between life and death

sage touch

George never stops hurting. It's less on some days but it still hurts all the same. He adopts the bird-like mask and long, billowy cloak of the doctors roaming Europe. He visits countless plague victims. He knows nothing of medicine and he's selfish, he hopes that maybe, one of these days it'll kill him.

George ends up in Tuscany. He doesn't know Italian, but no one who's alive cares. The families he visits let him prod at their loved ones' swollen skin with his cane and pay him for useless services. It's not like they'll need the money when they're all dead.

The plague doesn't kill him, unfortunately. He supposes he should have known when he was able to live after jumping from a building the first time.

Dream follows him relentlessly. No matter how George tries to purge him from his life he still sees him: in the shale clustered by the river, in the solemn winter sunset, in the bees which dance amongst the clovers. Some nights, George holds the glowing orange coal from the hearth, just to remember the warmth of what it was like to be loved.

"May I paint you?" A timid voice asks in lilting Italian.

"What?" George jolts back, but before he can fall into the canal, an arm has wrapped around his waist.

"Careful!" The man exclaims. He wears peasant clothes and has dirt beneath his fingernails but George immediately recognizes him.

"Dream!?"

"Um, do we know each other?" Dream takes a step backward, clutching a leather journal to his chest.

"How are you alive?" George asks urgently. "I saw you die, I buried you in France. How are you here?"

"What are you talking about? Who are you?"

George studies Dream's expression, to see if this is some sort of sick joke.

"Dream, it's me, George."

"How do you know my name?" Dream stammers. But then George sees it: the genuine fear and apprehension in his eyes. This man wears Dream's skin but this is not his Dream.

"I'm—" George falters. "I'm sorry. You remind me of a loved one I lost to the plague. He was also named Dream."

"Oh. I understand. I'm sorry, y'know, that you lost him."

"You asked to draw me?" George tries to change the subject before he starts crying. He's been crying for the past century. He's tired of it.

"Yeah! I've been working on portraits lately. If you wouldn't mind, of course, I'd like to draw you." Dream grins proudly. "I can show you some of my work first if you'd like."

"Sure." George says easily. He has to remind himself that this is not his Dream. Even though he has the same bright eyes and the same kind smile, this is not his Dream.

"Do you have a favorite color?" Dream's lips turn up at the corners while he arranges his charcoal and canvas.

"I'm not sure." George shrugs.

"You don't have one?" Dream laughs. "That's ridiculous. Everyone has a favorite color."

"Blue, I guess." George answers because it would be weird to tell a stranger that his favorite color is their eyes.

"I have blue." Dream chooses a royal blue pastel from the shelf on his easel. There's something almost cocky to the way Dream marks each line with nonchalant confidence.

"What about you?"

"Me? I like green." Dream muses and picks up a pastel in a vibrant emerald.

"I've never seen green like that." George takes the pastel from Dream and rubs it into the palm of his hand. "It's so... green?"