Lena
Mattias knows he's dreaming. 

It's one of those nights. The noise is loud. Flies are hiding from street lamps, wasted teens (probably Margo) shirking the iron spotlight of campus staff. Sometimes, something more sinister. He can hear a door rattling, the clunk of heavy machinery when he knows no construction should be happening. Matti shuts his eyes. 

He can't.

He never can, in these kinds of dreams. He gazes up into the ceiling and starts counting popcorn kernels again, in clusters. *Five, ten, twenty, fourty, eighty, one hundred sixty.* He reaches... He reaches... 

A part of him doesn't want to continue counting. There have been nights like this too, where he's restless and tired and the pit of knowledge in his chest corrupts the flesh of his heart. He doesn't want to do this. He knows he's only prolonging the inevitable. But sometimes, the time he earns now, staring at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom with mind blessedly blank, is worth the extra hours that come of what's after. The moments, the minutes, of imagining standing up, walking around. Touching the worn spot on his dresser where he had left water for too long. Pulling the sky blue covers off and using them to cover every picture he'd drawn and hung in his room. He imagines destroying it, in those stolen, procrastinating moments, but find there is not much to destroy. He spends this time scrubbing at the ceiling, wondering how long it will take until it is shiny and smooth. 

Still, his guard is up, like matted fur raising on a cat. Eventually, he knows, it will come. 

He buries the bone-deep, rib tearing terror by counting again.

The task is mind numbing like it always is, and still he thinks if he could move he would be shaking. Ever number he recites is another step closer to a beast's gaping maw, one he can see from far away and approaches all the same. He's never seen the rest of it, and wonders at the thought from *Six hundred, six hundred and one,* To *Six hundred ninety eight, six hundred ninety nine, seven hundred, seven hundred and one, seven hundred and two*. He can picture it easily enough, but his mind continues to twist its form. Once, the face connects to long, spindly legs. Corkscrewed with bones jutting out at odd angles. Blood dripping lacerated feet. Another, and it's a spider, a cruel, long, twisting black mass with legs that hide in the shadows of his room to trap Matti in its web. Again, and it is the hand of god, showing Mattias his fate should he fail.

*Nine hundred and ninety five.* He counts, body tense like a live wire and mind aching, ready for the terror. His last moment, his eleventh hour. Another number, and it's in his room. Another number, and it's next to him. But at nine hundred and ninety five, he stands on the edge of the cliff, torn between certain death and a moment paused forever. 

*Nine hundred and ninety six*. The door creaks open. He feels sick.
Marcella
*Where had they been pulled to this time...* 

It hadn't happened for a long, long time. One moment, they were getting ready for bed, brushing their teeth in the bathroom sink while humming a jaunty French tune. The next, they felt a tug at the base of their brain, as something *Cried out.* It was an immediate change; the light dimmed from their eyes, limbs giving out as they fell to the tiled floor, unconscious.

It had happened often enough to where Uriel knew what to do— raise their arms to protect their head, tuck their neck to avoid a nasty cut on their forehead. It was lucky, then, that they weren't awake for when they finally impacted the floor. When they fell, they opened their eyes to a different place— no, a different *World*. 

Dark, ominous, *Fear*. The fear rolled off the scene in waves; thick, soul-stopping impulses of panic, the kind of fear that melted your resolve and forced the inner child within to cower and cry for help. 

A successful cry for help, Uriel thinks, watching with half-lidded eyes as the monster approaches the figure cowering in bed. 

*Oh dear, a nightmare.* It's not spoken by Uriel, but it rings out through the dreamscape nonetheless. It's distinctly *Foreign*, not a product of whatever familiar dream Matti's brain was currently playing over and over. No, it's unexpected, too clear and lucid to be just a figment of Matti's imagination. 

It was apparent something— or someone— else was here. 

*Let's do away with this, shall we?* A figure materializes by the door, only the barest details of wispy white hair neatly tied in a braid visible from the darkness of the bedroom. 

In the moonlight, the white almost seemed to glow. For a moment, it looked ethereal. 

A small, content hum rings out, as the figure's gloved hands flick the light-switch on. The shadowy mass of creature, before cloaked in the dark, creeping, foreboding corners of the person's vision, is stripped bare of its disguise as the bedroom lights are *Thrust* Onto it.
Lena
Mattias blinked against the sudden light, but moreso, the sudden change. He knew what came next, what had come next for thousands of nights in the past. He knew that the not-Mattias was coming, that it would loom over him and try to cry. He tried to wipe phantom shards of glass from his face and— and to his surprise, his hands moved. Caught in the sudden euphoria of freedom and hesitant relief of a monster-less room, he sat up with a start, looking down at his hands and body. His form flickered between the one he knew and the one he remembered, from years and years ago: the child's form, the one who wore no sunglasses and donned no hat, whose hair was pinned up with hair clips and flowers, the one who was every vulnerability Mattias had ever known. The flashing switches gave him vertigo, and he looked away. 

