Archive of Our Own

He is breaking. He can feel it. 

Something foreign - invasive - is spider-webbing through the entirety of his being, over the behemoth thing that can be called his mind, and fractures have begun to form along the topography of him. He feels something within him come loose as the fault lines spread, deepen, and then there is a sense of aching violation, of an agony so profound and intimate he cannot comprehend it, as the interloper splinters him clean through to the very core of his being, and his thoughts stutter, fill with a static white noise.

Then there is –

silence. 

The silence is a fraught, fragile thing: it is the brief, breathless stillness between the deployment of an atom bomb and the shockwave of displaced air that chases it, it is the terrible quiet that follows the death of a sun.

It does not last for long.

Awareness cracks through the emptiness, and reality spills around him - light, and color, and sound, and pain: nerves alight in his hand - blood spilling between his fingers, wet and sticky and stinking of electrified copper, a dull throbbing in his skull, like a band of rubber stretched taut between his temples, a violent, ceaseless, frantic drumming battering his ribs (his heart, that’s his heart –) 

He doubles over with a wet gasp. His lower body does not move, but the ground catches his hands unexpectedly quickly - he must’ve already been on his knees - and his uninjured palm smacks against unforgiving wood, only barely softened by a thin layer of carpet. 

Pain shoots up his forearm, and he almost topples forward when he yanks his hand against his chest, sacrificing his balance in the process. He sucks in a desperate lungful of air and presses his other hand into the floor for stability, digging his nails into the carpet and probing for the wooden boards beneath, frantically tracing the divots between the panels, dragging the pads of his fingers over the rough bumps of imperfectly hammered-in nails. 

He breathes out through his nostrils, clenches his jaw, and the pain slowly fades into a distant background noise. Dazed, and with an acrid taste in the back of his mouth, he wills himself to look up.

He is elevated, slightly, on some sort of stage - in his peripherals he can make out the blocky outline of a podium a few paces away, and there is an ugly blur of red-orange color that resolves into a draping of curtains when he squints at it. 

Beyond it –

He blinks, trying to process what he is seeing. Dozens of men and women are seated as if in silent prayer - eyes closed, heads faintly bowed. The only sounds are the soft, humming drone of an air conditioning machine, and his own rasping breath. 

He shakes his head, uncomprehending, and then there is another sound, rich and smooth and aggravatingly familiar. 

“What the fuck,” it says. 

He turns his head. Standing by the podium, in a cream suit and obsidian black shades, is a blond creature more captivating by far than any of the anonymous faces in the amassed crowd below. There is a sharp, dangerous beauty to him that draws the eye towards it, and he stares, entranced, as the man rolls his shoulders, adopting the faintly hunched, coiled posture of a jungle-cat preparing to pounce. 

Distantly, he becomes aware of a soft clench in his chest - something that is not quite pain, but - perhaps - a near cousin to it. 

“What the fuck,” the man says again, flatly. And then, with more feeling, “What the fuck is going on?”

He does not know how to answer that, so he does not respond. He has larger concerns, anyway: namely, the growing wetness soaking through his shirt and onto his chest that indicates his wound hasn’t been courteous enough to heal on its own. Pain washes over him as he refocuses his attention on it, erasing any other thought, and he winces, shakily drawing his hand from where it was cradled against his chest, the blond man all but forgotten. 

Tentatively, he opens the curled half-fist he’d made, and inspects the wound. Something has punched clean through between the delicate bones of his fingers; if he looks closely, he can glimpse severed muscle fiber and yellow fat under the blood - the base, crude truth of his body. 

“You’re still bleeding,” the man says. 

With a grimace, he lifts his gaze from his injury. The blond man’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his eyebrows draw together, unsure. “Why are you still bleeding?”

“Still,” he echoes. His voice comes out rough, and it scratches the inside of his throat when he speaks, but he recognizes the sound of it - it is familiar to his ears, in the same frustrating, undefinable way the blond man’s had been. With some effort, he pushes himself into a standing position. His vision swims with dark spots, and he wobbles, only barely managing to maintain his footing. He swallows. “You know how this happened?” 

The blond man’s lips tighten. “Is this - are you fucking with me?”

“You know me,” he croaks, and the blond man scowls, as if he’s just admitted to something profoundly obvious. He pauses. Neither of them speak. His blood drips rhythmically onto the carpet, a soft pitter-patter that is almost soothing. 

He inhales, steadying himself. He does not want to ask this question - his pride rejects it - but he can think of no other alternative. “Who are you?” 

The blond man goes utterly still. “You don’t know?” 

“No.” He hesitates again. Quietly, “Who am I?”

The blond man’s head tilts. “You really don’t know,” he murmurs, almost wondrously. He licks his lips, contemplative, and then approaches, one careful step at a time, stopping when they are an arm's length apart. 

“Your name,” he tells him, “is Dream.”

There is a sense of abrupt rightness that suffuses him - a visceral relief. Something settles into place in his mind - filling a negative space he had not even known the shape of until now. “Yes,” Dream agrees. “I am.” He examines him. “And we know each other.”

The man hesitates. “Not well,” he says at last.  

Unquantifiable disappointment drops through him like stone. “I see.”

The blond man watches him silently for a moment longer, and then - faster than Dream can blink - he’s smiling. It’s as if storm clouds have suddenly parted to reveal the sun - one moment his expression is guarded, detached, the next he radiates warmth, bright and dazzling. 

“I’m Corinthian,” he says. He shakes his head, whistles softly. “Your hand looks like it’s seen better days, Dream. How about you let me help? We’ll get that wound treated, yeah?”

Dream takes a reflexive step back, drawing his hand protectively in, and Corinthian follows his retreat, stalking forward one step closer, keeping the exact distance between them. 

“You’re hurt,” he says, all concern. “Let me help.” And then, with another disarming grin, “C’mon. Trust me.”

It feels wrong, tearing his gaze away from Corinthian - like turning his back on a snarling leopard, but he does, sweeping his gaze along the faces in the crowd and taking in the bizarre sight of it, almost a hundred would-be worshippers, gathered in silent, seemingly insensate mass. In the corner of his eye, Dream notices that the bright smile has fallen from Corinthian’s face, leaving his expression empty of anything save for a blank sort of watchfulness.

He does not think he trusts Corinthian much at all, familiarity or no. 

But - he cannot find any logical reason to refuse his help. The bleeding has not slowed, and he sways on his feet, dizzy with pain and blood loss. 

Even so, it feels too much like a capitulation to admit as much aloud. 

Corinthian is waiting for him to respond, to agree. He can almost smell the anticipation rising off of him like steam - he leans forward eagerly, tongue flicking out to swipe over the corner of his mouth. Dream finds it vexing, and unnerving, he decides it would please him, to deny Corinthian some measure of his victory, if only for a moment. 

And, besides, he is curious. His injury can wait a little longer. 

“These people,” he says, indicating the crowd. “What is this? What’s happened to them?”

Corinthian’s cheeks go pale. “Don’t worry about them,” he says. “But we should - probably get outta here. I don’t think they’ll stay sleeping for long.” 

There is enough genuine urgency in his tone that Dream relents. (The fact that he is also starting to sweat from the effort of remaining standing expedites matters somewhat, as well.)

“Very well.”

Corinthian’s nervous expression shifts back seamlessly into polite charm. “Well then,” he drawls. “Let’s get you all fixed up, Dream.”

Dream waits in the lobby for Corinthian as he shops for a first aid kit from the hotel convenience store. His injured hand is shoved in his pocket, and he’s huddled over on one of the chairs next to an empty convention booth, grateful that the dark fabric of his shirt disguises the worst of the blood. 

Corinthian - from what Dream can make out from his vantage point - keeps looking over his shoulder as if he’s half-expecting him to have disappeared since the last time he checked. Dream counts a total of six glances in his direction by the time Corinthian finds the supplies he’d been searching for and moves to the register to pay - followed by a seventh as Corinthian passes the cashier a neat stack of cash to complete the transaction. 

Corinthian returns to Dream, triumphantly displaying his purchase. The kit - plus a bottle of pills - rattle around inside the plastic bag. “Got it!”

The cheerfulness strikes him as affected - artificial - and Dream decides not to encourage it by commenting. He merely offers a curt nod of acknowledgement, and ignores the offered hand Corinthian stretches out to help him rise. 

The corners of Corinthian’s lips pull down ever-so-slightly as his hand falls back to his side, and a dull guilt flares inside Dream at the sight.

They ride up the elevator together in relative silence. Dream can sense Corinthian’s gaze on the back of his neck the entire time; but his expression, from what Dream can make out of it in the smudged reflective paneling of the elevator walls, betrays nothing. 

Corinthian gets a slightly alarmed look on his face when they reach their destination, like he’s just now thinking of something rather important, and he winces, glancing between Dream and the door. 

“D’ya mind hanging back for a second?” He licks his lips. “My friends here - they’re, uh, a little skittish, and only expecting me.” He forces a grin. “Best not to startle ‘em, yeah?”

Dream shrugs, obligingly stepping off to the side and away from view. There is a brief swell of relief that crests over Corinthian’s face, only visible for an instant before he schools his features back to pleasant neutrality. 

He raps his knuckles against the door. “Rose. It’s me.” 

Silence. 

“Jed!” Another two knocks, more forceful. “Guys. We’re all friends, aren’t we?” He makes an exasperated noise. “Rosie. Let me in.”

He waits for a minute, tapping his free hand against his thigh, and Dream watches him, intrigued, as Corinthian inhales and seems to come to some sort of decision. He pushes the plastic bag up onto his forearm and positions himself sideways by the door, one hand on the handle. A muscle in his jaw tenses, and in a ruthless, kinetic burst of motion, he angles his shoulder and drives it into the door. 

The wood splinters from the hinge with the sharp crack of a femur breaking, and the door pops open. 

It is an impressive thing, and Dream does not begrudge Corinthian for his quiet snarl of triumph as the door swings ajar with a distressed creak, the frame sagging inwards. 

Corinthian takes a cautious step over the threshold, and Dream waits behind in the hallway, listening to the soft sound of his footsteps as he moves deeper into the suite. 

The footsteps stop. “Fuck.” 

“Corinthian?”

Corinthian pokes his head back into the hallway, the plastic bag still dangling off his wrist. He scrapes a hand through his hair. “They’re gone. Dunno where to.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dream says, because he isn’t sure what other response there is for someone whose friends seem to have unexpectedly abandoned them. 

Corinthian shrugs. Says, in a tone that sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than Dream, “Nah. It doesn’t matter.” He smiles. “C’mon inside. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

There are signs of habitation in the room Dream follows Corinthian into. There’s plates of half-eaten food on the table, and a few candy wrappers strewn about, and the remote for the television has been left under one of the chairs. The bed looks like it’s been recently used as well - the comforter is thrown back to display rumpled bedsheets below, and the pillow is slightly caved in at the middle. 

Corinthian rests a hand on the sheets, perhaps testing to see if they’re still warm, and then gives the room one last, unhappy look before heading to the bathroom and ushering Dream in behind him.  

The bathroom is a good size, by Dream’s estimate - not that he has any memories of his own to compare it to - there’s a porcelain tub and shower, and a soft green rug spread out on the floor. 

Unceremoniously, Corinthian turns the bag upside down, dumping its contents onto the rug, and then moves to the sink to run the faucet. He waits a few moments until he’s satisfied with the temperature of the water, then grabs a hand towel and holds it under the stream until it’s soaked through. 

“Where do you want me?” Dream asks. 

Over his shoulder, Corinthian shoots him a toothy grin. “Wherever’s comfortable.”

