#morp

He dressed with his usual grave precision, though the clothing was more mortal than Endless today: black jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a coat shorter than the flowing one he wore in the Dreaming. It brushed just past his hips instead of trailing like wings, stark and practical, though on him it still carried an air of inevitability.

You sprawled against the pillows, stealing strawberries from the tray, watching him adjust the lapels with the solemnity of a king preparing for war.

You reached out, catching his wrist with a lazy smile. “One more kiss.”

His pale eyes flicked back to you, cool, inevitable. “We are expected.”

You tugged harder, your grin widening. “They can wait. Just one more.”

His sigh was a quiet surrender, and he bent back over you. His mouth was cool and soft at first, then deepened until the taste of strawberries was stolen from your lips. The shorter coat fell open as you slid your hand under the hem of his shirt, feeling him tremble faintly despite himself.

When he finally drew back, his voice was low, resigned. “You will unmake every plan I have ever made.”

You laughed, stealing another kiss before letting him straighten again. “And still you want to marry me.”

His pale eyes held yours, steady and unblinking, as though the very thought of turning away were absurd. A faint shiver stirred the air around him, like the Dreaming’s breath slipping through even here.

“More than want,” he murmured, the words almost reverent. “It is inevitable.”

Your chest tightened, the seriousness of it cutting through your playful smile. You brushed your fingers lightly down the front of his t-shirt, smoothing where it clung to him.

“Then I suppose you’re doomed,” you teased softly.

The faintest curve touched his mouth, a ghost of a smile only for you. “Gladly.”

***

The fairground came into view by late morning, all colour and noise: striped tents, bright pennants snapping in the breeze, the scents of spun sugar and hot oil drifting heavy in the air. Children shrieked from whirling rides, balloons bobbed, music spilled from crackling speakers. Dream walked at your side, dark against the riot of light, his shorter coat billowing faintly as though the air itself bent around him.

Two figures stood waiting just past the gates.

Lagertha reached you first, her keen eyes sweeping from you to him and back again. Without preamble, she seized your hand, lifting it to study the ring gleaming on your finger.

“So the rumours are true,” she said dryly, before pulling you into a brief, fierce embrace.

Behind her, Delirium practically vibrated with color and excitement, her hair shifting from tangerine to seafoam in the space of a breath. Dream’s shoulders stiffened as she flung her arms around him anyway.

“Sister,” he greeted, cold as stone.

“I cannot believe it!” Delirium squealed, squeezing him tight before bouncing back to beam at you. “You’re getting married! Married married married—I’m so excited, aren’t you excited? Because I’m so excited!”

Dream’s expression didn’t move, but his pale eyes flicked toward you, betraying just the faintest ripple of inevitability and… softness.

Delirium, oblivious, clapped her hands together. “Come on! Come on come on come on—there’s so much to do. Candy floss, dodgem cars, the carousel, the mirror maze—ohhh and the big wheel! We have to do the big wheel.”

Before you could answer, she grabbed your free hand and tugged. Dream, reluctantly, followed—his long stride somehow both regal and put-upon, coat stirring faintly with each step as though the air disapproved on his behalf.

Lagertha fell into step beside him, amused. “She will run you ragged before the day is out.”

Dream’s reply was cool, measured. “She always does.”

The fair unfolded in bursts of colour and noise: rides whirling overhead, music blaring, vendors shouting their wares. Delirium darted ahead, her hair flickering from pink to blue to violet, plucking sweets and trinkets at random and pressing them into your hands before racing off again.

At the candy floss stand, Delirium thrust a stick of pink sugar into Dream’s hand. He regarded it as if it were some bizarre mortal relic, his mouth a hard line.

“This,” he said flatly, “is spun air coated in sugar. I will not.”

You rolled your eyes, tore a tuft from the cloud of pink, and popped it into your mouth. The sweetness melted instantly on your tongue. Leaning close, you tugged at his collar. “Fine. Then I’ll make you.”

Before he could protest, you kissed him—soft and lingering, pressing the taste of spun sugar against his lips. His stillness gave way at once, his mouth parting to deepen the kiss, cool and steady against your heat. When you finally drew back, breathless, he regarded you with pale fire.

