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"This isn’t about me." Bright coughs in between inhales, licks the tell-tale red smear at the corner of his lips discreetly because their time hasn’t run out. Not yet. They’re three levels deep and the bullet that punctured his stomach doesn’t care what happens to him if he dies here. "You should concentrate on making sure he takes to the idea."
Win's palm slides over the side of the table, nails biting into the edge. He favours Bright with a glance, dark eyes flashing. The building groans around them, a warning to the shifting of the equilibrium, and both of them step away from the table.
Win frowns in disapproval and it’s one of those rare instances when he looks as intimidating as his reputation suggests.
Bright thinks it’s a shame; Win should be smiling. He’s made for smiles.
"You're going to die."
The floor starts tilting. Bright has to fight to stay on his feet. Win notices, of course, and the look on his face tells of a grudging understanding that a premature end for one of them is a risk they just have to accept because the job comes first. Always. Bright checks his watch, presses a palm against the damp patch on his suit and smiles. Closes his eyes, fingers curling around his totem as the world tilts even further. "Stick to the plan, Metawin.”
Bright pats the side of Win’s neck as he staggers towards the back door and looks away when he sees the dark red imprint he’d left on Win’s skin.
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“Where’s Bright?” Namtan’s face is pinched tight, brows furrowed. She looks around, as if convinced that Bright’s lurking somewhere in the depth of the half-lit room. Playing hide and seek on borrowed time. “Wasn’t he with you?”
Win shakes his head, expressionless except for the flex of the line of his jaw. Weakening, for a mayfly lifespan, before he is solid again. ”He’ll be back.” He curls his fingers into fists to keep them from shaking. “He has to.”
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[ “I’ll find you.” ]
Bright doesn’t remember who said that to him.
He looks out of the window and it’s already winter, a light flurry battering against the window. His arthritic fingers trail over the tiny boxes of the day’s crossword puzzle, half the answers already pencilled in. He folds the newspaper with a sigh, deciding to keep the rest for just before bedtime, and places it right next to his coffee. That’s when he notices that there are two mugs on the table. He lives alone in this little cottage at the edge of a postcard-perfect village, has been for the past fifty two years. He stares at the extra mug for a few minutes, puzzled. It’s half empty and is still steaming gently.
He doesn’t remember making coffee.
[ “I’ll find you.” ]
Bright grabs the guitar out of its case and settles into the couch, pulling a blanket over his aching knees. The strings hum as he goes through the warm-up notes, callouses pressing against the taut lines. His memory might slip and slide, but he will always have this.
[ “I promise.” ]
His fingers ache like an old wound and he has to flex them to ease some of the pain. Bright frowns at his scarred fingertips.
The light overhead flickers.
.
The first job they did together ended up being a disaster. Bright wouldn’t have thought it possible for him to get double-crossed – he’d vetted everyone through the usual channels, cleared background checks with extreme prejudice before he went out to recruit the rest of the crew. There’s a reason he’s one of the best point-men in the business: he doesn’t make mistakes. Or rather, didn’t. Elias, their chatty, irreverent architect, is sprawled out on the floor after catching a bullet in the brainpan. His blood gleams a sickly red under the bright fluorescent lights overhead. His eyes are wide open, frozen in an expression of surprise, and he’s looking straight at Bright.
Tough fucking luck, the dead says. Bright feels the weight of his totem against his collarbone and knows; there’s no waking up from this. See you on the flip side, captain.
Bright hears Soraya’s footsteps, coming closer each second. She wears heels sharp enough that she wouldn’t have needed the gun to finish him off. He forces his eyes away from Elias when she croons, poison-sweet, “Vachirawit, baby. Why don’t you be a darling and step out, hm? I’ll make it quick if you don’t waste my time.”
The upturned table offers little protection, but it’s better than nothing. Bright presses a hand to his shoulder and it comes away wet with blood. He looks up and sees Soraya, sees the gun.
“It’s nothing personal.” Her head tilts as she lifts a foot and digs the very pointy end of her heel into the hole punched through his shoulder. Bright jerks and has to bite his lip to stop a scream from spilling over his throat. He tastes blood when she leans in harder, her grin piranha-like. Too many teeth. “Just business, baby.”
He takes in short, wheezing breaths and wishes she would stop calling him ‘baby’. He raises his other hand and curls blood-slick fingers around her ankle, glaring at her. “Go to hell.”
