Summary:
Dream begins to heal.
As the days begin to pass, Dream slips into July. It welcomes him with pink sunsets and grilled meals and ice gently tapping the side of tea-filled glasses. Humid nights drag him away from his screens and stuffy room, and onto his mother's back patio for frequent conversations over dinner.
His call had ended with Sapnap and George after they'd grown heavy-eyed, and parted ways with timid goodbyes. The separation felt strange, somewhere between empty and full shared in one space. He'd been too exhausted to cry, too wordless to think. He felt the urge to text George once he'd fallen into his cotton and sheets, but for once, he knew they truly had nothing left to talk about.
He slept for a while. He woke with ease.
The days—quiet, hurting, healing—pass. He spends hours opening letters from his P.O box, in silence. His tears drop onto the pages of a letter when his mind can't lift the sentences from the paper and place them in constructive memory. He breathes, takes the nearby landline in his palm, and makes three phone calls.
One, to the therapist he hadn't seen since he was young and gangly and brooding.
The next, to his mother.
The last, to the local taqueria for an extra-sized steak burrito.
July sets warm, yellow hands on his shoulders as he slides the phone back into the receiver. His chest aches, and his eyes burn.
He lets himself move forward.
During late-afternoon meals at his family's home two hours away, a buzzing sound carries onto the concrete deck from the muddy creek sitting deep in the backyard. Bugs hover in the damp swamp, and occasionally meander in search of food through the light that lowers itself on the crowded horizon.
Seated at the glassy table, Dream swats away curious gnats from his plate with one palm, while the other is outstretched and resting on napkins. His sister peers over his fingers carefully.
She's painting the nails on his left hand purple, to match the bright-colored hair that falls in front of her face, before she hastily tucks it behind her ear.
"I'm really glad to hear that, Clay," his mother says from the head of the table, reclined in her chair with a gentle smile. "Have you scheduled an appointment?"
Dream chews on the remains of his burger, covering his mouth with his free hand as he nods.
"When?" His sister asks curiously.
He swallows, then wipes the grease from his face with a napkin. "Next Sunday."
"You might miss the barbecue," his mother points out.
Dream shrugs with indifference. "I'll try to make it."
His sister carefully nudges away a stray drop of nail polish on the table. "Didn't you used to go on Tuesdays, though?"
He frowns with skepticism, watching as she screws the purple bottle shut and brings out a clear sealant. "How do you remember that?"
He'd been forced to attend weekly sessions with Dr. Lauren several years ago, when his questionably rebellious behavior had raised one too many red flags for his family and local authorities. He'd detested them at first, but found towards the end of their time together, some part of him thrived in expression and guidance.
Too young to admit it was something he needed, he declined the offer to continue as a client, but was told "the door will always be open."
He and his mother hadn't shared much of those terrible months with his siblings, yet his sister smiles at him sharply.
"Cause I'm smart," she says.
He huffs. "Yeah, right. I find that hard to believe."
She pauses in her application of the thin, top-layer of polish. "You hurt my feelings."
"I did not."
"You might want to get going soon," his mother interrupts their exchange, "it's nearly dark enough for the show to start."
"I'm basically done," his sister assures, capping the clear-bottle. "Just don't smudge it before it dries, okay?"
Dream balls up his napkin and begins to stack utensils on his plate, mindful of his purpled hand. "Are they really still doing it? I thought there was a temporary ban cause of the shack that caught fire last year."
His mother extends her plate towards him, and he adds it to the pile in his hands. "I think Roy and his family are still good friends with the sheriff," she says, "so they got the go-ahead."
"Huh." Dream exits his seat with the last of the dishes, and haphazardly carries them to the screen entrance. "Okay, well, if you wanna wait outside for me I'll be there in like, five minutes."
He presses his back to the door to push it open, the metal springs straining audibly with resistance as he steps inside.
"Five minutes?" He sees his sister set down her glass, and wipe her chin. "Slowpoke."
He rolls his eyes. "You could help, y'know."
