Work Text:
never-never land
\ˌne-vər-ˈne-vər- \
noun
- an ideal or imaginary place.
- the land of desire; the region of reverie.
- the place to touch without skin, breathe without lungs. the place without need for air or sky, vision or purpose.
- the place to stay forevermore.
- where he will stay forevermore.
- Careful, dear. You’re dreaming.
Dream is four when he first happens upon a pen.
Dream is five when he puts ink to paper, when he wanders along ascension's edge and light spills onto a blank page.
By the time he’s reached six and six months, words like poem and prodigy are more familiar to him than what plays during Saturday morning cartoons. They’re more important than sticker sheets and storytime. He stays up reading The Grapes of Wrath instead, because he’s learned to hunger for words rather than jello cups, graham crackers. Maybe if he reads enough he can be tucked into bed instead of the backseat of a car, driving to another pageant. Another ‘evaluation’.
He tucks books under his chin in his booster seat. He doodles stars, wings, and mindless things in the margins of his journals.
(Ignores how they get taken eventually; accepts that his parents need them more than he does).
When Dream is seven, he learns what soulmates are from an offhand comment about what to write his next piece about.
As Dream turns eight, he meets his soulmate for the first time.
As Dream turns eight, his heart unfolds.
As Dream turns eight…
The sky is clear and blue; clouds sparse but fluffy. He can feel dirt scuffing beneath his bare feet, pounding soles and cries of laughter following close behind. Sprinting through the field, he doesn’t know who chases him, but wheat stalks part easily as he barrels into them. The open air strains his lungs as he gulps it down, trying to fight laughter of his own.
Dream’s tall, tall for his age, and his long strides send him soaring across the field. He feels like he’s flying, like he’s a force tearing through the world, and a wide, breathless smile stretches across his face.
Suddenly the river beside him is close, much closer than he thought it would be. Earthy scents of the riverbank flit by, but he can feel his playmate behind him, knows they’re hot on his tail, so he pumps his arms harder, takes bigger gasps of air, and runs. The burn in his lungs and ache in his legs only pushes him to go faster, only encourages him to run further and further.
The riverbank flies by and he hears them huffing behind him. His smile quirks into a grin. Every step the other takes he strives for three more, and he's certain they’re eating his dust.
So focused on his playmate’s path, he doesn't concentrate on his own and the rough ground of the riverside. Littered with small stones and twigs, it’s so easy to trip, to stumble and fall —
His slip is only for a moment, it takes just a second to catch himself, but it’s enough. So, so much closer than he thought they were, a tackle shoves him over; with a loud resounding splash, they both fall into the shallows of the river. His shout is swallowed by water as his playmate yells in victory. Wrestling for dominance, they become a wet mess of limbs.
Too quickly Dream’s head is pushed beneath warm water, eyes straining as he struggles to see past its murky depths. Sunlight reflects through the waves, peeking in to lend a hand, but it’s clumsy and blinds him instead. Still, he can see his playmate’s faint outline well enough and in a desperate attempt, he throws his hands out — he grabs at the other’s form, the last of his strength springing into his arms and yanking them into the water.
He feels more than he sees the hollow thump of their head slamming into the riverbank. There isn’t much time for guilt or escape as his playmate surges forward with a vengeance, mercilessly shoving him deeper into the dirt. They go to punish him further by pinning him down, but Dream grabs them again, and they both roll away to toss themselves onto the riverbank, panting.
There’s silence for a moment. The water stills, and warm droplets drip, drip down Dream’s face. They land atop his playmate’s cheeks as the boy looks up from where he’s sprawled beneath him. Dream notices he has freckles. His eyes are brown.
Like a kettle put too long to boil, they burst into laughter, rolling and clutching at their sides. The other smacks Dream for his stunt as rubs at his head, a wild smile splitting his face, and Dream grins. He returns the gesture while his playmate lies down to rest after their game of chase.
Dream’s heart still races in his chest, though he feels light. Nose to the wind, he breathes deep to catch the smell of the river and soothe his tired lungs. Mud sticks to his clothes, gunk covering his hands, but it’s alright. In fact, just to stick it to his mother who would certainly throw a fit, Dream crawls to the edge of the river and sticks his hands wrist-deep in the mud.
It’s squishy. And warm. The morning sun has sunk into the riverbed, and gentle warmth now cradles his fingers. It seeps into his skin like the heat from his kitchen stove, like the happiness of running freely beneath the clouds, and when he decides to flex them, wriggling around, he smiles at the thick resistance he’s met with.
Now pleasantly trapped, he glances back to his playmate. He’s rubbing at himself, nose curled as he attempts to rid himself of the dirt. Water leaves trail along pale skin, dark hair sticks up in odd shapes. Big eyes still blink water from sight, and a small, crooked smile lies upon his lips.
Dream throws his head back to the heavens. The sky is clear and blue; clouds sparse but fluffy.
“So,” he begins, and when he looks over at his new friend, he sees mischief reflected back at him.
“What’s your name?”
Later, Dream wakes up alone. His fingers are cold. And the sky is dark.
He remembers brown eyes and freckles, a wide smile and the freedom of flight.
Dream walks into his lecture hall many years later, many years older and with fatigue clinging to his bones. He settles into his seat quietly. The hall sprawls before him, winding on and on like the corridors that stretch forever onwards in his nightmares. The special kind with doors on the end — the type of doors that lead to new worlds, new adventures, to pretty boys with big eyes reflecting stars and devilry. All the things he once indulged in, but now. Now.
Now he sits in lecture halls. Now he opens manuscripts only to bang his head against the wood, slamming his skull in the hopes something genius will bleed out. That’s what he needs, right? Just a little brilliance. Just a taste of what he’s meant to be. Prodigy.