The barrel of her gun doesn’t waver when she blows him a kiss. “You first.”
A single gunshot echoes around them the next second. Bright hasn’t closed his eyes, determined to stare her down as she puts him out of his misery, but he’s still drawing breath after the gunshot. Painful ones, but very much alive. Soraya, on the other hand, sways for a bit, before pitching back. Crumpling to the floor, much like Elias had done minutes ago and isn’t retribution wonderful.
Bright looks to the side to see the worried face of Metawin Opas-iamkajorn staring back at him behind a raised gun.
The extractor had left right after they’d kicked out of their target’s dream, something about another job on the other side of the planet. Nobody could blame him for leaving early – he carries the weight of his family name and its stellar reputation in their business, the crème de la crème. And with it comes the demand for his service across different crews. Bright had watched the younger man walk out of the warehouse before packing up their little station, waiting for the timer to run down on the PASIV so they can skip town and call it a job well done.
Fifteen minutes later, Soraya shot Elias. And then their target. Bang bang, two down.
She’d also shot Bright clean through the shoulder in her bid to win The Worst Crew Member of the Decade award.
Logistically, Win shouldn’t be here.
It might be the blood loss talking, but Bright hears himself say, almost accusatory, “You said you had a plane to catch.”
Win is staring at Soraya’s body and Bright isn’t sure if he’s being intentionally ignored. He slips his gun into its holster and drops to his knees right next to Bright, one hand coming up to peel the blood-drenched fabric of his shirt. It stings, but it beats dying. “I should be able to make it if I leave right now.”
Bright blinks in an attempt to clear the dark spots creeping into his vision. He doesn’t succeed much. “Very nice of you to come back, though. Appreciate the assist.”
Win’s mouth flattens. “Where’s the rest of the team?”
There are three dead bodies in the warehouse and Bright’s about to be the fourth if this conversation doesn’t wrap up soon. He uses the last dredge of his strength to bat Win’s hand away. “Dead. It’s a fucking mess.” Everything starts to dim, starts to blur away around the edges as he grapples at staying conscious. “You’re going to miss your flight—”
He can’t be certain, but he thinks he feels Win’s arms around him as he sinks into the waiting embrace of darkness.
.
Bright wakes up in a small, dingy room and the first thing he does is to check his totem.
Once he’s convinced he’s not in a dream, he runs a hand through his hair and takes a good look around. A block of dim, grey light from the open window sets the time at nothing at all – could be dusk, could be dawn. If he squints, he can make out a faint outline of the surrounding buildings. Nothing familiar. His wound had been cleaned and dressed. He can feel stitches pulling at raw skin when he pushes himself up, sitting with his back against the headboard. Bright’s swinging his feet onto the floor when the door opens, and a boy walks in, carefully balancing a tray in his small hands.
The boy makes a quiet noise of surprise when he sees Bright awake and offers him the content of the tray. A thin vegetable soup and a glass of water. Slices of hard bread.
His young host doesn’t speak any English and Bright cycles through all the languages he knows until the small face lights up when he lands on Polish. He’s rusty and it takes several tries for him to arrive at an approximation of the correct words to use.
Bright gets a murmured “Wszystko w porządku, jesteś już bezpieczna” in return and the boy runs off to get his grandfather in the next room.
Bright spies his phone on the bedside table. A couple messages sit in his inbox.
Made the flight. Would’ve stayed but client’s already waiting.
And another: I burnt down the warehouse. You should get out of there before the local police start asking questions.
Bright thumbs his phone off, presses a bit too hard as regret swells at the back of his head. He drags the tray closer and dunks a piece of bread into the soup to stop from thinking about all the dead bodies he’d left behind.
.
Summer in Thailand gets hotter and hotter, and there are signs that this year’s only going to get worse. The girl hands the cup of gelato over with her best customer service smile and Bright nods his thanks, struggles for a bit to take his wallet out one-handed. She bestows him a sympathetic smile and asks why his other hand’s in a sling.
“Fell down the stairs,” Bright says, self-deprecating. His gelato’s melting in the time it takes for him to add, “It was a very long flight of stairs.”
The girl laughs, perhaps thinks he’s exaggerating or flirting or both, and Bright goes along with it.
Somewhere behind him, Mike and Film start squabbling over a TikTok video.
Bright sticks a spoonful of liquid gelato into his mouth.
Home sweet home.
