Heat Waves by tbhyourelame.

Heat Waves (Chapter 10. "Dust") by tbhyourelame

“You’re back,” Dream says finally, unsure of where else to begin. 

Blankly, George responds, “I am.”

“When did you get home—”

“Two hours after I got service,” George interrupts.

Dream’s pulse spikes at the sharpness in his tone. 

George says, “you weren’t picking up your phone. I had to join that call so I knew that you’d answer me.” 

Dream ties and unties his drawstring into knots. He feels dried up—out of tears, out of luck, out of time. Words die before he can manage to wrap them with the thinnest threads of coherency.  

“I need you to explain,” George says, and Dream slowly clenches at the fabric on his chest, “whatever the fuck it is that I’ve been staring at on my phone since this morning.” 

Dream’s grip tightens as pain drives needles into his sternum. It’s happening. It's happening.

“It’s—it’s all there, George,” he says softly, “what needs explaining?”

“What—what needs,” George repeats with shrill frustration, “oh my god.” 

After a careful pause, Dream’s voice falls low, and strained, “I really missed you.”

He hears George blow out an unsteady breath. “Dream. Dream. I’m trying to—to do this, don’t make it difficult. Please, just, explain this. I’m not crazy. Explain it.”

His eyes close. 

“Can I...can I listen to your voice, for a moment?” Dream asks, and his desperation skitters shock across the phone line, “please. Tell me about your trip, and then we’ll talk. Is that okay?” He brings his knuckles and bundled cloth towards his mouth. “George?”

His exhales shake against his fingers, as he waits with searing patience for George to reply. Days and nights of aching for this, yet not in this way, mock his anguish. 

Please, he begs internally, please.

“No,” George says. 

Dream’s eyes open. “N-no?” 

“I can’t believe you,” he mutters, “I really, really can’t believe you. We don’t talk all week, then the second I’m back you slap me with this—this—confession? Hate letter? I don’t even know.” 

“Look—” Dream tries, but George’s quick words stop him.

“No, no, you think that somehow I’d want to talk about my trip? That you deserve that much?” George questions with thorned anger, spitting, “I don’t understand you. ‘Maybe I should just fuck everything up,’ fuck you. Fuck you.”

His voice is ugly. 

Dream withers. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“You want a distraction. I’m not gonna give that to you.”

“I don’t,” Dream says, but it tastes like a lie. “I know you’re not happy with me right now but—”