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The coffee machine made a sound like something was dying inside it. Pierre stared at the blinking red light and considered his life choices.
"It's broken again," he announced to no one in particular.
"Nothing is broken. You just need to press the button three times."
Pierre did not press the button three times. He pressed it once, then twice, then kicked the machine gently. Nothing happened.
"Let me do it." Esteban appeared beside him, smelling like expensive soap and bad decisions. He pressed the button three times. The machine whirred to life.
"I hate that you know how to fix things."
"You hate that I'm right."
"No, I hate that you're smug about being right."
Esteban poured himself a cup of black coffee. "Same thing."
Pierre grabbed his own cup and filled it before Esteban could drink all of it. They stood in silence for exactly four seconds before Pierre felt a familiar hand slap his shoulder hard enough to make him spill coffee on his shirt.
"Good morning, my favorite disaster."
Charles grinned at him with way too much energy for this hour of the morning. His hair looked like he had been electrocuted. His tie was slightly crooked. He looked happy. It was disgusting.
"You look terrible," Pierre said.
"I look alive. There's a difference."
"There really isn't."
Charles laughed and grabbed his own coffee cup. "Did you have weird dreams last night? I had the strangest one. I was trying to file paperwork but every time I opened a drawer, there were more drawers inside it. Infinite drawers. I kept opening them until I found a tiny version of Max holding a calculator and telling me my TPS reports were overdue."
"That's not funny," Pierre said, but he was already smiling.
"It's a little funny."
"It's deeply concerning."
Esteban snorted into his coffee. "You two are ridiculous. Every single day, you come in here and talk about your dreams like they're messages from the universe. They're just brain garbage. Random neural firing. Nothing meaningful."
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Charles said.
"Someone didn't wake up on any side of the bed because someone kept me up until midnight watching conspiracy theory documentaries."
"Those were educational."
"They were about whether birds are real."
"See? Educational."
Pierre watched his two best friends argue and felt something warm settle in his chest. This was fine. This was normal. This was his life now, working at Dream Weavers Inc., the most ridiculous company in existence.
Their job was simple in theory: design dreams for clients. People paid them good money to experience specific scenarios while they slept. Romantic dreams. Adventure dreams. Dreams where they finally told their boss what they actually thought of his management style. The technology was complicated but the concept was straightforward.
What was less straightforward was the fact that everyone in their department kept messing with each other's dreams for fun.
Pierre walked to his desk and sat down. His computer screen flickered to life, showing the dream queue for the day. Three client requests. A woman who wanted to dream about flying over Paris. A man who wanted to dream about winning an argument with his father-in-law. A teenager who wanted to dream about being a dragon.
Standard stuff.
He pulled up the first client's file and started designing the dream architecture. Paris at sunrise. The Eiffel Tower below. Warm wind. The sensation of weightlessness. He added details carefully, making sure every sensory input would feel real.
His phone buzzed. A message from Charles.
Check your current dream assignment.
Pierre frowned and opened the shared dream database. Someone had assigned him a new project. An internal project. For testing purposes.
The title read: Pierre's Nightmare: Bureaucracy Edition
He clicked it open and immediately regretted everything.
The dream scenario was an endless DMV line. The person waiting in line was him. Behind the counter was Esteban, wearing a very official-looking hat and stamping papers with unnecessary aggression.
"This is your doing," Pierre said, not looking up from his screen.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Esteban replied from his desk across the room.
"You designed a dream where I have to renew my driver's license for eternity."
"That sounds like a personal problem."
"It's targeted harassment."
"It's quality assurance. We need to test our dream engines. I'm providing valuable data."
Pierre threw a pen at him. Esteban caught it without looking.
"Your aim is getting worse."
"My anger is getting stronger."
Across the office, Carlos walked in carrying a stack of folders so tall he couldn't see over them. He navigated by memory alone, weaving between desks with practiced precision. Oscar followed behind him, holding a single piece of paper and looking confused.
