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There was really never a true indicator of what is inherently good and what is bad. The popular topic that appears in our everyday lives is completely subjective, although laced with possible controversy and disagreement. Morals have never been formed in one shape, and forming them comes mainly from the environment your brain develops in; yet, humans have formed laws and rules, restraining the human mind into thinking that there always is one good way of doing things.
Clay’s mindset was never easy to understand by others.
Ever since he was able to talk, his intelligence and wit shone through and showed themselves in his conversations, essays, speeches. He has always been the one with all the answers in his head, but he almost never shared them; people didn’t try to understand it, though, deciding that it was just selfish and quite strange. Clay thought otherwise, knowing that knowledge is the biggest weapon that a man could wield - so why give it freely to your opponents?
Honestly, the blond didn’t understand anyone else either.
He loved to watch how bizarre humans are. Despite being the most intellectually developed species to ever walk this earth, they still did things that even his exquisitely smart mind couldn’t comprehend sometimes. He’d watch as they chased around, throwing mindlessly picked words at each other, sometimes filled with empty love and blind trust, sometimes with vicious anger and undecipherable disgust. Clay’s mind always said, to put it simply, it isn’t that deep.
It was funny to watch people run around like ants, working their asses off and finding money to be the center of their lives. Poor that, rich this, the social hierarchy was a tippy tower and everyone seemed to desire getting to the top, no matter what cost. Pretending to be selfless and gold-coated, weirdly praised when they ever put the important things first - Clay really didn’t get it. How come, in a world where there clearly are issues and imperfections, people consider them parts of their lives, sometimes even cling onto them and become convinced that they are the inherently good traits of a good, stable society?
Besides, the blond isn't really the hero type. He was not going to try and help anyone else understand or change their lives for the easier because they simply are blind to their own struggles; he’d tried once, in his naive youth, and swore to himself that he’d never try again. Sometimes, the contents of your mind, no matter how wise and important could they be, are destined to stay in the gates of your own brain. He was fine with that, honestly, as he knew that they’d be deaf to his words and blind to his gestures - that’s how humans are.
Despite being a human, too, he found their nature almost disgusting. Whatever it is that they’re driven by, they always want more and more, grabbing from others and acting like wild monkeys. The biological purpose was fulfilled; they could survive, yet they still took from the ones that would struggle with that purpose and ignored their cries for support and help. Greedy motherfuckers, as he’d call them, never having enough.
Old, rich, probably white men, drunkenly showing everyone how much money they can shove up their asses. Trying to show that even though they’re just the same, if not worse, as those whose income is below average, their voice matters more and acting like a crying toddler when their problems are pushed aside or someone tries to speak louder than them. Owning factories, destroying their own planet, murdering random and innocent people, just to clean their hands off because of authority.
Really fucking disgusting.
As I’ve mentioned; even though he recognized so many flaws, he wouldn’t try to teamwork anymore, as it was just not worth his time and effort. He decided to live by the rule of every man for himself , as caring and putting emotions first would clearly be a huge mistake.
Besides, he was never really good with those, anyways.
Clay never showed much emotion. If he tripped during running and cut his knee open, he’d wince, but push back the tears and clean the wound up with a straight face. When he’d get beaten up or yelled at, his features would not show almost any emotion, remaining terrifyingly blank. When his first girlfriend broke up with him or when he got called slurs, he shrugged, already forgetting about the fact that it even happened the next day.
Nothing seemed to awaken actual human traits in him, as he perfected the study of others. He was an enigma, one that would never get solved - how could it, honestly, he hasn’t let anyone close to even opening the gates of his never-stopping mind since he was a literal baby.
People often wondered, frankly, what is wrong with that guy. The first thing to pop into their simple minds was he’s either a dick, or it could be a coping mechanism, but the truth is that Clay really never had a tragic past with lots of trauma, tears, accidents and violence. He never suffered like others would always say they did, he lived a normal childhood in a decent, loving home. It was just the way his brain worked, and he loved to see people try to figure it out; he knew no one would ever actually have all the keys they’d need to open the locked asylum. Why bother to be normal, unlock them yourself, let people know and try to help them understand - this way was much more fun and entertaining.
