Archive of Our Own

IT’S HARD BEING AN UNLOVED CHILD OF POSEIDON.

From the moment George took his first breath into the world, he always felt the spite held against him. 

It’s one of those things that are taboo, unspoken of, but everyone can feel it. The elephant of the room is not ignored.

The first time he realized that he didn’t belong was when he walked down the halls of his palace, and shallow eyes of nymphs and gods traced him with utter disgust as people would mutter the words that his father, Poseidon, never let him forget. 

Voices hissed at him: “He’s far too weak…He's half a human….Did you hear that his birth was a mistake?… How is he the son of Poseidon?”  

Grudges were sunken in the soils of the earth, so deeply rooted for as long as he can remember. He could tell just by stares, the tone, everything. There was a bitterness that crawled up everyone's face and unleashed in their tone when talking to him.

He is half of a god, filled with deity and power, and half a human, which is brimmed with emotion and naked vulnerability. Poseidon does not believe he can walk noble as a half human.

So Poseidon casts him as an immortal.

George does not get away from the satisfaction of dying, binding him to earth for eternity.

Still, George's crestfallen eyes, lost in a muted amber, never once caught the attention of his father. Words cannot describe the disgust that frothed Poseidon’s face when he saw his “son” after his birth, as he claimed that George could never be his child.

“That is not my child,” Poseidon boomed to the baby who’s water-logged lungs haven't even been cleared yet. “He is nothing but a mistake of mine.”

All the boys his age had cunning futures in archery, military, and in wars, whilst feeble George was only occupied with the world of reading. They would ask for arrows and hand-carved bows, but he only requested books. From a ripe age, he ventured every inch of his burgundy, cobwebbed library, desperate to read all the material he could find. His mind prospered with stories of old tales and legends, always stuck between worlds as his escape from reality.

Why not me? he would ask his mother, who just smiled warmly at him and said, “ Do not worry about them.”

George had been deemed useless by 7; his strength was far too weak to become a soldier, or anything useful. Soldiers needed broad shoulders, hearts caged with silver, and a mind ready for fight. He had none. He was part human, strength being split in half and disregarded.

And he would be lying if he didn’t say that it hurt. His tears soaked his quilted pillowcase, only ever at night, when the world was asleep so he could exist and cry and shout in peace. 

The death of his mother is when he snapped. He used to climb into her bed when the night was a little too dreary, or when his dreams frightened him more than reality. No matter how deep in her sleep, even with eyes tugging at darkness, she would comfort his youthful flesh to keep him tender and prim during those cold nights. 

After her tragic death, (a sickness spreading to her limbs), the young boy refused food, water, and spoke only to the ghosts of her that wandered the hallways at night. He waited to hold her once more, and for his mother to soothe him with her soft lullabies that would attract the moon and stars. 

Of course, that only made rumors worse. People called him sick, twisted, and thought he was a human-embodiment of bad luck. Everyone avoided being near him, and days on end would pass without talking to anyone. His books often kept him company, meddling him with the warmth that everyone else refused to give. The stories he read furnished the emptiness he felt.

At age 9, Poseidon decided it was best to send George to an island where he could no longer plague him with his mere existence. He didn’t want the awful notoriety of George to stain his reputation forever. 

But George knew Poseidon's secret. George's eyes carry the ones of his mother, nutty brown with freckles of green. As he grew, his smile turned into hers, cheekbones broad and sharp. The truth is, Poseidon was far too weak to even glance at him because all he could see was her. Of course, he could never admit it, but it was an unspoken truth.

To strand him, Poseidon decided upon a remote, sandy island, far away from all of humanity. To ensure he would never escape the island, Poseidon had spelled a curse, and George learned that the hard way.

Water scalds George's skin to the touch, burning as if the sun had reached his fiery bones. A touch of water makes it feel like a million ants are eating him alive. 

Since being abandoned on his new abode, every attempt he has taken to swim free from the island, his skin would peel bare, unveiling pink flesh. The water bristled against his pores and tore it apart. He would cry to Poseidon to lift the curse, but the sky would only thunder in return.

Alas, young George accepted his fate. 

Most would consider it a punishment: being stranded away on an island so compact and reprimanding for years upon end. 

But George liked the familiarity of the salted sea breeze pinching his nose as he inhaled a little too deep. He liked the way the golden sands were persistent on the ends of his feet. Or the days where the sun kissed his skin, often leaving small embraces branded on the bridge of his nose. Emptiness was a comfort, and loneliness became a distant memory.

He liked his island.

It’s easy, not changing. But sometimes, his mind would wander to the warmth that the sun could not fulfill. 

George often recalls faint memories of his mother, whomst he carries a heavy heart for; he misses her. Years flow by and he still thinks of her before every moon. She saw his mind for its intricacy, the way he articulated his words and spoke carefully with thought placed behind each prose. She saw the rare glimpses of his smile, which seemed to emanate the warmth of light.

She saw him.

Lonely nights where the moon does not bear the sky is when he misses her most. George wishes on every freckle of scattered moondust shining in the sky to feel her touch on his unadorned skin once more. He cries into the sky, hoping his voice carries to her.

He thinks back to the stormy night.

“I’m sorry George, I must leave you.” His mother’s voice was surprisingly collected, but he could distinguish the quivers by now.

But she wasn’t real. She was gone.

Instead, Poseidon's voice carried far. It rumbled across the skies above the seas. The clouds trembled in fear. “I curse him with the weakness of water. He cannot escape.”

He was left alone, exiled on the island to fend for himself. At each thunderstorm, he asked Zeus for forgiveness; at each tsunami, he asked Poseidon for guidance; at each sunrise, he pleaded to Apollo.

It never worked; the water still burned his skin gold.

And some days become harder than others. 

George isn't against the company of another person on the island. His mind blooms, open to the idea of a new bee humbling his empty abode. Maybe his mother will be carried to him by the tides of the ocean, brought ashore by mercy.

So he sits by the waves, tides licking him bittersweet, awaiting for the soft hands to return. For someone, anyone , to come. The sun tucks under the horizon, and he is still waiting . The moon wakes early to pull its tides, and he is still waiting . The stars, sprinkled like moondust, start to burn out into oblivion, but he is still waiting . 

Life passes by, but his time chants a song that never ends. 

The days turn into misery, and the seas call the name of the boy who didn’t know how to swim.

George is drowning.

Maybe that’s a little dramatic, but he doesn’t recall giving up to the strength of the vigorous seas. He wanted to escape the island for eternity, although his valiance was never strong enough to follow through with his plans.

But this time is different.

He tries to escape the island he’s stranded on.

He knows Poseidon cursed him and he knows it’s near impossible to escape, but he still tries. His mind numbs as he dips his feet in water, reminding himself that the pain will be worth an escape from the island. The water agitates quickly, pulled by the moon with no hesitation.

I need to leave this island. I need to get out.

One moment turns to another, and the ocean is tugging at his feet, tides roaring mercilessly loud into his ear. With all his might, he tries to pull himself ashore, for he knows he cannot swim. 

He's stuck in an ocean and Poseidon is ruthless. 

His curse makes it impossible to swim because of the burning. Fires ignite rapidly on his skin. Volts shock everything from the top of his head to the bottom of his heel. It's blistering him everywhere and regret seeps in the cracks. 

It hurts. It burns.

His body hacks around the seas, and he regrets giving up his power. He wishes to see another sunset, or to see another moon wake at dusk. George wishes not to spend life on earth as a living hell. 

I know, I'm not particularly your favorite Poseidon, but please. Don’t throw me in the rough water for eternity. George is immortal, meaning being trapped in an ocean that burns to touch is eternal torture. Though he doesn’t pray very often, he shuts his eyes tight and ignores the flames smoldering his lungs to dust, praying to any god that’s listening.

Head bobbing up and down, his mouth opens to scream, only to meet salted reservoirs filling his stomach. He looks up, between gasps of cold air abrading his pressed lungs, and is met with the moon's brutal luminosity. 

He thinks of his mother in his last gasps. Seaweed tickles at the heels of his feet, and he knows that, but he silently hopes it’s the hands of his mom tugging him.

Mom, please.

Right before he gives up, he realizes he’s not alone. There’s a voice. It’s faint, muffled, but it’s there:

“Calm down.” 

The voice of the man sounds steady, grounded.

George’ limbs release, withdrawing from all fight. The burning still throbs at his skin, but he focuses on letting go. Hands pull his own, leading him to land. They save him. He feels a sway, a push, in the blurred night. 

The water sends him back to the wet, familiar sand, and within some miracle , and he's in one piece. 

The burning stops as soon as the air brushes over his skin, relieving him from the feeling. Gasping for deep breaths, he’s thankful for the oxygen repairing his lungs; he thanks Poseidon silently.

But more importantly, he looks at the corpse in front of him, washed up on the island.

A Mortal. It’s a mortal. It saved me.

Glancing under the moon's vanity, he sees that it is a man, around his age, who is swept up onto the sand floor alongside him. He notes how his hair matches the color of the golden dusted sand, and how it fringes on his forehead with delicate curls, skin a little more tan than his. it's truly a mortal .

He is thankful for the stranger's timely appearance—  god knows how long he would’ve been stranded in the unforgiving waters. 

George gapes with his mouth slightly open in awe, bewildered by the radiating warmth of a human.  Right there, an arms length away, was a mortal—the one he'd only encountered in false aspirations and in dreams tucked away in darkness. 

But now, the stranger is here underneath the radiance of the moon.

I’m not alone. I’m not alone. I’m not alone.

The body lies still on the sand in front of him, chest up towards the sky. His eyes are shut closed, concealing their radiance. A soft breath escapes his mouth. 

Help him. Help him, George. Help him.

But his legs freeze in place.

