#was devastating

A hand runs through his hair.

Dream blinks, slow. His eyes are heavy. Sam's hand is in his hair, his head in his lap, and it's nice. It's so nice. He blinks again, feels his eyelids slide over his eyes, lashes brushing against his cheeks, and for a moment he doesn't know if he has the strength to draw them back up.

The hand in his hair stops, pulls. "I said stay awake, prisoner."

Dream's eyes snap open. The Warden stares down at him, eyes red and narrow through the mask. He's angry. Dream whimpers, pulls away, stops; that's not allowed. The hand in his hair tightens and another soft, high-pitched noise leaves his lips; his throat hurts.

The Warden sighs, and Dream stares at the wall. The block he's facing is crying obsidian; a drip runs down its leftmost edge, tracing a crack in the dark block. Dream watches. It's purple. Purple is a pretty color. He didn't have purple before the Warden put in the crying obsidian but now he has purple all around him and it's pretty. He likes purple.

The hand loosens, goes back to running through his hair, and Dream relaxes. It's nice. Nobody's done this in a while; it must be special, for Sam to be here. Usually it's the Warden (or worse, Quackity) but right now it's just Sam brushing gentle fingers through his tangled hair and making tap-tap-tap noises of his fingers against the obsidian and moving to the rhythm of his breathing at the side of Dream's face. Sam is nice.

Not many people are nice anymore.

"Prisoner-" the Warden is back again, pulling his head back harshly with one hand so he has to look up into the creeper mask, "What did I say about staying awake?"

Dream looks up, watches the Warden; he has to stay awake, or the Warden will be mad. He has to stay awake, or the Warden will be mad. He has to stay awake or the Warden will be mad. HehastostayawakeortheWardenwillbemad-

"Prime," the Warden grumbles, grips him by the side of his jaw, moves him to look at him closer. "He got you hard in the head, didn't he?"

Dream blinks.

"That regen potion better do what it's meant to do; we still need the information from the book." The Warden lets go of Dream's head, and it falls back into his lap. It's soft. Not many things are soft anymore either. He hears a heavy sigh above him. "You there, Dream?"

Dream nods. He has to respond when the Warden asks him a question. He'd talk, but his tongue feels heavy and his throat hurts and everything hurts if he thinks about it too much so he floats, instead, focusing on the feeling of Sam's hand in his hair.

"You can just tell Big Q everything, you know," Sam's other hand brushes over one of Dream's bandages, and he flinches away. Quackity went too far today, the Warden said. He nearly died. He's not allowed to die until he tells them about the book. His head is hurting a lot, just like everything is hurting a lot, but the world is going fuzzy in the edges a little like when he'd go floaty, push himself as far away from the cell in his head as possible. "If you just tell Quackity then we won't have to keep going."

It's tempting. Dream won't ever tell Quackity, because Quackity wants to hurt people and isn't going to stop at anything to get it. Dream saw it, during the election, then with the creation of Mexican L'manburg, then the first time he entered the cell - Quackity doesn't care about much at all besides his city, and Dream wishes he could care as little as him. He won't tell Quackity, he can't, but this isn't Quackity.

This is Sam, his green hair flopped over his face, crown shining soft and golden over his forehead, gentle hands smoothing Dream's hair from his forehead. This is Sam, holding him in a way no one has for months, warm and soft and kind, and for a moment Dream's back at the community house roof, sprawled in a mess of blanket and pillows and watching the fishes with his friends on all sides.

It's not a perfect image. Sam's armor is scratched and the air smells of blood and the eyes looking down at him are dark and flinty and cold, the Warden's eyes, and Dream aches all over in a way that makes it hard to breathe but it's - close. When he blinks and his eyes are closed for a moment he's away and out and the world is lovely and kind and it's enough.

It has to be enough.

"Dream," the Warden calls, voice steely, and the image fades. The knowledge he's kept locked rises in his throat, settles there. Sam watches him, prompting. "If you tell us everything, then we'll stop."

Please stop, he nearly begs. It doesn't matter if he does. He's learned that now.

He looks away, instead. He's done everything for this book. Lost everything, for this book. He can't tell, not when telling means Quackity can use it to hurt everyone, not when it's the last thing keeping him useful, not when useful is the last thing keeping him alive. The Warden sighs, heavy, damning.

"You better get ready for the visit tomorrow, then," the Warden says, standing, letting Dream drop to the ground. Something cold and sorrowful rises in his chest - where has Sam gone? Why did the Warden have to come back? "We'll continue this after, prisoner."

Sam, something in him calls, desperate, young. Please.

Out here, he just watches as the man disappears into the lava.