between life and death

sweet decay

It takes years for the city to be rebuilt. George admittedly doesn't feel bad. He opens up a confectionery in the heart of the city in 1812. The money he made so many years ago, masquerading as a doctor, has run dry. Besides pain, the only thing good in life is sugar. He makes delicate, little sweets and thinks of ways to die that he hasn't already tried.

He doesn't expect it to go anywhere, but his little candy shop on the corner of Walnut Street is suddenly packed with customers looking for something sweeter than their dreary lives.

He's heard that there's a war going on. Maybe that's why customers flock to his store, even when the sugar has decayed and blackened their teeth. Maybe like him, it's all they have. He doesn't really care, though part of him hopes for battles to raze the city, just so he can remember the fleeting headiness of destruction.

"Do you sell toffee?" A deep voice asks pleasantly. Without even looking he immediately recognizes the voice.

"What?" George stares at him. Because, somehow, Dream has managed to find him again.

"Toffee." Dream repeats earnestly. "My baby sister loves it."

"No, but we have butterscotch." George forces himself to turn away. He walks to the shelf and robotically lifts the lid from a jar filled with golden candies. "Would you like to try one?" He splutters.

Dream grins and holds out a hand. "I like anything sweet." He winks in a way that is far too charming for this man to truly be Dream.

George tries to school his reaction into something other than shock and discomfort. He drops a few pieces of handmade butterscotch candies into Dream's hand and studies his face as he pops a small yellow candy into his mouth.

The last time he knew Dream left a bitter flavor, one that not even the sugary-sweetness of the shop's caramels could mask. He's resentful and still hurt. He's missed Dream every waking moment, but that doesn't take away from the scars Dream left on his soul.

"These are great! You make them here?" Dream exclaims cheerfully. George wonders how old he is, maybe nineteen—younger than George has ever known him as. George feels apprehensive, but at the same time, he has this strange urge to protect Dream, before the world can turn him sour and tarnish his spirit. Before fate can kill him again.

"I do." George answers. "I could make toffee as well, if you come back tomorrow."

"I'll be back." Dream promises and giggles boyishly. George knows Dream loves him already. He's watched Dream fall for him time and time again, it's just going through the motions by now.

—

"This is my sister." Dream steps aside to reveal a small sniveling child hiding behind him. The girl clutches his pant leg and stares at her feet, avoiding George's gaze. "She's a little shy. But don't let that fool you, she can be a piece of shit when she wants to."

George can't help but stare at the girl. For all the lives George has known Dream, he's never had a sister.

"Uh. Here." George fumbles for a sugarplum and wraps it in a bit of brown paper. He hands it to the girl and her green eyes light up the same as Dream's.

She retreats to her hiding place behind her brother and Dream laughs good-naturedly.

George frowns, a voice in the back of his mind reminds him that it's only a matter of time until he loses Dream again. He doesn't want to enjoy these moments, if he does, it will only hurt more in the end.

—

"Why are you dressed like that?" George blurts out.

"Huh?" Dream glances over his shoulder. He comes to the confectionery shop nearly every day. Today, he's helping George stock the higher shelves that are usually left empty. George isn't sure how he'll get them down without Dream, but luckily nothing up there is terribly popular. "Like this?"

"Yeah. You look like a royal guard. What's with that?" George squints.

"I was drafted today, George! Isn't that exciting?" Dream smiles.

"Drafted? For war?" George grimaces. "So, what? You're going to be out in the trenches."

"Hopefully. I got my uniform today. I'm getting my rifle and bayonet tomorrow. I'm really excited about it."

"Oh." George mutters.

"I'm leaving next week after some training, I think."

"I'll miss you." George admits begrudgingly. "Will you be back?"

"I'd think so. Probably about once a month you'll see me."

Wordlessly, George hops over the counter and pulls Dream close. He buries his head in Dream's shoulder and tries to commit the feeling to memory. "Promise you'll come back to me." He sniffles.

"I promise." Dream runs his fingers through George's hair, tangling his fingers in the strands.

George nods, but he knows that this will only end in tears and death.

—

At first, nothing changes. Dream returns when he promises and writes letters in the time between. He presses his lips to George's forehead at the end of each visit. They never share an utterance of love, but they don't need to.

Soon, Dream has tried every single candy that George sells. They're still okay, and George is almost foolish enough to believe that it might stay that way. But George knows it's only a matter of time until the rug is pulled out from under his feet again. He can't get attached.

Dream has served in the infantry for a year when his sister dies—scarlet fever, Dream says. George can only offer him candied fruit and his pulsing heart, which could never be enough. The green of Dream's eyes dull to a forlorn gray and a permanent crease settles between his eyebrows.

"I'll see you in December." Dream tells George, but he never comes.

Eventually, the letters stop as well. George rereads the old ones some nights, to remind him of when things were better. But even they have grown weathered with regret and tear-stained with longing.

The sweets Dream put on the highest shelves turn moldy and discolored. George hasn't seen Dream in so long, and he probably never will. Maybe Dream has died, or maybe his love for George simply has.

Life is much too cruel for it to be anything else.

George locks himself away with the bug-infested candy in his shop and wishes that he could rot with it.