George observes the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He’s easily encapsulated by the small, mundane things of a human. He takes note of how the man's eyes would momentarily flutter open, and then succumb to darkness once more. 

These were things he'd never notice about himself— at least not further than a blurred reflection from a pond. 

The stranger awakens with a groan. 

“That was close,” the voice murmurs from the ground before coughing some seawater scratching at his throat. George cringes at the mixture pooled up on the dark sand.

The voice is quiet and under his breath, but the hum of his tone settles in George's ear, one that craves noise. Nerves prickle at his skin invitingly, wishing to hear more words crafted by the stranger to entertain his ears which remained hollow for far too long.

Is he real? A person, a man, is this real?

As he stands up, George notices how, though he is tall, his pale features are carved softly with gentle eyes framing his face. Casted in secrets, George struggles to depict the emotions veiled behind his flippant gaze.

What is he? And why can I figure him out?

The man stumbles on his feet, taking a glance around the vacant island. His eyes flicker between the thickets of evergreen that lead up to the white dusted sand, and the cutthroat waves that still persist at George's feet.

Then, his focus shifts to George. Without hesitation, his lips part: “I’ve been looking for this place,” he poses with a strange composure. 

You’ve been looking for this place? An island in the middle of nowhere?

He crouches to George and inches forward, closing their distance. George feels his breath thrill his skin, releasing shivers free to venture his spine. His detailed eyes, captured by benevolency, stare right back at him. 

“Oh, sorry, ” the man follows with an airy chuckle, noticing George's knitted brows concentrated in analysis. His lips curl into a smile. “Let me introduce myself.” 

His hand tentatively reaches out to George, to which he delicately places it into the calloused palm. The hands are warm, tender, and airborne with life— just how George had recalled.

“You can call me Dream.” 

“Dream,” George tries; his voice is raw. Curls of smoke wither his lungs, leaving them dusted and unused to speaking. He looks up at Dream, who seems to be blooming with a courteous smile.

George clears his throat for another attempt. “Dream,” he speaks softly, but with clarity this time. The name sheathes protectiveness on his blistered tongue. 

Dream, Dream, Dream. I like that.

“There you go,” he answers ever-so softly, “Dream.”

“Sorry, may I just ask, what were you doing in these tides at night? It is quite dangerous to be swimming there, especially on a full moon.” Dream's green eyes leak of concern, but George can’t bring himself to answer.

The truth was, is, that he is simply done waiting for time to give him his fair share of the bargain, or waiting for the day where fate will liberate him. But reality always tells him that he will never be freed, and every day will remain the same. 

Dream smiles softly at the silence, it’s oddly warm. “I kind of did just save your life out there,” he prompts, looking back at the hissing tides. 

“Okay.” George sighs in defeat. “It’s a long story, though.” 

“Time is no issue,” Dream corrects, sinking further into the sand. They both sit close enough for the waves to lick their feet. “I’ll be here awhile.”

George' mouth presses into a fine line. “Must you not return back to your home, Dream?” Surely he must be going back to a mother, a father, siblings, a lover; is anyone awaiting him?

“Sir George,” he breathes, barely in a whisper, “This island has been my journey. Please, don’t you see? Fate has so evidently led me to you. To this island.” 

What? This must be a mistake. 

George nudges himself away, gripping the cool sand. “I'm sorry, I don’t think this is right.”

“George.” Dream is stern with his words now. His eyes cool into a serious green. “I promise you, the gods have led me here. So thrill me with your presence, tell me your stories.”

His sincerity can not be more clear.

Blood pumps through George’s ears. Voice still scratchy, he starts to speak. “Alright. I’ve been left here, on this island, for as long as I can remember. I barely remember the moons prior to being here.”

The words feel strange to say, as if they’re not his own. A pit in his stomach tells him that it’s wrong, that he is meant to have no visitors on this island. He ignores it, hoping it won’t settle for long.

“Why were you sent here?” Dream probes carefully, “If you can say, of course.” 

He licks his teeth in decision, considering whether it's worth telling. The embarrassment highlight his flushed cheeks. “I was never worthy enough for Poseidon to stay around. Weak, they called me. My birth was a mistake, and I possess nothing exceptional. Poseidon and my mother held relations that he regretted, so here I am. Stranded.” 

It is not something someone particularly enjoys admitting: one's futility. How his father was never heroic, but more so the villain in his origin story. He wishes not to be saved, as a damsel in distress, relying on someone else. 

Yet, he continues telling Dream about his countless trials of escape, and how he got used to the strange serenity of solitude. He doesn’t expect Dream to understand. After all, a mortal's life is only stretched so long.

“I still have one more question,” Dream interrupts.

George fiddles with his thumbs, tracing circles around each other. He hopes it won’t be far too personal. “Yes?” 

Dream hesitates before speaking, gnawing at the corner of his pouty lower lip. In the short time that they’ve known each other, George already gathers that he tends to do that a lot. 

“Why were you swimming? You mentioned you cannot.” He treads carefully with no intent to offend, and George can tell. 

“I guess I was just tired. Tired of being alone here.” George looks down, and his palms clam with beads of sweat glistening in the soft light. It’s now the beginning of the sunrise, the pink starts to whelm the waning moon.

“So you swam? In these rough tides?” Dreams' tone shifts from curiosity to concern, a slightly higher pitch.

“Well, yes. But I'm cursed,” George mumbles, haphazardly and under his breath. He stares at the blue sea, wondering if Poseidon is listening to the conversation.

“Cursed?” Dream grimaces in disbelief, shaking his head. “What do you mean, cursed? Why would a god curse you? And how does one curse?”

The mortal cannot apprehend what lengths gods may go to, George thinks.

“Since I was sent here, to make sure I stay, I’m cursed,” George clarifies. “My curse is that water burns to the touch. The pain is unbearable, therefore I cannot swim.” 

Dream's eyes flicker with humane curiosity, fluttering back from the ocean to George, his pinched red skin. The realization occurs. George can practically see the gears shift in his brain.

Dream leans in towards him, shifting his turbulent gaze at his peeling red hands. “Are you okay? Do you need help with anything—“

“I'm fine,” He reassures, tucking his hands into the sand, but that’s not enough for him to listen. Dreams hand hovers over the redness of George’s skin, ready to examine. Protective, George notes.

“I’m okay, ”  he repeats once more, stern. Dream waits a few seconds, then withdraws his hands in surrender.

“Okay.” Dream blinks hard. And then again. Once more, before he speaks. “So you went purposefully, knowing it would burn.”

Yes.

“I’ve been on this island for far too long,” the immortal reasons, hushed and gently. He doesn't expect Dream to understand. The combination of time and loneliness becomes a thief of sanity, driving one to their limit.

“But you look around, what, twenty years old?” Dream flails his hands in the air. He can't help but chuckle.

20 years old? He does not know I’m immortal. George can't quite calculate how many moons that he stayed on the island, but he knew that it was far more than 20 years. The difference is, George's skin does not prune and wrinkle like humans, nor did his limbs grow weak with age. Deceiving , yes.

“Yeah, I guess it hasn’t been that long, but it sure feels long,” George says in a thick voice coated with lies, biting the flesh of his inner cheek. He decides to not tell Dream he is immortal.

“Well, I’m sorry about your curse. But hey, you could build a boat to escape perhaps?” Dream suggests with hope lingering in his tone. His voice is so bright, infused with an optimism no immortal can express.

George resists the urge to chuckle again as he shrouds it at the back of his throat, looking at the green eyes with such naivety strung in his glance. “No, that is not how it works. Poseidon would strike a storm if I tried, as he has done to many. Ever heard of the story of brave Odysseus?”

“Odysseus,” Dream taps his chin slightly in a purse of thought, “I think I’ve read about him, yeah.”

“It is a true story, Dream. Poseidon struck a storm on Odysseus and his crew. Poseidon can be ruthless,” George admits, to himself as well as to Dream. 

It clicks, and Dream's face twists. “I understand, Poseidon does not want you to leave this island. Even though you are his son,” he pieces together.

George nods. Being his son or of his very blood means nothing to Poseidon; Gods are ruthless in that manner. They hold no remorse for people like George, the half humans. Their hearts are only tarnished silver for disappointments like him.

“Isn’t that sort of unfair?” Dream pries, yet again, oblivious of his words. George's head slowly shakes side to side, glancing down at the grains of sand seeping underneath him.

Of course it’s unfair. Of course. You think I haven’t thought of that?

“I cannot judge its civility,” George chides, “Nor can I change the book's fate. When I try to escape, I will always be brought back here.” He wavers his hand in reference to the island which he knows like the back of his hands. “I belong here, and it is now a part of me.”

Dream nods slowly, gathering all the new information. George feels a tint of slight remorse for the mortal who was helplessly gandering at the news. But it’s nice to be heard; to speak and to know that somebody is listening.

“But anyways,” George swiftly changes the grim topic, “Why were you swimming here, in these very rough tides, Dream?”

Dream lets out a strained sigh, looking past the sea longingly. “My crewmates and I were on a boat, searching for this island.”

“This island?” George repeats back almost immediately.

He nods curtly, glancing at the forest behind them. “We had heard of a special nectar here to heal illness.”

George has not seen such nectar, so he asks, “nectar? For illness? Could you explain?” 

Dream goes on to talk about a sweet, viscous, healing liquid that has been said to come from the center of blooming flowers. 

“Oh, I guess I have never seen that,” George's eyes narrow in disappointment, “I’m sorry.” 

Dream's voice drips in defeat that he failed to veil. “It’s alright.” 

“—About your friends too, I’m sorry. Do you know if they’re alright?” George adds, noticing the subconscious clench of Dream's jaw at the question. Is this a tense topic?