Matti was never truly at ease; always some part lurked within him, terrified at the very prospect of the world. Usually that part ruled him, in these nightmares, but now it was silent. Rather than relaxing, Matti felt uneasy. The fear was a predator, one that feasted on his psyche. The only times predators fled was in the face of a larger predator.

Mattias looked towards the doorway. 

The figure there was foreign, but familiar the way people in dreams always are. They felt much farther than the scant feet from the bedframe to the doorframe, and simultaneously uncomfortably close, like sitting next to a fire with a blanket on. They were soft, the edges of their existence esoteric and blurred. And most importantly, they radiated a kind of pure power Matti had never seen before.

Mattias coughed, if only to prove he could. His voice has hoarse from tightly-held terror and unshed tears as he croaked out- "*Have I failed?*" His voice flickered between his own and that of a child's, the two layered on top of one another like twin echoes. "*Have I failed? Are you here to get me?*" 

There was only one explanation for a divine being standing before him. He had failed to See, and now he was going to be killed. It made sense— all knowing deities could likely hardly keep defective products around. Still, he distantly wished he knew what he'd done wrong. Making friends with Gabriel and Margo, possibly. *Interfering*. He kept his eyes cast to the ground, unwilling to meet the angel-creature's eyes. He felt no fear. It was probably futile in the face of an existence that could kill him with a thought. It was... Nice, though. In his dreams, he was always scared. It would be nice to die calm, feeling safe.
Marcella
With the creature vanquished, disintegrated by the sheer force from the bedroom light, Uriel turned to look at the figure sitting upright. 

Whoever it was, their voice wavered as terror temporarily took hold. They could *Sense* It, the shadowy edges of the dream creeping back in as the mental state of the source began to waver. 

It wouldn't do, not at all. Their snow-white eyelashes fluttered closed for a the briefest of moments, before the dream changed with Uriel's whims. 

The pull of a string visible to only Uriel; a deep orange one emblazoned with the word *Comfort*. As they began to weave, the sun began to rise in the sky, filling the room with a warm, almost nostalgic light. The shadows grew less harsh, gashes of deep black washed out and softened like a Polaroid left in the sun. Sweet, sepia tones, the faint buzzing of bees and the quiet lulling of an early Sunday afternoon. 

"*You're safe,*" Uriel approached the figure like one would a nervous cat— slowly, softly, with hands raised to signal that no harm would be done to them.

"*You're safe, the shadows are no more. You may rest your weary soul. There is nothing to fear.*" They take a seat on the edge of the flickering person's bed— a small pull, and the name *Matti* Floats to the top of their consciousness, a faint murmur spoken by an unknown, garbled mix of adult voices. 

"*You're safe, Matti. There's nothing to fear, alright?*"

Low, soothing, delivered with their heavy French accent. Hopefully, the constant reassurance that there was nothing to fear would quell the terrified expression on the other's face.
Lena
Almost against their will— but no, this was the will of the angel, so they didn't resist— they felt comfort and calm seep down into their bones, settling them. Their body stopped flickering, and in their mind they saw themself small. Not as small as the child with butterfly clips in their hair, but not quite the teen who covered their face to hide from the world. *When did you feel safe?* The angel's tapestry seemed to ask. *When did you last feel **Safe***? And then they were ten, maybe twelve. Black hair ties around their wrists, fingers smudged with bright ink. They were nervous, but they didn't shrink from everything. 

Their bedroom had never been this way— soft with light and color. Maybe that's what made it feel safe, now. The world was ethereal, blurred from the edges of their dream. It was like nothing they'd ever known.

"You're not here to kill me," They said, in the matter-of-fact way they did when they were ten or maybe twelve. "Are you? I thought you might be, because I failed my mission. To watch. But you probably wouldn't go through all this trouble to make me feel better if you were just going to kill me. To end the nightmare. So what do you want?" 

They paused, and their mind was fuzzy. Muddled. Someone who was protecting them. Who made them feel safe. Who knew their name. Looking at the figure, a connection refused to be made within their mind. Something they weren't realizing. Maybe...?

"Are you my god?" They asked. "The one who chose me?"

The thought was fuzzy in their mind. Maybe they should be kneeling? That seemed like something to do, when you met god. Even if the figure was only an angel (*Only an angel, what a sentence*), it felt... Heretical to converse with them casually. They kept their eyes down, traced the outline of an eye on the back of their hand.
Marcella
Uriel blinked in bewilderment as Matti began to talk. Whatever they had been expecting to come from the kid's mouth, it wasn't *That.* For a moment, the dream stuttered, buffering like a video with poor connection— until their confusion subsided, and the scene returned to normal.

