between life and death

black plague

"Hey! Get away from him!" George shouts. In the pouring rain, he can vaguely make out the man's knife and the cowering figure in the corner of the alley.

The man turns toward George and waves his knife carelessly. "Fuck off."

"Or what?" George scoffs. He's no vigilante but he's also not the same man he was thirty years ago when he had first stepped off that ship in 1318. Like yesterday, he remembers the feeling of his cat dying in his arms, maybe that's when it all changed. The streets of Paris are unkind in ways more painful than all the ways he's hoped to die.

Before he can react, the man's knife has plunged into his stomach. George stares at it with all the enthusiasm of someone who can't die. It hurts and he's bleeding, but he knows well enough that it won't kill him. He's tried.

"I stabbed you!" The man shouts, as though that will put the final nail in George's coffin.

"Then why am I the one laughing?" George grins and forces the man against the stone brick wall and slides the knife beneath his chin. "I could kill you right now. No one would fucking care."

"I have a family." The man spits, outraged. Seemingly insulted that his rusted knife wasn't enough to make George falter.

"Do you think I give a shit?" George laughs incredulously. He slams the man's head against the wall and lets him crumple to the cobbled ground. He's probably not dead. George doesn't care either way, it's not worth his time.

"Professor?" A voice asks hesitantly. "Are you okay?"

"What did you say?" George slowly turns around. The cowering figure rises from the corner to the stature of a grown man.

"You were stabbed." A pale hand gently prods at his side and lifts his shirt, but the wound has already healed. "Why aren't you bleeding?"

"Did you call me Professor?" George stammers and pulls his shirt back down before someone decides that he's the spawn of Satan.

"I'm in your class. You teach astronomy at the Sorbonne. I'm Dream." He awkwardly grabs George's hand and shakes it.

"What." George blanches. In the near darkness, he recognizes the pointed nose and high cheekbones of the nineteen-year-old student.

"You don't recognize me?" Dream frowns. But the problem is that George does .

"No, I do. I apologize, I'm just a bit surprised to see you." George answers politely because it's no secret that Dream is the son of nobility. "Come on, let's get out of here before he wakes up."

—

"Can I pay you? How much do you want?"

"Pay me?" George gapes. "For what?"

"You saved my life. Surely, you'd like some compensation."

"I just did what anyone would." George shrugs. He bites his tongue against snide remarks. He doesn't ask why a man a head taller than him can't defend himself against a small blade.

"No." Dream shakes his head and smiles. "You're different."

"Thank you." George replies tersely. "I'm just happy that you're alright. I should be on my way, though."

Dream grabs his hand before he can turn to leave. "Come home with me, at least. Let me get you a new shirt."

"My shirt is fine." George crosses his arms stubbornly.

"Don't be an idiot. You're bleeding."

"Fine." George mutters against his better judgment. Nothing ever turns out well for him anyway.