“…Sweet,” he murmured.

A laugh bubbled up behind you. Delirium was staring, wide-eyed, her hair flashing a startled lime-green.

“I never thought anyone would kiss my grumpy brother,” she declared, delighted, “let alone you!”

You flushed, but Dream only inclined his head with imperious calm, as though the entire fairground hadn’t just seen you steal his dignity one sugared kiss at a time.

Delirium squealed suddenly, her hair sparking into a kaleidoscope of pink and violet. “The big wheel! The big wheel the big wheel the big wheel—come on!”

Before either of you could object, she seized your arm and began pulling you through the crowd toward the towering Ferris wheel that spun slowly against the pale morning sky. Lagertha followed with a wry smirk, arms folded. Dream, dark and tall in his shorter coat, strode behind you with the dignity of a condemned man.

At the base of the ride, Delirium bounced on her toes. “Two per car! You two together, obviously. I’ll go with Lagertha. Meet you at the top!”

She darted off before Dream could object, pressing tickets into your hand as though she’d already planned the whole thing.

You turned to him with a wicked grin. “Scared?”

His pale eyes cut down at you, cool and unamused. “Of mortal machinery creaking through the sky? Hardly.”

But the faint stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him as you tugged him into the car. The attendant swung the gate shut, and with a lurch, the wheel began its slow ascent.

Below, the fair shrank to a whirl of colour and noise. The city spread out beyond, the Thames glinting like steel under the sun. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting strands into his face, and when he raised a hand to brush them aside, his touch lingered against your cheek.

“You find joy in this,” he said at last, his voice low as the wheel carried you higher.

You leaned into his touch, smiling. “Yes, actually. Don’t you?”

His gaze held yours, pale and unwavering, though for a long moment he didn’t answer. The city spread out beneath you, the cries of the fair reduced to distant echoes.

At last, he spoke, quiet as a vow. “Not in this. But in you, always.”

The words struck through you harder than the height, harder than the dizzy sway of the car as it creaked higher into the sky. Your breath caught, and you found yourself laughing softly, trying to mask the sudden tightness in your chest.

You leaned in, pressing a quick, tender kiss to his lips, lingering just long enough to feel the cool steadiness of him before the wheel groaned and began its slow descent.

By the time your car touched the ground, Delirium was already waiting at the gate, bouncing on her toes. Her hair had gone candy-apple red, flickering with sparks of gold, her eyes wide with delight.

“That was amazing! You looked so romantic up there, all dramatic and swoony—now it’s time for the cars! The crashy ones! The ones that spin and bump and smash!”

Lagertha’s laugh rang low and sharp as she folded her arms. “The King of Dreams, crashed into by mortals. Behold.”

Dream’s gaze followed the squealing children ramming into one another in their painted bumper cars, sparks flying, the metallic groan of collisions rattling the air. His expression darkened into something between disdain and horror.

“Absolutely not.”

Lagertha smirked, shaking her head. “You don’t get to say no. Not today.”

He drew himself taller, shadows twitching faintly at the edges of his shorter coat. “I most certainly—”

You caught his sleeve, tilting your head up at him, eyes wide, lower lip almost trembling in mock appeal. “Please?”

For a moment he only stared at you, stone-pale, as if battling the indignity of it all against the inevitability of you. Then, with a long, audible inhale, he closed his eyes briefly and exhaled one word like a curse.

“…Fine.”

Delirium squealed, her hair bursting into fireworks. “Yes yes yes! This is going to be so much fun!”

***

The four of you threaded through the crowd toward the dodgem arena, Delirium practically vibrating with glee, Lagertha calm as a battle-seasoned warrior heading into combat.

Dream stopped at the gate, staring at the churning mess of children shrieking with delight as their cars smashed into one another, sparks crackling across the metal floor.

“This is barbaric,” he muttered.

Delirium clapped her hands. “This is perfect!”

The attendant waved you in, ushering each of you toward a brightly painted car. Delirium dove into one striped with neon stars, Lagertha coolly claimed a steel-blue machine, and you tugged Dream toward a crimson car big enough for two.

He sat stiffly beside you, long legs folding awkwardly, his expression thunderous. “I cannot believe I am permitting this indignity.”

