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So, Shuni is propositioning him. No doubt about that now.

Lucien lifts a hand to curl over Shuni’s and wonders, briefly, what Lord Crow will think of this. Is he the jealous sort? Does it even matter? If he isn’t, no harm done, and if he is—well, that too, is a type of attention. And maybe Lord Crow will even enjoy being jealous. Plenty of people do, in their own way.

Besides, there’s good reason to accept this. He should treasure human warmth while he has it. He’s not likely to get that with any of the Lords. Right now, it’s just the two of them, this moment, and why not seize pleasure from it while he can?

Perhaps he should start thinking more long-term. But… tomorrow. He’s in no state to do that now.

Lucien laughs, curling his fingers around Shuni’s. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes please. Let’s wear each other out, until I can’t help but sleep.”

Shuni’s own lips curl into a sharp grin. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“How do you want to go about it?” Lucien asks, sitting up. He reaches over and pulls Shuni’s shirt over his head; Shuni ducks and lifts his arms obligingly. “You’re into Lord Crow, and so am I. Should one of us pretend to be him?” Then, with a laugh that comes out raw and rough, “Should both of us?’

“Ugh, you’re so…” Shuni sighs and laughs, leans in and kisses Lucien roughly, almost bruisingly. “No, I don’t want to roleplay as Lord Crow. Perhaps if I do any roleplay, I should roleplay as you. Get into character early.”

There’s something so funny about that that Lucien can’t keep himself from laughing, is still laughing as Shuni grabs a rough handful of his hair and swallows the sound in a kiss.

There’s something almost masturbatory about it as they strip each other bare, explore each other with hands and mouths. Shuni feels like another person, but he looks like Lucien, especially through the haze of pleasure and manic exhaustion. It’s as if Lucien’s reflection has come out of the mirror to touch him, and he supposes that’s been a fantasy before as well. He almost wishes he could lose himself in that concept entirely, but Shuni leaves his pendant on, and it grinds between their chests, off-center and distracting.

Not that distracting, though.

After, he’s barely able to pull away before he starts to fall asleep, climactic rise and crash draining him of both mania and lucidity. He tries to help clean up, but his hands are clumsy and blackness is invading his vision, and Shuni gently slaps his hands away and does it himself.

And then the world vanishes entirely and the dream comes again. 

It’s not a desert. Things grow in a desert. A desert has the sun high in the sky and drilling down to torture those trapped under it; this place doesn’t have that. It feels drained. Inverted. Hollowed out somehow. The cracked ground under him has been sucked dry, has cracked and separated from itself. He feels as if he is the only man left alive in this world, and it’s not that he will die soon—it’s that he’s been forgotten here entirely when the forces of nature left this land. He expects to see bones, signs of whatever calamity happened here, but there is nothing but the cracked land, a sky lacking celestial bodies, air that isn’t air. He doesn’t know why he’s still here. He can’t breathe, and not breathing won’t end him, because he’s not alive, he can’t live, not in this world, and because he can’t live, he can’t die—

He sucks a desperate breath, coughing as he comes awake, his lungs struggling to work under the force of that dream. The slice of light under the curtain has vanished with the onset of dusk, and Shuni is kneeling over him, one hand outstretched, his eyes wide and surprised.

“What—” Lucien croaks.

Shuni sits back on his heels. “You all right?” he asks. “I was just about to wake you. We’ll want to leave soon, and it looks like you were having a nightmare.”

“A—nightmare. Yes,” Lucien says, shaken. He slowly pushes himself up and sees that Shuni is dressed in Lucien’s own discarded clothes. “You—what’re you wearing…?”

“We’re going to be each other, remember?” Shuni says impatiently. He sighs. “You’re a wreck. Hopefully we can pull this off.”

Right. They were to be each other today, and Lord Crow would get the pleasure of this little shell game they’ve made up. Lucien licks his lips. “Should I wear your clothes, then?”

“Of course.” Shuni seems to consider, then kisses Lucien’s forehead and shuffles back off the bed. “Coffee’s ready, and I’ll get food on. Feel free to pick anything you want from my closet, just come down once you’ve pulled yourself together.”

