𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐑, dreamnoblade oneshots

𝐱𝐯𝐢𝐢 | let me give you my life

let me give you my life
- take me to church, hozier

1,666 words !

note: this is an au of
"gideon the ninth." it
contains minor spoilers.

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EVER since the pieces clicked into place, Dream hasn't slept a wink. He paces the halls of the First House; heaven knows there's more than enough for it. He doesn't run into anyone else during these late hours. He has no one to talk to either, the keys tucked between Technoblade's collarbones as he slumbers back in their quarters. Dream knows of no safer place. They're miles ahead of their peers—but at what cost?

I should've left him, Dream frets, an idiotic wish. A necromancer goes nowhere without their cavalier: "One flesh, one end." The Emperor specified it, anyhow. What a cruel man.

Dream slips into the cafeteria, predictably empty. He takes a seat at the table and drops his head onto the wood. He thinks and thinks and thinks. He's not the cleverest of the heirs, he's certain, but he has Technoblade, and together, they're invincible. Dream never doubted they would overcome any problem they encountered...until this.

He does not fear death. It's not in any necromancer's nature, he thinks. This is not like any death he's heard of before, though, and it's not even his to give. Dream cannot—will not—ask this of his cavalier. Fuck being Lyctor. Fuck the Emperor. Fuck it all.

Dream exhales, props his head up, and scrubs the exhaustion from his face. Mind made up, he stands.

"Goin' somewhere?" Technoblade drawls from the entryway, cross-armed and dressed in his bedclothes, his rapier at his side.

"Ha," says Dream, plopping down. He pats the seat next to him. "Come sit. I was thinking."

"This ought to be good."

"Can it." Dream waits for Technoblade to meander over and watches as his cavalier arranges himself in his seat. Technoblade slouches, eyes half-lidded, appearing for all intents and purposes to be a man who woke up not ten minutes ago and would like to go back to sleep. True as this may be, Dream has known Technoblade since they were children, and the man is as alert as ever.

Technoblade allots Dream ten seconds to study him, then snaps him out of his reverie: "You were thinking about...?"

"Lyctorhood," says Dream, and his cavalier tenses just a touch. He may as well have stabbed Dream through the heart. I knew it.

Another few seconds pass, and Technoblade prompts, "Well?"

"Well," Dream repeats, "I've thought it over, and I've decided, what's the point?"

Technoblade stares at him. He blinks at a snail's pace. "The point?" he echoes, brow furrowing.

Dream nods emphatically, warming to the subject. "Yes, what's the point of it all? Lyctorhood? Who gives a flying fuck about being Lyctor?"

"Not you, I presume."

"Not me!" Dream crows, smiling despite himself.

Technoblade rubs his forehead. "And why not?"

Hm. Well. That is a question, isn't it? The question, even—the one Dream is too embarrassed to say. No, no, not embarrassed, don't be stupid! It's just... He can't just say something sappy like that out of the blue. Or, worse, what if it isn't out of the blue? What if Technoblade knows? Mortifying! Kill him dead, now!