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The phone box is papered with ads, a fresh haphazard layer to hide the peeling, yellowing papers underneath. Bright stares at the picture of a scantily-clad redhead (Call the number below and I’ll make your wildest dreams come true, baby!) as he waits for the call to go through.
When the dial tone abruptly stops and there’s only silence from the other end, he says, “The extractor for my team pulled out last minute and if you don’t have anything lined up—”
“Bright? Is that you?” Win’s voice comes through, a bit out of breath like he’d been running. “You should’ve called when you made it through!”
The reprimand is wholly unexpected. The redhead’s plastic smile seems to grow a couple inches. “I thought you knew.”
“Can’t believe you ghosted me after I saved your life.” There’s a faint bark in the background, followed by muffled voices and the sound of a sliding door opening and closing. Bright wonders if Win is with his family, if he’s intruding something private. Any dreamworker worth their salt knows where to draw the line and he doubts the Opas-iamkajorns would appreciate him toeing that particular line. “What’s this about a job?”
Bright thinks about apologising. Then decides he’s going to do it in person – Win deserves that courtesy, at the very least. “I’ll email you the details.”
A huff. He hears the smile in Win's voice. “Fine. See you soon.”
Bright nods at no one and the line goes dead. His phone vibrates in his pocket.
The text message reads, Is there a reason why our dear Win’s ditching his home team to play house with you? *eggplant emoji *sweat droplets emoji
There’s not a day goes by that Bright doesn’t regret giving Gigie his personal number.
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Taiwan isn’t part of his travel plan. Bright meets Win there anyway. He finds a hotpot restaurant with reasonable Yelp reviews and spends about half an hour trying to determine the exact shade of Win’s eyes as the other man enthusiastically orders a portion that’s too much for only the two of them. They exchange stories about mutual acquaintances, the best jobs they’d worked and the worst (they don’t mention the shit show in Malapolska and Bright’s grateful). They discuss the rumours that someone had attempted inception and succeeded.
Win’s doubt is palpable enough to be a physical force; Bright isn’t so sure.
“If they have a chemist who can come up with a compound capable of putting them under and stabilising the levels of dreaming required for the idea to be planted—” Bright argues, skewers a fish ball with his chopsticks, “—it can be done.”
“You’re in a lot of trouble if you die before the timer runs out,” Win points out. He’s not wrong; the threat of dropping into limbo hovers over their heads like the blade of a guillotine. “My father wouldn’t have approved that kind of risk.”
The mention of Opas-iamkajorn Senior grinds the discussion to a temporary halt. Bright pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose; he doesn’t wear them often in public, but he’s been living in his contacts long enough nowadays that he’s starting to get more frequent headaches. He pops the fish ball into his mouth, sees the way Win’s eyes linger and feels warm all over. “Then don’t die.”
It’s nearly one in the morning when they make their way back to Bright’s hotel room.
Bright still doesn’t remember who initiated the kiss, but the heat of Win’s hands over his skin is seared into his mind. As does the absolute certainty in which he’s being taken apart, gently unravelling the stitches holding him together. There’s the ghost of laughter in Win’s eyes, in the curl of his lips, but he’s intent when he looks at Bright. As if he’s seeing no one else and it’s unfamiliar, unsettling. Bright is so used to hiding behind a façade, of letting his silence speak for him that he feels like crawling out of his skin to go into Win’s and stay there.
It should be terrifying, but isn’t. Win makes it easy for him.
Bright wakes up late the morning after, aching all over. The other side of the bed is empty, but the shower’s running and he thinks about what this is supposed to be. He thinks about leaving, and then he thinks about staying. The bruises on his hips are just starting to darken and a part of him likes the way they wear on his too-pale skin. His meandering thought doesn’t get very far, because Win steps out of the bathroom and suddenly, there are more pressing things to attend to. Like the way Win smiles at him with wet hair plastered over his forehead, saying something about getting breakfast as he pulls on his jeans. Bright expects him to leave, but he doesn’t.
He reaches for Bright, slides his hand over Bright’s thighs, simultaneously gentle and demanding. Parting them and squeezing himself inside, as if he’d always belonged there.
Bright’s chest goes tight, unbearably so, and he’s the first to look away.
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Toy flops onto the couch with a grunt, places a bowl of popcorn between them and says, “What happened last time? You went MIA for two months.”
