Chapter Text
The pitiful thing about being human was that it was so easy to take something so desperately needed and make it an instrument of absolute control.
The first thing that had really hit Dream about the prison wasn’t the confinement, it was the dependency. The way he’d be forced to stay idle, waiting for some invisible force to finally grant him with the mercy of food. It wasn’t that he was hungry—no, it took a lot more to make Dream hungry—but rather that it didn’t matter if it was hungry. Sam would come when Sam wanted, not when Dream did.
(that was conditioning, he thinks, but he’d be a hypocrite to think that)
It wasn’t all that bad, really. Dream had his cauldron. Dream had his books. Dream had his clock—well, he didn’t right now, he had thrown it into the lava again and Sam hadn’t come to replace it yet. That was the third one, he thinks? He had named it Ecstacy. Maybe he’d name the next one Happy.
It was funny, how quickly Dream had abandoned his own rules. Because if attachment really was weakness then Dream was a freaking coward, but in his tiny cell away from the world there wasn’t anyone to judge him other than himself, though sometimes he wasn’t too sure if himself was here, either.
It was fine. Dream would just throw it into the lava again, and Sam would just come back and replace it. He likes it when Sam visits him, he thinks, though he doesn’t think that Sam likes him very much, anymore.
The potatoes haven’t fallen yet. He’d have to ask Sam about that when he came.
Sam… would come, wouldn’t he? Dream had been sitting here for a while now. He couldn’t tell how long though, he didn’t have his clock, he really wanted his clock back. How did Sam know about the clocks, anyways? Was there a notification or something? Did he just stare into the monitors, waiting for Dream to finally crack?
Was he asleep? Dream could’ve been sure that it was daytime when he’d burned it. It hadn’t been a whole day yet, had it? That—that couldn’t be right, Sam was faster than that, Sam would’ve come already if it was day, he had to be making things up, Sam wouldn’t just abandon him—
No, no that wasn’t—that wasn’t right, Dream chastised himself. Sam would come. It wasn’t like the Warden to let his prisoner go hungry.
He just prays that Sam wakes up soon, Dream isn’t sure how long he can keep sitting still.
It had been about two weeks, if his count held, when Dream had gotten his first poisonous potato.
There had been two of them, this time, which was already one less than usual, but Dream wasn’t exactly in a position to complain. He had scampered towards the dispenser the moment he had heard the telltale plonk of the vegetable hitting the water. The cell was hot, they wouldn’t get moldy if he fished them out fast enough.
The water was boiling, but it was still cool enough that it didn’t burn him when he stuck his hand in, not waiting for the potatoes to resurface. Dream felt a wave of excitement go through him as his fingers closed around the skin of the lumpy tuber. He was happy—not, not that Happy, he’d thrown Happy the Clock into the lava some few hours ago, Sam hadn’t replaced it yet, but Dream wasn’t worried because Sam would always come back and Sam would always replace it.
He was worried, though, when the next potato he pulled out was green.
That… was wrong, right? Even in the state he was now, Dream knew that potatoes weren’t supposed to be green. They were supposed to be that weird browny-yellow color, the kind of color his skin turned when he got too close to the lava. It made a squelching noise when he touched it. He hated it.
Still, he took a tentative bite. The flesh was soft under his teeth, too soft, potatoes weren’t meant to be that soft. Grimancing, he ripped off a small chunk with far too much ease, forcing it into his mouth and onto his tongue and—
Fudge.
The bitterness hit him all at once, flooding over his senses and over his tastebuds. Dream spat it out, gasping, potato slipping dead out of his fingers. Oh. Oh, this was bad, this was—his—his head was spinning, everything was spinning, his face felt hot but not lava hot like—like—he couldn't explain it. Dream pushed himself away the—the—it, back pressing against the sharp obsidian wall.
He was dizzy.
He was so dizzy.
“Sam,” he managed to croak, head leaning back, stomach cramping at just the taste. Sa—Sam would have to come, Sam couldn’t have known about the potato, Sam would—Sam would have to come visit him again, and that would be so nice, nobody has visited Dream in so long. “Sam? Sam! SAM!”
“What do you want?” The distorted voice crackled over the speakers, and Dream hated the way it made his heart jump because that was Sam, that meant Sam hadn’t abandoned him, Sam was still there and Sam was still watching and— “I’m busy. I don’t have all day for your tantrums.”
“The potato’s green.” That—that wasn’t what he was supposed to say. He tried again. “I can’t eat this, Sam.”
“And?”
The voice was so clipped, so empty, so bored that it made Dream trip over himself. Sam wasn’t supposed to sound like that, was he?
Either way, he couldn’t exactly ponder on it. He had a much bigger problem on hand.
“It—it’s poisonous, Sam!” Ah. That was the word he was looking for. Dream persisted, with worrying amounts of hysteria (he couldn’t care). “You’re trying to kill me!”
“A little mold isn’t going to kill you, Dream.”
“I—it—it’s—you’re actually trying to kill me, Sam!” Dream could feel the laughter bubbling up his throat. Sam was insane. Sam was actually going insane. “There—there are protocols! You’re supposed to keep me alive, Sam, not—not—!”
“Shut up, Dream.” The words were so random, so out of the blue, that it hit him like a slap. Dream’s body physically jerked, head slamming back into the wall. Ow. He wished that it’d hurt. “Stop acting like you deserve anything better. These are your rules, if you need a reminder.”
