Archive of Our Own ^beta

They were building a house.

George wasn’t very useful in that department, but he had enough skill to align slats of wood and saw them to the appropriate measurement. He worked methodically, careful hands working to create something he would cherish forever.

A house for him and his love.

The clatter of wood came from behind him and George turned to his love, dropping wood onto the grass next to them, wiping sweat off his brow. Jade and emerald eyes turned his way and glowed with joy and affection.

“How’s my woodworker doing?” Arms swung around George’s waist and a chin was tucked over his shoulder. “You’re doing well, this looks great.”

“Thank you,” George smiled, true joy in his chest. “It’s going to be a beautiful house.”

“A log cabin far from our troubles, where nobody can come and hurt us.”

“What an enticing thought.”

“We’ll have a vegetable garden over there, and a flower garden not too far from that. I’ll hunt for you, bring home pork and beef every day.”

“As if I’m going to let you go alone, I’m a far better shot with a bow than you.”

“I wouldn’t be able to focus if I hunted with you, I’d be staring at you all the time.” A smile caressed George’s neck, a gentle kiss placed there.

“You’re so dumb.”

“I’m just in love, what can I say?”

George turned to see a bright smile, eyes that glowed like the dew on leaves in the morning. A kiss was exchanged, chaste and sure in their love.

“I love you, Dream.” George smiled so hard his cheeks hurt, grazing noses and resting foreheads on each other.

“Oh George,” A sad, careful voice broke the spell. George leaned back and saw an ivory mask flicker across his love’s face with a broken smile.

“I’m not Dream.”

The world shattered at his feet, shards of memories and hopes lay at his feet in splinters. Ashes and open wounds with rotting integrity and broken hearts. If he bent down to put them back together, his fingers bled and were sliced open.

In a rare moment of wakefulness, George went where he always went. He stood outside the gates to the prison, scuffing his boot on the well trodden path. It had seen many different kinds of footprints: friends, enemies and all those in between. The path had only been walked once by the man he called his.

By the man who now sat in prison, in who knows what condition. By the man who crowned him in melted gold, doomed to be temporary. By the very man who took him off that throne. By the man who gave him the world on a string, who swept him up in his arms and promised him all he could ask for, and all George wanted was what was in front of him.

By Dream.

George took a step forward, then a step backward. He lingered only feet from the door, the keys to a visit within his grasp. But he couldn’t reach out, brittle fingers threatening to snap with push and pull if he reached forward. But how he wanted to go forward.

He was being torn in half, each arm bent at a different angle. In one ear, Dream whispered sweet nothings and cradled him from the cruelty of the world. Dream promised to keep him safe, that he would be alright. In the other ear, Sapnap and Tommy and everyone else told him what a horrible person Dream was. That Dream was the worst person to exist, that he held the power of a god and the malice of a demon. He only wanted to hurt people, to use them for their own gain. It was tearing him apart, seams and cloth tearing open with a violent sound, and if he listened close enough, his heart screamed in pain. In the darkness of the night, his mind thundered with loud noises, screams and fire and war. A pair of phantom arms lulled him to sleep with empty promises of forever.

Without conscious thought, he voiced what he ached to say, if only he had the courage to move forward.

“I miss you.

“I miss you so much. And I hate you for making me miss you. Every time I’m awake, I can hear everyone talking about all the ways you’ve hurt them. I never know if it’s true or not. All I can hear when people talk about you is you telling me you love me. I don’t want to believe it, that you’ve done all that, I want to think you loved me. I hope I wasn’t a means to an end for you, a heart to be tread on to get to where you were going.”

George took in a shuddering breath, eyes stinging of deadly blades of grass. “I hate how dependent I am, that I can’t choose a side. That I have to choose between my friends and you. I can never tell the difference between a fact and a comforting lie. I’m afraid if I go to you...I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid you’ll tell me it’s true, I’m afraid you’ll tell me it’s a lie.”

One shuddering breath became two, and George was crying, burning molten tears scarring his face with their salt. His shoulders caved in, rattling and trembling. George ached, wishing most in the world that he could be at home. But this was the closest he got, and he was still so far away.

“I love you so much. I want things to be normal again, simple. I want you to kiss my temple and lay a crown on my head, maybe this time made of flowers. I want you to take me stargazing, to tell me all the mythology behind the stars. I want to wake up with you, make me breakfast and promise me the world on a string. I want to do the same for you. I want to be with you, and I can’t.”

A string snapped in George’s spine and he fell to his knees, curling over himself. He protected himself from the world, wrapping his arms around himself and tucking his feet in, desperate to get away. Choking breaths were forced out, a drowning man’s gasps for air. He swore his whole body shook, agony falling out of his body in tears and relentless sobs.

He cried for so long the sun set and his head split open, dreams spilling onto the worn path into the prison.

It took him a long time to get up, and he didn’t even make it home before he fell asleep, falling into a world of better days.

A pounding blow woke George up, forcing him out of a utopia. He opened weary eyes, already tired again. The noise didn’t stop, so he slowly got out of bed, wrapping a blanket around himself.

He knew it had to be Sapnap, the rhythm to the knocking a familiar melody he would know from his grave. Fleeting memories of a community house were set aside so he could attend to Sapnap’s needs, though it better be good.

The knocks stopped just as he approached the door, and George’s breath hitched. Was Sapnap okay?

He opened the door and a small gasp escaped his throat.

In front of him was a man he would know throughout all time, though he looked wildly different. Hair long and shaggy, matted and bloody. A large wound spanned across his face, his right eye completely closed by a large X. Dried blood and sweat clung to his face, marring him almost beyond recognition.

But George would know Dream anywhere.

Dream extended a hand weakly, and if George wasn’t so shocked his gaze would snag more on the fact that Dream had only four fingers and the nail beds were nearly gone.

George stood in the doorway, completely frozen. The blanket fell to the floor, George’s hands twitching at his sides.

“Oh my love,” One of them said, and Dream nearly passed out.

Instinct rushed George and he reached his arms out to hold Dream up, all grievances aside. He slipped Dream’s arm over his shoulder and carried him in with a backward glance to make sure no one saw.

He did his best to carry Dream, but he was heavy and a near dead weight. He barely made it to his small futon before almost dropping Dream on the couch, who let out a pained groan.

“Dream, look at me.”

Dream turned his head, eye half open and melancholy. “Anything for you.”

“Don’t say that, I don’t have time to deal with that. Tell me what’s hurting.”

“Everything,” Dream put a hand to his ribs and grimaced, a sound of distress slipping out. “From my fingernails to my eye, it all hurts.”

“I’m getting you a healing pot, stay here.”

George rushed out, heading for the ender chest he kept in his room. He wished he could say he felt conflicted, that he shouldn’t help him, but he didn’t. Instinct took over and all George could think of was help him help him. He took one look at Dream and saw the man he loved in pain and didn’t bother to consider anything else.

He grabbed some things to clean the open wounds, a healing potion and a load of bandages. He rushed back to the futon and found Dream passed out, shallowly breathing. He tipped the potion into Dream’s mouth, praying he swallowed. He was relieved when Dream’s eye fluttered open again.

“Dream, stay with me. I need you to talk to me. Tell me what I need to do.”

The remnants of a smile ghosted Dream’s face. “My ribs are likely broken, my hands are...you can see those, my feet are scratched up from running here, and my eye. It needs help.”

“We’ll start with the eye.” George carefully cleaned the crusted blood off of the gruesome scar in Dream’s eye. Dream hissed, flinching back. The whimper that rang through the room didn’t escape George’s notice either. He reached out a hand, pulling Dream’s hand into his own.

“It’s just me, I’m here,” He muttered in reassurance, returning to the eye, cleaning it with water. Once he moved to cleaning it with the rubbing alcohol he found in a back cabinet, Dream’s fear only intensified. George let Dream grip his hand with painful force, focusing only on taking care of him.

“Stop, it hurts. Please, I’ll do anything.”

“It’s just me, Dream. I have to take care of this. That healing pot should help your ribs, and then it’s just your hand and your feet, alright?”

Dream nodded minutely, letting George finish without complaint, though he still gripped George’s hand. When he finally pulled away, the healing scar looked as clean as it could be. A clean X, clearly made by someone who knew what they were doing, crossed directly over Dream’s eye, blocking his vision completely. George held back from touching it, though he dabbed the remaining blood off Dream’s face with a gentleness he wished he wasn’t capable of.

“You probably won’t be able to see out of that eye.”

“I know,” Dream whispered, still holding George’s hand even though he wasn’t in pain. He looked directly at George, gaze wandering over every small detail of his face. “You look beautiful.”

“Don’t,” George warned in a choked voice. “I can’t take that.”

“I’m sorry,” Dream whispered, and it sounded like he actually regretted how things turned out.

George moved to his hands next, cleaning them with a similar routine. George soothed Dream through it all, praying the healing pot would ease the pain. Dream’s pinky finger was completely cut off at the joint, nerves twitching but no movement. He bandaged it carefully, mindful of how painful it would be.

All the thoughts he should have been thinking weren’t necessarily escaping him, but he was far more focused on the who. Who did this? Because, nobody, no matter what atrocities they’ve committed, deserves to be tortured like this. It must have been Sam, visiting him to keep him weak. George burned with anger, far more vicious than anything from their past he wanted to dig up.

George bandaged blistered and burned feet, red and raw from whatever transpired in the prison. Once that was done, he stood up to take inventory of anything else. Dream shifted on the futon, obviously bone tired, but nervous all the same.

“George….”

“Dream.” George held up a hand, stalling whatever Dream was going to say. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear it. “You’re obviously exhausted. Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. You have to tell me everything, though, or I will take you to Sapnap. Don’t leave the house, stay in this room until I come out in the morning.”

Dream nodded, a clear green eye giving him a familiar unreadable gaze. “I won’t. I promise.”

