that they know it’s not what he said, but they don’t ask again. “Okay,” Punz just says.

“It takes time,” he repeats as if he’s trying to convince himself and not just Punz that that’s what he said.

“A lot,” Punz agrees, their eyes still lie heavy on him. “Once you start therapy, you can’t just expect that you don’t have problems anymore. You can’t just get up after a session and be a better person, be ‘healed.’ That’s not how it works.” They nod slowly as if it makes his words more convincing. hands pressed together. “Sometimes, it can take years, and that’s the reason why you have to want to get better, too.”

“I know.” He knows. He knows. Otherwise, he’d never be here, would he? Otherwise, he’d be training to get even better at parkour or speedrunning or PVP. Otherwise, he wouldn’t sit still a second. Otherwise, he’d still have his friends, his family, his home.

He knows.

“Especially if there are years and years of untreated trauma,” Punz stresses as if they want to make him understand something.

“I know,” he says again, nails digging painfully into his palms.

Punz sighs, petting Hope’s head. “Look, Dream. I’m not trying to force you to go to therapy, but if you want to get better, if you want to move on, then you should think about this. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want, but you should seriously start to consider it.”

“Tha— thank you, Punz,” he says quietly, loosening up his hands. He doesn’t know why he stumbled over the first word—or maybe he does. It’s been a long time since he thanked anyone. Since there has been a reason to thank someone. Since he wanted to do it.

Punz smiles softly at him. “You know I will always be here to help you. Just…just message me if you need anything.”

Hi Bad,

How are you? I’ve been fine. Punz visited me a few days ago and gave me more of their hoodies because I don’t want to wear mine anymore. Things have been as good as they could be. Hope never leaves me alone for more than the few minutes when she’s hunting which is nice. It’s been so long since I was in the company of animals, and I don’t think I will ever trade any of this for something else if I could make things if the Dream Team.

I know it’s only been a few days since you visited me (at least now that I’m writing this letter), and you might wonder why I’m writing this instead of just talking to you. Or why I decided to write a letter and not just message you.

But the truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever give you this letter—maybe I’ll destroy it, maybe I’ll hide it and by the time I find it again, there’s no need for it anymore. I’m not that optimistic though.

I just You know I’ve never been the best at communicating my emotions, I’ve always been hiding behind my mask, armor and weapons, and if I’m honest, I wish it had stayed like this things would be easier that way. But there’s no way of changing the past, so a letter it is.

I want to say thank you. I know you’re hard on yourself because you didn’t help me when I was in prison despite knowing the conditions, but please don’t it’s not worth your time and energy. You don’t have to be hard on yourself because you were possessed and brainwashed by the egg—no one will ever blame you for it, I won’t either.

You did your best, and I will forever be grateful for that.

I’m sorry for planning on using Skeppy against you—we’ve already talked about it, but I don’t think I can ever apologize enough for this. I should’ve never done it, I know. There had been other ways, other decisions, other outcomes. I don’t expect you to forgive me for it, I still want to say sorry.

I don’t deserve

Thank you, Bad. Thank you for everything.

I love you. Take care of yourself—I hope you can be happier again.

Dream

PS: Tell Skeppy hi from me. Or don’t. I can understand if he doesn’t want to hear from me ever again.

It’s a nice day to sit outside the Community House with Hope roaming around. It reminds him of a time when he used to spend as much time as possible outside his base, discovering every single corner of his world.

He’s never been someone who was able to sit still not until the prison. But now— he’s barely been outside, barely wandered the SMP, barely left the area around the Community House.

He doesn’t remember when he started not feeling like himself anymore.

He tilts his head back until it rests against the wall of the Community House, enjoys the calm. It’s weird— or maybe it’s not weird. It’s not the same eerie silence of Pandora’s Vault, of the black box. Here he doesn’t only hear falling lava and ticking clocks and the dripping of crying obsidian—here he hears rustling leaves and the gentle burbling of water.

It’s been a long time since he last felt this relaxed, since he felt like he didn’t have to constantly watch his back, since he was able to just close his eyes and act as if nothing of the past two and a half years has ever happened.

Only they did happen. Only that it’s impossible to even not think about it now. Being alone always had this effect on him—he doesn’t remember a time when he wasn’t thinking of the past, the present, the future. His death. And even though he’s trying his hardest, he can’t close his eyes and see anything else but crying obsidian and lava walls.

Still, he doesn’t think there’s been a single day in the last weeks months years, he felt as fine as he does now—not good, never good, just fine enough to function, to stay here at the Community House with Hope, to listen to the wind in the trees and the chirping of birds. Just fine enough to continue living, to ignore the fear of being locked up in Pandora’s Vault again, to relax his hands and stop fiddling with his bandages.

But of course, of course, things can’t stay as peaceful as they are. Of course, it’s not possible for him to enjoy one day of sun and warmth and freedom. Of course, he can’t.

He’s Dream, more monster than human, more dictator than friend, more child soldier than person.

He’s Dream, and he should never have a single day on which he doesn’t feel like he needs to flee his skin and his mask and his bandages.

He doesn’t open his eyes when he hears footsteps. Doesn’t straighten his back and gets up to greet this person. Doesn’t try to appear friendly and welcoming.

He doesn’t want to—no matter how childish it might be. He doesn’t want to, especially not if it’s Tommy of all people interrupting the few moments of silence and peace he’s gotten.

“Bitch.”

He doesn’t react to the way he’s greeted. It’s not surprising— he’s not surprised at all. Not surprised at the words, not surprised that Tommy came to ruin his day, not surprised that he already did it.

He presses his lips together, controls his breathing (he won’t fall apart in the presence of Tommy, he will never), and then he looks up. “What are you doing here?” He hates how tired he sounds—it was supposed to be bored, to be indifferent, not tired, not exhausted. “You’re alone?”

It’s also no surprise that Tommy is here alone, that Tommy still came to visit him although everyone is trying to make them stay away from each other as far as possible. They shouldn’t even talk to each other, but Tommy’s always been like this. He’s never listened to anyone who wasn’t Wilbur, and somehow, it’s difficult to imagine he’s changed a lot since then.

“Of course, I’m alone!” Tommy already sounds angry. It’s obvious, this conversation will be just as much fun as the last one they had. He’s so tired and so, so sick of this. “You already know why I’m here.”

He wishes he did. He wishes he did because then he might be able to cut Tommy’s visit short and go back to enjoy his day with Hope—who’s hopefully staying as far away from Tommy as possible—, sitting in the sun and not freezing on the inside.

So, he tilts his head, continuing to look at Tommy. “I can’t say I know.”

Tommy’s face twists, somehow managing to look even angrier than before. “What the fuck did you tell the others that they let you out of prison?”

He blinks, and then he blinks again. He doesn’t know what he expected to come out of Tommy’s mouth, but it wasn’t this. “That’s what you’re asking?” he laughs, there’s nothing amusing about the situation they’re in at this moment. “You know it’s my age. We already talked about that, Tommy.”

He’s talked about this so many times that he doesn’t think he can do it again without the urge to silence the other person. He won’t do it—he can’t do it, he doesn’t have the weapons, doesn’t have the strength, doesn’t have the technique anymore—, but there’s still the want to do it anyway. If he dies, he dies, no? At least no one would bother him about his age when he’s dead.

“There’s no way it’s the only reason,” Tommy grits out. “How did you get my dad to help you? How did Tubbo—” Tommy cuts himself off, the frown on his face deepening.

Tubbo? What has Tubbo to do with any of this? He gets Phil—he’s talked to Phil, Phil offered him help, and there’s no way that Tommy doesn’t know about that after Tommy found him sitting on a couch in Phil’s house, a cup with hot chocolate in his hands.