They stare at each other through the thinly-netted screen as the ajar door is pulled shut, until his sister glances at the dishes, and looks away dismissively.
He grins.
When washing the ceramic plates, and tossing the red white and blue napkins in the trash, he protects his left hand from water and scrapes dutifully.
He examines the smooth coats with growing fondness as he's later tugged several blocks down the street, where neighborhood parents have set up a small celebration on the suburban intersection. When his sister tosses a smile back to him, he decides he loves the color purple even more.
He eyes the cylinders and dark boards resting on the asphalt, and they share an excited glance.
"Don't get too close," he says, and she rolls her eyes. They stand in the freshly-mowed grass of the neighbor's lawn, darkness cozying around them while the local kids and parents form a small crowd.
A young woman from two doors down passes by them, kindly extending miniature, hand-held flags and beaded necklaces. They murmur 'thank you's and tug the plastic jewelry over their heads happily.
Dream spins the cheap flag in his hand, watching the older neighborhood boys approach the dormant fireworks with keen adult supervision. He remembers sparking the fuse for the first time when he was a kid, holding the long lighter in his small grip and intense responsibility in his mind. He'd been fond and scared, even then, of getting burned.
The wicks light, and the boys scatter away.
Dream and his sister wait.
The box crackles, then whistles, and the first rocket shoots into the dark air. Their eyes tilt up to follow as it trails a gleaming jet of light.
It climbs, and climbs, until finally exploding in a flowered spread of red and white sparkle against the stark backdrop of the sky. Heartbeats after, a second one combusts, then a third, and the night is filled with such bright color and noise that Dream's chest grows warm.
The burning is beautiful.
He reaches for the back pocket of his jeans instinctively, pulling out his phone with a smile.
Another burst glitters into the accumulating smoke above them.
He hesitates.
Blues and greens flash onto his hair, while soft white from his open device washes over his chin and nose. He wants to tell George how wonderful their "petty American holiday" is—but shouldn't.
It hurts.
The next boom that rattles through the crowd lines up inexplicably with his thumping heartbeat.
His sister catches his sudden stillness, and asks, "you wanna take a video for Mom?"
It hurts, he thinks, but it's okay.
He shakes his head. "No, I'm sure she can see them from the house." He shuts off his glowing screen and lets the thoughts retreat to his pocket quietly. "More fun to watch, anyway."
Gold crackles with loud cheers and whoops from the ecstatic crowd they stand in. The dinky, store-bought fireworks grow and cover their little sky with boldness, and fury.
His sister leans into his side.
"It looks like magic," she says between loud booms.
He wraps an arm around her upper back, and murmurs, "yeah. It does."
When he glances at her bright smile again, head tilted up to the ash-raining sky, her eyes are full of color.
He wonders, for a moment, if he were to rise suspended in the air and float among the stars, what colors his exploding heart would leave behind, too.
-
The sun beats on Dream's neck ruthlessly as he stumbles down the stairs, and floats through the open parking lot. His palm connects warmly to the handle of his car, and he heaves the driver's door open to collapse into the stuffy seat—with a loud slam of latches complaining about his rush.
He shoves keys into the ignition, hands on the metal and white-blob figurine that dangles from the ring, knuckles pressing to the console as he cannot turn his fist.
He'd done it. He'd really driven himself back to the beige-painted walls and dark red couches and PhD's perched on shelves near the clock. A black clock, where a tin one used to hang, that counted the hour and a half he'd sat with interrogated stress before someone who used to know him.
He wills his hand to move, to start the engine, but his body refuses.
His fingers slip from the waiting keys, and he slumps back into his seat. The stagnant air around him settles under his nose, carrying the smell of a forgotten car freshener he'd tucked in an open compartment somewhere.
A shaky hand runs through his soft hair.
The large windshield in front of him holds hints of palm leaves, orange buildings, white parking lines. Above the blocky shapes and swaying trees, the sky stretches a rich blue.
"It's okay," he voices the words with breathy tremor. His chest tightens. "It's o-okay."