“You’ve promised a lot of things,” George mumbled, cleaning up all the medical supplies. He pulled out a blanket from under the couch and handed it to Dream.

“With you, I meant every one of them,” A bittersweet smile befell Dream’s face and without even asking, George knew Dream was thinking of the same thing he was.

“Sleep well, Dream.” George turned to the door, pausing in the doorway despite himself.

Because he paused, he was able to hear the most quiet admission in the world, meant for only the ears of the stars.

“I missed you.”

For the first time in his life, George couldn’t sleep.

He woke up tired again, eyes red and mind buzzing. He stared at the ceiling, slats of slanted oak wood and a few dusty cobwebs. The house Foolish spent so much time on was left to be wasted, used only as a place to sleep the days away. It was in disrepair, in need of proper care and love, someone who would use the house as a home.

But it had fallen to his hands instead, the man who couldn’t bring himself to stay awake for anything.

Except perhaps Dream.

He slipped out of bed, socked feet headed directly to the room filled with a thousand secrets and a hundred more confessions.

He knocked gently on the door, unsure why he was offering Dream such a courtesy. No answer, so he quietly creaked open the door to find his worries about Dream leaving were unfounded.

He was asleep, the healing potion and exhaustion working its way through his body. He breathed deep and even, a pattern George had fallen asleep to and woken up with. Dream flinched at the gentle squeak of the door, curling under the blanket with an involuntary shiver. So George shut the door and quietly made his way to the kitchen.
If you asked George why he started pulling out the ingredients for pancakes, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. It felt like instinct, the only option available. Make pancakes while he waited for Dream to wake up so they could talk.

He did the movements almost mechanically, moving through the process without thought of the next step. His mind raced with thoughts of all that he had yet to believe. Lies, truths, emotions, and facts, how to detangle them all? How to decide if Dream deserved a second chance in life, if he should stay with George or be sent to Sapnap, who promised to kill him in cold blood.

George didn’t know if he had the ability to send Dream to death. Knowing all he’d been through, despite all he’d done, could George condemn Dream, pointing the accusing finger and vowing death? It was more than he was willing to think about, at the very least, Dream would stay away from Sapnap.

Did that leave George to send him out of his house, to the wild? To hope that Dream would find someone willing to absolve Dream of his sins, that he wasn’t killed by starvation or the hostility of the woods around them? George didn’t have the capability to send Dream to his death, but he didn’t know if he would let Dream stay with him. He would have to see him every day, be reminded of April mornings with dew clinging to leaves and gentle hiccups of laughter. It was more than he could bear.

He finished the food, setting it on a plate and standing at the table, unsure of where he went after that. He’d made the gift, could he give it to Dream?

He couldn’t just leave the food to get cold. With shaking hands, he reached for the plate topped with strawberries and cream, only a little bit of syrup. He knocked on the door, knuckles trembling.

He heard a quiet hum, so he walked through the door, finding Dream awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I brought you food,” George said, an olive branch reaching out between them, roots struggling to hold it up.

“Thank you.” The apples of Dream’s cheeks dusted a rose gold at the sight of the sweet food. He picked up a lone strawberry, taking a single bite and closing his eyes in relief.

“It’s been so long since I had a strawberry.”

“Dream,” George began, faltering when stunning eyes turned his way. “We need to talk. About this. While you eat.”

“I don’t know that I could eat, to be honest. It’s been so long since I had something other than prison food.”

“Eat what you can. We need to discuss a few things.” Dream looked at him with waiting eyes, and for a moment George couldn’t breathe at the sight.

George took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to do. All the while you’ve been gone, I kept hearing things about what a horrible person you are, that you’re the demon in disguise. And I didn’t want to believe them, and I couldn’t stop thinking of all the time we spent together, how much we loved each other.”

“George, I-”

“Let me finish. I can’t send you to Sapnap, not in good conscience. I can’t throw you out, not in your condition. You wouldn’t survive in the woods. But I don’t know if I can let you stay. I have to let you stay, clearly, but I don’t know what it’s going to be like. I’ve heard too many bad things about you to really trust you. Even when it comes to our relationship.”

“You could ask me anything, I’ll tell you. The whole truth, anything you want. I just ask that you not question me about the prison, it’s still...I can’t talk about it.”

“Anything?” Dream nodded, offering another promise on broken wings. “And you won’t lie, not even a little bit?” Another nod, reassuring despite it all. “How do I know you’ll tell the truth?”

“My stories should line up with other people’s, right? I promise.”

“Promises can be broken, Dream,” George whispered in aching tones, bitter and lonely. A repeat of his sentiment last time, though it felt all the more hopeless.

“I’ll keep this one. And all the ones after it.”

George opened his mouth to ask the most burning question, but was too weak to voice it. It lay on the floor in shards, unable to be spoken. Instead, he reached for the low hanging fruit of the confession. “What happened with you and Tommy?”

Dream, to his credit, did not hold back. He took a deep breath, stared at his plate and began. He poured with sickly molasses the truth, the most ugly truth of all. George almost wished that he hadn’t asked, so he wouldn’t have to hear the horrible things that Dream had done. But this was better than the confusion, trying to piece together the shattered glass of feelings and memories. George pressed a hand to his chest, fluttering with anguish.

He’d known Dream wasn’t perfect. He’d gone to war with him, he’d fought and bled for him. He’d been bandaged by him, had his bleeding knuckles kissed with a sunflower smile. He’d been fucked by him, rewarded by the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen when Dream wiped him down with a soft rag that felt like clouds. He’d been dethroned, he’d been given a kingdom only for it to be taken away by the same man. He’d seen good and bad, he’d known that the relationship wasn’t perfect.

But it felt so worth it to be kissed by a boy who laughed clearer than water, whose voice he gravitated to in conversations. It was all worth it to wake up and see a boy graced by the rays of the rising sun, who effortlessly reflected George’s love.

Hearing Dream confess his sins to the quiet air of the room was something George couldn’t have prepared for. His chest ached with a diseased garden he’d nurtured for months, hoping that it would yield what he wanted only to find that parasites had leached from it all his work. He looked at Dream’s weary eyes and matted hair and found a man he didn’t know at all.

And with a stab to his heart, pouring blood vessels from his ribs, he realized he still loved him.

Dream finished his confessionals, not daring to end with a “forgive me.” George looked at those jade eyes and found the darkest parts of him, laid bare for George to accept or turn away.

George wanted to open his arms, to reel him in and offer all that he had to give, yet he couldn’t bring himself to pick up a thorned rose knowing that it had pricked him and scratched others.

He opened his mouth to ask more and fell on a question that shattered glass into dust, spilling their beautiful reflections out into the air, never to be seen through the same glass again.

“Did you ever love me?”

The question rang through the air, echoes banging around the room, filling George’s head with chaos unbidden. Dream’s hands twitched, a familiar sign. But George didn’t offer his hands for Dream to take, to kiss between lilacs and daffodils. He let the air hang, heavy and burdening.

“I never stopped loving you. From the very beginning, you were my one and only.”

“Spare me the poetry, I don’t want to hear it.” It’s too painful to remember. “Just tell me the truth.”

“Of course I loved you. My relationship with you was a rare one never spent manipulating you, and I hope it was reciprocated,” George swallowed down memories of the dethronement and exile, “I loved you, I still do. I thought about you, in the-the prison.”

“Was I ever a tool for you to use for your own gain?”

“Never,” A promise that was as loud as the betrayal.

“Do you still love me?” George couldn’t resist asking.

“I am not the person I was before I entered the prison. It was hell, and I think I left parts of me in that obsidian. But I still feel just as strongly.” Dream looked at him with the eyes of his favorite tree, begging for a semblance of what once was.

George raised his head, chin high. “You can stay. But you have to listen to me. No matter what you think is best. You’re confined to this room, you can’t come out unless I say you can.”

“George,” Dream’s eyes glistened with regret, “I can’t be someone’s prisoner anymore. I can’t be contained in the same 20 feet of space. Please, just let me-let me see the sun.”

A pang of something unfamiliar lanced through George’s chest, spearing him with empathy, something he never felt with anyone, not even Sapnap. Blessed and cursed with apathy, it was hard to give a shit about anything in his life, especially when the one reason for staying connected to the world was out of mind. But Dream had a knack for giving him things he never had, and sometimes never wanted.

“We’ll take it slow,” George compromised, “Just-you can walk around the house. But don’t go too close to the windows. And don’t go outside in the day, we’re too close to Sapnap and Karl for that to be safe.”

“George,” He hated that Dream had the capability to stop him in his tracks with the simple sound of his name. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t cut it,” George said with a melancholy smile dripping in poisoned nectar, “Just promise me you’ll stay safe. I’ll be around, but probably sleeping most days.”

Dream nodded. “I’ll be fine. But I am sorry.”

George wanted to say I know or I forgive you but all that his plagued mind could think of was a simple, “Sure.”

The days slipped by slowly, like poisoned molasses dripping out of a pipette. George spent most of them wiled away in sleep, doing his best to ignore the man only a few hundred feet from his room.

A few days after Dream’s arrival, George found himself sitting at the foot of the futon, unwrapping the bandages on Dream’s hands and face to rebandage them. He noticed dirt encrusted underneath his nails, flecks of blood resting between the skin of Dream’s hands and the bandages. He took stock of Dream’s hair, matted, unkempt and slightly bloody.

“Have you had a bath yet?” George asked, the first words he’d spoken since he’d sat down on his heels.

Dream’s eyes cast downward, avoiding George’s clearcut gaze. “No, I-I haven’t. I just-I couldn’t-there was a-”

“Spit it out,” George snarked, rifling through his meager first aid kit for a change of bandages. Dream’s whole body flinched, chest shaking with the breaths he took in. George eyed Dream, who took several deep breaths to hide the trembling in his hands.