“But, Sam—”
“Just eat the goddamn potato, Dream.” The Warden’s tone held no room for argument. Dream went silent, swallowing down whatever he’d been planning to say. “And don’t call me again unless it’s an actual emergency. Unlike you, some of us have a life outside being a monster.”
It really said something about Dream when the worst part of that sentence was that he couldn’t deny it.
Dream looked back at the potato, the really green one, and then back at his hands. His hands had green stuff on them, too. Or maybe that was because he’d hit his head? He wasn’t sure, but last he checked, blood wasn’t supposed to be green. His hands were supposed to be that browny-yellow color that the potatoes turned when they got too close to the lava. Well, not this potato. This one was green.
He was repeating.
(was he repeating?)
How long had it been since he’d talked to Sam, again? It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, but Dream could never be sure, especially not now, he was hungry. His head kind of hurt. He sighed, curling up back in his corner, away from both the potatoes.
The Vault was a funny thing, in the way it made you forget.
That reminded him, actually. “...Sam?” he called out again, almost tentatively. He knew the Warden was mad at him, but please, just for a second…?
There was a pause. And then, “Yes?”
His heart leapt for the second time that day. Sam had actually come. He’d actually come back (he’d just been here). “I was just wondering,”—gods, that was a horrible opening, the real Dream would’ve never used it—“if you were still checking the monitors, because I threw my clock in the lava a while ago—”
“Get on with it.”
“—and I was hoping you could replace it?”
There was silence, then a noise, one Dream couldn’t recognize. It was like a shaking camera, metallic over the broken speaker feed, high pitched and broken all around the edges, like the creeper was gasping and screaming at the same time. It sounded like Dream. It sounded like—oh, gods. Sam was laughing.
Sam was laughing at him.
“Your clock?” His voice was hysterical, volume rising. Dream could almost hear the smoke hissing through the speakers. That was bad. “Your clock?! I just told you to SHUT THE HELL UP, and now you're ASKING ME if I can FIX YOUR STUPID CLOCK?!”
Oh. Sam really sounded angry now. Dream flinched, even though nobody was there. “Y—yes?”
“NO.”
The words hit him like a physical blow, wiping the air straight out of his lungs (he should’ve expected it). “W—what?”
“You heard me, Dream.” Sam—was being mean to him? That couldn’t be right. Sam was his brother. Sam was supposed to—“I’m not fixing your stupid clock. Maybe if you’d actually cared about it enough to not throw it away, you’d still have one.”
It was too much. This was too much. Prime, since when had the speakers been so loud?
“I—no—Sam, please!” He—he was begging now. Prime, he must really look pathetic, curled up and crying, shaking like a broken AC (the cell was so hot). “I’ll do anything! You—you wanted me to eat the potato, right? I’ll eat it! I’ll eat it, just—come back, Sam! I’ll eat the damn potato!”
“Me? Want you to eat the potato?” The words were sharp. Too sharp. It hurt Dream’s head, which was already hurting, so now it hurt less (no wait, that wasn’t how it worked, it was supposed to—)? Hadn’t Sam just said…? “You can starve, for all I care. More food for the rest of the cells.”
“Wha—that’s not—THERE ARE NO OTHER CELLS, SAM!” His throat hurts. His voice is bleeding. He hasn’t talked to anybody but himself in so long, the words physically hurt to be formed in his mouth. But Sam was being stupid. Sam wasn’t being rational, he needed to make Sam understand, why wasn’t Sam listening—? “I’m the only prisoner! This—this isn’t—THIS IS MURDER! YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE ME HERE SAM, YOU CAN’T JUST—”
“I CAN DO WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT!” Sam’s scream cut through his own. Dream flinched. He’d never heard Sam that loud (he hated how much that scared him). “NOW SHUT THE FUDGE UP AND NEVER CALL ME AGAIN, OR I’LL SHOVE EVERY LAST POTATO DOWN YOUR FREAKING THROAT UNTIL YOU’RE BEGGING FOR THE LUXURY OF GOING HUNGRY AGAIN.”
Somewhere on the other side, the line went dead.
Dream sat there, trembling, eyes fixated on the swirling wall of (colorcolorcolorcolor) lava, where somewhere across the wall of heat and death, the creeper hybrid stood. He hadn’t meant to scream. He hadn’t meant to—oh gods, he’d messed up again, hadn’t he? He’d messed up.
Dream hadn’t thought that Sam hated him that much.
But Sam was the Warden, and the Warden was nothing if not cruel.
(it wasn’t Sam’s fault that dream deserved it.)
Sam hated him, Sam hated him, and Dream was still hungry.
Head dropping, Dream looked down at where his hands sat idle in his lap, then back at the offending tuber. It was still green. His fingers were still green. Prime, was all this fuss really over the color green? That one used to be his favourite.
Was it really that bad (was it really food)? The flesh was softer than a normal potato, meaning it didn't hurt Dream's teeth when Dream ate it (and it meant that Dream wouldn’t have to worry about it going bad, because, haha, it was already bad, it was a bad potato, it was a bad potato and dream was going to have to eat it, oh gods, he was going to have to eat it, it was just a potato, stop overreacting, please just shut up dream stop thinking stopthinkingSTOPTHINKINGABOUTIT).
That had to be a plus, right? He was sure he'd get used to the taste eventually.
And he was so hungry…
According to the statistics, there was only a sixty percent chance of a poisonous potato to actually give the effect, meaning that all Dream had to do for the foreseeable future was be very, very lucky.
(dream should’ve known not to count on luck.)