FIELDS OF INFINITY - Dream x George
Meetup fluff

There was something solemn in quiet mornings, something not quite like the spill of warm light beneath a large bay window. Dream had learned to love the quiet echo of daylight that he found when he rose before the sun, and he clung to it like it was the last breathing piece of him.

It was May, and Dream was awake with his bare feet on the sun-warmed hardwood floor of his living room. Glimmers of gold had barely come to be known, freckled face colored in broad strokes by glows of tangerine orange. The pinkest edge had dissipated after the finalities of lilac purple, leaving Dream alone in the warmest shades of morning.

He hadn't slept that night. But a lack of much-needed rest didn't keep the lazy smile off his lips, didn't seek to annihilate the kaleidoscope of joyful color from his emerald-tinted eyes. He stood beneath the rays of a morning sun with the utmost contentment, hands caught in his pockets where his fingers flitted against each other out of a lack for something to hold, something golden spilled out over his face.

Who would it have been if not George?

Sleep calls had become a frequented norm, and though last night had delved away from a normalcy of intermixed breathing, Dream still managed to be covered in every brushstroke of his so-called best friend. When he looked down at himself and all his exposed tan skin, he'd swear he could see the swirls of color where George had left them in a careful chill. Buckets of paint dared to look prettier beneath the light of a somber sun, and Dream felt decidedly whole despite a true status of lonesome.

Maybe it was a garden of yellow roses spread out beneath his feet. Dream realized that when he squinted, he could see the petals scattered on the floor. Something within him dared to say they'd never wilt, and Dream—ever the believer—would dare to believe the voice. It was sweeter to know that the sentiment rang true, and soft licks of yellow would remain in his life forever and always.

(Like George).

Dream looked back to the rising sun, let his eyes slip shut beneath familiar warmth. The soft brush of rose petals where he could feel them on his feet only served to lull him toward a calm slumber, to remind him of just how tired he was supposed to be until, eventually, supposed to became the truth. Dream would find it in him to welcome a honey-colored exhaustion, to seek the warmth that came in golden wrap where he recognized it as sweet.

It came in a heavy nectar wrap around his limbs, tugged him down toward the floor that had since become a sea of rose petals. Dream let himself lay on the yellow-toned softness—everything warmed beneath the light of the sun—and he found rest at the base of his large bay window. He may have woken with an aching neck and only an echo of the yellow that once was, but his mind was alight in cries of George.

He called him as soon as he found his way off the floor. Stumbled through the kitchen with a ringing phone in his hand, placed it on speaker the moment George picked up. Dream kept his footsteps light over kitchen tiles, noticed his clock said 1:17 and did quick math in thought of time zones while he searched for food.

"Dream?"

A dandelion voice rang out through his speakers, and Dream found that he'd already rediscovered the glow of his flaxen smile. It was nearly the same as the one from the morning, the one he'd worn beneath the shine of a slow-rising sun. Now, the glow was beyond noon in the highest parts of the sky, and Dream found comfort in the cloudless blue outside his kitchen window.

"Yeah," he answered, pausing at the counter in front of his phone, "I'm here."

George seemed to laugh—that brilliant, airy sound, the one that reminded Dream more of pale white seeds than tufts of yellow. It scattered out around his hands until he held nothing but a stem between his fingers, watching the breeze carry it all away with the promise of more in new places.

"You called me."

Dream had already found another dandelion amidst the rolls of green hills. Perhaps this one had come from a flow of white giggles in the night prior, alabaster seeds that felt soft and full of promise. Dream gave his own musing laugh in return, and he wondered if George found petals in his joy, too.

"I know."

An empty bowl lay forgotten on the counter behind him, and Dream leaned forward into the granite of his countertop. He watched the minutes tick higher on the glowing screen of his phone, situated beneath the shaded promise of Georgie <3 when he'd changed his contact name through muddled laughter and a bout of playful teasing.

"So what'd you call me for?"