"A god? No, no, I'm nothing of the sort." A polite, airy laugh, and Uriel covered their mouth in amusement as they crossed their leg over their other. What Matti said wasn't funny, but the insinuation they were something derivative of divine caught them off guard enough to force a laugh from their sternum. 

"You... Hm, I suppose it would be accurate to call me your classmate." They let out a small, nonchalant hum, idly toying with the scenery in tandem with their tiny tune. The dream was *Moving*— constantly shifting, the edges ebbing and flowing like a tapestry gently waving in the wind. 

"As for why I'm here..." A red string wrapped itself around Uriel's finger, knotting against their knuckle before fading away and dissolving into their skin. As it dissolves, the edges of *Uriel* Begin to solidify, the separation between their form and Matti's mind becoming more distinct, almost jarring against the watercolor-like background of the hazy summer afternoon.

"Would you believe me if I said I got lost?" 

It wasn't inaccurate— they were pulled somewhere unfamiliar and strange, forced to bear witness to emotions and events that didn't belong to them. Things they *Shouldn't* Have seen, things that were best laid tucked neatly under the floorboards or next to the skeletons residing in the closet. 

They watched Matti with pallid, quiet eyes, waiting with baited breath for how the other would react to the news.
Lena
Oh. *Oh.* Of course. There was no way a *God* Would come down for the sake of someone like Mattias, even if only in a dream. But if they were no god, and from the sound of it, not an angel either, they had to be human. More accurately, *Parahuman*. An angelic parahuman, who "Got lost" And stumbled into their dream: in other words, immensely powerful. Matti felt sick to their stomach. 

"*Uriel?*" They gasped for air, panic sloshing in their stomach and making them dizzy. "You're- you're *Uriel?*" 

This, *This* Was a death they were not ready for. To die for their god, because of their incompetence, it was an honor, and a punishment they deserved. But to die here? At the hands of someone they had tried dutifully to avoid, that they'd attempted to prevent from angering, from talking to at all— *They had done everything right*, why was Uriel still here? 

"*Please,*" They choked out, lungs once again heavy and still. "*Please don't kill me. I'm not done. I promise- I'm not done.*" If their god was watching, maybe they'd intervene. Matti still had work to do, if they weren't gone by now. But, but, maybe they'd *Been* Watching, and they'd been insulted. That Mattias confused Uriel for whoever they were. They cast their eyes skyward, as if they could stare into the popcorn ceiling that haunted their dreams and be absolved of sin, like the sunlight that streamed through the window could be a kind of new baptism, bathing them with light. *Please. Not like this.* Their eyes were creased closed. They hadn't tried to use their Sight, and wouldn't, not if it would eliminate whatever slim chance they had to get out of this alive. 

Mattias' form flickered again, back in their body. Tall, and clumsy, and so very afraid. Blood welled from where their nails dug into their arms, hunched over, and the droplets glittered in the dying sunlight. In their heaving breaths, their head bowed, and vaguely Matti felt as a criminal might, placing their head under the blade of the guillotine.
Marcella
"You seem shocked. Why?" Uriel's head tilted, low, French-accented voice barely more than a murmur.

Somehow, it seemed the news that they were not, in fact, a divine being made Matti's mental state *Worse.* In fact, as Matti began to hyperventilate, the thought suddenly struck them: the news that they were *Uriel* Seemed to scare Matti more than the nightmare did.
 
"You know my name, and what I do— and yet you're still under the impression I would harm another person." White eyebrows knitted together, pulling Uriel's face into an expression of discontent. "Is that what the people here say about me?"

Not just harm— Matti was under the impression Uriel was a *Killer*, someone who would attack an innocent in the confines of their own mind. It sent shivers down their spine, a familiar type of sickness clawing at the confines of their stomach and turning their insides out. Being doubted, being *Feared*— perhaps someone weak of heart would revel in the feeling of inspiring fear, but Uriel dreaded their moments of accidental voyeurism. 

How many times had this scenario played out before? People screaming at them, pleading for them to *Get out of their head, please*, before waking up and cowering from them? Or, worse, hearing whispers about the weird, albino child who lived at the edge of town and turning defensive; old, worn, grizzled hands of a father pushed over the edge by his daughter's complaints of being watched in her sleep, in her *Head*, pointing at tiny Uriel and screaming to *Stay the fuck away from my family, and the rest of this town while you can.*

No. Uriel shook their head, scattering whatever memories laid at the end of those stray threads of thought. It wasn't the time to dwell on matters of the past, only focus on the present. 

