Archive of Our Own

Laughter erupts in the police station.

"Yeah, Dream's a total psycho," says the policeman, one of George's colleagues. The light from the lamps reflects off his glasses. They've never been hit, never seen a fist fly at them. Clean, new lenses in shiny frames. "And illogical, too," he says, raising a small glass of cognac. His greasy fingers leave marks on the glass as he sets it down with a thud.

Night. Everyone is staying late at the office after work.

They called it a corporate party. They said they needed a break. A reward for a job well done.

When one of the most wanted criminals is still at large. He might be in another city; he likes to occasionally drive around, take off his mask, and politely compliment those around him. He flatters and laughs; he said his fangs were showing a little, but George didn't see it. Maybe he's sitting somewhere nearby right now, eavesdropping on the entire conversation.

“You’ll let me, right?” His voice, soft and sweet, echoes in the small warehouse as George is handcuffed to a container. Through the pain in his head, he sees Dream holding his phone in her hands, connecting it to hers. “You know,” he says, and not a single muscle tenses, “I won’t even hide this app from you.” There are a smile and confidence in his tone. He knows George won’t delete it. “With it, I’ll be able to listen to your phone’s location and view all your chats.” – villain, criminal, drug dealer, thief – walks up to George and squats down. Then smoothly puts the phone in his pants pocket. “You’ll let me, right? Just for me?”

The phone is lying face down while everyone else is chatting. George is sitting at the table, apple juice in his glass. He doesn't drink. Never in front of them.

Dream called him an alcoholic while sitting on his apartment balcony, and the policeman hadn't opened the window. They were so close, separated only by a transparent object of burnt sand.

Perhaps they, too, have burned out and will never be the same again, having already assumed a different form and state. They have become stronger, more transparent to each other, constantly needing this perverse closeness.

They simply sat in silence, Dream's mask tilted forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his back hunched. A normal person. George could imagine that in another universe, where they weren't separated by their professions, they would have become friends. Not like this.

“George, as the one working on Dream’s case, confirm that he is sick,” the same colleague addresses him.

Dream... Interesting.

Having appeared on the city streets two years ago, his name was linked to a wide variety of crimes. At first, George seriously cursed him: robbery, murder, arson, drug trafficking. His system lacked structure. And then they began to intersect.

"You know what your problem is?" Dream says, closing the door and leaving George in the small room of the stranger's office.

"Because I didn't manage to shoot you in the leg in time!" George replies, pushing the locked door with his shoulder again. It's no use. His arm is already sore, and he's sure to get a bruise, but he's still trying.

"You're looking for something you don't need," he says, quite loudly. As if he cares. As if their skirmishes weren't enough for him. As if he wanted to be caught.

"What does this mean?" George shouts from behind the door, exhausted from pounding on it like it was a wall. He'll get out another way.

"Take it further, look wider; you can find something more than I can."

And at first, George didn't understand. A minute later, the door opened with a click, and when he ran out, Dream was gone. The office was empty and ransacked. He was angry and shouting in the empty room.

And one night, looking at Dream's case, he decided to listen to him and move on. Those he found — or rather, those — were met at the police station for questioning and then hauled off to jail. Smugglers, barons, bored businessmen. Dream was the only one who dared do their dirty work. He got his hands dirty, got paid. But if he didn't like the "client," George would contact them. That was the unspoken rule for a year and a half.

"He has his own characteristics; I can't get personal with those I work on. " This is a personal rule, established a long time ago. George once promised himself not to mix emotions and knowledge. Because opinions often get in the way of long-term thinking.

The phone lies in front of him. He knows Dream is listening. Always listening.

"George is a real innocent nun!" another colleague of his puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling him tightly towards him.

He only needs to sit for half an hour. Just half an hour, so as not to seem too rude, and then he can go home.

For another ten minutes, the others talked about Dream as if they knew him. As if they were personally shaking his hand and inviting him to family gatherings where he discarded his mask. Then, with a change of topic, George was able to exhale. He hadn't even noticed he'd sat a little longer than he'd planned.

It would have been easy for him to leave, saying he had a shift tomorrow and wanted to sleep. Luckily, that was the case.

Outside, amid the darkness and burned-out streetlights, he's walking away from the police station, holding his phone. He knows he can speak his mind; knows it won't change anything between them. But for some reason, knowing this, he still doesn't speak. He's silent, as if his vocal cords have been severed, his blood leaking into the palms of his black gloves, dripping onto his white mask. The feeling of water in his mouth forces him to exhale.

