The unfamiliar city wraps around him like a damp breath, thick with whispers and shadows. Dave walks without direction, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. The streets resemble those of his own dimension, but everything carries a disquieting sheen: streetlamps flicker like they can't decide between light and dark, windows whisper with the wind, and the walls seem to watch him.
He can't sleep. Not when his mind spins around that man.
Heinz.
That slender guy, with green eyes and unruly hair, who speaks in cryptic phrases. He *shouldn't* inspire trust.
And yet, here he is: walking toward his house.
He doesn't even know how he got here. His body seems to guide him on instinct alone. He recognizes the fountain without a statue, the cobbled street, and at the end, that narrow building with the carved raven and snake in the archway.
He stops at the bottom of the stairs.
"What the hell am I doing here?" he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
But his feet climb the steps. His fist knocks three times on the door before his brain can stop him.
The sound echoes in the night's silence. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, until a dim light flickers behind the peephole. Then, a click.
The door opens slightly, and there he is: barefoot, hair tousled, a black linen shirt unbuttoned halfway down. Those green eyes land on Dave—surprised, and… is that hope?
"Dave," Heinz says, his voice rough with sleep. "What are you doing here?"
"I don't know," Dave admits, and hates how true it sounds. "I couldn't sleep."
Heinz's lips curl faintly. He steps back, opens the door wider.
"Come in."
And Dave does.
The house is cloaked in shadows. The air smells of old books, incense, and damp earth. A floor lamp casts a red glow, painting Heinz's pale skin in amber and shadow—his neck, collarbones, the subtle lines of his chest beneath the thin fabric.
Dave licks his lower lip, unsettled by how his gaze lingers on those details.
"Want a drink?" Heinz asks, shutting the door behind him.
"No." Dave clears his throat. "I didn't come to drink."
"Then why did you come?"
The question hangs in the air. Dave looks up. Heinz watches him from the half-light, his expression unreadable.
He doesn't think about it. He never does. He takes a step forward. Then another. He stops a foot away, breathing the charged air between them.
"I don't trust you," he says.
Heinz tilts his head.
"You should."
"I *shouldn't*." Dave steps closer. "But…" He stops. The words won't come.
Because something about this pull—it yanks at him like an invisible thread.
And Heinz knows. It's in his eyes: that flicker of certainty, that flash of green that smells desire before it's spoken.
"Then don't trust me," Heinz murmurs. "But don't lie about what you want."
The tension snaps.
Dave grabs him by the nape and kisses him. A fierce, rough kiss—full of doubt and suppressed hunger. Heinz's lips are cool at first, startled, but within seconds, they respond with equal heat. They meet at the edge of the abyss, panting, hands grasping at the only reality either of them knows right now: each other.
Heinz's slender fingers travel up Dave's back, sliding under his jacket, tangling in his hair. He pulls him in, lips parting, tongues colliding like a live wire.
Dave moans softly at how Heinz's body molds to his—slim, yes, but solid, with an unexpected strength. Their hearts pound out of rhythm, reckless.
"We shouldn't…" Heinz whispers between kisses.
"Shut up."
And he does. Dave shoves him toward the nearest wall. Heinz crashes into a stack of books that tumble to the floor like silent witnesses. Dave presses his forehead to Heinz's, breathing hard, hands exploring that lean back, mapping each tense muscle.
They fall onto worn cushions. Heinz's legs wrap around him, breath hot against Dave's throat. The black shirt slides off his shoulders, and Dave trails his lips across pale skin that shivers under his touch.
Heinz's nails scrape his back, demanding more. Needing more.
The night dissolves into gasps, into synced movements, into whispered words lost in thick air. Every touch is a question unanswered; every moan, a silent confession.
They don't know each other. They don't understand each other. But tonight, in this strange dimension, Dave lets go of his suspicion—and Heinz, his restraint.
By dawn, tangled and spent on the couch, Heinz runs his fingers absently along Dave's jaw, a cynical smile curling his lips.
"You still don't trust me, do you?" he murmurs.
Dave, eyes half-closed, lets out a quiet laugh.
"Not a damn bit."
"Good," Heinz says, resting his head on Dave's shoulder. "That keeps us interesting."
And for the first time in this dimension, Dave sleeps.