Summer Eyed
tickle fic
5.3k words
characters: cc!Dream & George
Dynamic is ambigous, but no romantic relationship is implied
Big thank you to @fluffallamaful for reading over this!
The aircon is broken. Dream is melting in the heat. George chooses this moment to be more clingy than usual.
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"Dream?"
He can hear the rustling of bedsheets behind him as George shifts around a little before flopping back down with a soft thump and a sharp sigh.
An absent-minded hum is the only response he gives. It's barely audible over the constant droning of the old fan they'd dragged up here this morning.
The fan finishes it's leftward half-turn with a gentle click before it begins to turn right again.
"Dreeaam."
He'll try everything to stay cool with the aircon out of order for the time being. He doesn't even know what's wrong with it. It'd just suddenly stopped working after that storm two days ago!
They have to make do with half-shut blinds and nights and mornings spent with open windows for now. The technician is scheduled for tomorrow. Dream would lie if he said he wasn't awaiting them anxiously.
The droning fan is their only solace from the still air. They don't even notice the noise anymore.
"Dream!"
God, Dream really envies Sapnap right about now. He'd chosen the perfect time to head to North Carolina to meet up with Karl, flying out the day before the storm had hit. Out of the house at just the right time. Thinking about it, he and George should've just gotten hotel rooms-
"DREAM! Pay attention to me!"
Dream startles a little as George's call catpults him out of his head. Sighing, he leans forward to close the email he'd been reading, before spinning the chair around to face George, grimacing at the feeling of his shirt sticking to his lower back. It's not like he'd been able to concentrate, anyway.
The room is just a little too warm, even with the fan on and the blinds down. It's dim, but the burning sun still finds it's way through the angled slats, painting thin lines of light on the floor and up along the walls. George is sprawled out on the bed, in shorts and a wrinkled shirt, head turned and eyes lazily fixed on Dream.
There's a sliver of skin where his shirt has ridden up, probably from when he was wriggling around earlier, trying to get comfortable.
Dream melts back into his chair. The room is warm and he is warm and he feels a little sleepy, and his thoughts come slower than usual. For a second he feels like he's wading through honey.
Maybe that's why, when he looks at George, he finds himself getting caught on that strip of bare skin. George gives an amused little cough and Dream rips his eyes away, blinking a few times as he feels warmth flood his cheeks.
There's silence for a few seconds. The fan clicks as it changes directions again.
"Dream."
When he looks back George is looking up at the ceiling. Dream's name rolls of his tongue in the same tone as before, nonchalantly demanding.
"What?"
George doesn't answer. Instead he makes some kind of vague hand movement Dream interprets as 'get over here'.
So he does, peeling himself out of his chair and taking the few steps over to the bed. God, it feels like the heat is worse standing up. He stops next to the bed, looking down at the other.
"What do you want George?" Dream asks. George is still staring at the ceiling. The fan whirrs.
"Get in bed with me."
He says it almost off-handedly, like he's talking about the weather or informing him that they're out of apple juice. The incongruity has Dream's brain playing catch-up as he feels his ears flush red in belated reaction.
"Wh- George!" He laughs, dumbfounded. "Why did you say it like that?!"
George scrunches his nose with a groan, closing his eyes like he's exasperated.
"Shut up! You know that's not what I meant," he argues. He's already a little flushed from the heat, but Dream thinks he can see the pink in his cheeks deepen.
"Do I?" Dream teases, straining to hold back his laughter. "So you don't want me in bed with you?"
Another groan answers him as George opens his eyes to glare at him through the lazy slits. Dream meets his gaze with an impish grin and watches as George heaves a put-upon sigh, head lolling to face the ceiling again. Like Dream can't see the secret smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Shut up idiot, just... lay down already."
Dream can't help but feel a little caught off-guard by the bluntness, again.
Its not that he'd thought George wasn't being serious. It's the way he's being so insistent, so direct when asking for closeness. It's a bit surprising. Unsual. Almost unlike him.
Then again... maybe the heat affects George just as much as it does him, making him more mellow, more honest. And it's not like this would be the first time they do this. Be close. Cuddle. Whatever. In fact, Dream is sure Sapnap is diligently counting each and every time he and George end up tangled together during weekly movie night for blackmail purposes.
But still, this feels a little different somehow. A little... more. He watches George watch the ceiling. Maybe it's just the heat.