*Do they all fear you behind your back...?* 

Despite Uriel's best efforts, the age-old question bubbled up to the surface of their head, and they couldn't quite bring themselves to look away from it.
Lena
Matti shook with the effort of staying still— it was almost like some large, cosmic joke that they weren't a part of. In their nightmares, they trembled with effort to move. Here, they were doing all the could to freeze themself in place. Uriel was powerful, and powerful people were cruel and dangerous. But now, in front of them, they sounded... Sad. And concerned. 

Still, they understood what Margo and Gabe had meant now. In this moment, it felt like they would do *Anything* To suck in even one more dream-air filled breath, to live to wake up and clutch their pillow and cry like they usually did. Even lie. But if they were going to die anyway (it didn't *Sound* Like they were going to die, for some reason. Maybe Uriel was bound by some restriction. Maybe *They* Were being controlled, directed, just like Matti was), they'd rather not betray themself in their last moments. 

"No one says anything about you. Margo said good things. Said that you were kind. I assumed she'd been—" It sounded stupid now that they were being forced to say it out loud, but still they pushed the words from their lips, and it felt like a dam was broken. Like ears popping after an altitude change. "I assumed that she'd been manipulated, since she wasn't lying. You use a façade, and I know— knew, I knew that nothing good lied. Nobody good. And I knew you were powerful. It wasn't that hard to connect the dots. But." Matti paused. This part, they had not had time to think about. There were no pages of reliable dark blue ink to fall back on, to catch them and guide their words. Still, some incomprehensible power seemed to keep their thoughts flowing from their mind to their mouth, still trembling, speaking in a rush of breath and inference.

"I might be wrong. I assumed— everyone I've ever met before with power, they hurt. Hurt you with it. It doesn't matter who you are, or who they are. You mentioned in one of your messages you knew about pulling stitches in a fight. So. You were powerful, which is dangerous, and you'd fought before." 

They inhaled, a stuttering intake of breath that seemed to pull in their whole body in addition to just air. Mattias forced themself to look up, and try to meet Uriel's eyes. They couldn't, ultimately, but in the normal way they couldn't look at anyone most of the time. 

"People don't. Tend to want me alive. Or able to speak. If they know what I can do. I thought that since you were here, you might be coming to kill me. If you're not god, I mean." 

As they exhaled, they shed some sort of invisible skin that had been wrapped around them, their shoulders settling and tremors finally subsiding the longer they spoke (the longer they remained alive *To* Speak). 

"You're not god, or from them, right? You said you weren't, but—" They cut themself off, sudden strange boldness faltering. It was... Disappointing, now that they weren't in imminent danger of death. At least if their god had come to kill them, they'd be *There*, present, and speaking. At least they'd be, well. Paying attention to them. Even within the containment of their dream, Matti could feel the blurring of their form, the paranormal tendency to fade into the background amplified by their surroundings. 

"Never mind. You're... Not terrible. Terrifying, I mean. I don't *Think* You'll kill me, after meeting you."
Marcella
*Margo said good things.* It's the tiniest comment, but the parts of Uriel's brain stressing over familiar anxieties latch onto the soundbite with tiny clutches. Instantly, their old internal monologue about being feared dissolves, fading back into the darkest recesses of Uriel's mind. It's quelled for now, but they knew it would come back eventually, when their state of mind faltered— it always did.

"Fought before...? Pulling stitches?" Uriel thinks to themselves, gloved hand on their chin as they attempted to recall the old intranet conversation. 

"...Oh, I see. You mean *This*." 

There was a small bit of hesitation as they lifted the edges of their shirt and poncho up to their stomach, a faint dusting of embarrassment discoloring the tips of their ears. It was worth it to quell Matti's anxieties about their character, but... The motion was strange and foreign, and it wasn't aided by the fact Uriel didn't particularly *Enjoy* Revealing the scar. It was an ugly thing, a dark, discolored *Dent* On their hip, marring otherwise pallid and smooth skin. The mark of poorly done stitches marred and disfigured the edges of an old injury's ghost, the memory of pain leaving its physical mark on Uriel's body. 

"These are the stitches I was referring to. It wasn't a fight in any sense of the word." They can barely force the words out, the attempt to voice a memory long buried deep tinting their voice with smooth, low bitter-sweetness.

"I was young. I peered in on a classmate's dream, and saw she was being... Hurt, at home. I confronted her the next day, pleading with her to seek the authorities after her class had let out, and..."

*And I failed.* The continuation is on the tip of Uriel's tongue, only held at bay as they abruptly clear their throat, the sudden noise cutting through the heavy silence like a knife.

"I pushed too hard. She became panicked. The possibility of being removed from her family, dysfunctional as it was, must've sparked a fight or flight response. She had scissors in her hand, and the next moment... I don't think she truly realized what she did until afterwards, when she ran away and cried. I stitched myself up, but they were a poor job, shoddy from the adrenaline and pain in my system. I ended up tearing them in my sleep, and my mother had to send me to the hospital."

