Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I’m home!” George’s voice announces from the front door, musical as always.

“Kitchen!” Dream yells back, as he lights up a candle and takes a step back to admire his work.

A tempting steak dinner made with all his love, a glass of red wine for his boyfriend and water for himself, hot and flickering fire causing the room to drown in orange and intimacy. Dream is proud of himself for putting that together.

He can’t look at it for too long, a body throwing itself into his arms a few seconds later, interrupting the action and forcing his gaze away. He holds George tight and lifts him from the floor, pressing him against his chest. The sweet scent of brunet hair tickles his nose, buried deep into his boyfriend’s neck.

“Hi, baby,” he whispers after putting him down, and places a warm kiss on his skin.

George tangles fingers in his hair and pulls softly so they are face to face, only giving him a second to realize what’s going on before trapping his lips in a desperate kiss.

They haven’t seen each other in three days. Which is not a lot for regular people, but this is them. It’s the longest they’ve been apart since they moved in together, used to spending every hour of every day in each other’s embrace or presence.

Something as little as three hours borders on unbearable for them. Even around other people, not a day goes by without them being accused of codependency as a knowing and silent blush takes over their regret-free faces.

A particularly hard bite on his bottom lip makes Dream moan softly into his boyfriend’s mouth, trying to slow down the kiss and caressing his sides delicately. George whines and Dream swallows it, grasping his waist tighter in an attempt to force him away.

It doesn’t really work.

“You haven’t even seen— Shit, George,” he breathes out as he wraps his fingers around George’s wrists, hands dangerously lower than he remembers them. He brings them together in one of his own and presses them against his heartbeat. He drags fingers through his boyfriend’s fringe, and brings their foreheads together. “Dinner’s gonna be cold, sweetheart.”

“Don’t care,” he says back, breath crashing against Dream’s skin before moving to press an open-mouthed kiss under his jaw. Dream has to resist the urge to tug his hair.

“Come on, baby,” Dream insists. “Cooked with so much love,” hands leave wrists and move to his back, hugging him again. “Just for you.”

Dream’s chest vibrates where a muffled groan dies out. George tilts his head backwards and finds green eyes as a soft smile grows on his face. He places a chaste kiss on his boyfriend’s lips, surrendering.

“The fuck, Dream?” he complains, nudging his face into his boyfriend’s neck. He pecks it dearly. “You’re being dumb.”

“But I made dinner,” Dream mumbles, pulling away and nodding towards the table.

George looks at it reluctantly before a glowing expression of surprise lights up his face. Dream giggles softly and sees a flash of guilt cross his expression, so he leans down a bit to press a kiss to his head.

“So desperate for me,” he whispers against his hair. “Didn’t even notice.”

“Shut up,” George retorts, breaking free of his grasp. “You— When did you even do this?”

“Certainly not while you threw yourself at me, I’ll tell you that much,” he mocks, earning a glare from his boyfriend.

He gapes to retort, but his growling stomach beats him to it. Dream laughs fondly. “You’re lucky I’m hungry,” George gives up before approaching him once more and ghosting over his lips. “Looking delicious,” he lowers his voice again, pressing another cute peck. “Food does too.”

A short giggle makes its way out of Dream as blood paints his whole face crimson. He whispers back, “wait ‘til you see the dessert.”

George chortles and kisses him again, slower this time, but cuts it short way earlier than he would have liked.

Dream still smiles fondly before sitting at the table with him and asking about his trip.

As it turns out, George left for a weekend in Ireland with three of his friends. Which would be fine, except that the main purpose of the trip was to explore an abandoned prison on a small island, overnight and alone.

Because the prison, apparently, was haunted.

So they went off to ghost hunt.

And while Dream thinks that’s as ridiculous as it can get, he’s supportive. Overly supportive.

Whether he likes it or not, this is what he signed up for when he started dating George three years ago.

At this moment in his life, Dream doesn’t consider himself to be knowledgeable about a lot of things. This doesn’t necessarily mean he’s ignorant—he’s actually a very smart, curious, and educated boy. And sure, there are hundreds of books worth of information carefully stored in his brain over the years, but apart from that, his world wraps around three premises he’s engraved on his mind.

Number one, avocado is amazing. Number two, he’s head-over-heels in love with his gorgeous boyfriend. Number three, ghosts do not exist.

That’s enough for him. It’s simple, it works, and it’s pretty much everything he needs to know.