He kind of feels like he's choking on the warm air.
Dream rounds the bed slowly, hesitating for a second before crawling onto the mattress. He feels a little jittery all of sudden, and he half expects George to tense up when he goes to lay down on his back, an arm's lenght away. But no, George remains sprawled out on the bed, loose-limbed, comfortable as can be.
He doesn't know if George's calmness is reassuring or daunting. If he'd rather George look a little off-balance, like how he feels right now. Maybe it wouldn't matter anyway. Dream breathes in, out, looks at the thin stripes of sunlight painting the walls and the sheets. It's warm. The room's warm.
The fan whirrs and clicks. Cool air washes over them as it turns in their direction.
Out of the corner of his eye, he notices when George finally unsticks his gaze from the ceiling. The older glances over to where Dream lies an arm's lenght away, sighs and shifts, curls himself toward him until he ends up with his forehead pressed against Dream's shoulder.
Dream can't help his shuddery exhale as a flash of fondness rushes through him. It combines with the warm air, makes him feel a little fuzzy, makes him turn to face George. The older loses his spot against Dream's shoulder and gives a little hum, displeased, adjusts himself and pushes even closer until he can rest his forehead against Dream's chest. They lie like a pair of parentheses, curled towards each other, not touching anywhere but where Dream can feel his own heartbeat resonate. Forehead to chest. Anything more would be too much in this heat. Too much in this dim, quiet room.
They're still for a few minutes. Dream studies the way the sunstripes drape over George's shoulder and sighs, content, sinks further into the mattress.
George shuffles closer to him. Dream makes room for him, drapes his arm over his shoulder without a second thought. Cool air sweeps across their legs as the fan turns to face them for a second before continuing it's arc. The heat settles back over them like a blanket, the fan's constant hum white noise in the quiet.
"Aren't you warm?"
Eventually, Dream breaks the silence. His voice is soft and low like he's chasing after it still. The question is an opening, a chance for George to draw back, to end this tranquil intimacy on his own terms.
But George just huffs like the question is ridiculous and nudges his head against Dream's chest. The action makes a lock of hair fall out of place and Dream reaches out to fix it absent-mindedly. George makes a quiet pleased noise and Dream smiles.
He shifts slightly to better brush his hand through dark hair. Reassured that George won't pull back, that he's being honest and open, or well, as open as George ever gets, he dares to voice his confusion:
"Alright, so what's this about? It's hot and normally you'd be like, complaining while sticking your head in the fridge, but instead you're... you're not usually this...", he trails off with a vague hand motion, unsure how to put their closeness and everything else into words.
"I don't know, just felt like it."
There's a pause after the curt reply, like George didn't mean for it to come out so sharp, to deflect like he always does. Dream, undeterred, can almost see him thinking, weighing how much he's comfortable divulging.
The pause drags on. Only when Dream is near ready to let it go, to accept the non-answer as the most he'll be able to get, does George add:
"Yeah it's warm, but it's not warm enough to where im like... disgustingly sweaty you know? I'm just kinda drowsy or something..." He softly pushes into Dream's fingers playing with his hair, nestles closer. "This is nice I guess."
The fan whirrs, clicks, starts up again. Repeats.
"Y'know, this reminds me of England," George says, apropos of nothing. "It was so hot inside during summer with all the insulation and no aircon." There's a pause before he mumbles something else into the fabric of Dream's shirt, something Dream has to strain to hear, but what sounds suspiciously like "at least now I'm here with you."
Dream's throat clicks as he swallows at the reminder of summers spent an ocean apart.
He sighs, then looks down at the mass of brown locks lying messy against his chest. The slow, creeping dark tendrils of his sadness dissipate as quickly as the came when another bolt of fondness shoots through him at the sight. He can't help the sappy little smile tugging at his lips as he replays George's words in his mind, once, then twice.
And he can't help the way his smile sharpens into a grin when he replays them again, an opportunity to tease and lighten the atmosphere rolled into one and hidden behind the initial high of George's admittance.
Dream nudges George with a coo, grin still on his face.
"Awwe I knew you loved me George!"
"Shut the hell up idiot."
George huffs in amusement and delivers a weak hit to his shoulder, then drops his fist back down. He turns his head and peaks up at Dream, a line of light falling over his eyes turning them honey-gold.
