some persuasion required

chapter 6

The cool air overhead did nothing to settle him, George feeling antsy and oddly not tired at all as he flicked his gaze back and forth between the airplane window and his phone. The night sky was void of light, so George turned back to the subtle glow of his phone.

He merely opened to the home screen, watching impatiently for where he should land, almost as if he was waiting for something, one particular thing that could bring air back into his lungs again.

Maybe it was normal to feel so choked at such a high altitude.

George sighed, titling his head as he caved to the tugs he couldn't really ignore, not when there was nowhere else to focus except for wide-eyed on soon and almost and I never thought this day would come but now it has and I absolutely can't handle it and couldn't be anywhere else all at the same time.

This was why George should be sleeping. To avoid this spiral.

Instead, he read over their texts again, staring down at the reply Dream left, the grey bubbles that showed, /Get here safe/ and /I'll see you tomorrow/, that George had left unanswered.

He wanted to say something now, honestly he couldn't think about anything else. Of how every second he moved closer, closer to the start of a life he had so long been denied. That being on this plane meant that George would never go back, never be who he once was before everything changed, and he would know his best friend irrevocably. Though, as the hours ticked later, his hands stayed idle, his thumbs uncertain as they rested at the side, ready to type.

George had even paid for the stupid in-flight wifi for this, to relay any information to Dream. But they had both promised to not keep awake, to make sure they wouldn't cut their first day together short to sleep instead. To get off track when they had spent the better part of the last few weeks doing everything to avoid that.

He never usually had this issue, of not being able to fall asleep. But if there ever was, George was familiar in this way, with tired eyes looking too long at a too bright lighted screen, messages needing to be answered, Dream always on the other end, keeping him up late.

"Just a little bit more," Dream would say or plead, depending on how exhausted George was.

"I can't. Physically can't," George would reply in exasperation that was so horribly fond, "We can talk when I get up, I'm going to pass out any second."

"You sleep too long," Dream would complain, like this was a tragedy he had suffered through eternally, "I want you now and here and possibly forever. Is that too much to ask?"

"Yes," George would breathe, any of his annoyance overshadowed by a softness he could only attempt to fight bitterly and often lose, "I need sleep. You know this, Dream. You should know this."

And, yet, no matter how much he tried to remind the other, and himself, George was drawn to this same place again and again, staying up long, impossible hours just for that, "Five minutes more."

Dream would get it. George didn't like to admit that fact, but he did.

Even if it usually ended up with him falling asleep on the call, his phone lost in his bedsheets and waking up to Dream wickedly murmuring about how he had spoken in his sleep and, "Oh my, George. You don't even want to know what you confessed to last night. But I'll tell you anyway."

Maybe those moments were both the ones George looked forward to and was going to sorely, painfully miss the most.

Because calls and texts and messages and late nights and discord and stupid streams were all they had, all they really were.