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Chapter Text

The chandeliers of the Grand Veridian Ballroom bled molten gold onto the swirling mass below. Crystal facets fractured the light, scattering diamonds across silk gowns and tailored suits. Laughter, sharp and polished as the champagne flutes, mingled with the soaring strings of the orchestra.

Technoblade stood amidst the gilded chaos, a monolith of crimson velvet and simmering irritation. His mask, a snarling boar wrought in blood-red lacquer and gold filigree, felt less like a disguise and more like an uncomfortably tight cage.

Too many people. The thought scraped against his skull like a dull blade. Sweat prickled beneath the high collar of his jacket despite the air conditioning.

Every brush of fabric against his arm, every overly familiar glance from a passing socialite, sent a jolt of defensive energy through him. He was built for shadows and decisive violence, not this suffocating theatre of whispered secrets and false smiles.

Then, a familiar, infuriating presence materialized at his elbow. Dream.

Even amidst the glittering throng, he drew the eye. His mask was a masterpiece of emerald and silver, shaped like elegant, curling leaves that framed eyes the unsettling green of deep forest moss – eyes currently narrowed in Techno’s direction. He was draped in a perfectly cut suit the colour of new growth, impossibly slender next to Techno’s broad frame. 

Impossibly pretty, Techno thought, the observation hitting him with the unwelcome force of a physical blow. He hated how it made his chest tighten.

"Try not to glower quite so murderously, darling," Dream murmured, his voice a low, honeyed poison perfectly pitched for the surrounding ears.

He slid his arm through Techno’s, the contact burning through the velvet sleeve. "We’re supposed to be besotted newlyweds, remember? Philza’s obscenely wealthy heir and his dazzling, slightly eccentric spouse. Not a Viking berserker contemplating a massacre."

Techno stiffened. "I’m contemplating leaving. This is ridiculous. We could have cornered Markov in a dark alley ten times over by now."

He scanned the crowd, spotting their target – Sergei Markov, an arms dealer masquerading as an art patron – holding court near a towering ice sculpture. Markov’s hawk mask seemed unnervingly apt.

"And risk alerting his dozen discreetly armed associates?" Dream countered smoothly, his smile never wavering even as his fingers dug subtly into Techno’s bicep.

"No, dearest. We play the game. We mingle. We make Markov want to talk to the intriguing new players with connections deeper than the Veridian family vaults."

He leaned closer, the scent of bergamot and something uniquely Dream filling Techno’s senses. "Now, smile. Or at least unclench your jaw before you crack a tooth."

Techno forced his facial muscles into what he hoped resembled an expression less likely to scare children. I hate this. The thought was a drumbeat in time with the waltz. I hate the crowds. I hate the pretence. 

His gaze flickered to Dream’s profile, sharp and elegant beneath the mask. Mostly, I hate how much I hate… whatever this is.

Three months ago. Prague.

Rain lashed the grimy rooftop tiles, turning them treacherous. Techno grunted, hauling himself over the ledge, water plastering his dark hair to his skull.

Markov’s lieutenant, Pavel, scrambled backwards, fumbling for the pistol tucked into his waistband. Techno lunged, a predator closing the distance.

Suddenly, a blur of green dropped from the fire escape above, landing silently behind Pavel. Dream. A flash of movement, a choked gasp, and Pavel slumped, Dream’s garrotte wire disappearing back into his sleeve as smoothly as it had appeared.

Dream straightened, wiping rain from his mask – a simpler green domino then. He didn’t even look winded.

"Took you long enough, Blade," Dream drawled, his voice cutting through the downpour. "Enjoying the scenic route?"

Techno glared, water dripping from his chin. "I was securing the perimeter. Unlike some people who enjoy dramatic entrances." He stomped towards the access door, irritation warring with a grudging acknowledgment of the other agent’s efficiency.

As he passed Dream, their shoulders bumped hard. A jolt, unexpected and unwelcome, shot through Techno, making him stumble slightly on the wet tiles. He cursed under his breath.

Dream just raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smirk playing on lips Techno refused to acknowledge were… well-shaped. "Clumsy," Dream murmured, the word barely audible over the rain.

The ache in Techno’s chest flared, sharp and confusing. Why did proximity to Dream feel like walking into an invisible wall?

Back in the stifling heat of the ballroom, that same ache bloomed beneath Dream’s touch on his arm. My chest hurts. Hurts so much. 

It wasn’t physical pain, not really. It was a deep, hollow throb, a yearning he couldn't name and refused to examine.

Yearning for what? For the mission to end? For Dream to remove his hand? For Dream to… stop?

"What are you doing to me?" The words were a low growl, meant only for Dream, escaping before Techno could censor them. He felt Dream tense minutely beside him.

Dream turned his head, those unnerving green eyes locking onto Techno’s through the slits of their masks. The playful mask of the besotted spouse slipped for a microsecond, revealing something sharper, more calculating. Or was it… curiosity?

"Doing, dearest?" Dream’s voice was a velvet whisper, laced with a challenge. "I’m ensuring our cover isn’t blown because my partner resembles a gargoyle having a stroke. Is that a problem?"

I’m not like this, Techno screamed internally. He was Technoblade. The Blade. Calm, ruthless, efficient. Emotions were liabilities. This… turbulence Dream provoked was unacceptable.

"Just… keep your theatrics to a minimum," he ground out, looking away, focusing on Markov again. He needed an enemy he understood. Not this infuriating, green-clad enigma beside him.

On a secluded balcony overlooking the ballroom, partially hidden by a potted orange tree heavy with fruit, two figures observed the swirling dancers.

Philza Minecraft, Techno’s handler and mentor, leaned against the marble railing, looking every inch the eccentric billionaire he was impersonating in his emerald green silk robe over a tailored suit. Beside him, Captain Puffy, Dream’s formidable commander, sipped champagne, her sharp eyes missing nothing behind a delicate silver half-mask adorned with seashell motifs.

"See?" Puffy nodded towards the dance floor where Techno, looking profoundly uncomfortable, was being steered through a waltz by Dream, who moved with effortless, predatory grace.

"Told you the tension would sell it. They look like they either want to kill each other or rip each other's clothes off. Perfect for newlyweds in Markov's circles – all passion and volatility."

Philza chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Aye. Though I fear Techno might actually combust before the night is out. He handles direct conflict better than… this."

He watched Techno’s large hand, dwarfing Dream’s slender one, rest stiffly on Dream’s lower back. "Still, you were right, Puffy. Forcing them together… there’s a spark there. Even if it currently resembles a lit fuse on a powder keg."

Puffy smirked. "My Dream thrives on one-on-one manipulation, hates crowds. Your Techno thrives on direct action, hates subterfuge. They’re oil and water, fire and ice. Put them in a pressure cooker like this undercover op?"

She took another sip. "Chemistry, Phil. Unavoidable chemistry. Rivals make the best lovers, eventually. Or the most spectacular explosions. Either way, Markov will be drawn to the spectacle."

Philza sighed, a mixture of affection and concern in his eyes. "Just make sure the explosion doesn't level the ballroom, Captain. My agency’s budget can’t cover that kind of collateral damage."

The music swelled.

Markov, flanked by two watchful associates, was making his way towards them, a calculating glint in his eyes visible even behind his hawk mask. Their moment was approaching.

Techno felt his pulse kick up, the familiar focus of impending action cutting through the social fog. Then, Dream stumbled. Or appeared to. He pitched forward slightly against Techno, his hand flying to Techno’s chest for balance.

"Oh!" The exclamation was perfectly pitched – startled, slightly breathless. Heads turned, including Markov’s, now only ten feet away. Suspicion flickered in the arms dealer’s eyes. 