Dream felt the surge of lilt where it shone through every word. It was tangible in sweet softness, placed with gentle intention like maybe Dream was supposed to find it. He laughed another breathy little sound again, felt it run high in the back of his throat, punching out of him as if something were funny as opposed to sweet. It was endearing in every sense.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully, "guess I missed your voice."

Clouds of pearl-colored seeds swirled around Dream's head. He hoped they'd get caught in his mess of hair like they did when he was a kid, when his sister used to chase him with fistfuls of dandelions and a desire to make a mess of them both. He nearly reached his hand up to card through golden locks in search of it, but he kept his palms pressed against the cold granite and slipped his eyes shut instead.

"Dream," George spoke with floral certainty, "we talked for ten hours yesterday."

The fondness in his familiar tone made Dream smile even wider than he had been. It radiated through the walls in too-bright gold, shattered every dull sense of flax from when he'd awoken in dull ache. And when he leaned his head in close to his phone, he could feel a new kind of warmth where it radiated through the speakers. Maybe like the lick of a morning after, maybe something completely and unfoundedly new.

"I know," he said it again, and redundancy seemed foreign to a man known for sequels, "doesn't mean I'd miss it any less."

Sleep in honey tones pulled the most showering honesty out of Dream. He managed to re-learn that fact every time George wore him out to nectar, every time he woke with an undying urge to hear dandelion swirls of London through his phone again, every time he pressed the call button in a chase after exactly that. He seemed to be learning it brand new again, for the hundred thousandth time.

"Will you ever grow tired of me?"

Every glowing stripe of lilt seemed to fall through an unknown gap, one unseen to Dream through all their careful talks. And the gentle earnest in George's tone dared Dream's eyes to open again. His kitchen was brighter than he'd remembered and so was the sun, and there was still an empty bowl waiting forgotten and somewhere behind him. He'd never felt hungry in the first place, so none of it was missed.

"Of course not," he answered softly, "you'd never let me grow tired of you."

The two seconds of silence felt like a thousand lifetimes, and Dream would swear that he could hear nervous breaths if he focused hard enough to find them. He rolled his bottom lip beneath his teeth for nothing more than a moment, looked for tufts of yellow amidst a sea of blowing green.

"I wouldn't let myself, either."

He remembered that George would have more trouble spotting the difference between his yellow tones and the grass. He remembered first times with special-made glasses, and his head swam with a clamor of "you're green" until his nectar-thick smile became something that made his cheeks ache. Dream found another dandelion, and in his head, he gave it to George.

"Okay," he could hear a smile in his voice, "I'll never grow tired of you, either."

The only growing Dream wanted to do with George was in gardens. (And maybe together, if they weren't already molded into one).

"Promise?"

When paired with a dopey smile and a mirthful glance at his phone screen, the word sounded nothing short of lighthearted. It drew another cloud of seeds up into the sky, and Dream couldn't wait to find where they landed at the end of it. (He'd look for them, every day until it all came up yellow).

"Yes, Dream," he glowed with feather honesty, "I promise."

Dream finally found himself something to eat, and George swore he'd stay on the line. It wouldn't have been a day in Dream's life without a calltime that edged ever-closer to the double digits, wouldn't be a perfect day if it didn't pass that threshold.

He found a million more dandelions in his lush green field. He wished to show them all to George, if only he were there with him. One day, he would—and that would become the new definition of perfect day until there was never a moment without shared spaces. Dream had a penchant for gentle fantasies, and they always tasted sweeter when he had the background noise of gentle rambles where they rang pretty through his phone.

He carried it all with him to his room. Fell backwards onto the bed he'd failed to sleep on and let his phone sit beside his ear, closed his eyes to imagine everything he needed. When George turned into freesia-touched apologies for talking too much and too quickly, Dream sought reassurance that it was all okay. (And it was).