Timid hands slowly lower their shirt back down. 

"It's a testament, more than anything— a promise, a reminder of what happens when you try and pry in places where you don't belong. People fear things who know too much, and that terror can so quickly turn into anger. It seems that you know that fact, too." 

Matti's views on people with power were familiar. Too familiar, aching Uriel's heart with displeasure and sympathy forged through years of tiptoeing around other people and their confusing, strange emotions.

They reached a small hand out towards Matti; not touching them, not close to, but a gentle hand placed on the surface of the bed halfway between the two. A gesture brimming with sympathy yet halted by the fear of overstepping, of discomfort caused by the already intense intimacy of being in someone else's head.

"I couldn't kill you while in your dreams, if that's any consolation. There's no possibility I could harm you physically in this world. Or in any other world— I'm quite weak, after all."

They attempt a breathy hum of amusement, if only to hammer in how ludicrous it would be for them to harm someone else. Uriel doesn't mention the importance of the word *Physically* In their sentence— they're positive it would spark nothing but resentment and terror in the other, and they weren't too keen on reminding Matti about the vulnerabilities someone being inside of your head truly entailed.

It might have been Matti's mind, but it was *Their* Realm— and the less that fact went noticed, the better.
Lena
*People fear things who know too much, and that terror can so quickly turn into anger.*

And god, if Mattias didn't know the gravity of those words. They fought against a whirlpool of memories, each one aching to make them feel sympathy for the person in front of them who had clearly gone through similar things. Matti had been, comparatively, lucky. They'd been relatively young, with few physical incidents, when they'd learned to keep their eyes closed and mouth shut. They glanced at Uriel's hand with a wary, hopeful gaze. They hadn't missed the implication— the one that while Uriel couldn't hurt them *Physically* They could hurt them *Mentally*. But they appreciated the combined attempt at consolation and honesty. Uriel was dangerous, that much was true. But, maybe. 

Mattias mentally updated their level to a four in their mind. *Doing harm would take effort, with a strong dislike of harming people.*

Maybe it was supposed to feel uncomfortable, having someone else in your mind, driving it, *Controlling* It. Matti wasn't so naïve to believe that this was manipulating their actual psyche, but they were under no false belief that this was *Their* Space. Still, it wasn't as jarring as they'd expected. They felt as though their mind was elastic, stretching to accommodate the energy coursing through Uriel's constructed dream. But it was a familiar kind of stretch, the ritual kind, whenever they Looked. Maybe it wasn't so uncomfortable to have someone invading your head when it happened every day.

They felt a vague regret. Really, nothing so bad had happened to them yet. Uriel had even stopped the nightmare— something Mattias hadn't been able to achieve in close to eight years of trying. But they'd clearly been... Uncomfortable, and upset by Matti's assumption that they were a killer, and somehow, that they were divine. Mattias still couldn't shake the feeling that there *Was* Something divine about the other person, but then again, they supposed angels couldn't go around telling people their true identity. 

"I'm sorry that incident hurt you. And I'm sorry that my actions— my assumptions— hurt you as well. I can see you're unlikely to harm me, after having interacted with you." 

They knew it wasn't... Much. Certainly not as stable as the comfort Uriel had given them. But they couldn't lie, couldn't say that they were sorry every hurt had happened, and that they regretted trying to stay alive.
Marcella
"Hm?"

That was unexpected. Matti was apologizing? For what, Uriel could not fathom; Matti hadn't done anything wrong, only reacting to the scenario the same way any human would. Their only conceivable sin — if you could even call it that — had been begging for their life.

"No, no, please don't apologize. In fact, I believe it would be more worrying if the concept of someone... Ah, wandering into your head while you slept was a normal, everyday affair. It's perfectly reasonable that you'd be taken off guard and frightened." 

It was... *Concerning*. Fear brought out the essence of a person, that much Uriel knew first-hand. When Matti felt the imaginary blade of an executioner's axe, their voice had been so, so soft, their eyes unable to meet Uriel's as they apologized for sins not committed and sacred duties not upheld. Uriel saw a part of Matti's soul, and it was *Fragile*. So fragile. 

They couldn't do much, at the end of the day. It wasn't Uriel's place to ask about the guilt that burdened Mattias' psyche, or coerce the other into confronting their nightmares. That was up to Matti, and Uriel was content with playing a supporting role.

They couldn't do much, yes, *But...*

"What would you like to see? I know we're still in your bedroom currently, but this *Is* A dream. I can make it anything, before I leave you back to your peaceful slumber." Uriel's hands idly plucked at the covers of the bed, and for a moment, they *Shimmered*, revealing their true nature for a split second— not a solid yet constantly shifting piece of fabric, but a series of infinitesimally small interwoven strings.

Slumber. 