Tubbo on the other? Tubbo doesn’t make sense. He’s not talked once to Tubbo in all this time, Tubbo didn’t try to reach out, didn’t offer support, didn’t do anything, so why did Tommy mention Tubbo?

He’s not sure how weird he thought it was that Tubbo didn’t come visit Wilbur with Tommy, but he assumed it was due to other reasons like the duties Tubbo might have in Snowchester or because of the child Tubbo and Ranboo apparently adopted. But maybe— maybe there’s a different reason?

Maybe the reason for Tubbo staying back while Tommy came to see Wilbur is different than he thought it was.

“Look, Tommy,” Dream says with a sigh as he lifts his head from the wall and straightens his back. “I would love to give you answers, but this has never been my decision.”

He hadn’t planned to get out of prison, and he didn’t think he’d ever do that quickly—but of course a certain gremlin had to interfere and make them discover a secret they should’ve never known of, a secret he’d been willing to take to his grave. A secret that should have stayed a secret forever.

But it didn’t. It didn’t, and he hadn’t even been able to defend himself, hadn’t been able to stop Tommy, hadn’t been able to hide his face, his identity, his age, hadn’t been able to keep his mask with him. He hadn’t been able to do anything.

Tommy snorts. “Hard to believe because from what I’ve heard the prison has been part of some plan. Don’t act like I’m stupid.”

‘Then don’t be stupid,’ he wants to say, but he bites himself on his tongue, trying to think of a better way to tell Tommy he’s an idiot. He doesn’t feel like provoking Tommy even more than he’s already doing by just existing, and maybe if he doesn’t do it outright, it’ll mean that Tommy stops bothering him and leaves earlier than planned. He can hope.

“Believe whatever you want,” he finally says. “If you want answers, go to your dad and ask him. Or ask Puffy, isn’t she your therapist? I’m sure she can give you a better explanation than she was able to give me.”

Because his question still hasn’t been answered, because he still doesn’t know, can’t say why his age makes things worse, because all he’s offered are the words “We should’ve helped you even before we knew your age.” But how is he supposed to believe them when he knows they would’ve never done it? When he knows the only reason why they got to this realization was his age?

He’s so tired of them all trying to convince him that his age hasn’t been deciding reason for them to not lock him up again in Pandora’s Vault, for giving him help he’s never got any time before, for trying to fix their relationships and what else they fucked up.

“I know you’re lying,” Tommy snaps. “What’s your fucking plan?”

There’s no plan. His plan ended with the vault, with the prison, with falling, searing hot lava and cold, sharp obsidian walls. It ended with ticking clocks and empty books and dirty glowstone in the corner of his cell.

And now, now that he’s out, there is no plan. No path to continue, no goal to achieve, nothing to do. Now that he’s out, he spends his time sitting in his room or in front of the Community House, trying to forget about black tents and snow biomes and bloody smiles, a cat following not even a step behind him. Now that he’s out, there’s nothing he can do, nothing he wants to do. Now that he’s out, breathing has gotten harder than it ever used to be before.

“There’s no plan.” He glances at the place where he last saw Hope, but he still can’t make her out. It’s better that way—it’s safer for her—even though he’d prefer being able to see her, being able to pet her, being able to make sure she’s okay. “Let’s make a deal, alright? You leave me alone and I leave you alone and we have to never meet again. How about that?”

He already knows Tommy’s answer will be “no.” He’s known Tommy long enough to know that Tommy will only stop pestering him if he gets the answers he wants to have, but he can’t give it to Tommy. He can’t because he doesn’t have the answers either, because he’d like to know them as much as Tommy wants. Because it’s been weeks, and still no one has been able to explain it in a way that doesn’t make him want to strangle them.

Tommy bares his teeth. Great, he’s managed to piss of Tommy even more. “Fuck off! I’m not leaving until I get my answers.”

“Answers I can’t give you,” he says with a tone too taunting for his words. Tommy doesn’t know when to shut up, when to stop talking—he on the other hand— he’s always known. He’s always known, and he’s ignored it in the last three years he didn’t do it before, he doesn’t think he’d still be here if he had. “Maybe I could answer you if you gave me better questions.” He smiles thinly.

Tommy’s fingers twitch towards his side as if he’s taking out his axe or his sword any minute, striking him down. Killing him for good. Maybe that’s the better—the best—outcome. “You know exactly what I’m talking about! I’m not stupid, bitch.”

He rolls his eyes, “If you say so.” Nothing he says will ever convince Tommy from the opposite.

“I want you gone from my life,” Tommy says through gritted teeth instead of yelling at Dream to stop lying, to start telling the truth, to start giving Tommy the answers he so desperately longs for.

And it’s almost a surprise. It’s almost a surprise, but it’s been a long time since anything has been able to truly surprise him, so he just rolls his eyes, breathes to keep himself calm.

He has to clench his hands into fists.

“Then we agree on at least one matter,” he says, voice completely void of any emotion. “Look, I don’t want you in my life either, so if you could just do me the favor and fucking leave, that would be amazing.” If it was just that easy to make Tommy leave, if simple words could make Tommy see that he should go, that he should shut up, that he’s not welcomed, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe they wouldn’t be in front of this Community House. Maybe Hope would have never found him.

Tommy’s face is red, he breathes heavily, “Listen to me! Listen! Because you didn’t listen when I just told you. I’m going when you give me my answers!”

Answers he can’t give. His nails dig into his skin, grounding him, reminding him of his goal to be left alone and continue enjoying his life. It’s too late for this anyway. Tommy already destroyed this perfectly fine day.

“I can’t give you your answers, Tommy!” he unintentionally raises his voice, watches Tommy flinch and ignores it. “There are none!” He hates to admit that he’s just as clueless as Tommy. He hates it so much—he’s always prided himself in knowing secrets and motives and goals. He’s always prided himself in knowing things, no one—no one—should ever know of, in knowing people’s deepest, darkest secrets.

And now he only knows as much as Tommy. It’s a disgrace. It’s a disgrace and embarrassing.

“You’re lying.” Tommy stares at him with cold eyes, and it makes him wish, it was actually like this. That he’s lying, that he knows exactly what’s going on, that this is all part of a plan to get world domination, to become the tyrant he truly is people see him as.

He shrugs. It’s not his problem if Tommy doesn’t believe him—as long as Tommy leaves him alone and stops bothering him. “That’s the third time you said that. If you want to believe it, do it.”

He knows the conversation hasn’t ended; not for Tommy at least (for him it ended before it even started), but he still gets up, turns around to leave and lock himself up in his room, expecting an angry “bitch!” any second.

“I see you have a cat,” he hears instead.

He doesn’t think he’s ever turned around faster than now; he still makes himself keep calm, force the panic down, keep his voice and breathing as steady as possible. “And?”

Before Tommy mentioned Hope, he hadn’t been able to see her, but now she’s standing on a windowsill, her eyes on him. Tommy hadn’t been supposed to see her—hadn’t been supposed to ever learn about her.

Tommy’s head is tilted; he doesn’t like the expression on Tommy’s face. “I didn’t expect you to still have attachments. Didn’t you have a whole speech about this?”

He had—multiple times. But to eliminate all of his attachments, he’d have needed to destroy this server. Would have needed to kill every single person in this world.

“Fuck off,” he says, sounding more tired than he’s ever planned to do. He just wants his peace, just wants to be left alone, just wants to spend his days with Hope without anyone trying to shove therapy down his throat, without any annoying children people, without anyone really.

Tommy scoffs.

For a moment, he closes his eyes. “There are no answers, Tommy,” he finally says, trying not to grit his teeth. “I can’t give you an explanation as to why I’m out of prison other than my age. Take that as you will. I don’t care.”