Too controlled a movement. Too precise.

Techno’s mind raced. Suspicion. Cover blown. Mission failure. The logic was cold, hard steel. The solution, presented by Dream’s proximity, was molten lava.

Before conscious thought could fully form, before the confusing ache in his chest could protest, Techno acted. He caught Dream firmly, one large hand splaying across the small of his back, pulling him flush against his own broad frame.

He saw Dream’s eyes widen behind the emerald mask, genuine surprise this time. Then Techno dipped his head, his blood-red boar mask obscuring their faces from Markov’s view as he closed the final, impossible distance.

His lips met Dream’s.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was a collision, a desperate gambit, a shield made of flesh and bone and bewildering sensation.

Dream’s lips were surprisingly soft, cool beneath his own. There was a faint taste of champagne, and beneath it, that unsettling, unique scent of bergamot and Dream. Time fractured. The roaring crowd, the soaring music, Markov’s suspicious gaze – it all receded into a muffled hum.

All Techno knew was the shocking softness, the sudden stillness of Dream in his arms, the frantic hammering of his own heart against his ribs like a trapped beast. What is this? What is happening?

Six weeks ago. Vienna safehouse.

Techno was cleaning his favoured pistol, the rhythmic motions soothing. Dream paced near the window, restless energy radiating off him like heat haze.

They’d just extracted a high-value defector, the mission a success but fraught with close calls. Too close. One of Markov’s assassins had gotten within a hair's breadth of putting a bullet in Dream’s back before Techno’s own shot took him down.

The image, Dream silhouetted against the window, oblivious to the death approaching from behind, flashed behind Techno’s eyelids.

He slammed the cleaning rod down harder than necessary. "You need to watch your six, Dream. Your obsession with the target nearly got you ventilated."

Dream stopped pacing, whirling around. "My obsession secured the intel, Blade. While you were busy playing soldier, I was getting him to talk."

His green eyes blazed. "Maybe if you trusted my methods instead of just your brute strength—"

"Brute strength kept you alive!" Techno roared, surging to his feet. The air crackled. They stood inches apart, chests heaving, years of rivalry and unacknowledged tension thick enough to choke on.

Dream’s gaze dropped to Techno’s mouth for a fraction of a second, so fast Techno thought he imagined it. The ache in Techno’s chest flared, white-hot and terrifying.

He saw a flicker of something else in Dream’s eyes – not anger, but a bewildered vulnerability that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"I don’t need your protection," Dream spat, but the venom lacked its usual bite.

He turned abruptly back to the window. Techno stared at the tense line of his back, the hollow ache deepening into a profound sense of loss he couldn’t explain.

I hate myself for yearning this much. The thought was sudden, shocking in its clarity.

Yearning for what? For the fight to continue? For the tension to snap? For… something else entirely? He didn’t know. He only knew the pain of it.

Techno broke the kiss as abruptly as he’d initiated it, pulling back just enough to see Dream’s reaction. Dream was staring up at him, lips slightly parted, breathing shallow. The emerald mask hid most of his expression, but his eyes… his eyes were wide, dilated, reflecting the fractured chandelier light like stunned pools.

There was no artifice there now, no calculated smirk. Just raw, unfiltered shock. And something else… something Techno couldn’t decipher, something that made the ache in his chest constrict painfully.

A slow clap broke the spell. Markov stood before them, a sardonic smile visible beneath his hawk mask. "Passionate," he remarked in accented English, his gaze flickering between them with renewed, intense interest.

"Newlyweds indeed. Such… vigour." He gestured towards a quieter alcove. "Perhaps we could speak? Away from the prying eyes that witnessed your… display? I find myself intrigued by your proposed ventures in Eastern Europe, Mr. Veridian."

The mission was back on track. Objective achieved. Techno should have felt only cold satisfaction. Instead, all he felt was the phantom pressure of Dream’s lips against his own, the lingering scent of bergamot, and the deafening echo of his own traitorous thoughts: I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

He kept his arm firmly around Dream, steering him towards the alcove Markov indicated. Dream moved stiffly beside him, a marionette with its strings cut. He didn’t pull away, but the usual electric tension between them had changed.

It wasn't just rivalry now; it was charged with something new, something terrifyingly fragile and vast, like the gilded ballroom ceiling threatening to collapse under the weight of unspoken words and a kiss that was supposed to be nothing but a lie.

The ache in Techno’s chest wasn't a drumbeat anymore. It was a wound, raw and open, and he had absolutely no idea how to staunch the bleeding, or if he even wanted to.

The masquerade continued, the masks firmly in place, but beneath the crimson velvet and emerald silk, the carefully constructed walls of rivalry had cracked, revealing a terrifying, uncharted landscape neither agent knew how to navigate.

The mission might succeed, but the cost felt suddenly, perilously unknown. The bitterness of the necessary deception mingled with the terrifying sweetness of the kiss.

The air in the secluded alcove felt thick, charged with the residual shock of the kiss and the sharp focus of the mission snapping back into place. Markov settled into a plush velvet chair, his hawk mask glinting in the softer light filtering through stained glass.

His two associates flanked him, silent sentinels radiating coiled tension. Techno kept his arm possessively around Dream’s waist, feeling the subtle tremor running through the slighter man – whether from lingering adrenaline, crowd-induced stress, or the unexpected kiss, Techno couldn’t tell and refused to ponder.

The phantom pressure of Dream’s lips was a brand on his own, an unwelcome distraction he shoved ruthlessly aside.

"Mr. Veridian," Markov began, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, eyes fixed on Techno. "Your reputation precedes you. Philza’s golden heir, with interests… diversifying into less conventional markets."

A knowing smile played beneath the mask. "And your charming spouse," his gaze flicked to Dream, who managed a dazzling, slightly breathless smile that didn't reach his eyes, "a collector of rare antiquities, I hear? Particularly those with… complex histories."

Dream leaned slightly into Techno, the picture of devoted admiration. "Oh, Sergei, darling, you flatter me," he purred, his voice regaining some of its calculated honey.

"My interests are purely aesthetic. But my husband," he squeezed Techno's arm, the contact sending another jolt through him, "he has the vision for the real opportunities. The kind that require… discretion." He let the word hang, heavy with implication.

Techno grunted, playing the wealthy, slightly brutish heir to perfection. "Discretion is expensive, Markov. We pay well for it. Especially when moving goods through… contested routes." He named the specific Baltic corridor Philza's intel had identified as Markov's current weakness.

"Heard you ran into some turbulence lately. Local authorities getting frisky?"

Markov's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Temporary inconveniences. Easily managed with the right partners. Partners who understand that value isn't just in currency, but in leverage."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "I require secure passage for a specific… shipment. High-value, delicate. Requires bypassing certain automated scans at the Gdansk port. Your father’s influence in the regional customs authority would be invaluable."

There it is. The hook. Techno kept his expression impassive, a bored aristocrat negotiating a business deal.

"Influence costs. What’s the cargo?"

Markov waved a dismissive hand. "Art. Extremely fragile. Sensitive to radiation scans. Standard protocols would damage it irreparably. Your fee is ten percent of the insured value upon safe delivery." He named a figure that would make even a Veridian heir blink.

Dream let out a soft, appreciative gasp. "Oh, darling, that would fund that little island you've been eyeing!" He turned wide, guileless eyes on Markov.

"But Sergei, sweetheart, ten percent? For bypassing automated scans? Surely, for such a simple service, and considering the risk my darling husband takes with his family's reputation…" He trailed off, letting the implication of exposure hang in the air.