“Thanks.” Lucien watches him leave and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and doing his best to push the dream away. He needs to get himself together. The play must go on.

Reminding himself of that does help a little. Naked, he pushes himself out of bed and looks around again at Shuni’s sparse room. The bed, the bookshelf, the writing desk with scraps of writing. He wonders if he should be nosy, try to get to know Shuni better by snooping around a thing or two. He could probably even check out the other rooms while Shuni’s busy. 

Then again, he doesn’t have too much time to skulk around, and he shouldn’t do it naked regardless. He opens the closet door to see a remarkable variety of items in a remarkable variety of styles. He’s never taken Shuni for a clotheshorse, but now he’s thinking of it, he’s also never seen Shuni show up to rehearsal in the same outfit twice.

He really can wear literally whatever he wants, he thinks, and smiles ruefully. It’d be easier to decide what to wear if Shuni had something instantly recognizable as his, but it seems Lucien has to make up his own mind.

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Lucien draws a sharp breath, staring at Shuni, genuinely moved. Lucien can’t recall anyone having opened a door to him so freely before. “I’d love to stay with you,” he admits softly. “It’ll be nice to have a friend’s company after all this.”

Shuni laughs lightly. “It’s not much, but at least for tonight, what’s mine is yours.”

That’s a deeper offer than the one Shuni has actually made, and he should be careful about saying such things so freely. Lucien doesn’t warn him of this, though; a reprimand now would be rude, and perhaps it’s just a show of Shuni’s trust. “Thank you,” he says again. “As for the rest…”

He pauses, looking Shuni over again. It really is remarkable what a match Shuni is for him. Lucien has no idea how the director did it. There are minute differences—Shuni’s jaw is a little sharper, his nose a little wider, the circles under his eyes less pronounced. He may be a centimeter or two taller; Lucien always has trouble telling. His chest (where Lucien can see far too much of it for modesty, given the way his shirt’s fallen open) is a bit smoother.

Lucien finds himself looking at the pendant again. It is an odd thing, a twisted piece of metal. It reminds him of one of those puzzles where people have to find the way to unlock one bit of metal from another. But if it is that, there is only the half of it.

Noticing him looking, Shuni covers it with his fingers briefly, then twists it in his hand, laughing self-consciously. “What? You’re staring.”

“It just looked interesting,” Lucien admits. “What is it?”

“Just a keepsake,” Shuni demurs. “You know how it is.”

Lucien does. He folds his hand around the brass key in his pocket just to feel its weight. “I suppose most actors have something like that. A little bit of luck to carry with them.”

“We’re a superstitious lot,” Shuni agrees. “You were going to say, though, about the rest? The possible switch?”

It’s odd. On the one hand, Lucien doesn’t see any harm in doing it. Surely Lord Crow is powerful enough to see through any kind of disguise or costume, and surely Shuni, just an actor, isn’t powerful enough to play Lucien’s role so well that Lord Crow could really be mistaken. Lord Crow might even appreciate the challenge, having Lucien return the next night and make it into a puzzle. 

On the other hand, why is Shuni even offering this? Why does he seem so invested in it? It might be nothing, Lucien reminds himself, just a kind offer. They’ve all seen things go off the rails with things like this, so perhaps it will make Shuni feel as if he is helping a friend. Lucien can hardly fault that, if so. But… it’s a risky sort of kindness to offer. Spreading attention around might make it easier on both of them, but it guarantees Shuni is drawn into it himself. So…

Is Shuni trying to get in on this? Did he hear Lucien describe the romantic walk, the focused attention, and decide he wanted some of that himself? Is Shuni hoping to be romanced by Lord Crow?

…And is it so bad if that’s the case? Perhaps they have more in common than their looks. Lucien feels a grin curl his lips.

“Oh no,” Shuni says. “What’s got you making that face?”

“Shuni, do you like Lord Crow?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you fancy a dinner date with him yourself?” Lucien’s grin widens. “Perhaps see if you can skip that and move onto the second date?”

Shuni’s brows lift, and he laughs. “You sound like the over-eager one there. Don’t tease, or I’ll take your flirtations seriously. I already told you: I’m the sort who’ll spread myself thin. I’m just offering the same to you.”