Right.
Feeling exhausted before the lecture has even begun, Dream places his arms atop the desk and leans forward on his elbows. He presses palms to his eyes, digging, scraping, caving into the socket. He wonders if he can do this. Knows that he has to. Tries to find comfort in it, tries to find peace in his fate like one does in the certainty of their own end. He thinks he’s almost managed it — or maybe that’s just the sufferance talking — but a voice from his side interrupts him before he can find his future self and ask if it’s really worth it. With mounting student debt and his parents breathing down his neck, he’s not sure he would’ve liked the answer anyway.
“No wonder you’re so miserable all the time. This place is dreadful.”
Dream spares a glance to the corner of his eye, but he already knows who sits beside him. Slim legs swinging from where he’s perched on the desk’s edge, George looks around himself with humor lighting his dark eyes. As his soulmate examines high ceilings and curving arches, Dream notices the baby blue pajamas that hug his figure, the fuzzy white socks that thump lightly whenever his heels hit wood. They look new. He looks cozy. Comfy, soft, warm in the low light, perfect for holding —
Nothing. Holding nothing. Dream looks away, closing his eyes for a brief moment, and he reaches for the first thing in sight. Book in hand, he says, “It’s not so bad. You get used to the spiderwebs and leaks after a while.”
He hears George snort before the book is plucked from his hands, and Dream can only watch as the other studies it with false interest. He scoffs eventually.
“Writing Poetry to Save Your Life. Save my life? I think I need to be saved from this. I’m tempted to get the toaster and bathtub just reading that title.”
Dream huffs in amusement, but George still eyes the guide with distaste and mindlessly tosses it over his shoulder. It clatters somewhere behind them, and Dream doesn’t bother saying anything about it — he’s finally noticed how the room blurs at the edges, how parts jut out and dip into void, more fragments than pieces of reality — so he only leans back and raises a brow. He knows he shouldn’t be humoring him, should really be pushing George away and out of his head. But he’s never been good with self-control.
“I thought you said you liked reading,” he says instead, and George rolls his eyes, swiveling himself to look at Dream down his nose.
“I like Harry Potter. That doesn’t count. This stuff, sonnets and stanzas, whatever the hell else you’re subjecting yourself to — this is like waterboarding. Do you like waterboarding, Dream? Do you have some kind of masochistic kink you need to tell me about?”
It’s Dream’s turn to scoff, a breath of laughter escaping him against his will, and George grins. He throws his arms in the air dramatically.
“I’m serious! I still can’t believe you do this of your own free will. This stuff is so boring, I’m going to fall asleep when I’m already sleeping. Plus,” George says, gesturing around the lecture hall, “this room is so… dark. Somber. I feel like I’m in the waiting room for a funeral.”
“I like this hall,” Dream defends, and he turns himself towards George fully. “Even if it’s in one of the older buildings, it still has charm.”
George squints at him dubiously, pointing to a spiderweb in the corner, so he huffs and continues, “Everything’s just exaggerated by the dreamscape. It makes it look worse than it is. Besides, this is only one hall out of, like, twenty — there’s a lot more to the university than just this. Great professors, great career options, great sense of community. It’s a good school, even if the buildings are a bit… vintage.”
George tilts his head, appraising Dream for a moment. It doesn’t take long before he’s being leveled with an unimpressed look. “That just sounds like something your parents would shove down your throat.”
Dream feels himself tense. Sometimes he forgets that memories bleed into dreams, that dreams bleed into each other’s minds even when they’re not together. He forgets that there are things George knows about him that even he’s forgotten. So he can’t help the way his shoulders bunch, lock, tightly press and grind together, before he forces himself to relax. To take a quick breath. To shake his head as though to clear it.
He keeps his face neutral. He keeps his voice neutral. He says, evenly, “Maybe. But I’m here and I have to finish here. My scholarship only paid for so much — I’ve already had to take out loans — and tuition isn’t, it isn’t cheap, George. There’s no way I can pay it all off without finishing. So — well. That doesn’t leave me with many options.”
George doesn’t reply initially. Dream looks away. And okay, maybe Dream wasn’t as neutral as he wanted, and maybe his voice had wavered and cracked in places it shouldn’t have. It doesn’t matter either way — the moment still stretches and stretches until taut, and silence rings like static between them.
Dream can’t tell if the noise is real inside his dream or imagined in his head. He supposes there’s not much difference between the two.
There’s then the sound of shifting fabric, the gentle thump of footsteps along wood. And light arms are wrapping snug around his middle, and a heavy head is settling itself in the nook between his neck and shoulder, and even in dreams, George’s nose is ice cold. Dream stifles a shiver.
“Sorry,” the other mumbles, breaths ghosting along Dream’s ear, and a shudder threatens to shake him again. “I was just joking, I wasn’t trying to — yeah. I’m sorry.”
Dream hesitates for a moment, before placing a hand atop the ones along his stomach. He sighs deeply, pressing back against George’s form, and quietly indulges in how he doesn’t lean away. Touch isn’t uncommon between them, exactly, it’s just…
He wishes there was more. He thinks he’ll always wish for more.
“You’re fine,” Dream starts, distracting himself by trailing fingers up and down the length of his leg. “I think I’ve just been on edge lately. I don’t know if I’m — I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling satisfied, I guess. School’s been a lot recently and with my parents and everything — it’s just — a lot. Yeah.” He pauses his motions, lets out a breath. “You’re okay, though. It’s okay.”
Dream feels George nod, separating himself, and he immediately mourns the loss of contact. Then George is slipping onto the bench beside him, the other’s heat warming his side as he rests his head on his shoulder, and all is well once again.