It was always like that. Dream had spent a few too many mornings asleep on the hardwood floors of his living room, had spent a few too many nights awake until he felt heavy and gold. George voiced concern more often than not, begged Dream to try and find a bed next time rather than let his limbs come to ache. He spoke in twirls of freesia and yellow rose petals, and it always reminded Dream of his favorite type of morning.

Maybe it would all get better when George finally got to Florida. When their ever-known ability to sync sleep schedules no longer was a matter of time zones, no longer a matter of five hour time differences and an ocean wedged between them. It would be the fact that they were only a short walk away from each other, a few doors down in Dream's hallway, just a few steps farther from his large bay window.

Dream counted down the days. (There were Xs on his calendar for months, and he'd never been someone to mark or make annotations). He counted other days in his head, too, like days he'd spent asleep on the living room floor and how cold and empty his bed was growing.

He noticed that he'd spent more mornings in his living room since George had bought his plane ticket. And he'd intended to keep that information a secret from the brunet in question, something heavy and carmine in his sternum that cried out against concern. Like he didn't want to be a hindrance on a man flying thousands of miles just to see him, and even for those few days that he did, it felt strange to keep things from George.

And it wasn't just the red-shaded guilt. (Would George be able to see it then?) George had learned exactly how to read Dream's every word, and all his narrowed eyes and friendly suspicion felt palpable even over the phone. And it was another collection of freesia blossoms, another delicate bloom of innocence that caught Dream around his heart.

"Stop falling asleep on the floor," George pleaded, "doesn't it hurt after?"

Dream tried to laugh it off with shrouds of lightheart, had tried to act like it was all okay without outright saying it. If he wanted to be honest, then his back was killing him. But even the dull ache in his muscles felt tinged with gold, like the same honey exhaustion that had even led him to lying on the floor in the first place.

It was sweet in thrombs of natural sugar, of everything sculpted by nature and an insect so easy to hate. Dream closed his eyes and found visions of yellow roses, and maybe if he looked hard enough he'd see them gathered in George's arms.

"I don't mind," he said in earnest. "It's not that bad."

Maybe I like it, it makes me think of you.

George had laughed his pretty, dandelion laugh, and Dream was happy to find another flower in the field. It shined up at him through drags of green and gentle grass, glowing pretty in visibility that felt unique with something unknown. The blossoms always seemed brighter when he wasn't actively looking for them—and he'd certainly looked for them before.

"Dream," it was through laughter but tinged with sincerity, "promise you won't fall asleep on the floor anymore, okay?"

Dream blew a long breath out of his mouth in answer, stretched his aching back in the chair he was sat on. He could practically feel the friendly displeasure through their call, the startling yellow of it filling up his room. (It was a little brighter than the sun outside his windows, he noticed). He found it in him to laugh beneath his breath, eyes slipping shut in a vision of someplace beautiful.

"Okay, George," he sighed, "I promise I won't fall asleep on the floor anymore."

George hummed in contentment, and even that felt perennial. "I'll ask again when I get there."

Dream had laughed, but everything about that phrase had felt so right. When he gets here—no longer a stuttered over if or an event placed far in the future, only something sure and soon and almost there. There was a light red carnation amidst a pool of friendly yellow.

"Will you?"

He spoke with gentle admiration. Like petals, it was pale red.

"You seem like someone who'd be easy to read," George's admittance was of the same admiring hue, "I'll know if you lie to me, then."

Dream laughed, eyes opening when he rolled his head to the side. He found his calendar on the wall, spotted the bright red circle that swallowed up the day. (October 7th could be his favorite if you asked soon). He smiled in a type of fondness that he wished George could feel. In a perfect world, he could.

"I'll be waiting for you to ask," six days, "so don't forget."

George laughed himself a new field of dandelion seeds. "How could I forget?" It was freesia.

It was a surprise even to himself when Dream managed to keep his promise. He found that his back no longer ached and figured that was the desired outcome, even if the ache had been so sweetly shaded in lulls of George. Perhaps a painless body could be dripped better in golden honey, perhaps it would feel warmer where it ran in waves off his tanned skin.