Of course, that isn’t to say that he stayed away from people at all times. To study them, he had to get normal amounts of social interaction. Besides, for his basic biological needs, he needed them - whether it was renting out a cook or getting postmates, going to the store, needing medical assistance, he had no problem with talking to others. Even if he was something comparable to a sociopath, he was always social - not for his enjoyment, but for the pure need of his questions about human nature being answered. He’d always be popular, go to parties, hang out with friends, do normal teenager stuff until he settled with most of his queries answered and started acting more mature, even though being a dumb sociable teen was really just an act.
And, of course, the one biological need that included others most was sexual desire. He really didn’t mind this one, though, as he’d always find a ‘one night stand’, quite literally having no strings attached - attachment was never a problem, even if some of his partners really wanted to see his sun-kissed face again.
He’d toy around with people, as I’ve said, mercilessly exploring their minds and their bodies. That’s just how Clay seemed to prefer life to be.
As he remained a mystery, he learned… well, humans. He’d voluntarily spend time with them and pretend to enjoy it, watching every single reaction, how they coped, why they cried, how their minds worked. He treated others like science experiments, just waiting to be solved and written down by the handsome blond. That’s exactly what he did - over the years, he learned what their supposed morals usually are, their reactions, everything else you could know about a person - and started twisting it to his advantage, his clean work coming unnoticed. Some people would say that he’s turned to the wrong path, but in reality, he knew that good and bad weren’t ever a thing - instead of two paths, one being light and effectively leading to happiness, the other dark with the angsty ending, there was one, just one, as gray and blank as ever. People looked over that, trying to turn and twist everything to their advantage, dictating how the world should be perceived.
With time, Clay knew that he would make sure to take advantage of what he knew and what others were blind to; if it’s every man for himself, he’s sure as hell supposed to have some fun if every single supposed meaning to life was really all just a hoax?
He found the perfect job; an assassin.
He was cold, heartless even, ruthless to his victims and with no moral boundaries. Perfectly skilled in manipulating, shaping people in what he wanted them to be, along with his almost inhuman intelligence and stealth. Effective, mysterious, quick and always capable of finishing the job that he was given. Never-breaking his mask, because there really wasn’t under it - he’d never let it crack, no matter how hard his mental opponent would be.
He was quite literally perfect for the job.
Nonetheless, it was a clear choice. He couldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy it, too - being able to mercilessly toy around with someone like a chess master moving around the pieces, finding answers to all of his queries and quite literally throwing them away when they wouldn’t be needed anymore - also, profiting off it, even though money really wasn’t anywhere in his list of priorities.
Of course, even if it was hard to abide someone else's laws of the ‘perfect world’, he still did it, he isn’t stupid - so of course, he knew murder, especially paid, was not really accepted in society. The name that most people feared, respected, hated hearing and really wanted to get a hold of was Dream . He went by as a faceless man, quick to do the job and always refusing to meet with the person that paid him to do the dirty work. No one knew his face; it was simply easier this way. He was sometimes portrayed with a terrifyingly stoic, porcelain-white mask that was sometimes dirty with crimson blood. It always had a forever smile carved into it - probably associated with the rumour that the last thing his victims saw was his smiling face.
You’d think that someone whose nickname was feared and known by most villains and seemingly innocent businessmen would sooner or later be exposed; yet, he managed to keep his identity completely anonymous. Maybe it was his intelligence, but the crimes he did never left behind any evidence of any kind, even though he was always working alone. By day, an abiding citizen who was loved by his neighbourhood, by night, a merciless hitman who was tangled in all kinds of upper-class money drama.
That’s what they say, right? If you hate something, throw himself right into the middle of it.
Because, hey, apart from having his own little terrifyingly casual science experiments on live subjects, he got to mercilessly murder who annoyed him most. Dream job.
Tonight, he was hired to attend a very fancy masquerade party in a very old royalty palace, which was now made into a posh mansion. The guests there were all supposed to be of some authority, important to the upper-class field, and the theme was obviously obnoxiously extra elegance, frilly big skirts and colorful, creative masks.
Of course, the main reason for the gathering was probably some kind of dirty business - making it seem almost like a sugar-coated, tempting sweet with an inside of liquorice, as for the outside, it was just a very glamorous occasion for all the wealthy people to converse, drink expensive alcohol and wear nice stuff. Those things happened daily, and Clay was the witness - but people that weren’t involved seemed to find it easier to believe in lies than to face the truth. Fair enough.