Techno saw the flicker of irritation in Markov’s eyes. Dream was masterful, playing the frivolous spouse who accidentally wielded a stiletto.

"Twelve percent," Markov countered tightly. "Final offer. And we require access codes to the secure loading docks for a twelve-hour window, starting tomorrow night."

Two years ago. Istanbul Bazaar.

Techno tracked his target – a corrupt diplomat selling secrets – through the labyrinthine alleys.

He cornered him near a spice stall, the air thick with cumin and cardamom. The diplomat, sweating profusely, pulled a small vial from his robes. "Blade! A gesture of goodwill! Information for my life!"

Before Techno could react, Dream materialized from the crowd like smoke. He snatched the vial from the diplomat's trembling hand with impossible speed.

"Tut-tut, Minister," Dream chided, his voice light but eyes glacial. "Offering poisoned gifts? How gauche."

He held the vial up, the sunlight catching the sinister green liquid within. "Cyanide derivative. Fast, painful. Not very subtle." He pocketed the vial, then smoothly disarmed the diplomat with a twist of his wrist, sending the man sprawling into sacks of saffron.

Dream looked at Techno, a challenge in his eyes. "Try to keep up, Blade. Some poisons aren't so easily spotted."

The ache in Techno's chest that day had been pure, unadulterated fury. And something else… a grudging respect for the lethal efficiency that mirrored his own, yet felt utterly alien.

"Done," Techno rumbled before Dream could haggle further. He needed this concluded.

The proximity, the lingering scent of Dream, the memory of the kiss – it was clouding his focus, making the ache beneath his ribs throb in time with his heartbeat. 

My chest hurts. Hurts so much. He hated the weakness. Hated that Dream was the source.

"Access codes will be delivered via secure channel within the hour. The fee is acceptable."

Markov smiled, a predator satisfied. "Excellent. Pleasure doing business, Mr. Veridian." He extended a hand. Techno shook it, his grip firm, crushing, conveying unspoken threat beneath the civility.

Markov’s eyes flickered with surprise, then hardened. He understood the message.

As Markov and his associates melted back into the crowd, the carefully constructed persona of the Veridians dropped like a discarded cloak. Dream immediately stepped out of Techno’s encircling arm as if burned.

He straightened his emerald suit, avoiding Techno’s gaze, his earlier poise replaced by a brittle tension. "Codes. Now. Before he changes his mind or decides twelve percent isn't enough after your bone-crushing display," he hissed, his voice tight.

Techno pulled out a slim, encrypted burner phone disguised as a vintage cigarette case – Puffy’s tech. He sent the pre-prepared signal. "Done. Extraction in five. Balcony stairwell." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a dam holding back the confusing torrent inside.

They moved through the throng, a silent, discordant unit. Techno’s larger frame instinctively cleared a path, his presence discouraging approach. Dream walked a half-step behind, his head down, radiating a palpable desire to be anywhere else.

The gilded cage of the ballroom felt tighter, the laughter louder, the perfumed air cloying. I hate crowds, Dream had said once, off-hand, during a rare moment of unguarded honesty after a different op.

Techno felt it now, the oppressive weight of the crowd pressing in, feeding his own discomfort and amplifying Dream’s silent distress.

They reached the ornate door leading to the service stairwell just as the first flicker of chaos erupted. A woman’s piercing scream cut through the music. Near the main entrance, a plume of smoke – harmless theatrical fog, courtesy of Philza’s diversion team – began billowing upwards, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass (a carefully placed accident).

Panic, carefully seeded, began to ripple through the crowd. Perfect cover.

Techno shoved the door open. "Move."

They plunged into the dimly lit concrete stairwell, the sounds of the escalating panic muffled behind them. They descended swiftly, silently, their footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet.

The tension between them was a live wire now, crackling in the confined space. The memory of the kiss, the forced proximity, the unspoken confusion – it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure.

On the third-floor landing, Dream suddenly stopped, bracing a hand against the cold concrete wall. He pulled his emerald mask off, revealing a face pale beneath the remnants of stage makeup, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

He hated enclosed spaces almost as much as crowds, Techno recalled abruptly, another piece of intel filed away without conscious thought.

"Dream?" Techno’s voice was rough, unfamiliar to his own ears.

"Just… catching my breath," Dream managed, not looking at him. He closed his eyes, fighting for control. "Too many people. Too much… everything." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the ballroom, the mission, the tension, them.

Techno stood frozen a few steps below, a statue carved from conflicting impulses. The logical part screamed Move! Extract! Mission first! Another part, smaller but terrifyingly insistent, looked at the uncharacteristic vulnerability in Dream’s posture, the slight tremor in his shoulders, and felt the ache in his chest intensify into a sharp pang. 

What are you doing to me? I’m not like this. He wasn't built for comfort. He was built for endings, not for… this bewildering middle ground.

He took a step back up towards Dream, his large hand hovering uncertainly for a fraction of a second near Dream’s arm. Then, the sound of heavy footsteps pounding on the stairs above jolted them both. Security. Or Markov’s men checking the diversion.

Dream’s eyes snapped open, the vulnerability vanishing behind a mask of pure, focused adrenaline. "Go!" he hissed, pushing off the wall and darting past Techno down the stairs. The moment of weakness was gone, buried under the agent's survival instinct.

Techno followed, the pang in his chest morphing back into the familiar, constant ache, now laced with a bitter frustration.

They hit the basement level, bursting through a fire exit into a dimly lit service alley. A sleek, black car, engine idling, waited exactly where Philza’s instructions had said. Puffy’s driver.

They piled into the back seat. The door slammed shut, plunging them into near silence, broken only by the car’s quiet hum and their own ragged breathing. The opulent nightmare of the masquerade was behind them.

The mission, technically, was a success: Markov’s demands intercepted, his planned route compromised, his trust in the "Veridians" established only to be shattered by the intelligence agencies moving in on the Gdansk docks tomorrow night.

The car pulled away. Techno ripped off the stifling boar mask, tossing it onto the seat beside him like contaminated material.

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened pink hair, pulling it free from its messy bun. He stared straight ahead, avoiding the green-clad figure beside him.

Dream had also removed his mask. He sat hunched slightly, staring out the tinted window at the passing city lights, his profile sharp and unreadable in the intermittent flashes of neon.

The effortless grace was gone, replaced by a profound weariness. The distance between them on the leather seat felt like a chasm.

No words were spoken. The silence wasn't comfortable; it was charged, brittle, filled with the echoes of gunfire that hadn't sounded, the phantom pressure of a kiss that shouldn't have happened, and the unresolved tension that thrummed louder than the car engine.

Techno replayed the kiss – the desperate gambit, the shocking softness, the way Dream had momentarily frozen, the look in his eyes afterward. He replayed Dream’s near-panic in the stairwell.

He felt the persistent ache beneath his ribs, a wound that felt deeper now, more complex. It echoed silently in the confines of the car, unanswered, terrifying.

Dream shifted slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, Techno saw him rub his temples, a gesture of exhaustion or… something else?

Dream didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the blurring cityscape, his expression closed, guarded. The mask was off, but the walls were firmly back in place. Higher. Stronger.

The car navigated the late-night streets towards their separate safehouses, assigned by their separate agencies. The mission was over. The necessary lie had served its purpose. Markov was compromised. The world was marginally safer.

Yet, sitting in the vibrating silence next to the infuriating, lethal, impossibly pretty agent who made his chest ache with an emotion he couldn't name, Technoblade felt no sense of victory.