Of course, the aforementioned boyfriend seems to disagree with sixty seven percent of those statements, which makes Dream wonder how the hell they ended up together in the first place.

Then he remembers—George is perfect. Pretty, sweet, smart, funny, and one of the nicest people Dream has ever met.

He might kill anyone who tries to tell him otherwise, so it’s only fair he has to sit through a few ghost stories. He can handle it.

Besides, he enjoys the lighthearted arguments he and George have about everything—whether or not cold leftover pizza works for breakfast, in what forms tomatoes actually taste good, whether Celsius or Fahrenheit is a more accurate depiction of human interpretation of temperature and more of the sort. Yeah, they don’t get bored.

And Dream loves it. At this point, he throws around unpopular opinions only to hear George ramble on for several minutes about how wrong he is, making a bigger deal out of it than it’s meant to be. Then, when he realizes he’s fallen for the same trick, Dream kisses him. And George is more than okay with his boyfriend making up excuses to look at him with heart eyes and not listen to a single word he’s saying.

They are okay. More than okay, they are good. That is what happens when your lover is also your best friend.

So Dream starts today’s argument: the alleged presence of ghosts in an abandoned Irish prison George visited this weekend.

“So,” he begins, once the stories about the hotel and tourism start running short. “How was the ghost hunting or whatever?”

George squints at his tone before rolling his eyes. A defying smirk settles on his face. “It was actually good, kinda scary.”

“Well, I mean. You’re a pussy,” he pokes, earning himself a kick on the shin under the table. “Ow!”

“Idiot,” he retorts. “We did something called the Estes method. And I was the receiver. It was cool.”

“The receiver?” he wheezes and George’s eyes snap open. “I mean, to be fair, you usually are, but—” His sentence is cut short by another kick on his leg, harder this time. “Ow, don’t do that! It’s not my fault you bottomed for a ghost, George.”

“That’s not— Oh, my God. That’s clearly not what that means. I didn’t have sex with a ghost, you idiot!” he says back and it’s the ridiculousness of it all that makes Dream laugh again.

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed it, anyway,” he shrugs once he’s done. “Would’ve missed me.”

George’s cheeks are a dark red when he shakes his head. “Can we stop talking about this?”

“Fine,” he sighs. “What is it then? Being a bottom— I mean, receiver,” he corrects himself, but George knows he did it on purpose. “What does it mean?”

“Don’t act like you care,” he dismisses. Dream reaches out for his hand and thumbs at it sweetly. George’s lips curl up in a smile against his will and his eyes glow for a split second.

It makes Dream’s heart jump.

“I’m sorry,” his voice sweetens. “Of course I do, baby. I love listening to you,” honesty makes George’s cheeks grow a soft shade of pink. He’d sit through hours of dumb ghost stories, if only to see that smile on him again. “Go on.”

He hesitates for a second, but he eventually keeps talking after a deep sigh. “Okay. It’s this thing with sensory deprivation or something,” he explains. “I had a handkerchief to cover my eyes and noise cancelling headphones switching through channels. Colby would ask questions and I’d hear the spirits’ answers in my ears and say them out loud.”

“They, like, talked to you?” he asks, slightly more interested.

“Not to me, specifically, but all of us. They’d answer their questions but I wouldn’t know what they were, because of the headphones. It’s supposed to make it seem more genuine and easier to focus. It’s like meditating.”

Dream smiles, poking with curiosity but still a bit skeptical. “How does that even work? Do ghosts have, like, a podcast or something?”

“Oh my God,” George groans and drags his free hand down his face. “Dream.”

“What? I’m just asking!” He feigns innocence. His boyfriend flicks him in the forehead. “Stop bruising me!”

“Oh, okay, then. Noted,” he retorts with a smirk, leaning back on his chair. Dream bites his lower lip.

“No, that’s not—” he cuts himself off with a groan and his boyfriend laughs playfully. “Whatever, freak. Keep going,” he asks. “Did you see white blankets and chains floating around?”

“They don’t look like that,” he deadpans, and Dream sits more straight.

“Oh,” he raises an eyebrow. “How are they, then?”

“Just, like… a blur, I guess. Like this skinny, tall shadow with glowing eyes. It sounds stupid, I know,” he shrugs it off and Dream doesn’t want to contradict him. “Sam told me they’re not always like that, though. Sometimes you can have, like… an attachment, or something like that. And sometimes they’re just demons, or you don’t see them at all.”