There were white carnations in Dream that day, and he swore he could feel their blossoms between the spaces in his ribcage. It was a little bit more than beautiful—to him—and he would never find it in him to turn away from the gentle growth. Like vines wrapped with care around the bones in his body, Dream was becoming a mosaic of gentle love for someone he wished to call more than a friend.

Someone who was miles above the earth right now, someone who perhaps hadn't slept in fond-shaded excitement, someone who he'd known for too long for this to be a first.

Patience is a virtue. Dream was drumming his fingers on the countertop and choking on rose petals. (He'd known he lacked virtue, his mother liked to tell him so).

So he left early. Stumbled into his car with a deep breath, found comfort in the bathe of golden light that came with an early morning landing time. In a perfect rendition of his favorite type of glow, all the gentle pinks had disappeared in favor of tangerine orange, and Dream was warmed by yellow growths. It filled his chest with a welcome normalcy in an act that was so abnormal, in driving to an airport he'd seen a thousand times where he sought the boy he'd never met for real.

Hands shake on a well-worn steering wheel. When Dream squints, he sees dandelion seeds outside his windshield.

He sits in the parking lot with his same lack of patience. Checks his phone too often and refreshes every mode of contact he holds with his favorite person, worries about the prospect of lost service or dying phones. Dream watched a yellow rose petal wilt in the palm of his hand, and everything within his being said that it'd been his fault.

Then, a text came through.

landed!! see you soon :]

Dream had never gotten out of his car so fast, had never run through a parking lot quick enough to turn heads. But there was a piece of him that cried over running out of time, a piece of him still caught up on the dying rose petal he'd seen vanish from his palm, a piece of him that was needless in a worry that someone could disappear before he'd ever gotten to meet them.

Time had never ceased to exist like this before. Airports had always been a world of timelessness, and not in the fond way that came about when a piece of media wasn't dated. It was a little more like purgatory, like a lack of clocks and too many time zones, like numbers in the most perplexing sense; even when compared to calculus exams.

Time ceased to exist in beauty. Dream wished for it to be like this forever. (Maybe it would be, with him).

He found a cluster of dandelions in the field, and he chased them. Without words, without calls, without texts. He only reached out to place his hand on a jacket-clad shoulder, felt an amalgamation of sparks beneath his palm the moment it made contact, and the turn of a man he knew felt caught and in slow motion.

Dream had seen this face a thousand times (more, even). He'd memorized every curve of it, gotten lost in a sea of deep brown and neutral tones, found gold and yellow in every upward tilt of pretty pink lips, counted every freckle that showed up on an HD camera. In real life, he found that he'd missed a few.

"Dream?"

A voice so familiar was a rapture in real life. They stood alone in the field together, and Dream reached out to give him yellow flowers.

"George."

They fell into each other center-stage in an airport. In Dream's pretty fantasy, their feet were warmed by soft grass. But it wasn't any worse off in real life—it was everything he could've possibly imagined it to be. And he'd only put himself in a pretend pair of shoes every day for the past three months, had only checked his calendar too many times to make sure October 7th still had a bright red circle around it. (He was afraid it would disappear, maybe he'd imagined the purchase of plane tickets).

Dream had always felt whole when he was with George. Even if talk came through headphone wires and computer screens, Dream had always felt complete. He never would've told someone that there had been something missing, never would've said he felt unfinished. Even if they'd never met, they still molded into each other like one final shape. Like one.

But he felt swallowed and warm and whole where he stood in the airport that morning. Like maybe something had been missing for all these years, and the only reason why he didn't know is because he'd never felt it before now. Maybe it was the way he was choking on rose petals again, watching them all spill out onto the floor by George's feet. Maybe it was the way George seemed to pull every flower from his chest and hold them to his own like they belonged between them.

Dream didn't know, and he was alright with that. Because he had this, had George, had his favorite person caught between his arms and no plans to let him go. He would've stayed there forever if he could've, would've remained in a latch onto the brunet if there wasn't a pressing need to get them both back home. (Maybe this was home, caught between pale arms).