He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know.”

George decides it’s better left unspoken. 

Dream continues, “Anyways, on our venture, we too, got caught in a storm. I’m unsure if it was Poseidon’s doing. I had seen a glimpse of the island while floating on a plank.”

He pauses, smiling weakly to himself. “That’s when I saw you struggling.”

George cringes and the image of himself gagging and floundering in the water like a fish out of sea. It is embarrassing that he is so intolerant to water.

“—So I helped. I pulled you as hard as I could, but then the world went black. And now, I’m here,” Dream's face turns wistfully, “I made it here.” 

“Thank you, once again, for saving me.” He settles to thank Dream once again for this favor so grand. 

“No need to thank me. My pleasure,” Dream gleams back, lips tugging into a smile that flaunts his pride. The gesture made him feel good, accomplished, prideful. That is their difference.

  If only gods bore the same satisfaction of selflessness as humans, George thinks to himself. The problem with gods is that they are swallowed in their pride and entitlement, and they cannot grasp the satisfaction humans feel as they thrive in their own humiliation, only in the name of devotion for the ones they love.  

Gods do not love the same way humans do. Mortals find beauty in tearing themselves down until they meet the verge of vulnerability to their partners, and stripping down bare to digest beauty in its raw purity. The gods hid behind their clouded dusk and moved from afar, scared, pryful, and enviously.

George nods after deep thought. “Before I forget: this so-called nectar, what do you need it for in specific? I may be able to help with more details.”

Dream's nose scrunches up in thought. “Uh, for trades. It is very valuable to those who are back in my town. They would give a limb just to savor its taste for even a moment. There’s been many tales of its enigmatic healing powers,” Dream confesses.

“I see. It must certainly be of aid to your townspeople. I will help you find it,” George affirms with a nod of his head. 

Dream reaches out to shake his hand again. Is this a human thing to do? George hesitantly obliges, giving his hand to the stranger. 

The liveliness prickles from his hands to his chest, accelerating the thumps of his heart.

Dreams' features are cut sharp by the light, and his eyes appear more green than he recalls.

It was odd, the feel of a human. It’s a meddle of emotions; soft, confusing, warm, dense— he can go on. But he understands why gods tended to feign over them. They are full of fleeting life, brimming with fresh curiosity. They are not a long commitment, although they do act like it sometimes. They are full of adornment, and reckless with their short lives. 

They talk until the light peeks further past the horizon.

Time falls into an oblivion of nonexistence when George hears Dream speak. The ticks of a clock move faster, the rise of the sun accelerates, and George just wishes for the universe to impede time for Dream to speak. He aches to listen to the symphonies that his soft laughter erupts, or the raised buzz of his pitch when he smiles. 

He learns about Dream's life prior to coming here, where he had many sisters of which he shares a love-hate relationship. George can’t resist the envy, wishing he could have the relationships that existed between these humans. 

“Wait, so this is your first time seeing another human from what you remember?” The blond queries, leaning back onto the sand with his arms crossed behind his head. 

“Well, the last memory I can conjure are the warm hands of my mother,” George draws a breath, “That’s about it.”

“What happened to your mother?” Dream's eyebrows knit in concern, “Or any of your family, for that matter.”

A chill draws a straight line on his back. George shrugs, looking past the oceanfront. “My mother. She is no longer on earth,” he drawled. Mellowed in sadness, George tries to hide his disappointment with a forced smile, taut and rigid.

“That’s… I’m sorry,” Dream maunders, and it’s gentle. Too gentle.

George wants to ignore the pitiful look Dream gives him. There’s nothing worse than pity: the warm, humiliating gaze paired with hopeless words sugar-coated with optimism. He’s gotten his fair share of pity growing up as the weakest boy of his brood.

“It’s fine.” His voice is cold, yet heat crawls under his skin.

Dream shoots an uneasy look. He leans closer, sharing his breaths with George. “It’s not fine, everyone needs somebody. Especially living on a small island like this for your whole life. You deserve better than that.” 

He is taken aback by how sentimental the stranger is. 

Humans are an interesting species, George thinks.

But whatever Dream is doing is working . His heart rattles against his chest, fingers feeling numb. George can’t resist the flaming sensation that creeps up to his cheeks and ears. The feeling arises again, but he can’t place what it is exactly that has held him in this chokehold.

“I appreciate the condolence, Dream,” George enunciates his name clearly, hoping it wouldn’t get caught in his throat. 

The morning birds chirp their songs into their ears. His eyes are heavy and struggle to stay open. A suppressed yawn eventually escapes his lips, head tipping back into the golden light. 

“You should get some rest,” Dream lulls softly, “You've probably been up for a while.”

I have. I'm tired. Sorry.

George shrugs drowsily. “You too,” he whispers.

Too tired to move to his cave, he nestles into the ground below him and rests his cheek on the grainy sands. The sounds of the rhythmic waves put him at ease.

Before the world temporarily calms, George feels a warm hand graze his shoulder. 

“Goodnight, stranger.” 

Even after he releases his hand, warmth sprawls in that spot, swirling with nerves— and he wishes the feeling would linger a little longer.

He silently hopes a hand will prevail at his shoulder, just until the sun replaces its warmth.

Goodnight, Dream.

There’s a bitter taste in George' mouth when he wakes up.

The sun sears a faint orange against his half-lidded eyes, desperate to wake him up. When his eyes momentarily flutter open, golden light immediately casted stardust onto his skin, bathing him with the hues of the sun. 

The shuffle of the human next to him jolts him awake.

Dream. He’s still here. I’m not alone.

George glances at his peaceful slumber: how Dream takes such soft breaths, feathering velvet into the air. Speckles of the sun scatter across his soundless body, adorning the heat. The hums of his breaths align with the waves of the shore.

George wants to let him sleep for eternity, to give him serenity for more than just every moon.

“Dream,” George' voice finally gathers, but it’s far too quiet to reach his ears. Dream doesn’t even flinch since he is far too dormant in his sleep. 

He wants to be selfish and awaken him.

George tries again: “Dream, Wake up,” he whispers a little louder, pressing his cold hands against his shoulder back and forth. No luck. 

His hand made its way onto Dream's chest, in hopes that the human would awaken to the glacial touch of his fingers. A faint pounding erupted from the left side, startling George. It’s odd, pushing out of his chest and resisting his caged lungs.

“Oh no, no no no,” George quickly mumbles, resting his hands on the pulsating thumps. He travels his hands further to the left of Dream's chest, and the thumps grew louder. They’re consistent, thump, thump, thump.

Panic quivers at his lips as his mind overloads with worse-case scenarios. George shakes him, now careless of disrupting his peaceful sleep. 

“Dream, wake up. There’s a pounding in your chest.” George notices his voice giving up towards the end of his sentence.  Blood rushes his face; his ears grow hot.

Fresh out of sleep, the blond twists and turns before yawning in the daylight. At once, a sigh of relief escapes George' thinned lips. He’s okay. Dream's arms reach out to stretch, eyes adjusting to the light meeting them. He immediately notices the concern and worry painting George' face, who knelt in the sand next to him.

“What’s wrong?” Dream asks. It was low, with a slight rasp, yet modulated.

There’s another sigh released into the golden air. “Your chest… there’s a thumping sound,” George murmurs, pointing at his bare chest with a frown.

“What do you mean?” Dream immediately sits up. Sand grazes the dents of his skin and his eyes are still heavy with sleep.

“Look, I’ll show you.” He leans forward and places his hand once again on the warm surface of his skin, fingertips barely grazing his collarbone.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

They both look down at his hand, feeling the pulse, and George's eyes strain with guilt. What is this thumping noise, and why won’t it stop? A pit settles at the bottom of his stomach.

Unexpectedly, a chuckle elates Dream's face. His smile ripens as he places his hand on top of George’. “That’s my heart beating, George. Nothing to fret about.”

His heart, of course. Shame bellows at his throat, closing it up. His eyes shy away from Dream, as he quickly retracts his hand from his chest.

“My apologies, Dream,” he confesses quickly, avoiding eye contact. “I did not know that it was the heart that thumped.”

George recalls memories of his mother. He would lean his head against her chest and listen to the rhythmic thumps erupting, pumping blood adorned with gilts of love for him and only him. Her heart was heavy with love. He misses the warmth she radiated.

How could he forget the heartbeat?

“Don’t apologize,” Dream immediately refutes with ease, “You have nothing to apologize for. If I hadn't seen another human in that long, I would also be surged with panic at the sight of a heartbeat.” George loves the consideration of how he is deemed human, and how he doesn’t feel stuck in between with Dream.

Their eyes meet again, and he suddenly feels safe. The world softens its commotion for the words “ Thank you ”  to come out of George' mouth.

Dream reaches out to George' bare chest, calloused fingertips meeting the left side of his ribbed cage. As soon as the cordial hand lands, the warmth of Dream's mortal skin washes over him. His thinned blood is cradled and warmed, thickening with each flush of his pumps.

“You have one too, a heartbeat,” Dream murmurs into his chest, hot breaths linger in the air. His fingers sink into his chest, and they can both feel the subsequent throbs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The pounding of George' chest accelerates its pace, etching to  reach out of his skin to meet Dream's fingertips. It pumps hot blood now, his hands clam, and the familiar burning reaches his top of his ears.

They both notice the speed increase, and Dream's eyes lift up in a poorly enveloped surprise. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze says enough. 

The heart pumps for them both.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

George has always studied the night sky. 

He admires how the stars entertain the bleak, inky night sky, webbed constellations telling stories with their presence. It’s comforting.

Some nights, George talks to the attentive stars, and tells them mundane things such as the sweet-smelling flowers he picked today, or the new drinks he brewed, or the unique seashells he collected. They always listen.