“There’s no fucking way you’re only out because of your age! What did you do?!”

Sometimes, there are even now times when he wishes he’d have an axe and his strength from before the prison.

“We talked about it. You got away with all your bullshit because of your age and now people excuse my actions due to my age as well. Easy as that. Even someone like you should be able to understand that.” He can’t help himself but add the last part. Tommy is already angry as it is.

Tommy narrows his eyes. “How did you get everyone to pity you?”

He didn’t do anything to get anyone’s pity. He didn’t even want it—but Tommy doesn’t understand because for him there’s apparently no way that anyone could even feel the slightest amount of pity for him other than manipulation.

“Child soldiers, Tommy. Doesn’t it ring a bell?” He tilts his head. “Isn’t that the reason why you got all the help they offered?” Even to him, his voice sounds sickly sweet.

“You mani—”

He cuts Tommy off before he can even finish this sentence, “I didn’t manipulate anyone. If anything, it’s your fault that we’re here.”

If Tommy had just waited a few more seconds after he revived Wilbur, if Tommy would start thinking before acting, if Tommy hadn’t in a fit of childish rage knocked off the mask, they wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t stand in front of the Community House, there wouldn’t be a cat sitting next to him. He would still be surrounded by black obsidian and sweet, sweet air.

“It’s not my fault.” Tommy’s voice is shaking as if he’s trying to believe these words himself, as if there’s not as much confidence behind these words as he wants to convey, as if there’s a little voice in his mind telling him that he’s wrong, that it is his fault.

“You sure?” He raises an eyebrow. “Because if I remember correctly, it was you who knocked the mask off my face. If you never had done it, no one would have ever known. Not from me at least.” Or from anyone. The only people who knew are dead or Universes away. Not a single person in this world, maybe not even in this Universe knew about his real age, about the King and his Army of Admins—and no one should’ve ever learned about it.

He doesn’t think he will never not be bitter about this.

“Fuck you,” Tommy hisses.

“Fuck you, too, Tommy.” Gods. He’s so, so tired. “Just leave me alone. Our story is over. It’s been over for a long time.” It’s been over the day, he was thrown into the prison, the day everyone was supposed to turn against him, the day he threatened Tubbo with death and taunted Tommy with fake disks.

It should have stayed like this.

He turns around with no intention to look at Tommy ever again.

“Over? Didn’t you tell me otherwise?” It might have been funny how surprised Tommy sounds if not for the fact that his day has been ruined and that he wants to do nothing more than sleep now and ignore everything and everyone else.

He presses his lips together, forcing himself to not look for Hope. “The vault was our last stop. There’s nothing else. Move on.”

“Move on?” Tommy laughs humorlessly. “You abused me!” There it is again. He doesn’t understand.

“I didn’t abuse you!” he spits out because he didn’t. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

Tommy’s silent, and for a moment, for a single moment, he thinks it might be it, it might make Tommy turn around and leave him and Hope alone forever.

For a moment, he’s so naïve as if the last eight years never happened, as if his parents were still alive, as if the soldiers didn’t leave his still breathing sister back lying in her own blood while their village burned down around her.

“You took everything from me, Dream,” Tommy says quietly, and somehow, it’s worse than Tommy screaming because then he knows what to expect next, he knows what Tommy might do—because he knows quiet doesn’t mean peaceful, he knows Tommy is still angry, he knows. He still hears the anger in his voice, still hears the frustrations and the accusations and the hatred.

“You wanted every single attachment I had left,” Tommy spits out, his voice getting louder again. “Maybe it’s time you feel the same!”

His legs are trembling. The bandages aren’t tight enough around his hands— Hope—

“Fuck you!” Tommy yells. “Fuck you. You destroyed everything! Everything! And you’re not even sorry for it!”

He—

“You don’t feel bad for anything you did,” Tommy repeats. Why can’t he— He should— can’t. “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much!”

Hope—

He can’t whirl around, can’t make his body move, can’t even turn his head, all he can do is stand frozen in shock, a pitiful, pained meow in his ears.

“You didn’t,” he breathes out.

His hands are shaking again. He feels like throwing up, like digging his nails into his arms until he’s bleeding, until there’s more than just this— than just this numbness where anger should be. Where anger and hurt and the want for revenge should be.

Tommy didn’t. He didn’t. He— he didn’t.

His eyes are burning.

“You didn’t,” he whispers. “You didn’t.”

Hi George,

it’s just fair that I write you a letter, too, isn’t it? Jokes aside.

You were one of my closest friends until you weren’t, and I feel like I should at least thank you for helping me. After the prison, I mean. When Sapnap brought me back, and you gave me the help I needed without asking, without looking at my age. I think.

And for giving me the strength all these years ago to leave the Army. I don’t think I could’ve done it without you (and Sapnap). If you hadn’t been there, I would still be a soldier. Or maybe I would be dead. I don’t know.

Things have been crappy, for all of us, and I know it’s my fault as well—it makes one wonder, you know? What if I had never done anything, would things still be the same? Would we still fish at the Community House with the others? Would our Community House still stand? Would everyone be happier? Would you be happier?

I wish I could answer these questions—I wish I could change the past, so we’d have an answer. I thought I could get to this point, turns out, I couldn’t. I’m sorry.

I know you wanted a calm life on a small server without wars and fights. I wish I could have been able to give it to you instead of creating a server almost as bad as the one we left. I wasn’t able to; I hope you can forgive me.

This is not a farewell letter—it’s not supposed to be. These are just things I want you to know—and things I know I will never be able to tell you. Call me a coward; I probably am.

One day, we’ll be able to talk to each other face to face again. But for now, this letter has to be enough. I’m sorry. I know you deserve a better explanation, a better apology than a letter. You know talking about these kinds of things has never been a strength of mine.

Maybe if I have the courage

Talk to you soon

Don’t sleep too much, George. I doubt it’s good for your health if you do it.

Dream

He doesn’t cry when he sees Hope’s body lay on the floor. He doesn’t cry; he doesn’t think he still has the energy to do so. He doesn’t think he’ll ever have the energy to cry again.

There’s no sadness, no anger, no hatred, there’s just— there’s nothing. Nothing more than this same emptiness, this same hopelessness, this same numbness, he’s ever felt since that day in snow biomes surrounded by black tents, a bloody smile on his skin.

He should’ve lost hope that day, and like the naïve fool he is, he didn’t. He carried Corpse’s words in his heart, knowing hoping and nothing else that things would get better. That things could get better for him. That things would change. That he could forget, that he could find what he’s always craved, wanted needed.

He should’ve known. He should’ve known better, should’ve known that things will never change. Not for him. Never for him.

He didn’t lose hope that day, instead he promised he’d Corpse he’d find the family he had always known he’d have one day, the home he’d always talked about in cold nights, a porcelain mask uncomfortably pressing against his face.

And then…and then he had it. For mere seconds before all of it was taken away from him again, before things stopped the way they were supposed to be, before his family, his home, his friends were ripped away from him again.

He knows, he knows it’s his fault, that he’s not innocent in what happened, that maybe things would be better if he just let them do it, if he just minded his own business, if he had just stayed in the shadows.

If he hadn’t tried to unite a server that never wanted to be united, never wanted to be a family, never wanted to be a home.

And still— and still like the foolish idiot he was, he didn’t lose hope to find it. To get it—thinking he deserved it like everyone else, too—even after L’Manberg, even after Pogtopia and Manberg, even after everything. But if he deserved it, he wouldn’t have lost it all again and again and again, would he? He’s never deserved it. He knows it now.

He knows it now that he can’t lift his eyes from Hope’s body. Now that another innocent being had to lose their life because of him.

He’ll always just bring misfortune and death and war.