George laughed into his shoulder like he couldn't believe he was there. Dream could feel the tufts of alabaster where they landed beside his ear. He couldn't believe it, either. So he squeezed George tighter just to make sure he was real.

"You're here," he managed to whisper, the sound of it caught up in a bout of carnation.

"I am," George was still so dandelion, "finally. Here."

Dream let go with a silent promise to hold him again later. And in something unexpected even to himself, he held out his hand in an offer.

George glanced between the invitation and a pair of emerald green eyes. Even without the ability to see them in their truest shade, George found every speck of honesty behind a known set of irises. (He'd been right, Dream was easy to read—even in silence). He smiled at the blond and took his hand, and their fingers locked together like vines of ivy.

Dream led him out of the airport with a hand caught in his own, and he decided that he much preferred life where he could hang onto George. He'd memorize this just as he had his face, would memorize the feeling of the smaller hand in his and the presence of fingers interlocked.

Roses were dark red, and so were carnations.

"Did you sleep on the floor at all?" George squeezed Dream's hand like it would pull the answer from him. "Since we spoke about it?"

"No," and it was honest, "promise."

George craned his neck to look Dream in the eyes while they walked beside each other, and Dream moved to return his gaze. They stepped outside in the midst of locked stares, and Dream saw all things sweet honey and gold when George was bathed in his favorite morning sun. The orange had gone, but he was left painted. (Art, he was art).

"Okay," George smiled with sharp ivory, and it reminded Dream of white carnations, "I believe you."

Dream squeezed his hand back and led George to his car. It was close to bittersweet when he had to release his hand, but it came with the knowledge that George was getting into his passenger seat. And when he sat back down in front of his well-worn steering wheel, George would be mere inches away from him.

Close enough to hold hands over the center console. (And they did). But not close enough to discern the gap between romantic and platonic, for George kept rubbing circles into the back of Dream's hand with his thumb. Dream was startlingly okay with the sight of blurred lines, because he'd never felt something so perfect and complete. Labels were never much of his thing, anyways.

So long as he could call his favorite person George and hear his dandelion voice say Dream right back, then he was content in a perfect flow of life.

He cracked the windows and let the wind catch in their hair. The sharpness of it made a pale hand hold tighter, and Dream wished to remain like this forever. (It was better than the center of the airport). They spoke quietly and in well-earned excitement, though none of the conversation was about one-handed driving.

Dream's house always felt a little more like home when he shared it. He'd found the same perfect truth when Sapnap came to visit, and it swelled in even greater detail when George stepped in through his front door for the first time. Dream had missed the touch of his hand in favor of twisting doorknobs and carrying luggage, but it left both his hands free to gesture grandly as he stood in his kitchen.

The front door shut quietly behind George, and he wore a smile that glowed brighter than a thousand suns outside a large bay window.

"This is..." Dream twisted his wrists slightly, debated on what to call it for a second too long, "home."

Two homes became one.

George stepped in closer. "It's nice."

Dream laughed in a softness like petals, though it was George's responding giggle that reminded him of flower fields. He dropped his hands to his sides as George inched just another touch closer to him, close enough for their toes to brush together through well-loved sneakers.

"You think so?"

George's gaze fell out of Dream's, dropped down the slope of his neck all the way to where his collarbones disappeared beneath a long-sleeved t-shirt. He reached a gentle hand up to brush against a lick of exposed skin, a touch so kind and light red enough to make Dream shudder. The pink in George's cheeks reminded Dream of perennial beauty.

"Yeah," his eyes fell further, further down until they came up all at once to find untrue viridian again, "it reminds me of you."

Dream laughed in soft nature again, brought his hand up to brush fingers over George's wrist. His skin had been softer than it looked, and even Dream knew that said more than a lot, as he'd always thought George looked like white chiffon.

"Well, I mean," he shrugged slightly, let his fingers wrap around a thin wrist, "it's my house."