But, inevitably, there are often days that George feels so incredibly alone. 

Some nights are spent crying meteor showers to the dark skies until his eyes desiccate, swollen and puffed, in hopes that the stars are listening and spell his wishes into reality. His eyes spill liquid silver to the moon and burn gold to the sun. 

But the stars aren't always enough to keep him company.

He needs someone when the air is too thick to take in; when it is a burden to take any more breaths despite his agonized lungs begging to subsist. When he is planted to the ground, his limbs far too heavy to pick up. He wishes for someone bristling with warmth, for gentle butterflies rippling in his stomach at every thrill of their soft breath. He wishes for someone to hold him and tell him honeyed words when his mind drives him to the brink of insanity. 

But no moon, no sun, no planet, and no star replaces the vacancy of his skin left unadorned. He is left to fend for himself, but he is no creature for solitude. 

A voice next to him breaks his trance.

“George,” Dream mumbles the now-familiar name gently, finger pointed up toward the sky stirring with stars. “What constellation is that?”

They are both lying on the sand under the radiance of the moon, skin swimming in a whitish-gray. The swishes of the ocean accompanied their conversation about the stars.

“This is Orion, the constellation seen when the island gets colder, and is visible in the southwestern part,” he replies hastily, painting the human-like figure in the dark sky. His fingers move, as an artisan, swiftly framing the constellation. 

“Orion,” Dream repeats back, feeling the words unfold  on his tongue. Their pronunciation is different, and he notices that George carries hints of an English accent in his voice.

“Oh, look here,” George arches his head to the opposite side of the sky, “The moon is full tonight.”

The celestial object gleamed at them from up above, smiling, and full. 

“And how many moons have passed since I’ve been here?” Dream ponders out loud.

“78 moons,” George replies almost immediately, as he’d been silently counting each one, hoping there would only be more moons to spend together. He stops to remind himself to not raise his hopes since a mortal has finite moons.

His head shifts over to look at Dream, studying his puzzled expression. Despite the bewitching galaxies swirling above them, he thinks he can look at him forever. George finds that each time he looks at him, he notices something new. This time, he notices how his eyes swirl nebulas, green fostering the luster of every star, speckled with hazel indifferences that are accentuated when it’s dark. He notices his lips slightly part in amazement, in the brilliance of the stars.

Dream glances back in equal glory, and awe spills across his face. “You are truly brilliant, George.”

George shrugs, ignoring the pinpricks of warmth trickling into his chest. “You start to learn about the stars after living here for a while, I guess.” 

“How long exactly did you live here...” Dream trails off, not breaking his glance with the stars. 

George really doesn’t want to answer that question. 

There’s a silence held between them, but there’s something so beautiful about it. The resistance of their mouths turning to talk, fighting to speak. When the wind whistles between everything they have to say, and the air is left heavy, hugging them with solitude. They let the waves hiss over the unspoken words.

But Dream breaks the barrier of silence; he rifts against the tides. 

“You know, I think I want to be a star.” 

He loves how random, how sparse, how intriguing Dream is. He will open his mouth, and George will have no clue what story he will delight him with, or what words will trigger laughter to break any silence. 

“You want to be a star,” he echoes back, and a keen smile cannot be resisted any longer. Playfulness coils in the air, giggles rumbling the sand under them.

Their faces turn to each other, unveiling secrets in each other's gaze. “I really do want to be a star.” 

He builds up the courage to really Iook into Dream's eyes, and is met with turbulence of green, pulling him deeper into a trance. His glance falls to his lips, full and plum. He looks, and he cannot stop looking. In the spur of the moment, he finds the beauty unwinding in every crevice of his face. He must resist the urge to drive his hand onto him, and the urge is stronger than he is willing to admit.

“Why?” George lets out so softly it’s barely heard.

Then, the silence returns. 

Tension binds them still.

Their chests face the sky, their bodies close.

A hand then reaches over to George; it’s soft, graceful in the moonlight. It dances a routine modestly in the curls of his hair for a while, expelling chills to venture across his skin. Their faces are closer, and his eyes invade the details of his face.

“I’ve always been jealous of the stars,” Dream mutters, twirling his fingers in the chestnut brown locks. He tilts his head forward towards George, and full lips lean into his chest. 

The thickness of the breath is heavy on his neck. 

“I want to be a star, just to feel the burning,” Dream whispers breathily as desperacy inscribed in his tone. It’s warm, and he can feel it everywhere. In his head, in his core. 

The sun hugs him and doesn’t let go.

The sky’s weight falls onto George' chest. 

Dream's hand finds its way to the curve of his jaw, tracing the shallow bone in gold dust, embedding constellations on his skin. Dream traces, and traces, warm hands enveloping his cheek. He cradles immortality, and becomes one with it.

The world is not silent to him anymore. Stars scorch into oblivion, tides roar helplessly to the moon, and his heart pounds louder into his ears than before.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Temptation sinks into his bones, greed fleshes his skin. George aches for more. More touch.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Your hands are warm,” he manages, looking into Dream's carved eyes. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Soft laughter hungers at his lush-stained lips, and George can’t resist the urge to kiss it away. It’s sweet. It reminds him of nectar from a bee, or the sugary syrup from oak wood. 

Their heavy breaths intertwine, stirring deep in wine, and the night-sky blankets them with warmth. The newborn feelings flutter at his lungs and he’s scared to explore them. Have they drunk too much? Will they regret this with the sunrise?

Soft words murmur with precaution, confessions only the stars will hear, and will be split from their memories when they wake up with a debilitating hangover.

The night sky prevails, and their bodies hum with sleep, taking shelter in the arms of one another.

172 moons have passed. The waves have started to slow, easing their ripples against the white sanded beach. 

George notices a faintness in Dream.

Like he’s fading away.

It’s ever-so slight, but he can tell by the waning of green in his eyes and the strange airiness of his tone. His skin is pale ivory, freckles no longer bind against the bridge of his nose.

As they pick berries in a lush forest, since they are at their ripest during the spring, George raises the question.

“Are you doing alright, Dream?” He asks nonchalantly, hands digging into a bush of wrinkled, scarlet fruit. They stain skin easily, so his fingertips are often blemished with cherry afterwards.

Dream answers exactly how George expects him to: with a laugh, a chuckle, a smile, anything that seeps reassurance into George. 

“Yes, my dear. I’m doing just fine,” he pledges, expression soft and careful to be gentle. “Now, try this berry,” he insists, (shifting the conversation), picking a round, dark seed between his index and thumb and popping it into George' mouth.

His pinched face twists at the tartness, but George manages to swallow the bitter-tasting berry. “This ones no good,” he murmurs, shaking his head in pity.

“Darn it,” Dream sighs, releasing his basket with his batch of wine-coloured berries he handpicked onto the forest floor. The birds will get to it before any other creature.

“Dream,” George calls out, and the apples of his cheeks are sunken. He’s serious, Dream realizes. “Are you positive that nothing is wrong? I just have a feeling—”

“It’s solely me aging dear, whatever you think the problem is,” He dismisses, lips pressing thinly at his persistent concern. Dream wishes for George to not to be occupied with anxiety; worry lines are already carving indents above his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry for being so worried, I just don’t want you to be hurt.” His facial expression softens once more; brows furrow as the tone mellows.

The fib encloses his throat. “I know,” Dream croaks out, because that’s all he can manage. His face is buried away in a bush, avoiding the tentative eyes that are beaming lasers into his back.

“Look here. At me.” George's hand reaches out and nudges the back of his arm. 

They’re facing each other, and Dream's heart thunders in its cage. “Yes?”

George rubs his cheek like fine silk, his hands so soft it could be mistaken for a mother’s.

Dream's lips raise in a grin, even though his heart is sunken far beyond the ground. I’m not okay, the words dig at him. He embraces George in open arms with a lie bubbling in his chest, but as long as George is okay, he’ll let it simmer. 

George follows the mostly-faded scatters of freckles, light brown ovals formed from fostering the sun's warmth against his pallid skin. “Pretty,” he murmurs in awe, star struck by the constellations branding his face.

He treads carefully, watching his washed out fingers reach his tensed jaw, dropping down to lips dipped in wine-stained red. 

George stares at the full lips, and decides they’re empty.

They pull in, breathing for one.

Lips electrify, still shocking at each wonder. The warmth never prevails. Sweet but tart, berries still drip from both their lips in adornment. It’s them, only them, in the world when they are kissing. And when they pull apart, the air swifts cool, reclusive air brushes their empty faces.

The words I love you dance on Dream's lips, but a stutter stops him. George's eyes pick up. His head turns sharp, eyes concentrated on his mouth. 

Impulsivity pumps his veins, and Dream says it again, but clearly this time. 

“I love you.”

The birds suspended in the trees whistle to fill the silence.

It takes George a moment to render the three words. His breath dies in his throat, and oxygen is thieved from his lungs. The words reverberate and ricochet around in his skull endlessly, tapping at his brain. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

When George lifts his gaze to meet Dreams, his mouth runs dry. He tries to compose his disorganized thoughts into words, string them out into a sentence, trying to get a feel of them on his blistered tongue to deliver something , but he simply can’t respond. 

He also can’t avoid his daggering stare. Dream's eyes flounder in vulnerability, glossed with tears as he’s watching the poignant struggle. His face twists in disdain, frown buckling his lips and George feels so terribly bad.

“George?” His voice is low, trembling slightly. It’s the first time George heard such fear and uncertainty traced in his tone. It's so lost, when it’s usually so grounding. 

I’m sorry.

George turns on his heel.

He finds himself running.

His feet push off the dirt ground, moving one after the other, faster than he can keep up with. He ignores the twitching and spasming in his muscles, feeling as if they’ve torn to threads. The thick, humid air clings into his body tightly, causing hitching breaths.