Only the hollow echo of the masquerade’s music, the lingering taste of champagne and desperation, and the terrifying, open-ended question hanging in the air between them, thick and unresolved as the ballroom’s perfume: What now?

The car slowed. Dream’s safehouse approached. He didn't wait for it to stop completely. He reached for the door handle, his movements sharp, final. He paused for only a heartbeat, his back to Techno, silhouetted against the streetlight streaming through the window.

No goodbye. No acknowledgment. Just the soft click of the door opening, the rush of cool night air, and then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the city, leaving Techno alone with the ache and the silence.

Chapter Text

The car door slammed shut behind Dream with a finality that echoed in his bones. The cool night air hit his face like a slap, a welcome relief after the cloying perfume and suffocating tension of the ballroom – and the backseat of that damn car.

He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He could feel Technoblade’s gaze burning into his back like twin brands until the sleek black vehicle pulled away, swallowed by the city’s indifferent glow.

Alone. The word was a balm and a curse.

He strode towards his designated safehouse – a nondescript apartment building – his movements sharp, efficient, betraying none of the tremor that had threatened him in the stairwell. None of the chaos churning beneath his ribs.

The kiss.

It replayed behind his eyelids with brutal clarity. Not the calculated maneuver it should have been, the necessary shield against suspicion. No. The shock of it. The sheer, overwhelming physicality. The heat of Techno’s large hand splayed across his back, pulling him flush against that solid, unyielding frame.

The unexpected softness of Techno’s lips against his own, the faint taste of expensive scotch overlaying something intrinsically, infuriatingly Techno.

The way time had fractured, the gilded ballroom dissolving into a dizzying void where the only anchor points were the pressure of Techno’s mouth and the frantic drumming of his own traitorous heart.

He jammed the key into the safehouse door, the metal protesting. 

What are you doing to me? Techno’s growled words in the ballroom echoed, twisting into Dream’s own silent scream. I’m not like this!

He slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it, breathing hard in the sterile darkness. He wasn’t some blushing ingenue undone by a kiss. He was Dream. Nightmare.

He manipulated emotions for a living, danced on the knife-edge of danger, and remained utterly, perfectly detached.

Feelings were weaknesses. Attachments were vulnerabilities. And yearning? Yearning was a fatal flaw.

Especially yearning for Technoblade.

The rivalry was supposed to be clean. Sharp. Defined. Mutual respect forged in near-death experiences, tempered by constant friction. He admired the Blade’s brutal efficiency, the way he moved through chaos like an unstoppable force. He hated his arrogance, his stubbornness, his infuriating calm in the face of Dream’s carefully constructed provocations.

The push-pull was exhilarating, a constant game that kept his mind razor-sharp.

But somewhere along the line, the game had changed. The ache Techno provoked wasn’t just competitive fury anymore. It was a hollow throb deep in his chest, a constant companion whenever the pink-haired agent was near.

It flared when their shoulders brushed during a briefing, when Techno’s low voice cut through the noise of a firefight, when he saw the focused intensity in those crimson eyes – an intensity that sometimes, fleetingly, seemed to fixate on him.

He pushed off the door, stripping off the exquisite, constricting emerald suit jacket with violent impatience. He hated it. Hated the way his skin still felt hypersensitive where Techno had touched him. Hated the phantom pressure on his lips. Hated the treacherous warmth that pooled low in his belly at the memory. 

I hate myself for yearning this much.

The safehouse shower was a cramped, utilitarian stall. Dream cranked the water to near-scalding, stepping under the punishing spray.

He needed to scour it off. The scent of the ballroom, the cloying perfume, the lingering ghost of bergamot and Techno. He scrubbed his lips raw with the heel of his hand, the sting a welcome counterpoint to the unwanted memory.

Vienna. The flashback hit him with the force of the water.

The diplomat scrambling in the saffron. The vial of poison glinting in Dream’s hand. The look on Techno’s face – not just anger, but something raw, protective.

"Brute strength kept you alive!" The way Techno had surged towards him, the heat of his body, the proximity that had stolen Dream’s breath and sent a jolt of something terrifyingly not anger through him.

He’d looked at Techno’s mouth then, too. Just for a fraction of a second. A mistake. A crack in his own armor he’d slammed shut immediately.

He leaned his forehead against the cool tile, water sluicing down his back. 

Falling out of love. That’s what he needed. By any means necessary. He couldn’t afford this distraction. This weakness.

Technoblade was a rival, a colleague (from a rival agency, no less), a complication. Not… not this.

He’d purge it. Through focus. Through danger. Through reminding himself exactly who he was and what he excelled at – alone.

The new mission briefing came through within 24 hours. Vienna. Again. Extracting a defecting scientist from Markov’s crumbling network before the arms dealer could silence him permanently.

High risk. Tight timeline. Minimal backup. Perfect.

Dream volunteered for the point position, the infiltrator. He needed the razor’s edge, the pure, unadulterated focus that came when death was a breath away. He needed to drown the ache in adrenaline, in the cold calculus of survival.

He moved through the scientist’s heavily guarded apartment building like smoke, bypassing lasers, disabling cameras with silent, efficient tools. His mind was a vault, sealed against everything but the mission parameters.

He didn’t think about broad shoulders or low growls or the devastating shock of a kiss born of necessity. He thought about pressure plates, guard rotations, escape routes.

He reached the scientist’s panic room. The man was trembling, eyes wide with fear. "They’re coming! Markov’s men–"

"I know," Dream cut him off, his voice low and calm, utterly detached. "Follow me. Exactly. Don’t speak."

He projected icy competence, the Nightmare persona fully engaged. It felt… hollow. Like wearing clothes two sizes too big.

They were two floors down, navigating a service corridor, when the first shots rang out. Too fast. 

Markov’s clean-up crew had arrived ahead of schedule. Dream shoved the scientist behind a bulkhead, drawing his own silenced pistol.

The firefight was close-quarters chaos. Dream moved with lethal grace, dropping assailants with precise headshots, his mind cataloging threats, angles, ammunition count. But the detachment was fraying. A near miss whined past his ear, too close.

He felt a flicker of something – not fear, but a jarring sense of… isolation. The familiar thrill of the dance was muted, replaced by a cold, grinding efficiency. 

Where is the rush? Where is the focus?

He saw the muzzle flash from a side doorway a split second too late. He’d been calculating the trajectory of another threat, his mind momentarily fractured by the persistent, unwanted background noise of ache. He twisted, knowing it wouldn't be enough—

A deafening roar filled the corridor. Not a pistol. A shotgun blast. The assailant in the doorway vanished in a spray of plaster and something darker. Dream whirled.

Technoblade filled the opposite end of the corridor, smoke curling from the massive, drum-fed shotgun he held with casual lethality. He wore tactical gear, no mask, his pink hair tied back severely, his expression granite.

"Clear left!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the ringing in Dream’s ears.

He wasn’t supposed to be here! Philza’s agency was handling perimeter. Rage, hot and immediate, surged through Dream, momentarily eclipsing the shock.

"What the hell are you doing here, Blade?!" he snarled, firing twice more to cover the scientist as they moved towards Techno’s position.

"Puffy thought you might appreciate not getting your pretty head ventilated," Techno rumbled, his eyes scanning the corridor, dismissing Dream’s fury. "Move!"

They fought their way out, a terrifyingly efficient unit despite the friction. Techno was a battering ram of destruction, Dream the silent, precise scalpel.

They covered each other’s blind spots with an instinct born of countless shared near-misses, their movements synchronized in a deadly ballet Dream hated himself for finding… familiar. Comforting.