You grinned, sliding the wheel into your hands. “Relax. It’ll be fun.”

The buzzer sounded, the arena floor lit up—and immediately another car rammed into yours. The impact jolted you forward with a laugh, but Dream braced as if struck by a battering ram.

“Unacceptable,” he hissed, turning to glare at the giggling teenager who’d hit you.

You laughed harder, steering into the fray. Another car slammed your side, Delirium shrieking with joy as she rammed into you deliberately, her hair flashing neon pink.

“Crash! Smash! Bang! You’re terrible at this, brother!”

Dream’s hands tightened on the side of the car, pale knuckles rigid. “Why would mortals enjoy this?”

“Because it’s fun!” you shouted over the din, veering suddenly to slam into Lagertha’s car. She only arched a brow, steering calmly to hit you back with bone-rattling precision.

Dream exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, but when Delirium swung around to strike again, he leaned his weight forward at the last moment and sent your car barreling sideways into hers.

Delirium shrieked in delighted betrayal, her hair exploding into a rainbow storm. “You cheated!”

You blinked at him, stunned. He sat back, smooth as marble, eyes cool and pale as ever. “I adapted.”

You burst out laughing, clutching the wheel. “Oh my god. You actually like this.”

He sniffed, gaze forward, utterly dignified even as another child’s car clipped yours from behind. “Do not be absurd.”

But the faintest ghost of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth as the buzzer finally sounded and the cars coasted to a stop.

When the buzzer finally sounded, the cars rolled to a halt. Delirium bounced in her seat, shrieking with laughter, her hair fizzing neon green and orange.

“That was the best thing ever! You’re actually fun when you try, brother!”

Dream climbed out with glacial dignity, smoothing his shorter coat as though it could erase the memory of mortal children slamming into him. His pale eyes flicked briefly to you; you caught the faintest shadow of a smile before he smothered it again.

Lagertha was waiting with arms crossed, her expression dry. “Enough of toys,” she declared. “Let’s do something scary.”

You raised your brows, already suspecting trouble. “Scary?”

She tilted her head toward the far side of the fairground, where black banners fluttered and a crooked sign swayed in the breeze, painted in dripping scarlet letters: The House of Nightmares.

Delirium gasped, her hair flashing violet sparks. “Yes! Yes yes yes! The House of Nightmares! It’s perfect—don’t you think it’s perfect?”

Dream’s expression hardened, pale gaze narrowing on the gaudy façade. “…The House of Nightmares,” he repeated, voice cool as stone. “How very… unamusing.”

You bit your lip, already grinning. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

***

The corridor narrowed, lights flashing red, the air thick with smoke and gasoline. Then came the roar—chainsaws, revving in unison. A group of men in blood-streaked masks burst from hidden doors, brandishing the whirring machines.

Delirium shrieked, her hair flaring chartreuse as she clutched your arm. “Too many teeth, too many teeth, too loud—!” she wailed, trying to dart behind you.

Lagertha threw her head back, laughing, the sound like steel ringing in the dark. “Look at them! Mortals dressing up as death itself, and children scream with joy. What a world.”

You glanced sideways at Dream, your pulse still skittering, expecting him to show at least a flicker of alarm. But he stood perfectly still, his pale face unimpressed, shadows coiling faintly at his shoulders.

“This is pathetic,” he said flatly, voice echoing low against the walls.

As if on cue, another figure burst from the shadows—a pale actor draped in torn sheets, face painted gray. He thrust his arms wide, voice cracking through a speaker hidden under his hood.

“I am your worst nightmare!”

Dream didn’t so much as blink. His gaze slid to the specter with all the weight of a king regarding a jester who had overstepped.

“You are not.”

The words rolled cold through the corridor, enough that the actor faltered mid-step, lowering his arms uncertainly. His chainsaw-wielding companions glanced at him, suddenly uneasy, as though the air itself had shifted into something more dangerous than their play-acting.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh, even as Delirium whimpered against your arm and Lagertha barked out another delighted laugh.

The corridor twisted again, deeper into strobe-lit gloom. A bloodied mannequin toppled from the ceiling on a rope, swinging just above your heads. Delirium shrieked and ducked, her hair flashing electric yellow.

