Chapter Text
White light spills over Dream's terrified features in flashes. His fingers scroll, his eyes flicker, the muscles in his throat and jaw scream with firing tension.
The text went through.
I had another dream where I got to see you, it starts, and Dream lets the horror course through his blood and sting his nerves with helpless shame.
It was an accident. He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to.
His vision grays as the emboldened confession from his darkest hours rattles in his shaking grip. His breath is quick, and shallow, and labored.
Why the fuck did I do that?
His taut hands shuts off his phone with a mockingly gentle click.
He cowers into himself, fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders, knees pulled towards his chest. The tendons in his forearms and knuckles are stiff with raw adrenaline and shock.
His wide-eyes tear into the darkness.
The flat surface of his phone refuses to bend where it's pressed against the curve of his muscle, no matter how tightly he wills it to break. Small crescents deepen where his nails curl into skin.
Notifications remain silent. The screen remains black. Seconds pass, and pass, and the air disappears from his lungs.
His pulse drums with no pause between beats.
He remembers cradling his sister to his chest, just like this, all those years ago, when she'd realized they'd never return to touch the dark-watered sand—his arms over her small frame, locked in his care, letting her tears burn his then thin forearms.
He feels young again. It claws up his throat, scouring his insides. His hands are cold and he may have just lost someone for the second time.
This could be it.
His language, his fury, his disgusting pining all dumped into George's hands without warning.
This could be it.
Blindly, he rips his phone from his shoulder and dials a number.
The call rings, and rings, then disconnects.
A choked noise escapes his throat.
He calls again.
"Hmph, hello?" The sound slurs through the phone line with half-awake drowsiness.
Relief and terror flood in him.
"Help," Dream says hoarsely, "help me."
Sapnap's voice becomes alert in seconds. "Dream?"
"I fucked up," he rasps.
Nightmares. You're haunting me. Reaching. Stupid, pretty face. Would you lie? Would you lie?
"Wha—dude, what time is it—"
"I don't know what to do," he raves hurriedly, "I don't know what I'm gonna do. I can't—I can't— "
"Where are you?" Sapnap interrupts sharply, "are you safe?"
Dream's rapid breathing collects clouds of pain in his chest, the sound of Sapnap's words rushing him back to the cigarette-beach and hot car and muddled horizon.
"Answer me," Sapnap says.
"Bed," Dream forces out, eyes squeezing shut, "I'm in bed."
"Okay, good. That's good."