And once more, Dream can't help but be stunned by their closeness, heart working overdrive to process his reality. Them, no longer an ocean apart. Everything that wasn't possible before now here in his arms. George now here in his arms.
He's not quite aware that he's staring, too preoccupied with his sudden monumental realisation, but when he catches George's soft smile turn to an amused smirk he very conciously redirects his gaze across the room, trying his hardest to pretend that he's fascinated by the way the light drapes over his desk and chair like he doesn't feel the heat rising to his face.
Dream can hear George shift, can see his hand raise in his peripheral vision, but still he jumps when George's fingertips brush over his cheek suddenly, trailing up his blush-warm skin to swipe over the shell of his glowing ear.
He can't quite hold back the instinctual shiver of sensitivity, presses his head into the mattress a little while his shoulders twitch up, unwilling to shake George off but unable to endure the impossibly soft sensation.
George just laughs quietly and does it again before he drops his hand back down to the sheets between them with a faint thump. There's a swish of skin over fabric and then George knocks his knee into Dream's thigh. It's casual and easy, and it screams of a mutual want for more contact, despite the stifling heat. It's nothing if not a clear invitation. Dream slings his arm over George's side, fingertips coming to rest in the dips of his spine.
Despite all of George's earlier shifting around, his shirt had stubbornly remained ridden up, the hem bunching around his waist, much closer to his lower ribs than anywhere near his hips where it was supposed to rest. Dream's hand settles on the very edge of the fabric covering George's bare skin, tapping once and feeling a shiver run through the smaller's body.
He doesn't think anything of it, content to let the heat melt him into the sheets and slip his eyes closed, the fan providing them with white noise and the occasional rush of cool air over their sunstriped legs. It's peaceful, and the sleepiness that had been lurking around the edges of his conciousness sneaks in again.
Absent-mindedly, he begins playing with the bunched up fabric of George's shirt, tugging on it and rubbing it in between his fingertips. He feels drowsy, and when George shivers again and arches his back a little, and Dream's fingertips end up smoothing over soft skin instead of soft fabric he barely even notices.
His idle motions switch to slow and sweeping traces instinctually, someplace somewhere in the back of his mind aiming to provide George with just as much calm and tranquility as he himself is feeling right now.
Though George, for some reason, is squirming around a bit, Dream notes hazily. It's not very obvious, but it's enough to ping his subconcious:
Brown locks mussing as the older curls in on himself just slightly, now pressing the crown of his head to Dream's chest. Back arching minutely and legs a little restless, knee trembling against Dream's thigh like George is trying to keep it still. The soft rustling as smaller hands grip and release the sheets, accompanied by softer huffs of breath.
Dream, in his semi-lucid state, is honestly ready to write it off as something mundane, like George's leg falling asleep, or him holding back a sneeze from being irritated by some of the glowing gold dust motes dancing through the beams of light. So he just switches his light traces so slightly firmer ones, dragging his fingertips up George's back and gliding them back down using the smooth back of his nails to try and soothe George back to the same loose-limbed state as before.
It doesn't work.
Instead of serving to relax him it seems to do the opposite, Dream notes with a furrowed brow, as George tenses and his breathing stutters. Dream blinks his eyes open lazily and glances down at him with with blurry confusion. For a second, he contemplates if he should stop, if he's bothering him. But George is still pressed close, pressing closer, not moving away or complaining. It doesn't exactly make sense to Dream but the room is warm, and Dream feels drowsy, and if George doesn't like something he will make it known. It's a fact like any other.
So Dream continues.
Distracted, the next pass of his hand up George's back drifts higher, his fingers slipping below loose fabric on accident.
He can feel George freeze as his fingertips reach the apex of their path below his shirt, can feel him jump and gasp when he curls his fingers to glide them back down, nails scraping over his back ribs. But what really rips Dream from his sleepy semi-awareness is the way George's hands fly to curl into the fabric of Dream's own shirt at the sensation, the way he presses himself further into the embrace with a quiet whine of "Dream", wobbling like it clawed it's way out of George's throath.
Dream stills, caught off-guard by the sudden stronger reactions. It takes a few seconds for him to get to full conciousness, thoughts slowed in honey-sticky heat, but when he does, a seed of suspicion starts to grow along with the small smile on his lips. He twitches his fingers where they're still resting against George's back ribs, testing, and the responding shiver followed by George arching forward almost imperceptibly is enough to confirm his suspicions.
"Oh George..."