Dream didn’t move. His pale eyes tracked the dummy’s swing with the same disdain he might give a broken clock. “Crude. Predictable.”

Next came a sudden spray of mist and a figure lunging with a butcher’s cleaver, shrieking through an echoing speaker. You jumped despite yourself, heart thumping, clutching Dream’s sleeve. He looked down at your hand, then back at the masked actor, unimpressed.

Lagertha laughed louder, shaking her head. “You are impossible to frighten, Dream-king. There is no sport in this.”

She leaned closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “A bet, then. Conjure something that would shame these chainsaw men and their paper phantoms, and we will not drag you to the next ride.”

Delirium gasped, eyes wide and hair spiraling into frantic spirals of pink and blue. “Ooooh a bet! I love bets! Do it, do it, do it!”

For a long beat he only regarded Lagertha, shadows curling faintly at his shoulders. Then his mouth curved in something small and dangerous.

The air thickened. The cheap fog machines hissed weakly, but their mist was swallowed by something heavier, darker. The chainsaw men slowed mid-step, faltering. Even the clown-faced butcher who had been circling froze, his mask tilting as though some instinct screamed wrong.

From the shadows behind them, something uncurled. Too tall for the narrow corridor, it bent at the joints, its spine ridged with thorns. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, lined with rows of glistening teeth. Worse were the whispers—your names, your fears, spilling soft and intimate against your ears. The air carried the chill of grave soil.

It lunged. Not fully, not to harm, but close enough that its claws scraped sparks against the wall. A group of teenagers screamed, shoving one another in their panic as they bolted for the exit, the chainsaw actors scattering with them.

Delirium squealed, burying her face against your arm, her hair flashing violent orange. “Don’t like don’t like don’t like—make it stop—” she babbled.

Lagertha only threw her head back and laughed, clapping Dream hard on the back. “Now that is a fright!”

And Dream—Dream looked amused. The first spark of it since you’d arrived at the fair. His eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, satisfaction curling at the corners of his mouth before he let the creature dissolve back into shadow.

You were still laughing, breathless, when you spilled out into the night air, the fairground lights spinning overhead. “Careful,” you teased, nudging him. “They might want to employ you, and I can’t have that.”

“Could be a fine business model,” Lagertha said with a smirk. “A king of dreams earning coin from haunted houses.”

Morpheus’s face schooled back into severity, but when his gaze caught on the group of teenagers still whispering in awe—already daring each other to line up again—there was no mistaking it. He was proud.

***

After a few more rides and rounds of laughter, the fair tugged you toward its last, brightest corner: the arcade. Neon lights flashed, bells rang, children squealed over jackpots and ticket spills. You wandered past pinball machines and skee-ball lanes until something caught your eye—a glass-fronted claw machine stuffed with gaudy plush animals.

“That one,” you said firmly, tapping the glass.

Dream followed your finger, his pale gaze settling on a slightly crooked bear with a bowtie buried in the pile. He stared at it, then at you, his expression flat with incredulity. “You could have anything you desire in the Dreaming,” he said, voice low with disbelief. “Palaces of gold. Celestial creatures. Treasures beyond—”

“I want him,” you interrupted with a grin.

For a long moment he simply stood there, brooding at the glass box as though it had personally insulted him. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and slid a coin into the slot.

The claw descended, juddered awkwardly, and missed entirely.

You muffled a laugh behind your hand. His jaw tightened. Another coin. Another attempt. This time the claw caught the bear by the arm, only to drop it halfway up. He exhaled sharply, the faintest shadow of irritation flickering across his pale face.

“Morpheus,” you said softly, amusement bubbling through your voice, “you don’t have to—”

“I will,” he cut in, clipped, eyes narrowing as if the dignity of the Endless hung in the balance.

People began to gather, whispering about the tall man in black who was feeding coin after coin into a claw machine with grim, unyielding focus. Each failure only steeled him further. You leaned against the glass, laughing helplessly, while Delirium (who had wandered close, her hair flickering rainbow with glee) whispered, “This is the funniest thing I’ve seen in centuries.”

