The brass handle beneath Dream's fingertips is cool to the touch, gently leaving his hand as the door glides shut. The walls of the spare room shift in the edges of his vision. When he presses the back of his knuckles against the paint, shimmering ripples spread and bounce from corner to corner.
He tilts his head slowly to study it. Why did I come in here, again?
"It's cleaner than I expected," a voice emits from the other side of the room.
Dream takes a blind step towards the sound, and his toes connect with a dark, black suitcase lying on the white carpet.
"Well yeah, I'm not a bad host," he finds himself replying, words falling from his mouth without intention.
There's a familiar, gentle laugh. "I'll be the judge of that."
Dream looks up. "Come on, George. Have more faith in me."
George sits on the bed, bending down to untie his shoes. The fabric on the comforter beneath him is a trap of dappled stars and purple skydust.
"Did you vacuum before I got here?" George asks.
Dream's lips part to reply, but he's suddenly grasping empty into a dark void where memories escape him. Time folds absently behind his eyelids.
He stares at George. "When did you get here?"
"Hm?" George slips off his sneakers. "I flew in earlier."
Dream carefully steps over the suitcase, moving closer. "You did?"
George peers up at him. His hair is clean and dark, fine bristles so soft Dream wonders if it'd feel like feathers under his touch. The long sleeves pushed up to his forearms expose his pale wrists. In his lap, balancing lightly against his thigh, is a hunting knife braided with leather and iron.
"You didn't," Dream answers himself softly. He sinks to sit next to George, watching as the knife is tossed to the floor. "This...isn't real, is it?"
George's motions still for a moment, and he turns to face Dream with hesitance.
"It is if you want it to be," George says quietly.
Dream glances away, and carefully watches the subtly liquifying wall before them. He isn't sure what is paralyzing his limbs—the gap between where they're seated on the bed, his own inclining heart rate, or how he can barely stand to see George's eyes without crumbling.
"I don't think that's how it works," Dream mutters.
"What do you mean?"
A wry smile works its way onto his face. "I've wanted plenty of things that aren't real, in the past."
George rests a hand comfortingly on Dream's shoulder. "What about now?"
The touch trickles warmth through his t-shirt, spreading across his skin. "Oh, I've never wanted something like you."
"Something like me, huh?" George says, and Dream knows by the inflection of his voice that he's grinning.
"Yeah, you're smug," he teases lightly, hand reaching up to hold George's fingers, "and sneaky."
George squeezes Dream's palm in amusement. "How am I sneaky?"
Dream finally lifts his eyes to meet George, breath shallowing as he falls into the intimidating brown darkness. The edges of the room fade into absent blur. He can feel his heart beating in the walls.
"No matter what I do," Dream says, "you find me here."
George doesn't blink. His voice is slow, and thoughtful, "because you reach for me."
