Inception {Dreamnotfound}

36 | Darkness | 36

-George's POV-

I force myself to turn away from Karl, take Tommy's band far out of Tubbo's view and keep it in my pocket, unable to put it on just yet.

Clay's eyes follow every awkward action, unable to meet my gaze. He twirls his mask by the strap nervously, sometimes using it to cover his face for a few seconds at a time.

There's something strange about the way that each time he pulls it away, his eyes are a little bit redder.

Everyone else seems too occupied with something to notice, Karl still focused on the boy wrapped tightly in his arms. Thankfully, they're a little quieter than before, overflowing sobs gradually dulling to muted sniffling. But Karl looks a lot paler, complexion nearing almost ghostly as hollow eyes stare into nothingness.

Sapnap looks out of place, hand hovering just above Karl's shoulder as he debates what exactly to do. I think he's realised the full impact of his earlier words by now, and is too scared to act as a result. His eyes drift back to Clay every so often, and the blonde holding his mask up to hide that side of his face specifically suddenly makes a lot more sense.

I call my boyfriend's name in his direction, cringing at the shy way his gaze drops to the floor. He moves the familiar mask to block my view of his face this time, and I can't help dwelling on how ironic that cracked smile feels now. Foreboding from the very beginning, I suppose, thinking back to how stupid I thought it was initially that an assassin's mask would be decorated with such a thing.

Cautiously, I approach the assassin in question, making sure that at least part of me is still visible to him from under that mask so as not to startle him. I catch occasional glimpses of his face when his hand shakes more violently, failing to steadily cover all of it. As if by habit, his bottom lip is drawn beneath his teeth, clamped down so hard the skin beneath is already bruised.

"Hey, Clay..." I rest a gentle hand on his shoulder, hating the way I can feel him shudder beneath it. "I'm still here," I tell him, reaching for his spare hands and tangling our fingers together tightly. My only response is a shaky nod, so uncertain it feels painfully uncharacteristic for him.

His hand clasps mine tightly, digging red outlines of crescent moons into my palm. The stinging burns a bit more that I'm used to, and strangely, other things have the same effect currently. Everything seems a little brighter than usual, more integrated and real and there.

Life seems fuller when you're on the edge of losing it, the usually unnoticeable sounds of the forest feeling louder all of a sudden. Everything looks more alive, tiny flowers filled with colours I'll never see properly, but believe are stunning, nonetheless. It's lighter now, when every breath of fresh air feels more like a privilege and less like a necessity.

"I'm still here," I tell him again, just so it'll sink in.

Words can't seem to do anything to comfort him this time, so I loosely drape my arms around his waist, waiting patiently until he moves the mask on his own. When that doesn't happen I tighten my hold, standing on tiptoes just to bury my face into his shoulder. He smells of the forest, of pine trees and vanilla and home, of a world I don't want to let go of.

Distantly, I hear something hit the floor beside us, but I can't seem to care what it was when he's finally returning my hug. A quivering hand cups my jaw, thumb ghosting the scar there before tilting my head up. He gently pulls my goggles away from my eyes, taking a few seconds to stare at the newly coloured one before nestling the goggles in his hair.

I take the opportunity to stretch a little further, guide his gaze back to me when I pull him into a kiss. The awkward angle makes it only brief, a tear hitting my lips as sniffles echo around me. I pull back to brush them away, but soon there's too many, trailing glistening lines down his freckled cheeks.