George is not drowning.

"I don't want to be alone tonight," he says, as if recording a voice message on a dark screen, but there's no display of the person he's speaking to. He doesn't need that. He knows his words will reach the right people.

For a year and a half, they worked like this: Dream would commit a crime, but sometimes he'd leave a clue about where to look (be it politics, news, other buildings, or names). And George would spend weeks trying to figure it out and get to the source. And then, a month after Dream was assigned the task, they put the man above them, who had already managed to hire others several times, thereby not framing the other man. Sometimes Dream would tell them to wait, to stall for time, and not reveal their hand.

When his boss at the office asks George how he manages to solve everything but his primary task, he makes excuses. He's praised for doing better than half the team. He gets bonuses. And then he's sitting in his apartment and sees the most wanted criminal on his balcony. And again, he doesn't open the door.

Perhaps today he was missing his colleagues, to whom he could confide and show them the white square icon with a sad black smiley face, captioned like a silly game; and on weekends, he could come over to their homes and offer a friendly compliment to their wives. But he doesn't work like that; he doesn't know how to be friends. Not with colleagues.

So, when he returns home to his small studio, he's not surprised to see a figure on the balcony. George takes off his coat, as the sun doesn't shine at night, and hangs it on a hook. He places his phone next to the door. He goes to the kitchen and takes out a small, faceted glass from the base. Then he reaches for a small bottle of cognac.

With a two-finger portion, George sits down on the soft bag by the glass.

Dream is still standing.

The first sip is tart, bitter and spicy.

They remain like that for a while in silence. Then the criminal sits up, pressing himself against the glass, but looking at the police officer.

"No, I don't need any more conversation," George says. He thinks Dream will ask why he hasn't been turned in yet, why no one ever talks about him. Why has George been covering for him for so long, when he's being asked directly.

The next morning, when the alarm clock rings at the front door, George wakes up on the balcony. There's no one behind the glass. Just a note with an address, nothing else.

At the office, while trying to secure a location, he realizes it's just another warehouse within the city limits. It offers next to nothing. There's a brick factory nearby, forests further out, and a dingy, unpaved road. Sometimes George wishes Dream would get a promotion so he wouldn't have to go to places like that. Maybe there'll be a lead on a drug dealer or a baron. Their element.

Sighing, George starts walking to his car, checking the ammo in his pistol just in case. He wonders what he might find there and what to file the case with as he gets behind the wheel. He remembers the silence of the night and how easy it is to fall asleep, knowing he's not alone. Even if the glass separates him from the killer who's stabbed him more than once. Did Dream get enough sleep? Was he sleeping on the balcony, thinking the same thing? Or was he interrupted in the night, and he decided to take revenge on his client?

What's going on in Dream's head?

Sometimes George thinks he lives inside his brain, that his home is hidden within the convolutions of his gray matter, and that the slime of someone else's body covers his own. And every breath he exhales from behind his mask is a reflection of his own.

Sometimes George thinks that they are on different continents, were born, raised and grew old separately, and only saw each other before death, having completely different experiences and opinions.

It's like they are part of each other, but so different.

Arriving at the address given by the criminal, the police officer gets out of his car and looks around. Silence fills the area, suggesting he's suspecting it's a setup or a trap.

But Dream never did that.

George goes inside.

The metal doors open quietly; in the section he needed. There's no light here, but the sun filters through the windows, illuminating the containers stacked tightly together. He begins to walk inside, closing the door behind him. Nothing special, except rows of cargo. Along the side wall is a similar metal staircase leading upward. George picks up his pistol, not expecting a warm welcome. Voices can be heard closer to the top; one of them, definitely Dreama's — not as sweet as in private, not languid or honeyed — carries sharply across the floor. And another. Low, dangerous, and calm. They are talking about something.

Quietly climbing upward, George makes his way along the walls of the containers, closer to the sound, but doesn't peek out. He knows this is Dream's territory, not his. George is the one who doesn't belong here.

“... Too much evidence,” says the stranger.

"I'll repeat: it's not my fault that the others can't hide their evidence. My contract says I work clean," Dream replies, already becoming a little irritated.