Dream nods, and with a pained grunt, he tugs his hand free from his pocket and settles himself on the rug, letting the side of the tub support him as he leans back. 

Tiredly, he watches Corinthian turn off the faucet, squeezing some of the excess water from the towel. Some of his tension eases away as Corinthian approaches to kneel before him - as if some primitive part of him trusts that Corinthian will take proper care of him. It is comforting, in a thoughtless, instinctual way that does not invite deeper examination. 

Dream’s hand trembles slightly as he holds it aloft, and Corinthian places his own hand underneath it, stabilizing it, careful not to touch the wound itself. He pushes Dream’s jacket and shirt up to the elbow and then gently begins to wipe away the blood, one finger at a time, moving soft and careful around the area of damaged skin. The blood mingles with the water - the towel going pink, and then red. 

“So tell me,” Corinthian says as he works, a strained casualness in his tone. “Is there anything at all you can remember, Dream?”

“There is nothing,” Dream insists. He exhales. “Only - a feeling.” 

“What sort of feeling?”

“It was like –” Like being sliced open, groin to throat. Like being raped to death. Like being unmade. “– It doesn’t matter.”

Corinthian makes a noncommittal hum. He makes a last pass with the towel, and then, seemingly satisfied, balls it up and tosses it into the corner. He rummages through the kit on the ground, and Dream stares at the reflection of himself he finds in Corinthian’s dark, mirrored shades. His appearance is no more of a surprise to him than his voice was, but - the eyes. The blue is - not wrong, exactly, but - different, perhaps, than he had expected, although he hasn’t a guess as to what color he would find more suitable. 

Corinthian opens a medical pad, soaks it in a clear antiseptic solution; the sterile, alcohol smell of it clings to the inside of Dream’s nostrils when he inhales. 

“It’s a little hard to believe you don’t know anything about yourself,” Corinthian says. “Like - hm. Your job, for instance? Your home?” His mouth twists. “Your family?”

Dream shakes his head, wonders if he should be more bothered by this. There is a distant lack inside of him, a hollow space, an absence so massive and profound that it is impossible to gauge the scope of it or make out its shape, let alone know what emotions he should be feeling at its removal. As it is, the most he finds he can muster - beyond a vague curiosity - is a sense of distant loss. 

“Do you?” he responds instead. “You knew my name. You know more than I do.”

“I told you already,” Corinthian says sharply, grabbing Dream’s wrist again - less gently than before - and twisting it into position, “we don’t know each other well.” 

He presses the pad to the wound, holding Dream’s wrist in an iron grip when he hisses at the burn and instinctively tries to jerk away. Dream breathes out, gritting his teeth and watching Corinthian resentfully as he flips his hand over to treat the other side. 

Corinthian flings the discarded pad in the same corner as the towel. Takes a package of gauze next and rips open the cardboard back with his teeth, peeling out one of the pads and pressing it to Dream’s wound. 

“Hold this in place for me,” he says. He smiles. “Please.”

Dream does as he’s asked, watches him as he pulls out a roll of medical wrap next. “Corinthian.” 

Corinthian startles slightly at the sound of his name, his fingers fumbling on the package. He doesn’t look at Dream - he keeps his gaze resolutely fixed on his work, but Dream can tell, from the tight set of his mouth, that he is listening. 

“Corinthian,” he tries again, finding he rather enjoys how the name rolls off his tongue, the way it feels to shape it with his lips. “Tell me. How do you know me?”

Corinthian is silent for a moment, measuring out and then ripping off a section of tape. There is something in his expression that Dream finds he does not like - a look of crude, animal cunning. “We met at the conference,” he says easily. “You introduced yourself. You didn’t say much else, but I never forget a face.”

“Conference,” Dream murmurs. Corinthian lightly taps the hand Dream’s still using to press the pad against the wound, and he obediently removes it, allowing the Corinthian to apply the medical wrap, smoothly tucking in a second pad to the back of his hand as he does. “Those people in the audience - it seemed like you knew what happened to them. What was it?”

“I really don’t know,” Corinthian says. “But it was pretty spooky.” He tilts his head, pauses. “Hey, you don’t suppose - maybe it’s connected to your memory loss somehow?”

“I suppose it could be,” Dream says uncertainly. 

Corinthian finishes applying the tape. “Should be good now,” he says, rotating Dream’s hand and taking a moment to admire his own work. “The bleeding’s slowed way down already. Looks like you’re healing quick. But, uh, I’d be careful with it for a while. Don’t want it to reopen.” He gestures to the bottle of pills, one of the only items still left untouched, and offers a rueful grin. “Got some Advil for you if you need it. But if you want anything stronger, that’ll take some time to procure.”

Dream curls his hand experimentally, wiggles his fingers. The bandage has been expertly applied - he does not quite have full range of motion, but it is a near thing. 

He lowers his hand, gazes into the blank darkness of Corinthian’s glasses. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

Corinthian’s lips part as he sucks in an audible breath. “You’re welcome,” he says hoarsely. He runs a tongue along the gleaming white, serrated edges of his upper incisors, and says, somewhat awkwardly, “I’m sorry about - whatever it was that happened to you.” 

“Don’t be,” Dream says, indifferent. “It is not your fault.” 

Something passes over Corinthian’s face. “What’s your plan now, Dream?” he asks. 

Dream hesitates. From a cursory examination of his own pockets, he knows there’s nothing much on his person beyond some scraps of loose thread and lint - and, strangely, a small pouch containing something that felt like dirt, or sand. No phone, no identification, no money. It chafes to admit such a thing aloud - but he supposes, with some reluctance, that Corinthian has already seen him at his most vulnerable. 

So, Dream swallows his pride, says, “I do not know.”

Corinthian drops from his loose crouch in front of Dream into a slightly hunched sitting position. His knees pull up almost to his chest. “You could stay with me,” he says quietly.

Dream shakes his head. “You have already done enough. I can find my own way.”

“Can you?” Corinthian asks skeptically, and Dream has no answer for that. “Look,” he says. “I’ve been on my own for - fuck, feels like a century and change, sometimes. I wouldn’t mind some company.”

Dream appraises him. The scrutiny seems to make Corinthian uncomfortable - he points his face towards an unsanded section of plaster on the wall instead. That annoys Dream, for some reason he cannot pinpoint, but stronger than his annoyance is that inexplicable sense of ease he feels in Corinthian’s presence. Perhaps it is simply that Corinthian is the only person his purged-clean mind knows - but he feels more connected to him than anything else in this superficially familiar world. 

“I accept.”

Corinthian’s head snaps back around to regard him, and Dream wishes he would take off his shades, so he could more properly see the expressions on his face. “I’m glad,” Corinthian says. He pauses, glancing towards the bathroom door. “We should move though. Find a new place to stay.”

“Don’t you need to wait for your friends to return?”

“They aren’t returning,” Corinthian says grimly. He tilts his head, licking his bottom lip. He has a pretty, well-shaped mouth - Dream wonders if it would be soft to the touch, what it would feel like to run his fingers over the rose-quartz bow of his lips. “And,” Corinthian is saying, “these people at the conference….” He trails off, and above the lenses of his glasses, his brows furrow. “They’re dangerous,” he finally blurts out. “I don’t think you - I don’t think we should stay here any longer than we have to.”

Dream raises an eyebrow, faintly amused. He wonders if this was meant to inspire some fear in him - and he wonders at himself, for why it did not. Without thinking, he replies, “I am sure you are more than adequate protection.”

A tinge of pink spreads over Corinthian’s cheeks at the comment. “Even so,” he says, voice a shade rougher than before, “we should hit the road. There’s another motel, about 20 miles west of here. Scoped it out before. Decent place.”

He waits for Dream to respond, and seems briefly disappointed when Dream only offers a shrug. With a lithe, feline grace, he unfolds himself from his position on the ground, rising to his feet. 

The hand he offers to Dream is warm and comfortingly firm when it wraps around his, and for the first time since his awakening on that graveyard-silent stage, Dream feels a gentle flicker of hope spark to life in his chest.  

It is dark when they leave. 

The nighttime air still maintains a daytime warmth, and Corinthian keeps the top down on his convertible as they drive, the moon bright and fat in the sky, the stars turning into a liquid trail of glittering light as they race underneath them. 

Dream leans back against the cool leather seat, admiring the spill of cosmic radiance above, letting his hand fall out the open window, his fingers catching wind as he and Corinthian sail down the deserted stretch of highway. 

In the corner of his eye, he sees Corinthian glance over at him. He is even more lovely at night, if such a thing is possible - as if he were born to inhabit shadows and the lands-after-dark. His skin seems to refract the moonlight - luminous and faintly glowing - and his hair shimmers like spun silver. 

“Want me to play some music?” he asks Dream, half-shouting over the wind. His glasses are black hollows on his face - despite the darkness, he still hasn’t removed them, but they do not seem to impede his driving, so Dream does not mention it. “Got a lot of good songs here.”

Dream considers the question. “No,” he eventually says, and he doesn’t raise his voice, but Corinthian’s right hand - that had been hovering over the radio, falls back onto the wheel. And then, to explain himself, “I like listening to –” he waves his hand, indicating the shadowed and vast expanse of the world beyond the confines of Corinthian’s car, “– this.”

In truth, it is difficult to hear too much over the frantic gusts of wind, but what Dream is able to discern, he takes great pleasure in: the rough grind of the convertible’s tires traversing patches of gravel, the bark of sheepdogs in the distance, and the whoops of youthful laughter as they drive past a towering bonfire crackling with heat.  

There is music in this as well, he thinks. 

He turns to Corinthian, says, as an afterthought, “But perhaps another time. If you like. We can listen to your music.”

The wind tears Corinthian’s laughter from his throat, transforming it into an almost bestial howl. “Oh fuck yeah, my –” he makes a noise like he’s choking and coughs, tries again, “– Dream. There’s some awesome shit here.” He reaches across Dream’s body to give the glovebox a loving pat. “I’ve been collecting songs for ages.” 

“Collecting songs,” Dream echoes, musing on that concept as he wiggles his shoulders to recline back further in his seat, tipping his chin up to the inky sky. He likes the expression - it’s reminiscent of a curator, searching the world for worthy art, or a poet, plucking stray words and turns of phrase from conversations, stowing them away in their mind to one day weave together into a story. He has a sudden mental image of Corinthian - car parked on the side of a highway not unlike this one, golden hair alight under a noon sun, smiling to himself as he listens to a song that had enchanted him enough to persuade him to pull off the road so he could savor it, free of distractions. 

In the mirror he sees Corinthian grin wolfishly. The moonlight glints off his teeth, making them look as sharp as fangs. “You’re gonna love ‘em.”

The moon is high in the sky when they pull in front of the motel. The lot itself is a desolate thing - home to only a few other cars, and when the convertible’s headlights swing around to illuminate them, Dream can see that the curbs and sidewalks are cracked at the edges, crumbling away, and weeds grow in the fissures. 

The building itself is a pale structure, u-shaped in a way that hugs the parking lot, with a flickering neon sign above it declaring it the “Blue Fox Motel”. 

It does not look like the sort of place many frequent willingly, and for a moment, as Dream exits the car, he thinks he can almost see the abandoned dreams and hopes from the people who have come before - the detritus of their forgotten aspirations settling over the building like dust. 

There is a weary looking woman with dark bags under her eyes at the reception desk, who smiles vacantly when Corinthian greets her. It is a brief interaction - Corinthian politely asks for a room for two, pays her, and she nods, swiveling in her chair to grab a bronze room key from one of the hooks on the wall behind her, wordlessly sliding it over to Corinthian. 

