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He doesn't understand it...
He's supposed to be the cold and lonely mercenary who's only in it for the money everytime and only takes the side of the highest payer,
totally ready to betray his former side, if the offered price is higher.
Just in it for the power and the rush, no attachments.
But then there's Dream...
Dream...
Framed by Wilbur and Quackity and Tommy...
Framed by L'manburg, as fundamentally evil.
The crazy villain.
The psychopath, the monster... but monsters don't cry... or do they?...
(Could it be that the monsters are just misunderstood? Wronged by so many people, with no one on their side...
But doesn't this mean monsters are just people?...)
Punz isn't so sure anymore. But he is sure of one thing:
The shivering man he's holding close to his chest is definitely no monster!
Dream...
So scared of being left alone and trying to keep the server together. Being willing to play the villain for everyone.
Getting rid of any attachments just to not be hurt again. Punished for natural curiosity and human emotions. Now broken down to his raw core, unable to heal alone...
And this is somehow the one person, who actually manages to get through to the Mercenary's heart, and - he can't figure out why - but his heart aches everytime the broken man screams and whimpers in his sleep, nightmares - memories, of the torture he endured.
He shouldn't let it get to him.
He is supposed to be untouchable.
So why does it agonize him to see the other man in pain?!
No attachments!
Attachments are bad!
It's been both their philosophy.
He should have no problem following it.
He never had... until now.
Until this...
He doesn't know how, or why...
So he watches him sleep.
Taking deep breaths and slowly stroking through the too long hair.
Trying to gently untangle the knots without hurting the other.
It shouldn't be this long. It shouldn't be matted, should never have been caked with blood. So much blood...
He hates the thoughts, shuts them down and buries them deep, while he let's his fingers caress through the hair of the once-dirty-blonde.
When he gets better Punz will take him outside.
Shorten his hair to the length and style it was when they met, when all was good.
(It should be short and fluffy and well taken care of, not getting in the way when he runs and laughs through forests and jumps into lakes, always a step ahead of the hunters, his frie-...
This is too long, it only gets in the way of sharp takes and turns, of leaves and twigs and water. Of fun.)
And then take him for a walk. Or a run...
through the snowed woods preferably.
Let the crisp cold take away his reminders of the scolding hot lava surrounding the cell.
Day for day, night for night...
Watch the weasels frolic in the snow, the arctic foxes playing hide and seek, maybe tame a few and play with them.
Just to see a smile lighting up his face. To see those chapped and broken lips quirking up at the corners... to, maybe - finally - hear him laugh loudly once again.
A tea kettle wheeze that warms your soul as the tea from the kettle would have warmed your stomach, when you drink it up like that comforting sound of happiness.
The happiness he so desperately yearns for the other, and sometimes - when his thoughts get especially daring - for himself too.
But until then, he will watch over him.
Will be his lifeline, his comfort, his tower of strength when he relapses.
Will make sure that no harm comes to him.
He just watches the man asleep, cradled in his arms...
safe from everyone, safe from the world.
Watches him sleep... and breathe.
His breath is uneven. But he breathes.
He's alive...
And for now, that's all that matters...