“Sorry,” George muttered, holding out the gauze. “I shouldn’t have snapped. Take your time.”

“I…” Dream couldn’t seem to meet George’s eyes, who felt none but concern for the man in front of him. “I can't take baths. I tried, once, while you were asleep. But as soon as I got in the tub I just started panicking. It’s a...remnant of the past, I think. The prison.”

George nodded, putting the potential horrors behind Dream being terrified of water out of his mind. “I’m sorry.” George cast about for an answer, a solution to Dream’s problems, hoping that he could ease Dream’s pain. “I might have an idea.”

Dream’s eyes met George’s, picking apart umber intentions. “Really?” he asked breathlessly.

“Follow me,” George tugged Dream upward with a gentle grasp on his hand, leading him into the bathroom.

He seated Dream on the toilet, easing him carefully down. The only sound in the room was their mingling breath. George searched under the sink and found some clean white rags, soft and pure.

“How hot can you handle the water?”

“Not hot,” Dream whispered, shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on his knees. George turned on the tap, letting the water warm up to a simple tepid. With a gentle finger, he reached out and tipped Dream’s chin up to meet his gaze, pulling back when Dream hissed a breath and winced.

“Relax. Nobody will hurt you here. I’m just going to wash you down with a rag. Nothing you’re uncomfortable with.” A slow, deep inhale and Dream nodded.

George rinsed the rags, soaking them with lukewarm water. With the kind of gentility one could only have with years of familiarity, George lifted Dream’s hand in his own. He laved the soaked rag over Dream’s hand, between knuckles, under nails and over dark bruises and cuts.

“Too hot?” George questioned, to which Dream shook his head. He was noticeably quiet and tense. He hissed in pain when George passed over a particularly nasty cut.

Their hands felt so different, they always had been. From size to complexion to scars, George’s and Dream’s hands were different by design and by life. A fact Dream never seemed to mind, and one George would note in wonder during quiet afternoons. They had both seen such different things, stood the test of time together and apart. Dream’s hand bore scars and bruises that George’s hands never dreamt of, brutality and calluses breaking apart the soft flesh of what could have been supple skin. They were so different, yet shared the memories of something as unique as each other. George was sure that no matter what happened, storm, war or chaos, that the skin and nerves of his hand would never forget what Dream’s hands felt like clasped in his own.

And he was right.

“Do you remember,” Dream interjected with a croaking voice. He cleared his throat and started again. “When we were younger, not that much younger but years ago, when one of us would get injured. It was usually me, because I was an idiot. But you would always bandage me up with the softest smile, giggling at my stupidity. How many times did you laugh at me and berate me for climbing that tree, or letting Sapnap dare me into doing something stupid?”

George felt a smile rise to his face involuntarily. Because wherever they stood in their relationship now, George would always smile at the sweet reminder of better times.

“I distinctly remember that you would always complain and bitch about how much it hurt. And when I asked you what I was supposed to do about it, you told me to kiss it better. And you wouldn’t stop moaning until I would kiss your injury better. And suddenly your lips were in so much pain, it was agony. I had to kiss it better immediately.”

Twin grins bloomed in the bathroom, the rag forgotten, held aloft in George’s hand.
Dream huffed a laugh, staring at the porcelain. “Any chance I can get my wounds kissed better again?”

George’s smile fell, the mood broken. Broken, broken. Everything was broken. Nothing was fixed.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” Dream rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“No,” George rushed to say before he could think. “It’s fine. Just...one at a time. One kiss. I’ll give you one kiss. Choose wisely.”

Dream grinned, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He flashed George a look, one he’d seen thousands of times before. Dream shook his head. “You pick. I’d prefer it was you.”

George stared at Dream’s hand, suspended by his own. He took stock of all the wounds, all the brutal reminders of Dream’s hardships. He placed a gentle kiss at the knuckle of Dream’s index finger, and then a few precious seconds with Dream’s scarred and wet hand pressed against George’s cheek. He resumed his work, finishing on one hand and moving to the next. The only sound was a quiet thanks from Dream.

“Can I...where next?” George set the rag on the floor, sitting up from his calves onto his knees.

“What do you mean?”

“Can you take off your shirt? You don’t need to take off your pants, or anything. But maybe your shirt?” Dream was already shaking his head, pulling his hands from George’s to press them into his chest.

“I have so many scars, George. So many more than last time we saw each other. You don’t want to see that. I don’t want you to see that.”

“I don’t care what you look like. You’re still Dream,” George said bluntly, “But if you really don’t want to, you don’t have to take off your shirt. I can wash your hair, would that work?”

“That sounds nice. Just be gentle,” Dream begged.

George pulled out a comb, wetting it and running it gently through Dream’s hair. He pulled strands apart, letting dried crusts of blood fall to the floor. With infinite patience, he untangled months worth of knots within shaggy hair. Dream panted softly at the pain, gritting his teeth.

“Do you want me to stop?” George bent down to meet Dream’s eyes, nature flourishing.

“No, no. It-I don’t know. I can’t stand the pain, but it needs to happen.” George grew more gentle with his combing, opting to take significantly more time so Dream wouldn’t be in such obvious pain. His breath eased, and it became more ritualistic.

“You used to love washing my hair. Said it was so soft. I guess that can’t be said anymore,” Dream smiled sadly with melancholy eyes.

“Give it time. Can I get your face?”

Dream closed his eyes in acquiescence. George swept the cloth over high cheekbones, rough scraggly facial hair, pressing comforting touches into his hairline. He wiped over the now-crooked bridge of Dream’s nose, avoided the puffy scar over his eye and below his ears. Dream’s eyes were fluttered closed, a small smile ghosting his face in contentment.

If George were a braver man he might kiss Dream’s carotid, where life still pulsed beneath all the scars. As it were, he simply tossed the rag into the sink and reached for Dream’s hand to pull him up.

As the days moved by, one at a time, one “good morning” at a time, one tentative conversation at a time, George learned a few things.

The first was that George wasn’t allowed to talk about the prison. Dream would answer any question George asked, from why he blew up L’manburg to whether he remembered their one year anniversary. But any mention of the prison, even a mention of Sam and Dream would freeze up.

Strangely enough that happened when George talked about Quackity, but it also happened with Sapnap too. So he figured it was too close to the past, and brushed it off.

The second thing was that Dream’s list of triggers was longer than George may ever know. The smallest thing could send Dream back to a day of torture.

So many nights George had woken to screams, to frantic pacing from a room over. He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed by the inconvenience, all too aware of what Dream was going through. Some days he rolled over and stared at the wall, praying to gods he never believed in that Dream would be able to sleep. Other times he rolled out of bed and brought some tea - never hot - to the spare room to soothe his voice. He never touched Dream unless Dream reached out first.

Once when Dream sat at the island while George made chicken - just grilled chicken cut into small bites, nothing fancy, something limited by George’s cooking capabilities - he pulled out a butcher knife to chop up the chicken and focused intently on his task.

But his focus was broken by soft pants from across the counter. George looked up and found Dream looking at him with wide, worried eyes. George opened his mouth to speak and without thinking raised the knife upwards. Dream’s eyes widened further, stumbling out of his chair with a loud squeak, nearly sending the chair to the ground.

“Wait, Dream-”

Dream backed himself into a corner, pressing his hands to his chest fearfully. He shook violently, George could see it from feet away. A choked sob tore through Dream’s chest, ripping him to pieces. Shreds of once pure white cloth littered the floor, blood stained and glassy.

“Please, sir, please stop,” Dream fell to his knees, holding his hand in his face. Crystal tears hardened on graceful cheekbones. “I’m sorry, I can’t give it to you, just please-stop-”

George stood in shock, unsure what to do. He stepped forward, leaving the knife on the counter. With tentative fingers, he reached for Dream’s knee, trying to brace him and bring him back into reality.

It had the opposite effect. Dream screamed, a gut wrenching howl that echoed through the tiny room. He shook so harshly that George worried for his safety.

“Dream, please-”

“Stop, you know I hate it when you’re nice. Just stop, please, I can’t give it to you, I’m sorry,” Dream’s voice was fragmented, already roughened vocal chords facing strain again.

“Dream.” George forced his voice steady and firm, trying to be the rock Dream once was for him. “You’re not in the prison. You’re with me, you’re safe. You can relax, I’m here with you.”

Dream looked up with glassy faded eyes, a brilliant emerald dulled to a murky leaf rotted by the passing of summer. “I can’t breathe,” he admitted, almost inaudible.

“You’re safe, Dream. Nobody will harm you here. I promise. It’s just me and you, in the kitchen. Sam isn’t here, he can’t harm you. Look at me,” Dream met his eyes, shining and swimming in agony, “I’m here. Can you, perhaps, count my freckles? I know you always liked to do that when you were anxious before.” Before. Such a bitter taste.

Dream swallowed and leaned forward, muttering under his breath, gaze scanning George’s face. They were remarkably close and George had to fight the rising heat at their proximity. It took a while, Dream counted and recounted his freckles three times before his eyes cleared and swam again in bitter sadness.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbled, buried his head between his knees, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for freaking out, I’m so sorry-”

“Dream,” George cut in, raising a hand to his face. He stopped halfway there, a silent question brimming. Dream leaned into the touch, allowing George to cup his jaw and cheek. “You don’t need to be sorry. If anything I’m sorry for triggering such an intense reaction. I’m here. You can let go, you don’t need to hold it in for me.”

The strings cut and Dream’s shoulders dropped. They shook, a repeated pattern George recognized from years of friendship. George sidled next to Dream, careful not to touch, simply letting Dream cry himself out. Dream’s head dropped to his shoulder, wetting his shirt with tears. George couldn’t reach out, not even sure if he was supposed to. But he thought about how Dream often dealt with him when he was bogged down by the incredible lull of sleep and nothingness and tried to provide the same constancy. He muttered soft affirmations under his breath, hoping Dream could hear them.