Their room is upstairs on the end of one of the wings, overlooking a field of dead wheat. The space inside is plain: two beds, barely larger than cots, with lumpy pillows and off-white sheets pulled tight at the corners, and a carpet the color of clotted blood. There are faint stains on it, old and strange, and Dream goes to his knees, prodding at them, intrigued. 

Corinthian snorts. “Might not wanna do that.”

“Perhaps not,” Dream agrees absently, opening his hand and letting it wander through the nylon fibers of the rug. There are stories here that he can almost glimpse in the patterns of use and neglect, in the hardened patches that might be from blood, or cum, or vomit. 

“Fine,” Corinthian mutters. “Enjoy the hepatitis. I’m gonna grab some stuff from the car.” He looks down at him. “You good to stay here until I get back? I won’t be long.”

“Where else would I go?” Dream asks, amused, and for some reason, this seems to please Corinthian. 

He grins. “See you soon.”

He’s not gone for long. Dream only has time to explore the rest of the unit - a small closet with a yellowed ironing board and one lone, abandoned tie hanging from the shelf, and a bathroom with cracked sea foam tiles and a shower that smells strongly of bleach. 

Corinthian announces himself with a quick knock on the door before entering, and Dream returns from the bathroom to find him tossing a beige bag onto one of the beds. He unzips it, and Dream catches a glimpse of pale and cream fabric and rolls of cash. 

“Mind turning around?” Corinthian purrs. 

Dream does so, flushing slightly as he hears the soft rustle of clothing being removed. He pictures the flesh underneath - a smooth expanse of golden skin, and imagines what it would feel like to run his fingers down his exposed chest, his arms. He thinks of splaying a hand over Corinthian’s sternum, feeling his heartbeat under his palm. 

“Alright,” Corinthian says, in a tone caught between playful and mocking. “I’m decent.”

Dream turns back around. Corinthian’s wearing a white wool sweater and a pair of slacks, and Dream has half a mind to tell him they suit him well. 

“You can borrow whatever you want,” Corinthian says, gesturing broadly to the bag. “I don’t mind. Not sure if I’ve got anything in your color, though.”

Dream peers down at his clothes. His wardrobe does appear to be exclusively black - and though it’s impossible to know whether or not this is indicative of a larger pattern, he suspects it might be.

There is a faint gurgling noise that emerges from his stomach, and with a scowl, he rests a hand on his abdomen.

Corinthian pauses, cocks his head. “Oh shit,” he says. “Are you - hungry?”    

Dream thinks about it for a moment. The condition of hunger does not feel intrinsically familiar to him, but he understands, objectively, the physical symptoms, and he grudgingly acknowledges that he meets the criteria. 

“It would seem so.”

“Right.” Corinthian catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth, chews on it for a moment. “Um. I think I saw a vending machine and a microwave out in the hall. Might be some frozen stuff.”

Dream’s mouth flattens unhappily before he can think twice, and Corinthian laughs. “Sorry your majesty,” he says, “if I could get you something better tonight, I would.”

The cables behind the vending machine are tangled up in each other, a knotty mass of tendrils, and one of the bulbs inside the machine flickers erratically, but it is well stocked and operable, and the microwave situated beside it is similarly functional. 

The miniature pizza comes out floppy and covered in a thin layer of yellow grease, but Dream’s mouth waters as he smells it, and when they return to their room he turns quickly to the task of consuming it. Corinthian, cross-legged on the floor a few feet away and shoveling skittles into his mouth, watches Dream eat, looking faintly amused. 

“You liked it?” he asks when Dream is done. 

“Well enough,” he says, stifling a yawn. His exhaustion from before has returned tenfold - he is not sure how much longer he can keep it at bay. 

Corinthian laughs, taking the cardboard box from him and standing to dump it in the waste bin by the door. “There’s better pizza out there, I promise,” he says, when he’s resituated himself on the floor. “New York, Rome, fuck, even Detroit.” 

Dream perks up, curious. “You’ve visited all these places?” 

Corinthian shakes a final red skittle from the bag, and Dream watches, intrigued, as he carefully places the candy between his incisors and crunches down. He swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “And then some. Been to almost every country at this point.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

“Right here. US fucking A.” He grins broadly, and his southern drawl seems to thicken as he continues, “This place is fucking massive - and it’s got everything. There’s so much to see - to do. There’s mountains, deserts, oceans, the works. You want cities? You got ‘em. You want quaint little towns full of meth heads? Got those too. You want to cruise down a road for hours and see nothing but billboards covered in sex hotlines and ads for Jesus?” He whistles. “It’s perfect.”

Dream licks off a stray bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Do you spend most of your time traveling, then?”

“Pretty much. Not usually in one spot for long.”

“Does that ever get overwhelming? Always being on the move?”

Corinthian is silent for a moment. “Not really,” he eventually says, perhaps a shade less confidently than before. “I like my freedom. Getting to do whatever I want. You know.”

“But surely,” Dream says, “it is good to have some structure, too. Restrictions serve a purpose, don’t they? They keep us grounded.”

Corinthian stiffens. “That’s what my old boss used to say,” he says, and the sudden, acid vehemence in his voice is enough to make Dream recoil. “He wouldn’t shut up about it.” He cocks his head, and his lips curl into a sneer. Coldly, “You remind me of him, a bit.”

The words sting, and Dream, wounded, stares at Corinthian, eyes wide. 

Corinthian draws back, licks his lips. “But you’re nicer,” he says. “Don’t worry. I like you better.”

“What a relief,” Dream says flatly, still faintly hurt, and Corinthian lets out a sharp breath, a complicated series of emotions - each passing too quickly for Dream to examine - crossing his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” He shifts, drawing his knees against his chest and hooking his arms over his shins. Miserably, “I’m happy having you here, with me.”

He says nothing else, just stares at his own knees, despondent, and pity stirs within Dream. He crawls forward, places his uninjured hand on Corinthian’s shoulder. 

“I owe you much,” he says softly. “You have helped me greatly, Corinthian. And. I am also happy. To be here with you.”

He squeezes lightly, and does not remove his hand, and Corinthian leans forward with a soft sigh, unwrapping his arms from his legs. Slowly, tentatively, Corinthian brings a hand to the back of Dream’s head, threading his fingers through his hair, and for a second Dream thinks that perhaps this is some odd form of embrace - or a gesture of camaraderie, but then Corinthian is drawing towards him, pressing his lips against Dream’s. 

Startled, Dream goes still, his hand falling from Corinthian’s arm, and the kiss is over as soon as it begins. He does not see him move, but Corinthian is suddenly standing, a hand raking through his blond hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, as Dream stares up at him, bewildered. “I didn’t –” He takes a deep breath. “I’m going to sleep. You can, too. If you want.”

“Corinthian,” Dream tries, but Corinthian is already going over to the lights, flicking them off, leaving the room in a gloomy, gray darkness. 

Dream watches the shadowed figure of Corinthian lie down in the bed closest to the door, pull the covers around his body. 

Tiredly, he drags himself upright, half-stumbling towards the unclaimed bed. He tugs the scant bedsheets around himself, curling into the meager warmth they provide, and swipes a finger around his lips, remembering - with a hazy, sleepy fondness - the too-brief contact of Corinthian’s mouth upon them.

When he closes his eyes, there is blackness.

He wakes the next morning to sunlight streaming in through the windows, and Corinthian smiling down at him.

“You slept like a rock,” Corinthian says cheerfully, and it pleases Dream, to see his mood restored. He looks like he’s just returned from elsewhere; he’s dressed in an ivory blazer over a white cotton shirt, and he has two steaming, styrofoam cups in his hands. “Good dreams?”

“Mmfh,” Dream says muzzily, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself into a sitting position. “No dreams.” In fact, he barely feels like he’s slept at all - it’s as if no time has passed: were it not for the rosy light filtering in through the window, and the fact that he’s less tired than he was before, he’d almost be convinced he’d just laid down and blinked. 

Corinthian hesitates, then sits down on the mattress beside him, offers him one of the cups. 

Dream accepts, enjoying the way its warmth leeches through into his palms. He inhales the steam as it rises. “What is it?”

“Green tea,” Corinthian says. “With a little sugar. Nothing too fancy - they didn’t have much besides that and drip coffee.” He takes a drink from his own cup. “If you don’t like it, though, I think there’s a grocery store a few miles out - we can always pick up something else.” He smiles. “I have this feeling you’re an earl gray kinda guy.”

“Is that so?” Dream asks. He blows on the cup, takes a careful sip. “I like this.”

“You’ll like earl gray even better,” Corinthian promises. “Especially the good brands - the ones with lavender and bergamot. Trust me - I’ve got good instincts about this stuff.”

Dream smiles at him, and Corinthian’s expression momentarily goes soft and slack. 

He clears his throat. “And!” he says, as if he’d forgotten. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a waxy paper bag, and hands it to Dream with a grin. “For you.”

An appetizing smell wafts from it, and inside is a pastry; golden-brown, flaking outer layer, still warm with an oven’s heat. He eats it in four quick bites; it dissolves in his mouth, buttery and sugary and enjoyable to consume in a way the pizza had not been. 

“Good?” Corinthian asks, a little nervously. 

“Yes,” Dream says, and Corinthian beams. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure,” Corinthian says earnestly. And then, in an excited rush, “What do you want to do today? We could go for a drive. Listen to music, if you’re still interested.”

It is not exactly the sort of plan Dream had been hoping for. His memories are still gone, and without his identity he is unmoored. But - perhaps he can be patient. It is possible his memories will return in their own time. And besides - he peers out the window. It is beautiful outside; the sky is clear and blue, and even the dead wheat, limned in warm daylight, look almost alive. 

And Corinthian, haloed in light, his skin as gold as distilled sunshine against the bone-white of his clothes - is smiling at him, and Dream feels his concerns roll off him like rainwater as he slips his hand into Corinthian’s and lets him pull him from the bed. 

Corinthian drives with the reckless abandon of a man waging a private war against speed limits, but even so, Dream finds the journey relaxing, and soaks in the sunlight and the scenery as they pass it - the glades of farmland, and the thick, verdant sprawl of forests beyond. 

They go off the highway and down a sideroad, which eventually narrows into an unpaved dirt track, and Corinthian slows and finally parks the car beside an overgrown field speckled with wildflowers and smelling faintly of honeysuckle. 

Corinthian takes a moment to stretch, basking in the sunlight. There’s a healthy, sun-kissed glow to his skin already, and his hair gleams in the light, and Dream wants to run his fingers through it, to see if the strands would glitter individually like beaten gold. 

Corinthian opens the glove box, rummages through, eventually pulling out a white cassette tape with a label on the back that looks like it was handwritten, poorly - Dream can discern nothing from the smudged, illegible scribbles, aside from the fact that they appear to be an attempt at words. 

He pops in the cassette, turns up the volume, and then his music is playing, the sound rumbling through the car’s stereos, vibrating inside of Dream’s chest. He settles back in his seat, letting his gaze unfocus as he listens. 

Every so often Corinthian will make some comment about one of the songs (“Rolling Stones went through a bunch of different styles for this before they settled on samba. Would’ve liked to hear the original. Heard it was folksy. Sounds cool.” And: “Listened to this one for the first time in, ah, a friend’s penthouse years ago. We were smoking, but when I heard this, I completely forgot about the joint in my hand. Kept burning though. Guess we rolled it too tight. Waste of good weed.”) but mostly he just listens silently, watching Dream.  

Dream finds he generally favors the slower-paced, more melodic songs, the ones that sound like they could almost be lullabies, but he suspects, from the way Corinthian perks up at the more upbeat, energetic, songs, that he may be alone in this preference. 

