head in the clouds

ice is frozen water

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Things become too much for Dream, but George is there to catch him <3

*mild tw for sensory overload/panic attack in the beginning, but lots of fluff afterward:)

—

He should have taken a break before it got to this point, should have paid mind to all the signs from his body that he needs to slow down. But he just kept working, kept pushing, and now his breaking point has been reached.

The point where the room feels like it's spinning and air refuses to reach all the way down his lungs no matter how hard or fast he breathes. Where the lights in the kitchen–when did he even get in here?–are too bright, and he can hear everything everywhere all at once (air-conditioning in the ceiling, birdsong in the tree outside, faraway lawnmowers in too many gardens), and he can feel every little point his clothes touch his skin and–

And he hates it.

His throat remains dry as a sandbox no matter how many gulps of water he tries to soothe it with, and his hands are clutching onto the edge of the kitchen counter like it's the only thing keeping him standing. Maybe it is, honestly.

Somewhere amid racing thoughts in his slipping mind, a familiar figure approaches him from the doorway. Just the sight of him makes Dream slip younger, feeling like a little kid who wants to make grabby hands toward their parent so they can make all the hurt go away.

"Hey, Dream," he barely recognizes his own name being said, just that George's voice is so nice and warm in this cold too-cold room. "Hey, hey," a hand is placed on his shoulder and one on his chest.

Dream wants them off just as much as he craves the comfort of having them there,

He tilts his head up to look at his friend, but his eyes don't fully meet George's, teary green irises glazed over and hard to reach. He shakes his head with a jittery movement, not quite sure what he's mutely saying no to.

Words are all jumbled up in between his jumble of thoughts and everything is just–

"I–is too much," he gets out between small pants, letting go of his heavy grip on the counter and backing away slightly. Palms free of anything to hold onto, he resorts to opening and closing his fists repeatedly in an attempt to ground himself.

It doesn't really work, though.

Brown eyes watch him cautiously, clearly noticing how Dream is struggling to calm down on his own– there's only so much his little mind can do. "Alright, let's take some slow breaths," George's voice leads the way, soft and steady. "In," Dream breathes in, "and out," Dream breathes out.

In and out, in and out, in and out.

"Good boy," that soft and steady voice praises as he manages to take a deep breath all on his own, "There you go, darling."

He doesn't know when his eyes fell shut in all of it, blocking out everything in the room that is bothering him. And his hands, they're still trembling, even when he tightens them into fists.

"Is it okay if I touch you?" George asks quietly, knowing not to talk any louder than necessary.

Dream shakes his head profusely, "No p'ease."

Tears start to slip from his eyes, down his cheeks in hopeless tracks. He wants to be close to George, wants it so badly, but he also just can't stand the idea of anything touching his overwhelmed skin right now. His uncomfy clothes are already too much.

George shushes him, "That's okay, love, let's go somewhere calmer."

Dream lets himself be swept away, trailing closely behind George up the stairs and into his bedroom. In there, he sits down on the carpet and watches as the blinds on his windows get closed to make the room nice and dark; no more harsh lights to heighten his nerves, no more too much.