Chapter Text
His visits have become less frequent now.
George’s once constant companion reveals himself once a week, at most, if he stays up late enough to catch him.
He’s spent too many hours at his computer tonight, poring over his latest coding project in search of the issues preventing it from running. It’s all been to no avail. A particularly frustrating attempt brings his tired gaze to the clock on the bottom of his screen. He lets out a long, slow puff of air.
It’s already past three.
A few quick clicks of the mouse save his latest draft and shut his computer down for the night. His monitor stays lit, illuminating the room enough for George’s eyes to catch him when he swivels his chair around.
A tall figure lurks in the corner across from him, hidden in the shadows. There’s a faint glow around him, emitting small particles of light that twinkle and twirl through the air. They disintegrate before hitting the floor. The creature stares straight ahead, completely still, without any hint of emotion on his gaunt, deathly pale features. Even to George, it’s frightening.
“Dream?”
Milky white eyes flit over to his face. A lump of fear forms in George’s throat.
“Dream, you... You don’t look well.”
He hates seeing him like this. His hair is dull and dry, marred with ugly patches of paper-thin skin that’s torn to his skull. Ivory bones stick out of his impossibly thin frame, peeking through the gaping holes in his worn and faded clothes. He’s missing two of his fingers. What’s left of his hands is discolored and black, withering away into nothingness.
It’s the stuff of gory zombie movies and nightmares.
George sucks in a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut, counting to ten under his breath. It’s a trick he’d learned in his childhood.
Sometimes, it works.
This time, it doesn’t. Dream stands in the same spot, still watching him blankly and still terrifyingly not himself.
He tries again, slowing down his count this time.
Ten.
His fingernails dig into the palm of his hand.
Nine.
Deep breaths always help.
Eight.
It’s just Dream.
Seven.
He’ll be back to normal in no time.
Six.
Won’t he?
Five.
He will.
Four.
He has to be.
Three.
A chill starts at his wrist and shoots up his forearm, sending tingles down his spine.
“George?”
Dream’s voice is distant. It echoes off the invisible barriers that divide their two worlds, barely making it to George’s bedroom.
One eye cautiously squints open.
The ghastly apparition has been replaced by something that almost seems real. The tattered clothing that hung off Dream’s body is replaced by a plain, slightly wrinkled t-shirt and some loose sweatpants. He stands next to the chair, leaning down so that their faces are level. Color has returned to his cheeks. His bright eyes gleam with emotion. A normal, fully fingered hand gently rests atop the spot on George’s wrist that’s now numb with cold. The only indication that he isn’t a physical being is the ring of ghostly light that still surrounds his frame.
“You scared me,” George states, a tinge of annoyance seeping into his tone. “You were standing over there, by the bed, and you wouldn’t answer me.”
“I was?” Genuine confusion flashes over Dream’s face. “I don’t remember that.”
“Well, you were.”
It isn’t Dream’s fault, George knows, and he doesn’t really blame him for it. It isn’t the real reason he’s upset.
“You’ve been gone for a while.”
George can see his face twist with guilt immediately. Dream pulls his frigid hand away and shoves it into his pocket.
“I’m sorry,” he croaks out, sounding even further away now.
That response is the last thing George wants. The corners of his lips pull downwards into an ugly frown and he fixes a steely glare onto the man in front of him.
“Why? Did I do something?” He doesn’t try to hide his anger. Each word is loud and sharp, laced with the pain built up inside of him after each night alone. “Do you not care anymore?”
“George, you know that’s not true-”
“Do I?”
The air is tense and heavy, thick with frustration. It makes each breath difficult, lungs straining with every inhale. His heart hammers against his ribcage, refusing to still until he’s received an answer.
Silence festers his wounded trust. It drags on, and on, and on, until he feels as though he’s drowning in the nothingness. It’s interrupted just as he begins to believe his own accusations.
“You do,” Dream insists firmly.