*Slumber.*

Oh, right.

"...Hm. Now that I say that... I'm reminded of the fact my body is currently laying unconscious on the third floor bathroom." Uriel's face forms a perfect O, the sudden care about their current worldly position and the possibility of *Bleeding out on the tile floor* A very obvious afterthought.

.

Oh well. They didn't particularly pay importance to the injuries or intricates of their physical body. It didn't matter too much, after all. They were more alive *Here* Than in the waking world, and here, they could be anything. What was their physical body, if not a vessel to cart their mind around? So long as their physical state wasn't in dire condition, the possibility of potential injury from instantly falling asleep failed to spark panic in their mind.

"I do hope Oliver doesn't have to sweep around me again, or that I didn't drop my toothbrush on the floor..."
Lena
Internally Matti smiled, before letting it peek through onto their expression. Considering the nightmare they'd been having before Uriel had arrived— well, it wasn't 'other' people that had invaded their mind as they slept. But their thoughts weren't exactly their own. Still, the denial of their apologies lightened their mood and soothed the rest of their worries, shade on skin cracked and sunburned. *Finally, someone who might understand.* 

And they seemed so similar, Mattias and Uriel. They both saw things others kept close, things no-one wanted to be seen. The control they had over their powers were limited; Uriel referenced "Stumbling" Into their dream by accident. Here. Someone who understood the oppressive terror, the walls piled high to keep trespassers out. The nights staring at their hands, wondering why they only ever seemed to hurt. Looking at Uriel was like looking in a funhouse mirror. A little warped. Light refracting. A reflection of what Mattias could have been. The moments of fear felt alien and distant— ironically, like the foggy notions of a dream. Instead, they basked in the presence of someone who held no ire towards them, who saw what they were and acknowledged it, not for power or obligation, but for the sake of soft feelings buried and resurfaced like a martyr in a thorn crown.

"*What would you like to see,*" Uriel had gifted them. The ability to be free, to be safe, even for only a moment. Mattias made eye contact, and couldn't imagine anything else they'd ever wanted. 

*Don't hate me,* They asked silently. *When you see everything else that I am.* Uriel glowed like a lightning bug, soft under the dark caress of night. They shone like a thousand, like a swarm, like the quiet-givings over to comforting insignificance. To be one among many, to sleep beneath the protection of a being, not angel but angelic. Matti longed to close their eyes in the presence of this greater mind.

The bonds they had forged in the past few days were the only treasure they'd ever owned, and they lamented that it couldn't be held in their hands, kept safe or hidden away. This lightness they could covet only in the cavity of their chest, in the place love used to lie, the vacant bed it left behind. 

They stifled a laugh— a real, genuine laugh— swirled it with concern and whipped cream before throwing it into the world. They found another source of kinship there, in the spill of happiness and malt, in Uriel's unmasked surprise at their own disregard. It came at the cost of worry, of the image of their new friend's body still and unmoving on some dirty tiled floor. Part of it itched, and Matti would have ached to wake and find them if it didn't mean sacrificing *This*, the time in the smooth glowing sunlight, in the warmth that spread down their spine. Uriel didn't seem concerned, though, so they let the thoughts retreat slowly into now-comforting darkness. 

"Is it alright for you to be here?" They asked, partly from courtesy. "I appreciate your company, possibly more than you could ever know," (that was a lie. It *Was* More than they could know, more than Uriel could ever comprehend) "But I don't want you to be hurt because you were— as I understand it— forced into my dream." 

*That* Left a bitter taste that they refused to swallow in the back of their throat, the sour remnant of biting a lemon through the peel. The idea that Uriel was here because they had to be, and that all this had been impersonal kindness and nothing more. It was still more than Uriel would give them knowing (*Knowing how they were, all of it*), but Matti guarded it zealously all the same, the way that they stole away the words "*Margo. Honest.*" And kept an inking of an empty spotlight nestled at the crook of their arm. They forced themself to relax, slumping shoulders, settling their weight back into the sturdy frame of their bed.
Marcella
"Whether or not it's alright for me to be here is up to *You*, Matti. It is your mind, after all— and therefore, your rules, no?" 

Uriel gave Matti a small, amused hum, eyes closing momentarily as their white eyelashes fluttered together. Of course, they couldn't fault the other for not knowing the etiquette of mind intrusion. It was an area of expertise Uriel was uniquely skilled with, as depressing as that was.

"I'm here to provide whatever is needed of me. If that's a nice chat, or a pleasant dream... So be it." Uriel waves a hand, and the ground below the bed begins to fall apart. Green shoots of grass sprout forth from between the wooden floorboards, consuming the land under the two in the thick, mossy forest floor. 