Dream hums the words, amused, glancing down. He can't see much beyond the mess of brown hair, but George's neck looks a little pinker than usual and he can feel him clenching the fabric of his shirt harder when Dream twitches his fingers again. It's endearing to watch him fight not to fight back.
Though, it's even more endearing to watch him jump and squeak and press even closer when Dream rakes his nails down his back in one smooth motion. He keeps them swirling in small circles near George's sides, just to feel him tremble as he tries so hard to keep soft whines and squeaks from slipping out. He doesn't quite succeed, and Dream smirks at the aborted high-pitched sounds rising above the hum of spinning fan blades. He huffs out a laugh when an unexpected squeeze to George's side makes him squeal into Dream's chest.
The movement makes a flash of pink peek out of dark messy hair and Dream's fingers search it out without even so much as a concious thought. He traces over the shell of George's flushed ear carefully and tries not to melt when George shakes his head in protest, the brightest giggles Dream has ever heard lighting up the minuscule space between them. They're so tangible that he can almost feel them against his own skin.
George ducks away with a soft squeak when Dream runs his finger over his ear again, and Dream can feel his heart squeeze in such visceral adoration that he has to stop to breathe for a second.
The fan clicks, and Dream feels just a little overwhelmed by the heat and the stillness and George. He feels like he's floating and like he's too warm and like he will collapse in on himself if this excrutiatingly soft atmosphere persists a second longer.
He looks down at George, still giggling into his chest, and solves his own problem the easiest way he can think off.
Distracting himself, being playful. Teasing.
He swipes over the shell of George's ear one last time before giving it a slight flick, both to get George's attention and to feel him jump a little.
"Hey George?" Dream starts, nonchalant.
He gets nothing but a low, cautious 'Hmm?' in response. It makes him smile.
"George~," he purrs, his smile widening as he feels him tense at his tone. He sends his fingertips to surprise-flutter over George's neck. "Aren't you... ticklish?"
The result of his teasing is a flustered, indignant mewl followed by a sharp breath like George wishes he could take the embarrassing little noise back. It's immensely satifsfying to Dream, and, as stupid as it is, it makes him feel a little more self-assured too. Still soft, but no longer untethered in the face of the fan's constant drone and the way the humidity causes the fine hair on George's nape to curl and stick to his skin.
He puts his newly-recovered balance to use immediately.
"Why aren't you moving away?" Dream asks, voice light like his fingers as they move to spider up and down the slope of George's neck. Everytime he reaches the crook where it meets the shoulder he pinches down the top of George's trapezius slightly, and everytime he gets a pathetically airy whine in response.
George just grumbles through his giggles as he scrunches his shoulders. His fist, still holding on to Dream's shirt, knocks into his stomach.
"Dreheaaam... ihit- it's too hot for thihis."
Dream purrs teasingly. "That doesn't answer my question George..."
He only gets a high-pitched, wobbly hum in response, making him scoff.
He ducks his head down, moves in closer so his breath brushes over sensitive skin. In a low, low voice he whispers, straight into George's ear:
"You know you're lucky I'm not making you admit you like this."
The answering gasp and shiver is immediate, the giggly whine takes a bit longer to work it's way out of George and into the fabric of Dream's shirt. Still there's no sign of protest as George squirms - closer, instead of further away. Dream observes it all with a fondly sharp smile. From someone as contrary as George, the lack of denial is incriminating. Basically a signed and stamped formal confession.
And so Dream is happy to keep going. He stays on George's neck for a while, fluttering his fingers up and down the tendons and blush warm skin, sometimes trailing up to his ear just to watch him shake his head when he can't take the gentle touches any longer.
When he gets bored he worms his fingers down into the space between his neck and his protectively scrunched up shoulder and wiggles them under George's jaw. The unexpectedly loud squeal it produces catches him offguard enough to make him break into laughter himself. But even through his own snickering he still notices that, though the sensation has George wriggling and unable to hold back his giggles, he still doesn't pull back.
And Dream makes sure to comment on it, voice full of playful mischief.
"Oooh, you're still not moving away George.."
"Dreheheam! Shuhut up!"
George's voice is too wobbly for him to truly succed in snapping at him, and Dream's smile grows a little, gleeful that his teasing is getting to George.
"Why?" He goads, scritching his nails along George's jaw. "I'm just pointing something ouhUT- hEhey!"