The crying comes slowly today; beginning with thick pain in his throat, redness rising to his cheeks, rapid blinking of his eyes until his nose pinches, the weight tips, and hot tears begin to slip down his face.
His lungs ache with the weight of his sobs; his hands find their way to grip the leather wheel. As he tightens his hold on the bumpy hide in his wringing fingers, his ribs begin to lighten.
Salt drips from his face to his lap. One hiccup of pain turns into release, and then another, and a smile lifts across his features.
"God," he breathes nasally.
He wipes away the wet streaks on his jaw while tears still bead and fall from his eyes.
He opens his phone, and texts George: hey.
A moment later, George responds: hi.
Dream sniffs, wiping at his cheeks repetitively.
My first session went really, really well, he says.
It had hardly been much of anything—surface level summaries, recounting of the years Dream hadn't seen him, careful explanations of why now, after all this time, he's returning in the midst of summer and seeming success.
It had hardly been much of anything, but to Dream, it is everything. He'd relaxed his wired jaw enough to open himself in the way he wanted, with fear and determination of the terrain yet to come. Between fiddling thumbs and jumping glances, he'd started talking.
He watches George's bubble type for a minute, before his message comes through.
That's poggers.
A surprised laugh rushes out of Dream's mouth. He passes his eyes over the text, while laughing again, and lets himself feel the humor and hope with gentle chuckles.
He lowers his phone to rest in the cupholder.
With a grin, he sighs—and starts his car.
George is right.
Hot air flows from his vents.
It sort of is.
They'd been texting daily, but the topics are light, infrequent—formed out of company and presence more than substance. It's an adjustment strange as life. The calls where he can speak to George in the light-hearted, entertaining presence of others are as wonderful as they are frustrating. Dream has stayed true to his word, biting back remarks that could slip them down the wrong path and backpedalling when he can tell the air is growing thick. It's tiring, and some nights he declines invitations to join calls because it weighs on his bones when he least expects it. Yet, even pushed into dark, it's the recollection of George's amicable voice that calms him.
Better to have now, than nothing. Better to have not yet, than never.
A week after his first appointment, the urge to type 'I miss you' is rampant and consuming for hours on end. He tries to find justification for it, argues with himself until he's exhausted all defense.
He takes a photo of Patches in a cute outfit a fan had mailed in, and sends that instead.
Nights later, he's humming along to music and sorting files on his hard-drive when his phone rattles against the desk.
Despite it being four in the morning in England, and George having mentioned in Teamspeak going to bed nearly two hours prior, he's sent Dream a photo.
It's of his young kitten, large eyes peering into the camera with sweet sparkle against gray fluff.
Fondness blooms in Dream's chest as he reacts to the text with a heart.
In an obscure, unspoken way, he knows the image is George's way of saying: I miss you, too.
-
"That was the most annoying one yet," Sapnap complains through the faint buzz of Dream's headphones.
Dream minimizes the recording program, and gazes over his screens with a soft chuckle. "Why?"
A message pops up in the server chat that reads: Badboyhalo has left the game.
Good, he thinks, he needs some sleep.
It wasn't their longest manhunt, but the hours they spend sitting and grappling over keys and digital terrains are becoming increasingly stressful the more practice they have. Bad had been yawning between nearly every sentence before finally disconnecting from the call, minutes prior.
Muscles taut from sitting for the long duration of their fight in the End, Dream links his fingers together and stretches his arms forward, momentarily blocking the glowing monitors from view. He'd sunk days into preparing to destroy his friends' chances of defeating him, and it paid off. Between fortunate maneuvers and clever kills, he slayed the dragon, and gave himself a much needed win.
Sapnap's voice falls low. "You know why."
Void of sympathy, George asks, "aw, you still mad about your dog?"
"I had a special bond with him," Sapnap says sadly.
"Forgive me," Dream feigns, fighting a smile at the fresh memory of Sapnap's wolf turning to XP before his very eyes.
"I can't forgive a sadist."
"You guys just need to get better," he says airily, logging off the server.