*I appreciate your company, possibly more than you could ever know*. They didn't expect to hear such a phrase come out of Matti's mouth, but it was nonetheless something they cherished deeply; a memory, Uriel decided, one they'd tuck deep into their heart and display on a trophy case to look back fondly whenever needed.

"It's... Nice, to hear you say that. I could say I appreciate hearing that, possibly more than you'd ever know." They gave a faint smile at their little joke.

They were being useful. They were being *Good*. Something odd was happening in their head, Uriel faintly realized; their vision swam, buzzing static elevating to a sweet, soothing drone. It was a decidedly pleasant feeling, and they weren't aware if the butterflies in their stomach were a figment of the dream or a product of the parts of them that clung to the opinion of others. 

*A human weapon no longer,* Uriel's internal monologue cooed, *A step closer to being a tool instead.*
Lena
*Agency. *That's what this was. Power. Matti was no longer a stranger in their skin, a ghost trapped within a dying body. *Your mind, your rules.* Was that the way it had been, before? Was that the way it could be?

A part of them felt fury, at these precious parts of themself that Uriel gave away. It was taking a berry made from blood— beautiful, and sweet, but brittle in the knowledge of its origin. *This is yours,* They wanted to say. *This is **You**. Why treat it like an obligation?* To cut pieces of their power, of their kindness, and treat it like it was nothing. To provide what was needed? Into how many pieces would Uriel cut themself for the people they truly cared about? *Too many.* Mattias wanted to hunt down every person that had ever asked anything of Uriel and tear them to shreds. And drop them into the ocean. To grab them in iron hands and shake them by their shoulders. To damage someone in the way that made them sacrifice themself— for Mattias, who had shirked all but their own company for years, the thought was inconceivable. 

They suppressed their anger in favor of more pressing thoughts— those of repayment. Every malicious intent Mattias intended to— and had— return threefold. Likewise, in payment for not one but *Two* Gifts, that of their company and of Mattias' own autonomy, they owed an unimaginable debt. 

"Is there anything I can do for you?" They asked, attempting to convey their sincerity through voice alone. "I can find hidden things, and see the truth. They're useful skills— I can use them to help you." Part of them hoped that Uriel said yes, if only to lessen the burden of their dues. A smaller, quieter part hoped they'd say no. Mattias hushed it with a hand ruffling childish, soft hair. They knew they where their greatest assets lay, and though they didn't make a habit of offering to use them, the reigns of their power were a meaningful gift indeed. This was no obligation— this was trust, and a desire to repay a favor in kind.
Marcella
"The truth? Why would I be interested in such a thing?"

A small, airy laugh. The thought of the truth seemed incredulous to Uriel. 

"If people would like to lie... I trust that they're doing so for a good reason. I wouldn't want to force someone to talk about a topic they're uncomfortable with. People know what they want best— and if lying is what's best for them, so be it."

Once, maybe long ago, Uriel might have been tempted to seek the 'truth', to dredge into the depths of people's heads and attempt to uncover some grand *Reason* Why people acted the way they did. Digging up string after string, leaving nothing covered as they watched the expanse of someone's being unfurl beneath them. Perhaps, if they did so, it would make everything easier; the strange creatures which walked around on upright legs less mysterious and foreign to Uriel's mind. 

It was a dangerous desire, one they quickly quelled as they matured. Everyone had their reasons to hide what they did, and who was Uriel to shine light on what was hidden? Even if they had the ability to do so, it didn't give them the right.

"And even if something isn't factually accurate... Does that make it a lie? Does a concrete, objective 'truth' even exist, or do we all have our own truth, our own realities that are true to *Us*?" Uriel's grey eyes twinkle with amusement. 

The statement was confusing and illogical, yes, but for someone who operated on dream-logic it was almost obvious. The lands that dominated the space inside people's heads were reflections of reality; not a one-to-one copy, but representations of the warped perceptions people carried about the world. 

They were true, in and of their own right. To dismiss a dream just because it was a 'lie' would be unfathomable. Concepts like truth and lies; they were strange, meaningless words, ones with no power in this realm.
Lena
Mattias...

Mattias thought...

Their mind blanked.

"You don't... Care?" The words were strangled out of their throat, and if they were a cartoon character their color would surely be fading as their brain deteriorated into loosely sketched lines. Not caring about lying. About the truth. It wasn't a concept that had ever occurred to them before, and the moment it did they wished it hadn't. Not understanding, they could at least, well, understand. But not *Caring*? If they had less control over their facial expressions, their jaw might have physically dropped. What about the *Lying*? What about *Trust*? What about being *Safe*?