He turns around, away from Hope and Tommy (who hasn’t moved since he killed Hope, who hasn’t said a single word, who stares at him as if Tommy’s waiting for a specific reaction, as if Tommy’s waiting for him to start screaming and yelling and crying he wishes he could). Away from the last thing that kept him here—

There’s no point anymore. There’s no point in talking to Tommy (there’s never been one), there’s no point in staying here.

He thought, he hoped there was. That there was still something for him here. He should’ve known better, should’ve listened to his brain instead of his heart.

There’s never been anything left in this world, in this Universe. There’s never been anything left for him, and now it’s time to finally accept it. To accept it and move on like he should’ve had so many months ago.

Like he should’ve had before Sapnap found him on this cliff that day. Like he should’ve had after he visited Techno. Like he should’ve had that day in the vault.

But he didn’t, he didn’t, and it ended up here. It ended up with another death, with more bloodshed, just when he thought, when he thought that maybe, maybe it was possible for him too to move on, to start a new life. When he thought he could leave this server, could leave his friends them, could leave this server that once stood for new beginnings and peace. When he thought that maybe he’d be able to find a kinder, a better life.

He should’ve known better. He should’ve known that things won’t ever get better for him.

He breathes out, wishes he could feel more than acceptance, wishes he could feel hatred and anger, wishes he could pick up an axe and kill Tommy—but he can’t. He can’t. He’s just so tired. He just wants to rest. He just wants to fall asleep and never wake up again.

He just wants all of this to end.

He doesn’t think he can survive here another day. He doesn’t think he can stay here anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers when he’s far enough away from Tommy far enough away from where Hope died. “I’m so, so sorry. You should’ve never met me.”

He doesn’t know if he’s apologizing to Hope. Or Corpse. Or any of all these other people he took with him in the darkness. Maybe it’s all of them.

“Maybe you would have lived a better life.”

His fingernails dig into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of this.”

He doesn’t cry. He wishes he could. He wishes he could cry so badly.

“You would still be alive without me after all.”

He can’t breathe. His arms are bleeding, the bandages discarded on the floor.

The room feels cold, feels empty without her.

He wants his mask back, wants to run his fingers over porcelain, engraved smiles and through soft fur, wants to close his eyes and see something else than a lifeless body at his feet.

He wants to get up, wants to get armor and weapons, wants to gain his strength back.

But he can’t, he can’t. He can’t even breathe—he just feels so, so cold.

He just wants to die.

The Void is freezing. The Void is freezing, and he feels like he’s floating, like there’s nothing weighing him down, like he can close his eyes without seeing Hope and lava, snow and obsidian, empty books and dirty glowstone, like he can breathe without a sickly-sweet smell in the air, like there’s still a warm, small body next to him curled on his bed.

The Void is freezing, and he can’t find Hope, can’t find her ghost, can’t find the smallest hint of her, of her existence. He can’t find anything.

The Void is freezing, and there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He wakes up.

He still feels cold, he still can’t breathe.

Pandas Sap Sapnap,

I don’t know why I’m writing you. I don’t even know why I started writing letters at all, but here we are, I guess.

You know when you visited me that day in the prison, I thought any relationship we ever had was over because our friendship was over that day you believed Tommy over me and it’s my fault because I planned it out, but it still hurt—and it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. I wish I could blame you for that .

I want to be angry at you. I want to hate you. I want to resent you for believing Tommy over me, for throwing away years of friendship because you trusted him instead of listening to me. Gods. I want to yell at you—but I can’t. I can’t do all of them. I don’t think I have the energy anymore.

And it’s my fault that we turned out like this anyway, isn’t it?

You were once like a brother to me, my best friend, the person I trusted the most. I wish, Gods, I wish so fucking much it could have stayed like this. That we were still Sapnap and Dream and George—the Dream Team—from the beginning of the SMP. I wish we were still best friends, I wish we were still as close as brothers. I wish it would’ve been possible to repair our friendship, but I don’t think I can’t too late I wish it’s just not possible anymore.

It doesn’t have something to do with you. Not directly at least, but there were other things that happened. Other things that made me realize I can’t stay here any longer. And I know if I talked to you, I could never do it.

It’s not your fault what will happen next. Don’t blame yourself—even if you’d known, you wouldn’t have been able to stop me. It’s too late now. Maybe it’s always been too late.

Gods. I’m sorry. I just wish things would have been different. That I would have done things differently. You know, I always thought I did the right thing, did what was best for the server, for my friends family you all.

Turns out it wasn’t. I still don’t know where I went wrong, what I should’ve done differently to never get to this point—if I wasn’t I didn’t lie the King never things had been different, maybe we could still be the same. Not that it matters now.

I hope am not entirely sure whether you can read this if you ever will. My hands are shaking, my vision is blurred. Hopefully The ink better not smudge. 

We could have been so much more. We used to be the best.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

I miss us.

Don’t forget to eat. You know you won’t be able to fight properly otherwise.

Dream

It’s surprisingly warm for the fact that it’s almost three AM.

Tubbo knows he shouldn’t be out—he should be with Ranboo and Michael in the Snowchester Mansion, he should be lying in his bed, he should be sleeping and nothing else. If it is just that easy.

It’s been weeks since the first anniversary of his second death, and yet his hands don’t stop shaking, he still sees fireworks whenever he closes his eyes. He doesn’t remember the last time he slept through a night, and the fact— the fact that he hasn’t talked properly to Tommy in weeks doesn’t help at all. (It doesn’t help either that he’s barely seen Wilbur, barely talked to Phil. He doesn’t remember the last time he had a conversation with Techno.)

And he knows he should be the bigger person in this scenario, he knows—all of his brothers have always been stubborn at times; stubborn and unreasonable and incapable of admitting when they’re wrong. So, it’s always been him—Tubbo who forgives but never forgets—to take the first step, to go to them and talk, to apologize.

He doesn’t know why it’s different this time. Why an argument about Dream of all things is the reason why he hasn’t talked to Tommy in weeks. Why it’s so difficult to return from Snowchester and see Tommy or Wilbur or Techno or even Phil.

He doesn’t resent them (he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted), doesn’t resent any of them—it shouldn’t be as difficult as it is to see Wilbur and talk to Tommy and visit Phil. He’s not sure about Techno; he’s never sure about Techno. (He forgave Techno for his own execution, but the problem isn’t Tubbo’s, it’s Techno’s. It’s always been Techno’s execution that held him back from reaching out.)

There’s no excuse that he agreed to execute his own brother, that he put Phil on house arrest, that he let Quackity do whatever he wanted just because Tubbo hadn’t the spine, the confidence to say “no.” To stand behind his opinions and decisions, to not let them talk over him when it’s been him who had been L’Manberg’s President.

But he let it happen, he agreed to the Butcher Army and to executing Techno (who once used to read him stories of heroes and villains and battles), he agreed to standing up to Dream and then decided on his own in the last minute against it, destroying Tommy’s and his friendship—trying to become his own person, a better president, someone who isn’t just a yes-man, only to end up as a person far too similar to Schlatt a monster.

And now he can’t sleep. Now he has to leave the mansion in the middle of the night to not lose his mind. Now he has to walk around the server for hours to make his hands stop shaking, to get his breathing steady again, so he doesn’t worry Ranboo.

Now he’s walking towards the crater where L’Manberg once used to be—so close to Tommy, to an apology, to getting his best friend, his brother back, and yet somehow so far away as if it’s impossible to repair their friendship, as if it’s impossible to get back what they once used to be before L’Manberg and wars and disks, as if their relationship is irreparably destroyed.