"No," George inputs, "you just have to stop being lucky."
This time, Dream smiles easily. "Oh, I'd hardly call myself that."
"Shut up," Sapnap says, "that horse trick was bullshit."
"Or—consider this—I'm good at what I do."
George scoffs, and echoes, "shut up."
Dream shifts in his chair, watching the starter screen of green blocks and oak trees rotate in blur before him. He'd been nervous, before—but with traces of guilt and worry that were different than usual. It's his and George's first attempt to ease back into participating in each other's uploads, which proved to be seamless. For a few moments, however, he'd chased after George's avatar with a splitting grin, calling back and forth with bright shouts, and remembered how it'd been in the beginning. The two of them, for days on end, recording and calling and learning how to turn every small moment into precious laughter.
"I'm gonna need to watch that part back." Sapnap yawns. "Let me do the analysis video on it."
"No," Dream says.
"C'mon, I have to see how many times I was close to killing you."
"You really weren't," he explains clearly, briefly recalling the half-heart and iron-sword that'd flashed across his screen. "George was probably the closest. I'll have to send that clip when I can." He takes a sip from his water bottle, and mumbles against it, "it was pretty terrifying."
"How nice of you to say that, Dream," George says immediately. He sounds smug.
Dream swirls the water in the plastic container. "You still lost."
"I never lose."
He smiles, and considers the minimized recording tab on his second monitor. "I could pull up the proof right now of you dying to the endermen."
"Drag his ass," Sapnap says.
"How about you share all the times you killed Sapnap?"
Quickly, Sapnap defends, "don't drag me."
"'Don't drag me,'" George mimics, voice slipping into amusement. "What, you can't take it?"
"I'm gonna knock you out."
Dream rubs his eyes tiredly. "Chill, you guys."
George ignores him. "Oh, you're so big and tough, are you?"
"George," Dream tries.
"I could step on you, George."
Dream tips his head back. "Sapnap—"
"What did I ever do to you?"
"Oh, man," Sapnap says, "you want a list?"
"Please," Dream interjects with a half-whine, "you guys have been so bitchy today. I can't handle one more minute of this."
George giggles quietly as Sapnap mutters, "sorry, Dad."
After a moment, George says, "he started it."
Dream's hands open in the empty air as a gesture of disbelief.
"Y'know what, George?" Sapnap retaliates quickly, "the second I see you in person, I'm gonna kill you. I've just decided. How about that?"
"Oh no," George drawls sarcastically, "guess I won't go to Florida after all."
Dream's eyes snap to the open Discord window as he sharply says, "hey."
They descend into cutting silence.
Any quips or words of wit die on their tongues, now unplaceable in the strained hum of their call.
Dream shakes his head, and sits up. He should take himself away before the low feelings of hurt grip onto anything meaningful.
"I think I'm just gonna hop off," he says finally. He starts closing tabs. "Thanks for today, and I'll let you know if I have questions when editing."
"Dream," George begins, "I didn't mean it like—"
"Don't worry about it, George." If it's not mine to feel, then why feel it. "Bye."
"No no no, dude," Sapnap rushes, "seriously, hold on—"
"Sap, you don't have to—" He starts to reply with tinged irritability until George's voice interrupts him.
"I'm going," George says firmly, "I'm going to visit you."
The sound of his words rings between Dream's ears. In the stunned pause that follows, Dream stares at his computer.
What?
"Or I—I want to," George continues, slower, "I've been thinking about it a lot, and talking to Sapnap about it a lot, and I want to go. I am going—if you still..."
Dream feels the tender ache in his chest begin to grow, and he finds himself pinching his features together with careful confusion. He tries to curb any traces of reckless optimism.
What the fuck?
"Are...are you sure?" Dream questions. "It hasn't been that long since we talked about this last."
A little under a month, or so.
"I know," George answers.
Could that really be enough time?
Dream's heart begins to hum. The hope, jumpy and golden, skitters in him.
"It's two whole weeks, George," he presses softly. "Not like a call we can leave. You'll be here, for a while."