As Clay arrived his eyes were immediately roaming curiously all over the huge front yard, which was filled with all different kinds of flowers, marble decorations and stone figurines. As he straightened his posture, he turned over the Invite paper laying in his hand, a sweet fake smile brightening his features. As fake as it was, no one would catch on as Clay’s charm and his addicting tone of voice were too much of a distraction.
Everything about him was a distraction, truly. Especially his looks.
He didn’t find it hard to seduce anyone, even just by looking at them - being handsome made it much easier for him in life, and he knew it. He had relatively short hair, which had his blond curls falling over his forehead most of the time, yet he never looked messy or unshaven. His skin was beautifully tanned, making his sun-kissed freckles pop out more. His eyes were a deep green, almost the shade of an emerald, beautiful and admirable, even if a little cold sometimes. His features were prominent and seemed to sit just perfectly on his face, for example his extremely sharp jawline; I’m sure if you ran a finger along it, you might just get cut.
His posture was picture-perfect, and even though he wasn’t extremely buff, his muscles and his abs were still very much visible, only able to make one wonder how much time he usually spends exercising. His stance showed dominance, strength and confidence, but combined with his other features seemed to pull and lure people in, despite Clay not having spoken a word himself.
Here, he decided to wear one of his many suits, deciding that being plain was really not the preferred case this time. He wore a simple suit in a dark, forest-green, with the material velvet and the collar of the shirt a bit ruffled, but simple; something that would make him blend in almost perfectly. His mask covered only the upper half of his face, obviously, but it was all white, his pearly smile complementing it perfectly. It had an iridescent layer of glitter scattered onto it, along with a few crystals, making it look sleek. The pretty green ribbon tied around his head, making sure that it’s secured in place. He accented his outfit with a golden chain pinned to his suit and white sleek gloves, making him look weirdly... blendable.
Clay was probably the only one at the party that was not planning on taking his mask off.
Clay wasn’t one to dwell on his looks; he hated self-absorbed people, knowing that it’s just shallow to be blindly in love with your own reflection. He found there was no need to be humble, either; he knew he was hot, and he god damn knew how to use that to his advantage.
The male handed the gatekeeper the piece of paper, nonchalantly peeking at the young boy inspecting the text written on it. As he hummed an affirmative, he stepped through the gate, the gravel crunching under his shoes as he quickly thanked him, his smile not faltering even for a second. He walked up the marble stairs and passed the big pillars, the huge, but open front door welcoming him warmly.
As he stepped inside, he was now in a big corridor with a few people scattered around here and there, quiet chatter ringing in his ears. The floor was made in a checkered white-black marble pattern, and the hall itself must’ve been over twenty feet tall, the ceiling beautifully decorated with cracked hand-painted images of what Clay assumed were greek myths. Persephone and Hades on the throne of The Underground, Sisyphus pushing a giant boulder up a hill, Theseus and the Minotaur, Ariadne with her string - all kinds of ancient legends scattered over the plaster.
Clay decided not to let his eyes linger around anymore as he cleared his throat, making his way over to the big, crimson-colored door. His charming smile never faltered as he bowed back at a few people, before stepping into the big ball hall, his senses immediately overwhelmed by the things going on. The ceiling was just as tall as three big golden chandeliers hung low from it, the whole room accented like a gold, victorian party hall. It was filled with people, some were dancing, some were just chatting, others were already intoxicated by the dark-wood bar. Clay’s eyes were quick to roam around the room, finding the source of the russian waltz blessing his ears being the small orchestra tucked away in the corner.
The male immediately blended in, having no trouble with finding a partner to dance with. Standing by the side was just going to make him all the more suspicious, and the blond knew that there was probably some goody-two-shoes ought to get him here.
His eyes roamed around the room for a potential person to ‘meet’, looking for a potentially easy and innocent target who was probably brought here just because of their wealth, with no idea of any dirty intents of the business being done here.
He quickly made conversation with a lovely short brunette, who was wearing a violet dress with a lot of frills and lace - something of the style that most of the women wore these days - and a matching mask with feathers on one side. Hers wasn’t tied, it was glued to a stick, so she had no hesitation in showing the male her face off the bat, as a normal person would do; his mask stayed on as he dodged her various questions with compliments and cheeky whispers, his emerald green eyes luring her in quite quickly.