A long while passed, the food lying in wait on the counter for George to finish the task. But eventually Dream’s tears slowed and then stopped. George examined Dream, noting a small nick on his ear, a scar George actually recognized. Memories gently washed over him, providing comfort instead of the usual conflict it normally came with. Sapnap’s barking laugh, Dream’s shouts in anger when he got nicked by a tree branch and George’s calls in apprehension, making sure the pair bounding through the forest was alright. With courage he didn’t know he had, he pressed a kiss to the scar.

“You’re safe,” he promised.

It was never easy.

But it felt less hard than it should have been.

It was simple to care for Dream, to press little kisses to his wounds and comb his hair. It was familiar to talk to him, to sit side by side at a little table and talk about anything. Usually heavy conversations, George burdened with the need to bring Dream to the knowledge of what happened while he was gone despite knowing near nothing. It was so much easier than it should have been to want to kiss the tears off Dream’s face.

It burdened him with guilt, but most days he was too busy sleeping or worried about Dream’s deepening eyebags to focus on his looming guilt crashing around his ears. Sapnap occasionally whispered in his ear about Dream’s atrocities, but he did what he always did when Sapnap was being annoying. He shook his head and brushed the pesky voice away, opting to instead soothe the anxieties of Dream.

As the weeks continued to slip by, George started to learn that once the physical injuries started to heal, Dream had a layer of deep, impending wrath that he could never seem to soothe.

He’d seen it before, thankfully never directed at him. But he’d seen the look Dream got in his eyes when Tommy ruined something he’d liked, or when Wilbur declared independence. Dream never seemed to be satisfied when he got like that, lashing out sometimes at George, but more often manipulation, putting himself into a position to right what he supposed were wrongs.

Dream wanted revenge on the person who’d hurt him. He wanted revenge on Sam, for torturing him day in and day out. He’d asked George for weapons, for netherite to arm himself. George had refused on the grounds of Dream’s physical health, insisting that it wasn’t safe. Which it wasn’t. Dream had grit his teeth and dug his nails into the fabric of the couch.

“I need to go out and stop him,” Dream paced the room in front of the couch, bringing up the subject for the thousandth time.

“I know you hate Sam, and that’s understandable-”

“No, George. You don’t understand. You don’t know. It wasn’t Sam who tortured me, though he certainly didn’t help. So while it might be nice to get a piece of him on the way, it’s not him I’m looking for.”

“Then who?”

“None of your business,” Dream scowled, throwing a dirty look his way.

“I’d like to think it is my business, since you’re in my house and we were once close-”

“Once?” Dream raised his chin, a challenge, “Are we not anymore?”

“I...I don’t know,” George mumbled, turning his gaze from Dream.

“Whatever. The point is, I need to go after him. The person who tortured me.”

“Who is that? I need to know!”

“No, you fucking don’t. All you need to know is I’m going after them and I’m raising hell after all they’ve done to me and Technoblade.”

“I do need to know!” George threw his hands in the air, frustrated, “Is it so bad that I want to know who tortured the man I love? Is it so bad that I want to know who gave you all the new scars, who’s the reason you flinch when I move too fast or the person who stands by in your nightmares? Is it such a crime to be curious?”

“Have you ever thought that maybe I’m doing this for your sake? That maybe you don’t really want to know who did this,” Dream gestured a hand to his body, to the hidden scars beneath another long sleeved shirt, “to me? That you won’t believe me? I don’t want you to know because I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Well it’s too late for that!” George realized he was standing, angry red burning his face. “You’ve hurt me far worse than any other man, so spit it out. You can’t possibly wound me more than you have. You’re the reason I couldn’t stay awake, why I never went to visit you, the reason that I don’t even talk to Sapnap anymore. You hurt me and have hurt me more than you’re aware. So don’t give me that protection bullshit. I want to know who’s hurt you. And then I’ll decide who is worthy of getting their hearts ripped out. I’ll eat their heart if I have to, rip them to pieces if I think they deserve it. For you. But you have to tell me. So, Dream, my love,” George was dripping venomous spite, Dream looked astonished, mouth slightly open, “my darling, my one and only. Who visited you in the prison so often that you need my netherite?”

Dream stood in the same spot for one, two, three seconds before he sighed, pushing his hands through his hair. A familiar motion. “You won’t like it. You might not even believe it.”

“I’ll decide that, thank you.”

Dream sat on the couch, tugging on the tangled roots of his hair. He needed another bath, perhaps one day he would let George clean the planes of his chest and let him rub clean shampoo into his hair. “Will you believe me?”

“Just spit it out, stop stalling.”

“Fine. Fine. It was-it was-hold on,” A long moment passed in silence, George waiting in expectancy. Finally, all in a rush, Dream breathed out, “It was Quackity.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. And a few more for the denial to sink in. “Quackity? There’s no way. There’s no way Quackity would-I can’t believe it.”

“Are you implying that I’m lying? Telling me you don’t believe me?” Dream’s eyes held cold steel in the depths of dark moss.

“No, I just-I can’t believe it. This is Quackity we’re talking about. The guy who I ran for vice president with. The guy who sang karaoke with us, who hosted sleepovers at his house. The guy who dragged you into the longest jokes and always tried to make you jealous of him by stealing my attention. This is the guy who I built a country with. Sapnap and Karl’s fiance.”

“And now he’s built another one. He’s changed, George, since you’ve been asleep.”

George sank onto the couch next to Dream, head in hands. “I can’t believe it. I saw him outside the prison a couple months ago, he seemed fine.”

“Probably on his way to visit me. Stop acting like I’m lying, George, I’m sick of it.”

“Are you sure it was Quackity? Big Q?” George didn’t know why he was asking so much when he knew the answer. He knew Dream wouldn’t lie, but he couldn’t stop asking.

“George! I’m not fucking lying, this is-this is serious!”

“I know it’s serious, this is a big deal. But this is Quackity. He wouldn’t,” George begged to the ceiling.

“Well, he fucking did. He did. He tortured me every goddamn day for hours. All he wanted was the revival book.”

“Stop, I can’t-”

“I couldn’t either!” Dream yelled, chest heaving. With a huff, he ripped back the sleeve on his shirt, exposing an arm George had only gotten spare glimpses of.

It was horrific. Large raised scars marred the entirety of his forearm in circles. Some big, others small, some overlapping. Imperfect circles and puffy scars. It littered his forearm completely, all around.

“It’s the same on the other arm,” Dream said when George couldn’t look away.

“I…” George trailed off, resisting the urge to touch, to soothe angry pink and red with alabaster and marble, “What happened?”

“One for every day he came. He would drop a little bit of lava on my arm, telling me it was how he kept track of the days,” Dream’s voice was shaking, it was obvious he was scared of George’s reaction.

“Do they hurt?” George couldn’t resist asking.

Dream’s eyes broke, frayed strands of vines standing in his eyes. “Not a day goes by when they don’t burn like hell.”

George’s heart cracked in two, the halves lying in porcelain pieces on the floor. “Oh Dream,” he sighed, wanting to pull Dream into a hug, to kiss every scar and all the untouched space between them on Dream’s body and tell him that it didn’t change how beautiful he was. George wanted to explain that he was sorry he didn’t believe Dream, that he was sorry it ever happened. He wanted to kiss Dream breathless, worship his body and soul with his own, reassure him how much he cared.

But George had always been a coward, so he settled for lifting Dream’s hand in his own. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded.

Dream’s eyes drifted to the side. “I need to stop Quackity.”

“You want your revenge, you don’t care about stopping him.”

“Fine, I want my revenge. Happy?”

“You don’t need revenge. It’s not going to take away what he’s done.”

“No, but I can certainly repay the favor.”

“Dream,” George implored, “Stop and think. First, you’re still not in a condition to go anywhere, much less halfway across the SMP. Second, you’re far too conspicuous, anyone who’s looking will recognize you immediately. You don’t think Quackity is capable of overpowering you and taking you right back to the prison? It’s a horrible idea.”

“I need to hurt him.”

“You want to.”

Dream’s eyes burned. “I want to. Whatever. Let me go.”

“No. It’s unsafe, and it’s not the right thing to do.”

“Fuck the right thing to do.”

“Oh, so it’s always about morality, about doing whatever you need to do, taking care of what needs to be done, but when you suffer for it, that changes? You preach about all this ‘happy family’ bullshit, I’ve heard it time and time again, but you’re a hypocrite.”

“I’ve never claimed to be the good guy.”

George rolled his eyes. “It’s just me, Dream you don’t need to play the part of the big bad wolf. I know where you stand on things like this.”

“Quackity needs to suffer for what he’s done to me.”

“And do you deserve to suffer for what you did to Tommy?” That seemed to stop Dream in his tracks, the room falling silent. “That’s what I thought. Don’t be a hypocrite, it was never a good look on you. At least wait until you’re strong enough to take him down before going on this tirade.”

Silence fell. Dream picked at his hands, and George resisted the urge to snap at him to stop. “And if I leave without you knowing? If I steal your netherite on its fancy racks and leave?”

George stood, brushing imaginary dust off his clothes. “I can’t stop you. You’re a grown man. But you will not be welcome back into this house if you leave.”

George woke to screams again. A common occurrence. He rolled over and rubbed his eyes, trying to make out the shapes of his wall among the lingering shapes of his dream. The screams endured.

Slowly, George pulled back the covers and slipped out of bed, wrapping a nearby blanket around his shoulders to keep what remaining warmth he had. He wandered to the spare room, more Dream’s room than ever.

Dream was clearly still asleep, though his eyelids were slightly open. They flitted about wildly. Tears rolled down Dream’s temples, large ones that slid into his hairline already slicked with sweat.

“Dream?” George broached, carefully moving toward him. Dream turned to him, panting harshly. “You’re having a nightmare You’re not awake, you need to wake up.”

