between life and death

scorching heat

The Renaissance peaks at the turn of the sixteenth century. George flees to Florence but Dream follows him. George sees him in the pink knuckles of the starving artists he watches paint in the plaza. He invites the ones into his bed who are cold and tired enough that they don't care what happens to their bodies so long as they have a place to stay for the night. Their hands are much too cold to bring George warmth. They remind him sometimes of his old port cat—so weak and frail and gentle and sweet. George sends their starving bodies home with a bit of honey and bread if he can spare it.

George takes a knife to his veins and basks in its euphoric glow when sex isn't enough. It's the only thing that means anything.

George sneaks into the cargo space of a ship just as he did nearly three centuries ago and finds himself in England. London is paved and developed in ways George hadn't thought possible for civilization. Alley cats brush against his pant leg when he wanders the noisy streets. He tenderly strokes their head before breaking their neck. He doesn't want to hurt anymore.

—

"You see me as a replacement. I know you do." Dream hisses. This Dream is callous and spiteful. He's cruel in all the ways that make George want to cry. "Why am I not enough for you?"

"You are." George whimpers. Dream is older and crueler than George has ever known him. Part of George prays that Dream will soon die.

Dream forces him against the wall and holds a knife to his throat. George can't die, but he's scared. Because though this is a man that he's never met before, this is also perhaps a part of Dream that was always lurking beneath the surface. Waiting to reveal itself when it could strike at George's exposed underbelly.

Dream is teary-eyed but angry. "You're a fucking liar. I've never been enough for you. You've always wanted me to be someone I'm not."

"Stop it. You're hurting me." George chokes, but he doesn't fight. He's bleeding from his eyes where Dream tried to crush his face beneath his shoe. He can barely see, but he doesn't really want to. He doesn't want to remember Dream like this.

"Good." Dream spits, ire potent in his gaze.

—

Carefully, George douses the linens in kerosene and climbs into bed beside Dream. It's reminiscent of Dream's past lives, laying together like this. But this Dream, George had found in the back of a pub, already drunk and reeking of liquor and despair. He was a fool to get close, but even now, he still loves Dream.

"George?" Dream stutters with all the innocence he's never had. The fear in his voice makes George's heart flutter pleasantly.

"Shh." George hushes him and ignites a match. The flame burns him and Dream alive.

Dream wails while George relishes its heat. It's a pleasant, cleansing feeling. The flame dances across the bed and engulfs them entirely and eventually, Dream's whimpers fade to silence. Slowly, the entire room is set ablaze and eventually the rest of the city. The fire burns nearly the entirety of London to ash. George feels no remorse.

When the fire finally ceases after several days of burning, George climbs a hill just outside the edge of town. Light gray ash cascades from the sky like the Italian snow that Dream loved.

It's 1666 and George is still alive, unfortunately.