"You're hiding something, aren't you?" comes the sound of footsteps on the dirty floor. "Some mouse you've got? Come on, Dream, we're all friends here. As one mercenary to another, recommend your method. I have someone I need to get rid of, too. "

Sometimes George thinks that when the universe was created, he and Dream were created from the same stardust. Their blood flows the same way through their veins, having exactly the same structure. Their organs were formed from the same tissue.

“I didn’t get rid of anyone,” anger, rudeness.

Rustle.

And sometimes George thinks: why do they cover for each other, even though they are on completely different sides?

Dream's task is essentially to kill George.

George's job is essentially to put Dream away.

But every time,

"I can't say anything about whose case I'm handling. "

"You're sick if you think I work with someone else. I'm doing too well myself, why do I need someone else. "

They still lie for each other.

Suddenly, for a second, George feels something approaching, so close, but he's distracted. And then cold metal presses against his temple. Round, massive. A gun.

"It's not nice to eavesdrop," a third voice whispers in his ear, a hand wrapping around his neck. "You need to introduce yourself. Come on, put down all your weapons," the man takes the pistol from his hands and leads him straight toward the voices.

Dream stands opposite a more muscular man in a red suit with a pig mask, who is pointed at a gun. They both turn their heads at the sound of his steps.

"You said this was a personal meeting!" Dream shouts.

“Oh, you’ve leveled the playing field,” the stranger says, feigning nonchalance.

SHOT!

And from here the dance begins.

George takes advantage of the commotion and kicks the man holding him in the knee, causing him to gasp in surprise. It always pays to pretend to be a low-skilled employee who doesn't understand what's going on.

SHOT!

The stranger tries to twist his arms, but George punches him in the face, and the criminal shields him, dropping all his weapons. The pain is no longer felt on his body: he's fought too often.

SHOT!

Turning his head, George sees that the other two are in more serious trouble: Dream is lying on the bottom, and another criminal is striking him.

A police officer should be glad that he catches at least someone, because those who have been beaten resist less.

George picks up the dropped weapon from the floor and walks straight towards them without fear, stopping quite close, pointing two pistols at the stranger's head.

“Hands up, otherwise you’ll become minced meat,” the words echo loudly and clearly throughout the entire floor.

He's talking about only one person. And everyone here seems to understand that Dream is immune to this threat.

The fight stops. The stranger lifts his head toward George, squeezing his hand around the man's neck, not crushing him, just holding him back.

"So that's who you are, they've been looking for you for a long time," another, sweet and enticing voice irritates. George wants to spit this sugar out and rinse his mouth.

"Let him go, there is no point in hiding the sides."

For a few moments, everyone is silent, waiting for a decision. Either the other side leaves, or George shoots.

But a metallic thud echoes several times, like a can being rolled, and then a hissing sound. Smoke begins to fill the room. The stranger dismounts Dream, but doesn't take his eyes off George.

"I remember you."

As the two leave, George, for some reason, realizes too late that they've spread the sleeping gas, thinking it's simply the adrenaline draining from his muscles. But it's too much. His eyes close, he tries to breathe less, but it's no use. George covers his nose and mouth with his hand, naively believing that's enough, taking nothing with him. Consciousness slowly slips from him.

"George?" Dream's voice is heard somewhere nearby. "George??" He's panicking, probably panicking. Why? Why is Dream scared? "George!"

Sometimes George thinks that if he and Dream were assigned to the same case and he got hurt, he'd be left alone. The criminal would just look down on him, the wound from a bullet or knife or some other sharp object bleeding. Red roses would spread across the surface and stain his uniform. The white mask would stare at him impassively, then disappear, finding a new cop who would agree to cooperate with him in some strange way.

And sometimes. . . George feels hands on himself. Gloved palms cup his face, and he sees a black smiley face, but somehow it seems there's no smile behind the mask. They lift him to his feet first, throw his arm over a shoulder, and help him walk, but his legs don't obey. He feels heavy and light, as if he's drowning in water, encased in dried cement. Then they lift him, one hand under his knees and the other holding his shoulders.

"Everything will be fine," Dream says, as if to himself. And that's the last thing George hears before he passes out.

For a year and a half, they worked like this: if Dream didn't manage to escape the crime scene, George would beat him, strike him, and each time try to tie him up and take him to the station, considering it his forgotten duty to be fair. They had their arguments, of course. If Dream gave too vague a lead, he'd be met with gas (he later apparently upgraded his mask, nearly passing out in the room), a whole clip of bullets from around the corner (his suit is now made almost entirely of durable body armor material), throwing knives, or explosions (so he had to hone his reflexes).