George sat next to Dream on the sofa, holding back from reaching out. “Dream,” he said firmly, “Wake up.”

“I’m awake, I’m awake.”

“You’re not awake. It’s just a bad dream.” Dream thrashed wildly, nearly hitting George across the face. “It’s not real. You’re with me. You’re safe.”

Dream tried to sit up, but George held him down, pushing him back to lay down. Screams rang through the room, clanging and ripping the walls to pieces. A knee came up and hit George in the gut, nearly making him let go of Dream. Warily, he bent over Dream.

“Wake up!” He shouted.

It took a few minutes, long seconds of holding Dream down so he wouldn’t hurt himself, firmly insisting that Dream wasn’t awake, that it wasn’t real. Eventually Dream blinked, and clarity filled his eyes.

“George?” He asked, voice wrecked from screaming.

“Dream,” George breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re awake. You’re here.”

“Yeah, I...where am I?” Fear leaked into Dream’s tone, hands coming up to hold those still on his shoulders.

“With me. In my house. You’re safe.” Dream nodded, resting his head back on the pillows. “You had a nightmare.”

Dream took a few deep breaths, thumbs gently rolling over the back of George’s hands. “Oh God,” Dream sighed, tears building back up in his lash line. George moved one of his hands to gently pull the wetness from Dream’s cheeks and temples, moving over scars vast and thin alike. A small groan slipped from Dream’s mouth as he rolled over to his side, facing the futon. His shoulders shook with horrors unknown, that George might never know. Carefully, George traced short nails across Dream’s back, still brushing tears off Dream’s face. He muttered sweet nothings, reassuring Dream that he was safe, that Quackity couldn’t hurt him anymore.

“Do you want some tea? Some water?” George asked, careful and hesitant.

“Water,” Dream begged.

George quietly went out of the room, leaving his blanket tucked around Dream’s shoulders. He came back with cold water to find Dream shivering, holding the blanket around him close.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The nightmare.

A long silence passed, George reaching out to brush Dream’s matted hair off his forehead.

“Quackity liked to hold me underwater,” Dream started, pulling the blanket even tighter, “To pin me by my neck as he pushed me into the sink. He wouldn’t let me up. I was too weak to stop him, to fight back. I could hear him laughing, when I was underwater, saying things I couldn’t make out. He would-he would hold me underwater for so long I would start breathing in water. I almost-” Dream heaved a sob, “There were times when I-when it was-”

“You don’t need to tell me if it’s too painful,” George stopped him. Dream nodded, large tears still trailing down his face. “Do you want to sit up? Try and drink the water?”

Dream moved up, George adjusting his position so they sat next to each other. Dream sipped his water between hiccups, the blanket lying abandoned. Eventually Dream set the half empty glass of water down and turned into George’s side, shoulders still shaking.

“I can’t do this, George. I can’t do it. I can’t, there’s no way I’ll be able to keep going,” Dream rambled on. He let George slide an arm around his shoulders.

“Breathe, Dream.” A command Dream obeyed in a heave. “It’s ok.”

“It’s not ok, George. I’m broken. I’m weak.”

George hummed, “Maybe it’s not okay now. But it will be. With time.”

“I don’t have time,” Dream protested.

“You have all the time in the world. With me.”

Dream sobbed, gripping his own hands tightly. George reached out and carefully drew Dream’s hands into his own, palms clasped. “What do you need?” George asked quietly. Dream shook his head, burying his face in George’s shoulder. George nodded, letting them sit in silence.

“Can you just...hold me like this? For a little bit?” It was a loaded question, one Dream surely had to build up the confidence to ask.

George wished he had the ability to hesitate a little bit when he nodded, but comforting Dream came so naturally, something almost instinctual.

“Of course,” George stopped a sweet pet name from slipping out, just barely. “Do you want to go to my bed?” Dream nodded and together they moved to George’s room, the blanket tucked around Dream’s shoulders now.

They settled into bed, Dream curling into George’s side so naturally, just like old times. Like how it always was between them. When Dream was upset, he buried his nose in George’s collarbone, and would take a few deep breaths to try and ease the trembling of his body. His knee would lock around George’s calf, pulling them closer. His hair would tickle George’s jaw and his hands would find purchase in George’s shirt or around his waist. And though a lot had changed since then, Dream still settled into the same position. George tilted his head back gently to wipe away all the stains from Dream’s cheek, soothing puffy red eyes with a pale hand.

“A bath tomorrow, I think,” George mumbled under his breath. Dream nodded breathlessly, eyes closed at the touch. Touch was never Dream’s love language, he never found as much comfort as George did in hugs and comforting whispers of fingertips. But maybe something had changed in the prison, because the constant crease between Dream’s brows finally eased a little bit, and his breathing relaxed.

“Dream,” George whispered, and Dream hummed softly, voice still creaky from strain. “I know things are weird between us, but if you have a nightmare you can come into my room.” George held his breath at the admission, hoping with a strange fear that it wouldn't backfire.

“Yeah?” Dream breathed, face still buried in George’s neck. George ran thin fingertips along Dream’s spine.

“Yeah.”

Minutes passed, and no response came. Save for the small kiss George felt pressed into the bone of his clavicle.

“Let me go!”

“No, Dream! You know I can’t!”

They stood in the living room again. Arguing. About something stupid. Again.

“I want to go outside!”

“And Sapnap is my fucking neighbor, Dream! You can’t go outside, it’s too dangerous!”

“You can’t stop me!” Dream’s eyes burned with hellfire. He was angry. Something George had rarely seen in the months he’d been at George’s house.

“You’re right, Dream. I can’t stop you. I’ve said it before, you’re a grown man. You can make your own decisions. But you can’t go outside. It’s not safe. You’ll get dragged back to the prison.”

Dream paced the room, wearing a divet into the carpet. “I want to go outside.”

“And I want you to be safe.”

“What about being happy? When do I get to be happy? When do we stop hiding? Do you expect me to stay in this room, in the same space for all my life? I’ve done that before, I can’t do it again.”

“No, but-”

“Then what do you propose? What’s the solution?”

George threw his hands up in the air, scoffing. “I don’t know! Is that what you want to hear? I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t known what to do since you dropped on my doorstep with no warning.”

Dream’s eyes closed, steel and iron barring the walls Dream had carefully put down around him. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”

“Hadn’t what?”

“Come to you. Collapsed on your doorstep.”

George hesitated, and he wished he hadn’t. “No. Of course not. I'm-I'm happy you’re here.”

“Are you really? You seem unsure,” Dream was being snarky, his mouth was set in a frown.

“Look, Dream. You made things complicated when you came to me. To my house. But things were already complicated. I’m glad you’re safe and out of the prison.”

Dream’s eyes softened, but his mouth didn’t move. “But I’m still trapped.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Your safety is more important.”

“George, please,” Dream dropped to his knees at George’s feet, imploring him with viridian eyes. “I want to feel the sunlight. It’s been so long. I want to touch grass, to get dirt underneath my nails. I want to smell roses. I want to see bees, ride a horse through the woods. You have a flower forest right outside the window, and I can’t smell any of it.” Dream’s eyes were melancholy, and George felt his arms being yanked in different directions again. “Please, George. I’m begging you.”

Dream always said he was a weak man for George. And George would ask why, tease him mercilessly about it. But now, with Dream begging on his knees for something he hadn’t seen in almost a year, George understood. Love made you weak. He pulled on Dream’s hands, holding them tightly.

“What would you want from me?” George asked, pleading in broken, dead leaves that once bloomed green. “I want you to be happy. I’m sorry. What do you want?”

Dream’s eyes avoided George’s, though he left his hands where they were. “I want to feel the wind on my cheeks without running for my life,” he admitted brokenly.

George nodded, inhaling deeply. “I might have an idea.”

Hours later, in the dim light of a crescent moon, George and Dream laced up their boots, threw scarves over their necks and tugged jackets tight around them. George stored an axe in his satchel, just in case. In the night, unseen by the world save for the stars and slim moon, Dream and George slipped out of the back door, headed for the forest behind George’s house.

The reaction from Dream was immediate. The tension in his shoulders eased, a gentle smile graced his face and his eyes beamed with quiet unfathomable joy.

“George,” he breathed, eye gleaming and a smile uncontrolled reigning his face. “It’s cold outside.” He giggled. For the life of him, in all his buried memories, George couldn’t recover one where he’d heard such a sound come from Dream. Not since they were children, anyway. “It’s cold!”

George huffed a laugh out, Dream’s joy was infectious. “It’s April, I would think it would be cold at this hour. At what, one in the morning?”

“But, George. It’s cold!” Dream gripped George’s hands, unfettered happiness linking the pair. “I can feel my cheeks getting red from the cold, I can see my breath in front of you, I can see you shivering. I can hear the leaves rustling from the wind, there are-was that an owl in the distance?” Dream turned his head, suddenly alert.

“Dream, you need to keep it down. I don't want to wake Sapnap.” George hissed, smiling despite himself.

“Come on! I want to go see the owl,” Dream yanked on George’s hand, pulling him through dead leaves, nearly tripping over sticks and pinecones. The pair raced through the woods, searching for something Dream probably wouldn’t even find. But George followed, because he would follow Dream anywhere. Even to see an owl buried deep in the woods at the early hours of the morning.

Dream couldn’t run far, he was still weak from months in the prison and his distorted depth perception made it difficult to run. But when he slowed and stopped dragging George on, their hands were still entwined with silvery bands of wind. Dream stopped in quiet wonder at the smallest things, like a child enraptured by the little beauties of the world. He pointed to a doe drinking water from a stream, her fawn not far behind. Even mundane things like squirrels were marveled at. A couple times Dream just stood in the middle of the clearing, eyes closed and face tilted to the sun.

“Having fun?” George asked, though he knew the answer to that question.