Yells of his name are faint in the distance; he doesn’t bother to look back. Only looking forward, he sees blurs of drabbed green as he ventures into a forest dense with acacia trees.

The pounding of his heart trumps any thoughts, louder than any contemplation. 

He hates this about himself: he runs away to avoid the world, which is an act of cowardice. He shies from confrontation, afraid of facing pain vis-à-vis himself. George is scared to love, to commit, to desire. He knows nothing is permanent, and that fate spins turbulent and out of the reach of his hands. Devotion cultivates grief, so he decided long ago to never love again. Not after his mother.

He doesn’t want to go through sorrow ebbing at every pulse of his heart, but even worse, the emptiness. It hurts when he reaches out into oblivion with everything on the table and returns empty-handed; when the only thing he has are withering memories that decay with time. 

He is a coward.

The forest soil eventually recedes into fine sand, and he finds himself back on the beach, sun finally taming the world with its golden light. George' knees immediately buckle into the sand below his feet. His chest heaves with deep breaths as the wind filters through his hair. The breeze of the ocean sits nicely on his sticky skin.

It takes him a minute, or two, or ten, but he catches his breath.

George sits in solitude, knees to chest as the waves attempt to tickle at his feet. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks. The night subsequently crawls at his half-lidded eyes but his mind paces faster than the moon.

The stars start to gleam, but he cannot focus on their shine.

He thinks of the words he should have returned to Dream. It’s three words, simple, concise, and in one breath. His pores leak with shame. It courses through his blood, pumping humiliation into his chest. 

I love you. How hard was that?

Stuck in thought, he doesn’t notice the footprints that shuffle through the gritted sand approaching from behind. 

The warm body of Dream settles next to him, silent, facing the terrestrial sky. He feels like a stranger again. George hears his lenient breaths, the gulps of his throat, the grinding of his sharp teeth, and all mundane things as the stars watch over them from above.

Nobody speaks at first, uneasiness pacifying the abundant air. 

“I’m sorry,” he eventually blurts, chest aching from guilt, “I’m sorry for running away.”

 “Stop, George. I’m not here for an apology.” 

“Dream, it was stupid. I’m stupid,” he chooses to persist. He chooses to fight, mustering up the will. If he doesn’t, the remorse will gnaw at his core for eternity, his blood will spill with silver regret. He needs this.

Dream's jaw unclenches, opening for his voice to project into the sky. “Don’t. Don’t give me that. You’re not allowed to do that. ” 

It's bitter, and a panicky feeling flutters in his stomach. “Not allowed to do what ?” George questions, which he doesn’t realize is an unwitting mistake at the time.

“Don’t give me pity and guilt. I said those words, with full meaning, but it’s evident it’s too much for you. I know your answer, and I think It’s best if I leave.” His face blanks, cloaking any and all emotions.

Leave? Don’t leave. Don’t do that, his heart yells but his voice is weakened to dust.

When he peers into Dream's eyes for clarification, they are dark. The green viridans are shaded in a distant gray, and creases around his eyelids swell. Sleep crumbles in his inner corners. They are tired; he is tired.

“Dream,” George murmurs softly, fingers reaching out to writhe in his unbound hair. He ignores the lump molding in his throat, fear swallowing his voice box. “Oh, sweet Dream.”

“Please don’t do this.” Dream's voice breaks, a single tear staining a line on his lurid cheeks, pooling in the divot of his chin. He doesn’t dismiss George' hand, which continues to venture circles in his tousled mess.

George pauses, and lowers his gaze to greet his eyes. A finger swipes the soaked skin, absorbing the salted bead. His head then leans back into the den of Dream's concave chest, placed just above his beating heart. 

They both lie in the sand, shivering in each other's warmth.

“Do you want to know why I ran?” George speaks softly into his chest, breath tickling the exposed skin.

Dream thinks, and nods. 

“I don’t know how to love Dream. The thought of it terrifies me. I don’t know if I am even capable of such a thing. But you make it a little less scary, and a little more fathomable. My soul exists within yours, and I truly think you are the only good thing fate has brought to me.” 

George’ eyes flicker in study of his expression, watching if Dream's eyes reignite with the passion he didn't know he would long for.

There’s another long pause. There seems to be many of those lately.

Dream withdraws a deep exhale, one that had been building up since he arrived. “I’m sorry for not considering that earlier, and for putting you on the spot. But it was not fair of you to run, and for me to hunt you down into moonlight for an explanation.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A breeze from the ocean ruffles through their hair.

“I think… I just need time. Time to learn how to love again,” George prompts, a hope riddling in between his full words.

“We have time. And I will teach you, if that’s what it takes.” Dream's voice rumbles deep in his ear. As George lifts his head to smile, honey immediately presses against his lips; a souvenir of love. He drinks in all the drowsy sweetness, savoring every drop.

Do we have time? He thinks, but shoves that thought away.

Shooting a gummy smile when they part, George is reminded of what love feels like. It’s airiness, how it leaps in his heart and how nerves continue their path down his spine. Instances where time seems to steal seconds from them, but how they keep wishing it will last until the stars burn into twilight. He continuously falls in more ways than one, even when it’s not all easy.

It’s never easy to love, he learns, but it’s so incredibly rewarding.

204 moons have passed, and they are patient with their love. It’s subtle, trickles slowly, but passionately. It’s tender, ripe and still new. It’s fields of flowers blooming in the spring; it’s the conversations underneath the blanket of stars; it's picking berries to decide which ones are sweet and which ones to toss.

“Promise me you won’t ever run again,” Dream asks him one night before sleep crashes then both. The moon was not bright nor full, so the stars danced in their spotlight.

A soft chuckle resounds in his chest. “I won't ever run again, Dream.”

The floor of the cave is cold and slicked with rain, but the warmth of their love inundated the walls. Anywhere they lie together is polished with their adoration. The mundane things seem far past terrestrial with Dream, whether that’s simply admiring the night sky or watching the waves hiss in envy at their rapture.

“I know it’s hard to say,” Dream turns over, swimming in ivory starlight, facing George who was near the edge of the runtish bed they shared, “But I love you. And I don't need you to say it back, because I feel it.”

Dream's finger taps lightly on his chest, knocking on the door of his heart. 

George welcomes the gentle hand. He blankets it with warmth from the cold night and holds it tightly, hugging it to his chest so they could hear that the heart was pumping only for them.

Dream traces a heart on the bareness of his skin, engraving it as his own property. He traces their names, full and in triumph, George and Dream tickle in the center of his rib cage.

“Here, how about this,” Dream suggests, murmuring into his chest. His finger taps three times slowly against his caged heart. “This means I love you, three taps on the chest.”

I like that. That’s easy.

He reaches out to the thick skin of Dream's chest, but when he touches, he is deceived by its juvenility. He forgets how delicate the mortal skin is; how young and naive. His index finger finds its way to the left of his chest, (or, his right), and taps three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I love you.

Dream eyes enrapture joy as they pinch under his cheeks when he smiles. “I love you too,” he breathes before he dozes off to sleep.

George holds the hand close as a protection from his wretched dreams.

357 moons have passed, and they have progressed. He knows what pushes Dream, what spreads warm levity in his smile. He knows what feels right and what feels wrong, and he knows that Dream is imperfectly both. They know humiliation, vulnerability, weakness; they learn and they grow. 

They dance, their laughs hiccuping the sultry air, breath cloudy and trapped in between each other. They reek of fragmented alcohol and they can’t stop giggling at everything. 

The sun dips golden into the water and the skies trumpet a combination of pink and orange. The lovebirds that sit on the trees are vigilant to notice that their love cannot even compare to George and Dreams.

They don’t need music to find the rhythm pulsating in each other's skin since it’s palpitating so loud they can feel it in their ears. 

One foot is placed in front of the other, and they dance stupidly and tittering as if they had all the time left in the world to spend with eachother.

But Dream is mortal, and his flesh is peeling.

492 moons have passed, and their love is static. Weakness picks at Dream's bones a little quicker than George anticipates. He takes a little longer to respond, a little longer to kiss; George is moving too fast for Dream and the world is moving too fast for Dream and he wishes for the earth to just pause.

“Dream!” One evening he calls out softly while they stroll the shoreline.  

“George,” Dream nods his head with a giddy smile and eyes creasing at the corners, “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

A red flush saunters up to his face and it helplessly reaches his cheeks. “You’re an idiot.” George slows down, footprints stopping abruptly in the sand. “But listen to me.”  

When he looks into Dream's eyes, all he can see is the exorbitant tiredness that he wishes to ignore. It drapes over his face, and he can see Dream try his hardest to resist it. He fights, and fights, but shadows take over and he spends a lot of time in bed.

“I’m listening,” Dream hums wistfully, but he doesn’t look into his eyes any longer. George' gaze drops into intensity, digging at Dream and he knows he can feel it.

George looks for composure for what he’s about to say next, but cannot. He dreads the words, but they still fall onto his tongue. “Are you sick?”

Dream's eyes flicker back and forth, pupils quick to determine what to say. He warily doubts, opening his mouth to speak, but closing it again.

He’s scared. They’re scared.

“Dream,” his voice cracks slightly, disoriented by the dulled look of his eye. He's always said Dream's name with love curated in the sharp vowels, but this time, the three syllables leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. George feels sick.

“Dream,” he tries again, and it still feels wrong to say. The sinking feeling makes him want to crawl out of his chest and run. Frenzy starts to close in his throat, forming a lump he cannot push down for much longer.

“I love you George.” Dream sputters, trying to shake off the hard feeling, and for a moment George feels a wave of reassurance wash over his cluttered mind. 