"Why do you have seventeen folders when I have one sheet of paper?" Oscar asked.
"Because I am senior staff and you are an intern."
"I've worked here for two years."
"Still an intern in spirit."
Oscar sat down at his desk, which was directly next to Carlos's desk, which was definitely not a coincidence given that HR had tried to separate them three times and they kept moving their desks back together.
"Did you sleep well?" Carlos asked, setting the folders down with a heavy thud.
"I had a dream about you."
Carlos paused. "Oh?"
"You were giving me a performance review. But instead of words, you communicated entirely through interpretive dance."
"That sounds efficient."
"It was confusing. I didn't understand if I was getting a raise or being fired."
"The dance should have made it clear."
"The dance involved jazz hands and a backflip. I learned nothing."
Carlos laughed, a warm sound that made several people in the office look up. "I will remember that for next time. Actual interpretive dance performance review. It could revolutionize the industry."
"Please don't."
"But imagine the possibilities."
"I am imagining them. I am imagining HR having to watch me do a pirouette to explain why I deserve a promotion. It's humiliating."
"You would look graceful."
"I would fall over."
"You would look gracefully falling over."
Oscar smiled despite himself. He always did. That was the problem. Carlos said something ridiculous and Oscar smiled, and then Carlos smiled back, and then they were both smiling at each other like idiots, and everyone else in the office pretended not to notice.
Max arrived at nine fifteen, which was late by anyone's standards except his own. He walked in with a travel mug that said "World's Okayest Dream Weaver" and sat down at his desk without saying hello to anyone.
"Rough night?" Charles asked.
"Fine night."
"Did you dream about anything interesting?"
"No."
"Liar."
Max looked up. "I dreamed about spreadsheets."
"That's boring."
"That's accurate. I work with spreadsheets. My brain processes information. It's not always dramatic."
"You're no fun."
"I'm plenty of fun. I just don't need to share every random thought that passes through my head."
Charles leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "But I want to know what passes through your head. I find it fascinating."
Max stared at him for a long moment. Then he looked back at his computer screen.
"You're weird."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
"That's basically the same thing."
It was not the same thing, but Charles chose to believe it was. He always chose to believe things that made him happy. It was one of his best qualities and also one of his worst.
The morning passed in a blur of client meetings and dream design. Pierre worked on the Paris flight dream, adding layers of sensory detail. The smell of fresh bread from a bakery below. The distant sound of a street musician playing accordion. The warmth of sunlight on skin.
Esteban worked on his own projects, occasionally throwing sarcastic comments across the room. Charles hummed while he worked, which drove Max crazy but no one else seemed to mind. Oscar kept glancing at Carlos when he thought no one was looking. Carlos kept pretending not to notice.
At lunch, they gathered in the break room. Pierre brought sandwiches from the place down the street. Charles brought nothing because he always forgot. Max brought a protein shake that looked like sludge.
"You're going to kill yourself with that stuff," Esteban said, pointing at the shake.
"It's nutritionally complete."
"So is actual food."
"Actual food requires effort."
"Actual food tastes good."
"That's subjective."
"It's objectively true. Everyone agrees that food tastes better than liquid sadness in a bottle."
"I don't agree."
"Then your opinion is wrong."
Pierre bit into his sandwich and watched the argument unfold. This was normal. This was comfortable. This was his family, in a strange and dysfunctional way.
"So," Charles said, changing the subject with the grace of a bulldozer, "who messed with my dreams last night?"
No one answered.
"I'm serious. The infinite drawer dream was funny for approximately thirty seconds. Then it became terrifying. I woke up convinced I was trapped in an IKEA warehouse forever."
"Sounds like a standard anxiety dream," Oscar offered.
"It wasn't anxiety. It was targeted. Someone specifically programmed infinite drawers into my dream sequence."
"And if they did?" Max asked, not looking up from his shake.
"Then I would thank them for the creative input but ask them to stop."
