Green is a Tired Color, Love [DSMP Oneshot]

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My breath hitches in my throat, watching his dull eyes drift over the grass, over the sand, over everything around us. No blue sky above; only the darkness of the obsidian encasing the vault he'd been imprisoned within. Unruly, tangled, matted blond locks frame a gaunt face scarred and no longer hidden behind his mask. He catches me looking, and no teasing remark comes. He simply looks away.

But I'd be lying to say I couldn't see his hands shaking, and how the tremble creeps throughout his body until he's on the ground, curled up. Torn orange fabric meets the grass, feeling the dew for the first time in ages. I kneel, carefully, aware of how he lashes out when afraid.

"Dream?" My voice comes out softer than I mean, and he shakes his head, hiding his face in his scarred hands. My heart breaks each time I see a new scar that he didn't have before prison; that I know he was given in the confines of his cell, unable to run and unable to fight back. "Look at me."

It was an order. I curse myself instantly, readying for him to shut down like he'd been conditioned to- it was so easy these days. I could see it in him and in Tommy both; and it was almost laughable, in a sick and twisted way that brought bile to my lips, how Dream's treatment of the young man had come back to him tenfold.

Well- Dream hadn't been killed, yet. But looking into those eyes that were once full of life and joy and a competitive spirit made me sure that he's had a piece of him killed; was it in the wars? Was it when he turned to the horrific actions of Exile?

Or was it killed in that suffocating box, by a man who'd turned as far away from the light as Dream once had? I couldn't deny the wrong Dream had done, but likewise Quackity's actions made me sick.

He raises eyes filled with tears up, grudgingly, from his hands. Encouraged by him not panicking, I move a bit closer; he flinches, and I stop.

"I won't hurt you," I tell him softly, "I promise, Dream. I won't. You could attack me and I wouldn't fight back. Please." He watches me warily, and whispers,

"Really?" Nothing more. Nothing less. And that one word broke my heart for the hundredth time that day.

Dream was confident. He was self-assured, he was even a little cocky; but he'd earned the right to that cockiness with his ability. He was sturdy, a stability that held us all together through countless storms. He was impulsive. He was quick to jump to conclusions; emotionally reactive.

I see none of that in him now. I see a caricature of who he had been back then, a pathetic half-resemblance of his former nature.

Would it be diminishing, I wonder, if I said even Tommy has more of himself left?

I shake off the thought. It wasn't a competition- it was fact. Dream was hollow, listless. Tommy had been like that when he first returned; but now he was building back up to some far-distant ideal of self. Dream wasn't being given a chance to recover, and I understand why they thought this was the best option. The prison, that is. I can't excuse the torture in any situation- sickening and inhumane as it is. But the way Dream can't bear to look at the grass, the trees, or water...it makes me wonder if the prison itself is just as much a form of torture.

Finally- after so much struggling to find the courage, after visit after visit to earn trust, Dream and I stand in the courtyard together. And I wouldn't let him be afraid alone, I can't let him shut himself away.

I slowly, ever so slowly, extend my hand to Dream, only halfway; and he doesn't flinch, so I reach further, palm upright, offering it to him.

"Really," I nod, "I'll even hold your hand while we walk. But only if you want." I can see his missing fingers. I swallow a bitter taste, not letting it show. He looks from me, to my hand, and tentatively places his hand in mine. "See? That's nice, isn't it?" He makes an uneasy sound in his throat, and I hasten to add, "You can pull your hand away any time. I won't force you to hold mine."

I nod encouragingly as he stands, eyes squeezed shut, and he murmurs,

"There's, uh. There's too much to look at. My head hurts." I glance at the sparse growth of the courtyard.

...Too much?

"Would it make it better if you wore my goggles?" I ask gently, fingering the rim of the dark lenses. He stills again.

"I think it might but..is that okay? Are you allowed to give me things?"

"If you don't take them with you into the cell," I recall, and tug the goggles off my head with my other hand. "Do you want to put them on, or would you like help?"

"Help, please," he says softly. It feels too earnest for just this situation; as if he's begging for my help overall.

"Dream is extremely manipulative," Sam had warned me. "Don't let him fool you into thinking that he's harmless. You know what he's done, George."

Looking at this man, his eyes closed tightly out of fear for the outside world, trusting me- I don't see that man. I see what's been created by relentless abuse.

And I love him even so.

It hurts, to feel him still under my touch as my gentle fingers brush his hair back as I latch the strap around his head, pulling the lenses down over his eyes. It hurts to watch his eyes open when I tell him I'm done, to watch them blink nervously. It makes me ache to hear his sigh of relief.

"...thank you George," he murmurs reflexively, an empty courtesy. I wrap my hand around his, watching his eyes drift around, taking in the dimmed environment that still seemed to overwhelm him.

We walk for half an hour, around and around the small courtyard, inspecting everything like it was Dream's first time on this earth.

And when he's taken back inside, into the dark heat of his bare cell, he doesn't struggle, doesn't show emotion.

Instead, I cry for him.