Dream hums and nods, puckering his lips. “What’s an attachment?”

“They, like, follow you around. Sam used to have one, a little girl he found somewhere, I think. It can be a relative or friend watching over you, too. I don’t know. It depends, I guess,” he explains and shrugs again. “It was a cool experience.”

“So you see ghosts now?” Dream asks in a superficial tone before leaning back on his chair.

“Yes, love. In fact, there’s one behind you, right now,” he ironizes. Dream fakes out an exaggerated gasp and turns around. “Ha. Made you look.”

Dream giggles playfully and looks back at his boyfriend. “Idiot. Tell me more. Do mermaids follow you around too? And unicorns? Any other made up creatures?”

“Dream,” he groans, amused. “I am telling you, I saw one.”

“You were, like, drunk, or something. Ghosts are literally not real, baby,” he tries to have the last word as he gets up from his chair and picks up the empty plates to drop them off at the sink.

George follows him. “They are!” he insists and wraps his arms around Dream’s waist, hugging him from behind. “Why don’t you believe me?” he whines. Dream turns around to face him and kisses his forehead.

“I’m sorry, baby,” another kiss. “I do, I believe you.”

“You don’t.”

“I just like teasing you,” he smiles against his head before pulling away and looking straight into his eyes. “I know you wouldn’t lie to me, I just— don’t think ghosts are real. Not until I see one, I guess,” George squints. “Is that okay?”

“Fine,” he grants, before leaning in to hover his mouth over Dream’s lips. “But I missed you. D’you believe that?”

“Yeah?” Dream mumbles, reluctant to close the gap between them. “How much?”

“Take me to the bedroom and I’ll show you,” he asks, voice low as he clings to his boyfriend’s neck.

Dream bites his lip before taking him in his arms and doing as told.

There are only so many things that truly matter. You can count them with the fingers of one hand, and Dream was lucky to realize that very early in his life. He enjoyed his and George’s relationship to the fullest, and had the best years of his life with the person that got the best of him.

But, suddenly, things he thought he knew started flickering. So much has changed over the past few months that his life has been full of question marks, wonders, anxiety and anticipation.

Dream never thought he’d be buying a Spirit Box.

There are many things Dream never thought would happen. But they did, and he has to roll with it.

He sighs deeply before taking the device out of its package. It’s small, smaller in his hands. It looks like a radio. Sam and Colby taught him how to use it. Warned him, too. That it might not work, that it might work too well. That he might lose himself.

But George has been dead for a year, and he has nothing to lose. Not anymore.

He turns it on, white noise instantly making the alarms in his brain go off.

He complains to himself for a while, only tiptoeing around what he’s about to do. Everything that he’s called stupid and surreal over the years is now laying on his bed, mocking him for questioning his convictions etched in fire after his whole world turned into ash.

But he hadn’t done what everyone expected. He hadn’t soaked in anger or sadness or frustration. He hadn’t locked himself into his house and ghosted everyone. He hadn’t tried to do all the things their friends were afraid he would.

There’s something about George’s death that never clicked for him.

Which is stupid, because George is dead.

He knows that.

But an acute feeling deep down in his soul told him that it wasn’t just it. It couldn’t be it.

At first, he thought it might’ve been the denial stage of grief going on for longer than usual, but it’s not. This is different, he can tell.

And it’s not that things didn’t essentially change, because they did. He lives alone now. He cooks for one and eats in silence. He took a break from streaming from which he still hasn’t fully come back. (He wants to, but no one expects him to. He’s not sure how to do it without him.)

Some things, however, stayed the same. Dream still sleeps on his reserved side of the bed and leaves George’s chair empty. He dusts his office every once in a while. He speaks into the air, hoping he’ll listen.

George’s presence lingers.

Since the first day, he was overcome by a sense of warmth, flames lighting around his stomach in a reassuring way. It’s not burning, not hurting. It’s comforting, protective, like wrapping himself in blankets after going back home from the cold.

It’s like George somehow lives inside him, like a guardian angel, guiding him through every step he takes. Like him dying wasn’t the big thing. Like there’s some other thing coming.

Dream doesn’t know what the other thing is.

And he tried everything.

Except this.

He has to try this. However stupid it sounds or even if it goes against everything he’s always stood up for, he has to give it a go. He won’t forgive himself if he doesn’t.

