Helium ( DNF )

Regret

"Hey, you," Dream says warmly. He frees a hand to pet her. "No, no, that's not for you, silly. That's people food."

She pokes her head into a bag. He scoops her one-handed to his chest preventatively and smiles when she complains.

He kisses her head. "You act like I don't feed you."

Her claws sink into the fabric of his shirt. Carefully coaxing her to balance up on his shoulder, Dream picks up a resting bag and attempts to juggle it all despite the ache in his arms. He doesn't take two steps before an amused voice interrupts him.

"Do you need help with that?"

Dream looks up from the carpet. His heart begins to pound at the sight of George hovering opposite the foyer, hands curling tighter around the bag handles.

He's awake. Hands in his pockets, smiling a shade softer than his crewneck; alive and blinking slowly.

"Hey," Dream says. "Yeah, sure. Uh, if you want to take her, that'd be great." His voice feels rushed and airy in his throat. "I thought you'd still be asleep."

George doesn't seem to notice. He regards him from the end of the room. "I woke up a couple minutes after you left."

"Oh." Dream doesn't move when George steps closer. "Did... did you sleep okay?"

Do you feel okay?

He looks at the ceiling, the walls, any empty space his eyes can grab when George draws close enough to reach for Patches on his shoulder.

"Yeah," George answers. "Very okay."

His eyes jump to George's face. He remembers the feel of spooning his back, their fingers tangled together, and the relaxed expression he dawned when he had no conscious reason to guard it. The visible ease is only half-missing now; Dream studies him openly.

"Very?" he repeats.

George's cheeks tint slightly. His knuckles graze Dream's shoulder. "What are these bags for?"

A surprised smile lifts across Dream's features. George offers a look to make him focus.

Very okay, his head repeats, very, very, very.

"Our dinner, I guess. There's this taqueria by my therapist's office and I stop there whenever I'm done," he explains.

Patches is lifted away from him. "Oh."

"Yeah."

George steps back with his cat in a careful hold as stray hairs cling to his dark hoodie. Patches' tail flicks against his forearm. Dream wants to comment on their conjoined cuteness but holds his tongue.

"How did it go?"

"My—" Dream clears his throat dryly. "My session?"

George nods. Confused warmth spreads through Dream's rib cage, relieved he's bothering to ask, to help; to talk. He doesn't know why George being attentive and at ease surprises him so much.

"It was a lot," Dream confesses. Restlessly, he begins to move towards the hall. "I'm pretty beat."

"Well, hey, is there um—" George steps back and lightly presses his fingertips against Dream's chest to stop him. "Is there anything we should talk about?"

Dream's eyes fall to where the touch connects to his sternum, sprawled lightly, lingering still. Knuckles skim down his shirt before falling away completely.

When he glances back up, the look on George's face floods him. He'd spoken with the same quiet patience Dream has heard on the phone for years, but the upwards tilt of his brows and relaxed set on his jaw makes his face seem softer than his voice has ever been.