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The negativity was his home now.
It was nothing like his old ‘home’. They did not care for him there. They thought he was a joke. Then, he showed them. Showed them what he was truly capable of. Why they should’ve kept to themselves. He wasn’t just some ‘guardian’, he was more. He was the king. But not only of negativity..
He was the king of them all.
Being encased by the cool air, the feeling of power in his hands and all around–it was what he deserved. His true purpose. Everyone bowed to him, some followed, and they all feared him. They never dared to speak up. Never dared to disobey. Every agreement only fed Nightmare’s ego, and stars, it was amazing.
Now, Nightmare didn’t need Dream. Didn’t need to feel the pain of being without his brother, didn’t need to feel the guilt from what he did to the positive boy. It was all in his past. He could move on here, he had the choice, and he had taken it a long time ago. He had let it become history, and he had allowed himself to finally forget it.
(though, he never truly did.)
He didn’t owe anyone anything here. In fact, it was the opposite. They all owed him their fear, pain, despair, and freedom, and they paid it one way or another, even if by force.
Eating those apples centuries ago was the best thing that happened to him.
The negativity fueled him; it protected him. It was his true brother. He didn’t have to feel the agony that came with empathy, didn’t have to please. It gave him a home, a place, and a family. A proper one. One that followed his orders without question. One that, even if not as loyal, never failed to have his back. He could tell them anything. Could request anything. There was no more belittling, no more mocking, no more pain.
It was perfect. It was all perfect, and there were no villagers to ruin it. There was no needy brother that demanded pacifism. It was everything he ever wanted. The reincarnation of all the wishes and pleas he made as a little one.
It was a perfect world.
It was a perfect world, and it was his world.
Then, a sudden spark of positivity interrupted his thoughts. It came from behind. He could hear the air behind him beginning to stir as his tentacles writhed in quickly building frustration. He couldn’t pinpoint what emotion it was, he only processed which side it leaned to, and it was a beam of pure positivity that made Nightmare’s SOUL begin to ache.
This was a negative universe. Purely negative, and even if there were any positive feelings from the residents, it was miniscule, almost completely neutral and unnoticeable to Nightmare’s acute empathic senses. This, though? It was impossible to ignore. A siren wailing full volume in Nightmare’s ear. A pest.
So, he turned, a small ping of urgency inside of him, like a warning from the liquid coating his body and SOUL as his tentacles writhed quicker, uncontrollable as it sliced the air behind him.
And–the negativity was right to warn him.
Dream The being now in front of him was a true eyesore. They dressed in light colors, a pastel-ish cyan the color their jacket bore, and their pants adopting an ugly shade of blue. Yellow was the color of their boots, cape, and gloves, and they wore a golden circlet atop their head, along with a belt, ‘DS’ carved into the buckle. They seemed utterly terrified, backing away from Nightmare slowly with two trembling hands clenching and unclenching consistently. Their bright and golden eyelights made Nightmare want to cower and look away. Still, he refused to do so. He was no longer a wimp. Not like before.
The negativity encasing his body and lacing the air around him attempted to lash forward, angry with the positive trespasser. He reeled it in, staring dumbfounded at the other, completely frozen.
They’re not him.
“Brother..?” The pest croaked, voice rough at the edges and hardly there as if they had just got done screaming for hours. Despite the tears building up in the edges of their eyesockets, Nightmare still felt nothing but positivity. He refused to believe the possibility of those being tears of joy.
They can’t be.
At the lack of a response, a cyan eye staring blankly in place of it, the pest shook their head, now fully clenching their hands into fists. They took in a single shivering breath, before giving a sad, pathetic murmur. “No.. you’re.. not. You’re not Nighty, and you never were. You killed him. You killed them all.”
Nightmare wasn’t sure if he flinched or not, but his tentacles finally stopped writhing, freezing just like he had earlier. He had not heard that nickname in a while.
…
No.
No, no, no.
They weren’t Dream. It was a hallucination–some kind of new mimicry ability that he had yet to discover anyone use yet. It couldn’t be Dream. Dream was gone. Nightmare checked. He was sure Dream was dead. He would know. He killed the positive guardian.
“Do not speak to me like that,” Nightmare snapped before he could stop himself from doing so, tone dripping with fury, and undertone of anguish.
He hadn’t heard himself speak like that since.. well.. when he was a child. A child with uncontrollable emotions. An immature and cowardly child.
His breathing quickened and his throat felt raw. His tentacles resumed their quick and sharp movements from earlier, and he attempted to blink away the blur his vision had adopted.
He was not that child anymore. He was not that child, and he would never be that child again. Never, ever again.
Dream was trapped. Dream was dead. Dream was gone. Dream would never come back. The Dream Nightmare knew was dead. He died sacrificing himself like an idiot. Nightmare had slaughtered that idiot. Had slaughtered him, and left him in the past. Left him in that stone prison, and vowed to forget about it.
