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By the time George wakes, early morning dew has condensed into humidity; relentlessly, the sun splays long lines of light across the floorboards, stretching the shadows.
His house is quiet: no shuffle of cloth, no breathing but his own. Swallowing the uncomfortable dried-out tackiness sleep has left in his mouth makes a too-loud sound in his ears, and he clears his throat as well, to rid himself of the feeling. The air is cloying, stuffy with hours of sunlight.
George opens a window.
It must be just before noon; the air outside isn't much better. A breeze rustles the leaves, sparking a round of cricket-noise, but brings no cool relief. Summer has made the entire world smell overwarm and overgrown— the cornflowers are wilting in the heat, the ivy drooping. It hasn't rained in days, bordering on weeks; if he were to step into the grass, it would be halfway dried out, unpleasantly rough under his feet.
(But there's no reason to leave. The world is here, in his house.)
George washes his face, changes his sleeping shirt. Rinses the sticky remains of sleep from his mouth. It's too warm to do much else; he finds himself splayed across the floor, out of the reach of the sun. Dust motes catch the light, dancing with his breaths.
Just beyond his sight, the front door creaks open. The shuffle of cloth, breathing. George stares listlessly at the dust as footsteps invade the silence.
"There you are," a voice calls, pleased.
George's skin sticks unpleasantly to the wooden boards as Dream hauls him to his feet and pulls him into a hug. It's much too warm for this, familiar voice, familiar hair, familiar hands splayed across his shoulder blades, keeping him anchored. An insect with its wings spread, speared through with a pin.
"Hello," George says. Dream draws away, spins towards the counter.
"I brought you something," he announces, sounding pleased. George tips his head as Dream fetches a bowl from the cupboard and sets to laying out his gift; that familiar back blocks his view, a swathe of dark fabric. Finished, Dream steps aside to present it.
"Apples," Dream says, watching George's face. "You like them."
The apples are perfect. George can smell them— sweet and tart, not a blemish in their crisp skin. Freshly handpicked. Dream hadn't asked a question; George answers, "yes."
Dream's eyes curve. It's a smile. "Good," he says. "Eat them before they go bad."
Some days, George wishes he could sleep forever. It would be safer; even if he lost himself to that world, life could go on around him. Ivy curling up the chimney, weeds overtaking the garden. Maybe if he slept forever, he could finally rot.
George is good at pretending. The door creaks open, the blue shadows shift; tipping his head just barely grants him the view of a dark shape standing in the kitchen. His breathing stays even, feigning sleep.
A moment, and then he hears it: dull crunching. The apples are all soft, a little darker in colour— a week of heat has turned them entirely unappealing in their perfectly arranged bowl on his counter. Dream’s teeth break the skin and cut through the pulpy insides.
George imagines what he’d tell Dream if he asked why they were untouched: that he has no appetite, it’s the heat, you know, the plants are all drying out, too. Maybe then it would finally rain. Footsteps draw closer, nearly silent; a hunter’s prowl. George closes his eyes.
Dream doesn’t ask. The apple core, browned from oxygen, is sitting on his table in the morning.
It's his fault, anyways. He has never been selfless. He doesn't want to sleep forever, he wants to be safe, protected, cared for. He wants that familiar face and voice, the planes of the back that he knows.
He has that now. Asleep and awake. There's nowhere left for him to hide.
The heat goes on. The grass grows brittle, the cornflowers shrivel, the ivy falls limply over his windows, its shadows distorted. His house stinks of rot, sweet and heavy. On the counter, the apples have folded into themselves, an indistinct amalgamation in that bowl. It fills his head, alongside the buzz of cicadas, hiding in what little shade the trees offer.
George is lying on the floor again. By now the sun is touching his fingertips, the light lengthening as it crawls across the sky. Its warmth bears down on him, humid air crushing. It's been another week; Dream will come to visit today, in daylight. He will see the apples, the flies that sit at the rim of the bowl. Maybe he'll ask: Did you not like my gift? and it will be an accusation accompanied by wounded, familiar eyes.
Maybe George will turn on him. Point out the yellowed grass, the drooping leaves. Maybe it will finally rain.
It’s his fault for wishing on sunlight.
Dream lets himself in; the door opens, closes. His greeting washes over George as he’s pulled from his floor, a graceless, uncooperative mess of limbs. Dream arranges them until George is caught in his arms, the lines of his face shifting indecipherably. He never wears the mask anymore, at George’s request— his single imperfection. The only difference between illusion and reality.
“Have you eaten?” he asks. He’s getting good at this. George nods. Dream’s mouth curls into a smile and he presses closer, buries his face in George’s sweat-damp hair; George must be imagining the press of lips at the crown of his head. “I brought you a gift.”
“Hm,” George hums, pulling back, putting distance between them.
Dream produces an apple from his cloak, offering it up to George. It’s perfect— there's no blemish in its crisp skin, the smell sweet and tart. Freshly handpicked.
“An apple,” he says. “I know you like them.”
Outside in the garden, the smell of rot, trapped under an overturned bowl. It clings to George’s fingers.
Dream hadn’t asked a question. George answers, “yes.”