Dream turned to him with tears beading at the corners of his eyes. The poor boy always cried easily, especially when he was happy. One slipped out before George could catch it, falling to the dirt. It didn’t sizzle or burn, just sat there and soaked the dry dirt below. George caught the next tear, brushing it off with a gentle thumb.

“Thank you,” Dream said, and George could cry from the sheer emotion in Dream’s voice. The wonder, the happiness, the way he no longer looked burdened by the past. In that moment, it wasn’t two once-lovers with a pile of shattered memories laying between them. It wasn’t two rivals, both broken-hearted, with changed ideas and personalities, unsure if they fit together as puzzle pieces again. It was just two people, standing in the middle of a clearing about to cry, an unbreakable bond made of something George didn’t know or care to investigate between them.

“You’re shivering again,” Dream noted, and George realized that he was trembling, despite the layers of clothes around them.

“I guess so,” George pulled his coat tighter around him. “You might enjoy the cold. I, however, am normal,” George teased, a grin peaking out at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, come on,” Dream scoffed, “It’s just because you run cold.”

“And you run hot,” George retorted, dancing a dance they’d done before.

Dream looked at the ground, hands twitching a little bit. “Once upon a time I would have said it was because I’m hot.”

“And now you’ve grown more humble?” George asked, willing his voice to be light and not strained.

“No, I’m just...you know,” Dream gestured to himself, undoubtedly intending to reference the scars.

George’s smile fell, and he pulled himself into a hug, wrapping his arms around Dream’s waist.

“George?” Dream’s voice was confused, hesitant hands wrapped around his shoulders, splaying familiarly over his shoulder blades.

“I’m cold. You’re hot,” George said by way of explanation, too embarrassed to voice the real reason he’d been compelled to bring Dream into an embrace. “There’s a simple solution to that problem.”

Dream chuckled dryly, pulling George so they were pressed chest to chest. George soaked in Dream’s warmth, standing there for long minutes without saying anything.

Eventually George built up the courage to say, “For the record, Dream, I still think you’re hot.”

The hands rubbing along his spine stilled. “Yeah?” Dream questioned, his voice strained and cracked with spider-silk threads.

“You’ve always been beautiful. It hasn't changed in the months since I’ve seen you.”

A smile curved into his shoulder, “I’m beautiful?”

George knew what Dream was doing. He pulled away, still caged in Dream’s arms but able to see his face. “You can’t make me say it again. I’m not going to butter you up and flatter you.”

“Come on, Georgie.” Georgie. It had been a long time since George had heard that nickname. “You can’t find it in your heart to reassure a poor soul? To tell me I’m beautiful?”

George wanted to stick his tongue out, to complain that he wasn’t about to feed Dream’s massive ego. But George was nothing if he didn’t know Dream like the back of his hand. And between the flat stones of teasing and smiling light lay small rivers of insecurity flowing over his cheeks, littering spots on his arms and so many places George had never seen. Might never see.

So with a gentle smile, he tilted Dream’s face down to meet his eyes. He rolled up on his tiptoes and scanned his face, eventually settling on a long scar spanning the bridge of his nose. He kissed the very center of it, muttering, “You’re gorgeous,” under his breath.

Dream’s face was bright red when George pulled away, and rubbed the back of his neck like he always did when he was flustered. “We should go back home, I’m getting tired,” Dream muttered.

George nodded, letting Dream go with an inaudible sigh. He reached down to pick up the scarf Dream had dropped on the ground, dusting the crumbs of dirt off. Dream held out a hand and took the scarf, wrapping it around himself again.

As they walked back to George’s house, Dream held a smile that George would pay all his gold and diamonds to see every minute. At one point, he bumped into George, who looked at him in annoyance to see Dream casually looking away, the ghost of a shit-eating grin on his face. So he bumped Dream in return, playing coy when Dream shot a look his way. And the game continued, both of them trying not to laugh.

The game ended when Dream pushed George so hard he fell, bringing Dream down with him. And of course Dream ended up on top of him, faces inches from each other. If George leaned up, their noses would brush.

Stars burned bright and then went supernova, flaming out of existence long before the world knew it. Crystallized blue dewdrops clung onto bright green leaves. And when brown eyes met green, bone meal was planted and a brilliant oak sprouted. A new life, something the world had seen before but never with the same unique knots and bark, swirling patterns inside the tree. Dream traced a knuckle along George’s flaming red cheeks, the smile nowhere to be found. He stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants and reaching a hand down to help George up, who took it with an eye roll. Dream didn’t let their hands go.

“If you wanted to hold my hand, you could have just said so,” George huffed, reworking their hands to be more comfortable, “You didn’t have to knock me over.”

Dream giggled, hiding a smile behind his hand. He shook his head slightly, refusing to meet George’s gaze. They made it back to George’s house in no rush, Dream enjoying the sights and smells of the world and George enjoying the warmth of Dream’s hand in his.

If you asked George how the pair ended up in George’s bed, sprawled out with the most lovesick smiles on their faces, George wouldn’t be able to answer. It was all a blur, just a rush of stumbling in the back door, rushing past Sapnap’s house quietly. Giggling to themselves as they stripped off their warmer clothing and put on nightclothes. It was so soft, lovesick rose petals scattered around them and warm wool swimming between their laced hands. George felt like the olden days, when he and Dream existed in pure bliss, untainted by anything. Just Dream and George, lost in their own worlds.

When Dream fell asleep and George could feel his own head rise and fall with the lift of Dream’s chest, George realized that Sapnap’s voice was gone. And he even tried to listen, searching shallowly for the voice that told him what a horrible person Dream was.

And in Dream’s arms, listening to the thumping heartbeat that was the same as it ever was, George couldn’t even hear anything except the sounds of quiet breath and the rustle of a breeze outside.

Nothing in his mind or out of it protested George’s joy.

He stood in a clearing, the most brilliant colors surrounding him. Greens of all shades, emerald, fir and jade all drifted around him in swirling colors. It was remarkable.

Out of the distance wandered a man, a familiar one but George wouldn’t make the mistake of forgetting who he really was.

“George,” the person smiled, tongue sticking out between his teeth, “It’s been awhile.”

George cast his eyes aside. He didn’t answer, letting the silence stew in mulberry and wicked browns.

“You never visit me anymore,” the man practically pouted and any other day George would have laughed, too easily reminded of Dream’s patterns.

“Sorry,” George mumbled.

“I missed you.”

“Dream-XD, we both know you didn’t miss me.”

“I did though,” XD stepped forward and reached to brush George’s hair out of his face, making him flinch. “I miss you in our dreams.”

“They’re my dreams, not yours.”

“Are they not ours? When we share the experiences together, when you called me down to the mainland to beg for my entertainment and power? When you promised to be my best friend did you not make a commitment?”

“You never wanted to be just my best friend though,” George sighed.

“No,” XD dipped his head, “But you never wanted anything more than my talents. And my face.”

George opened his mouth to protest and trailed off, nudging a bare foot into the dirt. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you think that the human-your human-will give you what you want?”

George couldn’t-wouldn’t meet XD’s eyes, casting about the clearing for an answer. Panic built up in his chest and he couldn’t figure out why.

“You can’t be happy. Not without me. Not away from our dreams.”

George opened his mouth and no sound came out. His throat closed off. Claws scraped his ribs, marring bone from the inside out.

“You love me, George. Right?”

The gentle breeze rustling the leaves turned into a violent whistle, tearing greens and pretty blue sky apart. XD took a step forward, George took a step back.

“We were happy. And then you stopped coming to me.”

The small of George’s back hit a knot in a tree and his eyes widened in luminescent fear.

“XD, I-”

“You’ll be happy with me,” XD grabbed George’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet and grinning maliciously. “Stay with me.”

George fought the rising in his stomach and met glowing green eyes. “Let me go.”

“No,” XD brought their faces closer, noses almost brushing, “You’re going to stay with me. You’re going to be happy with me. Like it was before,” George was sick of befores, “that boy came to your house. You’re going to be happy to see me every day. Every time you dream, I’ll meet you and you’ll be happy.”

“I won’t,” George choked out, “I won’t be happy.”

“Yes, you will.” XD twisted his hand and a goblet materialized out of swirling air. “Drink.”

Adrenaline flowed through George’s veins, but he was powerless. Held between a tree and a god unsatiated. A dark drink was raised to his lips and his jaw was pinched open. He screwed his eyes shut tight, sealing out the horrific beauty before him.

“Đṝȋᵰꞣ,” And George’s mouth fell open, liquid spilling down his throat. His eyes grew heavy, even as the feeling of panic in his chest grew and clawed at his lungs to try and escape.

“Give me a smile,” and George’s lips tugged upward in a sleepy smile, “Take my hand,” and George let his hand be enveloped in a much larger one, body unable to betray his terror.

“Now, my love,” George felt his soul drift away, body enamoured by a drug he’d never felt before and he let his eyes slip closed, unable to even tremble in fear. “Don’t you want to build a house with me?”

George’s eyes flew open, a rattling breath dragged through his lungs.

“George,” A familiar voice broke through the fog and in a haze of a lingering nightmare, George saw a glowing green eye and a face that had just coerced him. He screamed, scrambling out of his bed and pressing himself into a corner again. He curled up, shaking so violently he couldn’t see.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he begged, even as the fog began to clear.

“George, it’s me,” George opened his eyes again and a green eye was in front of him, no longer glowing. “It’s Dream. Just me.”

George blinked, and the scene cleared completely, his room in front of him again. Dream knelt in front of him, with messy hair and a sleepy eye.

“Dream,” George breathed. “Dream,” he repeated.

The pent up energy from the nightmare, begging to set himself free, released and he felt tears build up in his eyes. A lump in his throat stopped any words he would have wanted to make. His hands shook when he unclenched them and he found that he couldn’t breathe. Black licorice sickly sweet burned his throat and the lingering taste of the drug rose through his stomach.

