sailing to byzantium (and other stories)

cast iron love

It's early when George wakes. The sun is just barely rising, melting red and gold across the sky. It shines against his bedroom wall, casting shadows between his blinds, and printing pictures in the paintwork. He watches them move, like ancient cave paintings, and he wonders what they're trying to tell him.

The clouds are low in the sky, but they're only few. The sky stretches out of his window, close enough to touch but painfully far at once. He imagines reaching out for it, imagines reaching out and taking a whole new world in his hands.

The house is quiet. George listens to the wood settle around him for a minute, listens to the cold seep into it and freeze it from the inside out. It feels like he's woken up before the entire world, stuck in the purgatory held between the sun and the moon.

There's a message on his forearm today, written in a loopy scrawl, messy where the skin has dragged and pulled. He's surprised the ballpoint didn't rub off in his sleep, but it has faded enough to be almost unreadable. Some letters cross over one another, and others are missing parts entirely, but he squints and they become almost words.

Hey, soulmate.

It's stupid. It's two words in cheap black ink, and it's nothing special. It's generic and possessive, and it burns a fire in George's stomach anyway.

He takes the pen from his nightstand and replies, scripting something on the back of his right hand. Wash that off, please.

He watches over his arms and hands carefully, waiting for the response. Dream comes at his beck and call, usually, and today is no exception. Dream writes, Why =(, in rushed lettering, and George can almost see the stupid pout Dream would have, curling his lip.

Because, he writes, it's embarrassing. I hate people who announce their soulmate all the time everywhere on their body.

He imagines Dream's laugh, the sort of huff-chuckle he would make because it's still too early to be loud. He imagines Dream leaning over his forearm, holding a pen cap between his teeth and watching his arm as intently as George watches his own.

Dream replies with, one of these days I'll write it on your forehead. You wouldn't even notice, I bet.

George grimaces. It's for no one's benefit but his own and the sun's, and the sun seems to appreciate it. I will literally break up with you.

Can't argue with fate.

I can try.

He wonders if it's worse to have an arm covered in messages from his soulmate, or the smudged remains of them. Outside, the sun seems to burn ash into the pavement.

His phone chimes; a message from Dream, almost hidden under the flurry of notifications from the group messages from his friends. He clears all of them, opening the chat with Dream.

Dream: you could fight God and win
Dream: mom told me I'd get ink poisoning if I kept writing to you

George: you would deserve it

Dream: D:

George: I wouldn't come to the funeral

Dream: oh come on

Dream: you would
Dream: you'd miss me way too much

George knows he would. Dream is half of his own heart, intertwined so thoroughly within him that he's not sure they could survive apart anymore.

George: maybe
George: now leave me alone I have to work today

Dream: why work when you can write to me

George: why write to you when I can work

Dream: I thought my soulmate was supposed to love me

He feels himself smile, and he feels Dream's own from half a world away. Lives begin to start outside: birds start singing, car engines start, and the world picks up. Hidden in George's room, with only himself and his pen and the ink on his skin, he feels like he could leave it all behind in an instant.

He picks the pen back up. Dream's contact has gone offline now. He finds a clear spot on the inside of his wrist, printing I love you there. He imagines he could feel Dream's pulse through the skin, beating his heart into George's body.

The sun is cold now, risen higher in the sky and burning white-gold. The sky is crisp, and fate is quiet, for now. George feels her threat waning. Even without her, he would have chosen to love Dream, and her control lessens.

It's early, and the dawn is clean. Dream exists in the paintings drawn on his skin, and for now, this is a world enough.

----------

(notes) i got this prompt from someone in goats discord (im so sorry i dont know your name D:), and i dont usually write soulmate aus? but idk, motivation and inspiration is kinda low, so i thought id try it. im not happy with it, because i think i struggle to combine casual stuff with introspective purple prose, and thats what ive tried to do here i guess. thanks for reading tho!