Helium By Tbhyourelame (a continuation from heat waves)

Homesick

Cradled in George's hands as fingers crawl across his scalp, Dream's head weighs with the certainty that he'd mentioned his discomfort, once, somewhere in the fall before everything changed.

"So." George cleared his throat, seconds ticking away beneath his name on Dream's phone screen. "You have a fear of sleepwalkers."

"Well, okay, no. I wouldn't say that. I'm not—not scared of you." He remembers George's laughter; the air-conditioned chill on his back as he rolled to press his cheek on the pillow. "But the sleepwalking part of it, maybe. That's not even a real phobia, though."

After a pause and faint typing on the other end, he ate his words.

"It's you." George's glee drifted through his earbuds. "You're a somniphobe and you hate me."

"It's creepy, George," he insisted defensively. "All the lights are on, but no one's home. If—if I saw you like that, I..."

The quiet pause, eyes drifting down the empty space on his mattress; a shift in late night voices.

"Would you wake me?" he was asked.

"...Isn't that dangerous?"

Soft enough for Dream to never broach the subject again, George answered, "Not if it's you."

His ears burn in remembrance.

"George," Dream says, and his gut strikes as hands curl in his hair. "Hey, hey. C'mon." He squeezes George's shoulder. "Wake up, please."

A slow inhale stirs in George's chest halfway underneath him. His cheek drags back on the pillow as George's eyes blink open, widen; travel across his face.

Sun oozes into the low thrum of his exhale. "Dream."

"Hi." Dream clears his throat. "You uh, you were talking in your—"

George tugs him into a clumsy kiss, soft and rousing and deep, and his head sparks to blankness. Lips push against him with unabashed warmth, his chest caves, tasting tongue on his and blindly indulging in shameful morning breath. Humidity soaks into Dream's skin through their tangling limbs.

An inhale splits against his mouth as George pulls away. Lips buzzing numbly, Dream stares back.

"Sorry," George rushes. "I'm—I'm not sure why I—"

"I missed you," Dream blurts. Heat sprawls in a red smear down his cheeks and chest.

"You..." George smiles at him dazedly. "What?"

"You were asleep for so long." His face ducks to rest on George's collar. "What were—what were you dreaming about?"

A thumb strokes between his shoulder blades. "This, I think."

His head and heart could slip into the warm pool their bed becomes under the honesty of George's answer; this, this, this. Dream clings to it. Somewhere in him, he vows to never let it go.

"Yeah?" The word tumbles from Dream's lips uselessly; he lets it slide into a brief kiss on the exposed stretch of George's neck.

"Yeah," George says breathlessly.

A hand traces up Dream's side, and his crowded skull disperses into mirroring the touch with light, trailing fingers. "What were we doing?"

"Just kissing."

"Just kissing?" Dream echoes lightly, and he traces over the dips of George's ribs. "Why wasn't I doing more?"

"In my dreams," George mumbles, nails prodding his stomach, "you're a prude."