It shouldn’t be as hard as it is to knock on Tommy’s door and demand a conversation. He’s used to do it all the time when they were younger and Tommy was moping because of a lost game or because Wilbur and Techno didn’t have time to play with them or because Phil didn’t allow Tommy to use one of Techno’s diamond and netherite axes for practice.

It shouldn’t be as hard as it is because it has always worked, and Tubbo doesn’t doubt it would work again. Is Tommy missing him as much as Tubbo misses him?

And yet, it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever had to do—and he chose to exile his best friend, his younger brother. The only family member that hadn’t left him yet.

He doesn’t remember when he started to feel like he never belonged to them. Like he was a friend instead of their brother.

So, he walks around the SMP as if it could stop these thoughts, as if he could stop feeling, as if he could start believing that things can get better, that he deserves Ranboo and Michael, that Tommy’s and his friendship is reparable.

He forces himself to look away from Tommy’s new base, forces himself to visit the result of one of his greatest regrets.

It’s been a long time since he last saw the hole that once used to be L’Manberg (and if he’s honest, maybe this was a bad decision. If he’s honest, he could have gone a lifetime without ever seeing the crater again. If he’s honest, he should have never left his bed, should have never left Ranboo and Michael, should have never left the mansion).

But he’s here now, he’s here now, and his hands are still shaking—or maybe they’re shaking even more than before. He doesn’t know, not that it matters.

He tightens his hands to fists, not wanting to see his fears and self-hatred and doubt manifested and almost jumps when he hears breathing; not like Tommy’s—ragged and shaky and unsteady—but it’s not calm and deep either, almost as if someone’s trying to regain control over their breathing again after crying.

It makes him look up, not really worried that he might get killed without any weapons, without armor on him (if someone tried to kill him, he’d be long dead).

He stares into a face so unfamiliar and yet so known. He can’t see the freckles or Dream’s eye color in the dark, but the moonlight makes the scar under Dream’s eye stand out even more. Tubbo could swear Dream’s eyes look swollen and bloodshot, but Dream looks away too quickly for Tubbo to be sure.

“Dream,” he says, hating how surprised he sounds even if it’s the truth, even if it’s his real emotion. He is surprised to see Dream out at this hour and sitting on a block, mere steps away from the crater he’s responsible for.

Dream has never cared for L’Manberg—not about more than its destruction, but this doesn’t feel like Dream came to gloat over L’Manberg’s third and final destruction either.

“Hello, Tubbo,” Dream says. His voice shakes, and he sounds so, so tired. Exhausted. Done with everything. Tubbo feels like this far too often.

“What are you doing here?” It’s uncomfortable to tilt his head back just to be able to watch Dream who looks like he’s lost any goal in life.

Maybe he should feel scared, he thinks as he stares at Dream’s white hoodie that should be lime green instead, maybe he should walk away, maybe he should try and contact Ranboo for back-up, but— but there’s nothing scary, nothing threatening about Dream in this moment.

In this moment, it’s just so, so easy to remember that Dream is human too. That he’s human, not just tyrant and puppeteer and villain.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Tubbo adds as an explanation. It’s Dream’s server—even after everything that has happened. Dream has every right to sit on this block and look at a crater he created with hundreds pieces of TNT.

“Here?” Dream tilts his head; the gesture feels so familiar, but while it would usually induce fear in Tubbo, it just feels like curiosity now, not like Dream might jump him any minute and stab him.

He doesn’t know if it’s just stupidity on his part to trust Dream so easily that he won’t kill Tubbo or maybe it’s the feeling that this Dream is nothing like the Dream from almost seven months ago. If he didn’t know that those two people are the same person, he doesn’t think he’d have believed it.

He knows the others still struggle with this—they still only see the Dream he used to be months ago before Pandora’s Vault. The Dream he used to be just with a different age.

Tubbo on the other hand has always moved on quickly, has always changed with time and for the people around him. Sometimes he doesn’t remember who he is. And that means he’s accepted for weeks now that Dream’s a changed person—that not only their knowledge of his age changed, but that he himself changed as a whole person and not that he changed in their eyes because they now know he’s not twenty-one.

So, Tubbo just nods as an answer to Dream’s question and sits down on a block—below Dream, but it makes it easier to keep an eye on him.

Dream sighs, pulling his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly. “You’re not wrong.”

“Then why are you here?” he asks, grimacing at how rude it sounds, but he doesn’t take his words back, and he doesn’t add more to it.

“This is still my world, Tubbo,” Dream says quietly, still not looking at Tubbo. Dream’s face is empty, not a single emotion to be seen on it.

Dream doesn’t sound mad or angry or irritated—he just sounds so, so exhausted—and Tubbo still flinches at the words. He shouldn’t. This isn’t his country anymore, not his home and not his place to return to, this is nothing but a crater and dirt nothing more than a memory, a reminder of what it could’ve been.

“I didn’t mean—” Dream shakes his head. “I’m not going to take anything from you again. I just— I just felt the need— I had hoped—” He stops abruptly, and even after a few seconds pass, he doesn’t continue speaking. He just stares into the distance.

“Hoped?” Tubbo finally asks, unsure.

Dream blinks, his face is still as expressionless as before. “Nothing.”

“Okay…” It’s obvious it’s not “nothing,” but Tubbo won’t force Dream to talk. He doesn’t think he even could if he wanted to. They’re not friends, they don’t trust each other, they won’t tell the other about their problems.

“What are you doing here?” Dream asks after a few moments of silence.

Tubbo hums, looking at the sky. He wishes he could see more stars. “Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I should just walk around to tire myself out.”

“You’re pretty far away from Snowchester just to get rid of excess energy.”

Tubbo is, but it’s not like he planned on ending up here. He hadn’t wanted to stay out this long, by now he’d normally be back in the mansion, lying in his bed, trying to get at least a few hours of sleep. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep at all today—he might only get back when the sun’s already rising, and if he’s not up by nine AM which he always is, Ranboo will be worried.

“…yeah.”

“There’s really not a lot left,” Dream remarks as if it’s a surprise that withers and TNT might leave long-lasting effects. As if he didn’t know that no one wanted to rebuild L’Manberg. As if he and Techno and Phil didn’t make sure that there would never be another L’Manberg.

“That’s to be expected when TNT is raining from the sky,” Tubbo says drily.

Dream laughs quietly; he doesn’t sound amused. Happy. He sounds like he’s forcing emotional reactions out of himself. “You’re right, you’re right.” He sighs. “I honestly didn’t expect it to work that well.”

Tubbo scoffs. “Well. It did.”

Dream doesn’t respond, so Tubbo doesn’t say anything either. He just sits on his block, back resting against another one, head tilted back. It feels peaceful, more peaceful than anything Dream involved should feel like, and yet here they are. Here they are, not trying to kill each other. Not trying to blackmail and hurt and manipulate.

Just a peaceful night. (Tubbo knows Tommy would make fun of him for trusting Dream so quickly, for falling for Dream’s tricks and manipulation, for being naïve and an idiot and so, so foolish. He doesn’t find it in himself to care.)

Dream clears his throat. “Did you talk to any of your brothers recently?”

Tubbo frowns, glancing at Dream who still hugs his knees, who still doesn’t look at Tubbo, who still doesn’t show a single emotion even without the mask. The question— the question is surprising, nothing he’d expected. “Why are you asking?”

Dream shrugs. “Just curious. I expected you to come visit Wilbur with Tommy a few weeks ago.”

He knows Tommy visited Wilbur a few weeks ago, meeting Dream at Phil’s house. Tubbo doesn’t know though what exactly has happened—he’s only heard from Ranboo who heard from Techno who had heard from Wilbur.