His rough hands quickly led her over to the dance floor as he wrapped his arms around her waist, the girl’s face immediately pinked with a pretty blush. She was beautiful, he acknowledged that, but he really wasn’t interested in her - she was just a time-passer, a distraction, a cover-up. It wasn’t personal; Clay was here to do his job, although his charming smile stayed on as he pretended to be interested in whatever she was whispering in his ear. They slowly swayed around, Clay’s dancing skills proving to be exquisite as they got through the russian waltz without a single mistake - people of the woman’s class were usually taught this along with etiquette, but Clay had previous experience with being hired for occasions such as this.
A few songs later they both stepped off the dance floor, laughing about sparing the girl’s feet as she waved him goodbye, placing a lingering kiss on his sun-kissed cheek. They promised each other to meet later as they parted their ways, the girl going off to meet her father. Clay knew it was not gonna happen; for her, his name was Nicholas and he lived in a far, far away forest mansion with his father.
As the male turned around, he made his way to the bar to sit down for a second. He made comfortable on the hard-wood chair as his eyes discreetly scanned the crowd around him, his head slightly tilted back as he casually sipped on an auburn-coloured whiskey. The man he was supposed to get rid of was described as a short, bald middle-aged man, with grey facial hair and a simple black suit. So, practically everyone here. Clay knew that he wore a monocle and that he’s probably going to be surrounded by all sorts of important people as he’s someone high up the money ladder.
Clay would enjoy this one.
As his fingers roamed over the small capsule of poison tucked safely into his pocket, his eyes followed a group of men in suits making their way over to the bar, just for most of them to part ways after shaking hands with smug smiles.
There it is.
Clay let his charming smile transform into a small smirk as he found his target. One quick move and he suddenly was sitting pretty close to the man, his mind racing with all the kinds of conversations the two could have before he chokes on his own vomit.
Unfortunately, a sharp thought stopped his excitement as he realized that it’s stupid to make contact with him. It would obviously make him a suspect - and, although he was clean and he knew there would be no evidence left behind, he remembered that he was warned of someone being here in case ‘anything’ happens. Someone knows that this guy is a target, and that someone is willing to protect him and his disgusting, inhuman greed.
Clay’s body almost shivered as he stood up after a few minutes, setting his empty glass with a quiet clink. Thankfully, he didn’t catch anyone’s attention as he slowly passed the man, simply dropping the unnoticeable capsule into his strong-smelling drink as he looked away. Clay had no idea how that worked, but apparently, old drunk men are really blind.
The blond knew that that was very risky; but he loved playing with fire.
As he stepped away with a victory smirk, he slowly eyed the room for a possible exit. Going through the front door, the back door, eventually the door to the second hall. This was too easy; he almost pouted when he realized he couldn’t play with his victim even for a bit, but he didn’t let his desires ruin this whole thing. He isn’t that stupid.
As the male walked near the dancing floor, he felt someone’s eyes on him, his whole body tensing up. His head shot up slowly as he tried his best not to alarm the person staring at him, his eyes slowly searching around as his smirk faltered a bit. The stare wasn’t a lustful one, like he’d usually get, but it was one filled with rage and curiosity, almost piercing into his back with how intense it was.
He slowly made eye contact with the owner of the piercing gaze, successfully finding them in the crowd. Their expression shone with determination, but also a bit of surprise as Clay’s emerald eyes stared deeply into their brown, warm ones. The blond’s gaze was a puzzle; his eyes seemed charming, luring even, but as he slowly turned towards whoever was staring at him, they turned empty and cold, threatening and almost freaky.
As Clay’s expression became an almost hungry smirk, he tilted his head to the side, reading the male’s expression as he almost admired his looks. Clean dark brown hair, soft facial features,fair porcelain skin, a light blue suit, seemingly shorter than Clay - the male was quite handsome, nonetheless. He figured he’d hit the bingo - he knew it was the person hired to kill him as his head suddenly disappeared in the crowd.
But it was too late. Why don’t we have some fun?, Clay’s mind nagged as he sped up his walk with a smile, coming around the dance floor and getting away from the hero’s peripheral vision. He recognized him - but that's a story for another evening.
The brunet let out a sigh of relief as he disappeared from his field of view, his braveheart yelling at him to go check on the businessman. He ignored in, figuring that it was too late; he observed the blond in the green suit drop something there. He now knew his main objective was to catch him; and he was willing to do anything to prevent him from hurting more people.