Dream reaches out to cup his hand into George' cheek. His hands are not warm. They’re always warm. Why aren’t they warm? They should be warm. His hands are so cold. This doesn’t make any sense. Why are his hands so fucking cold—

The voice interrupts his thoughts. “I love you more than love itself, George. I want to be a star so I can admire you at night, and shine bright to your presence. I want to be a star so I can be looked at the way you look at the night sky,” his voice sways, it murmurs perfectly and exactly how George wants to hear it. “In illness or in the wealth of life, my love for you only grows, unconditionally and unleashing faster than I can speak.”

Dream knows exactly what to say and what heart strings to pull.

“Dream,” George breathes, and it’s unstable, and he can’t hold back from asking the question he needs to ask. “Are you sick?”

Of course, he meant to say: Are you going to die? Are you going to leave me? Will I be alone for eternity?

Dream looks at him longingly, (subdued greens have never looked sadder), and pulls him into a tight hug. His nails dig crescents into the blades of shoulders, and their bodies slick with the humid air clinging onto them. They can feel each other's lungs retract to take breaths, and their skin binds to each other as if they are one. They hug as if it's their last.

It hurts that Dream can’t deny his sickness and can't tell him quaint fantasies of sweet, sugar coated words and dipped lies so that they can avoid this. George is mad at the universe and the stars and the moon and sun for betraying him.

Dream doesn’t respond, but George thinks he knows the answer.

657 moons have passed, and George has learned of acceptance. It’s new, and it stings. He’s unused to being okay with everything he’s not. He doesn’t want to accept Dream's fading, but every time he looks at him, he sees the dreariness in his step and his sullen face sinking further into languor. It’s torturous treading Dream with delicacy in place of passion.

The day is cold. 

“If I leave—” Dream pauses, realizing the misplay in words, “ When I leave, I need you to make a promise.”

The stars don’t seem so bright anymore. The waves don’t excite him, nor the fullness of the moon. George feels like a stranger to the island he’s known for eternity. How can he appreciate the very earth that’s taking Dream away? How can he pray to the gods that pry away their love that’s meant to last incessantly?

George begrudgingly answers. “What kind of promise?”

“A promise to me, and for my serenity,” Dream replies. Though he’s less than a foot away, he seems dazed and far away. 

It's hard to nod, but George does, swallowing the voice that tries to claw its way out and fight for their love, and the voice that tries to resist the fate that's inscripted in his eyes. His mouth dries, tongue scratchy and arid. “Okay.”

He wonders if Dream, too, feels the burning rippling in his heart, or the nausea testing the bounds of his stomach at the mere thought of being apart. 

He aches, and aches, and aches, and wonders if Dream feels the hurt too.

“Promise me you won’t flounder in my absence, because I will not be here to save you from the depths of the water,” Dream starts.

George notices that he says absence so nonchalantly, as if he’s solely leaving for a daytrip, or to pick some berries and flowers, or to sleep for the night, and anger amasses in his chest. 

He’s leaving forever.

George tames the fire blistering at his tongue. “Okay.” He can only respond with one word without bursting. Every inch of his skin and every bone in his body want to disintegrate into the fine sand and be washed away. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. 

Can we just pretend, Dream? 

“And promise me that you will go on, and bless the skies with your grace, and beam into the sun's light for as long as it shines,” Dream continues, words passing through seemingly easily. “I need you to—“

His eyes narrow. “Stop. Please , stop.”

The daylight captures Dream's eyes. “George.”

“How am I supposed to live without you here?” He ignores the waiver of his voice accompanying his welled up eyes. 

Dream stares at him intently, jaw tense and eyes unblinking. “Can you promise me you’ll be okay when I leave?”

His head shakes, dipping in scarlet humiliation. “I cannot promise you anything of the sort, Dream. I won’t be okay; how could I possibly be okay with you gone?”

The torrent waves reach for the moon, crashing louder at every rift. The cold is uncomfortable. He misses the sun.

“We will meet one day again, and I will return to your arms and we will laugh with giddy warmth and embrace in the sun.” For the first time, he sees a fat, beaded tear meet Dream's pale cheeks.

“You promise?” He digs, knowing that Dream is in no control and that they will never meet beyond the bends of the earth; that Dream will be sent to purgatory and George will be bound to the island.

Dream smiles, weakly and softly, the moonlight cutting edge on his jaw. “I’ve never been more sure. Our souls are one, and they reach for each other infinitely. I have faith, and as should you.”

Deep breaths heave George’ chest. Reality crashes down, and he's not strong enough to put up a fight. “Okay.”

“Do you trust me?” Dream asks, breathless.

“With all my heart.”

A hand travels to cup his cheek, and their faces are warm and ripe in the humid air, like freshly peeled fruit. “Then trust me in this.” 

721 moons have passed, and Dream's bones are far too tender to hold tight anymore. He sleeps an awful lot, and the sun is starting to miss his beaming smile. It’s only momentarily that his eyes flicker with light, but they always drape into darkness again. 

The days are dreary.

They both lie in the stickiness of the low-ceilinged cave, sunlight barely seeping into the dusky nook. Dream's body rests against the make-shift bed, head delved into a scanty pillow.  Not expecting any guests, one could say his hospitality wasn’t amazing, but the cave found its own solace in its simplicity.

George finds himself waiting at the cusp of dawn, breathing in all the mortality he could from the sleeping boy. The soft snores breach into his pillow, drabbles of saliva too. George wonders what he dreams about.

He sighs a breath of relief when he sees vitality return to his face with dawn. For the past few moons, George would fall asleep with lingering doubts of Dream awakening with the sun, in fear that his soul would flee as a fugitive from its shell, the very chance it would get, and return to the god who once crafted his perfection.

“Hi,” his voice curls heat onto Dream's sluggish skin. 

The boy's eyes wake at the soft resound of his voice. Dream's hair, disordered from sleep, tilts up. “Hello,” he replies in a slumbery haze. 

George is thankful to reach out, and see beauty in it’s true tangibility, in the form of a human . The liveliness is held in his own hands, hard to fathom, and dripping at his fingertips. The set of intelligent eyes that can accompany so much emotion, and the skin that can harbor so much pain. He holds, and holds, and never wants to let go of the vitality cratering in his hands; he never wants to let go of Dream.

A hand kneads Dream's hair. “You are so young, but so sick,” George murmurs, looking at the beaded eyes that gave up on hope long ago. He sits on a bedside, head leaning onto the bed, buried in his tired arms. Exhaustion hauls itself in his body.

Dream hums in drowsy agreement, eyes fluttering in tiredness. 

They are both tired. 

Dream's petals have wilted since he no longer stands tall in the sun's presence. When George tries to drag him out to daylight, it’s near-impossible. They would take one step onto the sand, and Dream would shift and twist in discomfort and ask to go lay down. He would clutch his head and squint his eyes, trying to disguise his pain in a dubious smile; it never worked.

George scoops up the cold hands that lie sickly on his side. ”Did I do this to you? Was it I, my island, that made you so terribly sick?” 

Dream's eyes immediately lift against gravity, with strong effort, wide and rapt. “No, George, do not ever blame yourself for my illness.”

Ignoring his words, his mind spirals with thoughts he cannot chase. “I did this to you,” George repeats, standoffish and without breaking his gaze. 

“No,”  Dream swallows.

“You weren’t sick until—“

“ No, ” he reiterates, and George' mouth falls shut.

Dream shifts, sitting up on the bed with tousled hair and strained eyes. The blanket sits on his lap, swathed and stationary. “Remember when I first came onto this island?”

He nods. “Of course.” How could he forget?

“I said I came here for nectar, to heal my townspeople.” Dream swallows dryly, lips chapped and cracking in the stale air.  

They yell to George that they are parched. You haven't been drinking enough water, George tends to remind him repeatedly at supper time, but he always refuses, and insists he’s fine and that George is being dramatic.

Dream continues. “Well, I lied. It’s for me , and my sickness. I am the one that needs the nectar.”

Oh.

The air is heavy to breathe again, dead weighted and cumbersome. The ceiling caves in, and he can’t quite place if he feels anger, sadness, or relief brewing in his chest. He decides it’s a combination of all.

Realization runs to George' lips. “You have been sick this whole time.” It’s a statement, but he hopes it’s a question and he hopes the answer is no.

Dream lets out a faint yes? and it’s formed as a question. It’s inquisitive, testing the waters, as his eyes dart to observe George' reaction.

George stomach drops. 

He wants to run. 

He knew. He knew he was sick and he knew there was a cure.

George wants his feet to carry him far from this island to dismiss his memories, to exhale his ruminations with quick breaths and scatter them into the sands. Their honeyed kisses would be hidden in the trees, deep conversations lost in the tides, and secreted sonnets tucked away in the stars, leaving all of Dream stowed in pockets of the island. 

Ignorance is bliss, and he wishes that, just this once, that he can forget. 

You promised not to run. You promised him, and you cannot break that promise.

George tries to not foster the anger in his tone, but he can't help it from relishing his inflection. “Why wouldn’t— didn't you tell me? We could’ve found the nectar earlier and cured your illness?”

It was this part of Dream he did not understand. The riddle of him was left unsolved. The puzzle pieces that did not fit. Does Dream not yearn, as bad as George, to spend as much as time together before his last days lid his eyes? Does he not want to defy time, which is chasing him unbelievably fast, and outlive the consequences?

“Because I die either way; I am mortal. You are not.” Dream leans back into his bed, bitterly slashing his tongue at you are not as if it’s a personal offense.

George lowers his eyes. “How’d you figure out that I wasn’t mortal?”

“You talk an awful lot in your sleep,” a subtle smile cuts through Dream's jaded face, “You've talked about your immortality more times than I can count.”

