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.