That’s just who George was. He wasn’t exactly associated with the police, he liked to think of himself as a free man; his skills in multiple areas have made him crucial to the most cases the detectives presented to him. He would find evidence where no one searched and he’d be more than glad to risk standing eye to eye with a potential subject; what made him useful as the ‘good guy’ was his ability to strategize, along with his bravery and selflessness. He wanted to do good, not only to help protect people, but maybe to see why the ‘bad’ guys did what they did.
It’s not everyday you get an inside look of the mind of a murderer or a thief, right? George solved most of his cases alone, with little to no help needed from the police or anyone else; soon enough, he was known as someone who knows what they’re doing and he was hired to various events.
What drove George towards this job was mostly his trauma of his parents literally being mercilessly murdered in front of him, but also the desire to do good, to be the good guy. He wanted to believe there was a good path and he was leading himself down towards it; maybe he was too scared to accept the grey reality? (Sherlock type beat, you hear me?)
Who knows.
What mattered most was George’s mind now working extremely fast, figuring out a way to catch the masked man. He couldn’t just tackle him in front of everyone, he’d have to lead him out and.. get rid of him. His eyes shut for a moment, the memory of the creepy smile being flashed at him sending shivers down his spine. He wasn’t scared, no - he was never really scared, taking fear as more of a motivator and a power supply - so why did his knees weaken at the dude showing his pearly teeth whilst he stared George down?
He had no time to think about that, though, as the dark and low tones of The second Waltz exploded in his ears, making him open his eyes. He quickly felt his waist being snatched by a strong hand with a stern grip, pulling him deep into the dance floor in the matter of seconds, not giving the male any time to react, only his eyes widening and his body tensing up.
He was quickly put upright as his head shot up at the owner of the hands, his eyes meeting the cold emerald ones again. This time, they weren’t cold; they were more filled with curiosity and questions as they didn’t hesitate to meet his chocolate ones, reading his emotions so quickly that George felt exposed and almost naked; they seemed to break him down within seconds.
The blond quickly leaned down, imitating a polite bow, his hot breath so close to George’s skin he almost shuddered; his body only now reacting to what happened the past few seconds. He tried to back up, but his frail figure was no competition for the other’s strong and possessive grip, forcing him to stay in place as his heart raced with concern for his own well-being.
“Dance. Blend in. Wouldn’t want to stand out, would we?” The quiet whisper heard directly into George’s ear made him shut his eyes for a moment, a shiver being sent down his spine immediately; yet again, not out of fear, but out of an unrecognizable emotion that the brunet could not describe. The blond’s tone was sure, confident, almost playful in a way, making the boy in his arms wonder how is he calm after just taking someone’s life? How is he making this a game? And, most important of all, why can’t I physically move?
As George opened his eyes again, he was met with that same playful smirk as the rough hands moved from his waist and guided his own hands into a dance-able position. He was still stuck in place, even though his restrain was technically gone for a second, his expression mostly reading confusion and, oh god, where did that pink on his cheeks come from?
As the strong grip returned to his waist, he couldn’t help but move along with the other’s perfect slow-dance moves, his eyes sorrowly filling up with the tone of the violin, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He felt a bittersweet taste in his mouth as he decided to comply with the other’s orders, thinking that it’s better to listen when he’s a murderer with a very big, unfair physical advantage.
The dance itself felt weird. It felt like every emotion that George's felt morphed together, confusing his senses and making him feel like he, himself, wasn't real; like this was some story he would read by the fireplace. Yet, the way his waist leaned into the touch of the other's hand or how his hand would lay in the crook of his shoulder just made him feel liek they immediately morphed together, the tone of the composition making it all feel.. ethereal. Like he was too light to exist, his mind clouded.
As the two continued to dance to the loud music, the other’s chatter felt almost silent - the only things taking up their attention being each other. Clay had a curious smirk plastered on his face as he made sure his gaze thoroughly exposed George, aiming to make him feel vulnerable as he dominated the dance; George’s expression was confused as his gaze stayed low, everything seeming like a sudden blur as the music shouted into his ears.
What the hell was this guy doing?
Why did I freeze like that?
Has he poisoned me, too? What is this fuzzy feeling? Why can’t I think?
