Chapter Text
Pen scratches quietly on paper, drawing over a line that marks day one-thousand, one-hundred and eighty-three. A frustrated sigh quickly follows, disturbing the peace. The napping feline nestled among mismatched, threadbare blankets jolts awake, watching as the man beside her brings the dried pen to his tongue with an annoyed frown. He attempts the line again, movement growing in aggression until he snaps, throwing the pen across the room with an angry shout that startles the cat again.
Dream scrubs warily at his face, dropping his hands defeatedly and lolling his head to the animal staring at him with wide eyes.
“Sorry Patches,” he mutters, sliding down to slump over in the mess of blankets and pillows he calls a bed. His worn notebook slides off his lap forgotten, and to calm his frayed nerves, he lays a hand on the cat’s back, stilling them both.
The seconds pass silently, and he only stirs to let out a deep sigh.
It’s been one-thousand, one-hundred, and eighty-three days since their world turned into an apocalyptic hellhole. What that really means, though— his eyes sliding to the page of scribbled numbers and tally marks— is that it’s been one-thousand, one-hundred and nine days since he went missing.
Nick Hayes— or more commonly known to Dream as his nickname and gamertag Sapnap— his best friend since birth. For Dream, that day marked the end of the world as he knew it. Two weeks ago was the three-year anniversary of the morning that crushed whatever was left of Dream’s will to live.
He’s been stuck in a depressive slump for these last few weeks, replaying the dread plummeting in his chest when he found the boy’s bedroll empty. Remembering searching the cabin in a frenzy, calling his name until his voice went hoarse and the only reply was distant gurgles and grumbles of the infected.
He waited. Deep down, he knew he wasn’t coming back, but he still climbed to the makeshift lookout, knees tucked under his chin, tear tracks drying against freckled cheeks. He knew there wasn’t a point, because they never went anywhere without telling the other. Even if they were stepping outside for fresh air or going to the bathroom.
Even at night, they’d shake the other awake and they wouldn’t go back to sleep until the other had come back safely.
Dream waited for two days. It was the morning of the third when he heard the shouts of voices and hoarse groaning and gurgling closing in on what was once Nick’s family’s cabin.
Tears blurring his eyes, he had packed his things, keeping half an ear on the distant voices floating in from the open windows. He packed Sapnap’s bag and gave him two cans of soup, left it tucked under the loose floorboard hidden under the guest bed, and fled.
He had taken most of their possessions, because he knew. He knew he wasn’t coming back, and his fifteen-year-old self at the time couldn’t bare to accept it right away.
He wasn’t made for this kind of thing. Hell, losing his whole family was enough. Losing his best friend and the only person he had left in the world?
He honestly doesn’t know how he’s still hanging on.
Patches mewls beside him, yawning, and it draws his mind back to the present. Back to the golden-dusted interior of the bus, to the evening light streaming through the windows. Our home, he thinks, gazing down at Patches with a bitter sort of smile.
He’s been trying to think of the good memories, hanging onto hope that he’s still out there. Only alive and well, not as one of those things.
He drops his head back to thunk against a dusty window, staring at the rounded roof of the bus. His fingers idly brush through Patches’ fur in calm, slow rhythms.
He remembers when they first adopted their gamertags, when they were so obsessed with their new hobby of gaming that their real names began to sound foreign to their ears. A wistful smile pulls at his lips thinking back to that day. Both of them huddled around Sapnap’s new computer, around the ripe age of eleven, buzzed and hardly halfway into their sleepover.
“I don’t know why you wanna change it,” Dream tilted his head, eyes flitting over the screen. “I like Pandas.”
“I know you do,” He remembers how much higher the boy’s voice was, before puberty hit them. “But ‘Pandas Can PVP’ sounds dumb and— and noob-y. And it’s too long.”
“That’s what she said,” Dream said instantly, earning a scoff. “But you are a noob, so it’s fitting.”
Nick groaned at that, swatting at him over his shoulder. “Shut the hell up and help me! I want something that’ll stick.”
Dream hummed in thought. “What about, like, flipping it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like,” Dream reached over to type out his old username, ‘Pandas’. He motioned at the monitor in a twisting motion. “Flip it around. Backwards.”
“S—Sad—nap?” Nick read, leaning forward. He types it in, but red text appears underneath the box. “Sadnap’s taken,” he frowned.
Dream made a sound of disappointment, both staring at the screen glumly.
“Or, what about…” Nick tapped the backspace, retyped.
“Sap— Sapnap? Sapnap.” Dream read, nodding. “I like that. Sapnap. Short and simple.”
“And catchy? And cool? You forgot cool.”
Dream laughed, straightening. “And cool. Not as cool as ‘Dream’ though.”
“Shut up, dude. I still think ‘Nightmare’ would’ve been cooler.”