He feels his cheeks redden. “But you could’ve told me about your sickness, still . ”

Betrayal.

Dream tilts head forward, and green eyes send daggers. His lips purse in thought for a moment, and he considers his next words. “My time is finite as a mortal, and our love would only strengthen. Do you not see the flaw? I am doing this for you.”

For me?

“I don’t care,” George blurts, impulsive and flatly, “I want to spend as much as time with you, and cherish you, no matter how wrinkled and tender your skin.”

“Don’t you see? You will only fall in a deeper love, George.” Dream is interrupted by a cough, chest rumbling and lungs clattering against one another. “And then I will die in old age, and your heart will be torn even more .”

“You are worthy of every sacrifice,” George declares sharply and he means it. 

Dream is of good omen, and George will renounce all his honor if necessary. If he was asked to slaughter an animal, he would behead a dozen more, just by Dream's word. “I do not care how much it will hurt when you are gone, because in this present moment, I am with you.”

He tightens his grip on Dream's slender hands. They’re still cold. The warm-blooded boy is gone.

“But my George,” Dream's voice climbs from the bed into his ears, and the possessive “ my ” burns when it enters, “I cannot be healed. There is no nectar on this island.”

George pulls himself off the side of the bed, standing up tall against the concave ceiling. He brushes off his tattered shirt, and he only notices now that he hasn’t washed it in days . 

“I will search to the ends of this island for healing nectar, my dear.” Determination settles his tone. 

Dream's eyes pry in despondency, unfolding with unspilled tears.

“Can you please just stay?”

And he stays.

917 moons have passed, and George feels uneasy. He doesn’t blink just in case he misses the split second where Dream's breath hitches and alters it’s soft pattern. His sleep is being thieved, his eyes yawn into the moonlight but they never close fully. Stomach churning in fear of losing Dream, he hangs in the idle cave.

Dream stopped speaking 9 moons ago, since his sickness tore weakness into his chest. Silence held them by the nape of their necks, caging their conversations and unspoken words into just a simple hello from George when they woke.

George would be lying if he said the silence wasn’t suffocating. Nights where Dream is in deep slumber, George’ cries are so loud that they reach the night sky and graze the stars. 

Another thing he never noticed was how much he misses the prose of his name. It’s a simple, one  syllable word that used to be spoken raw from Dream's lips. George: the bearer of heavens , his name was, and he only believed it if it came from Dream. His tone would drench his name in vitality, and revive George' will to exist at every utterance.

George. George. George. Say my name, he would pray silently under his breath while watching him sleep.

And when the boy did wake, once more, his mouth would be tightly shut, concealing the radiance in all the words he wants to say. Dream wants to tell George how his eyes look dreary and how he can hear the stifling sobs from the other side of the room at night.

“I heard you last night, crying to the stars about me,” his weak stare tries to tell George’ swelling eyes. “ I'm sorry that I’m not enough. That I cannot call you by your name. That I did not fight. For me. For us.”

On the twelfth moon that Dream doesn’t speak, George decides that he will search the island for nectar. He must be quick and fast-paced because he has pledged to never return to a lifeless body.

He pecks Dream a quick goodbye, brief because he knows he will come back and Dream will still be there. “I’ll be back,” he breathes, inches between their faces before turning away.

George's hands grab him in resistance, weakly but hard enough. His eyes wide, and his finger taps exactly three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

I love you,

He smiles at George, and squeezes his hand with three pulses. After a few moments, the smile pathetically falters only after a few seconds it’s held, and his eyes return to the immersive state of nothingness.

George tries to not let it sting.

It’s early when he leaves the cave. Sunny and bright, bokeh spirals in his vision as he steps out. 

Nectar, from a sweet flower. I need to find it, is all that panels his mind as he walks the treacherous miles. The thought of Dream returning to a healthy body pushes his heel each step forward.

If he finds the flower, he mustn’t deal with the ill Dream no more.

His feet travel the sands of his island, pressing through, regardless if they blister and ache. Sweat trickles past his bloodshot eyes, but he keeps going. Hours pass and the familiar convulsions beg his feet to stop walking and his eyes to stop searching. His legs are hurting, but Dream is hurting more . He is strained, everything is tense, and it hurts. It hurts to breathe, to exist, in such rigid air.

Eyes dart between flowers, hungry for what's described as a sweet liquid in the center. Every time he bends down to inspect a bud, and it’s dry, hope chips away and agitation replaces its place. Flower, after flower, after flower, and he becomes desperate to find the nectar. 

“Where are you, sweet nectar?” he cries to the flowers he has yanked in his hands, roots detached and sparse. He is careless about their death if it has the chance of bringing Dream's immortality.

He finds a shaded spot next to a tree, relief from the blistering sun (the afternoon sunshine was nice, but then it suddenly wasn’t). As soon as his legs hit the bedded floor, he feels instant relief and he hates it.

I’ll just sit for a moment, to rest my legs.

Failure glooms over his head as he sits on the freshly dewed grass. His mind bustles with thoughts that run too fast for him to keep up with. 

Intrusiveness always hides in his mind, in the darkness where he thought it no longer lingered. But sometimes, he hears the whisper tickle into his ears along with the wind, and his head is occupied with thoughts he wishes he can deny.  Failjure, failure, failure, the voice tresspasses, crossing lines he never thought to draw.

Dream is going to die and it’s all your fault.

“I’m sorry,” George thrums into the wispy greens. The wind soughs through his hair and tugs on the wetness of his eyes. Once the tears start, they don’t find their end. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out again.

You didn’t get the healing nectar, the voice tries again.

George clutches his head tightly, hoping his nails will scratch deep enough to prompt his mind back into reality, “I know, I know, I know. I fucking know.” 

He wails so loud he wonders if Dream hears it from the cave. His voice throws itself into the sky, and he hopes a god will seize his words and help him. But of course, they won’t, and he will be left alone on the island in grief of Dreams illness. He leans back onto the bed of grass. Suffocation sits on his chest, voices crackle a flame in his throat, and he feels stuck. 

Cheek pressed against the wetness of the grass, he catches a small ant crawling onto his finger. It ventures from the tip of his skin to the bed of his nail. 

“Hey buddy,” George cooes, squinting at his fingertips, exploring the ants composition. He forgot what other life felt like except for Dream. The liveliness of the trees, plants, the flowers, and this ant .

The six legged creature travels further down his arm, lagging through the faint fuzziness of his hair. “Woah, calm down,” he smiles warmly, cracking the dried tears that settled on his cheeks.

He gently scoops it up in his hand, inspecting its reddish skin. It doesn’t resist his grip. “I like you.”

They sit together in the fading sun, and he watches and watches how the ant simply exists with no struggle. Part of him wants to go back to Dream, but he finds himself guilty for wanting an escape of fresh air where illness doesn’t afflict in every breath he inhales.

Eyes fluttering in tiredness, he places the ant onto his left in the tall blades of grass. “Go, be free.”

The ant twists in resistance, climbing back onto his body. His chest rumbles with soft laughter, but it still doesn’t scare off the ant. “Wow, don’t you love me,” he giggles dryly, dehydration scraping at his throat. 

It’s hard to keep his eyes open any longer, and now, there’s only a faint buzzing in his head telling him to run back to the cave to Dream and burden him with the news that he couldn't find the healing nectar, and that all hope is officially diminished for his survival.

He should go back.

What if Dream's sickness took over? What if he is no longer there when I wake?

A pit craters his stomach at the thought of going back to a lifeless body.

“I'm sorry,” is all he can muster to the scattered stars as his head sinks into the grass below him, cozy with sleep. Tickles of the ants' feet dance on his arms as the night folds over his shut lids.

When he dreams, this time, in a long time, it’s not a nightmare. It’s bright, faint, and smiley. He sees Dream and he sees him happy and alive and warm. So warm. George is unused to smiling, cheeks held so high in the air they can almost touch the sun.

It’s fuzzy, but he likes it. He likes how Dream and him touch and feel and smile endlessly, and that time is a foreign concept with them.

“ Dream ,” he whispers in the made-up reality, almost knowing it’s too good to be true, “ I love you. ”

But when he wakes up, reality settles his unheeding mind and his feet set off. The dream wasn’t real. He feels the mundane ache of being miserable after a dream, wishing it were true.

918 moons have passed, and the guilt has never felt any worse for George. As soon as the morning greets his vision, he’s reminded that he left Dream alone for an entire moon.

He looks down, the ant is gone.

Why would it still be here? he retorts to his slight disappointment.

It's still early, and he can hear the cuts of the waves hitting the shore. 

He doesn’t know how, but he finds his way back to the cave. He follows the footsteps, shallow and faint from yesterday. He realizes that every bone aches and every muscle feels torn, but he still walks for Dream.

He knows that time does not wait for him and that it still passes even when he can’t run fast enough to keep up with it.

There’s always a meaning behind every footprint, and his meaning is only Dream.

I will reach in time, I must.

He reaches the arched cave, and with all his last strength, runs into the darkened rock. 

“Dream?” he breathlessly calls out, knowing that the response will only be silent. His footsteps are slow, carefully placed.

The cave seems smaller, and more tight. Resistance swirls in the heavy air and roughens at his lungs. He gulps a dry swallow, feeling the nerves puncture his skin.

George sees the boy lying peacefully on the lumpy mattress. 

“Dream,” he murmurs, almost tearing up in relief. He kneels far too quickly onto the hard floor, forgetting how jagged the rocky ground is. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t find the healing nectar,” he laughs wetly, stupidly into Dreams chest. It’s real laughter, and it echoes slightly. “I.. didn’t have a nightmare for the first time in forever last night.”

