Work Text:
Most of the time, angels and demons do not meet. It is an unusual collision of two parallel paths- they have separate duties, separate paths, separate people to attend to.
Dream doesn’t speak to many demons. They are all-bite-no-time-to-bark, noses held high at the oh so heedy presence of an angel. He’ll be the first to say that some of the other angels can be… condescending, to say the least, but for the most part it’s an overrun reputation. And he tries to believe that not all demons are disrespectful, and that stereotypes are just that- a misconception, but…
Well, George is rude.
Since the moment Dream stumbled into George, he’s nothing short of a menace. He calls out anything that annoys him, puts his nose up at anything he finds offensive- overcooked meat, a specific shade of the color orange, the smell of perfume that costs less than $100 a bottle.
That is to say, he didn’t plan on meeting a demon like George, but he will never come to regret it.
George is a breath of fresh air, despite smelling like ash. His smile is illuminating, and his laugh is magical, and everywhere George goes Dream thinks that he can light up a room, please any person inside. It’s a contradiction Dream finds humor in.
And though he’s a demon George cares, despite how desperately he doesn’t want to. He’s one to laugh in someone’s face over losing a game and then go back to win the prize for them. He won’t admit it, but Dream knows.
It’s a weird friendship, a doomed combination, but it works. And if they only saw each other when Dream wanted George to see him, then things would be just fine.
But it never works out that way.
…
The role of an angel is to accept and help others with their sins. To help humans correct their mistakes, guide them along a lighter path. It involves a tap on the shoulder to make someone hesitate before crossing the road, clicking the wrong number on a phone to make them call someone they’re meant to talk to, making the green light turn yellow a bit quicker than usual. It is not to heal their illness, or make all their worries disappear, or give them god-like abilities to show that they have met an angel.
Humans just… ask for things Dream cannot give.
When they meet him- and they do, because Dream wants to give them the chance to- they ask for a lover’s revival, to see into the future, for wealth beyond means. They take and take and take and take, and Dream cannot respond to their inquiries. And it leaves humans with a bitter taste on their tongue, a negative connotation of what an angel is, because why can’t you give me great things?
But George can.
George, as a demon, can whisper sweet symphonies into naive ears, paint beautiful facades into greedy eyes, tell them everything they want to hear; after all, it’s the promise of goodness that brings them down to hell. He’s never truly deceptive- he lets them know that there is a deal that must be made in utilizing evil. But he can grant them those grandiose, extravagant changes, so humans willingly choose him- and love him for it.
In short, George is loved beyond compare. And Dream?
Why can’t you?
You’re lying to me.
How useless.
He gets used to it.
However, there is a consequence when angels cannot complete their assignment, a punishment for not guiding humans onto a better path. Sometimes it is a dull ache, bone deep, settling into Dream’s body for days on end. Sometimes, it is a slight jab, the residue of moving something the wrong way. But more often than not, it is a bruise, a wound, a sharp, stinging pain to remind him of humanities own senses.
When he’s not around demons, he fails here and there. Always honest to a fault, always urging but not forcing his blessings. But with George around, a sweet promise of temptation surrounding the humans he’s assigned, he fails all the time.
Sometimes George will notice his wounds. Most of the times Dream will hide them. He enjoys the time that he spends with George too much to distance them, holds onto the friendship a little more than he should. And if George found out, fear that he’ll leave trickles into Dream’s mind; as mentioned, for a demon, George cares a bit more than people think.
So when George asks, he explains. But he’ll never tell George the real reason; how could he?
They’re a duo; Dream and George. Nothing will change that.
…
There is one incident that hurts him a little more than most.
It involves a young man, around 22 years old. He’s living in a small apartment complex in a college town towards the west side of Oregon. He’s traveled upstate to meet a friend, but Dream is supposed to chat with him when he enters the friend’s housing complex and distract him long enough for an old family friend to come by.
The situation is complicated- the man’s past has not been the smoothest, and he left this relationship with strings of curses and a nasty bruise to his eye. Dream has been assigned to give the man another chance at rekindling the relationship, because if the man can, his life will change forever. He will grow, and learn, and lean into becoming an excellent negotiator because of the family friend, which will then lead the man to working for one of the largest corporations in the world. All in all, a good tradeoff, and something Dream looks forward to assisting. This is what an angel is meant for; the little blessings.
Dream begins his task and speaks with the man. The usual questions arise: You’re an angel? Do you have wings? Hey, can you grant me a wish?
After showing off his wings (only to the man- it’d get a little hectic otherwise) and distracting him with conversation for long enough, the family friend arrives. Dream nods over, encourages the man to talk to them. But instead of chatting to them, instead of doing a simple, mundane task, he barely gives them the time of day. Kind of ruins it, if Dream’s being honest.