"Noted."
Charles narrowed his eyes. "Was it you?"
"Was what me?"
"The dream sabotage."
"I don't sabotage dreams. I respect the craft."
"You once put a clown in my dream about flying."
"That was a creative choice."
"It was a horror movie."
"The clown was friendly."
"The clown was juggling chainsaws."
"Juggling is a skill. Chainsaws are tools. It was a display of competence."
Charles threw a napkin at him. Max caught it without looking, the same way Esteban had caught the pen earlier. It was unsettling how coordinated everyone was.
"I think we should establish rules," Pierre said. "About dream interference."
"What kind of rules?" Carlos asked.
"Consent-based. If someone wants to be included in a dream, they opt in. Otherwise, leave their subconscious alone."
"That's reasonable," Oscar agreed.
"That's boring," Esteban countered.
"Boring is safe."
"Safe is boring."
"Safety is important."
"Importance is overrated."
Pierre sighed. "Can you two please stop arguing for five minutes?"
"We can try," Esteban said.
"We will fail," Pierre finished.
They did fail. Within two minutes, Esteban and Pierre were arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, with Charles acting as an extremely biased mediator and Max pretending he was above it all while clearly enjoying the chaos.
Oscar watched them with a small smile. Carlos watched Oscar with a smaller smile that meant something different.
The afternoon brought more work and more interruptions. A client called to complain that her romantic dream had featured a surprise appearance by a goose. Another client called to say his adventure dream was too adventurous and could they tone down the volcano explosions. Standard complaints. Standard fixes.
By six o'clock, everyone was ready to leave. Pierre packed his bag slowly, dragging out the process. Esteban waited for him by the door, pretending to be impatient but actually just wanting to walk home together.
"Are you coming or not?"
"I'm coming. Hold your horses."
"I don't have horses."
"Metaphorical horses."
"Metaphors are wasted on you."
They walked out together, falling into step automatically. The evening air was cool. The streets were busy. Normal city sounds filled the space between them.
"Do you ever think about how strange our job is?" Pierre asked.
"Every day."
"We literally control what people dream about."
"Yes."
"That's insane."
"It's a living."
"It's more than a living. It's power. We could make people dream about anything."
"We could."
"And we mostly use it to make each other have nightmares about bureaucracy."
"Priorities."
Pierre laughed. "I hate you."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"That's basically the same thing."
Pierre stopped walking. "That's what Charles said to Max this morning."
"Charles says a lot of things to Max."
"He says everything to Max."
"Exactly."
They looked at each other. Something unspoken passed between them.
"Should we talk about it?" Pierre asked.
"Talk about what?"
"The fact that Charles is obviously in love with Max and Max is obviously in love with Charles and neither of them will admit it."
"That's their business."
"It's everyone's business. They're insufferable."
"They're functional."
"They're delusional."
"Same thing."
Pierre shook his head and started walking again. "And what about you and me?"
"What about us?"
"Are we functional or delusional?"
Esteban was quiet for a moment. Then: "We're functional delusional."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense. We function despite being delusional. That's the whole point."
Pierre wanted to argue, but he couldn't. Esteban had a way of saying things that made them true simply by saying them.
"Fine," Pierre said. "Functional delusional. I can live with that."
"Good."
They walked the rest of the way in comfortable silence. When they reached Pierre's apartment building, Esteban stopped.
"Aren't you coming up?"
"I have things to do."
"What things?"
"Personal things."
"Secret things?"
"Private things."
"Same thing."
Esteban smiled, quick and sharp. "Goodnight, Pierre."
"Goodnight, Esteban."
Pierre watched him walk away, then went inside. His apartment was empty and quiet. He made dinner. He watched television. He went to bed.
And when he fell asleep, he dreamed about standing in line at the DMV, with Esteban behind the counter wearing that stupid hat, stamping papers and smiling like he had won something.
Pierre woke up laughing.
------
The next morning, the office was chaos.