“I’m sure.”

“Enough of this,” Shuni says, though he sounds flattered. He rises. “I was going to ask if you’d eaten, but then remembered you clearly had. Let me show you to my bedroom.”

Fair enough. Lucien is tired. He’s probably sounding manic—even hysterical—by now. “Thank you again,” he says. He rises and lets Shuni lead him there.

It’s a small bedroom, unremarkable and lacking any real personality. Just a moderately-sized bed, a single bookshelf with some chapbooks on it, and a writing desk. Not much on the writing desk either, just some pages with a bit of scribbled text visible on them. Shuni gestures to the bed. “Go lie down.”

“What’ll you do?”

“I’ve some things to finish up myself before I sleep,” Shuni says, and shuts the door behind himself.

Obligingly, Lucien takes off his outerwear and lies down in the bed. Yet, for all that he’s exhausted, it’s hard to sleep. A thick line of sunlight is showing under Shuni’s thick, closed blinds, and too much has happened for his mind to easily wear itself out.

He’s not sure how much longer it takes, but the door eventually opens again. Shuni pauses, apparently observing him, then comes to sit on the bed, leaning over him. “You’re still awake,” he says. His voice is softer, like he’s afraid of waking Lucien despite making that observation.

“I can’t sleep,” Lucien whispers back.

One of Shuni’s hands rises, caresses Lucien’s cheek, slides down his neck to his shoulder—almost to his chest. “Can I help?” he murmurs. His voice is rough, suggestive.

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No sleeping, Lucien decides, not yet. He’s in a fog, sure, but he’s also riled up, heart going wild in his chest. It’ll be better to clear his head before he sleeps again. If Lord Crow wants to know more about his dreams, better to do it in a way that won’t guarantee the dreams are all about… well, about Lord Crow.

If he leaves now, he can probably catch Katarin or Shuni before they go to sleep. Either will listen; this sort of thing is known to happen to actors. He still remembers Nan’s sobbing laughter when she was returned from the trip that Lord the Endless had taken her on. For everyone else, Nan had been absent one night. For Nan… well. She retired after that, claiming the exhaustion of the aged.

Lucien isn’t sure which of his two costars he trusts more with this story—not that he believes either is untrustworthy, but he has held himself back from becoming too intimate with either of them so far. So the decision comes down to other factors. 

Of the two, he suspects Katarin would be the more sensible one—but he isn’t sure he wants to hear a sensible response. Besides, it’s improper to intrude on a lady while she’s getting ready for bed, even if the lady is an actress. Meanwhile, Shuni will be, he suspects, more receptive to the strangeness of this unburdening, and besides, he lives nearby.

It’s as much direction as Lucien is likely to get, and his mind is strung too tightly for him to think about it any further. He veers off from his course home, taking a few side streets to Shuni’s address, and knocks.

Shuni seems surprised to see him. He’s changed, but not gotten ready for bed—his hair’s a little mussed, and he’s wearing just a loose shirt and trousers, not proper attire at all. “Lucien, you didn’t show up for drinks—” and then he cuts himself off, looking Lucien over again. “What happened to you?” 

Lucien has enough wits about him to push them both inside and lead Shuni over to his own sitting room before he starts babbling. He collapses across a seat as the words flow from him, and Shuni sits across from him. Halfway through, Shuni gets up and pours them both an overly full glass of whiskey, which Lucien tosses back gratefully.

He’s not ready to have run out of words by the time he’s run out of story, and finds himself just repeating the obvious. “So then I didn’t know where to go. So I came here. I needed to tell someone, so I’m telling you…”

“You certainly are,” Shuni says. He huffs a laugh, apparently overwhelmed. “That sounds like a lot. Well, don’t blame yourself if you did eat human. It could have been anything, right?’

“Anything. Human, animal, something else all together. It could be nothing. The substance of dreams…” Lucien finds himself thinking about dreams again and tries to steer his own mind back.

Shuni says, “It’s just meat or the idea of meat, nothing more. Sounds like a lovely dinner date with the Carrion-Eater, really, as these things go.”

