Three Strikes

A Disturbance

A wheeze was forced out of Dream's lungs as he curled in on himself, cracked lips parting at the sharp impact to his back as he was retreating. Pale arms wrapped around his head to protect himself from another blow. Gone was the sunkissed tan, a ghostly shell of the man he used to be in its stead. The healthy glow was syphoned from his skin, absorbed into the obsidian walls, leaving him sickly grey. Beneath the mask, cheeks were hollow. Of course he was offered ample food, but depending on his mood, Dream would flat out refuse to eat. Especially if Sam begged him to do so, it only fueled his stubborn nature. If Sam was pleading with him it meant he was so close to the edge. Dream liked to teeter there once in a while. The 'what ifs' were so tempting.

He would just say, no. They couldn't force his hand. They weren't strong enough.

Even if they thought they were.

No one was strong enough. That's how it was.

It's how it's always been.

Thankfully, Quackity seemed to be getting tired. Which meant today's activities would be coming to an end. The way he was carrying himself today was different than before, noticeably so. Quackity was being quiet.

Too quiet.

Where was the screaming? Where were the demands?

Spatting some blood on the cold floor, Dream turns his head. His mask was cracked. Dangerously so. It was barely holding on. "Oh c'mon." It was gravel that fell from his lips. His tone grating and weak despite the mocking quality of it. "Is that all you got in you today? You know how close I am to death, Quackity? Just do it. Just kill me." Picking himself off the floor was a task all in itself but he managed to do so, propping his battered form up. Matted, dirty blond strands fell across the top half of the grimy mask.

Dream was desperate for a bath.

His head lulled back against the glimmering, purple stone, waiting patiently to see if Quackity would bite back.

The pickaxe in the man's hand is brought up to his shoulder, and he's huffing, "You know, man, you exhaust me." he curses, "Fuck you." he's wiping sweat from his brow, locks of sable hair slipping out of his hat and falling into his face.

"You said it yourself, Q. You're going to kill me. Why play with your food? I'm not giving you that damn book, so just do it? I don't care anymore. I don't give one, single shit." that triggers something in Quackity and he's storming across the room, boots clacking against the smooth stone. A fist is wound into Dream's filthy shirt, and he's jostling him with a rattling force, a snarl ripping through the smaller's chest.

Dream can see the desperation, plain as day, behind those eyes. What happened?

"You don't give a shit and that's the problem! That's been the fucking problem, Dream. You don't care! You do whatever the hell you want and don't think of anyone but yourself. You're a selfish asshole." he huffs, laughter burst forth, and Dream is smiling. There he is. The unhinged kid that normally accompanied him. "You seriously are a piece of work, you know that? What about your friends? Do you even know what they're doing out there? Sapnap, George , Bad?" Dream's tongue is dry, the words unable to form, and Quackity continues.