Dream flinches back with an embarrassing little squeak as a sudden wave of tingles courses through him, courtesy of George. Who had apparently decided that Dream had been getting a little too comfortable and could handle a few pokes to his unsuspecting tummy, the hands that had been holding on to his shirt conveniently already right there.
"Wh- Geheorge!"
George manages to sneak in a few more scribbles and pokes to his tummy and along his side before Dream can get a grip on his own involuntary squirming and giggling enough to snatch both of George's wrists and transfer them to one of his hands. A little flushed from the sudden attack, he holds them away from his own skin, trying to remain unaffected when George pushes against his hold, protesting, still wiggling his fingers in the direction of Dream's sensitive tummy. 'Unaffected' doesn't exactly work out for him though, body jumping and tummy sucking in on instinct when George pushes a little harder and gets his fingers dangerously close to Dream again, way to close for comfort.
"G-George stohop!" He stutters on his reprimand, embarrassingly. Dimly, he can feel George's smile widen against his sternum. That little idiot was loving this!
Dream tightens his grip around George's wrists in warning, now more determined than ever to keep the upper hand.
"Wahatch it! You and I both know that I could make this so much worse for you!"
Now, Dream is of the opinion that he can be plenty intimidating. He knows that he would certainly heed his own warning, especially if his hands were caught like George's.
But George, evidently, does not care.
"Oh yeah? And you're annoying, how about that!"
"AnnoyIHING?!" His grip on George's wrists slips for just a second at the audacity. It's enough for George to get his fingers on Dream's sides again, much to George's delight and his chagrin. He has to raise his voice over George's victorious cackling while he fights to secure his grip on his wrists again. When he succeeds, he grins.
"Okay. Now you're done."
It takes a little bit of shifting around, but he manages to wrestle both of George's wrists into the hold of his other hand, keeping them low against the mattress. He hovers his now free hand over George, grin growing sharper at his increasing protesting and squirming, before digging into his defenseless ribs without warning. He tazes there only for a moment, then jumps to squeeze at his sides, switching back and forth between the two spots for a few seconds.
It's pretty effective in cutting of George's frantic pleading, replacing it with wild laughter that only grows wilder when Dream adds his upper back to the attack, tickling along his spine and pinching the edges of his shoulderblades, pressing into the muscle below.
And still, still, even while Dream is vibrating his fingers into his ribs or squeezing his sides or scribbling over his shoulderblades, George isn't moving away. Dream can feel him flinch away from his touch, can feel his restless legs squirming against his own thigh, can feel his hands flex in his grip and his head knock against his chest from the overwhelming ticklish feeling, but still George does not draw back. His adorable perseverance almost makes Dream soften again, but there's still something he'd like to make George take back. The opportunity George gave him with his playful slight to Dream's pride was just too good to pass up:
"George! I'm not annoying! Take it back!"
It's way too fun to play up the whiny hurt in his tone, even if George probably doesn't even notice, too busy laughing his heart out to appreciate Dream's dramatics.
"Yohou ahahAHAHRE!"
"George."
Dream says it like he's disappointed, like his cheeks aren't starting to hurt from his own huge grin. He drags his hand up George's side, over his ribs and then further, slowly creeping up to his open underarm. George's knee jabs into his thigh as he jumps at the threath - it's mean and Dream knows it, but it's not like it's unprovoked. And also...
"Okay okahay you're nohOHAHAHAH- NO! DREHEheam! Yohou're nohot annoying, you're nohOT!"
... it's effective.
Dream stops his fingers' dancing over the sensitive skin between his top rib and his underarm.
"Thank you George!"
He knows he sounds way too self-satisfied, and it's proven seconds later when he hears George scoff at him through his slowly calming giggles.
(It almost makes him dig into his ribs again, but he decides to let it go. And not just because he can see the laugh lines at the corners of George's squinted eyes from his shifted position.)
He releases his grip on George's wrists and sends his other hand to trail down George's back, pressure lighter now that Dream had gotten what he wanted. He's back to tracing, absent-mindedly outlining muscle and bone with his fingertips. The unbearably light sensation makes George's fingers curl into the fabric of Dream's shirt again. Dream can't suppress his instinctual flinch, reminded of their earlier situation, but George just huffs out a quietly amused laugh and relaxes into the soft tracing, his head still pressed to Dream's chest.