"I promise you," George says, "I'm aware of that."
"We've beat this thing to death from every angle, Dream," Sapnap offers. "Kind of annoying, really."
He feels a flicker of affection at that, picturing them hours deep in their secretive calls, debating to the point of exhaustion. Knowing George, Dream wouldn't be surprised if a "pros and cons" document was involved, as well.
"This is what I want," George assures, "if you still want me to see you."
Dream huffs in surprise. "Of course I do."
His pulse drums erratically beneath the light fabric of his t-shirt. Of course I do, of course I do, of course I do.
"Then good," George says.
Dream presses his lips together, then lets himself smile, then cannot stop. His mind floods with excitement, possibilities, plane tickets and rainy conversations from weeks ago.
His grin is insufferable. "Good."
"Cool," Sapnap chimes.
"Cool," George repeats, and Dream can hear with fondness that they're all on the verge of happy laughter.
It's Sapnap who breaks first, his light giggle carrying through the call like white foam washing up on a sandy shore—then seconds later, the waves crash with Dream's wheezing and George's voice.
"This isn't funny," he says, but it's clear he's enjoying it too, which only makes them delve deeper into meaningless cackles.
Dream can't wait to see it in person—Sapnap's grin, George's eye rolls, their shared joy and irritation and clamor. And yet he catches a subtle hitching in George's breath as their poorly-timed fit subsides, and has to clear his throat. It won't be pure sunshine. He knows that, he's learning that.
After they've calmed enough, Dream slips back into serious patience. "I'm really happy about this, but...you still have a little while to think about it. There's no rush."
"Thanks," George says simply.
Dream smiles again.
"Well," Sapnap muses, "you have like, five weeks."
Dream frowns. "Five?"
"Yep."
George hums with disinterest in the background.
"That sounds wrong," Dream says.
Sapnap shuffles in his chair at his end of the mic. "No it's not."
"Yeah it is." Dream narrows his eyes at his computer, pulling up a minimized calendar. "It's six weeks."
With faint annoyance, George mutters, "five, six, it doesn't make a difference—"
"No it's not, Dream," Sapnap interjects, blatantly ignoring George's complaints, "we fly out the first week of September which is five weeks from now—"
"The second," Dream spits, then sits up sharply as his eyes widen. "Wait, Sapnap—"
"It doesn't matter because I'm gonna go either way," George says sternly. "Can you guys just shut up?"
Dream blinks in the brief silence that follows.
"Hold on, hold on George," he voices slowly, praying that he isn't right. "Sapnap, pull up your ticket."
"Ugh, don't wanna. Too much work—"
"Dude," Dream interrupts with audible strain, "do it. Right now."
"Okay, jeez." He hears Sapnap click around for a few, tense seconds. "Why?"
Dream clenches his jaw. "The date on it—what are the weeks?"
"The first and second week of September," Sapnap reads. "Like I said earlier."
A brief silence of disbelief cuts through their conversation, until George says, "oh my god."
Dream pinches the bridge of his nose in agreement. "Oh my god."
"What?" Sapnap asks, transparently lost.
"George," Dream says helplessly.
"Guys, what happened?"
A shocked exhale leaves George's mouth. "You bought your tickets a week early, dumbarse. We said the second and third week. Not the first and second."
Dream begins to slide down his chair in disappointment.
"No you didn't," Sapnap says, "you're lying." They can't muster the strength to disprove his anxious claims. "Guys?"
"We sent you the links," Dream says, near-whine.
"You sent me, like, a hundred. And you made me do it so fast, I was—"
"It's fine, Sapnap." Dream wipes his face to ease the tension from his cheeks. "Let me pay for these, and you can buy new ones for the right weeks this time."
He hears no response.
He frowns. "Sapnap?"
"Um," Sapnap says, his voice pitching awkwardly, "no?"
Bluntly, George utters, "what."
Sapnap exhales. "I have to be home by the fifteenth. I can't stay any longer than that."
"Sapnap," Dream starts, but is quickly cut off by unexpected dismissal.