Bright scoots to the other side of the couch to make space for Toy. First is supposed to join them by now, but he’s running late from his latest gig and had promised to arrive with pizza. Foei and Gunsmile are still holed up somewhere in Chiang Mai the last time they called in, so this little reunion is more bare-boned than previously advertised in their group chat. Bright’s fine with it, although he’d looked forward to making fun of Gunsmile’s recent difficulty with the local authority. Would’ve made better entertainment than the action movie playing on Toy’s widescreen TV, which is rife with unnecessary explosions and more plot holes than the average street in Bangkok.
Bright vows to never let Toy choose again in the future, even if he has to endure First’s obsession with Ghibli movies.
He grabs a handful of popcorn. “Nothing.”
Toy snorts, disbelieving. “Then why are you sulking?”
“I’m not.”
Toy waits until the main protagonist had mysteriously lost his shirt while battling goo-looking aliens before he pokes at the side of Bright’s neck. He waggles his eyebrows. “New boyfriend?”
Bright bats the hand away, wills himself not to flush as he remembers the bruises scattered across his skin. “It’s none of your business.”
“Someone’s gotta be looking out for you and make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”
The way Toy’s voice softens make Bright’s throat close up. They don’t see each other as often as they should – Toy knows what he does, vaguely, and he intends to keep his rather unconventional career path away from his immediate circle. After what happened to his mother, it’s become a prerogative to draw lines that shouldn’t be crossed. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
Toy’s knee nudges against Bright’s. He’s smiling widely, affectionately. “That’s what best friends are for.”
.
“Win, this is Namtan, our forger.” Bright steadfastly refuses to acknowledge Namtan’s raised eyebrows. She knows too many of his secrets and while he trusts her to keep them, he doesn’t trust her enough to believe he wouldn’t be cornered about it later. He steers Win away from her. “And Green. He’s filling in for our usual chemist.”
Once the formalities are out of the way, they get to work.
Bright catches Namtan’s eyes, sees curiosity there. And concern.
He turns to the board to start briefing them about the COO of a big pharma company they’re going to hijack. It’s supposed to be a quick in-and-out and their architect’s flying in from New Delhi in a red-eye the next day, just in time to make the schedule. The weight of Namtan’s scrutiny feels like fingers skittering over his skin, and if his answers to Green’s question about how many layers of dream they’re expecting comes out sharper than usual, he blames it on the three cups of coffee he’s had on his way to the site.
Namtan leans back into her chair and her scrutiny turns thoughtful, calculating.
Bright likes that even less.
.
Namtan ambushes him when the rest are gone for the night. Bright could’ve sworn she’d left earlier, but apparently he underestimated the lengths she would go to make her point. The studio they’ve repurposed as control room is quiet and bereft of distractions, offering Bright no escape.
“Whatever happened to not mixing business with pleasure?” she asks, going straight for the jugular despite the playful tone of her voice.
Bright packs the folders he’d accumulated on their mark into his bag. He’s going to spend another sleepless night going through them, for the nth times. The PASIV case sits between them like a silent arbiter. “We’re both professionals.”
Namtan huffs. The rings on her fingers glint under the fluorescent light when she gestures at him. One of them is her totem, but she’d never told him which. “You sure you’ve thought this through?”
“We’re professionals,” Bright repeats, though it does little to make him sound more convincing. He turns to stare straight at her and scrounges up a crooked smile she doesn’t return. “Besides, it means nothing. We’re just—” Bright pauses. Swallows. And tries again. “—It doesn’t matter.”
Namtan looks at Bright as though she’s not sure whether she wants to hug him or wrestle him into a headlock. “He is really cute though.”
Bright stares at her in disbelief as she laughs.
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Bright runs his third red light. Win’s hands twitch where they’re folded on his lap, most probably in disapproval over Bright’s flagrant disregard for traffic rules. They had left Tokyo’s comforting anonymity nearly half an hour ago, heading into the great unknown like this is some kind of a grand, whimsical adventure. It isn’t. It shouldn’t. Bright’s mouth presses into a thin line, but he says nothing because he knows Win wouldn’t have cared anyway. It’s slightly disconcerting how much it bothers him that they haven’t discussed what this is, what they’re doing to each other – a thought best shoved into a neat little box at the back of his mind. Far away from that constant urge to over-analyse everything that’s made Bright so good at his job.
A quick glance at the younger man and he turns his attention back to the road. A winding nothingness framed in the sweep of headlights, swallowed by darkness beyond that.