George shook his head with another too-soft laugh, pressed his palm flat against Dream's front with his light red touch. Dream's grip tightened absentmindedly, and he held onto George like he may disappear. (Was this all a dream? Was he asleep on the floor beneath his large bay window?) He wasn't.

"You know what I mean." Umber eyes fell back to the floor, fell back to sneaker-clad feet that moved to slot between each other. "It's very you."

Dream laughed, pulled George's hand up off his chest so he could lace their fingers together again. Interlocked hands fell down between their bodies, brushed against two chests in close proximity until everything hung low in the air between them. Dream could feel a type of sweet tension where it caught between their lips, like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

Everyone—the room felt full and perceived.

"You wanna see my favorite place?" It'll be better if I can share it with you.

Three homes become one.

George squeezed his hand tighter. "I'd love to."

Dream pulled him by the hand all the way to the living room, brought George right up beside him beneath the light of the large bay window. The sun had risen a little too high for it all to be considered a perfect type of golden morning, but it still bathed them both in a sweet kind of natural light. It was all like sweet honey again, and though Dream had never been much of a fan of that kind of flavor, he knew somewhere within him that he'd begun to crave it.

He looked at George with gentle fondness. He smiled beneath the light of the sun, and every stroke of gold reminded Dream of perfect dandelions. George's side profile left nothing to be desired, all sharp cuts with gentle softness and a close enough stance to catch his freckles where they lay near-hidden. Dream noticed he'd missed more than he thought he did.

"I like it better in the early morning," Dream admitted. "Maybe I can show you sometime."

George turned to look at him, a glow of ivory and pink. He was a breathing sense of pretty carnations, and Dream knew their bloom would be eternal. (Good things never die, the best things live forever).

"Tomorrow," George squeezed Dream's hand ever-tighter as if in emphasis, "you can show me tomorrow."

It was thick and rich with honesty, with the same type of innocent freesia that came when George was concerned. Like he really did want to see it in Dream's preferred form, like it meant the world to him to share a favorite with the other. It meant the world to Dream, even when he could do nothing but think about it.

He'd thought about a lot of things for too many years. Maybe actions spoke louder than words. (His mother liked to tell him that, too).

It felt more than a little right when Dream brought their hands up between them, planted a kiss on the edges of George's knuckles and watched his face bloom into pink. There was a field of grass blowing in the wind beneath their feet, and Dream knew that someday soon it would all turn to glowing yellow.

George leaned in to press his lips against Dream's knuckles too,, and they both stayed there for just a moment longer. Twisted bodies to face each other, met eyes over the obstruction that was interlocked hands and their lips pressed gently to them.

Pink lips proved to be softer than they looked, just like milky skin. Dream savored a perennial touch to the back of his gentle hand, even where lips lay still and unmoving. George had always seemed to drip with honey-nectar, seemed to radiate the shades of yellow and red that Dream had grown to love. Seeds were planted between the gaps in their skin, and Dream was careful when he drew his lips back.

George did the same, and their hands fell back down between them. They both squeezed tighter at the exact same time.

"You're here," Dream said again. "In front of me, you're real."

Dandelion seeds everywhere, on the floor and outside the window.

"I am," George agreed, "maybe forever, if you'll let me."

Instead of answering, Dream pulled his hand out from George's hold, but every touch came back in a brand new blossom of something. (Actions). He took his careful face with two hands and sought to close the gap between them, and though a piece of him cried about how he hadn't been here long enough, he chased the taste on George's lips like it was the antidote to something deadly.

Proven, it was an antidote. To a poison that came from the hands attached to the boy with those death-curing lips, something sweetly toxic that had encased Dream the moment he stepped foot in the airport that morning. (Inevitability, of course they would end up here—George had only put a time limit on it with a threat a little too close to death).

Lips meet under a later-morning sun, and despite the presence of unpacked luggage in the kitchen and the jacket still caught around slender arms, it feels more than overdue. It was, something waited for for years and with even more urgency in the past few months. The bright red circle on Dream's calendar had been for this moment, too. October 7th was his favorite, now.