The moment is over, and the friend has gone. Dream exhales a deep-rooted breath, a hollowness carving into his head.
“It would be good if you chatted with them instead of just shrugging them off.” Dream says honestly to the man. It feels like grinding dirt into the ground under a boot, like wasted potential for something that could’ve been so great.
“Yeah,” The man responds, bitter. “But I didn’t want to fucking meet them.” He looks over at Dream, eyes honed and narrowed. “You forced that shit onto me.”
And so the man walks over, grabs the end of his left wing, and rips out some feathers.
Many don’t have the guts to mess with an angel, but Dream always meets some that prove him wrong. The pain of the pull is excruciating, since it’s not the season that it naturally happens. A quick but lingering stab, and though he’s an angel, he feels a quick burst of anger flow through his veins.
“And I hope that fucking hurt.”
Dream blinks twice, shocked at the man’s response, before someone else cuts in.
“Right?” A voice purrs, and Dream gets a waft of an all-too-familiar smell. “No one likes getting things pushed onto them.” His eyes are lined red, as they always are when he’s about to offer a deal with the devil. But his fangs shine a bit whiter, voice a bit sharper than what Dream’s used to. “I think I can help you with that.”
Dream takes it as an opportunity to retreat, leaving George alone with the man. As he turns the corner, hearing George offer his deal that the other is almost guaranteed to accept, he waits to feel a bruise form, a sharp stab.
Instead, he begins to feel the scathing burn of feathers falling out of his wings, unnatural outside of the season. They begin to pull at him, one by one, each one more painful than the last. He retreats behind a building, hunkering over near an AC unit to hide from others. This is new, and it is not welcome.
Anything other than this, anything at all. The pain begins to become agonizing, nearly nauseating. It has to be punishment for both; his failure and his anger. He can’t think of either when he wants to rip his wings out of his back, pluck every single feather out to get it over with.
Eventually, it ends. Half of his feathers are spread around the grass, the ones remaining on his wings clumped together and struggling to hang on. He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t dare to either. He takes deep, even breaths to calm his heart rate down, ease the pain.
“Dream.”
It comes out as a sentence, not an exclamation, the speaker obviously looking at the feathers that scatter the ground. Dream doesn’t move.
“Did he take the deal?”
He hears the grass flatten. “Yes.”
Dream says nothing back. Simply looks over at George, eyes heavy, before shoving his palms to his brow bone to relieve pressure.
“I try to understand why,” Dream doesn’t need to elaborate the point- George knows exactly what he’s implying. “but I don’t get it.”
George breathes in and holds his breath, knuckles clenched. When he does exhale, Dream can smell the distinct scent of ash. “Because you make people look at their own sins,” George spits out, “and humans would rather blame others than themselves.”
…
“Do I smell like anything?”
George laughs, loud and free. “What kind of question is that?”
He rolls his eyes. “Well,” Dream walks over, his bicep grazing George’s shoulder when he steps up beside him. “You smell like ash. I just wondered if it was the same the other way around.”
George hums as he considers the question. Looks over, the sun catching his eyes in just the right light.
“In that case, I think you smell like rain.”
...
George cares. Dream knows this, after spending so much time together. It usually shows up in his actions, and most prominently when he tends to Dream’s wounds. George takes his time when he wraps the gauze around his broken fingers, when he gingerly stitches up open gashes, when he gently presses ice onto sore bruises. Despite angels always having the common population’s affection, Dream’s never felt more cherished than when this demon touches him.
“I don’t think I can fully forgive humans for how they treat you.” George says to him one afternoon, placing disinfectant on one of the cuts near Dream’s cheek (despite how many times Dream tells him that he doesn’t need it; angels don’t catch human illnesses). “How they’ve made you feel.”
Dream laughs lightly, shrugging his shoulders. They’re sitting on a park bench in Chicago, ignoring stares from people passing by. “It’s part of the job.”
George huffs, rolling his eyes. “And that attitude is exactly why I could never be an angel,” He stares out into nothing after capping the bottle of disinfectant, sight narrowing. “I don’t forgive so easily.”
Dream knows this. He shrugs again. “Forgiveness is necessary.”
“For you.” George scoffs. “To me, it’s just like… a consideration. One I don’t have to make.”
Dream nods his head lightly, focused on the press of George’s fingers on his cheek, the feeling of his breath on his forehead. They don’t get close like this too often, and Dream’s mind provides him unhelpful glimpses of what he’d do if they did. “What if I asked you?”
George quirks a brow. “To forgive them?”
“Yes.”
George stills for a minute, contemplating the question. He grits his teeth and chews his cheek while he deliberates. “… I would try, but I don’t think you understand how much you’re asking of me.” Dream tilts his head like a dog, confused.
“I’m a demon, Dream.”
“Demons can forgive.” George has forgiven him before.