Back at the secondary extraction point – a grimy garage – the scientist was bundled into a waiting van by Puffy’s agents. Silence descended, thick and charged, broken only by the dripping of oil and their own harsh breathing.

Dream methodically checked his pistol, avoiding looking at Techno. The adrenaline was fading, leaving the familiar ache beneath his ribs, sharpened by humiliation. He’d almost gotten shot. Because he’d been… distracted.

Techno leaned against a workbench, wiping shotgun residue off his hands with a rag. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, his voice cut through the gloom, low and rough. "You hesitated back there. On the third floor corridor."

Dream froze, his knuckles white on the grip of his pistol. He forced his voice to be icy, dismissive. "I assessed the threat vector. Took the optimal shot. Mission accomplished. Your critique is noted and irrelevant."

"It wasn't assessment," Techno pushed, his gaze like a physical weight. "It was a stumble. You never stumble, Dream."

He took a step closer. The proximity was suffocating. Dream could smell cordite, sweat, and that underlying scent that was just Techno. "Was it the ballroom? The kiss?"

Dream whirled, his mask of icy detachment cracking. "Don't flatter yourself, Blade," he spat, the words laced with venom.

"The only thing that kiss proved is that you're surprisingly bad at acting." It was a lie, sharp and desperate. "My performance was flawless until you decided to play the caveman."

Techno’s eyes narrowed. The ache in Dream’s chest flared, white-hot. He saw something flicker in Techno’s gaze – confusion? Hurt? – before it was buried under a familiar wall of stoicism.

"Flawless?" Techno repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "Is that what you call freezing like a startled rabbit? Is that what you call that look in your eyes after?" The look. The raw shock. The terrifying vulnerability Dream had felt laid bare.

He’d seen it reflected in Techno’s eyes too, for a fleeting second. The memory was a brand. He couldn't let Techno see it again. Couldn't let him know how deeply the kiss, the proximity, the entire thing had burrowed under his skin.

He took a deliberate step back, putting physical distance between them, rebuilding his walls brick by icy brick.

"My eyes," Dream said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, each word honed to cut, "were reflecting the sheer absurdity of the situation. Of you. Don’t mistake necessity for anything else, Technoblade."

He holstered his pistol with a sharp click, the finality of the sound echoing in the garage. "The mission is complete. We’re done here."

He turned on his heel and walked towards the exit Puffy’s agent indicated, his spine rigid, his head held high. He didn't look back. He poured every ounce of his self-loathing, every shred of his unwanted yearning, into constructing an aura of absolute, impenetrable coldness.

He felt Techno’s gaze follow him, a tangible pressure against his retreating back. It fueled his resolve. He would fall out of love.

He would scour this weakness from his soul with the same ruthless efficiency he applied to his missions. Through danger. Through distance. Through sheer, unadulterated will. He would become ice. He would become Nightmare, untouchable and alone.

He stepped out into the grey Vienna dawn, the safehouse door clicking shut behind him. He was alone again. The scientist was safe. Markov’s network was fraying. Another victory.

Yet, walking towards his solitary extraction vehicle, the echo of a shotgun blast and the phantom pressure of a desperate kiss lingered. The ache in his chest was a constant, cold companion. He had built his walls higher, reinforced them with bitterness. But the yearning, the hated, traitorous yearning, remained – a stubborn ember in the ice, waiting. The mission was over.

His personal battle had just escalated. And Dream knew, with cold certainty, that falling out of love with Technoblade might be the most dangerous mission he’d ever undertaken.

He tightened his jaw, his eyes fixed on the horizon, reflecting nothing but the bleak, empty light of dawn. 

What have you done to me? The question hung, unanswered, in the chill morning air, heavier than any weapon he carried.

The sterile grey light of the Vienna dawn did nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in Dream’s bones.

He slid into the driver’s seat of the nondescript sedan Puffy had arranged, the engine’s purr a low counterpoint to the frantic rhythm still pounding in his ears. Not from the firefight – adrenaline he could metabolize. This was the aftershock of the confrontation in the garage. Of Technoblade.

"Don't mistake necessity for anything else, Technoblade."

The words echoed in the confines of the car, brittle and sharp, a shard of ice he’d hurled hoping to wound. Hoping to cauterize the unwelcome heat blooming in his own chest. He gripped the steering wheel until the leather creaked. 

Flawless performance? A lie so transparent it burned. Techno had seen the stumble. He’d seen the crack. He’d named the kiss.

Dream slammed the car into gear, tires screeching as he peeled away from the garage. He needed distance. Kilometers. Oceans. Anything to put space between himself and the infuriating, immovable object that was Technoblade.

He drove aimlessly at first, the city blurring past, a monochrome smear reflecting his internal desolation. The scientist was secure. Markov’s leak was plugged. Another mission accomplished. It felt like ashes.

The new safehouse was smaller, bleaker than the last. A single room smelling of dust and neglect. Dream locked the door, engaged every security protocol Puffy’s tech provided, and leaned back against it, finally alone. Utterly alone.

Silence pressed in, heavier than the ballroom crowd. It gave the memories room to breathe. The desperate crush of Techno’s hand on his back during the kiss. The shocking softness of his lips. The way the world had narrowed to that single point of contact, terrifying in its intensity.

Then the garage: Techno’s accusation, raw and perceptive. "You hesitated." And his own pathetic deflection, the venom failing to mask the humiliating truth.

I want you. I long for you. But I'm a fucking mess.

The admission, silent and searing, was the core of it. The yearning wasn't some gentle affection.

It was a jagged thing, born of rivalry and respect, twisted by proximity and that damned, unexpected vulnerability Techno seemed uniquely capable of exposing.

It was the way Techno moved in a fight – brutal grace incarnate. The low rumble of his voice issuing orders. The rare, fleeting moments when the stoic mask slipped, revealing a fierce protectiveness that made Dream’s breath catch.

And now, the memory of his heat, his strength, the bewildering tenderness beneath the desperation of that kiss.

He pushed off the door, pacing the small room like a caged animal. He needed to purge it. This wasn't just distraction; it was a critical vulnerability. An enemy could exploit it. Techno could exploit it, even unintentionally.

He couldn't afford to be compromised. Not by anyone. Least of all by him.

He found a gym three blocks away. Pay-by-the-hour, anonymous, filled with the grunts and clangs of early-morning iron warriors. Perfect. Dream changed into worn sweats, focusing solely on the burn, the strain, the punishing rhythm of exertion.

He attacked the heavy bag with a ferocity that drew sidelong glances. Jab-cross-hook-kick. Repeat. Faster. Harder. He visualized Markov’s thugs. He visualized protocol failures. He visualized Technoblade’s infuriatingly stoic face.

Every punch, every kick, was an exorcism. Sweat poured down his temples, stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in protest, a welcome agony drowning out the persistent ache in his chest.

Fall out of love. By any means necessary.

He pushed himself beyond fatigue, into the red zone where thought dissolved into pure, animalistic survival.

He needed this void. This numbness. This place where only the body existed, screaming under duress, leaving no room for treacherous emotions or phantom kisses.

He ran until his lungs felt like shards of glass. He lifted weights until his arms trembled uncontrollably. He pushed through the pain barrier, seeking oblivion.

For hours, he sculpted exhaustion, building a wall of physical depletion around the fragile core of his unwanted feelings.

Puffy’s summons came two days later.

A secure location – a quiet corner booth in a mid-tier hotel restaurant, Puffy disguised as a business traveler. Dream arrived precisely on time, face carefully neutral, body humming with residual fatigue from his self-imposed regime.

He wore simple, dark clothes, his posture radiating cool detachment.