At last, with the precision of a general conducting war, he aligned the claw, dropped it, and this time it seized the bear’s ear. The claw shuddered, wavered—then held. Slowly, miraculously, it carried the plush to the chute and released it with a soft thunk.

Dream bent to retrieve it, straightening with all the solemnity of a king retrieving a fallen banner. He turned to you, holding out the lopsided bear with grave ceremony. “Your prize.”

You laughed until your sides hurt, tears stinging your eyes, but when you took it from his hands and leaned up to kiss his cheek, his expression softened. For all his irritation, for all his brooding composure, his eyes shone faintly proud.

Delirium clapped her hands, her hair exploding into confetti colors. “Oh my stars, you actually did it! The great and gloomy Dream, conquered by a bear with a bowtie! You’re adorable.”

Lagertha’s mouth curved into a wicked smirk. “I have seen kings fight for crowns with less determination. Truly, Lord of Dreams, this was your greatest battle yet.”

Dream’s jaw tightened, his pale gaze cutting sidelong toward them both. “It was not a battle. It was… a necessity.”

“For love,” Delirium sang, twirling in a whirl of shifting colors.

“For pride,” Lagertha corrected, chuckling darkly.

You hugged the lopsided bear to your chest, grinning up at him. “Either way… you won.”

For just a heartbeat, the faintest curve touched his mouth before he turned away, coat whispering at his heels. The smallest, most reluctant of smiles, but there all the same.

***

After the triumph of the claw machine and more than a few barbed comments at Morpheus’ expense, the four of you drifted toward the food stalls. The fairground air was thick with frying oil and sugar, and eventually hunger won out. You and Delirium shared a paper cone of hot chips dripping with vinegar, while Lagertha chose a sausage roll that disappeared in two sharp bites. Morpheus, predictably, took nothing—though he sat with you at the picnic table beneath a flapping striped awning, watching with faint disapproval as grease stained your fingers.

When the food was gone and the worst of the grease wiped from your hands, you strolled further down the fair’s midway. Bright banners gave way to darker colors, strings of beads clicking softly in the breeze. A crooked little tent sat wedged between a shooting gallery and a stall selling paper lanterns, its flap painted with a gaudy eye and curling letters: Fortunes Told Within.

Morpheus slowed, his gaze catching on the crooked tent wedged between stalls, pale eyes narrowing with that particular disdain he reserved for things he found beneath him. The flap was painted with a gaudy eye, curling letters declaring Fortunes Told Within. The beads strung over the entrance clicked in the breeze like teeth.

“Why,” he murmured, voice cool as stone, “would one who truly knew fate waste their gift in a place such as this?”

You grinned, brushing past the dangling beads as they rattled against your shoulder without breaking stride. “Because it’s a scam. Obviously.”

The flap stirred, and a woman emerged. Heavy eyeliner, shawl of violent purple, bangles that chimed when she pointed at you. “Hey, hey, lady—this is not a scam. I do hand readings, card readings… and dream readings.”

Morpheus’ head turned sharply, attention fixing on her like a blade unsheathed. “Dream readings?” he repeated, clipped, pale eyes narrowing.

She nodded, emboldened. “Yes. I look at the dreams you forget in the morning. From them, I can foretell the future.”

His coat stirred as if in a draught. He stepped closer, voice low and cutting. “Dreams hold truths, yes. But true visions of what is yet to be are rare. And never gifted to ones such as you.”

The woman bristled, lifting her chin. “You’d be surprised what I can see. Dreams whisper things people don’t even know themselves. I give prophecy.”

Lagertha barked a laugh, folding her arms with relish. “Then prove it. Read hers.”

The fortune-teller’s gaze darted to you. “Thirty pounds. I’ll read her dreams. Her fortune too.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, thanks. Really—”

But Delirium squealed, bouncing on her toes, hair flashing bright candy-pink. “Oh yes yes yes! Do it, do it!”

Between Delirium’s pleading and Lagertha’s smirk, you groaned and dropped into the rickety chair. Morpheus remained standing behind you, silent and looming, his patience stretched thin.

The woman caught your hand in hers, tracing the lines with theatrical solemnity. “You will be married soon,” she announced.