“Did you have a favorite?” Corinthian eventually asks, when the last song on his cassette ends and they are left only with the music of the wilderness - the chirping of birds, the chittering of insects, and the soft rustle of the breeze.  

“The one about the girl, I think,” Dream says. It is an easy choice. He had liked the lyrics as well as the sound of it - it’s wavelike rise and fall. “The one who brings the singer back with her to her homeland.” He frowns. “Was she an alien?”

Corinthian laughs. “Maybe! I think it’s supposed to be ambiguous.” He gives a rueful, one-armed shrug. “I’m not so good with that stuff, anyway. Deciphering meaning and shit. What do you want it to be?”

Dream ponders it. “I think the woman is the man. His hope for a better future. His conscience.”

“I like that,” Corinthian says. “It’s sweet. Like - a part of his soul speaking to itself.”

“And you?” Dream asks. “Do you have a favorite?” 

Corinthian seems surprised by the question. “I don’t know,” he says, after a beat. “I like ‘em all. Not sure I could really tell you why, either. I just like how they sound.” He shrugs, and then says, a little sheepishly, “Suppose that’s probably not very interesting of me.”

“They speak to you,” Dream says, solemnly. “That is all that matters.”

Corinthian tilts his head like he’s considering something, and a sly grin splits across his face. “You know what Woodstock is?”

“Should I?”

“Nah. Just some concert. Wild though. Absolute chaos. Mud and filth everywhere - people getting lost left and right - more drugs in one place than a DEA warehouse.” 

“And you enjoyed this?” Dream asks, dubious. 

“It was incredible,” Corinthian breathes. “To be honest, I’d just gone for the people. The crowds. Seemed like a fun way to meet strangers, you know?” His smile turns wry. “Always did love those free love folks. But - when I heard the music…” He trails off for a moment, like he’s lost in a memory. “You know, I couldn’t even tell you what song it was. But I fucking loved it. Barely fucked anyone the rest of the weekend. Just - camped out. Listened to the songs.”

He pauses, like he’s half-expecting Dream to interrupt, and when he doesn’t, he plunges on excitedly, “Got acid from some hippie. It’s a psychedelic. Assume you know what that is?” Dream nods, and he continues, “Spent the next two hours flat on my back, licking my fingers. Kept trying to tell people they tasted blue. Still not sure what I meant.”

“Ah.” Dream pauses delicately. “An… interesting notion.”

Corinthian quirks an eyebrow. “You just sayin’ that to be nice?”

Dream laughs. “Yes.”

“Don’t worry. Nobody else had a clue either. Lost count of the number of people who asked if I was okay.” 

“Well,” Dream murmurs. His eyelids have grown heavy, and on impulse, he twists in his seat, leans his head against the warm weight of Corinthian’s shoulder. Against his cheek, he feels Corinthian’s arm stiffen, and then relax. “You did say they were all strangers. At least.”

Corinthian snickers softly. “Certainly ain’t the worst predicament I’ve been found in.” He shifts minutely, deliberate, like he’s trying to be careful not to jostle Dream, and his breath puffs softly against Dream’s hair as he sighs. “It’s nice. Seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Happy.”

Something in Dream’s stomach lurches unpleasantly, and he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He does not understand what Corinthian means, and a tar-black dread drips through his innards at the thought of asking him.  

He does not need to dwell on this now, he tells himself sternly. He is tired. The sun is hot on his face and the wind is cool against his brow, and liquid drowsiness seeps through his veins like the sweetest of poisons. 

Sleep embraces him like a lost lover, melting away every errant thought and emotion in its path, and Dream surrenders to it, letting that sticky, malignant fear in his belly dissipate, unnamed and unacknowledged. 

He awakens with a start, jerking away from Corinthian’s shoulder, cold perspiration dripping down the back of his neck and visions of beady-eyed ravens and primordial seas frothing with unrealized potentialities stark and vivid in his mind’s eye. 

He exhales shakily, pushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Beside him, Corinthian’s body is a line of tension. “Hey. Dream. You alright there?” 

He takes a moment to collect him. “Yes. Just. Dreams.”

“Dreams,” Corinthian repeats darkly. “You remember what about?”

The once-lucid clarity of the images is already - mercifully - fading, and Dream has no desire to linger on them any further. 

“No,” he tells Corinthian. And then, in a voice that comes out disgustingly brittle, he says, “Take me back to the motel,” for he suddenly feels far too exposed in the wide-open space of the field.

He’s barely finished speaking the words before Corinthian is twisting his key in the ignition and pulling his car into reverse, and the display of obedience - given so freely, so automatically - is gratifying enough that Dream feels some of his nebulous dread soothed.

He breathes out, letting the last, residual images fade away. They are, he reminds himself, only dreams.

At Corinthian’s insistence, they end up stopping for food before they return to the motel. 

Dream licks remnant salt from his fingers, and wonders what color he would describe them as, were he so inclinced. Yellow, he thinks, and then tells Corinthian so. 

Corinthian laughs. “Sure you aren’t just sayin’ that because it’s one of the colors on their logo?” he asks, and, obnoxiously, emphasizes his point by tapping on the crumpled bag resting behind the transmission. 

“Absurd.” Dream scoffs. “I would not let that influence my judgment.”

Corinthian is still smirking at him by the time they pull into the motel parking lot. They aren’t the only ones who have just arrived; the car across from them is belching black exhaust fumes, and through the tinted glass Dream sees a blonde woman at the wheel, fiddling with her mirror. He is distracted by her; the sound of a door cracking open startles him from his reverie, and he snaps his head towards the source of the sound. 

Climbing out from the passenger side door is a girl, dreadlocks threaded with rainbow color - no, not rainbow, just red, like her hair is set with glimmering rubies, and she’s blazing with radiance - 

She turns, revealing the face of a stranger, and when Dream looks again there is no red in her hair after all - a trick of the light, perhaps. 

They return to their room, and Dream decides - after examining the state of his unwashed clothes - that a shower is in order. 

“You’ll need to change the bandage after,” Corinthian advises. “I’ll help.”

Dream nods his agreement, and Corinthian perches dutifully on the edge of his bed, first aid kit spread open beside him. He wonders if Corinthian intends to wait for him like that the entire time - and finds himself strangely pleased by that prospect. 

Dream heads to the bathroom, closes the door behind himself, and unsentimentally discards his clothes, only taking care to remove the bag of sand, placing it gently on the sink. He steps into the shower, turning up the nozzle until the water that comes out is just south of painfully hot. 

He massages shampoo into his scalp, dragging his uninjured hand through wet, snarled hair until the strands untangle and offer his fingers no further resistance, and he lathers soap over his skin, belatedly realizing that this is the first time he has really had the chance to really explore his own body. 

No part of his flesh is a mystery to him, exactly - it all feels familiar, from the bony divots of his hips, to the faint protrusion of ribs and vertebrae, but he enjoys the sensation of being touched - if only by himself. 

On a whim, he lets his unbandaged hand drift between his legs, wrapping around his cock. He squeezes experimentally and it fills with blood, hardening, and he finds his thoughts drifting to Corinthian - of the soft way his lips part when Dream smiles at him, of how he had looked earlier, under the sun: all honey and gold and long, lazy limbs, like a leopard draped over an outcrop of sun-warmed rocks. 

His cock jumps in his hand, and he shudders, forcing his fingers to open and release it. He cannot stay here forever, tempting as it is. Corinthian is waiting for him, and it would not be prudent to keep him so for much longer. 

He dries himself off and wraps the towel around his waist, leaving his dirtied, bloodstained clothes behind as he pads back out into the main room. 

Corinthian is still where Dream left him, and he’s playing with a safety pin, flipping it between his fingers, but he goes still when he sees Dream, the pin slipping onto the bed. His shades are as opaque and onyx-dark as always, masking his eyes, and Dream finds himself vaguely irritated by this. 

Dream studies him as he approaches, considering. “Why do you wear those?” he asks, indicating the glasses. “I’ve never seen you without them.”

Corinthian touches them almost self-consciously, runs a quick finger up the rim. “You wouldn’t like me without ‘em,” he says. “It’s ugly, underneath.”

“I cannot imagine any part of you is ugly,” Dream says, because such a thing seems a patently ridiculous notion. He hesitates. “But… if it pleases you to leave them on - I will not trouble you about them again.”

Corinthian flinches. “Why are you acting like this?” he asks thickly. “So - nice.” 

Dream raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather I be cruel?”

“Of course not,” Corinthian snaps. “I just –” He cuts himself off. “It doesn’t matter. Just give me your hand.”

With a bemused shrug, Dream stretches out his hand, allowing Corinthian to unwrap the layers of tape and gauze. Dried blood is everywhere, and it smells of sweat and copper and ozone, but the wound itself, when Corinthian cleans it, is almost gone. Only two thin, puckered scabs on either side remain, pink and faintly shiny at the edges with new tissue. 

Corinthian trails a gentle finger along his palm, circling the scab. “You’re healed,” he murmurs. He flips his hand, re-examining the other side, and this time, his fingers ghost over Dream’s knuckles before he seems to realize what he’s doing. He drops his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dream says. And then, “I would have you do it again.”

Corinthian stares at him, looking almost distraught, and Dream stretches out his newly-healed hand to the side of Corinthian’s face.

Corinthian gives a full-body shiver at the contact, and then with a broken sigh leans into it, nuzzling his cheek into Dream’s palm and then, slowly, tentatively, reaches up to take Dream’s hand. He repeats his touches from before - the glide of his finger over the palm, the knuckles - as he gazes at Dream with the desperate, beseeching expression of a man waiting to be granted permission. 

Dream supposes he can be merciful. “Take off your clothes,” he murmurs. “It feels unequal, otherwise. With me all but nude.” He offers a wry smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course,” Corinthian drawls, and he grins at Dream as he stands and begins to playfully tug off his jacket and undershirt, all brash confidence again, but he trembles when Dream reaches out a hand to caress down his exposed chest, his abdomen heaving as Dream’s fingers sweep down the trail of pale hairs under his bellybutton. 

He is already hard when he pulls off his briefs, and Dream is pleased by it, by the unmistakable, lewd display of Corinthian’s arousal. That it is for him feels only right. 

Corinthian reaches for Dream, hooking his thumb under the top of the towel still wrapped around his waist. Dream’s breathing quickens at the touch of Corinthian’s skin against his, and he makes a rough noise that Corinthian takes for the permission it is, and pulls the towel away. 

Corinthian does not move as Dream rises to bridge the gap between him. His throat bobs as Dream runs a hand up the back of his head, relishing in the silken softness of the hair beneath his fingertips. The hair at the top of his head is longer, and Dream takes a fistful of it, and curious, tugs sharply. A pathetic mewl catches in Corinthian’s throat, and the sound shivers through Dream, going straight to his cock. 

He releases Corinthian’s hair, and then, mirroring what Corinthian had done the night before, he splays his hand on the back of his skull and pulls him down for a kiss. 

Corinthian kisses like a man starved for it. He takes all the offered flesh he can get - nibbling at Dream’s tongue, sucking on his lips, licking deep into his mouth. 

Dream allows this, doesn’t try to wrest control of the kiss back from Corinthian, just places a hand on the small of his back and tugs him onto the bed. 

The springs in the mattress shriek in protest as they fall ungracefully onto it, and Corinthian makes a muffled noise as they disentangle, shoving away bloodstained bandages before hooking a leg around Dream’s waist. In a fluid motion Corinthian’s straddled him, and he gazes down at Dream, naked except for his glasses, hair in disarray, and so gorgeous that something inside Dream burns at the sight of him.  

With a shudder, Corinthian falls upon him. 