And then something happened.

George allowed himself to be followed.

Dream allowed himself to be pinned down and handcuffed. He lay on his stomach and offered no resistance, his head bowed; it was clearly uncomfortable to be masked like that. George sat on his back, confused as to why they were giving him a chance now.

"If that's what you want, then fine, I'll give in," he said quietly. There was no challenge, no complaint, no insult. Only acceptance.

It wasn't Dream underneath him. It was just a man.

"Fuck you," George says, angry because he wants a fight. He wants a battle. This is just a sham, a show. He's not a great criminal. Dream would never give up.

"You've made it clear you want to catch me. I'm yours," he replies, not tense. George leans toward the mask, where his ears should be.

"Yes, you're mine," the policeman hisses. He climbs off and stands up. He rummages through his pants pockets and tosses a bunch of small keys onto the pavement next to his bound hands; Dream's head jerks up at this. " Don't you dare give up." 

George then left without looking back.

And then Dream came to his balcony. No one opened the door for him, but he didn't ask. No one mentioned the apartment's address. The glass was silent — it didn't crack from the strain; it didn't melt from the fire.

George woke up in his apartment. Slowly opening his eyes, he wondered if it was morning and why he'd overslept. Throwing back the blanket, he noticed he was sleeping fully clothed. Unsure why, he felt a chill in the air. Turning his head, George saw a crack in the balcony.

Everything will be fine.

Despite everything that happened, Dream brought him. Here. Home. And he didn't stay.

George doesn't know what he's thinking right now. Looking at the nightstand, he sees his phone and picks it up. There aren't any messages, so the department doesn't know about this. Just him and Dream.

“Thank you,” he says in a hoarse voice. And then he goes to the shower.

(George doesn't know that Dream is sitting on the roof of his house, with his headphones on, and can't move away until he hears something, and with words of gratitude he breathes a sigh of relief, intending to go and rest himself after a couple of days on his feet).

"George, I need this month's reports in an hour," the boss says, approaching his desk. It's physically impossible, but no one cares. Handling multiple cases and then writing the final papers is the most annoying thing. The case is closed — why does it have to be harped on so many times? The criminal is caught and that's it. Go and see in prison that it's all over.

"Yes, of course," he replies lazily, and out of the corner of his eye he sees his phone say three percent. He forgot to charge it overnight. "Can I charge it in your office?"

"Of course," he agrees. George doesn't mention that his phone is tapped when he gets up from his desk and then charges it in the chief of police's office.

Reports are the most boring thing. He can't imagine what he'll do when Dream makes a mistake and ends up behind bars. George will probably have to spend a week writing summaries about him. His hands will be bloody, his pen will be filled with tears, and his heart will want miserably to escape and be vomited on the other side of the bars. George deserves to sit next to him, to be in the same cell, to be subjected to the same punishment, as if Dream were just a figment of his imagination.

What will George do when he finishes?

When no one can sit on his balcony anymore and keep him company silently, without wasting words, but still understand everything?

When a thief breaks into a flower shop and leaves behind a custom bouquet that is handed to him, and then quickly runs away?

When no one else will admit that George is truly lonely and needs someone by his side.

When the only person who understands him has never shown his face, but the policeman knows every tone of his voice?

The authorities will praise him, they'll lay out a red carpet for him, and he'll think red is the color of his coffin, and the grave is white with a black smile, the earth rough and hard. He'll walk across the fabric, as if at his own funeral, laying down in a private place reserved for him at the end.

Two years ago, George swore he'd catch Dream, that this criminal would be his. Now they both realize they took a wrong turn somewhere.

The two bodies bear scars, abrasions, and bruises from each other's hands. Their hearts beat at the same frequency, even when they are apart. They tried to catch each other, using strings to force the other to fall. But both became entangled.

"George," the employee doesn't realize two hours have passed until he hears his boss's voice again, already worried he'll be reprimanded for nothing. "The mayor's party is in four days, and we got a notification that Dream might be there. I have no idea what's going on in that psycho's head, but we can't let him get away with anything. "

"Who's the notification from?" George asks, looking up from the monitor, putting a period on the sentence. Dream is too loud, so many people know him, but no one knows about his plans unless he allows it. Is this how they communicate now? By messages from the boss? Does Dream want to see him so soon?

“An anonymous source,” he shrugs and starts to leave.