You giggled, lifting your hand so the ring caught the light. Dream’s pale eyes narrowed faintly, unimpressed, the corners of his mouth hard as stone.

“And you will have a child—very soon.”

Delirium let out a shriek of delight, her hair bursting gold. “A baby! A baby! Oh, I knew it!”

Your giggle bubbled again, but this time you caught Morpheus’ reaction—his jaw tightening ever so slightly, shadows curling at the edge of his shorter coat. He gave the fortune-teller a look sharp enough to cut.

“You will live to eighty-six.”

That time you laughed outright, biting your lip to keep from grinning too wide. Morpheus exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze lowering as though the entire charade insulted him personally.

Then his voice cut across the tent, low and precise. “Tell me, then. What was the last dream she does not remember?”

The woman faltered, her bracelets jingling as she reached for confidence. “She was in… a meadow. Roses all around her. A sign of eternal love.”

His eyes gleamed, cold fire. “You are wrong. The last dream she had, which she did not remember, was of walking naked through my throne room.”

Your head snapped around, face burning. “Shut up!”

Delirium collapsed in a fit of squeals outside the tent, her hair sparking rainbow. Lagertha threw her head back, laughing so hard it echoed through the fairground. The fortune-teller’s mouth opened and closed, speechless.

Morpheus simply stood there, unbothered, the faintest curl of satisfaction at his mouth as if he had merely corrected a child’s mistake.

Before you could drag him out, Morpheus moved past you and lowered himself into the chair opposite the fortune-teller. The rickety table suddenly looked too small for him, the shadows clinging to his shoulders crowding the gaudy shawls and incense smoke.

Her eyes went strange at once, pupils widening as if some vast pressure bore down unseen. Beads above the tent flap rattled though no breeze stirred.

Your stomach dropped. “What are you doing??”

His gaze never left her, pale and endless, a tide that allowed no resistance. “Making certain she does not deceive anyone else with her lies.”

The fortune-teller’s breath hitched. Her eyelids fluttered, body sagging as though strings had been cut.

“Sleep,” Morpheus commanded, voice low as the undertow. “Your fortune-telling days are ended. You will return the money you have taken, to each and every one you deceived.”

Half in a daze, the woman’s hands fumbled at the cash box. She plucked out the thirty Lagertha had laid down and pressed it wordlessly into the shield-maiden’s palm.

Lagertha blinked, then grinned, tucking the note away with relish. “Best investment I’ve made all week.”

The fortune-teller rose, weaving unsteadily toward the curtain. Through the clinking beads you glimpsed her shuffling into the crowd, already thrusting crumpled bills into bewildered fairgoers’ hands, her painted shawl slipping askew as she moved from person to person.

You turned back to him, aghast. “You can’t just—”

But he was already standing, the shorter coat whispering like wings behind him, utterly unrepentant. “I can.”

***

The four of you spilled back into the sunlight, beads clattering shut behind you. The smells of fried dough and sugar came rushing back, too bright and ordinary after what had just transpired.

Delirium practically bounced at your side, her hair flaring neon-pink and yellow in dizzy spirals. “A baby! A baby! She said you’re going to have a baby!” she squealed, clutching your arm and twirling you in a circle before you could protest. “Ohhh, I’ll make tiny dream-cloud mobiles and paint the nursery walls with stars—this is the best day ever!”

Morpheus’ voice cut through her squeals, level and unamused. “She was a fraud. There will be no child.”

Delirium froze mid-spin, blinking at him, her hair shifting into puzzled seafoam green. “How would you know?”

You nearly choked, heat flooding your face. “Del!”

Lagertha’s laughter cracked sharp as steel. She leaned back on her heels, eyes glinting with wicked delight. “He would know,” she drawled, “because he’d be part of the baby-making process.”

Your face went crimson. “Lagertha!”

Delirium squealed even louder, her hair flashing candy-striped pink and blue. “Oooohhh! She’s right, she’s right, she’s right!”

Morpheus only closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, unamused, though a faint shadow of color touched the edges of his pale face. His coat stirred in the breeze as he strode ahead, unflinching, while you trailed after him clutching the lopsided bear to your chest, cheeks still burning.