“We can, and do,” George complies, a grin spreading eye to eye. “but we enjoy payback so much more.”
…
As mentioned before, usually demons and angels don’t work. They are oil and water, able to be put together but nearly impossible to mix.
But Dream likes to think of him and George as the sun and the moon. When the sun falls the moon rises, and the sun will do everything it can to illuminate the moon, allow it to shine. They are two sides of a coin, the push and pull of time.
He feels the ache that humans speak about in movies, in poetry and paintings and stories. He wonders if George feels the same.
Either way, Dream will stay. He could wish for more, but he likes them just as they are.
...
“Do you find me attractive?”
The question catches Dream off-guard. Of course he finds George attractive- from what George presents as his human appearance, Dream has never met an equal. He thinks of Botticelli paintings that line gallery walls, of models that grace New York City runways. But George’s appearance is only a fraction of what Dream finds appealing about the demon- it’s everything. The way his cheeks are always an airbrushed tint of pink, the way he groans about everything that annoys him, the way that the corners of his lips turn up when he smiles, the way he can’t get through a sentence without rolling his eyes and saying some random term, the way that being in his space is like being in heaven.
George is not attractive- he is divine.
“You are beautiful, George.” Dream responds, fiddling with his fingers. “You have to know that.”
George clicks his tongue at the response, clearly not liking the answer. “Yes, but do I attract you?”
Dream quirks his head. It’s odd for George to be open like this, to ask a question so blatantly. It’s only fair that Dream is honest.
“You do.” Dream replies. “But you know that.”
George narrows his eyes. “Then why don’t you act on it? Is it against your duties and rules to be attracted to a demon?”
Dream rubs at the corner of his eye before responding. “Technically, yes, there’s a few things here and there. But I love you.” He says the declaration as simply as ordering a cup of coffee, and George’s eyes widen at the fact. “If you loved me too, then it’s just that.”
George clips his expression at the last statement. “You think I don’t love you?”
And Dream sits there for a beat, stumped. He knows that George loves him as a friend, but he is implying something else. Something that Dream has hoped for, but never prayed for, something that Dream doesn’t allow himself to wish for. “Do you?”
Dream’s words come out with a slight waver, something that George would always catch onto. He walks up to Dream and sits in front of him, forcing his eyes up to look at his own. “I guess as much as demons can love,” George grabs the sides of Dream’s face, rubbing his thumbs over his cheekbones. “my love is not light.”
Light? What a dumb connotation of what love is meant to be, to feel like. Just like how humans’ blessings are supposed to be big and effortless and never, ever uncomfortable.
Love is not light. It’s never been ‘light’, as people like to say. It is not light and it is not dark; it isn’t even the grey area in between. Love is there to exist, and to experience, and to find joy and to be annoyed and to suffer. It’s something that can’t be explained with words and never will be, despite writers’ attempts and painters’ trials. It is all encompassing, overwhelming to the point of mundaneness. It exists everywhere, no matter what, so much so that so many don’t even realize it. Love is normal.
And in terms of romantic love for Dream- love is George.
“I would never expect it to be.” Dream whispers, pressing their forehead’s together. “I just want your love.”
George’s breath hitches. Dream smiles when he hears it, and feels a small sliver of bravery. He’s just staring at George now, and George smiles back, giggling nervously. In his happiness, Dream presses a small kiss to George’s lips- and when George laughs after the kiss, his eyes shine. He’s the one to go in for another kiss, holding it for a little bit longer.
“Then you can have it.” George laughs, leaning in to press kisses all over Dream’s nose, his cheeks, his forehead.
“You’ve always had it.”
…
“When were you going to tell me?”
Dream turns around, looking up at him from the chair. “Tell you what?”
“That you get hurt when I make a deal with your assignment.” George puts bluntly. “When were you going to tell me?”
When Dream doesn’t immediately respond, George adds, “Don’t lie to me, Dream.”
Dream feels his throat clog up, his fingers tingle. George wasn’t supposed to find out. He stands from the chair and turns around, his body facing George.
“Then you know that answer.”
George sighs, thankful that Dream told him the truth, but clearly regretful by the fact. “Why?”
“Because,” He grabs George’s hands, rubbing his palms with his thumbs. “If pain is the only price I have to pay to stay with you,” And he hopes that George can feel his next statement with every nerve he has in his body, how truthful and desperately he means it, “then it’s not even a cost.”
He is the willing sacrifice to anything, even hell, when it involves the one he’s in love with.
After a moment of making Dream wait for any reaction, George hums, pleased. He lifts Dream’s chin to meet his eyes, grins as he leans in, placing a chaste kiss on Dream’s lips. “Then it’s mutual destruction, I suppose.”
Mutual? Dream doesn’t get it.
“You suppose?”
George’s eyes wrinkle up as he smiles.
“Why do you think I always smell like ash?”