He wants to tell him how, in his dream, they swayed in utopian melodies and sung along carelessly in their flat tones, and how it felt like normal— or whatever normal was before illness bore Dream. He wants to finally tell him all of the missed I love you’s, except they won't be secreted in captive eyes or honeyed lips.

He adjusts himself, bringing his mouth closer to the close lidded boy. “I love you,” he mutters slowly, for the very first time, inches away from his ears. An exhale of relief follows, and an eternity of accrued thoughts and confessions seemed to flow out of his lips. 

When Dream doesn’t even flinch at his words, his heart staggers. He tries again, hoping that the sickness didn’t thief his hearing, muting it from any noise. “Dream, I love you.” Desperacy whines his tone a little more than before.

There’s a feeling: a feeling before something bad is going to happen, a gut feeling, that crashes over him. 

“Dream?”

George forces his shaky hand, and carefully places it on the right— no , on the left side of Dream's chest: the key to the caged heart. George listens, head onto his chest, intently for a thump. He waits patiently for the reassuring throbs to meet his fingertips, and for Dream to wake and hug him and tell him everything would be alright and—

Nothing. 

No thumps.

He checks again, and keeps checking until it aligns in his brain. Leaning forward, he puts an ear against his mouth to listen for any breaths.

Silence.

He wants to run.

He wants to close his eyes and let his imagination paint all the blurred lines. He wants to sketch a feigned reality that is anything but this. It is only when he closes his eyes that can cognize the days of Eden where they will be saturated in the serenity of the afterlife, embraced in amity with no interruptions.

But he observes, as he has his whole life. He sits in the backseat of the moving pictures of his own life, analyzing as if it's a movie and the end credit scene is rolling, and he’s left to process its entirety.

So, George didn’t know whether he should scream. Or cry. Or shout. Nobody has schooled him on what reaction is expected of voidance. Because what does one do when their love sits in cold flesh in front of them? 

He wonders if it is deserved. Is pain simply just karma concealed in tormention, clenching the foolish heart and exploiting its vulnerability? He laid his heart out to the Dream, in full perception of the consequence that his days are short, and yet he is eclipsed by its pain. 

It is simply a force of nature, to which sacrifice is paid in full, and now he pays an endless price.

He would love a thousand times more, because Dream made him feel like he reigned in glory of the world, conquering and heroic of each action. Cloud 9 was insignificant compared to how he fled beyond the stars with him. 

He knows his younger self would gape in shock at what he’s become, but in reality, he’s only become what he's sought to be his entire life: to be loved.  

Now, he can rest in satisfaction of knowing his triumph.

George’s fingers dig deeper into Dreams chest, reaching in for his heart and hoping to pull at its strings and play melodies of a violin or guitar to fill the emptiness that rings his ears. He does not take note of when the tears start to spill, but he knows the ocean is no match for how much water he leaks. 

Dream has taught him to cry, to laugh, and how to fiddle with the emotions he didn’t even know could be harbored. He has taught him how to harness the flesh he was given, and to unveil the half-human side that he casted away for so long.

George holds him, because it’s all he can do in return.

Dream's lids are gently shut, hiding their verdant swirls and liveliness, hollowed out with dips creasing his under-eyes. They say that eyes are the window to the soul, so what does George have when his eyes are tendered shut and concealed and gray? What can he grasp, if anything, when everything he has known to love is sealed away?

The boy's lips are slightly parted, and his skin the palest he’s ever seen. George traces the beauty, traveling from the framed eyes to the slightly upturned nose.

His finger leads down to his chest again. His finger taps three times, pauses, and taps three times again. I love you.

I love you is whispered so many times that his voice cracks like broken ice, until it reaches limbo and only continues into non-existence. The words go no further than the purse of his lips. Speaking to empty skin is only a shout into the void.

It is one last time that George presses his lips against the cold skin, pretending that there is still the same inferno he felt when they first shared honey. All he can taste is the salted tears that bore from his own eyes, drenching his already-soaked face.

At first, the guilt feels overbearing. Part of—no, all of him feels responsible: for not telling him he loved him, for not getting him healing nectar, for leaving him alone last night, for not being here for his last breaths. The line of events so conveniently led to this. 

George does not leave his dent in the mattress, curled up against the cold hands and immobile chest.

He doesn’t have the strength to pry away from his side. How can he throw away all the moons and endless nights of talking to oblivion? It feels like he has only just blinked, and the earth has crumbled and slipped through the gaps of his fingers. 

His hands are still so tightly wrapped around the insensible shell, hoping he can squeeze the vitality back into him. He can’t let go, not quite yet. He will cradle warmth into Dream's skin for eternity if that’s what it takes to feel one last shiver of a breath thrill his skin.

“I’m sorry.” It’s left in a whisper, hazed and empty.

Then, as the hours lead on and the sunlight retracts, his eyes start to feel heavy. They’re swollen and puffed, especially at the corners, and it hurts to blink or to retain any light.

The night prevails, even if he wishes not.

It was the first moon he had felt so alone in many moons.

919 moons have passed, and death is only an arms length away from George. It dances, alluringly, throwing itself at him, and he encompasses it with open arms and torn intuition. It whispers at him to join, to meet Dream in the sunless underworld. 

Although death speaks his name in a quaint fantasy where life will be easy among the dead, he resists. 

If Dream has taught him to live, he can only fury his love by living.

When he wakes up, the world is quiet. The birds don’t pipe their melodies in the sky, the ocean is tamed and careful not to intrude the mourning, and Dream's eyes are still shut. Only George occupies the world, because even though life seems stilled, he can feel the sorrowed throbs of his heart pulsating. This is a new meaning of desolation for him.

George is unused to the silence: the vacancy of soft snores droning into his ears and keeping him sane. The faint murmurs of words Dream would mutter deep in his sleep. Or maybe, how he would shift around, sometimes fluttering his feet. Mundane in its pure form cataracts beauty and angelic melodies, forever adored by him. 

Before he met Dream, he thought he was a fan of silence, but it only became a painstakingly loud reminder of his solitude. 

There’s a certain life that is brought to his atmosphere by mortals, and he finds that as they leave, the air dies out with them to become bleak triviality. There’s no more swimmy laughter that makes him feel like he’s finally not drowning; their smiles, an inhale of untethered air.

Instead, he only has the stagnant sun, which is bitterly bright, weighing heavy on his eyelids. He’s still nestled into Dream's arms, bundled in defiance, but he decides it should be soon that Dream will be buried since his skin was progressing to a pale green. 

Getting out of bed will probably be the hardest thing he’s done in a while. 

He thinks. First, he must stretch out of Dream's reach, recalling that he will no longer wake Dream and watch him twist in the synthetic mornings with hair in disarray and sleepiness crumbling at his inner corners. Rise and shine, he would shrill to Dream as soon as the sun made its appearance.

He must plant his feet and take each step on this island alone. 

He must meet the sun in its rawness, and let it nip at his vulnerable skin. 

Each footprint trudges into an island that still feels unknown. 

But this time, when he walks, his eyes will trace what Dream has opened up for him to find. The world accompanies a different hue, brighter and bluer.

1321 moons have passed. 

He walks upon his gardens, tamed and tendered by his soft hands, each sprout delicately attended to.

George's head tilts to his left, on the ground, where the varicolored flowers elevate in the sunlight, beaming warm smiles at him, and he can’t help the fuddled laugh that stifles at his croaked throat. Spring now brings enthralling beauty that he never once noticed to cater his attention to, but now, he's drowning in their reveries. 

Then, his gaze shifts to the ancient trees that sway in the wind's melody, tall and youthful. Their carved oak retains centuries of stories engraved in their cut lines, traced in worldly stories and routines. He wonders what they have lived to see, and if they can ever hearken back to their stories one day as he lies upon their branches.

But for now, he settles on the bed of grass next to a young cherry tree of deep reds, tart sweetness swirling the air invitingly. His back leans gently against the rugged tree, and it hugs him tight. 

Inclining his head towards the sky, he notices the white dapples which frame the blue sky. He thinks of times when Dream and him would lay on the grass and how he would inspect each figure, trying to refine it to something he could recognize, whether it was a boat, or an animal, or a flower; George would always give him a half-suppressed laugh.

Now, he stares at the white and gray hues, and can only think of them as faint images of birds, or plants. He smiles.

A tickle of his hand interrupts his trance, and he tapers his head down to his wrist. A small, astir ant has climbed onto his hand once again. A gasp of delight exhales into the air, and his smile slices deeper into his cheeks.

George raises his hand to inspect the creature. “You’re back,” he scrutinizes in a deep expression. The ant continues its path up his arm.

Memories flush his mind, and with each step the ant takes, he’s reminded of each utterance of Dreams words woven so tread fully into his ears, and with each step also reminded him of the flickered warmth of his gaze. 

One does not know what it is to miss until it’s tangibility falters into nothing, and when they no longer have a hand to hold when their nightmares prevail. 

And eventually, there are moments when grief leaves its abode in your heart, temporarily, in fleeting moments, just as a fresh breath of air.

But once it returns, it settles deeper than before.

He watches the ant again as the wind whistles resonant melodies, brushing through his hair and wiping his singled tears.

George observes its determination, its motivation. The ant moves inquisitively, with preciseness yet with duty. It's sure of its steps, even if its unknown of what's to come because it will tackle each hurdle in its path and resist its barricades. 

The ant has trust in itself, and trust in the universe. The ant will not mourn into oblivion and sink helplessly into the grass or the sand, waiting for hands to reach out to him.

“Maybe it will be alright,” he whispers faintly, and the laborious ant, after a stiff decision, slumps onto the left of his chest, atop of his weary heart.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

My heart still beats for you, and only for you. For us.

And the story of George and Dream becomes nothing more but a faint memory, embedded only in the seas, secreted in his heart, but adorned dearly.