“I get what you mean. I just started this tech job with some friends and we’re already thinking about quitting. Just saying fuck it, going off on a trip or whatever.” George snorts, kicking his legs out. “I only really applied ‘cause my mum’s worried I’m not ‘amounting to anything in life’ — seriously, she said that to me — but I’m not passionate about it. I like coding and stuff, but I want to do it because I want to. Not just because I need work.”
George glances at him. “Is that how you feel about writing? Do you still enjoy it?”
Dream looks up at the ceiling, considering its weathered cracks and shadows as if they’ll reveal the answers to his struggles. As though they’ll tell him if he should lean into the touch of another, or if it’ll leave him in ruin. They only stare back at him, just as questioning, and he sighs.
“I… I think so. I haven’t written just for myself in a while, I don’t have the time, but I think I still have a passion for it. It’s just hard to find motivation when there’s so much pressure, constantly.” George nods again, nudging him to continue, and one touch is all it takes for everything to come flooding out. He wonders if that says something about himself, and it scares him a little bit.
“I just — I think about writing and then I think about my deadlines, and when I think about my deadlines, I think about my parents, and it’s all so much. I want to be happy here. I should be happy here. But I’m not, and I don’t know where to start. And now I’m starting to worry if this is really what I want.”
He takes a shaky breath, chest tight all at once, and ends with a whispered, “And if this isn’t what I want, I’m scared that I’m already in so deep that I couldn’t change any of it anyway.”
As he finishes, he feels a chill hand gently slip into his. He doesn’t know why it’s that touch that makes his breath catch, heart stuttering, but it is. George’s next words send it ricocheting against his breastbone.
“If you’re not happy, you’re not happy. You should change it up. Yeah, your parents might not be too excited about it at first, but they should be satisfied when you’re satisfied. If they’re not, well — that's on them.”
As George speaks, his voice is clear, even. Steadying. A soft squeeze is pressed to his palm, and Dream looks at him then, George looking back. His eyes are firm but soon soften as Dream squeezes him in return, and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“Don’t worry so much, Dream. It’s never too late to take what you want. You just have to take the leap.”
He tries to breathe evenly, deeply, but the dull thump of his heart in his ears is distracting. As he looks at him then, and he looks back, suddenly Dream wishes they were talking about something else. He wishes that the hidden meaning he wants to see was really there, out in the open between the cracks.
You just have to take the leap.
Dream knows that having a soulmate isn’t a one-step track to love, to affection and acceptance; it is simply a connection, an opportunity, an open door to another that you do with what you will. But he can’t tell which door he and George have. Which kind George wants them to have. Casual touch, lingering looks, so many years of them that he doesn’t know where to start looking for signs — it’s confusing. It’s overwhelming. It makes him want to reach out, take the leap, set wax wings ablaze and see how they both descend into the deep. See what’s revealed in their hollow bones.
Surely it can’t be worse than the sear of the stars. Surely it can’t be worse than this limitless void, endless uncertainty.
George smiles at him still, and Dream feels himself return it regardless of how his heart cries out, how he aches when George slips from his grip. Dream can only watch, helpless, as the other climbs atop the desk. Plants slender hands on slim hips. Grins with a crooked quirk of full lips.
“So,” he begins, and when Dream looks at his lifetime friend, he sees mischief reflected back at him.
“I think we’ve had enough of being sappy losers. What do you want to do today?”
Later, Dream wakes up alone. His hands feel empty. And the sky is dark.
He thinks of brown eyes and freckles, a wide smile and the fear of freefall.
Dream calls his parents many days later, many days spent wearing holes into his apartment floor and stress-buying his kitty new toys. Patches tinkers with a sparkly bell as Dream fiddles with the cord of his home phone, practicing what to say again and again. He prepares as he does for one of his readings, repetitive, finding comfort in routine. His mother picks up after five rings. It goes about as well as he thought it would.
She gets his father on the call after a while, and heavy sighs and wary tones linger with Dream long after the line disconnects. He lays in bed that night, bringing Patches to his chest, and he stares at a spiderweb in the corner of his room for far longer than he should. He tells the little web that ‘taking the leap’ is easier dreamt than put in practice. Patches mewls when he rises, and he cleans the web before moving to the living room.
Grainy sounds echo in his mind, his parents’ words playing on repeat like a tune he regrets requesting. They were condescending, as predicted. They were concerned, as expected. They were all the things he feared to hear, but also sudden — unexpected, jarring and abrupt in a way that made his jaw tense. Makes him grind his teeth again hours later.
The first thing his mother had asked him about after he’d finished, after she’d listened to his rambling speech and trembling tone, was George. She’d asked about George. She’d asked about him and what he thought of the whole thing — all soft, vanilla, innocuous — and as he vaguely replied with confusion coloring his words, she began her tirade. Speaking of bad influences, lovesickness, stars and hellfire and so much absolute bullshit that Dream couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
He can understand her doubting his resolve, his rationale, hell, even the reasons he’d listed to justify his discontent, but to question his heart? To vilify his friend? To place blame upon George simply because Dream dared to have a shred of self-interest? It was — well, it’s beyond insulting. He is a twenty-two-year-old man, not some wayward teen swayed by the throes of love. Yes, he’s infatuated with George. Yeah, his heart is bleeding and battered, and when he’s not breaking down in his bathroom, he’ll find himself staring blankly at the ceiling — wishing he was anywhere else, with someone else. But that gives his mother no right to discredit his feelings and discard them, box them away and label them neatly with a George twined pen.
Dream’s emotions are anything but neat. He is unhappy but conflicted, in love but confused. He’s a mess and he knows it and he should be allowed to express that. He knows that he should. His bones might creak beneath the weight of expectations, might have been aching since he happened upon that pen, but he knows this:
He has been bending and bending for far too long, and it’s an issue that goes beyond a late phone call to Florida. It’s just up to his mother, to his parents, if they want to accept that.