Charles was crying with laughter, slumped over his desk. Max was trying to look annoyed but failing miserably. Oscar had his face buried in his hands. Carlos was taking notes.
"I cannot believe you did that," Charles wheezed.
"It was revenge," Max said flatly.
"For what?"
"For the clown dream."
"That was months ago."
"Dream justice has no statute of limitations."
"What did you even put in my dream?"
Max's expression remained neutral. "You dreamed you were giving a presentation to the entire company. About the importance of proper spreadsheet formatting. In a chicken costume."
Charles burst out laughing again. "The chicken costume was your idea?"
"I thought it added character."
"It added trauma."
"Trauma builds character."
"I don't need more character. I have enough character."
"You have questionable character."
"I have delightful character."
Pierre watched the exchange with amusement. Across the room, Esteban was already working, typing furiously at his keyboard.
"What are you working on?" Pierre asked, walking over.
"Revenge."
"For what?"
"The DMV dream. You know it was me. I know you know. Now I'm designing something special."
"Please don't put me in another nightmare."
"I'm not putting you in a nightmare. I'm putting you in a dream so pleasant it becomes suspicious."
"That sounds worse."
"It's supposed to be worse. Suspiciously nice dreams are psychologically destabilizing."
"You're a monster."
"I'm a professional."
Pierre sat down at his desk and checked his email. Thirty-seven new messages. Twenty-three of them were about the upcoming company retreat. Fourteen were spam.
He deleted the spam and skimmed the retreat emails. Mandatory attendance. Team-building activities. A keynote speech from the CEO about the future of dream technology.
Kill him now.
"Are you going to the retreat?" Oscar asked Carlos.
"I have no choice. It's mandatory."
"Technically, nothing is mandatory."
"Employment is mandatory if I want to keep paying rent."
"Fair point."
"Are you going?"
"I have no choice. I want to keep paying rent."
Carlos smiled. "We could sit together on the bus."
"We could."
"It would be practical."
"Very practical."
"Nothing romantic about it."
"Nothing at all."
They held eye contact for a beat too long. Then Oscar looked away, pretending to check his phone.
"Subtle," Charles whispered to Pierre.
"Shut up."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking loudly."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing."
The day continued in its usual rhythm. Work. Interruptions. Arguments. Laughter. By mid-afternoon, Pierre had finished three client dreams and started a fourth. Esteban had designed something that made him giggle evilly every time he looked at it. Charles had somehow convinced Max to help him with a project, which meant they spent two hours standing close together, arguing about color schemes.
At four o'clock, the CEO sent a company-wide email reminding everyone about the retreat dress code. No casual wear. Business casual only. No exceptions.
"The CEO is a tyrant," Pierre announced.
"The CEO pays our salaries," Esteban reminded him.
"The CEO can pay our salaries while being a tyrant. These things are not mutually exclusive."
"True."
"I refuse to wear business casual for three days."
"You'll wear it anyway."
"I'll wear it resentfully."
"That's the spirit."
The clock ticked toward five. People started packing up. Oscar lingered near Carlos's desk, finding excuses to stay. Charles hovered near Max's desk, doing the same thing.
"You two are pathetic," Pierre said to Charles.
"We're hopeless romantics."
"You're hopeless. Period."
"Romantically hopeless. It's a subtype."
Max looked up from his computer. "Are you done?"
"Done with what?"
"Done hovering."
"I'm not hovering. I'm standing."
"You're standing in a hovering manner."
"That's not a real thing."
"It's absolutely a real thing."
Charles grinned. "Fine. I'm hovering. Is it working?"
"Is what working?"
"Me hovering. Am I growing on you?"
"Like fungus."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
"I'll take it."
Max shook his head, but there was something soft in his expression. Something almost fond. Almost affectionate. Almost everything Charles had been hoping for.
Pierre grabbed his bag and headed for the door. Esteban fell into step beside him.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time. Same place. Same chaos."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."