“A few weeks ago? I— I spoke to Wilbur.” He pauses, not sure why he’s saying this. There’s no need for Dream to know. “I haven’t really talked to Tommy ever since.” He hasn’t really talked to Tommy ever since they had an argument about Dream. About telling the rest of the server of Dream’s age and the real reason why they let him out early.

“Hm.” Dream closes his eyes. “I guessed so.” Guessed so? Dream makes as much sense as always—which means he doesn’t make sense at all. But it’s not surprising, it’s Dream.

“Did something happen?” Tubbo asks carefully.

Dream shakes his head. “Nothing, just Tommy visiting me like I said earlier.” If it was “nothing,” Dream wouldn’t have asked Tubbo about this; Tubbo would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about what Tommy and Dream talked. All he knows for sure is the fact that there’s been a lot of screaming and yelling and headaches for all people involved.

“Tommy visited you,” Tubbo murmurs, not a question, just a statement.

“He did,” Dream confirms. “We had a nice…conversation.”

Tubbo scoffs again. “Yeah.” They sure had a nice conversation. Sure. Because Tommy’s known for being calm and collected and thinking about what he wants to say before actually doing so.

Tommy’s always been quick to anger, always been quick to act, always been quick to do things he regrets, and while it is something that annoys Tubbo at times, while he wishes Tommy would stop to think for a second, he also knows it’s just how Tommy is, and that he doesn’t want it any different at the end of the day. Even if it means that there are tons of unnecessary arguments over the stupidest topics.

Even if it means not talking to each other for weeks.

Tubbo really should get it together and visit Tommy—the last time they went for such a long time without talking was during exile, and it had ended with Tommy running away and Tubbo thinking Tommy had killed himself.

Gods. He should’ve looked after Tommy such a long time ago.

“I think it’s time I apologize to you, Tubbo,” Dream says so quietly Tubbo almost misses it.

He splutters, “Apologize?”

Dream hums, still staring at the crater, hands tightly curled into fists. Only now does Tubbo notice how loose Dream’s bandages are—he’s only ever seen him with tightly wrapped bandages or none at all, now they dangle from Dream’s hands as if Dream doesn’t care anymore.

“I want to apologize,” Dream repeats. “For what I said during the disk confrontation.” Dream pauses. “You know you wouldn’t have died that day, do you?”

Tubbo blinks, frozen. “What?”

“You wouldn’t have died that day.” Tubbo hates that Dream still won’t look at him, that Dream hasn’t looked him in the eyes once during their conversation. “There’s no version in which Punz would’ve come too late.”

No version? He frowns. Dream’s words don’t even make sense. What “version” is he talking about and why does he make it sound like it’s more than just an outbidding? Tommy was able to give Punz more money than Dream could, so Punz betrayed Dream…right?

“I’m sorry? What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you think it was weird I gave you so much time to say your goodbyes?” Dream asks.

“I— now that you— this…” he trails off, not sure what to say. He’s never really thought about it—trying to forget and suppress, hoping to never be reminded of this again—, but now that Dream has mentioned it, it feels weird. The Dream back then had been ruthless and cruel and an asshole, not someone who would’ve given them such a long time to say goodbye.

“The plan was to unite the server,” Dream says instead of explaining— or maybe that’s his explanation. An explanation that doesn’t make a lot of sense for Tubbo (but Tubbo’s never been the smart one of his siblings; that’s always been Wilbur and Techno. Tubbo has always just been, well, Tubbo).

So he asks, “Unite the server? How? What do you mean?”

He doesn’t get an answer, Dream doesn’t even acknowledge his question. They sit once again in silence on blocks in the night while everyone else is asleep—when they should be asleep as well.

Dream sighs. “You did a good job, Tubbo.” These words don’t feel right coming out of Dream’s mouth. He shouldn’t sound so defeated, shouldn’t look so exhausted, shouldn’t have slumped shoulders and blank expressions. He shouldn’t be dressed in white instead of green and purple. His face shouldn’t be bare for the entire world to see. He shouldn’t be fifteen.

“Dream?” he asks, worry obvious in his voice. Dream and Tubbo might never become good friends, might never become closer than acquaintances, might never be more than Dream and Tubbo who sat together at the crater where L’Manberg once used to be, but that doesn’t mean Tubbo can’t—won’t—be worried.

Dream gets up, his knees crack and for a split seconds it looks like he might fall, then he catches himself, a hand against a block, steadying himself. “I have to go,” he says, voice carefully emotionless. “Just know that you couldn’t have done your job better than you already did—especially with these circumstances.”

Tubbo doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand why Dream is saying all of this, why Dream won’t stay and talk to him more than just in these riddles—

“Dream, hold on. What do you—” He tries reaching out, tries to hold onto Dream’s arm, but Dream won’t let Tubbo even get close enough to touch him.

“Goodbye, Tubbo. It’s time to move on. Live a good life with Ranboo and Michael. And the rest of your family.” He hesitates. “You should talk to Tommy.” (Tubbo isn’t sure if he’s imagining the anger, the hurt, the pain in Dream’s voice when he mentions Tommy, not that he’s asking, not that he has the time to question and wonder and be confused by this.)

And with these words Dream disappears into the darkness, leaving Tubbo behind with more questions than answers, with worry and dread filling him, with the feeling he will never see Dream again.

(Later he wonders if he could have stopped Dream. If he could have changed fate and saved a life. Later he wonders if things could have been different. If the future only ever had one outcome.)

Dear Technoblade,

I know it’s weird that I write you. We’ve never been really more than rivals or maybe “partners” for a short period of time after all. If I’m honest, I don’t know why I’m writing you this letter either. You don’t really seem like a very sentimental person who cares a lot about these kinds of things.

I just I guess I want to say thank you for not betraying me. For seeing me as a human being even though I know, for seeing more in me than there actually is.

I’m sorry we never had the chance to spar again after the prison—or during this time really. Not that it would have been very fun for either of us. I can’t even pick up an axe I can see that now.

This will sound very cheesy, but you will definitely be able to retire and live a life without being a warrior first. Maybe the SMP will finally quieten down, become more peaceful. I don’t know if it’s even possible. Or you can always move worlds—it honestly might be the better decision. The SMP is not a good place for all of us.

Maybe it would be better to destroy it.

I don’t want to bore you with this stuff.

I just want to say thank you and goodbye. This will be the last time you will hear from me.

I’m sorry that I promised you a quiet, peaceful server and that I couldn’t keep it. I wish I had been able to.

Dream.

PS: Maybe you want to talk to Tubbo. Or any of your other brothers. I know it sounds weird coming from me as I’m definitely the person to come to if you have problems with your family, your friends or SO. Still.

I don’t think any of them are happy. You might You don’t have to obviously, and I definitely don’t have any right to comment on your relationships with your family, but. Before it gets worse

I just wanted to mention this. Do whatever you want with it.

PPS: Tell Phil that his offer was appreciated, but that I won’t be able to accept it. Please also tell Wilbur that his hot chocolate tastes good except that there’s not enough sugar in it. He might want to change his recipe. He is also not slick at all.

There are stars in the night sky. Somehow, it feels like it’s been ages since he last saw them even though he’s spent every single minute outside the Community House ever since he came back from the Void with empty hands and an even emptier heart.

Sometimes, he wonders if he’s still alive—or if he’s nothing more than just the empty shell of a broken person.

It’s been only a few days since Hope’s death, and yet it seems like he’s already forgotten what it feels like to be more than numb, more than cold, more than emotionless.

It’s not like he doesn’t care, not like he’s not sad, but he wishes he could do more than sit in trees or on blocks, could do more than stare into the distance, could do more than do nothing. He wishes he could plan his revenge, wishes he could have goals and motivation to avenge Hope’s death. Wishes he’d had the strength to get up and pick up an axe, a shield, armor.