Clay’s touch was the only thing that George could feel, words not even needed in that moment. The blonde killer hovered over him, having the best detective that there ever was suddenly frozen in his hands. He smirked in satisfaction, loving how easy it was to break people. All it took was a few seconds and an invitation to a dance, and he had George’s mind wrapped around his finger. He found it really interesting how people like him, who let their emotions, guilt, ego and morals get to them don't realize how easy it is to break them.
“Cat got your tongue, sir?” He whispered again as he guided the brunet through the waltz swiftly, not making a single mistake as he kept his eyes on him. He didn’t like the lack of eye contact; he must say that everyone was right when they said that eyes are a mirror to the soul. He let go of George just to bring his hand up to his chin and slowly raise it up with two fingers, forcing him to look up.
“W-who the hell are you?” He finally asked, his voice quiet as he furrowed his brows, his mind still blank. In response, he received a chuckle, which sounded like the question itself was stupid, with an almost obvious answer. George felt like the answer was obvious too; he just couldn’t grasp it, almost like it was completely out of his reach.
Clay thought that it was almost cute, seeing how some people who swear to be on the ‘good’ side are completely led by emotions, which cause the ground underneath them to be absolutely unstable. One wrong step, one string to be pulled and everything crumbles, their own sanity questioned. Clay knew exactly which button to press, which string to pull. He enjoyed watching the ground crumble and the panic spread over his victims’ features.
The blond’s thumb stroked George’s chin softly before going back to where it’s supposed to be in this dance, looking at the male almost sheepishly. “Call me Dream.” His whisper was sugar-coated, almost soft; George knew the innocent tone was fake, but it all seemed too alluring to only be negative.
As the orchestra’s music got a bit louder, George’s eyes widening, all the cogs clicking now. He was dancing with a paid serial killer.
Immediately, he wanted to step back in disgust as an immediate reaction; of course, the other’s strong hands held him in place, Clay leading the dance almost unbothered as he let out another throaty chuckle. “Know me, yeah?”
George felt sick to the stomach. He was dancing with a serial killer.
Not only that, but a serial killer that he's tried to track multiple times. That he had been hired to catch multiple times. That was a worthy opponent; despite George's perfect skills and zero percent fail rate, he still managed to crack those statistics and slip out of the brunet's hands. He's never gotten this close to him; up close and personal, dancing with his faceless enemy, closer than ever - yet he still couldn't manage to let go of his hands, feeling as if he was put in a dancing trance by the other.
He knew he could possibly get out. He could try to run away, he now didn’t care anymore if he made a scene, he’d get out alive. Then, he could report at least some traits of what Dream looked like. He could finally actually catch this fucker; he knew it. Usually, George's mind raced with ideas, his own life not being any sort of priority as he worked to shut down criminals. But this guy was different; something about him made the brunet hesitate when trying to find a solution.
Yet, his legs almost gave out. He didn’t go. Instead, he worked obediently with the blond’s movements, shell shocked as they danced to the sorrow tune of the composition. Clay felt him submit in his hands, his smirk only growing larger. He was entertained not only by just playing with someone’s fragile security, but also by the boy himself; he couldn’t disagree that he enjoyed dancing with him a bit more than he should.
Clay leaned in again, this time his voice less laced with threat and cockiness, and more with praise. “There we go, good boy. You aren’t going anywhere.” His hot breath felt as if it was burning against George’s ear, sending a hot wave throughout his body as his porcelain cheeks were now somewhat tinted with pink.
George didn’t understand what was going on with him.
Clay liked that.
As they slowly danced, their moves becoming more and more coordinated with each other, George thought if he was going to get out of here alive. Probably not, idiot, you just watched him murder someone.
The terrifying thought seemed to fade, as he slowly noticed how the blond’s face inched closer and closer to his, making his breath hitch. Everything seemed to stop for a moment, the pairs around them suddenly not moving, the chatter disappearing immediately - the loud music and their hot breaths seeming like a bittersweet symphony filling George’s ears. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t move away, feeling stuck in place as his knees trembled beneath him, the only thing keeping him upright being the bruising grip on his waist.
He felt the blond’s rough lips barely ghost over his, the hot breath tingling on them as he slowly parted them involuntarily, feeling his lungs give out for a minute. For a second, a slight moment, he inched closer, their lips now only millimeters away from touching - and, even though George knew this was so, so inherently bad, it felt addicting, like he wanted to lean in despite all of his morals yelling at him. They were blurred out by the blond moving away with a victorious expression on his face, his eyebrows slightly raised.