He braces himself, takes a few deep breaths, and closes his eyes for a second. His conviction flickers, but the fire fuels him.

Here goes nothing.

“Hey,” he mutters into the cold air of his bedroom, cringing as soon as the word leaves his mouth. He feels ridiculous. “George,” he calls, fingers tapping on his knee.

He only gets static.

Obviously, his brain rings.

But he keeps going.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, or whatever,” he snorts, tilting his head back. “Uhm… Say— Say something if you do, I guess.”

Dream waits patiently. Ten seconds, fifteen, half a minute.

His hope and shoulders drop down with a tired sigh. He’s never been highly instructed in the art of patience, so after a minute of what can only be considered a very ironic and literal form of radio silence, he starts feeling bored.

“Talking to a ghost is no fun,” he spills into nothingness, thinking he must look pretty damn crazy from the outside.

If anyone was watching him, they’d think he’s finally lost his fucking mind.

“This is dumb,” he spits between gritted teeth, pinching the skin on his thigh.

The realization of what he’s doing seems to tug at his sanity one more time in a very raw form. Calling out for his dead boyfriend in an empty room seems like the biggest step towards madness he’s ever taken, let alone actually waiting for an answer from him.

He grabs the device with his mind firmly set on turning it off and forgetting that any of this ever happened.

Luckily, he’s used to things not going his way.

“Hi.”

Dream stops in his tracks.

There’s no fucking way.

It was a woman’s voice, faint and slightly cut out. He looks at the device and squints, a deep frown growing on his face.

“Uhm— Hi?” he echoes, searching around for anything else that could have made that noise. Really, anything. “How, uhm— Who’s that?”

Dream’s breath is stuck in his lungs, pressing hard against his chest in a way that maximizes the sound of his heartbeat. He can hear it in his ears, deafening to anything else.

The channels keep switching, giving him a second to think.

There has to be an explanation, a logical explanation, one that doesn’t cause his confused brain to meltdown.

There has to have been a stream of air, a rebellious branch outside his window, or his cat—

“Dream.”

Oh, hell, no.

He throws the radio onto the mattress and gets up hurriedly, pulling his own hair and starting to walk frantically around his room. His blood runs insanely fast through his veins, making him feel dizzy. His brain is suddenly overflowing with a rising tide of thoughts he didn’t even know he was holding back in the first place.

But there has to be an explanation, right?

This isn’t happening, that thing did not just say his fucking name.

This is not happening.

He swallows hard a few times before squatting next to his bed, breath deep and unstable. “Are you— Is this—” a sigh. If figuring out the right words was a harder task before, this right here is downright impossible. Every question seems to be an inappropriate one. “Am I— talking to someone?”

He’s met with static again. The time between question and answer feels infinite, even if it can’t be longer than a couple of seconds.

“Yeah.”

Dream’s eyes fall shut.

He presses them, digging fingers into his temples as his chest goes up and down. His brain hasn’t been this loud in years.

“I’m— Okay. Who— Who am I talking to?” he asks, careful, a hint of hope staining his voice.

This time, the answer is instant.

“You know.”

And it hits him like a truck.

He loses balance and falls backwards, hissing when his knee hits the bed. He leans to rest his weight on his elbows as the radio keeps switching through channels.

Breathing has never been so hard. A lump sits uncomfortably in his throat and his eyes burn with a growing desire to cry like a newborn.

Was he really so wrong?

Months of living in auto-pilot finally caught up to him. He feels like, no matter how hard he tries, things will keep falling apart around him and there’s nothing he can do to fix them.

Dream has always been great at shifting, adapting, rolling with every punch the Universe throws at him. But now blows come from every angle, and there’s only so much he can do to avoid them.

The head-piercing noise coming from the device scares his thoughts away, along with some of his fears. He arms himself with courage and decides that the war with his own ego has to end today.

It’s what George would have wanted, anyway. Seeing him so far away from his comfort zone would have put a shiny grin on his face, he’s sure.

“Okay, well,” his voice comes out strained. He clears his throat and swallows the lump down. “This is happening. I’m talking to a— ghost.”

As he says that, something soft brushes against his ankle. He sits up so fast that he almost hurts his neck, jolting and biting back a scream.

When he looks down, he’s greeted with the most embarrassing thing he could have thought of.

