The grip Dream has locked into his dirty blonde hair is barbaric enough to rip out the roots. Sweat stains drench his collar and lower back, turning his grey shirt a dark black. His chest heaves uneasily. The harsh morning light tears through the blinds with the promise of returning the temperature from yesterday. Sitting up in bed, elbows on his knees, he stares hollow-eyed at the opposite wall.
What the fuck was that dream?
He isn't sure how long he's been petrified into this state; the thought of George's lips and his smile and his sounds overwhelmingly on loop. The fury of panic and confusion flash behind his eyes nearly all at once. What was George doing in his nightmare? Why did it make him feel so safe, and warm, and wanted? Why, good god, did he kiss him? He can feel the liberation still coursing through his blood, heart pounding, skin tingling where George's hands had been. The heat trickles down his back. He hadn't experienced a dream of that caliber in a very long time. To be touched, and kissed; to feel the deep embrace of lust that leaves a firm afterthought in his boxers. Yet guilt undermines the euphoria he feels. His teasing with George is fun, and lighthearted—but having an erotic fantasy with his subconscious projection of his best friend is crossing a line.
He slowly lets go of his taut hair. The glaring sunlight lays slices of heat across his shoulders, and he can hear faint chirps of birds outside his window. A small nest had been forming for the past week in the nearby rain gutter. He'd caught glimpses of them before; blue-feathered and spry creatures. Sapnap had teased him when he learned Dream spent several hours researching their species: the purple martin. Normally, the birds started fussing early in the morning.
He checks the time, 8:05am.
"Disgusting," he says.
He looks at the towel hanging on the back of his door, and sighs. A cold shower could refresh his muddled brain and rinse off the thin layer of sweat.
Once in the bathroom, he reluctantly opens his phone. His text chain with George is still waiting patiently on the screen. Maybe that's why he showed up, Dream bargains, the last person I thought of before going to sleep. His thumb hovers over the song recommendation for a moment, then presses play before he steps into the shower.
Streams of icy water race down his chest, shocking his skin. His ribs tense and he resists the urge to shiver. He thinks of his mask lying in the cold sand; he thinks of George's breath on his face. He deserves a miserable shower or two. He attempts to relax into the water as it slowly becomes a refreshing wash. The soft soap lifts the feeling of grime that had settled on his body, his stink finally down the drain. A breath of contentment escapes him. He's grateful to have cold water in the absence of a working air conditioner. Maybe the weather behaved like a fever dream, giving him outlandish thoughts that now fade away with each scrub. Clean hair, clean pits, clean mind. Right? The muffled music begins to grow louder from beyond the clear curtain.
Road shimmer, wiggling the vision, heat heat waves, I'm swimming in a mirror...
He closes his eyes.
Sometimes, all I think about is you
Late nights in the middle of June
Heat waves been faking me out
Can't make you happier now
His eyes fly open. The lyrics crawl into his chest, bass line tangling with his heartbeat. Warmth floods his face despite the goosebumps on his skin.
I just want to know what you're dreaming of, when you sleep and smile so comfortable...
His trembling hand reaches for the shower knob.