Anger has never been a pleasant emotion for him. It tints his gaze red, has ruby dripping from his hands and his walls, and it makes him reckless. So Dream has to bite his cheek, more red spilling into his mouth, and instead of doing the stupid thing and rage calling his parents at two in the morning, he storms back to his bedroom. He throws himself onto his bed like a sensible adult, and roughly pushes his pillow to his face.
Dream considers yelling, or crying, or kicking his feet up and down, but a small mewl from below has him pausing. He takes a deep breath.
“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks Patches, forcing himself to unlock his jaw, relax his voice for his baby girl. He sees her pawing at a corner, insistent, and he looks closer before realizing it’s the spot where the web used to lie. There’s probably just some spider looking for its home. But as weak as he already is, his chest squeezes, tight, painfully strained nonetheless.
Dream rolls over, thudding his skull against his headboard. He shuts his eyes against the sting, but longing hurts worse, pressing down against ribs and lungs and a feeble heart. His poor, poor heart. No matter how much he scrubs at his eyes the pressure refuses to let up, and exhausted frustration threatens to spill, topple, stain his sheets not in red but baby blue. Baby blue, dark eyes, shrieking laughter that he’d give anything to hear beside him.
He inhales sharply. God. God.
He wants George there. He needs him there. Not just on some plane in his mind, but at his side, breathing the same air and existing in the same space. He needs his hands in his own, arms wrapped around him and pressing, squeezing, promising it’ll be alright. He doesn’t care that George is oblivious to his feelings, indifferent to his love — the distance isn’t any less painful to bear. The distance and the waiting, the agonizing, ceaseless waiting, still has him gasping around the tightness of his throat.
So he wraps his own arms around himself, curls on his side and pretends. Pretends that George really is there with him, breathing the same air and existing in the same space. Pretends that everything will be alright, as long as George is there, telling him it will be.
He dreams of many things in the following weeks, none with George, though many feature him as a prominent figure. He tries to think of something else, anything else, but it’s so much easier to lose himself in clouds and cotton. It’s easier to close his eyes and wish the world away, rather than stare blankly into textbooks, curl fingers around phone lines.
When he dreams, in those few moments, Dream is weightless; he falls without fear of what’s below. He only leaps, only takes and takes. He reaches for George and he reaches back, just as brave and just as wanting, and they’re together.
They dance through grocery aisles, sweat thick on their skin and voices high to the sound of music. They dive deep into pools, laughter ringing and water splashing, soaking through cloth and muscle to cool against bone. They fall into each other, hands grasping, lips on his shoulders, his neck, his jaw and his cheeks — but never on his lips. No matter the scene, no matter the dream, George never kisses him where he wants it most. He can’t bring himself to ask. Ambrosia only goes so far.
Dream doesn’t know why George suddenly occupies so much of his thoughts. He isn’t sure why then all of times he decides to let himself go. But he thinks it has to do with pressure finally popping, frustration finally bursting, defiance now trickling over his edges with nowhere to go but up. Up and up to his chest, to his heart where George lies snug, and of course the other would grasp it with eager hands. He’s always been a menace like that.
But reverie can only last for so long, and after what feels like months, Dream awakes to large fronds above him. He lies high atop a grassy hill, sunlight peeking through thick branches and gently warming his face. Immediately, he recognizes this dream as George’s. George lives in London's center, nestled deep in smog-ridden suburbs, so he usually dreams of the outdoors. He says it helps him process. Helps him breathe.
As predicted, Dream hears rustling beside him, and he looks over to see George resting in the shade, hands settled behind his head. He gazes at the sky above, tracing clouds lazily with his eyes, and he doesn’t supply a greeting. Dream’s almost offended. Almost.
“We haven’t seen each other in God knows how long, and you don’t even bother to say hi me?” Dream huffs with exaggerated annoyance, turning his face back to the sky as well. “Really shows how much you care.”
George snorts, and Dream listens to the grass shift as the other switches positions. “It’s not my fault you have a dumb American sleep schedule. If you really wanted to see me, you could just sleep according to the superior timezone, but you’re too busy in la-la land to care about me.”
A scoff sounds from Dream’s throat, a retort quick on his lips — because the thought of Dream, not caring about George? Now that’s laughable — but the mention of la-la land has him very much reminded of where he’s really been. Diners, coffee shops, movie dates with hands all over and right on his — Dream turns away to hide the glow of his cheeks. He decides he doesn’t want to have this conversation anymore.
George hums, and there’s a light shove to his shoulder. “No response, huh? Glad to see you’re finally realizing I’m always right. This feels good.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Whatever you say,” Dream grumbles. He hunches in on himself and pouts. George’s laughter is soft on his ears.
After he quiets, the gentle breeze is the only sound between them for a while. Dream lets himself relax into the silence; it’s peaceful like this, with him. Not thinking of anything beyond the beat of his heart, nothing on his mind beyond the man beside him. As he feels his eyes begin to close, drifting off, abruptly George speaks.
“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. But I think I’m just gonna go for it. ‘Take the leap’.”
He laughs faintly to himself, and Dream looks over, brows furrowing.
“What do you mean? What do you want to do?”
“Quit my job. Go on that trip I was talking about a while ago,” George says simply, and he raises himself to lean against the large tree trunk behind them. “My friends and I finally got our visas accepted, and they want to leave the country. They think it’ll be fun.”
George’s voice is level when he speaks, casual. Blasé, as if Dream isn’t now choking on air, choking on his own lungs. Though his heart beats quickly once, twice, three times before it’s hammering, Dream tries to play it cool. He swallows thickly.