It was fucking Patches.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he tells her, grabbing her and bringing her close to his chest. “Don’t do that.”

He finally hears voices again. “That’s— sad.”

Dream blinks.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles to himself before trying to regain composure. This is still too new for him. “What? Are you, like, watching me?”

“I am.”

“Well, that’s not creepy,” Dream scoffs. He shifts in his place to rest against the side of the bed, relaxing ever so slightly.

He resolves that being himself will make things slightly easier. George could be catalogued as the only ghost he believes in, and if he’s still anything like he was before, he won’t mind Dream messing with him.

If this is some other idiot he’s talking to, they can fuck off or haunt him for all he cares. It might spice his life up a little bit.

“Okay, so,” he starts again, breathing out all his nervousness along with the air he’s been holding for the past few seconds. “Who is this? Just to make sure.”

It takes a few seconds, but when it comes, it sounds like music.

“Love.”

Dream actually smiles.

He remembers Sam telling him how the spirit would pick the most accurate words he could find to answer. He told Dream how he couldn’t ask really hard or specific questions, and how even with fairly simple ones, understanding the meaning behind a reply might be a bit tough and require some thinking.

But the ghost saying love after being asked about his identity seems pretty straightforward to him.

“Okay,” he acknowledges in a softer tone. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

Dream tilts his head back to rest it on the mattress in a more relaxed position. “How long have you been here?”

He figures this one will take a bit longer. He pets Patches’ hair while he waits, patient and calm with a newfound sense of security.

“Forever,” it says, finally.

“Since you died?” he asks again, wondering if George has been spying on him for a year now in this exact room. Amusement causes the corner of his lip to curl up involuntarily.

“Before,” it corrects him. And then it repeats, “forever.”

It makes sense, Dream thinks, to say he’s been here before dying. After all, this was his room, too.

The word forever still rings confusing.

He thinks of a different question. “Are you here because— you can’t leave?”

His own question causes his heart to twitch. He’s fairly scared of that answer.

When a minute goes by, he thinks he might not get any, so he opens his mouth to ask something else.

“Sometimes,” it interrupts. “It’s— hard.”

That was three different voices. Dream frowns, even more confused than before.

“So you can leave?”

“Yeah.”

Patches purrs against Dream’s chest and he looks down at her. She’s looking intently at the empty space next to him, causing a crazy idea to shoot through Dream’s mind.

“Then why do you stay?” he asks, voice low, while slowly turning his head to that side, too.

His stare is heavy, trying hard to make something out—some shape, outline, light. Anything will do.

He thinks he’s asking for too much.

It speaks again. “Dream.”

He suddenly loves the simplicity of his chosen name.

“I miss it in your voice,” he whispers, reaching a hand out to his side and letting it rest on the floor like it would on George’s thigh. “I don’t even know what I’m doing. I don’t know if this is real, in any shape or form, but—” he cuts off when an unwanted whimper makes his voice unbearably thin. “Thank you,” he forces out. “Even if I’m making all this shit up in my head, I— I’m glad it happened.”

“Love. Dream.”

The first tear rolls down his cheek, dying in the corner of his lip. “Still love you. And miss you, so much.”

“Bye.”

Dream exhales his pride and turns back towards Patches, who’s looking up at him with big eyes and a tilted head. He drags a hand through her head and grants her a faint smile.

“You’re leaving?” he asks, tasting the bittersweet in his understanding as soon as it leaves his mouth.

“Bye,” it says. “Dream.”

He nods, raising his hand to wipe a second tear away from his cheek. Or a third one.

“Night, George,” he croaks, hurt and meaningful, pouring every last drop of his melted heart into those two words.

He reaches out to grab the device and finally turns it off.

It took everything in Dream’s power to get up from the floor and into his bed.

Every word from the conversation he just had rings in his ears, playing and replaying itself like a broken record, as some form of self-torture. He wishes he knew how to turn it off, how to lull himself to sleep and leave this day behind. Not because he wants to forget it, but for the urge of feeling normal again.

The fire that burns low in his stomach was fed a thousand times today, until it reached his throat. The last words he pronounced still press against it, choking him, keeping him from uttering any new ones.

The remnants of his stray tears have dried on his skin, and he doesn’t feel the need to wipe them away. Instead, he tucks himself under the covers and breathes in the fragrance that impregnates the fabric, some dumb jasmine thing that George liked to spray before going to sleep.