As everything sped up again, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of disappointment - guilt immediately washing over him. He immediately tried to think of an escape route, the two sides of his mind fighting with each other - nothing came to mind. He just had to comply, almost feeling like he was only watching this bizarre scene from afar, and hoped he could get away.
He was slowly brought back to reality by the crushing realization that the song had faded, claps and cheers blowing up his ears. He looked up at his dance partner, still quite shaky from what happened just seconds prior as he received a wink from the blond. “That was fun. Hope I meet you again, pretty boy. He whispered in his ear as he passed him, soon hoping to disappear in the crowd, leaving the confused and distracted brunet in the middle of the dancers.
The guilt building up in George’s stomach yelled at him for even letting that happen, his own reaction being a surprise to him. Only the actual guilt and the heavy regret in his heart had managed to shake him out of the state, just in time for him to catch the last of Clay’s suit.
He felt a little shaken up, but he followed his quick footsteps as stealthily as he could, his mind now broken into a million unsolved puzzles. He gripped the wooden handle of the blade in his pocket, his breath hitching as his mind was torn in two, because he kinda liked that but also what the hell, George, you’re here to prevent this dude from murdering anyone else.
He wasn’t really sure what he wanted more.
Clay was obviously trying to get away as his pace was fast and his movements swift, finally deciding that the balcony was his best shot to try and get away. The jump wasn’t too high, and he didn’t have to risk being ambushed by anyone. He had to admit, he knew George and he knew how determined and driven he is; he wasn’t sure his little distraction would work permanently.
Just as he stepped out of the big glass doors, the cold night air hit him, making him feel a bit refreshed as opposed to being cramped in a sweaty, intoxicated crowd. The moonlight shone over him as he made his way over to the railing, finding it awfully similar to the ones you'd find in traditional Greek homes.
Suddenly, his little moment of remembering his previous holidays was interrupted by his body being violently turned around and practically slammed into the nearby pillar, a cold blade pushed up against his neck, not actually doing any damage, yet.
He knew who it was before he even looked down; hence his slow chuckle as he felt one shaky hand pinning him up against the pillar behind him, the other grasping a switchblade. His gaze was slowly brought down to see the familiar porcelain perfect face, which was now lit up with the moonlight, the male’s features more accentuated than before, in the ugly light of the chandelier. Clay had to admit; he liked his determination. He maybe even respected him for a bit, as most others would not be able to put themselves back together after an encounter with an unmatched enemy, such as Clay.
He was met by George’s determined gaze, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he refused to look away from Clay, no matter how much the emerald eyes both scared him and lured him in deeper. He was trembling, it was visible; yet he still managed to grasp onto any sort of sanity he had left and threaten Dream with a cold blade.
“Coming back so soon?”
George let out a sour chuckle, shaking his head almost in disbelief. Still, the low tone of voice made him feel heat crawling up his neck and spread onto his cheeks. “You’re sick.” He said, feeling like he was spitting venom. He was right, Clay was sick, but for some reason, saying that made him feel guilty; he didn't call him sick for being a heartless murdered, he called him sick because George knew his own confidence was slowly falling, and there was no back-up plan.
Clay just chuckled freely at that statement, acting as if he isn’t the one with a weapon pushed up against his throat. His wild gaze never once detached from George’s, feeling the strength of which the brunet was pushing up the weapon against him. That's what George would never understand; all this time, the whole ball, he acted as if everything was just a game, finding enjoyment in George's desperate whimpers and his confused gaze. Was this really just a game for him? Did Dream know something he didn't?
Dream, what a funny name.
He wasn't really a Dream to his victims, quite the opposite; yet calling him 'Nightmare' never stuck. Maybe it was the addicting, admirable gaze, maybe it was the way his movements were rough, but sure and steady, maybe it was the fact that despite being a cold-blooded psychopath, he was perfect.
His fingers slowly wrapped around the smaller male’s wrist, a wild grin spread on his face. He sent him a challenging look before speaking up, his voice making it sound like he was enjoying this situation more than he should be. “Come on, do it. Push it in. Cut my throat. Make me bleed. Kill me. You know you want to, you've tried before. Do it, Georgie, do it!” He repeated, his words getting louder and louder each second. As he spoke, he forced the knife deeper at his throat, now actually cutting skin, the wound deep enough to let a layer of thick, crimson liquid form and flow down onto his collarbones.