Wishes he’d had the ability to just cry.

But he can’t. He can’t. He can’t, and he doesn’t even know why. (He cried for his parents. He cried for his sister. He cried for Corpse. He should be crying for Hope as well—he should. He’s not.)

Somehow not being able to cry for Hope just makes everything worse. Worse and worse and worse and worse— as if it’s even possible for things to get worse.

He lays back; the grass feels cool under his fingertips.

The stars in the sky are too bright—as beautiful as they are, as much as he’s missed them, they’re too bright. Clouds would have been better. Clouds would have fit better.

It makes him wish for rain at least he could pretend this way he’s crying.

(Why is he not crying?)

Hey Punz,

I’m sorry it has to end like this. And I’m sorry you have to find out through a letter.

I think you deserve an explanation. It won’t can’t excuse anything, but this is the least I can do. If I’m honest, I’m not sure where to start or which parts would be more important than others. I’ll try my best.

I grew up on a server in a Universe that had a feud with another Universe for hundreds of years, but it was nothing more than empty threats. This changed less than two decades ago when my home Universe was attacked by the other Universe’s army. I’m sure you’ve already heard of the King’s Army, a deadly army consisting of only Admins trained to do nothing more than fight and kill.

It didn’t take more than a year to destroy half of the Universe, and another for the Army to reach my family’s home world. Until this day I can’t say for sure how they’re able to identify and find Admins, but I think it has to do with our code. Not that it really matters. When I was seven, they found my home village, my family—they killed all of them, burned the village to the ground. My sister They took me with them.

All of us were handed enchanted masks that were supposed to hide our age, alter our voices. Admins are always powerful with the right training, even at a very young age. Up to this day, I can’t offer you an explanation as to why they made us wear them.

I should have been eight when I was first sent to the front lines; a year later I had to change battalions. That was when I met Corpse, another Admin who was a few years older than me. He helped me, taught me how to hide my belongings so they wouldn’t find and burn them. It was my fault that he died; I made a mistake, a miscalculation, and he paid the price for it. He’s the reason for the smile.

Before his death he made me promise to find a family. And look how badly I failed.

You asked me back then what I meant that Pandora’s Vault wasn’t my first time locked up. Here’s your answer: The Army doesn’t like it when you disappoint them, and I did. Multiple times. But the obsidian box has never been just punishment, it has also been training—that was the main reason why I ended up in there when I was ten.

When I was eleven, I met George and Sapnap for the first time. Back then they thought I was seventeen which was the age the Army wanted them to believe. I never corrected them; I never saw a reason to do that.

You already know that I was thirteen when I left the Army and jumped Universes with George and Sapnap—without them I would have never done it because I thought they were the family I promised Corpse I’d have. Sam was the first person we got to know, he helped us, gave us a place to stay, but it wasn’t enough for either of us and as an Admin, it was easy to create a new world—nothing more than a snap with my fingers.

I created this world for my friends, for the people I thought could be my family. It was supposed to be a home for us where we could live in peace, far away from war and death. Obviously, it didn’t turn out like this. I don’t know when things went wrong. Maybe I should have allowed Wilbur to brew drugs, build a country. Maybe I should have never whitelisted Schlatt, or maybe I should have never given Wilbur the TNT he asked for. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know when everything turned to shit, when we all took the wrong path. When I failed so badly that the only conclusion I could reach was make myself the common enemy.

You told me I wasn’t a villain, but that was the whole point of everything I had ever planned. I wanted to be the villain they said I was because it obviously would bring them together to fight me. A united server, as it had been in the beginning when I just created it.

It worked out. I made people leave my side one after the other one. I even got Sapnap and George to turn against me. The vault—their attachments—, threatening to kill Tubbo and imprison Tommy were the final pieces of my plan, the main reason why it worked out the way it did.

You probably already know, but Schlatt has never possessed a book that could bring people from the Void. It’s been nothing more than myths and legends—the truth is that I shouldn’t have survived resurrecting Wilbur.

Pandora’s Vault has always been built for me. Not for Tommy. Not for anyone else. It has always been supposed to be me that ended up in there, but even if it had been for someone else, the conditions would’ve never been as bad as they were in the end. Not that I can truly blame anyone for it. The plan was my decision, I knew I would make people angry, that they wouldn’t think the best of me—that they would hate me. I honestly didn’t expect the prison to take this toll on me, but maybe that’s to be expected after four months of nothing more than the sound of lava falling down, of crying obsidian, of potatoes landing in water isolation.

I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect to get out of Pandora’s Vault ever again or at least not this quickly—it was my goal to never get out, but I did. I wish Pandora’s Vault would have helped me finding more reasons to stay, but if anything, it just showed me how many reasons there are to leave.

After my parents and my sister were killed, I never had a family again. Corpse, Sapnap and George might have been the closest to it that I could ever have, but Corpse is dead and after everything that has happened, I don’t think I can see Sapnap and George as my family ever again. Maybe I’m unfair because in the end, I set them up. In the end, I planned for this outcome, but I didn’t plan on Sapnap to visit and tell me that he would kill me, should I ever escape the prison. And I didn’t plan on anyone to forget and forgive my crimes solely because of my age.

I know what I did was bad, and they obviously do as well because otherwise I would have never been locked up in Pandora’s Vault. I don’t think I will ever understand how my age changes anything.

I want to thank you because it’s been months now in which I felt like you were my only friend left. I told you I didn’t believe you saw me as your friend, but I think I know now that we were always more than employee and employer. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better friend.

You should know that Hope adored you.

Dream

PS: Thank you for your hoodies. Sorry, you won’t get all of them back.

He stares at the letters in his hands. The letters he wrote before (not before as in before the prison or as in before the Army and dead parents and a killed sister and a murdered friend— before Hope—). Letters he wrote before, and letters that were never supposed to be send to any of them.

But now…now— now there’s a reason for him to send them those letters. Final explanations. Final apologies. Final thank you’s.

Because even if they’re not friends anymore, even if they’ve long stopped being something that aren’t acquaintances or strangers or enemies, it feels like it’s the least he can give them.

(Even though he first thought forcing them out of his life was better for them, it feels like this is something he has to do. He knows it’s selfish. He knows. He wishes he wasn’t. Wishes he wouldn’t subject them to read these letters. Wishes he could just do it without anyone ever learning about it. But he’s never been selfless. He’s never been selfless once in his life.)

Maybe he should rewrite these letters for George and Bad, should say goodbye properly, should not just give them something he wrote before—before Hope happened, before he made his decision.

But somehow it feels weird. Somehow it doesn’t feel right. Somehow it doesn’t feel like it’s something he should do, so he doesn’t. So he doesn’t.

So he carefully folds the paper, ignores the way his hands shake while writing the names of them on the letters, ignores how his bandages are coming loose again, ignores that he accidentally rips the paper by putting too much pressure on the pen.

He stands up, straightens his back. Normally, Hope would sit on the table next to the letters and—

They’re easily seeable, impossible to miss. He hopes they only find them when it’s over. When there’s nothing to delay and hinder. When he’s gone. When he’s finally gone. (When he’s gone like he’s wanted for years months.)

No one’s checked up on him for days, it should be fine. It should be fine.

He leaves the door open.

The water is cool and gentle. It’s cool—not cold and freezing, not hot and burning.

Just cool and gentle.

Cool and gentle and nothing else.

Why can’t things ever stay like this?

Maybe he should be scared of dying. Maybe he should be scared of the Void’s cold. Maybe he should be scared of disappearing. Maybe.

He doesn’t know if he can. If it’s possible. If someone like him a monster, a puppeteer, a villain, a manipulator is even capable of allowed to feeling like this.

Not that it would stop him either way.