For the first time in a year, when he turns to his side and sees the empty space next to him in the bed, he doesn’t feel alone. It’s just as heartbreaking as the first time, but if today’s episode is anything to go by, he can rest peacefully knowing that George is okay.

Well, as okay as you can be when you are dead. Which, to be fair, isn’t setting such a high bar.

He turns to his other side, where the Spirit Box rests on top of his nightstand. He wonders if he’s ever going to use it again, and decides he probably isn’t. There’s not much else he can do with it, anyway. It’s not like he can have a full conversation with George or ask him dumb questions about being dead that only they would enjoy. Hell, it’s not even George’s voice that he hears. There’s no point obsessing over something so uncertain and superficial.

He has, however, developed a newfound respect for the things he doesn’t understand. He can live a happy life without looking for hidden meanings or rationalizing everything he sees.

It took George dying and talking to him through a radio for Dream to realize that.

The thought is raw and reverberates inside him in a way that makes him feel guilty, a bitter taste on his tongue forcing him to close his eyes and take a deep breath before swallowing it down. He doesn’t have to keep his obscure confessions in his stomach, because the fire will take care of them.

He sighs, slightly more content as he shifts his position in the bed to make himself comfortable. He reaches a hand to George’s side and pats the mattress, lips curling up in a shy smile when he thinks of the last night they slept there together.

He knows he will never stop missing his boyfriend, but the pain has shaped itself into a dearly stored memory, worth more than anything Dream owns, and keeper of every last drop of all the love he got left with and didn’t know where else to put. Wherever George is, whatever he’s doing, with or without a Spirit Box, he will always be the main object of Dream’s affection.

With that thought in mind and his heartbeat spelling George’s name, Dream finally gives in and lets himself fall into the arms of Morpheus.

This has never been an easy task for him. His loud and hard-working brain usually makes inhumane efforts to keep him awake at unreasonable hours, shooting around distracting images and ideas and reminding him of every mistake he’s ever made.

Falling asleep is always a long process, especially since he doesn’t have George’s soothing presence to guide him through it while slim fingers run through his hair.

It’s gotten exponentially harder.

But, luckily, it’s not all bad. When he can finally allow himself to find peace, or is physically too tired for his head to even try and mess him up, he accesses a little world he enjoys a lot more.

Since he, somehow, got mostly rid of his childhood nightmares, his dreams have been a lot more comforting and sweet than real life ever could. It’s the only time of day when he thinks he could actually live inside his mind, shielded from the unforgiving battlefield that is the outside. Dream has such a great time when he’s asleep that he thinks it’s only fair that he struggles so much to achieve it.

This time, he’s standing in his bedroom, facing the full-length mirror on his wall. He looks at his reflection and it looks back at him with the same curious expression. He tilts his head to the side and squints, wondering what’s special about this particular scene.

When he lines himself up to glance at his bedside table through the glass, he can’t help but notice that the Spirit Box is nowhere to be seen. It’s rather interesting, considering how the last few hours of his real life revolted around it in a life-changing experience.

He wonders if he would be better off if he hadn’t bought the device in the first place. He wonders if this is his brain’s way of telling him so.

He decides to sit on the floor, right in front of the mirror, and stare deep into his own eyes. Their green is washed, more shallow than he remembers. The loving spark that was so characteristic of him is now gone, too.

He moves to study the rest of his face, the path his neglected freckles trace all the way down to his neck, his chest, his stomach. Constellations turn his body into a masterpiece and he is, yet again, reminded of the only person who got to admire it.

Dream, with his light brown dots and his lifeless eyes guarded by long eyelashes, looks exactly the same as ever. It would be comforting if it wasn’t so jarring.

He’s hit with the sudden realization that nothing has really changed.

“It’s silly,” he whispers, talking at the version of himself that the glass gives back, with light weighted words meant for someone else. “I always thought that, if ghosts suddenly happened to be real, you’d haunt me every single day. Just for the meme.”

He smiles to himself, turning around and staring at the empty room.

“I bet you would’ve,” he assures, agreeing with himself. Words slip thin into the air before a thicker fog falls on him. “At least that way I’d get to see you again.”

An all too familiar scoff resonates in his ear, and it takes him one split second to turn back around and look at the reflection again. As his heart speeds up to the hundred, he tries intently to find something—anything—that will serve as an explanation.

