Waltzes and Waterfalls

Chapter 5

Though his consciousness wasn't fully lost, George didn't register much from the moment his eyes closed. He could make out strands of half-formed sights and words, of sunsets and birdsong and excitable chatter but the context was lost through his cotton-stuffed brain and sleep-blurred eyes, and he could have sworn that he felt the soft press of lips on his temple once he'd been laid on the bed like an oversized rag doll.

It could have very well have been a dream, yet still, the feeling lingered, the ghost of soft lips haunting his skin as though they were actually there.

George wasn't sure if he even wanted to know if it was real, he thought as he finally let himself fall into the grasps of proper sleep

*

When George awoke, the room was still shadowed in the shrouds of darkness-he could barely make out anything more than outlines of furniture, of curtains dancing in the gentle breeze, of Dream's face, which did not hold the same statuesque quality that it usually did while he was resting. Normally, Dream looked sculpted from marble; his face peaceful and content, his body unmoving, aside from the periodic rise and fall of the duvet covering his chest. Now, his eyebrows were shifting, nose sniffling, his cheeks-god-his cheeks reflected the moonbeams escaping through the uncovered slivers of window.

His cheeks were wet with tears.

"Dream?" George whispered tentatively. He didn't so much as twitch in response. "Dream?" George repeated a little louder, attempting to camouflage the concern in his voice so as to not cause any panic, shuffling over to the right side of the bed-Dream's side of the bed. "Dream, wake up."

But still, Dream seemed just as immersed in whatever nightmare that was bothering him as he was when he woke, and the tears staining his perfect cheeks with liquid silver were breaking George's heart a little.

Hesitantly, George reached out, running his hand up and down Dream's freckled bicep in what he hoped was a soothing manner, repeating Dream's name in the softest tone that he could muster until salt-encrusted eyelashes forced their way open, blinking away the tears that had pooled.

"George?" Dream croaked, sniffing loudly.

The tears didn't stop falling.

"I think you were having a nightmare or something," George said, low and gentle, reaching out and waving his arm blindly in the direction of his bedside table for the box of tissues that he kept there. When his hand met flimsy cardboard, he placed it on the pillow, just an inch from Dream's face.

"Oh fuck, did I wake you up?" Dream asked bashfully, before blowing his nose and turning over to face away from George, much to his dismay.

"Yeah but-but it's fine, I don't mind. I'd rather..." he paused, contemplating whether to continue or not before throwing caution to the wind. Fuck it. He can comfort his friend. "I'd rather be awake to make you feel better."

Honestly, the lack of Dream spinning his last few words into a sexual joke of some kind was far more jarring than whatever god-awful joke he should have made.

"You can go back to sleep," Dream sniffled, "it's fine. I'm fine."

"No, you're not." George responded bluntly, but not without a hint of amusement at Dream's stupid selfishness.

Dream didn't bother to argue with him.

George ran his hand up Dream's back, which was currently facing him, before resting it on his shoulder, gently pulling in an attempt to coerce Dream to roll over and face him. "Do you want to talk about it?"