Second Life

#3 Getting Used To Each Other

Dream spent the next few weeks pouring over history books and articles —most likely written by conspiracists with no real truth— about ghosts.

He quickly learned that George was not a very talkative type. He preferred to keep to himself, and didn't say much about his old life. That left Dream to have to investigate for himself.

He eventually found some old books and websites about kings and queens from all the ages. It took him a while, but he found George's name amongst the others.

He also learned that George was very intelligent. His reading lead him to learn that he was actually both a king and a revered artist, of both literature and music.

Not much was known about George personally. His friends didn't bother to record basic facts about him and no one really knew what he meant when he spoke.

It seemed like no one ever really was sure what George meant most of the time. Even his close friends admitted he didn't always make sense to everyone. "He's like a fairy tale. Otherworldly, but highly fascinating,"  his friend Karl Jacobs had written about him.

Dream would soon feel this effect in motion.

George joined Dream in the living room. There was heavy rain outside the window. George sat on the floor by the low-hanging window sill and watched it drizzle down.

Dream remembered what he had read about ghosts. Rain would disintegrate him, and even as a ghost, he would die. Or, the further end of death.

George was silent. If Dream hadn't been facing the hall, he most likely wouldn't have noticed him walk in. George felt the eyes staring at him and turned to Dream. He smiled, then continued to drift into his imagination.

"Hey," Dream said quietly, wanting to greet the other but not shake him out of his thoughts.
"Hello." George sounded almost absent, far away.
Dream let curiosity slip off his tongue. "What are you thinking about?"

"Rain. I used to love it. I can't really go out in it anymore or, poof, I'll disappear," George let his body fall back to the floor, but he accidentally went too far and went through the floorboard.
"That sucks."
"I don't know what that means," George said, removing himself from the floor and sitting back up.
"Sucks means, like, something isn't enjoyable."
"Oh."

George was still learning slang.

"Why did you like rain so much?"
"I'm not really sure. It was just a fascination of sorts, I suppose."
"Hm."
"I think that's the only thing about life that I miss. Feeling rain on my skin."

Dream nodded sympathetically. "You can still kinda feel stuff when it touches your skin, right?"
"I can feel you since you can see me. I don't really know how it works, but you can try if you want."
"Alright, hold the phone-"
"What?"
"Sorry, that means wait. How can you sit down here on the floor, and lean your head on the window, but you also fell through the floorboards?"
"Well, I kinda have to focus on what I'm doing. If I just randomly walked over somewhere without thinking, I'd fall through. However, since you can see me and you have weird magic blood or whatever, you can touch me with no problems."
"Ohhh, that makes sense, thank you."
George hummed in response.

There was a beat of silence. They had run out of things to say. The never-ending flow of questions from two still trying to understand each other's worlds ceased for a moment. The quiet was filled with tension as Dream searched desperately for something to say. George was staring aloof at the rain.

"What does rain feel like? I've forgotten," George's soft voice filled the void.

Dream held his hand out to George's arm hesitantly. "Would you like me to show you?" George hummed in affirmation.

Dream padded his fingers gently on his arm. He tried to match the changing pattern of the rain outside as best as he could.

Dream felt his face get hot as his fingers tapped on ashen skin. George smiled faintly and closed his eyes. He felt bad that the world had taken something George had loved from him.

The occasional cracking of lightning illuminated their faces. Dream couldn't peel his eyes off George. He was often described as 'pretty' by the books that bothered to archive his looks. Dream hadn't really noticed at first, but he decided he agreed.

His skin was like porcelain, ashen with a rosy nose and cheeks. He reminded Dream vaguely of creepy old dolls, the ones often pictured with oil painting portraits of children or their rooms; off-putting but strangely beautiful. His scar cracked down his face like the lighting outside in a jagged line.

Dream's mind reeled. He hadn't ever felt this way before. He shrugged it off and decided to push the thought away.