The concept of *No* Truth was more horrifying, exponentially so, made much worse by the fact that when they thought about it, it explained. A lot. If two people, each believing *Their* Realities to be the one true version of events, were to both state their renditions, they'd be. They'd be telling the truth, wouldn't they? Even if the accounts conflicted, they would *Both* Be the truth, which meant there was no *Singular* Truth, which meant—

Matti's head hurt like it did watching things spin for too long. Dizzy, on the verge of toppling over. "I'm so confused." They whispered breath shaking in near-hysterical laughter, burying their face (burning with mental effort and, more importantly, embarrassment) into their hands. They pushed their glasses up and over to fall onto the bed. In their mind, an alien figure with a corkboard and red string ran in circles, pinning evidence and arguments and counter-arguments. "How can you— do you really just. Not care?"
Marcella
Uriel clamored onto the foot of the bed, sitting on their knees a good foot from where Matti flopped over. 

"Should I?" They ask, tilting their head and placing a finger on their chin. "Maybe it's weird, I suppose, but... No, I don't particularly care about the truth." 

It certainly seemed as if Matti found their outlook odd, opting to curl in on themself and double over laughing. "There, there." Uriel muttered, placing two swift pats on the top of Matti's head. They could sympathize; contemplating the nature of a concept integral to your abilities could shake someone to their core.

"It's a... Bit scary to think of, but it's freeing, too. People are who they are, and they say what they say. There's no more worrying about bad or good, honest people or liars... Just people, and their actions." Uriel smiled over at Matti, the sepia tint of the room pulsating in intensity. Light browns, washed-out blacks now a navy blue... The room was drenched in an old, faded aesthetic. 

"Does that worry you?" Their accent grows thick as white eyelashes flicker over at Matti's, brief concern growing on their face.
Lena
*Does that worry you?* Would the sun suddenly burning out and going dim worry them? Would the sky shattering into a thousand pieces *Worry* Them? Uriel's face was kind, curious, unchanged. Another laugh hiccupped up into their palms, and their form shook with silent wheezes for a while until they had time to sit up fully and catch their breath. 

This must have been why the two had crossed paths. For the kindness, maybe, for the earthquake they'd somehow stumbled into. *Oh, god,* They sent their thoughts outwards (they didn't believe in skywards, or heavens, or rather didn't know or care to know), with a hint of stale, leftover mirth quickly spoiling into weariness. *What a fool I must have looked.* What a fool, indeed. 

Their brain ached with overcapacity, longing for the last few steps of the typical dance of *Nightmare, still, wake up, cry, go about your day, observe, write*— writing, oh god, they'd need to write all of this down. Sooner rather than later. Mattias raised their head with the politeness of a tired homeowner hosting a party, and sighed. 

"It... Does worry me. Quite a bit. And I may need some time to think about it outside of the dream..." They tried to keep their tone light and neutral, flatting their tongue to the roof of their mouth to prevent it from becoming a disaster of questions. "Do you know how to leave?"
Marcella
"Of course I know how to leave. I'd be a bit of a poor dream-weaver if I couldn't, no? It's actually quite simple, really."

Uriel looked around the dream, facing away from Matti. The edges of the bedroom began to fade, the water-color edges dissolved into a transparent mist. It was a slow process, but entropy was inevitable— sooner or later, everything would crumble into dust, including the fragment of sepia-tinted childhood memories. 

The mist devoured more, the boundaries of the dream and *Everything else* Contracting onto the bed laid in the center. It was just them two, now. Everything else— the good, the bad, the popcorn ceiling and the wooden floor and the remnants of an ever-present monster faded into oblivion.

"You *Wake up.*" 

Uriel looks back at Matti, and smiles. 

The sound of a snap is the last thing they hear before both Uriel and Matti are thrown into consciousness. 

—
Uriel blinks awake, their grey eyes opening to... Darkness. Complete, pitch black darkness, the only source of light being the streaks of yellow around the frame of the door. They shift their weight onto their legs, groaning as the handle of a broom *Whacks* Them in the face. As they raise their arms, Uriel knocks over more cleaning equipment, a loud *Crash* Sounding as the contents of the closet fall onto them.

Ah. They were moved here, most likely to make way for the cleaning crew to tidy up the bathroom— or maybe someone took pity on them, and dragged their body somewhere safer. 

Who knew? Uriel certainly didn't, and as they came out of the closet, they couldn't help but have their thoughts drift off towards their fateful encounter.
Lena
Matti blinks. 

They pull the covers off of their shoulder, and cast their eyes again to the popcorn ceiling. 

*One. Two. *

Their breathing is stable. Their mind is humming softly, like a radiator, but awake in a soft way it rarely ever is. The morning is quiet. They pull their old, cracked laptop out from beneath the bed, and their mind wanders as it boots up. To a not-god not-angel, to an empty memory bathed in pink and orange. To something concrete, with the edges of forgetfulness around it. To a friend. 

"*Uriel Melançon-*", they type, "*I'm tired of scratching out notes I make after I find people are better than I thought they were.*"

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