Spellcatcher - Dreamnotfound

Stupid

George isn't a stupid person.

He's smart, and prides himself on how well he works under pressure. He doesn't get flustered easily, and it's one of the reasons why he gets out of trouble so much. 

So why is it that when Dream lets his lips rest on George's knuckles tenderly, the Magic's stomach flips in a strangely pleasant way, heat warming his neck and cheeks?

It's a common courtesy— Or, was— Back when promises weren't quite myths and war was of only history books. Promises were important then, and so were kisses. 

Symbolism, in a way, for a tie that can never be broken.

And yet still, George finds his breath hitching, ragged, as the warmth of Dream's lips drags carefully across his knuckles, sealing the promise. 

It's delicate, gentle, and George knows he can pull away at any time. And his brain thinks he should, because this is probably weird— No, it's definitely weird— But yet he can't. He can't, and he wants to, but,

But he doesn't. He doesn't want to.

And, oh, is that really George's heartbeat, rapidly thumping in his chest?

George can feel his core fizzle in his chest, but in a strange, pleasantly soft way. A gentler blue, delicate and just barely visible appears as Dream slowly pulls away. His hands continue to hold George's cautiously.

He's cold. 

George blinks a bit, but throws all caution to the wind— And before he can psyche himself out of it, he's sent a sweet, warm, invisible magic into Dream's palm.

The blonde blinks in surprise as a very light, fuzzy feeling warms his skin, his heart, his lips that had just brushed over George's knuckles. He flushes almost instantaneously as the bitter chill is gently nudged away from his body.

George thinks that his fatigue is more than worth it for the soft look in Dream's green gaze, more than worth it for the way Dream crowds him into his arms as drowsiness takes over his thoughts, more than worth it for Dream, Dream, Dream. 

And it hits him, all at once, finally, as his heart swells and his eyes flutter shut.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

✾☾✾

"So I have an idea." Dream piped up early in the morning one day. 

"Oh no." George says without a second thought, not looking up from where he was cleaning Dream's arm. There was a nasty cut there, because someone decided it would be a good idea to go into the forest, like an idiot— And George made sure to let Dream know that.

He'd wondered if things would be awkward after the incident about a week ago, but Dream made it simple, not bothering to mention it.

It was okay, and George found that even after his realization, things were going about as smoothly as they could get.

"I was thinking," Dream begins again, ignoring George's snort and grumble of 'That's a first.' "About the Wilbur thing."

Now that catches George's attention, his eyes snapping up in curiosity. Dream hisses in pain as he grazes the yet to be scabbed slice on his arm. 

George mumbles out a soft, delicate sorry, quickly redoing the healing charm. He was getting stronger again, which made it easier to tend to the annoyingly frequent times Dream would return to camp with slightly bloody scratches or bruises.

And not just annoyingly frequent.

Weirdly frequent.

They were always clean cuts, most often where they were difficult to spot. Usually, George found himself needing to search for them.