"No, man," Sapnap says, "no. I get that this is all...weird and stuff, but I told you I had plans way before this, and I can't keep babysitting you two."
Dream's head lolls to the side, his headphones bumping his shoulder in deep disappointment—for the way he's treated his closest friends, and for Sapnap's inept struggle with following directions.
"You can't reschedule," Dream says finally.
Sapnap's voice is firm, "I can't. I really can't."
Dream recognizes the tone, the way his phrases end with a subtle dip that means: don't push, don't ask. No more.
He curses.
"I'd only see you for a week, then," George says to Sapnap, and the hesitance in his words is enough to drive another stake into Dream's chest.
Sapnap doesn't respond. Their subtle panic accumulates as seconds pass.
Dream straightens up. "Okay, well—well George, do you think you could change your tickets?"
"To get there earlier?" He can almost picture from George's voice the contemplative frown that settles across his features. "You know I can't, Dream. We already went over this when we bought them."
Through his teeth, he says, "remind me."
"My...my mum's birthday is that week," George explains carefully, as though his words can cut Dream deep. "And we have family coming to town. Remember?"
His heart sinks low into his gut, while he tries to grab the fraying threads before the trip is unwoven before them. George is unable to arrive earlier; Sapnap is unable to arrive later. He'll be rooted, for three weeks, in a September of his own making.
"Your mom's a Virgo?"
"...What the fuck, Sapnap?"
Dream ignores them. "So that," he starts slowly, "that'd be a week of me and Sapnap. Then..."
"A week of all three of us," Sapnap assists.
"And a week of just you and me," George finishes quietly.
Dream's eyes fall to his dark desk with dread.
George had agreed to visit, the possibility so close Dream could feel it looming over him. They'd made progress, and it was working—until they'd fallen out of sync, yet again.
"It's okay, George," Dream says defeatedly, "I get it. It's not what you signed up for. We can cancel it and I'll refund your money, you don't have to—"
Sapnap quickly cuts him off, "no, no, come on, just a week won't be—"
"You need to stop talking—"
"Stop it, both of you," George orders, and is greeted with wanted silence. "It's been a really, really long day. And this...this has not helped with that." He huffs. "But I can't say I'm surprised."
Dream stares at the days marked on his virtual calendar as ":))))))"—and frowns.
"For now," George says, "I still want to go. That's what my gut is telling me, and I've been trying to listen to it more, lately. The last thing I want to do is overcommit to something and end up disappointing you guys, so...how I feel about this might change." He pauses carefully. "Is that okay?"
Unexpected warmth rushes to fill Dream's chest. Even the slightest chance of seeing George eases his heartache with care. He breathes out, "yes."
"That's perfectly okay with me," Sapnap says, voice quieting, "and I'm sorry."
"It's," George mutters, "okay, Sapnap."
"I didn't mean to," he assures.
Dream sighs. "We know."
After a moment, he asks, "am I grounded?"
George laughs sharply.
"I hate you," Dream says with a smile, because there could never be a plane of existence in which it would be true.
"No CS:GO for a month," George jokes with faux authority.
Sapnap huffs. "Aight. Easy."
"Two months," Dream levies.
"I don't even play that much," Sapnap says.
"We know," George inputs quickly, "that's why you're trash."
"Play me right now, bitch," Sapnap challenges, and the insinuation immediately presses a faint headache to Dream's temples.
"Can we please not do this again," he asks feebly.
To his surprise, George hums. "Actually, that sounds kind of fun."
An incredulous smile leaps across his features, alerted by the interest he'd caught wind of. "What?"
"Just for a bit," George explains lightly.
"Bet," Sapnap says, already clicking around with his mouse for what Dream assumes is to boot the game.
"Where did that come from?" Dream questions, unsuccessful in stamping the delight at discovering a new aspect of George.
George laughs. "Dunno. Guess I'm still bitter from losing earlier."
"Ah," Dream says, "just like how I'm tired of winning."
"Yeah, yeah." Sapnap's typing rumbles through the call. "We'll see about that."