Of course. Anonymous. Dream could have been more subtle. Why would he even risk reporting himself to the police? Is he getting bored?

No matter how much of a genius this man may be, sometimes his brain is still just worms.

George sighed and continued writing letters on the reports.

The worms George sees when he closes his eyes before sleep — they crawl before his eyes, writhing their translucent bodies and burrowing far beyond his vision, deep into his brain to settle. He sees them on the street after the rain, as if all the tears have been cried and there's nothing left to come out, but the emotions are still there.

On the day of the meeting with the mayor, he was warned about heightened security. No one wants to take any chances. But George hadn't been warned that it was a masquerade party. Girls in charming dresses emerge from the building, smoking a car's worth of cigarettes while wearing elegant silk gloves. Their masks are hand-painted by top-notch artisans, crafted from rare materials; diamonds sparkle in the dim light. The men, in suits that match their companions, are dressed more simply but no less elegantly.

When he approaches the entrance, the guard initially looks at him suspiciously, clearly noticing his lack of a mask. But when they see the envelope, they ask him to follow them through the service entrance, where he is given a mask that would indicate to those in the know that he is one of the guards. He doesn't stand out from the crowd, but those who need him will find him.

Stepping out into the common room, George thinks he can understand why Dream might be here: gold flows down the walls, there's enough food for five countries, luxury, and the scents of fashion houses. The money is obvious. Everyone laughs in that light, superficial tone, pretending to care about each other.

Sometimes George thinks he's involuntarily entered Dream's world, so mired in the pursuit and crime that he can't live any other way. But when he's surprised by how seamless everyone looks and doesn't stand out, he thinks he's mistaken.

They come from different eras and heights. George was born in a mine, his hands stained with coal, his lungs with dust. Dream was made of luxury and softness; nine hundred and ninety-nine gold.

"You look charming," a man at his side says, and George turns towards the sound.

The pig mask looks at him.

"What the hell?" George asks, taking a step back. He can't reach for his gun right now; there are too many strangers around.

Come on, Dream, we're all friends here. Like mercenary to mercenary.

"What do you want?" the policeman asks, confused as to how the guards let the mercenary through. He doesn't know this stranger, never having seen him before that last encounter.

When Dream carried him home unconscious.

the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. It's something you meet after you've seen it once.

“I wanted to invite you to dance — the music is good — and also to talk,” he says the words easily, as if he wasn’t looming over Dream and threatening him, and then almost knocked them both out.

“I think I’ll decline,” George doesn’t like the idea of being with any of the other mercenaries; he doesn’t know them or what’s going on in their minds.

"I insist," the stranger says, extending his hand. Again, George doesn't know what will happen if he refuses. He doesn't want innocent people to suffer, so he agrees.

Two years ago, no one could have told him he was sinking so deep and would know names of power. Some names only needed to be mentioned to make others tremble. Some only needed to be encountered to understand the depths of the darkness.

“If you’re here, that means Dream is nearby,” he says quietly, muffled, not for the others.

"What makes you think he'll be here?" George asks, not showing that his veins are freezing, the blood stopping at that very statement. He remembers what happened last time.

"There's a major investor here, well-known in our circles, worth a thousand carats. Dream loves to collect two things: money and pretty faces," the stranger said, looking at George with a knowing smile.

They finish the dance in silence.

"I'm only here for security, nothing more," he hisses as he leaves. Abruptly. He doesn't care; Dream is a grown man and insanely smart; he'll be able to figure out if he decides to do something while one policeman is gone.

He goes to the restroom. Luckily, there's no one here right now, so he's content with the silence and his ragged breathing. He feels sick, he wants to wash his hands, all the parts of his body that have been touched. His palms are bigger, his fingers rougher, his strength not for flattery.

Why did he need to follow one, while another was tracking him? And if that one. . . is here, then where is the other? Or was last time a one-time deal? Do mercenaries work alone or in pairs? Was Dream not alone, but his partner — not George, but someone from his circle, someone who knows their entire system and rules of conduct?

His head down in the sink, his hands clutching the countertop, George is thinking so loudly that he doesn't notice the shared door opening and a figure approaching him.

He's yanked sharply by the shoulder and carried toward the stalls. There's no one else, so screaming is pointless. George tries to break free, but strong arms hold him back. Before George can draw his gun, he's pinned against the inside wall of the stall and his arms are locked.

