Helium ( DNF )

Homesick

Large squares of sun brand Dream's back and pull him from heavy sleep. His forearm is draped heavily over George's waist, blond hairs catching the incoming glow with each inhale, and sinking back to shadows as George breathes out.

Beads of sweat climb down the dip of Dream's bare spine; dark hair sticks to George's forehead in a sprawl. His fingertips itch to drift through the honeyed air and brush the strands away, but the pad of his thumb would linger, trail along the warm bridge of George's nose and trace the curves of his lips. His pink lips, his soft lips, dry and undisturbed despite their swollen redness in the dead of night, when Dream pulled his face up with shaky thumbs, kissed and bit and savored each glistening inch of them until George pushed on his chest, gasped for air; laughed against his teeth.

Calm down, Dream wills himself, eyes squinting into direct sunlight. Down, down, down.

He prefers the white burn in his retinas to the heat flushing down his chest and lodging against the mattress. Mornings haven't been easy since George started sleeping in his bed, and as the night before oozes through his sunsoaked limbs, Dream fears today may be the day to kill him dead. The full body rememory enraptures him again of grasping George's hair between his thighs, his trembling fingers in their interlaced grip, warm pinpricks in his eyes and dryness in his throat over a whispered mantra of "thank you, thank you, thank you."

He'd hate to die so soon. George would never forgive him for it, for croaking out before he wakes, before Dream can see his bleary brown eyes blink open and let a confession burst from his lips.

Okay, so. Don't wake him up.

He could buy a bouquet of flowers, or craft a breakfast in bed. George would crucify him for both.

Dream blows out a feeble, frustrated breath.

George stirs slightly, his brow creasing, and he drags a hand up to tug on the scoop of his collarline before lazily falling still. Above his shirt—Dream's shirt, borrowed and beautifully slept in—a light sheen of sweat gleams on his pale throat. Yellow arms of heat seem to crawl over them both.

Dream unpeels his chest from the sheets and reaches for the window. Blinds descend in a whir; he's halfway through tugging the curtains shut when a soft murmur stalls his hands.

"Dream?"

Warmth springs to his cheeks. Shy words saturate the tip of his tongue to the taste of, "Good morning," and, "I think you cured my nightmares," or, "can I return the favor?"

He veils the window in a terse overlap of cloth and lowers back down to a bed freed from sunlight.

"You're awake," he settles on finally, and as soon as the words slip from his mouth, a slight frown lines George's features.

Eyes still closed, George tosses an arm over his shoulders and mumbles, "Don't go."

"I'm not." His lips press into a small smile. "I'm right here."

With a clumsy pull downward, his face lands on George's neck. Through a sigh, he hears, "Liar."

Oh.

Dream's lips recede carefully.

You're not awake.

He has never liked the way words sound when falling from George's sleeping mouth, not on long calls, during naps or nights or slow mornings where the muttered phrases of nothingness land with a haunting he now knows he's responsible for; knows he burned there. Even his own name, "Dream," rings out as a question meant for a ghost.