“Oh, really? That sounds — really interesting, really cool. Totally super cool for sure. Where are they thinking of going, exactly? No reason, obviously, just wondering and just — curious, y’know. Just curious.”
His tone trembles and cracks in the middle. He has to clear his throat and cough into his fist.
Real smooth, he thinks miserably. Real, real smooth.
He hears George snort again, and the other’s look is knowing, amused. Dream doesn’t know why he bothered trying to hide. And now George’s lips are quirked and twitching with laughter, so Dream waves a hand, motions at him to get on with it. He submits himself to George’s teasing, “You can just admit you want to see me, Dream. It’s not a crime. I know I’m just soooo totally super cool — I don’t blame you for being curious.”
Jerk. Dream huffs indignantly, and as he starts interjecting, starts defending himself with red cheeks and honor, George ignores him. Asshole.
The other instead goes on about his trip, and the possibility of George coming to America again shocks his system. Dream then ignores his flush in favor of leaning closer, listening closer, his pulse beginning to drum dully against his ears.
“I’m not 100% sure what the plan is yet. We’re definitely going somewhere in the U.S. to start — one of my friends has family in bumfuck nowhere, so they want to head there first. But I don’t know if it’s near Florida. Not that I’d enjoy getting mauled by an alligator.”
George picks at the grass and looks ahead of himself when he speaks, humor still lighting his face. But even as he attempts to joke, Dream’s stomach sinks.
“There’s, um, no way you could make a pit stop? The gators aren’t that bad most days. I’ll even fight them off if they get too close, promise.”
Dream hates how small his voice sounds. And he knows it’s bad for him, will only lead to his end, but he can’t help the way his heart starts to pump with rising hope. The way he starts to see a light so clearly ahead of him, despite its distance.
They could close that distance. They could finally, finally stop waiting.
George looks at him then, and his smile is small, apologetic — and though he tries to keep his expression light, Dream can see George’s frustration encroaching around the edges.
“I don’t know what’ll fit in the budget. And I’m not the only one paying for our travel fees, it’s all shared. Nothing’s set in stone yet obviously, I could try convincing them to up our spending cost, but — ” George shrugs, helpless.
He raises eyes back to blue. He tries, “We could tag team them. You’ll become the ambassador of Florida — make a slideshow or something to convince them why we should go to your dumb state, and I’ll present it. Really argue our case. I could do it, y’know — you know I’m good at getting what I want. Just like how I’m totally super cool, right?”
Dream doesn’t turn back to blue. He lets lids close instead.
Disappointment isn’t quite what he feels. The warmth is doused inside him, and his chest hollows, empties, but the feeling that takes its stead — this slow, aching chasm that opens and spreads — Dream isn’t sure what that is.
Maybe it’s heartbreak. Maybe loneliness. Dream doesn’t bother figuring it out; he’s too busy trying to breathe.
Leaving George’s attempt to lighten the mood unanswered, Dream sits in silence. His every wish has been tossed down the hill, and now the pressure is back behind his eyes, and as it pushes, pushes, threatens to spill, he feels terribly pathetic.
He had known that things weren’t guaranteed, he had known that he shouldn’t let hope cloud his view. But he’s always been an easy crier. And though he tells himself he’s okay, though he dreams the world away, he’s — he’s tired. He’s always tired. No matter how much he sleeps and sinks, his exhaustion with school, with his parents, with everything, it never lets up and he has to be just fine. He keeps slamming his skull and he’s fine; he keeps bending backwards and he’s fine; he supposed to just handle blood and phones and wary tones and he can handle it all, he knows he’s able, but he still wants to —
Take a moment. Have a moment. He wants many moments, a few not-fine ones just for breath.
He hopes George will understand.
And George does understand, does feel the echoes of his wretchedness even if he doesn’t get the whole view. So he shuffles near, pulls Dream snug to his chest and nuzzles close to his hair, and Dream lets himself melt into the embrace. Lets his arms wrap tight, lets their fingers twine and bodies rock, and lets them hold and hold.
When he squeezes hard enough, he forgets the ache for a moment. When he squeezes hard enough, he forgets that George will be gone when he wakes.
Then with lips still pressed to his hair, George mumbles, “Sometimes, when I miss you, I think about what would’ve happened if we didn’t speak the same language. Or if we were from countries that totally hated each other, and we had no way to meet.” He presses further.
“It freaks me out before I fall asleep. But then I think how even then, I would find a way to make it work. Even if it took me forever, I would find a way to get to you.”
Dream’s heart falters. It staggers, climbs, lodges in his throat at the words — at how romantic they sounded, despite George not meaning them to be. And now he can’t help the way it lies there, begging, pleading to be heard, to love and to be loved. Still, he manages to rasp, “That — that sounds like a lot of work, George. Why would you try so hard? I’m just some guy in your head, y’know.”
He attempts to tease, attempts to give George an out, and he doesn’t want to hear the answer. He doesn’t want to hear it all laughed away as a joke, for George to roll his eyes and call him silly. But at the same time, Dream isn’t sure what he'll do if he doesn’t. Can he afford to fall? Would he be brave enough to?
And then he feels hands sliding, rising from his side to his face, and their clasped palms are pressed to his cheek. And then he sees George smile, fondly exasperated and brighter than any star he’s ever seen. And then he’s saying, “Obviously I’d try. You’re more than just some guy in my head, Dream. More than just my soulmate or whatever.”
There’s the shift of skin, cool fingers trailing down, down, down. “You mean a lot to me. Right here.” The soft rap of knuckles, tapping gentle, gentle, gentle just above his sternum. Just above his heart. It beats, just for him.