"Report," Puffy said, stirring her coffee, her eyes sharp behind reading glasses. She didn’t mention Vienna. She didn’t mention the Blade’s unexpected intervention. She simply waited.

Dream delivered the facts. Concise. Clinical. The extraction of the scientist, the unexpected early arrival of Markov’s clean-up crew, the firefight, the secondary extraction.

He mentioned Techno’s presence only as a tactical asset: "Blade provided perimeter overwatch and assisted in neutralizing hostiles during the corridor engagement."

No emotion. No acknowledgment of the argument. No hint of the turmoil beneath the ice.

Puffy listened, sipping her coffee. When he finished, she set her cup down slowly. "Clean-up crew arrived ahead of projected timetables. Philza’s intel suggests Markov is getting jumpy, tightening his operations after the Veridian sting."

Her gaze lingered on Dream. "You handled the escalation. Good. Though Phil mentioned Blade reported… heightened tension during the extraction."

Dream’s expression didn’t flicker. "Operational stress. Close quarters. Blade tends towards… blunt assessment. It was managed." He kept his voice flat, dismissive.

Puffy studied him for a long moment. Dream met her gaze steadily, his green eyes reflecting nothing but professional calm.

The mask of Nightmare was firmly back in place, polished to an icy sheen by days of relentless training and sheer willpower. He saw the slight tightening around Puffy’s eyes, the unspoken question.

She knew him too well. But she also knew not to push, not when the mask was this solid.

"Alright," she said finally, sliding a thin dossier across the table. "Next target. Smaller scale. Intel gathering. Low-risk. You'll be solo."

Solo. The word was a balm. Solitude. Control.

Dream picked up the dossier. "Understood."

The low-risk intel gathering involved surveilling a drop point from a street cafe. Simple. Mundane.

Dream sat at a small table, nursing an espresso, seemingly engrossed in a newspaper. His senses, however, were hyper-alert, cataloging every passerby, every vehicle, every reflection in the shop windows.

Then, a figure moved through the crowd across the street. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Pink hair tied back severely, visible beneath a dark beanie. Technoblade.

Dream’s breath hitched. His carefully constructed ice wall developed a hairline fracture. He hadn't expected him. Hadn't prepared.

Techno wasn't looking his way; he seemed focused, heading purposefully down the sidewalk, blending with the lunchtime crowd despite his imposing frame.

But Dream felt him. Like a shift in atmospheric pressure.

The phantom ache in his chest flared, sharper than ever, a traitorous beacon drawn to Techno’s presence. He saw the way Techno moved – that confident, economical stride. He remembered the solidity of his chest against his own during the kiss, the strength in the hand that had pulled him close.

The memory was visceral, unwanted, and devastatingly potent.

Just what are you doing to me?

He forced himself to look down at his newspaper, his knuckles white on the edge. He focused on the blurry text, forcing his breathing to remain even, slow.

Ice. Be ice. He couldn't afford this. Not here. Not ever.

He hated the involuntary pull, the way his body reacted before his mind could lock it down. He hated that even now, after days of punishing himself, the mere sight of Techno could unravel him.

He risked another glance. Techno was gone, swallowed by the flow of pedestrians. The pressure eased slightly, but the ache remained, a cold, hollow throb where his heart should be.

The coffee in his cup had gone cold. The surveillance target was momentarily forgotten.

Later, back in the bleak solitude of the safehouse, his burner phone buzzed. An encrypted channel. Not Puffy. Philza’s agency signature.

His finger hovered over the ignore button. Distance. He needed distance. But professionalism, the ingrained habit of the job, won out.

He answered, his voice carefully modulated to neutral. "Go ahead."

"Dream." Technoblade’s voice. Low. Gruff. Cutting through the safehouse silence like a physical thing. It sent an unwelcome jolt through Dream’s nervous system.

"What is it, Blade?" Dream kept his tone clipped, impersonal. Ice.

A pause. Dream could almost hear the stoic agent choosing his words.

"Vienna extraction. The corridor where you hesitated." Techno’s voice was flat, devoid of accusation now, almost… clinical.

"Puffy’s analysis of the enemy comms chatter. They had a sonic disruptor set to your known auditory frequency range. Low-level, experimental. Designed to induce micro-disorientation, disrupt focus. Just for a split second."

Dream froze. A sonic disruptor. Not a stumble born of distraction. Not weakness. A weapon.

"It wasn't hesitation," Techno stated, the words hanging in the digital space between them. "It was an attack."

The implications slammed into Dream. Relief warred with a fresh wave of humiliation. Relief that his competence wasn't the failure.

Humiliation that Techno had witnessed the effect, misinterpreted it as personal weakness, and now… now he was correcting that misapprehension. Offering an explanation. An anchor.

Why? The question screamed in Dream’s mind. Why tell him? Why offer this? To absolve himself of his accusation in the garage? To… what?

"I see," Dream managed, his voice tight, betraying none of the internal storm. "Thank you for the intel."

He couldn't bring himself to say more. Couldn't acknowledge the strange, unwelcome comfort the explanation brought. It felt like a chink in his armor.

Silence stretched on the line. Dream could feel Techno waiting, perhaps for more, perhaps just… present. The ache in Dream’s chest pulsed, a dull, insistent throb.

He wanted to slam the phone down. He wanted to scream. He wanted…

"Was there anything else, Blade?" Dream forced out, the politeness a weapon.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Dream pictured Techno on the other end, his expression unreadable, those crimson eyes narrowed in that familiar, infuriatingly perceptive way.

"No," Techno finally said, his voice a low rumble. "Just… watch your six." The line went dead.

Dream lowered the phone slowly. He stared at the blank screen, the silence of the safehouse roaring back. Techno’s words echoed: "It was an attack." And the final, gruff admonition: "Watch your six."

He sank onto the edge of the narrow bed. The ice wall felt brittle. The carefully cultivated numbness was fraying. The yearning, the hated yearning, hadn't been burned away by exertion or buried under ice. It was still there, a stubborn, resilient ember.

And Technoblade, by offering that sliver of professional respect, that unexpected anchor in the storm of his perceived failure, had inadvertently fanned it.

He dropped his head into his hands. The mission was over. The next one was solo. He was alone. Yet, he felt more tethered than ever. Tethered by a rivalry that had morphed into something terrifyingly complex. Tethered by a kiss that refused to fade. Tethered by an ache that no amount of distance or discipline seemed to cure.

He was Nightmare, the untouchable agent. And he was utterly, terrifyingly, not in control.

The only sound was the frantic, traitorous beating of his own heart against the hollow cage of his ribs. 

I don't know what's wrong with me.

The silence offered no answer, only the suffocating weight of the yearning he couldn't escape. Falling out of love felt less like a mission and more like an impossible dream, receding further with every unwanted glance, every gruff word, every phantom touch that lingered on his lips.

The battle lines were drawn, not on some foreign street, but within the treacherous landscape of his own heart. And Dream had no idea how to win.

The silence after Techno’s call wasn’t empty. It vibrated with the echo of his voice, the phantom weight of his words. 

"It was an attack."

"Watch your six." 

Professional courtesy. Cold, hard logic offered as a shield against Dream’s perceived humiliation. It should have been a relief. It was a relief, scraping away the raw shame of thinking his own treacherous feelings had compromised him.

Yet, the relief was a bitter pill, coated in a fresh layer of frustration. Why did Technoblade do that? Why offer the lifeline? To assuage his own guilt over the accusation? To maintain operational efficiency for future, inevitable crossovers? Or… something else?

Dream shoved the thought away, a physical recoil. He couldn’t afford ‘something else’. He wouldn’t.