After a few seconds Dream, too, relaxes, allows himself to sink into the sheets just a little, the sunstripes falling heavy over his body.
He runs his fingers over George's back, up to his bottom ribs and down to his sides, mindlessly mesmerized by the smooth skin. His nails trip over the bumps of George's spine and ribs as he slips them just barely below the hem of his bunched up shirt to play at the edges of his shoulderblades before running them back down to draw small shapes on the small of his back. Occasionally he lifts his hand to brush over his neck or his ear or play with a few strands of messy brown hair.
Through it all, George does nothing but stay close, lightly squirming and quietly huffing like he, too, doesn't want to disturb the gentle atmosphere that had settled over them again.
Only when Dream slips his nails over his bicep, up and down over soft skin and tensing muscle does George whine in protest, low and soft. Dream has to close his eyes for a second against the sudden adoration that washes through him at the noise. It makes him continue tracing over his bicep for just a few seconds longer before he trails back up to George's neck, the sensation making George sigh and shudder and nestle closer into the ever smaller space between them.
It's peaceful. Soft. The room is still warm and the fan is still droning on and on, the thin lines of sunlight shifting imperceptibly with the slow sun. The only break in the white noise are George's quiet gasps of breath everytime Dream grazes his nails over a sensitive spot. It's easy and it's calm and Dream get a little lost in his head, in the heat, hand continuing it's mindless tracing while his earlier drowsiness creeps back in.
After a while Dream pulls himself from the honey-sticky warmth of his thoughts and notices that George has started pushing at him slightly, balling his hands into fists against his chest and then releasing them again. Like a cat, Dream thinks for a second, and then immediately shushes his own head.
"What is it George," he asks softly, teasingly. Sleepily. "You want something?"
There's a pause, no response but the swish of skin over fabric as George keeps squirming lightly, Dream's nails trailing under his bunched up shirt to tap over his back ribs.
"Want me to stop?" Dream questions, and stops his fingers as if to demonstrate, fitting them into the grooves of his ribs. He can feel George's back muscles tremble under his fingertips, and the sensation makes him smile. "You should just stop me then. Or maybe move away. I'm not holding you down after all..."
(The teasing comes in a slow drawl. It's an easy out if George wants to take it. Dream wouldn't want to take it too far, at least not when they're both curled together, close of their own volition and only about two seconds away from fully melting into the sheets from the heat.)
There's another pause, stretching quiet in the humid air, until-
"No. D'n wanna." George, face still buried in Dream's chest, mumbles. And then rolls his shoulders like he's demanding for Dream to keep going. He sounds like Dream feels, a little out of it, like the softer tracing is slowly but surely lulling him to sleep, in tandem with the heat.
Dream can't hold back a small coo, endlessly endeared by George's antics. He resumes his easy tracing, drifting his fingertips over and between George's shoulderblades, flicking them up to brush over his neck in slow loops.
And out of every tease and every comment from Dream, that coo is what finally gets George to leave his hiding spot against Dream's chest and look up at him. He's squinting from a mixture of sudden brightness, sleepiness and the giddy smile he's wearing, and when he looks at Dream with such an openly happy expression and the faint imprint of the folds of Dream's shirt on his forehead, Dream suddenly feels like he might cry.
His struggle must play across his face rather obviously, eyes soft and fond smile wobbly and unhidden, because George blinks himself out of his haze momentarily, just to raise his eyebrows at him in a quiet, bright taunt. Dream can feel his face flush a little, and the sudden influx of warmth is enough to turn his smile sheepish as glances away quickly, too drowsy to be truly embarrassed but still amused at himself. He skitters his nails over George's nape in soft retaliation and George ducks back into Dream's chest dutifully, though not without sending him another teasing glance first. Dream just switches to poking along his shoulderblades with a quiet scoff, smile still on his face.
-
The fan whirrs and the lines of sunlight settle over them like a blanket. It's warm. They're close. Eventually, Dream's hand drops from where it was tracing lazy circles between George's shoulderblades, feeling too warm and heavy to continue moving. It settles comfortably over his side.
The heat makes them drowsy, makes them slowly slip into the liminal space between being asleep and being awake together. The room is dim because the blinds are half down, and the room is warm because it's summer and the aircon is broken. The fan whirrs and clicks, and the lines of sunlight get caught in the strands of their hair, and Dream let's his eyes slip closed, content and happy and warm and with George.