His teeth are sharp and he has a rough mouth, but it gentles when Dream hisses a protest, his tongue soothing over the bitten skin, his lips soft as they kiss along his neck.

Dream moans when he reaches the skin between his jaw and ear, and Corinthian attentively laves his tongue along it, sucking a bruising kiss into the skin, and Dream feels the blond man grin against his throat as he gasps and twitches underneath him.  

“How do you want me?” Corinthian purrs. “I’m all yours. However you want me.”

Dream grabs Corinthian’s hips and squeezes, urged on by the sudden, addictive desire to stain the perfect, unmarred canvas of Corinthian’s body with his fingerprints, like a signature. It is a sharp, heady thing: that he feels entitled to do this. 

He rakes his nails up Corinthian’s back, enjoying the way he moans at that, at the way his muscles flex as he drags over them. “I want you on my cock,” he tells Corinthian, as calmly as he can manage. Blood roars in his ears - he wants – “I want to be inside of you.”

“Anything,” Corinthian pants. His cock bobs in the air, an unbroken thread of precum drooling from the slit. “Anything for you.” 

Corinthian does not waste any time. He arranges himself, grabbing the base of Dream’s cock and sinking onto it in a single motion. The clench of him - the hot, overpowering tightness - sends pleasure racing like lightning under Dream’s skin, white-hot and electric. 

Corinthian grinds down, letting out a sharp, almost pained gasp as he does, but he doesn’t bother taking a moment to adjust. He rolls his hips, begins to move on top of him, and the friction feels exquisite - like there’s starshine singing through his blood – 

Even so. 

It is not what he wants. 

Dream secures his hands on Corinthian’s waist. Corinthian seems to sense what it is he wants - for he ceases his movements and obediently keeps still as Dream widens his own legs, pressing his feet flat into the mattress for stability. 

Corinthian’s breath starts to escape him in harsh, shallow pants, and he whimpers, trembling like it’s taking everything in his power to stop himself from moving, and Dream decides to take pity on him.

Driven by an instinct he doesn’t remember, he fucks up into Corinthian’s hole, setting a hard, punishing pace, and Corinthian’s head falls back, baring the column of his throat, and Dream wants to bite it, to draw blood to the surface of his skin, mark him as his own. 

He loses himself in the all-consuming heat of Corinthian’s body, mindlessly rutting into him, and each thrust punches out a breathy sound from Corinthian like he’s dying. 

“Fuck,” Corinthian hisses, and Dream is barely listening, but he loves his voice, the low drawl of it, the debauched noises he makes as he’s fucked. “Fuck, Dream. I love you. I fucking love you.”

He writhes on Dream’s cock, wanton and gasping, face flushed, his cock hard and weeping, dripping onto Dream’s stomach, and Dream’s thoughts grow incoherent - all he knows is that he wants more – 

“I love you,” Corinthian is still babbling, “I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, fuck, I love you –”

He comes with a strangled gasp all over Dream’s stomach, painting it with ropes of his spend, and that proves enough to send Dream following him over the edge. 

Dream cleans himself off with the towel, afterwards, and then offers it to Corinthian, who tentatively swipes between his legs, wincing a little. 

“Did I hurt you?” Dream asks. 

Corinthian grins at him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good,” Dream says, and then climbs back into the bed, rearranging the disheveled sheets around him into a semblance of proper order. “I would not like to have damaged you.” He smiles at him. “Will you join me?”

Corinthian hesitates for a moment, but then nods and crawls into the bed beside him, folding his arms by his face and propping his chin up on top of them, gazing at Dream. 

Dream gazes back, admiring Corinthian’s body - glistening with sweat and flushed in the aftermath of sex, his back strewn with livid, red lines from Dream’s nails. 

“You are a rare beauty,” he tells him, wondrous. 

Corinthian inhales. A touch of color has crept along his cheeks, and Dream cannot see his eyes under his glasses, but he knows - in a way that transcends simple instinct - Corinthian is now intentionally not meeting his gaze. 

“Have I made you uncomfortable?”

Corinthian’s shoulders fall as he releases his breath. Roughly, he says, “It’s just - have you seen yourself?” He shifts positions to free an arm, and he reaches out, ghosting a hand over Dream’s face before his expression twists, and he quickly pulls it back. “You’re perfect,” he says. And then, almost hesitantly, “Divine.”

“You are allowed to touch me,” Dream says, faintly amused. He stretches out on the bed, languid, sated. “In fact, I encourage it.”

Corinthian makes a soft, needy sound, and then he’s kissing Dream again - on his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, his collarbone, his ribs, like he’s trying to map his body with his lips alone.

He tucks himself against Dream’s side after, curling towards him, and Dream strokes Corinthian’s hair and kisses his temples, until eventually, sleep claims him once again. 

There is a palace in his dreams, made of ether and dew-glistening starlight and twisted spires of painted bone. Its halls are emptied and lightless, but the darkness cleaves to him when he walks through it, billowing around him and spilling from his shoulders like a cloak of living shadows. 

He roams through the corridors, towards the center of it. There is a sound from inside the walls, from beneath the foundations: a wet, rhythmic thudding. He draws nearer, and the thudding resolves into a heartbeat, pulsing through the air, gushing blood red light with every contraction. The air sparkles with droplets of red, and they glitter like rubies as they whirl around each other, forming microscopic star systems and constellations. 

The shadows at Dream’s back shiver hungrily, urging him onwards, but he stops, afraid of the thing oozing from the walls, afraid of what he will find if he ventures further, to its source. 

He hears a faint caw and rustle of feathers, and he looks up. 

There is a stairway of winding stone, and on the dais at the top is a throne ornately carved from slate. 

There is a raven on the armrest, hackles fluffed with fear. It opens its beak. “Boss?” 

He wakes to warm fingers petting through his hair. 

With a groan, Dream rolls over to find Corinthian reclining beside him, one of his arms draped over Dream, the other propped up to support his head. He’s wearing his glasses but nothing else, and his mouth twitches into a tentative smile as he sees Dream rouse. 

“You okay?” he asks, trailing his hand gently, almost reverently, down the slope of Dream’s face. “You were moving around a lot. Hard time sleeping?”

“No,” Dream says groggily, still feeling slightly disoriented. “Just - odd dreams.”

Corinthian hums softly. “Like the ones you had yesterday?” 

Dream almost ignores the question entirely. It is no business of Corinthian’s, and besides… the things he sees in his dreams disturb him, and he is not enthusiastic about the prospect of dwelling on them longer by dissecting them with Corinthian. 

But there’s genuine concern in Corinthian’s expression, and something in Dream softens at the sight of it. With a sigh he rolls over, pressing his back to Corinthian’s chest. 

Without hesitation, Corinthian pulls him into his arms and presses a soft kiss to his shoulder, and Dream relaxes against the reassuring solidity of his lover. 

“There was a palace,” he says quietly, and does not miss the way Corinthian goes deathlessly still at those words. “I was walking towards its heart. And… there was something else there.” 

“What was it?”

“I do not know. But. It felt alive.”

“And there was nothing else you remember?” Corinthian presses.

“No.” Dream pauses, corrects himself. “Well. There was a raven.”

“A raven,” Corinthian repeats, unhappily. “Did it notice you?”

“I believe it thought I was its master.”

Corinthian says nothing for a while, and Dream twists back around to examine him. There is an atypical pallor to his features, and one side of his cheek hollows in as he chews on it. 

“Corinthian?” 

Corinthian takes Dream’s hand in his own, interlaces their fingers together. “Are you happy with me?” he asks. 

Dream chuckles. “You would not be sharing my bed if I wasn’t.”

Corinthian smirks. “Technically,” he drawls. “I think this one is my bed.” His smile falters and he licks his lips. “And… would you stay with me?” 

“Where else would I go?” Dream asks. Corinthian flinches minutely, and Dream laughs, pressing a kiss to their joined hands. “Yes, I would stay with you.”

Corinthian’s nervousness evaporates like it never existed at all. “What d’ya think about ditching this motel, then?” he asks brightly. “Go somewhere better. More interesting.”

“Where are you thinking?”

Corinthian gives him a coy smile. “Somewhere cozier. Less stale. I know some spots.”

“Oh?” Dream asks, repressing a smile as Corinthian rolls his hips flirtatiously, his erection flush against Dream’s belly. “You collected these, too?”

“You could say that,” Corinthian purrs. He dips his head down, kissing the sensitive spot on Dream’s neck he’d found the day before. “Either way, I think you deserve somewhere better than this.”

Dream laughs, wraps a loose hand around Corinthian’s cock. “Is this an appeal to my vanity, then?” 

“Maybe a little,” Corinthian teases. He gasps as Dream gives his dick a lazy stroke, and his words come out strangled as he says, “C’mon, Dream, say yes.”

“You ask so sweetly,” Dream purrs. “But perhaps I wish to hear you beg.”

Corinthian makes a sound like he’s choking, and with some satisfaction, Dream feels his cock jump in his hand. 

“And I suspect,” Dream says softly, gliding his hand up from root to tip and swiping a thumb through the gathered precum at the slit, “I will not have to wait long.”

It’s the same woman at the reception desk when they go to return their room key. She doesn’t say anything to them - she has a faraway look in her eyes, and Dream can almost picture what it is she’s thinking about: a fantasy of rose petals and white lace, a woman’s hand slipped into her own - her ring finger gleaming with a silver band, and glossed lips that taste of raspberry and vanilla. 

He blinks and the images are gone. 

Corinthian grabs his hand as he pulls him towards the car, grinning at him as if delighted by his own audacity. Dream allows it, finds himself rather taken by Corinthian’s excitement, by the way his expression softens when he looks back at Dream.

They make a stop at the grocery store Corinthian had mentioned to him two nights before. It’s plain but clearly well-kept, and when the doors slide open to let out a man laden with shopping bags, Dream glimpses a few families milling around tables of fresh produce.

“You can come with me, if you like,” Corinthian offers. “Wouldn’t mind your eye in there.”

Dream shakes his head. The day is warm and the morning clouds are still stained with the peachy colors of sunrise, and he likes the look of the area outside the store: the rough strip of dusty road, the tractors in the distance. 

Corinthian, predictably, pouts, and Dream softens his refusal with a smile, and a carefully doled out measure of flattery: “I trust your judgment,” he tells him. 

It proves enough for Corinthian. He does not, Dream is beginning to notice, require much to be content - and what he does need, Dream finds easy enough to provide.  

Dream stands by the rusted fence at the edge of the parking lot, observing the cars that come in and out and the occasional people walking along the side of the road. His gaze roams further - out beyond the perimeter of the store, to the line of trees and sun-dappled grass beyond, and he watches the shadows shift as the leaves blow in the wind. 

The patterns of darkness shift as a breeze flutters through the overhead leaves, and then shift again. The air is still, but the shadows are still moving, stretching and growing tall in the grass, and Dream, frowning, approaches. 

The grass is the color of pitch when he draws near, a black hole in the ground, and then from within, a woman steps out. 

She straightens her tie, and he tilts his head, staring at her. He knows her, he thinks - it is the same unconscious recognition he’d felt for Corinthian, although he does not feel the same immediate draw towards her. 

“Lord Morpheus,” she breathes, and Dream understands, innately, that this is also his name. 

He examines her. “And you are?”

Her expression falls. “Do you truly not know me, lord?” She does not wait for him to respond. “I am Lucienne. Your librarian.”

“Librarian?” he repeats, bemused.

Lucienne steps forward, her hands raised, placating. “Please, Lord Morpheus, I don’t have much time to explain –” A nervous glance over her shoulder, to the yawning shadows behind her – “but you must return to the Dreaming.”