He threw himself back into the routine with renewed, almost vicious, determination. The low-risk intel gathering was child’s play. He completed it with robotic efficiency, the cafe encounter with Techno’s distant figure a blip ruthlessly suppressed.

He requested – no, demanded – solo assignments. Extraction from a hostile embassy basement. Infiltrating a black-tie fundraiser to plant surveillance on a corrupt CEO.

Each mission was a scalpel, carving away another layer of feeling, replacing it with the cold certainty of action.

He pushed his body harder in the anonymous gyms. He ran longer, lifted heavier, sparred with relentless aggression against holographic opponents and unforgiving bags. He sought the void where thought ceased, where only the burn in his muscles and the rhythm of his breath existed.

He woke before dawn, meditated with chilling focus, honing his mind into a weapon as sharp as his knives. He became a specter, efficient and untouchable. Nightmare, perfected.

The assignment came via Puffy, marked with a higher-than-usual encryption level: Reclamation.

An artifact stolen by a splinter group of Markov’s crumbling network, rumored to hold sensitive geopolitical data micro-engraved within its jade surface.

Location: a heavily guarded private auction in Monaco. Objective: Extract the artifact before the auction concludes. Method: Infiltration and subtle acquisition. Solo.

Dream studied the blueprints, the guest list, the security schematics. He planned with meticulous, icy precision. He would be Jean Moreau, a reclusive Belgian art collector with a known penchant for pre-Columbian jade.

The disguise was flawless – aged subtly, gait altered, voice modulated. He felt nothing but the cool thrum of anticipation for the challenge. This was his element. One target. One objective. No distractions.

The auction house was a temple of opulence – marble floors, soaring ceilings dripping with crystal, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and older money.

Dream moved through the crowd like smoke, his ‘Moreau’ persona radiating aristocratic boredom. He noted security positions, camera blind spots, the nervous energy of the auctioneer.

He spotted the artifact – a snarling jaguar idol – displayed under reinforced glass on a velvet dais. His target.

He positioned himself strategically, blending with other wealthy patrons feigning disinterest. The bidding began. Low murmurs, discreet paddles raised.

Dream waited, timing his entry. He raised his own paddle at the precise psychological moment, his bid a calculated leap designed to intimidate and secure.

A familiar, low voice cut through the refined murmur from across the room. "Fifteen million."

Dream’s blood froze. He didn’t need to turn. He knew. Technoblade. Disguised, undoubtedly – perhaps as some Eastern European oligarch judging by the accent – but undeniably him.

A ripple of annoyance, sharp and cold, pierced Dream’s carefully constructed calm. What was he doing here? Philza’s agency had no jurisdiction on this artifact!

He raised his paddle again, his voice steady despite the sudden, unwelcome heat flaring beneath his ribs. "Sixteen." Keep it professional. He’s just another bidder.

"Seventeen," Techno countered instantly, his voice carrying a hint of… challenge? Amusement? Dream couldn’t tell, and it infuriated him.

The auctioneer beamed. "Seventeen million from the gentleman in the charcoal suit! Do I hear eighteen?"

Dream raised his paddle. "Eighteen." He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the presence burning a hole in his peripheral vision.

This was his op. His solo. Techno was trespassing.

"Nineteen." Techno’s bid landed like a hammer blow.

A murmur ran through the crowd. This was becoming personal. Dream’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t about the artifact anymore. This was about territory. About dominance. About proving he didn’t need saving, didn’t need him.

The icy detachment cracked, revealing the simmering rivalry beneath. He raised his paddle. "Twenty."

Six months ago. Marrakech souk.

Dream tracked an information broker through the chaotic maze. The broker, cornered near a dye merchant’s stall, pulled a small vial – not poison this time, but a fast-acting neuro-paralytic aerosol.

"Nightmare! A gift!" he cackled, thumbing the release.

Dream moved, but a large figure clad in local robes stepped between them. Techno. He didn’t grab the vial; he simply swept his arm in a massive arc, knocking the broker’s hand upwards.

The aerosol plume hissed harmlessly into the air above the crowd. Techno then delivered a single, devastating punch that dropped the broker like a sack of grain.

He turned, his eyes finding Dream’s through the swirling dust. "Heard he liked nasty surprises," Techno rumbled, before melting back into the crowd.

The ache that day had been pure, impotent fury. Why was Techno always there? Why did he interfere?

"Twenty-five million!" The auctioneer’s voice was giddy.

Dream’s hand tightened on the paddle. This was absurd. Reckless. He had secondary acquisition methods planned, but this public escalation was drawing dangerous attention.

Markov’s remnants would be watching. He risked a glance.

Techno stood leaning against a pillar, looking infuriatingly relaxed. He met Dream’s gaze across the crowded room.

There was no warmth, no apology. Just that familiar, assessing stare, and a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Challenge accepted?

Rage, cold and sharp, flooded Dream’s veins. He saw red. The artifact, the mission, the careful control – it all narrowed to this point. To him.

He raised the paddle. "Thirty." The word sliced through the gasps of the crowd.

Silence. The auctioneer gaped.

Techno didn’t move for a long, agonizing second. Then, slowly, deliberately, he shook his head, a faint smirk playing on lips Dream couldn’t see but could feel. He lowered his paddle.

"Sold! To Monsieur Moreau for thirty million!" The gavel cracked.

Victory. Hollow, expensive, and tasting of ash.

Dream forced a thin smile, accepting the polite applause. He’d won the bid. He’d beaten Techno. But as he moved towards the secured area to complete the transaction, the icy wall he’d built felt fragile. The rage subsided, leaving the familiar, hollow ache throbbing beneath his sternum, sharper than ever.

He’d just paid thirty million dollars, blown his carefully planned subtle extraction, and publicly escalated a situation, all because Technoblade had gotten under his skin. He completed the transaction mechanically, the heavy jade idol secured in a nondescript case.

As he exited the secured room, he saw Techno leaning against a wall near the service entrance, mask of the oligarch gone, replaced by his usual stoic expression. He pushed off the wall as Dream approached.

"Costly victory, Nightmare," Techno rumbled, his voice devoid of mockery, stating a simple fact.

Dream stopped, facing him. The Monaco night air felt cool after the stifling auction hall. The ache was a physical weight. He met Techno’s gaze, his own eyes chips of frozen emerald.

"It was necessary," he stated, the lie brittle. "The objective is secured. Your interference was noted and unwelcome."

Techno’s gaze didn’t waver. "Interference? I was ensuring Markov’s people didn’t snatch it from under you. Again."

He paused, his eyes flicking down to the case, then back to Dream’s face. "You’re pushing too hard. Running solo ops back-to-back. Training like you’re trying to break yourself. It shows."

The observation, delivered with brutal honesty, felt like a physical blow. It stripped away the pretense of the auction win, laid bare the exhaustion Dream was desperately hiding. The cracks in his ice were widening. 

He sees it. He always sees. 

The humiliation was acute, a fresh wave washing over the ache. He hated that Techno perceived his struggle. Hated that he cared enough to comment.

"My methods," Dream hissed, stepping closer, his voice low and venomous, "are none of your concern, Blade. My state is irrelevant as long as the mission succeeds. Unlike some, I don’t require a babysitter."

He clutched the case tighter, the cool jade against his palm offering no comfort. "Stay out of my way."

He turned sharply, heading towards his pre-arranged extraction vehicle parked in the shadows. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to.

He could feel Techno’s gaze, heavy and inscrutable, boring into his back until he slid into the car and shut the door, sealing himself in blessed, isolating darkness.

