Missed Chances || Dreamnotfound

3

One morning, a few days later, George wakes up early after a night of restless sleep. He hasn't seen Dream since the night in the hall, and for that, he's glad.

He wanders aimlessly around the castle. Vague memories and vivid memories alike run through his head. George remembers racing Dream through halls. He remembers shattering vases as they turned corners.

There, in the corner, is a blood stain on the wall. It's hidden poorly with a plant. George stabbed Dream with a kitchen knife there once. He relished in the way Dream screamed at him.

He chuckles at the memory and continues down the halls. Eventually, he makes his way to the training field, where he stands on the outskirts.

Silently, he watches Takenshire's finest soldiers train. Archery, sword work, physical combat, and more all take place on this field. George walks down the edge of the field and reaches the place where supplies are placed.

Tracing a finger over the handle of a sword, George senses more than he hears Dream's presence behind him. He turns around to find Dream several paces away, bow in hand.

The bow isn't nocked, and Dream releases the string, making a pew sound. He comments, "Boom, you're dead."

George crosses his arms, replying, "You wish you could kill me."

Dream strides forward, hanging the bow on a rack. Metal training armor clings to his figure, outlining his physique. "Oh, I definitely could," Dream says with a low laugh.

George doesn't remember the last time he saw Dream in armor. Seven years, he supposes. If Dream were to kill him, things would never be the same thing between their families. No one wants war. War is the only thing preventing Dream from killing him.

"What are you doing here?" Dream asks over his shoulder, gesturing around them.

"I was bored," George responds nonchalantly.

Dream laughs dryly. "You were never one for a sword."

George holds back his snarky reply, frowning. He recalls, "You were never particularly skilled with a sword either."

Dream turns around, grinning wolfishly. "That was seven years ago, princess. Things have changed."

George stiffens and he narrows his eyes. Unwilling to let the jab bother him, he replies sarcastically, "Let me guess, you finally learned how to spin a sword."

Dream's grin grows. "That and so much more."

Narrowing his eyes further, George grabs the sword behind him and tosses it at Dream, who catches it with ease. Deftly, Dream spins the sword in his hand. He glances at George to make sure he's watching before his movements increase in speed.

Soon, the sword moves fluidly through the air, slicing imaginary foes. Dream's skilled, George has to admit it. His talents have increased tenfold. George doesn't let his expression give away his awe. When Dream stops and balances the sword's handle on his finger, George says nothing. Their gazes lock.

Raising an eyebrow, Dream questions, "What?"

"You've gotten a little better," George remarks, unmoved when Dream tosses the sword on a shelf.

"A little?" Dream smirks. "I bet you can't even hold a sword properly."

George purses his lips, reading Dream like a book. "And I bet you spent the last seven years practicing that just so you could impress me."

Dream's smirk falters for a fraction of a second― it's all George needs to know that he's won. Dream mimics George's pose, crossing his arms. "You're wrong."