I guess this is where it all ends, right? In the bathroom of one of the mayor's many buildings, shot next to the toilet. It's the most shameful death in service. He even wants to ask for another chance to die.

But, having calmed down, he sees neither the pig mask nor any other resembling person. A blond man towers before him, a few centimeters tall, his hair curly and unadorned, as if he hadn't even tried.

"What are you doing here?" the man says. The voice is so distant and familiar, but George can't say it; he doesn't believe it. "George?"

/Everything will be alright./

"Dream?" he asks, because the most wanted criminal couldn't show him anymore of himself. It wasn't them. Just like that moment when Dream begged to be taken to the station and lay on the floor, handcuffed, without resistance. It wasn't him. He wanted to turn away and forget about those blond, curly locks, as if they weren't there under the white mask. But he couldn't stop looking.

"George, what are you doing here?" He doesn't answer, merely repeating his question. A white masquerade mask covers only the eyes, decorated with black lines and patterns, swirls, accents of shimmering green flowers, and a few emeralds under the eyes.

Green temples. Like the stones. They're just as rich, multifaceted, and sparkling, as if a flashlight were shining on them, the rays of light reflecting off the facets. Fair skin. A sharp jaw, well-shaped and well-defined. Delicate lips that smile slightly, noticing the way he's being looked at. As if Dream enjoys it.

"You wanted to meet me," George says quietly after what seems like an hour, still admiring the man before him. As if he'd seen him in a dream and had only just now found him in reality. "The station received a message that you'd be here. "

"What?" The still-stranger's lips can bear the familiar voice. "I didn't send anything to the station. I work with you, not the police," he grins. Part of a tooth peeks out from under the soft skin. He was right: he does have fangs.

"Then who?" George looks up, beginning to sink into the greenery again, as if the moss had swallowed him and he'd become part of the forest, resting in a clearing among the plants, unable to move.

Dream thinks for a moment. Probably frowns. Then something clicks in his head, and he rests his forehead on George's shoulder. The soft hair tickles, but he doesn't dare complain.

"You were lured by me," he says quietly, defeated. "Techno wants to reach me through you," he whispers. So close. Right into the skin. Acid eats through flesh, needles dig in, bones melt, they burn and break.

The policeman should have put him in jail two years ago.

George can't move as Dream rises and straightens. One of his hands touches his mask. The words completely leave his head, and there's no protest. So silently, the thing is removed, revealing George before him.

"You look better this way," Dream quietly admits. It's as if they're at night now; one on the balcony, the other behind glass in the studio. After a hard day, when they have no energy left for anyone else.

With his freed hand, George reaches for the white mask, touching only the tip. Dream's breath catches, and he moves back a centimeter, as if resisting the urge to escape, but he's chained and can't escape.

"You'll allow it, right? Just for me?" George whispers, waiting for him to act. Dream could leave, he could break loose and run away, he could bare his teeth and tell everyone to leave. But he stands his ground. Without protest.

And George takes off his mask.

Slowly but steadily.

When she is on top, he lowers his hand.

A soft expression stares at him. Without the white disk. Out of shape. Dream is in front of him, and he's not hiding. Not running or aiming a fist. And George looks at him as if he'll never see him again, which is probably true. Dream is a predator in the shadows, and George is an angel in the light. They were never supposed to be here, naked before each other.

Sometimes George thinks that, having seen the appearance of his opponent, he will hate him and despise him; he will laugh in his face and say that he is ugly.

But sometimes…

He stands breathless, taking in every detail. They don't need words. They're back on the balcony, and George doesn't want to talk.

"We need to leave," Dream says quietly. "You're being hunted now. "

George doesn't care; he wants to relive this moment over and over again.

But the policeman nods. Grief-stricken, they put their masks back on. George leads them to the service entrance where he came from. He's not going to risk seeing that stranger again. When other guards stop the blond man, the policeman replies that he's had too much to drink and needs to be taken home before he's poisoned.

They get out safely.

"I'm so drunk on you," Dream flirts, just like he has for the past six months. George shakes his head and gets into the car. They're heading to the studio, since he has no idea if the mercenary even has a home.

“You danced with Techno,” Dream says in the car, taking off his mask and looking at the other guy.

"Are you jealous?" George jokes.

"Yes, seriously."

They reach the apartment, the evening city is bathed in gold, and Dream's hair becomes like cotton candy made of divine love. His eyes take on a deeper, more complex hue, like the small lakes in the woods.