Lucien finds that funnier than maybe it should be, and starts laughing. A date. Was it a date? Is he being courted?

Shuni raises and lowers a hand like a conductor, and Lucien quiets obediently. “That said, I’m a little worried that Lord Crow said he’d come to check you out again. We all want their patronage, but you know they can have… effects on people.”

Should he be worried? Lucien wonders why he isn’t. “They are known for that,” he says agreeably.

“Well. If you’d like, you can sleep here today. If you think the whole dream thing might put you at risk, I mean,” Shuni says. He’s sprawled back, thinking, one leg thrown over an arm of the chair, his shirt open to show a pendant worn against his skin. “I’d be glad to have you.”

“Oh?” Lucien asks, looking him over again.

“And… hmm. This next night, for safety, why don’t we switch roles? We already look enough alike that nobody will question it. That way, we can spread the attention out. So long as I show up in your day clothes and you show up in mine, even the costumers won’t be able to tell. We’ll act as each other! I can play Arcane, and you can play Logos. What do you say?”

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Caught on the oddness of the question, Lucien hesitates. “Dreams? I think they could have meaning, certainly. It’s hard to say where in the mind they come from. Dreams are often a mirror, I think—a distorted reflection of the things you’re living through. Stresses, or fears, or anxiety. Hopes. Even just a—a bit of undigested food not sitting right.”

That earns him one of those rough, cawing laughs. “So just a reflection of your own life, you think?”

“No. Maybe? Everything has meaning; why shouldn’t dreams? Sometimes they only have meaning to you. After all, we can only see the world through our own eyes—or humans can, at any rate,” Lucien hastens to add. “But perhaps a dream can reflect more than our perceptions. Perhaps it can reflect the world itself. I have no way to know.”

“Hm.”

For a second, there is a silence that seems almost human in its disappointment, broken only by his footsteps and the clacking of Lord Crow’s cane on the cobbles. Lucien draws a breath in a strange resistance to that moment, wanting to see it become odd again. “Why do you ask? I had a strange dream yesterday, so it’s been on my mind a little.”

“Oho? Tell me about it.” Lord Crow seems to cock his head.

There isn’t enough of the dream in Lucien’s memory to tell. He describes the sensations instead, the cracked dryness of it, the way it denied so many things their reality.

Lord Crow has stopped walking, a swarm of birds flying around his head and obscuring what little of his expression Lucien can perceive. It’s all pounding wings and flying feathers and harsh cries, and Lucien catches his breath. “Lord Crow?”

And the birds swirl off into the sky. Lucien gets the sense that Lord Crow smiles at him, though he has far too many beaks for that to be possible. “It’s nothing. That’s just interesting. I’ll have to talk to you another night to see if you have the dream again. And your hobbies?”

Lucien can’t help but think those are far less interesting. “Well, I don’t have time for a lot of hobbies, being in theatre,” he says apologetically. “It’s all rehearsal and studies. I like a good story, whether or not it’s performed, but I can’t help but thinking how it’ll look on the stage. I suppose I do like puzzles and challenges, though.” He laughs. “I also like meat, since you pointed that one out. I can’t always afford a good steak, but I can’t argue with the taste of flesh.”

“Can’t you?” Lord Crow says. He seems fired up somehow, excited, the sound of rustling feathers louder. “Why don’t we spend some time on a shared hobby together, then?”

He points with his cane toward the river and—

—Lucien comes back to himself when he staggers into a wall and catches himself on the rough red brick. He finds himself exhausted and halfway home, the sun already risen and spreading golden pools of daylight around him. 

He doesn’t remember much of what happened; it’s all a drunken, drugged blur. He thinks there was a body in the river, though he couldn’t say if it were animal or human. There is a copper taste in his mouth and he should be revolted, but he finds himself laughing, scrubbing at his face to try to recover a bit more of himself. 

Perhaps it wasn’t even real, perhaps it was just something that happened from being around the Carrion Eater too long. But regardless, the pounding of his heart feels like wings in his chest.