He has no idea where they are. He doesn’t think he wants to know.
“Aren’t you going a bit too fast,” Win states, a hitch to his voice that underlines his concern. In the rearview mirror, everything blurs behind them. “Maybe you should slow down a little.”
The car swerves sudden and sharp, burning rubber on asphalt as they careen down the empty highway. There hasn’t been another car for the past twenty minutes. The clock on the dashboard reads 12:27. The darkness deepens.
Bright steers with one hand and drags the other through his hair, messing it up even further. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little high speed chase.”
“What exactly are we chasing?” Win asks, and Bright has to concede that point. The number on the speedometer climbs past ninety, a hundred. Bright almost startles when Win places a hand on his thigh. He stares straight ahead. “Where are we going?”
They’re at a hundred twenty, a girl on the radio is belting out lines of a love song like she’s never had her heart broken, and Bright lets the steering wheel go. In his peripheral, he catches a glimpse of Win’s wide eyes. “To the end of the world.”
He’s grabbing the lapel of Win’s suit, pulling him close (much, much too close) as the car’s front tires run out of ground and they plunge towards the sharp rocks below.
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Bright wakes up from the dream and slides the cannula out of his forearm, heading straight for the toilet. Namtan calls out after him, but he ignores her. Once the door’s locked, he stands by the sink, gripping its yellowish-white porcelain surface tightly. Taking deep, even breaths. Trying to keep himself from throwing up. It’s just one death out of many. He’d died so many times before (and there will be more after, if he lives long enough) that there’s no reason for him to get a panic attack over a routine run-through of their uppermost dream level. Bright clenches and unclenches his hands to stop the shaking, and once he has them under control, he turns on the tap. Splashes water onto his face, careful to keep his suit dry.
The toilet feels too small, dirty linoleum under his polished shoes and he belatedly discovers that the paper towels had run out.
He frowns at the guy staring back at him from the cracked mirror, at the beginning of dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been able to sleep much these days, especially after that clusterfuck with Soraya. Second-guessing himself with every job he takes. Losing even more sleep double, triple checking everything. Which is how he ends up working with Namtan and Green for the past six months, when he usually picks fresh crews depending on the job requirements. He can almost hear Soraya’s syrupy voice at the back of his head (hell’s something you carry around with you, baby, you should’ve known better). He cups his hands underneath the running tap, ignores how they’ve started to shake again.
He can still feel the residual caress of Win’s lips to his and ignores that too.
Bright walks out of the toilet and sees Tay with his head bent over the design for the second level of their dreamscape. He’s laughing at something Namtan said, as she uses the butt of a pencil to trace a path through the maze he’d painstakingly drafted. Calling in Tay for the job isn’t cheap, but Bright trusts him more than others. He hates that he has to use his friends as a crutch, to appease his paranoia, just because he fucked up a job bad enough that he has three deaths on his resume. One that’s well deserved, but not the others.
He’s late to realise Win’s presence at his side.
“That wasn’t a very pleasant way to die.”
Bright accepts the proffered cup of coffee and curls his hands around it. He drinks it black because it helps to keep him up when his body screams at him to shut things down, to maybe get more than an hour of sleep at night. He doesn’t look at Win when he says, “Death rarely is.”
Win exhales quietly. “Next time, let me drive.”
.
They complete the job. Bright stays long enough to make sure everyone’s paid in foreign currencies of their choosing, before he takes the first flight out of the local airport.
His phone vibrates with three messages from the same number. He deletes all of them.
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Home was a place with houses with neatly-trimmed hedges and convenience stores around every block and quiet streets that ended in places as familiar to him as the back of his hand, with names that he can taste in his sleep. Home was a gentle cold that settles in autumn nightfall and there are times he misses it so much, he’s sick with longing. Bright hadn’t been back for three years. He keeps pictures of that previous lifetime in a box, under his bed after he sold his mother’ place and said goodbye to childhood memories, intent on not looking back. There’s a thick film of dust that leaves streaks on his palm when he opens the case and stares at the guitar.
It’s like exhuming the body of a long-forgotten lover.
He must’ve drank more than he thought if he’s entertaining macabre sentiments this far away from the anniversary of his mother’s death.
