George has overcome the riches and the tight kept tendencies of his family finding a rag tag team of street racers. After learning the ins and outs of Las Nevadas, he's come to decide that joyriding is a newfound freedom. But with all the aftermath...
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"I don't wanna participate in your game of manipulation." Crush Culture Conan Gray
"George?"
Tuesday. The second day of the week. He could breathe, barely. Slowly in, slowly out. He was there. In their room, on plush black sheets and overly fluffy pillows. He traced his finger over the seam on the side of the mattress. He was safe. It was one of those days. The ones that ripped him apart in broad daylight.
"It's midday, babe, you need to get up."
"That's alright, Dream." George took a shallow breath and gripped the sheets to ground himself. "I don't feel up to par, today."
Persistent steps pushed over their bedroom floor until Dream crouched in front of George. Face blank and hands laced together to rest on his bent knees, Dream looked over the other man. Sullen haunted eyes, bags worth more than a few hours of sleep beneath each, shaking fingers, Dream sighed.
"Can I touch you?"
Shifting, he crinkled the pillow beneath his head, "Yes."
Tan fingertips swept the tawny brown hair from George's forehead to feel the heat of his skin. He leaned into the touch as much as he could, it'd be a scarce subject soon. By the blatant discouraged facial expression, George knew his ruse had been discovered.
"You're not warm." The brunet closed his eyes when his boyfriend kept the gentle touch to his skin. Through his hair, over his cheek, around his ear. Every fire burning in his chest found a solvent within Dream's gentle caress. "What are your symptoms?"
"Bad dreams." George coyly muttered, "headache. Everything is too bright. I'm tired. My brain just... hurts."
Leaning forward Dream placed a gentle kiss on George's temple, then one between his brows, and one on the crown of his hair. Finally he pulled back and stood up, motioning for George to move over so he could take a seat on their bed.
"Where's your mind right now?"
Burning on a drag strip with Dream lifeless next to him. His parents forcing him to smile on a red carpet. Genevieve, she texted earlier that week. The girl was somewhere in Barcelona with a new fiancé, George was happy for her.
"I do not know."
George pressed his cheek into Dream's warm thigh instead of his pillow and breathed in his familiar aroma. Musky vanilla and always a hint of petrol despite having not touched a car that day. It just followed the blond around and George felt grounded to it. Like it could wrap him up and shake his shoulders until the tension seeped out and the reassurance was enough to feel silly about worry. He wouldn't have this for two days, but that wasn't what worried him, he swore it wasn't.
Rustling his fingers through George's hair and caressing over his neck, Dream hummed. They sat in silence for a while, George brooding and holding onto Dream while the latter hummed a softened lullaby he'd learned at a young age. Maybe it was because Dream was leaving. Maybe George had become codependent since Final Flame. Or maybe he'd been permanently changed since meeting everyone in Las Nevadas, since that forsaken race.
