Heatwaves Dreamnotfound (NOT MINE)

Chapter 7: Feathers

Dream's brows pinch together. "...Do I?" He lifts George's hand from his shoulder.

"All the time," George says.

The gravity lulling them into the creaking bed frame sways, for a moment.

"I can't keep bringing you in." Dream's steady wildfire of impulse raises George's fingers to his lips, and he murmurs a confession against them, "it's eating me alive."

George's touch brushes across Dream's mouth. In a sensitive symphony, Dream's light grasp relocates to hold George's wrist, as George gingerly cups the rigid tension of Dream's jaw.

"Then let it," George breathes.

Dream leans into the cool palm pressed to his cheek. "No."

He feels George's presence tangle into him with baneful beauty. The warm air that flows down his throat, the strange nebulas on the blanket beneath them, the hum between his skin and George's contact.

It is invigorating, and it hurts.

"What are you afraid of?" George asks.

Dream pulls their hands down from his face, letting George's fingers fall to the galaxied duvet. "You know my answer. We've been in my head before."

The smell of seashore and copper floats into the room with remembrance of palm forests. Dream wants to flick his eyes around rapidly, check the shadows for his reflection or their clothes for specks of blood.

George takes Dream's hand, and pulls it towards his chest. With gentle guidance, Dream splays his fingers across the dark fabric until he can know the thumping of George's heart against his palm.

"He's not here," George says softly.

A breath of shock leaves Dream's lungs. George's pulse flows with warm blood and honesty beneath his touch. He feels alive. He feels real.

George's fingertips travel down the exposed length of Dream's forearm, leaving a trail of firing nerves, before wrapping at the base of his bicep.

Dream's hand moves slowly across George's chest, thumb tracing his rigid collar bone. The shirt hem is soft where clothes give way to skin. He stops at the nape of George's neck, feeling how his shoulders rise and fall with each deepening inhale.

"No one else is here," Dream reiterates in quiet assurance. Their knees bump together.

George gently pulls Dream closer. "It's just us."

Dream's other hand unconsciously moves to George's waist. His grip tightens.

"Just us," Dream murmurs. George's breath is hot on his face, and his lidded eyes flutter.

George inclines his chin slightly. "Yeah."

"Alone." Dream leans close enough to let their foreheads touch.

George opens his mouth to utter a response, and the skin of his lips accidentally brush against Dream's with an electric tingle.

Dream bites back a sharp inhale. "How—how do I know," he forces out, "that we're safe?"

George brushes a thumb across Dream's forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his mouth where his mask used to be.

Dream's eyes shut.

"You're free," George says, and kisses him.

Dream's lips move timidly against George's, his brows pinched together in deep strain as he gently savors the passing seconds. It feels so familiar—the tender movements of George's mouth, the conflicted elation. The way his chest begins to ache because he's wanted this too much, for too long, and doesn't want to let it go.