It takes some time to convince himself to take the guitar out and starts tuning. Hesitates over the first note, the brush of his calloused fingertips against the strings, but it gets easier after. Bright is halfway through a half-remembered composition, muscle memory and instinct taking over despite the years they’ve been apart, when he hears,
“I didn’t know you play.”
Bright stops and lowers the guitar over his lap. Exhales softly. “Did you really break in when you could’ve just knocked?”
“The door wasn’t locked,” Win says, in that usual pseudo-innocent sweetness Bright had come to associate with him and him alone. He moves into the living room, stepping closer under the guise of studying the guitar in Bright’s hands. Seconds later, his eyes flicker to Bright’s face, a curious tilt to his mouth. “Were you in a band?”
“No.” Yes. But he doesn’t need Win to know more than he already does. Bright returns the guitar to its case and closes the lid gently. He still has his back to Win when he says, “What are you doing here?”
Win is quiet for a while. “I heard about what happened to your mother.”
Old wounds. He’s been nursing them so long he doesn’t know what to do with them when they’re bared in the entirety of their ugliness. “It’s old news. You're a few years too late to offer condolences.”
Bright wants to ask why Win is here instead of somewhere else, why he cares when Bright’s past isn’t part of their deal, but holds his tongue in time.
It’s better to not know.
"Bright, I didn't mean—"
“I used to play for her. My mother. Even thought about doing it for a living.” The change of topic surprises Win and Bright shakes his head, hates that even the memory of her is tainted by something not unlike guilt. “You didn’t think kids grow up wanting to get into dreamshare and its glamorous criminal undertakings, did you?”
Win frowns, like the gravity of their chance acquaintance has finally dawned on him. Bright doubts he understands; Win grows up part of a family of dreamshare royalty. He wouldn’t understand where Bright’s coming from. “We wouldn’t have met each other otherwise.”
Bright’s fingers twitch, before he forcefully stretches them. He runs his palm over the guitar case again, picks up more dust and wonders if it would hurt more to forget than to remember how his mother used to demand a performance, every single day. The delighted applause he’d get in return and the look of pride on her face. He wonders if she would still be proud of who he’d become. “Probably for the better.”
Within the span of a breath, Win’s so much closer and Bright has to take a half-step back at their sudden proximity. “No.” Win tilts his head, his fingers curling into Bright’s belt loops. Pulling him in. “No, it’s not.”
.
One of the strings snaps and Bright almost drops the guitar in his surprise, the rest of the song lingering unfinished in the resultant quiet. He blinks owlishly at the curl of the string and lowers the guitar, and only then does he realise how tired he is. The joints of his fingers are stiff, pain radiating outwards as he flexes them to try and mitigate impending cramps. Old age takes away numerous pleasures in life, but Bright thinks that it’s been kinder to him than most. At least he’s still able to play, albeit for too short of a time before he has to stop. He shuffles to the table to re-string the guitar and put it away, groaning when his back joins in the chorus of aches.
Maybe he should get into bed earlier today, with a couple hot water bottles just in case the weather takes a turn for the worse later.
Bright’s unwinding the string when he hears it. He straightens, heart hammering inside his chest and mouth going dry.
There’s music coming from somewhere inside the cottage.
.
His run of bad luck is starting to get ridiculous.
They do a garden-variety corporate espionage that goes to absolute shits, but at least nobody died this time. The car drops Bright three blocks down from his apartment and he loops back a couple times just to make sure he’s not being followed. His body doesn’t appreciate the exertion and by the time he’s climbing the stairs to his floor, he has one hand pressed firmly against the wall for support. His entire right side throbs, painkillers wearing off at the end of a long, long week. There’s nothing he wants more than to sleep for the next three days. Or three months. His phone chimes, lit screen announcing the arrival of Love and Film at their safe house. Good. One less thing to worry about. He labours onto the fifth landing, finds the right door and spends a few seconds squinting at his keys. He’s puzzling over them, brain swaddled in cotton and static, when the door swings open.
Slow and quiet until Bright isn’t alone and the world doesn’t look so empty.
Win gives him a worried onceover and says, a serrated sharpness to his voice Bright doesn’t recognise, “Did you get shot again?”
Bright wants to point out that he’d been knifed, thank you very much, but his brain is preoccupied with trying to work out what he’s seeing. And then he remembers that they’d arranged to meet earlier. He doesn't remember giving him a key though. The beginning of a frown creases his forehead, annoyed at being caught in a disadvantage, but he’s too tired (and in pain) to ask Win to leave. Bright takes a step forward only to stumble and Win catches him with arms wide and ready, somehow managing to keep both of them upright. He’s stronger despite being leaner, and Bright is very appreciative of that fact right now, when the alternative is to crash face-first onto the floor.
