Heat Waves By tbhyourelame

Mirage

Summary:

Beginning to gain hope after visiting a special place, Dream extends an invitation.

Beneath the purple haze of an early morning sky, traffic lights silently flick from red to green. The road is quiet, and empty, and peppered with loose asphalt. The blue numbers on Dream's stereo read 7:04.

His car frame shudders as he accelerates through the intersection.

He isn't sure how long he's been driving; it was dark when he'd stumbled down his driveway, dropped his keys on the concrete, and clambered into his seat. Now, a hint of sun slowly transforms the clouds above him into faint pink streaks. Stray vehicles begin to join his solemn trek across the barren streets with every passing minute.

Dream clenches his leather steering wheel. He'd been tossing and turning in the black molasses trap that is his room for so long, micro-analyzing every word he's said to George in the entirety of their friendship, that he had to leave. He had to. To go somewhere, anywhere, away from his computer and digital life and his ridiculous madness.

He started driving aimlessly for the first hour or so, but once a location had settled on his shoulders, he knew it was inevitable.

His phone maps the way for him silently.

He tries to ignore the deep-seated embarrassment that gnaws at him every time his car slows. The murmurs and callous language that had fallen from his mouth reattach themselves into his mind—why, why hadn't he stopped himself last night? He'd been flooded with hormones that made him feel like he was thirteen again, desperately clearing the browser history on his mother's laptop before she came home.

His foot presses on the gas pedal forcefully. Self control is what he needs now.

He turns, chest tightening as the sandy horizon comes into view. Does impulsively driving across the state with a dangerously low fuel gage count as self control?

He pulls to a stop, and steps out of the car. The keys jangle faintly in his hand while his hoodie hangs limp in the other. A breeze brushes against the back of his neck, carrying sea salt and nostalgia.

He moves into the sand.

It's been over thirteen years since he's been back here, in person, and the lagoon looks different than he remembers. The murky water is now a dull green, and the shore is cluttered by beach chairs and trash cans. He glances at his shoes, nudging a stray cigarette butt on the ground. A strange feeling creeps down his spine—emptiness? Closure? He can't tell.

He surveys the beach quietly, stepping over small dunes and crab shells, remembering the excited shrieks and playful games he'd been surrounded by here as a child. The feel of a strong warm hand in his, the sound of his mother's gentle voice. Sunscreen, and mason jars, and jelly-fish hunting.

He lowers himself to the ground. When had this place become so ugly; in the waking world, and in his heart?

It's pretty, George had said in his dream.

Because of you. 

The early morning sun lifts over the horizon with careful grace. Dream brushes his fingertips over his nose and mouth instinctively. His skin is soft and smooth, yet still untouchable. A dull ache pains beneath his ribcage—how long has he been alone like this?

He lifts his head, and looks back at the line of swaying trees.

Is this place the last time he felt whole?

His back falls into the sand with a heavy thump. The sky shifts above him, and he blinks blearily. It'd be a rational idea for him to head home soon. Yet a sinking weight tugs on his limbs, longing to rest for a moment in the dusk light. He's been up for what feels like decades, constantly fighting tooth and nail against every thought that clambers into his brain.