He’s still alone.

This is a dream, he reminds himself. That should be enough.

A vague expression of disappointment pierces his face before he can even process it. He purses his lips and exhales loudly, reaching a hand out to place it on the cold surface.

“I miss you,” he mutters, so low under his breath that he can barely even hear it himself. But he knows it’s enough, to spill it like that into the Universe.

“Why’re you always so sentimental?” a sweet voice speaks behind him, teasing tone molding the edges of the question carefully and in a rather characteristic way.

Dream’s breath hitches in his throat and he has to blink a few times before being able to grasp whatever it is that just happened.

Because he’s sure this time, that it was undoubtedly his voice.

“George?” Dream dares ask, heat pooling in his stomach and blood pumping behind his eyes. The growing flames around his gut have risen and hugged his heart, holding it tightly as it pounds to the beat of a lullaby.

“Insulting me beyond the grave,” he jokes, and Dream swears he hears an eye roll. “I thought you loved me.”

A big and shiny smile grows on Dream’s lips. This is the first time he’s dreamt about George like this. It’s not a memory or a previous dream; it’s just a talk in a shared, familiar space, about recent events, and sensitive to the fact that they’re no longer on the same plane of existence.

It feels closer, real, and it’s everything Dream could have asked for.

“How’re you doing this?” he asks softly, smiling into the air like he knows George is watching.

“Ghost privileges,” the answer comes straight into Dream’s right ear so he looks that way, wondering if he will get anything more than sounds. George laughs, and it’s everywhere. “‘M not there, idiot.”

Dream scoffs. “Well, I can’t see you.”

“What took you so long?” he asks instead of replying as Dream goes up to sit on the bed.

He frowns lightly. “What d’you mean?”

“We talked on that dumb walkie-talkie thing, like, hours ago. You couldn’t sleep?”

Dream drinks George’s voice and it tastes sweet like caramel and warm like cocoa. He feels overwhelmed by so much love dripping inside him in the form of honey after such a long time of abstinence. Taking in the whole situation made it almost impossible to get George’s words through his brain to come up with a coherent answer.

“Wait, you—” he starts but trails off, dragging a hand through his face and hair. He shakes his head clear. “You told me to come here?”

George’s scoff is disbelieving. “Are you dumb? Baby, I literally told you to sleep and dream. How did you not get that?”

Dream’s jaw falls. He can hear his brain working to put the pieces together, and then—

Oh.

Oh.

George was telling him to go to sleep. He wasn’t saying his dumb name, he was asking him to meet him in his dream, where he can talk freely.

He knows Dream is a lucid dreamer, and this is the best he can give him.

And his stupid boyfriend was crying in his room, thinking he had left him.

It’s the perfect epitome of their life together.

A giggle escapes his lips, and then another one, and then a full-on laugh. George shares it with him.

“You’re such an idiot,” George mumbles, allegedly shaking his head, infinite amounts of fondness falling from his mouth next to the words.

“Well, in my defense, my name is literally Dream. You have to know how misleading that is.”

“Why would I say your dumb name? I called you love, remember?” as he says this, Dream’s cheeks grow warmer. From the corner of his eye, he catches a curtain moving.

“Was that you? By the window?” he questions shyly, tapping nervous fingers on his thing. George giggles.

“Yeah,” he admits. “‘M right here.”

The mattress sags next to him, and Dream’s heart does a backflip. He looks at the spot, trying to catch an outline or any other visible difference, but he gets nothing. He realizes he has chills, and his body feels warmer next to where George’s is supposed to be.

“I wanna see you,” he asks into the air, hoping it sounds more curious than desperate. “Please.”

George’s sigh is light weighted, reassuring. “Okay, fine, but only a second. We have rules, you know?”

Dream gifts him a soft laugh, one he has always reserved for him, and him only. He’s happy to finally be able to use it again. “Oh, you do? You have, like, a ghost rulebook or something?” he asks, and as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels a slight pinch on the back of his arm. “Ow!”

“I can still haunt you, love,” George threatens in that way he always did to get things his way. It always works. “Stand in front of the mirror.”

Dream walks and looks at himself. He looks brighter now, curious, trusting. He smiles softly to his own reflection, and remembers what everyone told him about George suiting him. He gets it.

After a few seconds, he feels a new weight fall on his shoulder and press, soothing. “Is that you?” he asks dumbly, mesmerized.