“I must?” Dream repeats coldly. There is a low throb of pain behind his eyes. “You seek to command me, Lucienne?”

“I seek to save you, lord,” she says urgently. “And everything you have rebuilt.”

“Then stop speaking in riddles,” Dream snaps. Distantly, he feels the rapid-fire pound of his heart racing in his chest, almost painfully fast. His breath sticks to the inside of his throat, the memory of his last dream playing through his mind. 

“The girl,” Lucienne explains, as if that is any help, “the vortex. Your power was too much a meal for any mortal, my lord. She slumbers, bloated on it. Fiddler’s Green watches her in the Waking, but –” The shadows in the grass sigh and tremble, and she intakes a quick, anxious breath – “Nobody knows how long she will remain like this. How long the Dreaming will stay stable. You must return with me –”

“Lucienne?”

He had not heard him approach, but Corinthian is beside him, mouth agape, a bag of groceries in either hand. 

Lucienne’s eyes go wide with alarm. “My lord, if he is here, you are not safe. Return home. Please. We will put things to rights.”

Dream kneads his knuckles against his temple. His head feels like it’s splitting open, and he can’t think, and there’s a pressure, in the back of his mind, like something knocking on a door. 

His mouth opens, and what emerges is not a human voice. It is the crack of lightning against a clear blue sky, it is the distant roar of wildfire eating through a forest. “Enough. I am done with this.”

There is a shock of voltaic power, the sound of a current sizzling along a wire, and the shadows stretch towards Lucienne, drawing her in. 

“Morpheus,” she hisses, but then they are gone, and her with them. 

The grass stirs with a faint breeze, green and whole again. 

Dream turns, suddenly weary. “Corinthian. Tell me what’s going on.” 

Corinthian sets the groceries down beside him, gives Dream a wretched, imploring look. “I don’t want to.”

“It was not a request,” Dream says sharply, and then, when Corinthian takes a half-step back, he sighs. “What is the Dreaming, Corinthian?”

Corinthian’s mouth twists with dismay. “It’s where we’re from,” he says quietly. “You and me and Lucienne and that stupid fucking raven. We’re the stuff of dreams. Or - you are.” He licks his lips. “I’m - a nightmare.” 

And then, slowly, miserably, he removes his glasses. 

White-blond lashes fan around mouths of perfect, white teeth. They open and close almost shyly as Dream examines them, and he sees the pink shadows of tongues further inside, in the night-dark cavities of his eyes. 

“I came to this world over a century ago,” Corinthian says. “And I fell in love with it.” His eye-teeth grind anxiously. “And… you can stay here, too. With me.”

“You knew what happened to me,” Dream accuses, but without much heat. 

“I didn’t,” Corinthian says desperately. “Really. I didn’t know Rose took your power. I had no idea what happened. I promise.”

Dream believes him, but it is of little consequence. Corinthian may have been ignorant of what it was that stole away his memories, but there was still much else he knowingly withheld. 

He could demand an explanation. He has a feeling Corinthian would tell him everything now, if he asked. 

He does not. 

(Here is the truth he dares not admit to himself: he does not want to know.)

Corinthian drops to his knees, and stares up at Dream like a supplicant, expression open and plaintive. “Please,” he begs. “Come with me. I know Lucienne - she’d say anything to get you back. But you don’t need to. You can stay here. With me.”

“She implied I was in danger.” From you, he doesn’t add.

“I’ll protect you,” Corinthian says fiercely. “I wouldn’t let anything hurt you.” He lowers his gaze. “I love you.”

A great, warm rush of emotions stirs in Dream’s chest as he assesses the nightmare on his knees before him: familiarity, possessiveness, and a deep and unrelenting fondness. This must be love, he thinks. Or, at least, something near enough. 

He places a hand on Corinthian’s face. Corinthian shudders, his teeth chattering, and Dream brushes the soft, delicate skin underneath them. 

“You were wrong,” he tells him. “They are not ugly at all.”

Corinthian stares up at him, his face naked and beseeching. 

“You are beautiful,” Dream says, and Corinthian releases a weak gasp. “And you have pleased me. And helped me.” He strokes down his face. “I accept your terms. I will go with you.”

Dream’s mind swirls with uncertainty as they drive, unable to fully push away the memory of Lucienne’s plea from the forefront of his thoughts, and something beckons in the recesses of his consciousness - a niggling awareness just beyond his reach, like a phantom limb. 

It is close. If he so wanted, he could stretch his mind towards it, grasp hold – 

He kills the impulse before it can take root. He will not. 

Corinthian does not seem to share any of his apprehension. He’s in a good mood - high on his own victory, Dream thinks - and he barely seems to register Dream’s silence, just bounces through a flurry of topics as he drives: musicals he’s seen (“You’d like Cats, I think.”), cities he’s visited, and occasionally, odd little facts he’s learned over the years (“Check out that cow–” Dream looks to his right, finds there is, in fact, a cow– “D’ya know cows have best friends? Isn’t that cute? Too bad they’re so tasty, right?”). 

His chatter is a comforting background noise, if nothing else - Dream half-listens, nodding along and occasionally making a small noise of acknowledgment.

Their trip is long. They make a single stop for gas, and otherwise continue without pause for approximately seven hours. Farmland gives way to suburbs, and then the suburbs shrink into dense, mountainous forests, and it’s dusk before Corinthian finally slows and turns the car down a steep dirt path, pulling in front of a small cabin made of stone and wood.

It’s dark inside, but warm, and Corinthian goes back out to fiddle with the generator. He returns, grinning triumphantly, and flicks on the lights. 

It’s a pretty space, palatial compared to the motel. There’s a small kitchen tucked away behind a wooden dining table, and in the main space, there is a soft, well-worn sofa, several voluminous chairs, and a bearskin rug in front of a fireplace. On the mantle above is a butchered deer head - the antlers almost scraping the ceiling above. 

Corinthian follows his gaze. “Owner was a hunter,” he explains, smirking slightly as if amused by some private joke.

“How do you know them?” Dream asks. “Do they know you’re here?”

“Nah. But don’t worry. Colton ain’t coming back.”

Corinthian says the name with a sly familiarity, and Dream’s mouth fills with a sudden, acid bitterness. “Another lover?” 

Corinthian snorts. “You’re a lover. He was… just a bit of fun.”

It doesn’t ease the clench of jealousy, and Dream’s lip curls disdainfully before he can stop it. 

“If you ask,” Corinthian says softly. “There will never be any others. Ever again.”

Even freely offered, it would be an unfair request to make, and so Dream does not, but he presses a biting, hungry kiss to Corinthian’s lips, so as at least to claim him with his teeth and his tongue. 

Corinthian nudges him towards the bedroom when they pull apart, but not, unfortunately, for the purpose of progressing their activities. 

“There should be clothes in your size,” he suggests. “Your fashion, too.”

Dream nods his gratitude. The clothes Corinthian had loaned to him are soft and supple, but they are tailored to Corinthian’s physique and stylistic preferences, not Dream’s. 

The bedroom is well-stocked with clothes, and he rummages through the wardrobe, glad to have more suitable options for himself. 

He changes into a simple black t-shirt and jeans - one with large enough pockets for the bag of sand he still makes a point to carry with him, and walks out, presenting himself to Corinthian. 

“How do I look?”

Corinthian hums appreciatively. “You look sexy. Although,” he confesses with a wink, “I gotta admit, I rather liked seeing you in my clothes.” 

Corinthian makes a pasta dish called tajarin for dinner - a recipe he swears was taught to him from a nun he met in Turin. 

“And what,” Dream asks, taking a sip of wine, “did you give her in exchange?”

Corinthian’s lips tug into a self-satisfied smile. “Taught her to eat pussy. Seemed like a fair trade.”

Dream laughs. “I would imagine cloistered sisters have the most wicked fantasies.”

Corinthian’s smile softens. Fondly, he says, “Some of ‘em. Not her. Sweet thing. Innocent. All she wanted to do was tongue-fuck Sister Anna so hard she wouldn’t be able to sit right at morning services.” He shrugs. “Course, she thought she was going to hell for it, but –” 

Dream heaves a sigh. “A shame.”

“But also a little funny,” Corinthian says. “Humans. They’ve got no idea of what a monster really is.”

“They do,” Dream murmurs. “They are just. Afraid to confront it.”

Corinthian gives him an odd, thoughtful look, but says nothing. He polishes off his wine, nods at Dream’s empty plate. “Want me to clear that for you? Think I remember Colton had a few games tucked away in that closet by the bedroom, if you wanna pick one out.”

The game Dream decides on is called Scrabble, and he takes to it quickly. 

“That’s not a real word,” Corinthian mutters, flipping through the yellowed game dictionary. “Sounds made up.”

“It is a type of Incan storytelling knot,” Dream informs him, patiently folding his hands in his lap as he waits to be proven correct. Soon enough, Corinthian flips to the right page, huffs out a breath. 

“Well, fuck me. Quipu for 34. How do you even know that?”

Dream suppresses a smug smile, lifting his shoulder in a one-armed shrug as he riffles through the bag for new tiles. “Call it instinct.”

Corinthian chuckles, scratching Dream’s newly earned points onto the scorecard. “We’re neck and neck, baby. But it’s not just about the words. You gotta be strategic about the placement.”

Dream reclines back in his chair. “Care to make a wager, then?” 

“I’m listening.”

“You win,” Dream begins, “and you fuck me tonight.” He smiles. “I win, and I take my own pleasure from you, and leave you with nothing at all.”

Corinthian flushes. “Challenge accepted.” He’d taken his glasses off after dinner, and Dream can see the micro-expressions around his eyes, the way they crinkle at the corners as he smiles. He winks. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with you.”

Dream stretches out a hand for Corinthian’s left eye, brushing over the long, curled lashes. The mouth hangs open in surprise, and Dream runs a finger over the small teeth. “Precious thing,” he murmurs. “If you win, you will not need to be gentle.”

“Maybe,” Corinthian says hopefully, batting his eyelashes, “you can surrender?”

Dream laughs, pulls back his hand. “Little nightmare, you must earn it.” 

Boldly, Corinthian leans across the board, fisting a hand into Dream’s hair and dragging him in to press a playful kiss to his forehead, and then his lips. “Anything for you.”

Corinthian almost vibrates with want in the wake of his victory, hungry and restless, and Dream feels a cold, nervous jolt of anticipation at the sight of it. 

He had intentionally not placed any qualifiers on his offer to Corinthian - he had been curious to see what he would do, given free reign - and he shivers as Corinthian drops heavily into his lap, taking his face in his hands and kissing him demandingly. 

He is patient enough not to try to fuck him in his chair, at least, which is a small surprise. The kiss ends, and Corinthian sweeps him into his arms, carrying him bodily into the bedroom, and he laughs wildly as Dream - hands thrown around his neck - licks up his throat, laves his tongue over his pulsing jugular. 

They don’t go to the bed. Corinthian deposits him by the door, then - forcefully - shoves him against the wall, hard enough that the air is knocked out of him. Corinthian is upon him, licking into his mouth, one hand tangled in his hair, the other rather crudely feeling between Dream’s legs, cupping the half-hard line of his cock.  

The hallway lights are still on, filtering soft and golden under the doorframe, but the room itself is dark, turning Corinthian’s hair the tawny color of a mountain lion’s pelt, making his eyes into black, desolate hollows on his face. 

Corinthian’s hands are roaming to the edge of his shirt, peeling it up and overhead, and when it is gone, he runs his hands down Dream’s naked torso. There is a restraint to his touch, now - something careful, almost worshipful in it as he sweeps a thumb over Dream’s nipples, drags the flat of his hand down his abdomen as it rises and falls with sharp breaths, glides fingers along the bony protrusion of his hips above his waistband. 