George tastes of sunlight and floral love. Dream had never done anything close to slip a rose petal beneath his tongue, but somehow he knew it was this exact sensation. The careful drawl of pink lips against his own, a quiet whimper caught between their mouths when hands came up to touch his face. Swirls of fresh beauty and gentle admiration, crisp in something like summer despite an autumn date.

A part of Dream wondered if he tasted just as strikingly beautiful as George did. Lips seemed to swallow him as if he did, splitting open at the seams in a mindless chase for more and more after that. George was lucky that Dream was infinite, lucky that time has ceased to exist in the perfect sense again and there was nothing without kissing beneath sunlight.

Dream slipped his hands down a still-clothed body, landed his palms against a waist beneath too many layers of fabric, laved his hot-running hands over bare skin. George rose up on his toes, slipped slightly against the hardwood and fell closer into Dream. It was a welcomed proximity.

Clouds of dandelion seeds fell against Dream's tongue, and he could feel a too-bright smile where it collided with his mouth. He swallowed tufts of laughter in the softest, most alabaster form, waited for them to bloom yellow in the pits of his stomach beneath his ribcage. He'd grown to love the feel of bloom beneath his skin, the pretty mosaic he'd seen in the mirror, and when George's body hit against his own, he knew he'd never get enough.

Hands tugged on his face, a tongue slid quietly against his own, the room felt alight in the glow of sunshine and the catch of something warmer. Grass beneath their feet, Dream knew it was being overrun by yellow. He always knew it'd end this way, it was only the timing that served to make his skin tingle.

George's lips fell away in a gasping breath. He said Dream's name against slicked lips with the utmost intent, and when Dream opened his eyes to roll his gaze over a flushed face, he found gleams of red beneath the dark brown of his too-wide eyes.

"Hm?"

He pressed his mouth against George's face with careful earnest, left them everywhere around his lips but never quite catching them completely. George giggled again for the thousandth time, and Dream chased the flowers he'd grow beyond then.

"I don't know," George whispered without a semblance of secrecy. "Just kiss me again."

Dream could never not oblige such a request, especially not when it was golden breath against his love-flushed skin. He trapped George's lips between his own, tugged him closer by the waist until feet spun on their toes. Swirls of laughter fell into his mouth again, and he leaned forward so he could swallow George and all his blossoms whole.

Red rose petals littered the floor beneath their feet. In every sense of everything perfect, Dream knew that they'd never die. It was a glowing swarm of forever and maybe just a touch of always, and though children were told that immortality was reserved for the gods and fairytales, Dream knew that rose-colored love was eternal between the two of them.

It was newness incarnate. (Do all lovers feel like they're inventing something?) Fresh without an ounce of guilt, of doubt, of thrown-out inevitability that ended in brown flowers. Sick red was unknown to both of them in favor of gentle petals, in favor of the catch of lips that seemed to cry out at the sun. Dream squeezed his hands where they sat on George's waist, looped them around to catch behind his back and lifted him up without much direction.

Feet came up off the ground, arms looped around Dream's neck in a squealing catch. He smiled into their unbreaking kiss, reserved no intention to break it off anytime in the near future. He only let George delve into him tongue-first, spun them around in a semi-circle before setting him back down on the ground again.

Something honey-toned that wasn't exhaustion pulled Dream down to the floor. And of course, George followed him, just as he'd followed him everywhere else they'd ever gone for what might as well have been forever. It was seated in soft red petals, in the glow of enduring passion and true love reserved for false days in February. Dream had said something once about soulmates, and with the way George spread his mouth open and laid against the petal-covered floor, he knew that he was one of them.

He threw his leg over George's waist and tugged him closer. Pretty swirls of laughter escaped an open mouth, and Dream couldn't help but push his lips forward with gentle ferocity.

Dandelion seeds tasted like heaven.