It beats so hard in his chest, dull in his ears, he can hardly hear when George continues faintly, “I’m sorry it’s taking so long for us to meet. I’m trying to make it work. But don’t worry,” the smile returns to his face, lips curling into a grin, fingers spreading wide over his chest.
“I’ll find you eventually.”
Dream stares up at him. George is rubbing mindless circles into his skin, humming and oblivious, and Dream stares up at him. He stares and stares, eyes roaming, insatiable — taking in the glow of his skin, the curve of his brow, the bow of his lips. He wants to kiss him.
He usually wants to kiss George, but now the feeling is overwhelming. He wants to reach up, press close, press all the love aching within him to George’s lips and have it melt into his skin. He needs George to feel it too. He needs George to bear it with him, see how it ruins him from the inside out. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they did it together. Together.
But then George is turning away — he’s turning away, and facing his soul to the sun. He looks to the sky, eyes to the clouds, and breathes and breathes until he seems to settle himself. Dream hadn’t noticed he was ruffled.
He doesn’t have time to mention it before George is saying evenly, naturally, “Don’t worry so much, Dream. It’ll work out. In the meantime, however — ”
And when Dream looks at his lifetime friend, he’s surprised to see not mischief, but something else reflected back at him. Something that’s there, and then gone, and then —
“I just had the craziest week of my life. Want to hear about it?”
Later, Dream wakes up alone. His heart is still pounding. And the sky is dark.
He thinks of brown eyes and freckles, a wide smile and thought of falling together.
Dream is staring at his calendar many weeks later, many weeks spent hustling around his apartment and resisting the urge to tear his hair out. He’s triple-checked his savings, his upcoming assignments, his cat sitter — and yet he still finds more things to do, more things to fuss over instead of overanalyzing his plans. He doesn’t even know if what he saw in George’s face was real, if it was nothing more than his imagination or a thing of dreams, but —
He’s tired of the distance. He’s tired of the waiting.
He refuses to be afraid of freefall.
Even still, Dream lingers in his doorway, snuggling Patches and kissing her snoot for longer than he should. He sits in his driver’s seat, fingering the wheel and fidgeting with his mirrors until he decides they’re too dirty, they just have to be cleaned. He stands before the airport doors, letting the swell and crush of people flow around him and send his head spinning.
When he's hours away from home and finally seated at his terminal, shaky fingers reach to pull his phone from his bag. He’d managed to hustle George for the vague details of his trip, jotting them down immediately after he woke, and he runs over them again now as his anxiety spikes.
The specifics were always muddled, always changing last minute, but Dream has a general idea of George’s itinerary. And if his predictions are correct, he’ll have to rely on more than just luck to pin him down. Dream tries not to psych himself out over it. He’ll have only a few chances to make this work, and he needs to do it right.
Besides, he knows that his nerves are only a guise for the fear coiling in his gut, the dread sinking like lead inside him.
He still doesn’t know if he’s making the right choice. If George’s words about leaping and taking were only offhand, superficial, and now he’s mixing fantasy with reality out of desperation. If he’s getting swept up in daydreams, imagination breathing false hope into his skin. Because right now, the feel of the seat beneath him is awfully real. The rush of the people around him is awfully real, terribly present, and this isn’t something he can just wake up from. He can't close his eyes and wish the world away. He has to face this. He has to face George.
Finally, after what feels like too long and not long enough, Dream hears a ring. The sound of his terminal being called comes soon after, and he takes a deep breath.
Dream doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. But anything less is just as painful, so he’s ready to descend. He’s ready for broken bones, and can only hope George will be gentle with his broken heart.
His rental car still running, engine still humming, Dream stares blankly into the plains of Kansas before him. They sprawl forever onwards, wheat stalks reaching high and small hills disrupting their uniform expanse. With a dirt road seemingly endless behind him, and the dusk slowly bleeding blue into orange, Dream feels like he’s still dreaming. But the steady rumble around him and the rough leather beneath him is a clear reminder: he’s not.
Yet he still isn’t sure how he got there. One moment he was driving down city streets with cars all around, maybe taking a few backroads here and there, and then suddenly he was alone — driving and driving as the sky darkened, as time warped, stretched, and twisted, as the road became progressively more unruly, more unkempt —
Until he’s there. Sitting in his car, dragging hands down his face, and trying to find the courage to try.
Eventually, he sighs. He places his hand on the car key.
He thinks about the freedom of flight. The fear of freefall. The thought of falling together.
He turns off the car.
When the breeze hits his face, Dream isn’t expecting it to be as warm as it is, to pick up and rustle his clothing as it does. The smell of crops and dirt is soft on his senses, easy on his nerves, and he inhales deeply. Once settled, his soles crunch across the road. He steps into the field, feeling a little more like he can do this.
Dream had seen a distant light as he drove toward the area, and a small bonfire with people all around now comes into view. This isn't a very fire-safe place, he thinks immediately, but discomfort soon follows as the awkwardness of the situation hits him. Dream is…kind of crashing George’s vacation with his friends. A vacation of which he was pointedly not invited to, if George’s comments about his friends said anything. Talk about embarrassing.
With the inevitable confrontation now looming above him, Dream stops in the middle of the field. He shifts on his feet and feels unsure of what to do with himself. What does one do when faced with meeting your friend’s friends? Do you scream? Cry? Run away? The latter is seeming increasingly appealing to Dream. Conversation with strangers hadn’t been part of the plan, and there’s really only so much he can take.
He’s still contemplating his life choices when a figure off in the distance catches his eye.
Sitting atop one of the small hills nearby, a man sits alone. He’s hunched over as a spindly tree stands tall, hiding him from view, and he seems to hold himself tightly, carefully. Still, with a shape lit only by the setting sun above, his slim form has Dream’s gaze snagging.