The doubt dissipates. He does know it isn’t true. They’ve spent too many years together now for him to believe otherwise.
It hasn’t made the loneliness hurt any less.
“The last time you were here, you promised it wouldn’t be this long,” George reminds him. The malice is gone, leaving raw hurt. His voice trembles, each word coming out more shaky than the last. “I don’t want an apology, I want an explanation. A real one.”
His cheek stings, bitter and freezing, when Dream tries to cradle it in his hand. There isn’t even the slightest pressure from his contact. It’s just a piercing, overwhelming coldness, like icy snow pressed against bare skin. At times, it’s comforting. Not now, though. Now, it feels empty, a reminder that they can never experience something as necessary as touch.
George tilts his head away, rubbing his own hand over his cheek to wipe away the coolness. Defeated, Dream’s shoulders droop. He takes a few steps backward and appears to carefully contemplate his words before he speaks again.
“I don’t know how to explain it, George. It feels like… I dunno, like I’m fading.”
The lump George feels in his throat returns, this time from a different type of fear.
“Fading? What does that mean?”
Dream won’t answer. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but George is sure he catches the muscles in his face tense up as he clenches his jaw shut. It’s his telltale sign that he’s keeping something important to himself.
They’ve spent countless hours through the years trying to figure out what Dream is. There’s really only three things they know with certainty.
The first is that whatever he is, he’s real. He isn’t a figment of George’s imagination.
They’d found each other when George was eight. As a Disney-obsessed child, he’d begged his parents to take him to Disney World to see his favorite characters in real life. Apparently, he’d been convincing enough (or annoying enough) to get them to plan a ridiculously expensive trip to America.
He doesn’t remember much about the rides or the meet-and-greets. He does, however, remember meeting a little boy on the way back to their hotel room one night. He sat in the lobby near the elevator, looking lost and completely alone. Unbeknownst to his parents, George snuck him into their room and stayed up all night with him, whispering jokes and muffling the sounds of their laughter to keep his family from waking up.
The next day, he was disappointed to find that his new friend had vanished. When he’d confessed the story to his mum so she’d help reunite them, she’d laughed and insisted it was all just a dream.
He’d believed it at the time, even when the boy showed up again the next night. Matter-of-factly, he’d explained that he was a dream, and because George was older and wiser, the boy didn’t question him.
The name stuck.
Now, though, they’re both aware that Dream exists in the waking world. He isn’t a hallucination or an imaginary friend, either, because George has watched nearly a dozen separate people go pale with fear and stare at the exact spot where Dream stands.
He’s also seen countless others ignore him completely, oblivious to his existence. Whatever Dream is, he’s only visible to a select few people, and George just so happens to be one of them.
They also know that Dream doesn’t remember much outside of their time spent together. He can recall some facts about himself, things like his birthday and his favorite movie. There are faint memories of a life lived elsewhere in America that return to him as he grows.
All of the important details are lost. No faces, or voices, or names. Not even his own.
The only other thing that they know for sure is that Dream isn’t living.
He’d been mortified of the decaying corpse that haunted him in the night. Its visits were infrequent and unpredictable. It would always vanish when Dream showed up. George would welcome his cold embrace, letting tears of terror flow freely down his cheeks as he described the silent spirit that never moved and never spoke. His fears were quelled by Dream’s soft voice, promising to protect him from the dead.
As they both grew, the mangled and lifeless body became more and more familiar. The resemblance between them was undeniable.
The look that the monster gave him one night when he called Dream’s name was the final piece of evidence needed to confirm that they were the same person.
Suddenly, George’s throat runs dry.
The version of Dream he’d seen earlier that night, the one that’s remained unchanged for years, is not marred with age. His skin is pale and faded, but it isn’t wrinkled.
He’s young. Mid twenties, at the absolute latest.
Panic sets in. He searches Dream’s face, unsure how to tell him what he’s realized.
It isn’t necessary. The pained smile Dream offers him in return must mean he already knows.
He doesn’t have much time left.