As he climbed the stairs, George wondered if this was Dream's first time here. Or if he already knew everything and stood outside the door, wanting to come in but not allowing himself to. Had he been observing every roughness of the door, studying it and reading it like Braille. Or had he been unwilling to take any risks and always only visited the balcony?

In the studio, George takes off his jacket.

"Choose the music," he says, moving a little further, watching Dream's face express the question. Then he begins to smile.

He plays something on his phone, similar to the one at that party. He pulls out the hand that beat, tortured, cut, crushed, broke, was covered in blood, and then cleaned again. And George doesn't hesitate to accept the offer.

They sway in unison with the song. There's not a soul around, the lights are off. There's no gold on the walls, no expensive scents, no fake smiles.

There are sparkling eyes that look so good from this side of the balcony. Soft hands you don't want to let go of. And a tempting smile.

Two years ago, George would never have imagined he'd be dancing with his opponent in his studio to a song of his choosing. And so eager to be closer.

Dream leans his forehead against his, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.

“I want to kiss you so much,” he whispers the secret between them.

“I will allow it,” George admits.

There's no glass between them. Nothing separates them. They're naked, and they can see every tissue stretching as their bodies strain. They feel the blood rushing through their veins, stuttering at the contact and soaking the other's hands, dripping onto the floor, through the broken barriers. There's so much phantom smoke, they black out again.

“If I fall in love, you’ll get hurt,” Dream says, squeezing his palms a little tighter, as if he needs confirmation that everything is okay now.

“I’ve already suffered,” a whisper.

Request.

Prayer.

Two years ago, George knew nothing about mercenaries, about the dark, and that you can fight, and when your strength runs out and you start to fall, you will be caught.

Six months ago, George knew nothing about how the enemy's beating hands could tenderly carry him, and how caustic words could sometimes turn into caring questions.

A day ago, George didn't know that he could fall in love with the face of the one whose mask had been hanging for a long time on the shift of their office.

"I don't want this," Dream says. And they understand the meaning.

[I don't want you to suffer even more because of me.]

“I won’t,” says the policeman.

They break.

Just a moment ago, George hadn't known Dream's lips were so soft and felt so right against his own. He didn't know he'd want to take more, to run his tongue over them, to graze his teeth and get even closer. Their blood mingled, their breath merged, their hands clasped, their skin cracked, their organs spilled out, they lay together in a heap, their bones touching.

George wakes up without an alarm on his day off. The sun is just beginning to flood his studio, and he stretches. Turning to the other side of the bed, he notices the emptiness. This doesn't disappoint: they will meet again. They can't help but. Like opposite poles of a magnet. The pleasant smell of food hangs in the air, and George looks up to see scrambled eggs on the counter.

He falls onto the bed with a sigh.

Just a second ago, George didn't know that his opponent would prepare breakfast for him in the morning before leaving.

At work, they ask him how things went at the mayor's party. George hadn't checked the news, but apparently, without Dream, Techno hadn't done anything. It really was a bait and switch for the two of them.

If he didn't figure it out, then someone else helped.

So different, but that's how it should be.

"Nothing happened, I checked," George tells his colleagues, holding his phone.

"Dream wasn't there?" the boss asks, sitting down on the edge of the table.

"Perhaps, seeing so many guards, he decided against carrying out his plan," the policeman grinned. The lie crumbled like sand; it had long been a part of him, from the very beginning, even before they began to burn and melt.

“Good job, George,” the man replies and goes into his office.

Cacti grow through the skin, their needles digging in, roots going down, ever deeper, searching for water. But they're not fed. They wither. The temperature rises, and the cacti begin to boil.

George finishes with the reports. At closing time in the evening, he delivers them to the management desk.

He spends the next week putting a stop to the man he'd been tracking for a month, following a tip from Dream. And when he finds him, he takes the photograph back to the studio. Showing it to the figure on the balcony, he nods.

George opens the door. Hands touch each other in hunger.

The water evaporates, the boiling cacti begin to burn, and they will never be able to bloom. The sand melts and can no longer escape. It is sealed into a single form and remains in one place.

George smiles as he watches the baron leave. The man is presented with evidence that doesn't point to Dream at all. Detail after detail.

That's how they work. Dream doesn't like someone, and he ends up behind bars. George doesn't like something, and Dream is right there.

A week later, Dream returns to his work, disappearing from view for a few days. No big deal, they've been through this before. George is already anticipating the next lead.