He vowed to forget because Dream had died. Dream was dead. That suicidal idiot has been dead, and would stay dead.
And, suddenly, Nightmare’s cheeks were wet. Wet like never before, but also a wetness he knew. One he knew all too well.
And his tentacles. One now lashed out, wrapping around the pest’s arm, and flinging them. The pest gave a yelp as they were launched, hitting a tree not too long after. Their visage scrunched in agony, and that only pained Nightmare more. Despite the pain he felt from it, he continued.
And his mouth–it was already moving before he could stop it, voice now low as he sneered.
“Who do you think you are?” Nightmare hissed, slowly stepping towards the pest, who pressed one hand to the wrist the appendage had touched and tried to scoot back, face frozen in a mix of fear, panic, and agony. Tears now streamed down from their eyesockets, and Nightmare imagined he didn’t look too different.
Then, the negativity encased his body, and he was suddenly arising from the ground with unmatched speed. The pest attempted to dive away, but Nightmare’s tentacle was quick to catch them, the movement of the appendage comparable to that of a striking snake's. It wrapped around their neck and threw them back, Nightmare following after and slamming the sole of his shoe on the other’s chest before they could move. They gave a pained wheeze, hands grabbing at Nightmare’s leg on instinct, then quickly pulling away as they winced at their bare phalanges even brushing the liquid negativity gently.
Nightmare didn’t outwardly respond to it, but made sure to keep the reaction in mind, instead leaning down, tentacles reeled back and ready to strike if they sensed even the smallest intention for escape.
“You don’t come into my domain and just talk to me like that,” Nightmare growled, listening to the other sniffle and the crunch of dead grass as they leaned their head back, trying to make themselves even smaller and failing. “You never knew me. You never even bothered.”
That made the pest still, eyelights somehow shrinking even more. The pest managed to pale ever so slightly, mouth opening in shock. Then, their face morphed into a furious scowl, teeth now clenched and bared.
“I KNOW YOU’RE NOT NIGHTY!” They screeched, voice cracking, and before Nightmare could even laugh, a searing pain pierced through his leg, most concentrated at his ankle, and he yowled, falling to his side and quickly curling in on himself, holding his ankle. His eye flicked down, catching a glimpse of the pest who held a single dagger in his hand, black and cyan dyeing part of the blade. They seemed conflicted on staying and leaving, then they gave another sniffle before disappearing into thin air.
Pest.
It was a pain like no other. At least–no other he had felt in centuries. It was like he had stuck his leg in lava. His negativity could not help either, the positivity too fresh and concentrated to control and stomp out. He took in a sharp inhale, giving a yell in place of an exhale. It was raw and unfiltered, and carried a mix of just about every negative emotion possible.
At least he was sure now. Of course, he was sure before, but now he knew.
Dream never hurt anyone. Not even when they were hurting his brother did he dare try and fight. The real Dream wouldn’t have stabbed him, and if he did, he would’ve caved the second he saw Nightmare’s pain. He would’ve helped.
The real Dream would have known it was Nightmare. After all, they’re twins.
…
It was Dream who stabbed him, wasn’t it?..
…
Another pierce of fiery pain, and Nightmare lost his train of thought, giving a sharp inhale laced with agony in reply, gripping harder as his tentacles curled around the wound to help. It hardly did.
Part of him wanted to go home. Go back and curl under that warm tree that he called his mother. He felt like a little kid again. He felt like a little kid, and he despised it. He had left it behind. He did everything he could to leave it behind. He killed them all, he ignored the stone statue, he disposed of his old, ripped clothes, he did everything.
Everything.. everything..
He did everything, and it still wasn’t enough.
He made everyone bow. He made them fear him. He killed, he took, he corrupted countless universes.
And now Dream was back. Dream was back, and he would ruin it. Ruin it all.
…
All that work.. All for nothing.
He gave a small whimper, and his limbs trembled, and then–it just all.. happened.
He sobbed, shoulders shaking as he curled in on himself further, not only due to the pain from the wound anymore. His breaths came in quick, uneven breaths, and he could feel his pants moistening further from how he pressed his face into them. The tears were cold, and his body no longer listened to his internal demands, tentacles wrapping around his figure, attempting to comfort.
He felt stupid. Like the butt of a joke. Like the very thing he had tried to prevent for centuries. He was wounded, a crybaby, and he couldn’t even control his own body anymore.
He was back. It was just like he used to be.
…
He hated this. He hated how weak he was. He hated how good it felt to let go and finally cry for the first time in five-hundred years.
But.. he couldn’t bring himself to hate Dream. And he hated that.
…
He silently prayed no one would ever see him like this.
His tentacles wrapped tighter around him in response.