He draws deep breaths and squints at the sky. The bars are already closed; he won’t catch Katarin or Shuni there tonight, though he could go and knock on one of their doors and see if they would let him in, apologize and babble about the events of the night. 

Or, perhaps, he could just go home and sleep it off, see what dreams he has to reflect this.

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Lucien freezes, unable to stop his instinctive reaction to that voice, that presence: a heady cocktail of fear, lust, and awe that keeps him unable to answer right away. His nerves strain in every direction under the weight of standing so close to one of the Lords, and it feels as though his heart is going to rip itself out of his chest and offer itself up.

Lord Crow waits patiently, still largely in shadow, only those hard, human-looking hands in their gloves visible where they overlap on his cane. They seem relaxed, as if he’s gripping it loosely only. The head of the cane is silver, an orb clutched in a crow’s claw.

One breath, another, and Lucien begins to come back together. Humans are resilient, both in what they are able to survive and in what they are able to deny, and both work together now to form a barrier of incredulity. This isn’t happening.

But it is happening, and Lord Crow is waiting for a reply. Lucien pulls together a character who can act in his place right now: while the real Lucien trembles, this show-Lucien is calm, confident: flattered, polite, but not so overeager that he will embarrass himself. “I would love to, Lord Crow,” he says, and bows. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time.”

A laugh like an entire flock of crows taking off at once. “Haaaave you?” Lord Crow steps forward into the light and offers Lucien his arm. Lucien cannot look directly at him—even if he focuses his eyes in that direction, he can’t quite see what’s there. Lord Crow is shaped approximately like a man: legs, torso, arms. It isn’t that his head is not human, and it’s not that his head is a crow’s head. It’s simply that all that Lucien can really register is feathers, and beaks, and glittering eyes, and wings, all crowding for space in his perception.

Lucien lowers his gaze. “If I may have a moment—”

He is going to ask to just excuse himself briefly, to go back and tell his fellow actors that something’s come up, but Lord Crow’s posture changes slightly, impatient, and Lucien changes his mind at once. It would be the polite thing to do, but he can tell right now it’s one thing or the other, and if he goes back inside, Lord Crow will be gone. 

Well, he knows where Shuni and Katarin are headed; if he survives the night, he can meet them there.

He draws the character around himself again. “—a moment to gather myself. I wasn’t expecting to encounter one of the exalted in an alley.” He tucks his hand into the proffered arm.

Another laugh at that, Lord Crow relaxing. “I’m an alley-dwelling sort of creature,” he rasps. “Let’s walk by the water, shall we?”

Lucien wonders what others will see, if they are able to see the two of them at all. “Of course,” he says, because there’s no other answer. This is what he’s wanted. 

They step out of the alley and down the street to walk along the riverside. The moon glitters off it like a watchful eye, and Lord Crow’s arm crunches and rustles under Lucien’s grip. Lucien draws a breath. One of them needs to start a conversation. “So, what brings you by my alley this evening?”

“Curiosity,” Lord Crow says, but there’s an odd tone to that crackling voice, as much as Lucien can tell such things. “You caught my eye, but you knew that, didn’t you? I suppose you must have questions.”

“I do,” he says, although he doesn’t know why he’s expected to have questions at all. “I’ve long wondered about you—about who you are, not what, I mean. I know the Lords are beyond my understanding.”

“Who…? You know my portfolio, I’m sure.”

Lucien pushes forward. He can pretend calm, at least. “I’ve as much idea as anyone, but is that it? You don’t have your own likes or dislikes? Hobbies?”

“I like…” Lord Crow’s head tilts, Lucien is fairly sure. “I like play. I like the discovery of fresh corpses, and the taste of flesh, and fascinating trinkets, and people who shine. I love a challenge, a puzzle. I hate when things are too easy, and people are too eager. I cannot be tamed. Is that what you mean?”

It isn’t a portfolio, even if it’s not what most people would answer. “I think it’s a place to start,” Lucien says with a smile.

“And what about you?” Lord Crow asks. He… ducks? Swoops? …and picks up a pebble, sending it skipping across the river. “What do you like? What do you dislike? What are your hobbies?” And then, oddly, “And do you think that dreams have meaning?”

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