Helium ( DNF )

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Dream's journal entry is bare.

Speckles of ink dot his fingertips as he bounces the pen from knuckle to knuckle. The skin between joints has grown red from twenty minutes of his restlessness. Hair damp on his ears, knee rattling against the desk's underside—blank pages continue to taunt him with the dread of filling them.

It's been half an hour since he stepped out of the bathroom steam. He was the last in the house to rinse off a long day of walking and layering grime. The shower was good to him, evening out the low plunge in his stomach, formed when George's hand finally slipped away.

It's been nearly two hours since Dream held it in his own.

His eyes drift over the lineless pages again. Writing down the insurmountable memory would mean the moment has truly passed; so long as his words continue to fail him, it stretches on as a secret, forever theirs.

He's never felt more undone than by the simplicity of George's hands. Fingers tangling together, warm skin brushing callouses, only broken by flashes of green lights and clicking blinkers. He'd been terrified that George wouldn't be there when he reached back from every turn, but their hands reslotted without fail. In the seconds they were apart, Dream's avid desperation grew; to sink further, grasp again, feel more. He dared to clasp George's knuckles tighter. George enclosed Dream's hand with both palms in return, pressed to either side, trapping him in overheating surprise.

The synapses on Dream's wrist fired endlessly for minutes at a time. George's touch trailed up his skin lightly, dipped down to trace his veins, making his breath grow faint and eyes want to wander from the headlight glow.

He replays their silent goodbye to the empty journal on his desk.

Clutching his black pen, he mimics the feeling of squeezing George's fingertips when they withdrew. Fleeting nails scraped Dream's palm, he thought he heard someone breathe, "Wait," but then the car doors opened and reality rushed them again.

Dream's throat tightens. His eyes drift to his closed bedroom door.

Is holding you supposed to hurt?

He sinks his pen to the paper once more, and nothing but ragged scratches come out. His head has bled his own thoughts dry. A frustrated sigh passes over the chapped tears in his lips.

You, he writes.

"No," Dream mutters, and he runs a dark line through the word.

I, he scrawls instead.

In his weeks of journaling, doodling, falling asleep with a cheek pressed to fresh ink—he's been guiding himself away from one-sided conversations. He huffs at the waiting word. "Better."

I, he continues, with a raise of his eyebrows. Am—

A sudden vibration traveling across his desk makes him flinch. The pen drops, rolling along to the edge of the page, while he pushes light clutter out of the way. His phone glows with wanted interruption as he tips the screen into view.

After light discussions during their drive home, they'd all decided to turn in early with claims of heat exhaustion. Vaguely surprised he hasn't passed out already, Dream examines the time, standing with bright numbers at eleven forty-four PM.

A notification from George rests beneath it.

The photo turned out alright, the message reads. Helium is a good look for you.

Dream's breath wastes no time to halt in his chest.

George is combing over the picture he took of him in the spare bedroom. He didn't say much of a goodnight beyond soft mumbles in the hall. He let go of Dream's hand and failed to meet his eye.