He fists his fingers in the folds of Win’s shirt and is pulled closer, the door shutting behind them with a decisive snap.
The apartment is dimly-lit, soft glow suffusing the inky darkness with warmth. Win manoeuvres them around silhouettes of furniture until they’re in the bedroom. It shouldn’t surprise Bright that Win’s already made himself at home; he does that too easily. Made himself home in Bright’s space, in that cavity inside his ribcage before Bright can crowbar him out (before it’s too late). Win keeps him standing long enough to start peeling off layers of clothes. The silk tie goes first, folded and gently placed next to the cat figurine on the bedside table. Then the bespoke suit, lovingly tailored to conceal more than skin and bones. Firearms strapped to pallid skin. His hands hover over bloodstained bandages, Win’s eyes darkening into obsidian-black, before they move elsewhere.
Win is quick and precise, clockwork in his efficiency, and he coaxes Bright into a soft-worn t-shirt and shorts in minutes.
Bright doesn’t ask how Win knows where to find everything.
“Hey.” He cuts into the silence with a whisper, arms still half-cradled around Bright’s waist. As if he’s afraid that something would break if he lets go. Bright is almost offended. And oddly— grateful. “Let’s get you some sleep, alright?”
He nods, leaning forward until his face is pressed into Win’s shoulder. Win smells like sandalwood. And grass. “Thought you’re supposed to be heading off to Germany tonight?” He takes a deep breath. “Will I be getting another email from Gigie demanding your safe return?”
Win’s hand presses into his back, anchoring Bright in place. “It’s fine. I told her I want to be here.” Something inside Bright’s chest lurches painfully. Win doesn’t notice. He never does, Bright thinks, vindictively. “I’ll reschedule the flight later, don’t worry about it. I can’t just go when you look like death warmed over.”
It feels too intimate, like they’re in some kind of a domestic arrangement when they aren’t, not really. Bright should push Win away, convince him to fuck off to Germany. Somewhere far away, just so Bright doesn’t mistake his kindness for something more. Instead, Bright burrows deeper into Win and says,
“You’re making me breakfast tomorrow.”
Win’s laughter is warm and languid and hurts more than the blade of a too-sharp knife sliding into Bright’s ribcage.
.
The whiteboard marker squeaks when Bright circles the word, several times. “Inception.”
Tay exchanges a look with Win, before he says, somewhat bemused, “Can’t be done.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Bright is all jitters, nerves compounded by trepidation, but he soldiers on. His mother once told him that he’s too stubborn for his own good and she’s been right about everything else so far. He twists the cap of the marker to give his hands something to do, to stop them from shaking. “A crew pulled it off and we have the blueprint to do it again. It won’t be easy, but—” he catches Win’s eyes and remembers Taiwan, their discussion about inception and the first night they spent together, “—it’s not impossible.”
Namtan tells Bright he’s crazy at least three more times, but nobody walks out on him.
Birds of the same feather.
.
Bright wakes up in Win’s bed.
There’s coffee and a bagel on the bedside table. There’s a note telling him that Win is on recon with Tay and that they’re meeting up with the rest of the crew for lunch later.
Bright crumples the note. His shoulders are tight, wound up as he stares at the empty side of the bed.
He doesn’t know what any of this means anymore.
.
“It would’ve been easier if I’d fallen in love with you.”
Namtan looks up from her chicken sandwich, a smear of mustard at the corner of her mouth. Bright leans forward and swipes a thumb over it, careful not to touch the flattened line of Namtan’s lips. An elderly couple walks past, looking at them with an identical fond expression on their weathered faces. Ah, to be young and in love, the expression says. Nostalgia paints everything in a better light. Bright cleans his hand with a serviette and wonders how many lifetimes he’ll have to live (how many times he’ll have to die) to put the ghosts inside his head to bed.
She turns away from him. “That’s a very selfish thing to say.”
Bright supposes it is. She doesn’t deserve his bitter hypotheticals, not after everything they’ve gone through. “Sorry, I’m not— I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Bright.” Namtan’s voice is pitched lower, a tremulous edge to it. Like she’s keeping herself in check, but only just. “The only thing I want is for you to be happy.”