“Oh God,” he choked, and found that he couldn’t stand. He pushed past Dream, ignoring the concerned words thrown his way and instead had to crawl to the bathroom, too weak to bear his own weight. He made it to the toilet before he threw up, sick mulberry and deep mahogany purples. He shuddered at the knowledge that it was real and his tears broke free of his eyelashes, pouring onto his cheeks. He sank to the floor, resting his head on the cool porcelain of the bathtub.

Soft footsteps padded in front of him and George saw through blurry, teary eyes Dream kneel in front of him, holding a pure white rag up to his face.

“May I?” Dream asked, and at George’s consent, Dream wiped with a cool rag the sweat out of George’s hairline, the lingering vomit from the corners of his mouth and the tears off his cheeks. Soft, soothing presses all over his face. And when there was nothing left to clean, Dream still pressed it into his face, like gentle kisses. George’s eyes fluttered closed, silent tears still forging cold trails on his cheeks, paths well worn. He heard the toilet flush and Dream’s gentle hands reached out to brush rose petals on his body.

“George?” Dream asked, and George had to force his weary eyes open to meet Dream’s. “What do you need?”

George sobbed, for the first time that night and clutched his stomach, doubled over in his tiny bathroom. A heave ripped apart his lungs and heart, paper tearing like nothing. “Hold me,” he begged in a quiet whisper he didn’t know that Dream could hear, “Please.”

Gentle hands that bore far too many scars to be that kind wound around his shoulders. With a soft grunt, Dream heaved George into his lap, chests pressed together and George’s legs folded neatly in his lap. George buried his face in Dream’s neck and cried, unable to shake the fear and visions of his dream out of his mind.

“I’m so scared,” George whimpered, and Dream didn’t even have context for what George could possibly be scared of. There was no way for him to know that George was just drugged, will suspended by marionette strings.

Dream squeezed his waist, not too hard. He kissed the corner of George’s jaw. “I’ll protect you. I can keep you safe, you’re here with me.”

George shook his head, more tears pooling in the dip of Dream’s collarbones. “You can’t keep me safe from him. I-I can’t escape him.”

“Who?”

“DreamXD,” George sobbed.

“Oh, darling,” Dream sighed, undoubtedly recalling conversations about the infatuated god. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

George shook his head again. “He told me-he told me-he gave me-” George broke off, clutching Dream’s shirt with tight fingers.

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry about what happened.”

“You don’t even know,” George protested weakly, his tears finally drying.

“I don’t need to. I’m sorry anyway.”

George pulled away to meet Dream’s concerned eye, sadness brimming in matching tones. Dream took in his appearance, his undoubtedly puffy red eyes, his sweat-slicked hair, his trembling hands. He moved one hand from George’s back, keeping the other still holding him up. With the other, he gently unraveled George’s clawed fingers from his shirt and held his hand closely, palms clasped.

“May I?” Dream bent his head towards George’s hand and once George nodded, he kissed George’s knuckles, gentle kisses across the back of his hand. Once satisfied, Dream flipped George’s hand, kissing his palm and tracing all the creases. George shuddered and fell into Dream’s arms, exhaustion seeping into his bones. But he couldn’t sleep. Not anymore.

George was shaking again, though he had no more tears to spare. Dream held him tightly, warding off the evils of the world with his arms, keeping him safe. He never felt more secure than in Dream’s arms, which were gentle around him but strong in their history, unafraid to do whatever it took to keep him safe.

“George?” Dream whispered softly, pulling him back to meet chestnut eyes with pine. Dream let George’s hand go, falling to his side. “You’re safe,” he mumbled, kissing his forehead. “You’re here.” Another to his brow. “With me.” His temple. “I’ll protect you.” Both tear-stained cheeks. “I swear it.” The corner of his mouth, a dangerous game.

Dream met his eyes, a question filling the room. George nodded silently and their lips met. For the first time in months, more days than George could be bothered to count, they kissed. And what a sight they were. George with the echoes of sobs still ringing in the walls, with red eyes and a buzzing headache. Dream with a burden more than he knew how to bear, with scars littering every square inch of his being. Two tragic souls that had once loved in peace, and now loved despite war. A marred hand cradled George’s face, the other settling in the dips of his waist. George’s hands rested on Dream’s chest, smoothing wrinkled cotton.

Dream pulled away with a soft sound that echoed around the world, resting his forehead on George’s. “It’s been a long time since we’ve done that.”

George peered up through his eyelashes and their noses brushed. “Too long,” he offered his fragmented heart to Dream, hoping he wouldn’t drop it and shatter it again.

Dream smiled bittersweetly. “I missed you. This.” He squeezed George’s waist, offering his blistered heart and begging George not to burn it.

In George’s tiny bathroom, with mulberry still coating George’s throat, George leaned forward and kissed Dream again. There was no tongue, no deepening the kiss, no fiery passion and chasing each other down. Just them, pushing and pulling like the tides and offering all they had to each other unconditionally. When George pulled away with a shaky breath, he dropped his head on Dream’s neck, playing with the ends of Dream’s long hair.

“Do you want to move to your bed?” Dream asked, pulling their bodies flush.

George shook his head. “I can’t be there.”

“We can go to my room,” Dream offered.

George nodded and Dream helped stand George up, half carrying him to the spare room. They collapsed on the couch, maneuvering so George’s back was against Dream’s chest. A butterfly’s kiss was planted on the nape of George’s neck, arms tightening around his waist. Dream locked an ankle around George’s, keeping them entwined.

“Rest,” Dream whispered. “You’ll feel better if you get some sleep.”

George, plagued by the scent of poisoned wine and dirt, didn’t sleep.

It took months of waiting, of patiently cleaning Dream’s body with a washrag. And the heat of the summer made it hard to ignore Dream’s hair long past shoulder length, the dirt beneath his nails that George couldn’t seem to get, and the fact that George still hadn’t seen anything beneath Dream’s collarbones or above his knees.

The first time George proposed a bath, Dream had come back from the bathroom immediately, shaking his head. They didn’t talk about it, George just drained the water and ran his fingers through tangled hair.

Eventually in a July afternoon, the hottest one so far, Dream relented.

“I promise we don’t have to go farther than you’re comfortable. I just want to wash your hair, maybe give it a trim. I can be in the room or out of it, whatever you’re comfortable with. You can lead,” George promised, holding Dream’s shaky hands.

Dream nodded, sighing forcefully. “I want to. I do, really. But I’m just afraid it’ll trigger something.”

“If it does, I’ll get you out right away.” The role of protector was a new thing to George, a placement in the relationship he rarely had to take on. But for Dream, he would give him gentle brown eyes and reassuring smiles for as long as he needed.

They ended up in the bathroom late at night, working up to the quiet moment whispered into the summer air when Dream sat at the lip of the bathtub, watching the lukewarm water rise.

“Shirt?” George asked, taking care not to stand too close. Dream nodded absentmindedly, still staring at the bubbling water.

“Do you want to do it?” George knelt in front of Dream, drawing his attention to a patient set of eyes that waited for Dream. “Or would you rather I?”

“Quackity always made me do it,” Dream mumbled, no longer staring at the water but a place beyond George’s eyes, into a prison made of ebony.

“Take off your clothes?” Dream never talked about the prison, except for a few rare glimpses offered in the aftermath of nightmares.

Dream bobbed his head. “He made me take off my shirt. Let me keep my pants on.”

George traced the veins of Dream’s hand, waiting for Dream to take the initiative. Eventually, he asked if George would do it, take the step of pulling off a plain white long sleeved shirt. George slipped lithe fingers beneath the hem, fiddling with seams while he waited for a confirmation. At Dream’s consent, he lifted the shirt over his head, taking stock of what lie beneath.

Some faded with years of aging, months since the last true war. Others were puffy and bright red, only a few months old. Dream hung his head, waiting for the verdict of a judge who never listened to what he pleaded. He took in the scars George had seen once before of the dozens of little circles littering Dream’s forearms. Jagged scars littered Dream’s chest, healing but painful. A dark scar settled into Dream’s heart, an X that went horrifyingly deep. The scars didn’t seem to dip beneath his waistline, save for a long cut near his hip.

“Dream,” George tilted a finger under Dream’s chin, lifting it to let their eyes meet. “Breathe. I’m not going to judge.”

Dream’s eyes misted over. “I’m horrifying.”

George’s chest cracked, a sliver of glass that shifted, molecules breaking apart in a craggy seam. He knelt on the floor, knees knocking against the tile. He kissed the center of the X right over Dream’s heart, listening to the erratic beat. He let a hand rest there, absorbing the pain of the brutal wound.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he muttered, fingertips moving from Dream’s heart to graph the story of Dream’s body, the grief held in every scar. He brushed another kiss on an old scar from the destruction of L’manburg near Dream’s ribs.

“I'm glad you weren’t,” Dream said, breathless and tense.

George reached over to shut off the bathtub, holding Dream’s hands. “Relax. It’s just me. I’ve seen your body before, hundreds of times.”

“Not like this,” Dream wouldn’t meet his eyes.

George kissed Dream’s cheek. “Still the same Dream, though.”

Dream’s eyes softened. “Thank you,” he croaked.

“Pants?” George asked in a whisper, afraid to put Dream on edge.

Dream hesitated, then nodded shakily. “I can do that.”

“Do you want me to turn away for a few seconds?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just a few seconds. Sorry.”

“No apologies,” George reprimanded gently. “Not right now.”

When George turned back, Dream fidgeted with his hands, rubbing the knuckles between each other. When George reached out, Dream flinched, nearly falling backward.

“Just me,” George whispered, trying not to stare at Dream’s naked body. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know,” Dream said through his teeth, eyes closed. “Maybe a little warning, though.”

