Helium (by Tbhyourelame on AO3) -- George's POV [FANMADE]

Stoicism

George's camera roll was vibrant.

A quaint smile quirked at the corners of his lips as his vision glossed over the series of photos entrapped in the glass of his laptop screen like compact worlds. Small, angled outlines mimicking the netted collage had begun to burn in his vision like lasers from the considerable time he had spent ogling and tweaking his work, but otherwise, he felt comfortable and cool. In his burrow he had made of the bed Dream had lent him, the pale sheets were soft and clean, and the t-shirt he had newly changed into was comfortable against his skin. Generally, George felt content.

Content--minus the unforgettable memory of Dream's warm hand trapped between his palms. 

Despite how two hours had passed since the aching contact was made, the sensation of it was still engrained deeply into his mind and accompanied by occasional visions of blurred lights, endless roads, palm trees, and dark skies. The lingering thought of Dream's skin, alive and hot, had become a lasting bruise of sorts on his clammy, translucent palms--irrevocable, persistent, and emotionally smarting.

It was especially taunting to him now as he mulled over the fragments of the day that he had captured through his lens. The itch of the ghost of Dream's touch had made it seem like despite the vibrancy of the photos, something was still missing in each of them.

Whatever's missing has absolutely nothing to do with being colour blind, and I know this, the voice of reason in the back of his mind piped up, but he promptly shoved it away, as per usual, refusing to let any sentimental irrationality sway his mechanical judgement. Even while alone, nothing could break George's stoicism.

Nothing should break his stoicism.

He released a quiet exhale from his nose, praying that his indecent sense of longing would dissipate into the air with it, and promptly enlarged the superstar image of the day: the one of Dream with the finagled balloon weighed before his face.

His eyes were instantly drawn to Dream's angular grasp, sturdy yet delicate as his fingers clutched the gossamer ribbon, and as he absorbed the sight, he couldn't help but perceive the same fire from the car ride spindling up his arms again and melting every one of his cells.

Semi-consciously, demands and wants kept flowing into him as his stare pressed into the snapshot and the fire ravaged his forearms. He wished he had taken more photos of Dream. He suddenly craved every angle of him, every lighting, every dimple, every fiber of the irises of his eyes.

And with his augmented daydreaming, another familiar desire returned.

Just one message, one signal. Again, George wanted to send a signal, something to let Dream know that he was still thinking of him despite their abrasions from the day, still cared, still desperately wanted to be closely knit like their hands had been in the car ride home that day.

Holding his breath, he typed, The photo turned out alright, and then let out a satisfied sigh. It was a simple statement--nothing too expressive. It held nothing feeling, nothing that was unnecessarily raw or real. It was just courtesy, letting Dream know that his editing from the hour had done his image due justice.

But looking at the impromptu message and reviewing the impulse that had yielded it, another inevitable pang of rational guilt struck him. His fingers fell limp, letting the phone tumble to the comforter, then curled tightly into his palms. He tore his eyes away from his unfinished text, forever unfinished. 

There should be no signals, and there should be no messages. Signals, after all, would only lead to replying movements from Dream, and such movements were fatal to George's composure.