He isn’t sure if it’s him. It could be a total stranger and he’s about to be the biggest clown in Kansas. But he’d rather take his chances than brave the impending mob before him.
Adjusting his course, the wheat stalks part easily as he pushes past them. He’s tall, always has been, and his long strides send him quickly across the field. He feels like he’s falling, like he’s fast approaching the ground, and a heavy, restless weight settles across his chest. The open air begins to strain his lungs as he gulps it down, trying to fight the tightness creeping up his throat.
Suddenly the hill before him is close, much closer than he thought it should be. Earthy scents of the field flit by and send his head spinning, but he’s sure that his soulmate is near, knows they’re so close to meeting, so he sets his pace faster, takes bigger inhales of air, and climbs. The burn in his lungs and ache in his heart only pushes him to go faster, only encourages him to climb further and further.
The hill quickly ascends and he hears the man breathing before him. His heart rises to his throat. Every step brings him closer and closer, and he’s now certain that it's him.
So focused on George’s form, he doesn't concentrate on himself and the rough ground of the hillside. Littered with small stones and twigs, it’s so easy to trip, to stumble and fall —
His slip is only for a moment, he’d need just a second to catch himself, but it’s enough. He watches as George startles and stands suddenly at the sound, and Dream’s already falling, bounding forward. As George turns to face him, eyes wide and mouth opening, they crash into each other and the momentum has them tumbling down the hill. George screams while they go, and Dream holds onto him tight, and they fall and fall before landing in a heap at the hill’s bottom.
There’s silence for a moment. The air stills, and dirt flecks slip, slip down Dream’s face. They land atop his soulmate’s cheeks as the man looks up from where he’s sprawled beneath him. Dream notices he has a scar on his chin. His eyes are wide.
“Dream?”
Embarrassment has heat rising to his face in a rush, and Dream scrambles, “Uh — yes, hi, hello. I’m — so sorry that we’re meeting like this, this is just — “
And as Dream’s about to make even more of a fool of himself, suddenly he feels arms wrapping tight around his neck. Then George is shoving their faces closer, closer, closer still, and lips are being pressed bruisingly to his own.
Oh. That is — um.
Shock has him frozen for a moment, and for a few painful seconds, he doesn’t respond. And in those seconds George gradually begins to slow, stop, pull away as though embarrassed, but when Dream’s heart finally kicks into gear and he presses back, like, y’know, not a dumbass, he’s grabbing George just as fiercely.
His lips are soft. They’re soft and his mouth is warm, but the feeling of having him there, right then, cradled in his arms and sliding fingers in his hair with abandon and longing and the knowledge that they were there, finally — that’s softer. He’s filled with warmth, with stars and sweet kisses, and there’s nowhere he’d rather be. Just there. Just with him, in dreams and in flesh, always with him.
Their kisses deepen, slow, then quicken until they’re both breathing hard and breathless. Even still, George is reaching, taking and pulling, peppering his lips as Dream pants against his mouth. Dream gasps a laugh, disbelieving.
“You’re so — mmm — oh my God, stop, George — I can’t breathe.” He has to place a hand atop George’s mouth, leaning away from him as the other smiles wide against his palm. George laughs, as high and bright as the twinkling stars above them.
He says, “Good. No more breathing. Only kissing me — which you should be doing more of. Right now. Promptly.”
Dream’s chest is heaving, his heart pounding against his breastbone, but he stares down at George with incredulity overtaking his features.
“You’re so needy.”
George is breathing just as hard, face just as flushed, but he has the nerve to look like they hadn’t just been messily making out for the past five minutes. He raises an eyebrow, unfazed.
“Yeah? And what about it?”
Dream’s head is spinning. “That’s — oh my god, George.”
“I’m hearing a lot of complaining and a lot less kissing at the moment. That’s a problem, Dream.”
“I can’t believe you right now.” Dream huffs a laugh, running a hand down his face. He looks to the sky and tries to breathe deeply, trying to regain some composure. Now that he’s in his post-kiss haze, he needs to think, he needs to — well, as pathetic as it sounds, he needs to make sure he isn’t dreaming. This is something straight out of a fantasy, and he knows that everything leading up to this has felt real, but —
He can’t help that flicker of wariness. They haven’t even talked properly in person yet; George just sprung a kiss on him, and he’s expected to accept that like it’s nothing? Until five minutes ago, Dream wasn’t sure if George would ever want a piece of his heart. And now he has bruised lips, mussed hair and the taste of George still clinging to his tongue.
Of course, George can see the conflict on his face. Dream is finding that with them, there’s only so much difference between dreams and reality. Besides the whole kissing thing.
George gently pushes them into switching positions, and they move to sit beside each other. Hands removing themselves from his hair, they shift down to grasp his own. His expression loses its teasing edge, and as he squeezes and Dream squeezes back, he says, softly, “I’m sorry, I — I think I’m going a little fast. Sorry. I was just really excited. I mean, c’mon, you’re here and I’m here, and I can finally do all the things I’ve been wanting to do. I think I get to be a little excited.”
Confusion has Dream’s face twisting, nose scrunching. George leans up to kiss the tip of it, seemingly unable to help himself, and Dream stumbles through red cheeks, “I — you’re fine, I’m just — a little overwhelmed. A little bit. But — do all the things you’ve been wanting to do? What’s that supposed to mean?”
George rolls his eyes then, and Dream’s surprised to see the slight blush sitting high on his cheeks. He leans forward to get a closer look, obnoxious, and the other swats him away.
Lifting his chin, defiant, George begins, “Well, I don’t know, there’s a lot of things I’ve been wanting to do. Like touching, and kissing, and making out, and having sex — ”
“George!” Dream exclaims, staring at him with wide eyes, scandalized. George grins, shrugging.