Right then and there, George felt something in him break.
He realized he was all alone here. It was usually not a problem, he always worked alone; yet being so vulnerable and exposed to Dream felt less wrong and more alluring. He had no idea what the hell the blond dude was doing, and it confused him a lot; but being alone also meant that there was nobody to get him out of the trance that he was forcefully put in. Nobody to shake him out and make him stop staring into the addicting emerald green eyes. His morals were conflicted; you let him go, he might get away and hurt other people. You kill him, you’re a murderer.
It was then and there that George realized what Clay’s mindset was; there was no good and bad. It was all grey. He finally understood what drove the insane man who was now pushing the knife against his own skin, almost as if he was giving the brunet a clear chance to slash his throat and end it all.
George was now too far gone. He didn't realize that was securely wrapped around the blond’s finger the moment he pulled him in to dance to the sorrow tune of the waltz.
His eyes widened as he realized what the other was doing, his grip on the knife involuntarily loosening before he dropped it completely, bringing his hands up to cover his mouth as his eyes filled up with tears. “I-I can’t.” His voice broke, and, for the first time ever, he felt weak and small against his enemy, who was now towering over him.
Clay’s face was victorious once again, his wild gaze now calm and collected, almost as if he knew that this was going to happen. He was truly terrifying; almost as if he was willing to go extensive ways to prove his point. To get his question answered. He was a literal enigma, and George got lost in the proccess of trying to decode it.
He slowly grabbed the small boy’s wrists and pulled them away from his face, finding no resistance from the side. For good measure, he kicked the bloodied blade aside as he ignored his slowly bleeding neck, which seemed to have George’s eyes locked on it. Clay brushed a hair out of his face, calm and collected, his touch caring and slow.
“That’s it, pretty boy.” His mumble was barely audible, yet it was the only thing that George could think about, his knees giving out again at the nickname. George has been broken; all it took to crumble all of his hard work was a few words and a small gesture from the blond. Clay was now the puppeteer; he had all the strings to George in his hands, and he could make him dance in any way he wanted to.
He liked that. He liked the idea of having a pretty boy toy that he could shape. That could understand him. That could finally see what Clay had wanted everyone to see all along.
Clay’s hand cupped George’s cheek softly, his thumb slowly stroking his jawline as his other hand forcefully gripped his chin and made him look up, right at him. George didn't refuse, it was almost like Dream was hypnotizing him now, pulling him in so close he didn't even have room to resist; his mind was now proper blank, the only thing filling it being the male caressing his cheek. Clay thought that he was pretty in the moonlight, even with the involuntary tears leaving wet trails on his cheeks. Clay’s thumb slowly wiped the salty liquid away, feeling George melt into his touch as he smiled sheepishly.
He slowly pulled the boy up, smashing their lips right after. He could feel the surprise and the brunet’s first instinct to push him away as his hands rested on his chest, only to slowly grip his white, blood-stained shirt to pull him closer. He took satisfaction in breaking his George, knowing that he can build him up to be even better. As the other’s mouth parted with a gasp of surprise, Clay slipped his tongue in, making George feel a victorious smirk against his lips. George tangled his hands into the blond's hair, feeling the smirk get even bigger against his lips. He felt like he needed the touch, now, like he couldn't live without it. . Their bodies were close, making them both forget that they were both ought to kill each other at the start of the night - the only important thing now being the other's touch.
As the two parted, George didn't even realize that he had no idea what Dream's real name was or his whole face looked like. He tugged on the ribbon behind his head, feeling the blond's strong grip on his thighs deepen, making sure that his hands would leave bruises there. This made George's hand freeze and made him look up in fear, meeting Clay's sheepish gaze. As the blond let go of him completely, he swiftly hopped over the railing, holding onto the pillar with one hand. The other was extended towards George in a welcoming manner, his smirk beaming onto the smaller male.
The brunet didn't hesitate as he put his soft hand into Clay's rough one, letting him pull him close until his back was securely pressed against the taller's chest. A low chuckle could be heard from behind him as he took in the last of the beaming ball hall, the last bits of his sanity disappearing with it. And with that, the two silently disappeared into the shadows, never to be seen again.
Because, seriously, what was the fun in being a villain when you don’t have a pretty hero you can corrupt by your side?