Dream smiles up at nothing, eyes fluttering open. One of his hands has migrated to subconsciously fiddle with the engraved ring on his necklace.
He still holds a special place for ‘Pandas’, more of a fond nickname now than anything. A nickname of a nickname. It never fails to bring back memories of their early gaming days. Playing Minecraft late into the night, giggling and laughing and shushing each other until they were out of breath.
Patches meows loudly this time, and Dream grumbles, eyes closing. “Patches, you know I can’t feed you yet, honey. We’re running low and I do not feel like doing another food run. Especially after last time.”
His bad ankle throbs at the memory. He stretches his leg out to test, and frowns down at the ratty strip of cloth tied around his foot.
Heaving a deep sigh, he pushes up from the bed and stands, favouring said foot. Patches leaps down, scurrying away as his forgotten notebook falls to the ground as well. He bends to pick it and the spilled papers up, lips curling down as he carefully unfolds the bent pages it had crushed upon landing. He runs the pads of his fingers over the papers filled with writing to feel the indents covering every little space. Journal entries and tally marks and idle sketches and notes and spare papers causing the notebook to nearly burst.
He needs a new one, but he lost the one he found to an emergency dunk in a river to get away from a stray infected. Technically, they could be considered zombies, but it was a whole fucking ordeal to how this all came about, and ‘infected’ seems to make it an easier pill to swallow.
For Dream, at least.
Patches meows again, louder, and Dream turns on her, dropping his notebook to his bed. “No, Patches, I can’t feed you, I’m sorry. You wanna go outside and find something?”
Upon getting an empty stare, he rubs his eye, exhausted, turning for the door. She follows him and he pushes the door open to let her leap out into the tall grass. Her little bell on her collar jingles as she slinks away into the brush, and Dream squints out into the evening.
“Don’t get eaten please,” he calls after her, watching the moving grass until she disappears for good.
He steps out onto the grass as well, stretches, and lets out a low groan as his bones pop and crack. He turns his face up towards the setting sun, feeling the warmth seep into his skin. It’s warm enough that he doesn’t worry about another cold night, and he swats away the mosquitoes that accompany the humidity. He turns in a circle, surveying the clouds and wind and praying for no more storms. It’s annoying having to track down leaks and still wake up soaked.
He walks a little ways into the grass somewhat flattened by his and Patches’ in and outs, admiring the way the sun paints the yard in honey. His arms lift to rest laced fingers behind his head, just observing.
The vintage bus he had stumbled across sometime a few months ago sits in a lot of old, rusting cars surrounded by a chain-link fence that has seen better days itself. Trees and overgrown bushes and grass fill the spaces in between, up to where a few old buildings sit tucked away in the back. It’s mainly junk, old tools that have rusted away or been robbed of earlier passer-byers. Part of the roof is missing, and it’s now home to several birds and raccoons and other creatures Dream has had the privilege of meeting.
It's not paradise by any means, but it’s peaceful. Dare he say kinda beautiful. Far from big civilizations, and therefore far from any big herds of zombies. He had wandered from city to city, migrating to towns to the small forgotten settlements among gravel roads (where he had found and adopted Patches) until he came across this place. The bus itself is what drew him in, an old 70’s style passenger bus, mint green and orange, somehow still standing and untouched.
A few windows were broken, there were some leaks, and at first the door didn’t want to budge, but a few days of TLC and raiding the shop for miscellaneous tools and it was livable. A few more weeks of supply runs, and it was home.
He’s been here since. And since the anniversary-affect of his best friend’s disappearance, he hasn’t found the motivation to do much else other than survive.
Movement catches his eye and his arms lower, heart dropping along with them.
His body goes rigid, heart hammering. He doesn’t dare call out, make a sound, let alone move. He’s made that mistake one too many times.
His eyes stay trained across the yard where his attention had snapped, slowly starting to creep towards the doors of the bus. Suddenly, Patches comes bounding out of the grass and into the bus in one leap, and Dream slips in after her, gently shutting the doors, silent, thanks to the oil he had found.
He backs into the shadow of the bus, still watching the treeline on the other side of the lot.
He waits, holding his breath, chest tight with nerves. It’s been a while since he’s seen any other sign of human or once-human life around here. The last time he saw someone (not including the zombie that almost ate him last week) was when he travelled three hours down the road to a little town for food and saw someone leaving a house down the street. He had hidden until they were a ways down the highway, then slipped into the nearest house.
But out here, there’s nothing, and unless you had a dad that was obsessed with vintage things like this bus, there would be no reason for someone to come to this lot.
So, Dream waits, Patches sidled up next to him with her tail swishing lowly. They watch, and wait, until Dream convinces himself it was a deer or bird or something non-threatening of the like.
Releasing a careful, slow breath, he looks down to Patches and runs a hand down her back to calm her.
His eyes flit back out the bus door windows, and almost convinces himself he sees a figure slip into the trees.