The idol was secure. The mission, technically, a success. But as the car pulled away from the glittering lights of Monaco, Dream leaned his head back against the cool leather.

The hollow ache in his chest was a constant companion, a void that no victory, no amount of self-punishment, could fill.

He’d pushed Techno away, reinforced his walls with expensive fury. Yet, the yearning remained, a stubborn phantom limb. He’d won the battle in Monaco. He’d beaten Techno in the bid. But the war inside him felt more lost than ever.

The ice was cracking, and beneath it, the fire he tried so desperately to extinguish still smoldered, fed by every unwanted glance, every gruff word, every infuriatingly perceptive observation from the rival he couldn’t escape, and couldn’t stop yearning for.

The silence of the car offered no solace, only the deafening echo of his own isolation and the terrifying, undeniable truth: falling out of love was proving impossible.

It felt less like a choice and more like a sentence.

Chapter Text

The summons came not with a brown envelope, but with a single, encrypted line of text that bypassed all standard channels.

The location was a private art gallery owned by a shell corporation Puffy had used before. The air inside was cool and still, smelling of lemon polish and old money.

Dream stood before a massive canvas of abstract, violent reds, feeling the fine wool of his trousers and the stiff collar of his shirt like a prison uniform. He’d been pulled from a deep-cover op in Lisbon for this. The disruption grated.

Puffy arrived first, her heels clicking a sharp, deliberate rhythm on the polished concrete. She didn’t greet him, just came to stand beside him, staring at the painting.

“He’s back,” she said, her voice low. “Markov. Or rather, the man we called Markov. His real name is Silas Voss. He’s not just an arms dealer. He’s the majority shareholder of Aethelstan Industries.”

Dream didn’t react outwardly, but internally, the pieces shifted.

Aethelstan was a global tech and pharmaceutical conglomerate, clean as a whistle on the surface. It explained the resources, the reach.

“And?” Dream prompted, his voice flat.

“And he’s planning something big. A ‘soft launch,’ our sources say. He’s been auditing his security, purging weak links. And he remembers the Veridians. He had the ballroom swept for DNA. He knows he was played.” Puffy finally turned to look at him.

“He’s paranoid. But he’s also arrogant. He wants to prove he can’t be fooled twice. He’s hosting a family-oriented charity gala at his estate. A show of benevolent strength.”

A cold dread, entirely separate from operational anxiety, began to coil in Dream’s gut. “Let me guess.”

“We need to get inside,” Puffy stole the words from his mouth. “He’s vetting everyone personally this time. The only new faces he’s allowing are a few ‘up-and-coming’ families he can scrutinize and feel superior to.”

Puffy’s gaze was unflinching. “You and Techno. Different personas. But the same dynamic.”

“No.” The word was out before he could stop it, sharp and final.

“It’s the only dynamic that works,” a new voice rumbled from the entrance. Philza walked in, Technoblade a silent, hulking shadow behind him.

Techno’s eyes, the color of a blood-soaked battlefield, found Dream’s immediately, and the familiar, hated ache flared beneath Dream’s sternum, fresh and vicious.

Phil continued, “Voss is a student of human nature. He’ll see through a placid, loving couple. But you two…” He gestured between them. “The tension you radiate is… unique. It reads as either a marriage on the brink of collapse or one held together by pure, volatile passion.

“Either way, it’s fascinating. It’s real. And Voss will be drawn to it, to the challenge of figuring out which it is.”

Techno’s expression was unreadable, but his gaze was a physical weight. “The Crowe family,” he stated, his voice like grinding stones.

“Sebastian and Elizabeth Crowe. New money, old grudges. We made our fortune in… contested mineral rights.” A faint, grim smile touched his lips. “Aggressive in business, aggressive in our relationship. It fits.”

Dream’s nails bit into his palms. He could feel the phantom pressure of the masquerade kiss, the memory of Techno’s hand on his back, a brand he’d tried to scour away.

“I don’t see why the same dynamic requires the same… level of cover.”

Puffy stepped closer. “Because, Dream, Voss will be looking for the tells of a professional partnership. The subtle distance, the lack of casual, intimate contact. He needs to see a husband’s proprietary touch. A wife’s… complicated resentment.”

Her eyes were pitiless. “Which is why, this time, you’ll be Elizabeth.”

Silence. The gallery walls seemed to press in.

Dream had cross-dressed for ops before. It was a tool, like any other disguise. But this felt different. This was being dressed up and presented to Technoblade, a living sacrifice to the very tension they were supposed to be weaponizing.

He could feel Techno’s eyes on him, cataloging his reaction. He refused to give him one.

“Fine,” Dream said, his voice dangerously quiet. “What’s the rest of the picture?”

“You have a son,” Phil said. “Adrian. Nineteen. Socially awkward, home-schooled, fiercely protective of his mother.”

A young man with starkly dual-toned black and white hair and anxious, red-and-green eyes slipped into the room as if summoned. He gave a small, nervous wave.

“He’s one of ours. Ranboo. You know him,” Puffy clarified. “A prodigy. Cunning like you, Dream. And, when pushed, he has a surprisingly aggressive streak. He’ll sell the family dynamic perfectly.”

Ranboo offered a tentative smile. “I, uh, I’ve studied the brief. It’s nice to… meet you? My… parents?” He looked between Techno and Dream with a mixture of awe and sheer terror.

Techno grunted. “Don’t call me Dad.”

Dream said nothing. He was already building the walls, higher and thicker than ever. He would be Elizabeth Crowe. He would wear the wigs, the gowns, the makeup. He would play the brittle, beautiful wife to Sebastian Crowe’s domineering husband.

But he would control the narrative. He would dictate the distance. There would be no more kisses. No more moments of shocking, unwanted vulnerability. This was a mission. Nothing more.

Techno watched Dream’s face, a marble mask of cold acceptance. He saw the minute tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench of his jaw. He felt the familiar, confounding ache in his own chest, a hollow throb that had become his constant companion since the masquerade.

Elizabeth. The name felt strange, yet fitting. Dream, with his sharp elegance and lethal grace, would make a devastatingly beautiful woman. The thought was a unbidden spark, one he quickly doused.

He understood Dream’s resistance. The last kiss had been a fault line, cracking open something between them that neither knew how to navigate. Techno, who prized control above all else, found the chaotic, yearning confusion it provoked to be the most formidable enemy he’d ever faced.

He’d tried to logic it away, to file it under ‘operational stress’ and ‘adrenaline response.’ It hadn’t worked.

Now, they were being thrust back into the fire, and Phil’s reasoning was as infuriating as it was accurate. The way they looked at each other was the cover. It was a live wire of animosity and something else, something that blurred the line between a desire to strangle and a desire to… something else entirely.

He saw the way Dream’s gaze skittered away from his, the defensive posture. He was building a fortress. Techno’s role, as Sebastian Crowe, was to be the siege engine.

He looked at the boy, Ranboo. Nervous, but with a sharp intelligence in his heterochromatic eyes. The perfect ingredient to add a layer of genuine, protective complexity to their volatile dynamic.

“The briefing is in the back,” Puffy said, breaking the tense silence. “Wardrobe and makeup for Elizabeth are set up. We don’t have much time.”

As Dream turned to follow Puffy, his movement was stiff, a soldier marching to his doom.

Techno’s hand twitched at his side, a faint, involuntary impulse to reach out, to… what? Reassure him? The absurdity of it was staggering. He balled his hand into a fist.

This was the mission. Infiltrate Voss’s gala. Uncover his plan. And survive the gilded cage of their own making, a cage where every glance was a battle and every touch a potential surrender. This was a poison in his veins, and he was walking straight into the source.