And so, it happens - the photograph is lying on his balcony, just a piece, but he takes it to work and starts looking for it.

Late into the night, he searches for its piece by piece, and when the office is empty, he looks at what's coming out. Overall, it's too much, considering they're dragging it out for about a month.

Stretching, George begins saving all the files and closing the tabs, turning off the computer.

"Okay, I'm going to go home," he says out loud, holding the phone in his hands. Turning off the office light, he checks to see if he's forgotten anything. And when he finds nothing, he puts on his coat.

It's quiet and breezy outside. He stops to enjoy the cool air. It'll be colder soon — fall will arrive, and then he'll have to spend a little more time getting dressed and undressed. Perhaps he should get duplicate keys so that a certain criminal doesn't freeze on his balcony. How warm is his suit anyway? And is he already waiting or just heading to George's studio?

He smiles and swipes at the phone in his pocket. Today, as usual, he's not in the mood for conversation while walking.

But before he can take a step, someone covers his mouth and nose with a hand, pressing the fabric down and holding him in place. George kicks and tries to get away, but the hold is too tight. He can't even kick his legs.

If he screams Dream's name into the cloth before losing consciousness, no one hears it.

He wakes up cold and on a hard surface, still wearing the same clothes. When he opens his eyes, it's still dark. The wind brushes his skin; he's somewhere outside, his hands tied tightly with rope behind his back.

"Woke up."

Techno.

"How did you find me?" George asks hoarsely. It seems their conversation consists entirely of his questions.

“It’s important that they find you now,” someone from behind him answers without much enthusiasm.

"For what?"

A heavy sigh is heard.

"I already told Dream. I have someone I need to get rid of, too. " He recalls their conversation, which George overheard long ago.

From whom?

Cotton!

"Where is he, Techno?" Dream's angry voice echoed through the walls. It was unlike anything George had ever heard. As if he'd planted explosives everywhere and his finger was a millimeter away from the activation button.

He's abruptly pulled to his feet. George realizes they're in an unfinished building, high up on its floors; bare support pillars lie to the left, and to the right, a gap of missing panoramic windows.

“Greetings to you too, old friend,” Techno says loudly, so that everyone can hear him.

The two of them strike up a conversation. But all George can think about is the drop several stories below him and how dangerously close his feet are. There's no point in trying to hit someone without the risk of falling. So, he tries not to imagine himself falling. He glances at Dream. His posture is tense, every muscle tense, the hand holding the gun steady and aimed firmly at Techno. They're arguing about something George doesn't know yet, something they haven't told him.

And Techno makes a jerk, bringing the policeman closer to the edge. An involuntary cry escapes. A human reaction.

"George!"

Two years ago, he had no idea that another mercenary would hold him to the edge of a cliff and that it could all end on the floor of an unfinished building. Which is little better than a bathroom stall at the mayor's masquerade party.

If it all ends now…

George looks at Dream and thinks only about him.

Light, curly hair that, even if you tug at a lock, will spring back like a coachman. Bottomless green eyes, gazing with such devotion that they could hold the world in the palm of your hand. Soft hands, stroking your skin, squeezing just right and never hurting again. Lips that say stupid things that make him giggle.

How they spent all this time - from fights and barbs to teamwork and keeping each other company.

From sand to glass and beyond.

George probably never would have been able to put Dream behind bars. If he had, he'd have immediately arrived at the station covered in someone else's blood. He'd have been locked up too. Their metal would have melted and become their wings, flowing over their skin.

"So, Dream?" Techno.

If it ends like this, George will no longer see the dimples in her cheeks when she laughs. The soft, gentle smile that is always directed at him.

“I can’t, Techno,” Dream said.

If it ends like this, George will never feel those hugs again. Those tender, all-encompassing ones. Those tickling, gentle hands.

"Then you leave me no choice."

If it ends like this, George won't be able to say three words. Whisper or shout. Day or night. In the studio or on the street. On the outskirts of town or in the center. In an embrace or across the street. Alone or on the phone.

They started with "I hate you. "

Two years passed, learning to recognize each other's gestures, how to spin correctly, and how to interact.

Born on different continents. Grew up together. Grew old-

Techno lets go of his hand.

They started like this: shouting, swearing, fighting, angry looks.

They ended like this: screaming, pleading, saying goodbye, broken heart.

George did suffer: he fell in love.