Corinthian’s breath hisses between his teeth, and he trembles as if with suppressed need, with the efforts of keeping his touch gentle, and then his fingers go to Dream’s jeans, frantically unbuttoning and tugging them down, and Dream helps him, pushing them past his knees, kicking them off. 

“Stay,” Corinthian purrs against his throat, and Dream nods breathlessly, watches Corinthian go to the bedside table to retrieve a small, half-empty bottle of lubricant. 

He spreads a few pumps around his fingers and kneels before Dream, kissing his thighs as he massages from the underside of his balls to his hole. He trails a slick finger along his rim, and then unceremoniously pushes in. 

Dream hisses at the sudden stab of discomfort, and Corinthian goes still inside of him, watches Dream as he catches his breath and relaxes, and then he’s fucking him with his finger, slowly at first, exploratory, and Dream groans as he brushes over his prostate. Corinthian crooks his finger, and fuck, that feels good, and Dream’s cock twitches, now fully erect. 

Corinthian works in a second finger, and Dream gasps, rutting his hips up into Corinthian’s hand, chasing the sensation. 

“Fuck,” Corinthian rasps. “You’re so fucking hot.”

“You are a thing of beauty, Corinthian,” Dream chokes out, because a compliment given deserves one in return, and because it is the truth - right now he cannot imagine anything lovelier in the world than this: his beautiful nightmare kneeling before him, pleasuring him with clever, lethal fingers, all three mouths open and hungry.

Corinthian shudders at the praise. Without preamble, he slides his fingers out and rises to his full height as he quickly sheds his clothes, and Dream drinks in the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the lean musculature in his arms. He is truly a well-designed creature, he thinks, appreciatively. 

Corinthian takes a predatory, loping step towards Dream, tilting his head as he looks down at him. “Mine?” he asks. 

Whatever game of Corinthian’s this is, Dream supposes it cannot hurt to indulge him. And besides - there is something quite tantalizing in the notion of giving his body to Corinthian, making an offering of his flesh for his lover. With affection, he says, “Yours.”

Corinthian’s chest heaves. In a blur of motion he grabs Dream by the shoulders and spins him around, and then Dream feels the blunt head of Corinthian’s cock pressing against his rim, pushing its way inside. 

Dream can feel the tension in Corinthian’s thighs and forearms in the places where they press against his own body, and he knows Corinthian is struggling with the strain of controlling himself, of holding himself back from shoving into him in one brutish thrust.  

To reward Corinthian for his restraint, Dream wiggles his hips, working himself back onto Corinthian’s cock, feeling it slowly sink into his worked-open hole. 

“Fuck,” Corinthian hisses. “You feel so fucking good, Dream.”

Dream moans, and braces his palms on the wall for stability as Corinthian settles deeper inside of him. “I told you,” he gasps, “you do not have to be gentle.”

That is all the permission Corinthian needs. He snarls, inhumanly deep, then his hips are moving, merciless, vicious. 

“Mine,” Corinthian growls, fucking into him. “Mine.”

He wraps an arm around Dream’s chest, pulling their bodies flush together, and grabs Dream’s cock, ruthlessly pumping it, and Dream thinks he should hate this - hate his vulnerability, but all he feels is the sharp, heady pleasure that Corinthian is violently dragging from his body. 

The tidal roll of pleasure builds quickly, inevitably, and Dream hears himself make awful, wanting little moans, hears Corinthian whisper filthy praise into his ear, “So fucking hot, so good for me, love you, want you, mine, mine mine –”

The pleasure reaches its apex, crests, and for a moment, when it releases, Dream feels like he is floating beyond the confines of his body, like he is more than just himself, than this shell.

For a moment he is free. 

He’s lolling his head bonelessly against Corinthian’s shoulder when he comes back to himself, panting weakly, and Corinthian is still fucking him, his hips snapping forward over and over again until eventually he feels a hot rush of seed spill inside of him. 

Corinthian’s arms are steady around him as he slowly pulls out. He kisses the nape of his neck, noses into his hair. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs.

He dreams again that night. Not of the palace from before - he does not want to see it, so he does not, but of a cliffside littered with half-made things, and a night-black sea flowing with dreams and nightmares that glimmer in its dark, endless depths like stars. He is naked, and his bare toes sink into damp sands of the shore as the waves crest before him, frothing with raw, unformed possibility. 

The dreams call out to him, but his muscles are locked, frozen with fear, and he cannot move, cannot go forth to sink into their waters. 

Above him, the sky is the bloodshot hue of a world on fire. 

He wakes to an empty bed, wrapped in blankets that have been carefully tucked around his body. The bedroom door is ajar, and Dream sniffs experimentally, detecting the faint scents of burning fat, as well as something sweet and buttery, in the air. He slips on a shirt and runs a quick hand through his hair, smoothing away the worst of the messiness, before wandering out to the kitchen. 

Corinthian, piling a towering stack of pancakes onto a plate, turns to smile at him. His glasses are still off, which Dream prefers - it is a shame that he so often hides away his eyes. They are his most expressive features, and the teeth are as white and smooth as the pearlescent inner walls of a conch shell, and even more beautiful to behold.

“Hey there, baby,” Corinthian says, setting the pancakes aside to grab an empty plate. He gestures with his shoulder to the cabinet as he loads it with bacon, fresh from the skillet and still sizzling. Dream’s stomach growls at the sight of it. “Mind setting the table?” 

“You are a demanding creature,” Dream sighs. “But very well. I shall bend to your whims.” 

“So magnanimous,” Corinthian drawls, pressing a quick kiss to Dream’s temple as he sidesteps him with the plate. 

Despite the fact that Corinthian, at his own admittance, has no true need for food, he eats like he’s been dying of starvation, gnawing on the strips of bacon and drowning piles of pancakes in syrup. 

Dream eats more slowly, taking time to savor the flavors of the meal. Corinthian is a capable cook - one of his many skills, Dream thinks, low heat smoldering through his belly. 

Dream takes a last bite from his pancake then delicately places his fork to the side. “What is our plan, Corinthian?” he asks. 

Corinthian glances up at him, a slice of bacon halfway to his mouth. He shoves it in, quickly chews and swallows. “What do you mean?”

Dream hesitates. “How long would you have us stay here?”

“However long you’re feeling,” Corinthian says easily. “And then - anything you want. Pick a country. Pick a city. Medellín. Rome. New Orleans. I can take you to Burning Man, baby. Or maybe we can go see the running of the bulls, head down south to India, after. There’s a temple in Prabhas Patan that’s one of the most beautiful in the world.”

Dream is not sure what else he’d been expecting, but disappointment churns in his stomach nonetheless. Is this all there is? Hedonistically wandering the world, chasing one pleasure after another? He feels a nagging discontent inside of him, a sense of unfulfilled obligations. 

Corinthian does not seem to notice Dream’s mood shift. He is still fantasizing about future plans. “We could check out a volcano. Sakurajima, maybe,” he says dreamily. “Or the Northern Lights. Saw them once, in Reykjavik, but I was alone. Be better with you.”

Dream schools his expression into a smile. “Those all sound lovely.” And they do. He has no doubt Corinthian would make a wonderful traveling partner, and he aches to imagine how beautiful he would look, haloed in the vaporous greens and blues of magnetic plasma. It is only –

He grits his teeth, pushing the thought away. It matters not. 

The dreams come to him again that night, and they are horrific, thrashing things that scream out for him, only it is not Dream , or even Morpheus who they call to. They name him Oneiros and Kai’ckul and Sandman and Lord Shaper, and they weep for his loss, demand his return –

We are unfinished, they plead. We are bereft without your touch. 

Lord, he thinks he hears Lucienne cry through the howling maelstrom. Return to your people before it is too late. 

It is still dark when he wakes. Corinthian’s arms are around him, a suddenly claustrophobic embrace, and he throws them off, gasping for breath. Corinthian is not asleep - he never sleeps - but he offers no protest, merely slides his arms back to his sides, gazing up at Dream through half-lidded eyes as he slips off the bed and heads to the adjourning bathroom. 

He switches on the lights, peering into the mirror. His own reflection stares back intently, but there’s a wrongness to it. The skin is ashen, too-pale, and the eyes are coal-black things, glittering with a dormant, obsidian heat - smothered stars compacted into black holes. 

He rubs his eyes. When he opens them he is relieved to find that the Dream that greets him in the mirror is normal once again: skin warmed by soft pink undertones, irises blue and glittering with nothing more mystical than reflections from the overhead lights. 

There is a soft, rumbling growl from behind him, a jungle cat’s satisfied purr, and Corinthian’s arms drape lazily over his shoulders. He rests his chin on Dream’s clavicle and nuzzles in, contentedly rubbing the side of his face against Dream’s neck. 

His eyes meet Dream’s in the mirror, empty, aching hollows behind the gleaming white of his teeth. 

“Come back to bed, baby,” he croons, nipping playfully at Dream’s earlobe. “It’s cold without you.”

Dream makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Corinthian kisses his jaw, the spot that usually has Dream arching up for more. This time, there is a strange distance to the sensation - like he’s observing it from a great distance, and able to choose whether to indulge, or remain detached and unaffected. 

He lets the would-be pleasure die before it’s born, staring wordlessly into the mirror, searching for something he still doesn’t quite understand. At his back, he feels Corinthian stiffen, his arms tightening ever-so-slightly around him. Almost desperately, he presses another kiss to his jaw, and then a third - and in the mirror Dream sees his expression contort. 

Dream relents and allows himself to shiver the next time Corinthian’s lips graze over his skin, and Corinthian lets out a soft, relieved sigh.  

“Come back with me,” the nightmare murmurs again, so beautiful and monstrous that it sickens him. 

Dream turns off the lights, allows himself to be pulled back into sheets still warm from their mingled heat, and tries to find comfort in the arms of the nightmare in his bed. 

Corinthian makes him breakfast the next morning, then, with an apologetic smile and a kiss, and a promise to return soon, he takes the car and departs. 

The sudden solitude is an unexpected relief, and Dream notes - with a sort of absent distaste - that this is the first time he has been alone, truly alone, in all his (remembered) life. 

Even so, he grows bored quickly. He explores the cabin and some of the area around, finds a brick firepit covered in wet branches, and watches as a skinny, red fox roots around a spindly bush for berries. He discovers a pornographic magazine stashed under the sink, and idly flips through it, unimpressed. None of the men hold a candle to Corinthian - the nightmare is truly a singular masterpiece. 

There are some other books around the cabin - mostly outdoor survival guides, some cookbooks, and a biography about Edmund Hillary that he sits down to read with a cup of earl gray. 

He’s interrupted from his reading by the screech of tires outside, and he puts the book away, a complicated flurry of emotions swirling inside of him as from the window he watches Corinthian - shades on - approach the house, fishing something out of his pocket. 

Corinthian kicks the door shut behind him. His hands are cupped around something, and Dream takes a step closer to look, intrigued. 

“What is that?”

Corinthian grins. “It’s for you.” He opens his palms. “Reminded me of something you used to wear. I hope you like it.”

In his hands is a gleaming ruby set into a thick, dark band, and carefully, Dream picks it up, slides it onto his ring finger. It fits perfectly - like it was shaped just for him. 

“It is lovely,” he says. He twists his hand, admiring the way the light glints off the jewel, making it shine the bloodied, vibrant red of an eclipsed sun. (He cares less for the way it reminds him of the bleeding thing at the center of his dreams, but he quickly pushes that comparison away.)

“It’s nothing compared to you,” Corinthian says earnestly. He takes Dream’s hand, kisses the ring, and smiles up at him. “But you look radiant.”