***

The sun slid lower, gold pooling on the river as the fair’s noise thinned into evening chatter. By unspoken consent (and Delirium’s insistent chant of “tacos tacos tacos”), you drifted off the grounds and down a side street strung with papel picado—bright cut-paper banners fluttering over a little Mexican cantina spilling music and warmth onto the footpath.

Inside, everything was colour and sizzle: cumin and char, grilled corn and lime; a griddle hissing as the cook flipped tortillas with a snap of the wrist. You were seated at a tiled table beneath a painted sun, fairy lights catching in Delirium’s hair until it shimmered like sugared glass.

Lagertha claimed the tequila menu with a warrior’s focus. “Three shots,” she told the server, “and whatever you call the hottest thing you’re legally allowed to serve.” She glanced at you, smirking. “For… scientific inquiry.”

Delirium bounced, already pointing at a rainbow of sauces. “And chips! And guac! And the red stuff that looks like lava but tastes like fireworks that forgot their manners!”

Dream sat with austere composure, shorter coat folded neatly across the back of his chair, hands resting together as though presiding over a council rather than a dinner. The server set down a basket of tortilla chips and a trio of salsas. Steam curled from a small bowl the colour of stop signs and poor decisions.

You broke a chip, scooped bravely, and popped it between your teeth. Heat blossomed like a sunrise with a vendetta. Your eyes watered at once.

“Do not,” Dream began dryly, “pretend you enjoy—”

You grabbed his t-shirt, dragged him in, and kissed him—fast, laughing against his surprised mouth, the sting of chili sparking across your lips. His inhale met the heat; his hand lifted, inexorable, fingers spreading along your jaw as if to anchor you there. When you pulled back, breathless and wiping at your eyes, his expression had altered by the smallest, most treacherous degree.

“…Spicy,” he said, faintly baffled.

“Fireworks,” Delirium declared, dunking an unholy amount and hissing with delight. “It tastes like the sun is telling secrets.”

Lagertha downed a tequila, slammed the glass, and bit into a lime with a satisfied hum. “Better than the fair’s sausages. Bring the warrior food.”

Plates arrived in a cheerful parade: tacos piled in crisp little rows—al pastor with caramelised pineapple, carnitas with pickled onions, grilled fish under a snowfall of cabbage and crema. Street corn arrived lacquered in butter and cotija, lime halves like green moons along the rim. Dream regarded it all as if the table had presented him with a riddle.

“Try this,” you urged, tucking a taco into his hand. “Bite.”

He inspected the tortilla as if verifying its metaphysics, then obeyed. The first mouthful slowed him; the second, he considered. The third disappeared with clean, meticulous efficiency.

“This preparation,” he pronounced, “honours the thing it once was.”

Lagertha barked a laugh. “He likes it.”

Delirium had migrated half into your lap to tell a story about a mariachi band that had once followed a comet for three months. “They learned all the star’s favourite songs; it liked the ones with trumpets best.” Then she gasped and pointed at the dessert menu. “Churros! Churros are just sticks that learned to dream about cinnamon!”

You ordered them to placate the cosmos. When they came—hot, sugared, with a little bowl of chocolate—you broke one in half and held it to Dream’s mouth. He accepted it, eyes on yours, and chewed with ceremonial gravity.

“…Sweet,” he murmured again, a private echo of the cotton candy, and this time the word warmed something low in your chest.

The tequila made Lagertha philosophical. She leaned back, watching the room with battle-easy contentment. “You two,” she said, tilting her head at your intertwined hands beneath the table, “will be very annoying to protect.”

“We don’t need protecting,” you protested, squeezing his fingers.

Dream’s thumb traced along your knuckles, absent and absolute. “She does not. Yet I will.”

Delirium sighed happily and sprinkled a line of cinnamon sugar along the table like a galaxy. “I’m going to paint stars on the nursery walls anyway. Maybe I’ll make the ceiling hum a lullaby that sounds like rain on tin. Babies like tin.”

“There will be no child,” Dream said automatically, but there was less iron in it now—only a reflex laid gently on the table like cutlery.

You nudged his knee with yours, catching his pale gaze and holding it, a smile tugging faintly at your lips. “Maybe one day there will be. In a couple of years or so.”

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