“Hey, you asked.”
“Not with that much detail, fucking hell — ” He huffs with cheeks still red and shakes his head. “But that’s beside the point. Have you — ” he falters as hesitance climbs his throat, and he has to rub at his tender heart, remind it that this is okay. They’re doing the right thing. “Have you always wanted to do those things?”
“I mean, eight is a little young to be having sex.”
“George!”
He laughs, long and loud and happy, and Dream can forgive him a little bit. Just a little.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’m in serious mode now.” He makes a sweeping motion in front of his face, dropping his smile into a dramatic frown. Dream wants to smack him. Lovingly. And then kiss it better.
His smile popping right back onto his face, looking slightly sheepish, George continues, “I don’t know exactly when I started liking you so much, but it was a while ago. When we were kids, definitely — I remember you always had the best games, and I’d dream about it for days after. Like when we played in the river, and we’d fall on top of each other, and you’d — ” George cuts himself off abruptly, and the peach returns to his face in full force. Dream can’t get enough of how vivid it is.
Leaning against him, head buried in his shoulder and hands clutching at his clothes, George mumbles, “Okay, maybe I’ve been…wanting those things for longer than I thought.”
Dream feels warmth spring into his chest, spreading down from his heart to his fingertips, and a smile splits his face before he can think about it too hard. He lets a palm cradle George’s skull. Plays with the hairs at the nape of his neck, wraps his other arm around his waist. He dares to press a kiss to the top of his head, and he can feel the quirk of George’s lips through his clothes.
But then a loose thought crosses Dream’s mind, catching, so he ventures to ask, “If you’ve liked me for so long, why didn’t you ever say anything? Or make a move?”
With all the talking they’ve been doing, Dream expects something heartfelt, a layered response; not the raised eyebrow and unimpressed look he does receive.
“I’ve told you how I felt before. Multiple times. You’d always just stare at me with these big eyes and never do anything.”
Sputtering, hands tensing against George’s form and cheeks flaming, Dream says, “I — I didn’t know those were confessions, you — you never said I love you! Or kissed me, or even mentioned wanting to kiss me. How was I supposed to know you were confessing?”
“Because I wasn’t confessing, you idiot — ” George scoffs, “I said that I’ve told you how I feel, and I have. I’ve told you a lot of times, I just didn’t — I didn’t want to say I love you yet.”
Before Dream can feel like the scum of the earth about guilting George into saying I love you, George continues with a fond roll of his eyes, “You’re fine, don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault I didn’t want to say it, and, well. Still don’t want to. Kind of. Not yet, at least.”
He looks down at their linked hands. Fiddling with the digits, George’s easy expression seems to waver and something deeper flickers across his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. But he does sigh, tilting back to appraise the stars. Dream lets the other think for a moment and figure himself out.
When he speaks next, his voice is slow, careful. Cautious.
“I’ve known that I loved you for a long time. I just didn’t want our relationship to be confined to the dreamscape.” Sighing again, he releases one of Dream’s hands to tug faintly at his hair.
He says, “I didn’t want so much distance between us if we ever did get involved with each other — if I were to kiss you, I wanted to kiss you whenever I wanted. If I were to touch you, I wanted to touch you whenever I wanted. I just — I think that if our love had been stuck like that, always in dreams, it would’ve hurt worse than not having it all.”
George finishes with a slow exhale through his nose. “At least that’s what I always thought. And now it’s — it’s hard, to get out of that mentality. To love you with all of myself. To just care without holding anything back, without being a little scared.”
As he settles himself back against Dream’s chest, face pressed to his skin, George nuzzles faintly into the groove between his neck and shoulder. Dream doesn’t restrain his shiver — even in person, George’s nose is ice cold. But then an apology is being mumbled against his throat, and Dream readjusts his hold, and he squeezes closer, tighter. He presses kisses behind George’s ears without shame. He feels him shudder too.
“Don’t apologize for that, never apologize for that. Take all the time you need, seriously — I don’t blame you at all, it was difficult to not see you for so long, and I — I get it, I think. We both handled things differently. And I struggled too.”
Dream trails lips up to his temple, sighing softly. Kissing gently. “I think I was starting to lose my mind. Everything just started building up, and I couldn’t handle the waiting anymore. I had to do something.”
Staring into the planes of George’s face, Dream takes in every mole and freckle, every scar smoothed over by time and hidden by dreams. He curls closer. He whispers, “I was so worried you wouldn’t want me back. I just had to find you, but I didn’t want to mess it up.”
I didn’t want to fall.
George looks up at him then, deep eyes reflecting the stars and looking more beautiful than any of them. He smiles, wide, slowly stretching wider, and the glimmer squints happily with him.
“You’ve never had to worry about messing anything up, Dream.” Full lips twist into a grin. “You just had to take the leap.”
Dream smiles. They talk for a while longer after that, still pressing and grasping at each other, before they rise and walk back over to where George’s friends still lie. Dream is offered a few brief introductions to each of them, smiling awkwardly when he’s forced to shake hands, and George lets himself be whisked away to the rental after he’s grabbed his things.
Dream had expected them to drive right away to wherever George’s hotel is, but the other leads him into the backseat with a smile. Then, for a while, they simply lie there and…hold on. Touch, squeeze, run hands over shoulders, over necks and jaws and cheeks. George presses lips to everywhere he can find, and Dream leans back to gasp, and they’re taking and taking, loving and loving. There’s no more distance, no more waiting, and he’s never been so glad to fall.
Later, Dream wakes with a beautiful boy beside him. His heart is full. And the sky is light.
He thinks of brown eyes and freckles, a wide smile and the feeling of reverie.