Across the street, Park So Won walks out of the imposing monolith of AdvanTech Enterprise and into a waiting limousine. They get to their feet, Bright already slipping out his phone to inform Win about the mark’s movement. They see Tay and Film in a black sedan, trailing after the limousine and they have approximately twenty minutes to get everyone ready. Bright hopes Love had figured out the doses needed to keep their dreams stable, the deeper they go. None of them wants things to go sideways before they even get to the dreaming. Bright shoves the phone back into his pocket, checks his watch and starts for their car.
Namtan grabs his forearm before he can get far and he glances back at her, eyebrows raised.
She asks, “Do you love him?”
Bright, because it’s imperative for him to remain contrary even with his heart trying to claw out of his throat, asks right back, “Does it matter?”
.
Two levels down, Bright gets shot in the guts pushing Love out of the line of fire after an altercation with Park’s trained projections. He hears Tay yelling at them through the hallway, wanting to know what had happened. The bullet hole doesn’t show on his dark suit and the blood seeps right through, blending in. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, probably the after-effect of the drug that’s keeping them under. He waves aside Love’s tearful cries in favour of telling her to set up the PASIV. Win and Namtan are on their way, with Park in tow, and Tay’s laying cover fire for them to relocate.
They’re running out of time.
Win rushes into the room, takes one look at Bright and curses.
Bright had never heard him curse before. He almost laughs.
“We need to keep going,” Bright reminds everyone else, before Win can get a word in. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a flesh wound.”
The joke, unsurprisingly, falls flat.
Win props Bright up against him, the hand around Bright’s waist gripping a bit too tight for comfort. He grits out, under his breath so nobody else can hear them, “Why the fuck are you always getting shot?”
Bright lets out a short wheeze of laughter as he’s fed a needle for their next descent. “How else am I supposed to get your attention?”
Win’s lips thin into a severe line. Bright opens his mouth to apologise (it’s a joke, it’s a joke), but Win says, “Don’t die.”
Bright shuts his mouth. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.
Three levels down, Namtan leaves the pool room with Park, making a beeline for the last part of the plan before the idea is fully ingrained, and Bright has to wait for the door to close behind the two before he crumples to his knees. His breath is getting shallower, hitching with every other inhale and Win’s hands are a steady pressure where they’re pressed against the hole in Bright’s stomach. He’s trying to stem the blood flow as much as he can, but Bright can tell that it’s too late to do anything.
His fingers slide against Win’s wrist, leaves a dark carmine imprint on the skin there.
Bright counts each breath he takes, narrows his entire world down to Win.
“My mother would’ve liked you,” he murmurs, hates how bitter regret tastes like. He misses her so badly it feels like dying twice in the span of seconds. “She would’ve—”
“I’ll find you.” Win leans down, lips brushing against Bright’s forehead. It’s the first time Bright hears the barbwire coil of fear in Win’s voice. “Doesn’t matter how long it takes, so wait for me, alright? I promise—”
Bright closes his eyes and slides under.
.
There’s a knock on the front door. Once, then a couple more. Bright looks away from the crossword puzzle, forehead creasing. He doesn’t get visitors, has long forgotten how it’s like to see someone else instead of the greying, withering man in the mirror. The cat leaps from his lap when he stands. He moves slowly from the table and each step he takes brings him closer to the door. The knocking gets louder, has taken a somewhat frantic cadence the longer it goes on, and he thinks about who it might be on the other side.
If he even wants to know.
The door unlocks easily when he works the knob, swings on its hinges. The young man looking back at him has a hand half-raised. He’s dark-haired and wild-eyed, brows furrowed into a frown. A thin layer of snow has already accumulated over his dove grey suit and it’s inadequate for the season. Out of place. His face stirs something inside Bright’s head, in that deep, murky place he no longer traverses.
Bright gets out a stilted “Hello—” before he’s cut off.
“Bright.” In his surprise to hear his name coming from a stranger, he doesn’t see the gun. It’s small mercy, he’d think later. “Bright, you need to wake up. Now.”
.
Bright wakes up.
Bright wakes up and sees Win peering down at him, the look of stark relief on the other man’s face making him wonder if he’s still dreaming. There’s no reason for Win to look at him like that, unless—
Unless—
Win’s thumb brushes his cheekbone. He smiles, sweet and tender. “Told you I’d find you.”
.