He’s made up his mind a long time ago. It’s time to go.

It’s time to stop letting people try to convince him that he can get better, that he deserves it, that he’s allowed the help they offer. They’re wrong. (There’s no other explanation for it. Otherwise people wouldn’t hurt and die and bleed all around him. Otherwise he wouldn’t fail and fail and fail—)

It’s time to stop believing in fairy tales and happy endings. He’s never deserved it anyway.

He turns away as soon as he spots lava.

Sometimes, he still feels his fingertips burns, and as much, as much as the pain is able to ground him, he doesn’t think he can walk into lava again.

How often did he burn but didn’t die? How often would he have to repeat it until it’s finally over?

He could return to the cliff, could return to the mountain, could return to the place where he was already stopped once.

It feels like bad luck going back. Like he won’t succeed again. Like someone will be fast enough to stop him.

It’s stupid, but he doesn’t want to risk anything. Doesn’t want to be stopped again. Doesn’t want to be brought back to the Community House and put under constant watch.

He just wants to be free.

The SMP is quiet. The SMP is so, so quiet it almost doesn’t feel like the SMP.

He can’t remember the last time the SMP was quiet, that there weren’t shouts and explosions and screams. That it was just him without armor or weapons, without the fear someone might attack and kill him.

He can’t remember.

The SMP is quiet, somehow it makes it feel like the perfect opportunity. Like the perfect chance. Like the perfect possibility.

The SMP is quiet, and his time is over.

He will do it tonight.

<Dream whispers to you> im sorry punz i tried

<You whisper to Dream> is everything okay? is something wrong? can i somehow help you?

<You whisper to Dream> dream?

You just want to close your eyes and never open them ever again.

It’s the night before your twenty-second sixteenth birthday when you climb the stairs of the cobblestone tower in the middle of the Mainland—without a cat following behind you. Without a cat pressing her head against your leg. Without a cat forcing you to step down again.

It’s the night before your twenty-second sixteenth birthday, and you’ve long accepted you’ll never see this day, you’ll never survive until then.

Maybe it’s a miracle that you’re still alive. That you’re still breathing. That you didn’t die in snow biomes with black tents and bloody smiles drawn on your skin. That you didn’t die within obsidian walls and glow stones in the corner of the rooms with empty books and ticking clocks.

Maybe. You don’t know. 

As you stare into the cloudless sky—no mask covering your face, no armor weighing you down, no weapons making you the monster they think you are that you are—you feel free for the first time in years. For the first time since you were thirteen seven. Since they killed your parents and took you away.

You feel— you are free. You are as free as you can be. It will be your last time. Even if you’re not happy, even if this is your last day alive, even if you stopped believing that things will be better, even if you’ve long given up on a family and a home— you are free. You’ve never been this free before.

You can feel the wind on your skin and in your hair, and you wish, you wish you could hear the rustling of leaves and birds chirping in a forest and the breaking of waves on a beach. You wish you could hear a cat meowing softly. You wish you could see the sun for one last time. You won’t.

It’s the night before your twenty-second sixteenth birthday, and you think you’re ready to go. You think you’re ready to leave this world behind. To leave your family and your friends. Your family that never has been and your friends who abandoned you. Who you abandoned first.

It’s the night before your twenty-second sixteenth birthday, and not for the first time you wonder if you will see your parents again. If you will see your sister and if you will see Corpse when you finally return to the Void. If you might find Hope again in the depths of the Void you will never reach as a breathing being, as long as you’re alive.

It’s the night before your twenty-second sixteenth birthday, and this time, there’s no one here to stop you. There’s no one here to delay the inevitable. There’s no one here to catch you when you fall. There’s no one here to grab your arm and pull you away from the edge of the tower.

This time, you will succeed, and this time, there won’t be any empty broken promises that can save you.

This time, you will finish what started when you were thirteen seven and they killed your entire family. What should have happened when you were fourteen eight and brought to the front lines. When you were fifteen nine and got to know Corpse. When you were sixteen ten and were locked up in a black box and dirty glowstone for the first time. When you were seventeen eleven and you got your only friend killed because of a mistake you made.

When you were nineteen thirteen and ran away from the Army and the war and death, when they fought you for independence and freedom and a home. When you were twenty fourteen and watched your server burn. When you were twenty-one fifteen and locked up in Pandora’s Vault.

You should have died so many years ago—you shouldn’t stand on this tower, shouldn’t let your legs dangle over the edge, shouldn’t look at the night sky, shouldn’t wish to be able to cry. (Cry for your parents and your sister, cry for Corpse, cry for Hope. Cry for all the families and the homes you lost and lost—again and again and again. Maybe you wish you could cry for yourself as well.)

But you can’t. You never will be able again.

This is your last day alive, you wish it would have ended differently. Would have ended with a long life, would have ended with a family and a home, would have ended with a place to stay and a cat by your side.

You wish it would have ended differently. You wish so badly, but it’s too late. It’s been too late for too long. (It has been too late before the Independence War. Before the election and Pogtopia. Before the vault. Before the disks. (You don’t know if it’s been too late before creating this server as well. Before Sam and Alyssa. Before Callahan and Ponk. Before Punz and Bad, George and Sapnap.) Maybe it’s been too late since they destroyed your village. Your first home.)

You tilt your head back. The air is clean, cold in your throat, nothing like the sickening sweet smell of your cell, nothing like the stale, moldy air of the black box.

 It’s time to go. There’s nothing holding you here anymore. There’s nothing binding you to this world anymore.

They’ll be fine as long as the dragon lives. They’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about them—maybe they will mourn you you know they won’t, you know you wouldn’t deserve it, but they will move on. They will move on and forget about you. They will move on and finally be able to live without the looming shadow of a tyrant and monster and manipulator, without the fear of another war, of more death and more bloodshed.

They will be fine. (They will. You know it. Just because you weren’t able to move on, doesn’t mean they won’t.)

You get up. Your legs are trembling—you don’t know if it’s because you didn’t stop once this day to breathe, to take a break, to rest or if it’s because of the cold. Or if it’s because you’re scared.

You get up. The wind feels nice in your hair. Punz’s white hoodie keeps you warm.

You’re ready to go. You’re ready to go, you made your peace with this world. Not with the people you once considered your friends, your family. Not with them. Not with the people you got killed. But you made your peace with this server, with your future.

It’s time for them to move on; now it is time for you as well. It is time for you to move on. It is time for you to go.

You breathe in for a last time. (You know you should feel scared, you know. But you just feel tired and exhausted, you just feel hope to finally rest. You feel hope for this to be over. Even if you don’t deserve it. Even if you deserve to suffer. Even then.)

It’s time for you to go.

So, you close your eyes. You close your eyes.

There’s wind in your hair. There’s wind in your hair. Punz’s hoodie keeps you warm.

There’s wind.

You wonder.

Does it change anything?

[Dream fell from a high place.]

Punz’s hands are shaking so much, they almost drop the letter multiple times. It’s crumbling in their hands.

He knows, knows there’s no way they could win against an army full of Admins trained to kill and destroy, and yet— and yet, they wish for nothing more than taking his sword and jumping Universes until he finds the right one. Until he finds the right one, until he’s fought his way through soldiers and Admins alike to get to the person responsible for this.

Until they get the revenge Dream deserves. Until every single child soldier has been freed from their chains and their masks.

Until there’s order and justice again.

<You whisper to Technoblade> hey, would you be up to destroy a government?

There’s a ghost wandering the SMP.

Wide eyes. Light hair. Clad in green and white. A small cat next to them.

“Hi!” they greet the first person they see, a smile on their face so bright it could rival the sun.

“This is Hope,” they say, pointing at the cat. “I’m Dream. Who are you?”