Dream scoots closer to his desk defensively. "I'm not gonna play."
"Yes you are," George says easily.
"Come on," Sapnap encourages, "let's bully some kids."
Begrudgingly, Dream joins them. They sink into games and pass words that have no significance beyond surface-level quips, and brief shouts. Slipping into their zone of comfort, Dream keeps himself incredibly mindful of what drops from his lips and how he navigates through the veiled tension still nestled between them all. In the small moments of Sapnap and George bickering, light mocking that leads to wheezes ripping from Dream's lungs—he catches a glimpse of their future. It is not full, nor ruined, but balanced somewhere in between.
Dream knows he is hurting. He knows it will persist, for weeks and nights, until he's learned to truly be content in not having what he wants the most. As he listens to George's bright laughter, and smiles—he knows he's willing to go through it all over again.
The three grow tired and disconnect from gaming after unanimously deciding they'd hassled each other enough, for today. Sapnap gives them his last words of apologies and sincere gratitude, before leaving Dream and George to relax into the absence of his loud voice.
"God," George says after they're alone in the call, "that was a lot."
Dream hums in agreement. "That was." He falls quiet with all the words he'd love to say, and exhales the impulsivity off his tongue. "Have a good night, George," he murmurs instead, "I'll talk to you sometime soon. Okay?"
"Yeah," George says, "talk to you soon."
Dream drags his cursor to hover over the end-call button, preparing himself for the usual conflict of emotions that follows once their conversation dies completely.
"Well—one more thing, and then I'll say goodbye," George's voice quickly stops him from disconnecting.
The light from his monitor glows soft blue in the silence. Tendons in his knuckles still over the sleek mouse and keys; he can feel where the edge of the desk presses into the skin of his wrists.
They haven't lingered in each other's uninterrupted presence, spare a few sentences here and there, since June.
Timidly, Dream asks, "what is it?"
"If I do come and visit you," George says, "that means we'd be on our own for a bit, after Sapnap leaves."
"It would," Dream's tone is slow. Patient. Hoping.
George pauses, then struggles to ask, "would that...that be weird, even if I'm still..."
"Not ready?" Dream finishes softly.
"Yeah."
His heart aches, as he thinks of the millions of words that could fall from his lips and fracture this moment. George's voice is gentle, and close—but it's not tearing Dream apart like it used to.
"It wouldn't be," he answers with sincerity, "I'm not going to expect something from you, or do anything that would make you uncomfortable."
The chance to see him smile, in person. To admire him from afar. To let him see the life he's built in Florida, the wooden floors he's paced on, the swaying ocean he's longed for. George could live forever, here, and Dream is slowly learning what it takes to keep him.
"You think it'd be okay?" George questions further, his anxiousness present in every careful syllable.
Dream collects as much comfort and honesty as he can in the warmth of his throat. "I do."
George lets out a short breath.
Dream reclines in his seat, and tilts his head back to watch the lazy motions of his fan glide through the air with no resistance. He waits attentively for George to approach him again.
"Then I think...I think I would like to see you and Sapnap," George says, "I think it'd be stupid to not take that opportunity."
Dream's lips part as a gentle wisp of breath escapes him. The clear, decisive lilt to George's words solidifies in his cautious temple of hope. He would build high cities and gold kingdoms to hear George never speak with hesitancy again.
He calms his drumming heart, and says, "it's a good thing you're not stupid."
George laughs, quietly. The privacy feels sweet, and forgiving, like summer rain. "I guess so."
Their last, long silence sounds like the faint crackling of embers buried in ashy soil, after the flames have been snuffed out. The ruin is evident in the charred pieces they've left behind. It stings, and simmers, and all Dream can do is trace his eyes over the wooden slats circling in suspension above him.
Yet inklings of a rebirth slowly bloom in the quiet. Something made of feathers stirs in the remains, some type of hope that will lift them.
"I'll see you in six weeks," George says finally.
Dream readies himself to disconnect, and smiles. "I'll see you then."