“Corinthian,” Dream murmurs, guilt twinging inside of him. 

He takes Corinthian’s face in his hands and Corinthian melts into the touch, leaning forward almost helplessly. “Sweet thing,” he says quietly. 

He fucks him gently this time. Corinthian’s thighs wrap around his waist and his heels drive into his back, urging him faster, but Dream keeps a slow, deliberate pace as he rocks into him, enjoying the soft little sounds that come from Corinthian’s throat when he grinds into him just-so. 

“Little nightmare,” he breathes, leaning down to kiss each eye, one at a time, licking between the sharp rows of teeth and over the small tongues inside. 

“I love you,” Corinthian whimpers, bottom lip pink from where he’s been biting it, his hard cock pressed between their stomachs. He inhales, and there is a nervous expectancy there, and Dream knows what it is he is waiting for, what he is afraid will be withheld from him. 

Dream gazes down at him, less lost in the pleasure than his nightmare is. Corinthian is a needy, vain, shallow creature, and he is a liar, and Dream does not think he will ever trust him fully, but he is beautiful and familiar and loyal, and Dream aches to see him content, and happy. 

He kisses the nightmare. “I love you.”

Corinthian exhales sharply, and then he is coming, his blunt nails scraping over Dream’s back as Dream fucks him through it before eventually finding his own release in the nightmare’s body. 

He does not sleep that night. The dreams call to him - he feels them clawing at the back of his mind, but he ignores them, closing his eyes and deepening his breath as he lays in bed with Corinthian, both of them pantomiming sleep together. 

The ring is cold and heavy on his finger. 

They go on a walk the next day, at Dream’s insistence. It is a dreary day. The air is cool and the wind is sharp, and the skies are gray and gloomy, heavy with rain. 

“We should stay in,” Corinthian wheedles, peering dubiously at the dark, fast-approaching clouds. “I can make us a fire.”

Dream frowns, and Corinthian heaves an exasperated sigh. “Fine,” he relents. He brushes a lock of hair back from Dream’s forehead, fond. “Anything for you.”

They explore the woods behind the cabin together, hiking down a deer trail crushed into the vines and underbrush, following it to where it terminates at a muddy, stone creek.

They stop there, Corinthian leaning against a rotted tree, and Dream dips the heel of his boot into the murky water, reminded of the dark seas he sometimes glimpses in his sleep. “Tell me about the Dreaming,” he says. 

Corinthian shoves his hands in his pockets, rolls his shoulders. “Not sure what to say. It’s just a big smorgasbord of weird shit. Dumb rules. Lotta assholes. You aren’t missing anything.”

Dream hesitates. Something cold and leaden has settled in his stomach, and he takes a deep breath. “Corinthian. Do you really believe that is true? That I would think that?”

Corinthian says nothing. His eye-teeth gnash together, and his mouth presses into a thin, bloodless line. 

Dream exhales, summoning the words he has long since become used to swallowing down. “We have known each other for a long time, haven’t we, Corinthian?” he tells him evenly. “Do not lie to me now. I will not tolerate it.”

Corinthian does not meet his gaze. “We have.”

“Our first night at the motel you spoke of your employer.” He pauses, says, “You meant me, did you not?” and then, without waiting for Corinthian to respond, asks, soft, “Do you still resent me so?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Corinthian mumbles, face shadowed. 

Firmly, Dream places a finger on the underside of his chin, tips it up. To his credit, Corinthian does not jerk away, but he blinks rapidly, distressed, when Dream looks him in the eye. 

“It is not a choice, Corinthian.” He moves his hand, soothing along the tensed line of Corinthian’s jaw, and wonders, when Corinthian whines lowly at the touch, if this is cruelty, rather than kindness. 

Corinthian smacks away his hand. “Fine,” he snaps. “Since you can’t fucking leave well enough alone.” He takes a breath, and his voice cracks as he admits, “I don’t resent you anymore. But - I loved you back then, too. I’ve always loved you. It was you who couldn’t stand me, Dream. I was a disappointment to you.”

Dream does not think Corinthian is lying, but he cannot accept the idea that any version of himself would find Corinthian disappointing. He is fond of Corinthian in a way that is primal, instinctive, and surely inherited from the Dream-he-was, before his memories were stolen. 

“I have responsibilities in the Dreaming, my little nightmare,” he says, not unkindly. “I can feel them. They encroach on my sleep, my mind.”

“You don’t,” Corinthian snarls, bursting away from the tree in a shower of splintered bark and moss. He bares his teeth. “The Dreaming takes everything from you, my lord. But you don’t owe it shit. It’s not fair.”

“Fair,” Dream muses. “Perhaps it is not.” He takes a long, steadying breath. “But. It is what it is, Corinthian. I must return. You know this, I think.”

“No,” Corinthian pleads brokenly. “No, you don’t have to. The Dreaming will take care of itself. Rose is its center now. And it’s stable, I’d know if it wasn’t. I’m dreamkin. I’d feel it.”

“And how long will it last?” Dream sighs. “This cannot go on forever, Corinthian.”

“Don’t go,” Corinthian says. The sky overhead roils with black clouds, and rain has begun to fall - fat, wet droplets that patter around them. Rainwater dribbles down Corinthian’s cheeks, forming tracks that almost look like tears. “Don’t ruin this. Aren’t you happy here? With me?”

“Yes,” Dream admits. “You have made me happy.”

“So stay with me,” he begs. “I’ll keep making you happy. Keep you safe. I love you.” He hesitates. “You love me, too… don’t you?”

“I do,” Dream says softly. 

“Then stay,” Corinthian says desperately. “If you go - if you regain yourself - you’ll hate me again, Dream. You’ll remember why you hated me.”

“I will not hate you, Corinthian,” Dream assures him. The rain is falling harder now, a tempo as rapid and violent as the pound of his own heart in his chest. He fights to keep his own voice steady, “I do not believe I could.”

“You tried to kill me,” Corinthian says, in a rush. “You tried to unmake me. You’d do it again. You thought I’d betrayed you. For leaving. For - for doing things in the Waking World beyond my purview.”

“Then I forgive you,” Dream says. “For all your trespasses.” 

“It won’t matter,” Corinthian says sullenly. “You’re a cruel fucking master, Dream. Forgiveness ain’t your domain.”

Dream regards him. “Would you betray me again?” he asks. “Or would you offer me obedience? I have seen your devotion, Corinthian. Would you give me that freely, once more?”

Corinthian shoves wet hair, dark blond in the rain, back from his forehead, and tugs once, rough, on the strands before releasing. “Yes,” he rasps. A low keening noise, the sort native to trapped animals, emerges from him. “After this…” His throat works, and he gives Dream a miserable look. “You have my loyalty forever now, my lord.” 

“Then you are mine,” Dream says. “And perhaps I am a cruel master, but I think I am a possessive master, too.”

“Please,” Corinthian tries, barely audible over the rain. “Dream.”

Dream does not respond. He has nothing left to say. He reaches for Corinthian instead, and the nightmare makes a small show of shying away from him before he relents. There is a frenzied sort of desperation in his kiss - like he thinks he won’t ever get the chance again, and dry, lurching gasps, like tearless sobs, come from his eyes. 

Corinthian turns away from him when the kiss ends, and Dream reaches into his pocket, for the sand he always keeps on his person. Instinct guides him as he pulls open the drawstring and spills the golden sand around himself, and he opens his mind, reaches out for the thing that’s been calling his name. 

There is a feeling of tremendous release; his awareness uncompresses, spilling out past the restrictive borders of his gray matter, and the vast swell of the Dreaming surges to meet him. 

Where once he was a pinprick in the sea of consciousness - a single, isolated, mind - he is now a thousand - a billion - a trillion - infinite, endless. 

The Dreaming understands its master’s will, and he rides on its tides, letting them take him to his destination. 

Lucienne is waiting for him in his throne room, and she stares at him when he arrives, expression full of nervous, hopeful relief. “My lord?” 

“Take me to her.”

The vortex shakes with power, its energy bleeding into the layers of the Dreaming, but at its center the girl is still and peaceful, slumbering even inside her dreams. 

Dream approaches cautiously, eyeing the frayed threads of the Dreaming her unconscious has been tethered to. She is breaking under the strain of it, little by little. She was not built to endure this. 

He reaches out. “You have held this long enough, Rose Walker.”

When he has set his affairs back in order, he returns to the Corinthian. 

The Corinthian is where he left him, in the forest, staring at nothing in particular, and he looks up fearfully as Dream approaches. The storm has since passed, but the ground is still muddy, and the Corinthian’s shoes and the bottoms of his pants are caked in dirt and loam. 

He looks filthy, and unlike himself: clothes stained, hair a ragged mess, eyes uncovered and miserable. He is still beautiful, in spite of it - whatever his other flaws, he was always the most pleasing to look upon of all of Dream’s creations. 

“You have caused much trouble,” Dream says coolly. “And taken many liberties.”

The Corinthian scowls. He is a petulant, infinitely frustrating thing; a month ago, Dream would have shredded him to atoms for his slights, both major and minor, a day ago, he would’ve shared a cup of tea with him and taken him into his arms, holding the nightmare until all his ragged tension melted away. Both impulses war inside him now, each one equally tempting. 

“But I assume you’ve fixed it,” the Corinthian says, snide. “D’ya kill Rose, my lord? Pretty fucked up of you.”

“No,” Dream says. “There was no need.” 

The Corinthian blinks at him, but does not ask, and so Dream does not offer an explanation. 

Dream takes a half-step closer, drawn towards the Corinthian almost despite himself - his favorite creation, his most cherished nightmare, his lover that once kissed him sweetly, greedily, as if it was his due. 

The Corinthian watches him nervously, dread and resignation on his face, a slight trembling in his lips, but there is a need there too, and his eyes are soft with an emotion he cannot quite shutter away, one Dream now recognizes as love. 

Quietly, he says, “Now what?” 

Dream pauses. “I forgave you, Corinthian. Did I not? Am I the sort of being to go back on my word?”

The Corinthian stares at him, eyes wide, his tongues flicking apprehensively over his teeth. “I don’t understand.”

Dream stretches out a hand, caressing over the Corinthian’s lips, the familiar softness of them. The Corinthian shivers, gazing down to track the path of Dream’s fingers, and Dream can see the moment of dawning realization on his face when he notices the gleam of metal and gemstone. 

“You kept it,” he breathes. 

Dream runs a thumb along the curve of the Corinthian’s mouth, amused when the Corinthian’s tongue darts out to chance a gentle lick. 

“It is precious to me,” Dream says. His heart no longer beats like a human’s does, but something in his chest warms as he gazes at his nightmare. “As are you.”

He removes his hand, and before the Corinthian can protest the loss of contact, he joins their lips together. “You promised yourself to me,” Dream says, between kisses. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” the Corinthian gasps, and the words feed the ravenous beast inside of Dream, that same monster he’d shaped a reflection of when he’d created the Corinthian. Recklessly, “I’m yours. Only yours.”

“Foolhardy,” Dream rumbles, nipping on the Corinthian’s lip, sharp enough to draw blood. He licks it away, healing the wound with his tongue as he passes over it. “But I suppose you were not made to be cautious.”

“I’ll be anything you ask,” the Corinthian says fervently. “I love you.”

Dream pulls back, considering him. He recalls the eager promises the Corinthian had made to him, only a few days before. He remembers, in particular, being especially pleased by the thought of the Corinthian beneath an auroral flare, luminous under its vast, majestic curtains. 

“Then be first my companion,” Dream says. “There is much in this world I would see. And I will have you by my side as I do.”