“Of course, I’m sorry.” George withdrew his hand, eyes snagging on a ring of scars above Dream’s knee, circling his entire thigh. “Are you ready to get in?”

“You promise it’s not hot? And that you’ll be gentle?”

“Dream.” Their eyes met. “The water isn’t hot, I promise. I’ll be so gentle and I won’t push you more than you can handle. You just have to talk to me about how you’re feeling.”

Dream hesitated then gave a shaky nod. With shaking hands, he swung a leg over the side of the tub, dipping a foot into tepid water. He shuddered, waiting for his body to acclimate.

“You’re doing good,” George muttered. “Just keep breathing.”

Once he had both feet in, water sliding around his calves, Dream dipped a hand in. It was a slow process, minutes of patient affirmations and waiting for Dream to feel comfortable, but eventually Dream sat in the water, knees tucked into his chest.

“I’m going to get in too, is that alright?” Dream mumbled in consent and George carefully disrobed, not missing Dream’s eyes following his movements. The water was uncomfortably cold, but he didn’t dare mention that. Instead he sat in the water facing Dream, tilting his head to catch Dream’s movements.

“How do you feel?” George picked up the aloe body wash from the floor and gently scrubbed Dream’s hands clean, focusing on his facial expressions.

“I want to crawl out of my skin,” Dream mumbled and against George’s will, he had to fight back a laugh. Instead he kissed Dream’s temple, resuming his quiet work.

“Talk to me, don’t cave in on yourself.”

“Sometimes,” Dream started, swishing a hand through the water, “Quackity dipped his shears in lava. And waited for them to stop dripping before he cut me open. That’s how this one happened,” he gestured to a long thin scar over his left pectoral.

George worked his hands up to Dream’s upper arms, noting how tense his muscles were. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, unsure what else to say.

Dream shook his head, staring at his knees.

“Can you move your knees so I can get your chest?”

Dream hesitated. With a quiet sigh, he straightened his legs out.

“How did,” George pointed to the X on Dream’s heart, “that happen?”

Dream’s fingers brushed the scar, hands shaking. George scooted closer so their knees bumped as he cleaned off Dream’s neck and chest. The smell of lavender drifted around them, soap bubbles manifesting in the water. As he made his way down Dream’s chest, George kissed every single scar he could reach, stopping once he pressed soft lips to the ragged middle of Dream’s heart. He met Dream’s eyes and found them welling with tears, one already slipped down his cheek.

“Hey,” he started, dipping his hands beneath the water to wash off the soap, “Look at me. What’s wrong?”

Dream’s lip wobbled and ivory canines sank into chapped lips. He gasped for air and George pressed closer, so they were almost chest to chest. Water lapped over the edge and splashed onto tile, staining it with soapy water but George paid no mind. He reached for Dream’s hand and laced them together, cupping his jaw with the other hand. He brushed his thumb over the soft part of Dream’s cheek, a rare patch of skin unmarred.

“Dream.” Dream’s eyes were glazing over and George fought against the tide pulling him into an obsidian cage. “Look at me. Count my freckles.”

Dream’s eyes shifted to George’s cheeks and a few moments passed while green eyes scanned his face. Tears slipped down Dream’s cheeks and George was there to catch every one, letting them slip into the water, mixing salt with aloe soap.

“I’m so sorry,” Dream whimpered, dropping his head to George’s bare shoulder. “I’m so broken.”

“You’re not broken,” George wrapped careful hands around Dream’s shoulders. “You’re still Dream. I still-I love you.”

A shuddering gasp released into the air. Hot tears sank into the skin of George’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

George kissed Dream’s hair, rubbing circles into his back. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m here.”

Green eyes were rimmed with red when they focused on umber again. “What if I can never get back to normal? What if this is how I am forever?”

“It won’t be the same. I’m sorry. You’ll always have the scars. But you’re still the same Dream. May I get your legs?”

Dream sniffed as George resumed his work. “I can barely sit here. And you asked me how I got a scar and I couldn’t even tell you.”

“You don’t have to,” George reassured.

“I wish I could. I wish I could think about my body without feeling like I’m in a skin that isn't my own. I wish I could change my clothes in the morning without seeing every story behind all the recent scars. I wish my body was as unmarked as yours. I wish you didn’t think less of me because of my scars.”

“But I’m not unmarked. I have my fair share of scars from the wars we’ve been through. And I don’t think any less of you. Do you think less of me because of my scars?”

“No, but that’s different.”

George pressed a kiss to the inside of Dream’s knee. “How do you think that’s different?”

“You only have a few scars. I have so many. I can’t recognize myself. And your scars weren’t made by our best friend.”

“Dream,” Jade eyes looked up, swimming with emotion. George cupped his jaw once more, leaning in. He kissed all the scars on Dream’s face, up and down ridges and over faded white lines. He felt another tear fall on his cheeks and looked up to see Dream crying again. He pulled Dream in and kissed him, gently and sweetly. They had all the time in the world. He let Dream’s tongue mingle with his own, hot breath sliding between lips.

He pulled away with another peck to Dream’s lips. “I love you.”

Dream smiled sadly. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” George promised, cupping Dream’s cheeks.

“No, I don’t. I’ve done horrible things.”

George let the pieces fall apart in the puzzle, knowing he could put them back together. “You’ve changed. All those months with me, I’ve seen you change. I’ve seen how much effort you’ve put towards becoming a better person. You care about things, about people. About me. You don’t have to act like you don’t anymore. You’re a better person now than you were before the prison, or even in the weeks after.”

“It doesn’t change what I’ve done. I’ve hurt so many people. I don’t deserve love anymore.”

“I think,” George said, kissing Dream’s forehead, “that even the worst of people deserve another chance. As many as it takes. And even the worst of people deserve love.”

“There’s not many that will share that sentiment.”

“No. Probably not. But I still love you. You’re a better person. And you’re getting better. I promise, things will get easier.”

“Do you really want to be there and wait out all my anxiety attacks, bring me tea after every single one of my nightmares?”

“Would you want to do the same for me?”

“Of course,” Dream breathed, eyes fluttering closed.

“Then there’s your answer. Turn around for me, I’m going to get your back.”

“Wait,” Dream’s hand stilled George’s, pulling him back in, “Thank you. I love you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. It’s my pleasure.” George kissed him once more before letting Dream turn around. He lathered Dream’s back in soap, massaging oils into his skin, rubbing out harsh knots of tension. Dream sighed, shoulders relaxing.

“How does that feel?”

“So good. Thank you,” Dream sighed, leaning back ever so slightly.

“Can I wash your hair? I’ll be gentle.” Dream nodded and George reached for his coconut and melon shampoo, working the lather into his roots with careful intent. A soft sigh spilled from Dream’s throat and for a moment it felt like Dream was at peace, even despite their setting. He washed all the dirt from his hair, the built up damage done by months without a proper wash. George was careful not to pull, the picture of calm and serenity.

“The hard part, Dream.” Dream hissed, shoulders hunching again. “We need to rinse it. You’ll have to dip your head beneath the water. Your mouth and nose won’t touch the water, though.”

Dream nodded, tucking his knees upward and carefully dipping. He only made it to the point where his ears touched the water before he sprang up, shivering. He held his trembling hands in front of him before wrapping his arms around himself. Bright leaves turned brown in the water, the bath got colder and the air froze in half melted snow.

George wrapped his arms around Dream’s waist, pressing them close. Dream rested his head on George’s shoulder, all shaky breaths and clenched jaws.

“You can do this,” George whispered into the air so cold he could see his own breath. “I’ve got you. Just focus all on me and you’ll be fine. I’ll guide you through it.”

Dream nodded but stayed where he was, fists clenched and jaw tightened. George unlocked Dream’s hands and forced them open, mapping the lines of it all. Eventually Dream sat up and took a few deep breaths.

When Dream dipped below the water again, George kept eye contact the whole time.

“Can you hear me?” He said once Dream was low enough, face was still exposed. Dream nodded, eyes closed tightly. “Open your eyes, my love. Count my freckles.” He muttered nonsense, words out of habit purely meant to keep Dream tethered to the world. He cupped Dream’s face, rubbing a thumb along his cheek. George ran fingers through soft hair made so by water, hair that floated around his face and filled the water with bubbles that smelled of comfort.

It was slow going. George was cautious, careful to keep Dream with him. Once all the shampoo was out of his hair, he helped Dream sit up and frame his face with gentle unmarked hands. He helped towel off a mostly catatonic man, kneeling on harsh, cold tile to keep Dream’s eyesight.

“Thank you,” was the first thing Dream said, a whisper surrounded by budding irises as George wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

George kissed his cheek, helping him stand up and moving him to George’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Horrible. But not as bad as I thought. You helped.”

They settled into bed, Dream’s nose pressed into George’s collarbones. George wrapped the blanket tightly around them, cocooning them in a summer warmth that fostered junebugs. A kiss bloomed carmine red and sunflower yellow in a forest of brown mushrooms. “I love you” notes were passed in whispers and fond smiles and thank yous thawed the lingering frost on the window.

Walks in the moonlight became more frequent between the two of them. Because of their nightmares that kept them from getting a proper night of rest, it wasn’t hard to find time to explore the woods with laced hands. It became an almost daily thing, a place where Dream began to slowly divulge what happened in the prison and where George told him what happened in his dreams. George could never quite fit the pieces of glass together again, the splinters of dust that kept them from fitting perfectly were too small to do it all. So he forged a new pane of glass, one he and Dream decorated with acrylic paints and little trinkets of nature they found on their walks. He cobbled together the old pieces of glass and held them next to the new piece, no longer wishing that he could put the fragments together.

It felt nice, to be content and happy with Dream again. Even if they both woke up shaking, even if the list of Dream’s triggers only seemed to grow. It was nice. It was happier than both of them had ever been since Dream had gone to prison.

Puzzle pieces slotted back together and they found joy in a bubbling hot spring.