George’s voice comes from behind. “No, just some other ghost who’s visiting.” A weak silhouette appears besides Dream’s reflection, and his eyes start burning when his smile reaches them. “Of course it’s me, idiot.”

The image starts making itself out. Beautiful and soft-looking brunette hair, a small and shorter figure glowing next to him, and the single hand pressed to his shoulder. Dream feels like sitting on the floor in a ball and crying tears of joy for a whole day.

It’s weak, semi-transparent, but it’s George. It’s his George.

“You were a lot nicer before, I must say,” he jokes with a strained voice, and it makes him nostalgic. George smiles back through dimensions, making Dream’s heart ache and cheer at the same time. “I miss you so much, baby.”

He rests his chin on his own hand, face right next to his boyfriend’s. “I never left you. I’m right here.”

Dream raises his hand shakily and tries to stroke George’s hair. He remembers it like it was yesterday, the feeling of soft strands against his neck, his mouth on his jaw, his hands on his hips. George’s touch lingering on his skin is something he will never get rid of. Not that he ever wants to.

His heart twitches when his hand goes through, but he tries not to show it with his face. “You’re not, though,” he mutters in a neutral voice, and George’s lips press together.

“Just because you can’t touch me, doesn’t mean I’m not here,” he whispers. “Don’t be so greedy. You’re listening and looking at me.”

Dream knows he’s right. He swallows tears and an unfounded bitter sentiment that was forming on his tongue. “I know, I’m so— grateful for that,” he smiles at his boyfriend’s reflection, and George squeezes his shoulder once. “Y’know what I mean, though. I just— I wanna touch you.”

“Oh,” George looks up and pulls a thinking face. When he looks back at Dream, he’s biting back a smirk. “Well, jerk off or something.”

The joke lands, making Dream want to facepalm himself. “George!” he scolds, getting a glowing giggle in return. “You’re such an idiot. You know that’s not—”

“Okay! Sorry,” he cuts him off, raising his other hand to touch Dream’s forearm. He can see in the mirror how strong the grip is, but in reality, he feels nothing more than a tickle. “I know what you mean, I— This is the best I can do.”

“It’s enough,” he’s quick to assure, flashing him an honest smile laced with as much sentiment as he can manage. “It’s more than enough, baby, this— This is incredible.”

“I miss you too, y’know?” George asks, innocently, causing Dream’s heart to cheer and thrive. If his smile is anything to go by, he notices.

“Thank you for this,” he grants again with a confident nod, and George’s smile widens.

“Look at that,” he tells him as he points his head towards the open window.

When Dream follows the motion, a dark brown bird perches on the windowsill. It’s small, and has big deep brown eyes. Dream smiles and it flaps its wings, chirping gleefully for a few seconds before leaving the same way it came.

“Ghosts have too much power,” he jokes, shaking his head. “You just kidnapped that poor little bird.”

“I did not kidnap it, what the hell?” he retorts, looking at him incredulously through the glass. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You— You birdnapped it!” he keeps teasing, watching as the expression on his boyfriend’s face grows warmer. “And then you, like, used the Imperio curse against it to bring him here, that’s messed up.”

George’s jaw falls, so many funny emotions clearly readable on his face—fondness, amusement, disbelief. Dream tries as hard as he can to keep composure. “I know you didn’t just use Harry Potter against me, Clay.”

Mirth runs through Dream’s veins as his head falls back with the loud laugh he lets out. The way his heart jumps in its cavity gives him enough fuel to stay giddy for a long time, and the pure and honest amusement in George’s shiny eyes could finally lead him to his downfall.

He feels an urge tugging at his throat, arms being drawn to hug his boy and hide his face in his neck. He shakes his head and tells himself that he can’t, but that’s okay.

For the longest time, they couldn’t, and they were okay.

“Why didn’t you come before?” he asks, prickling curiosity letting the question go after much spinning inside his brain.

“I needed you to look for me first,” George shrugs, flashing him the same soft smile as always.

Dream squints, innocent. “Why?”

“Because I wanted you to believe. I wanted to talk to you and not have you think that your stupid brain was making me up to fill a void or something,” he explains, and Dream sees it in his eyes, how long he’s been thinking about this. It pokes him a little bit. “I needed you to know that— y’know, it was real.”

“I probably would have realized…”

“No, you wouldn’t,” he cuts him off with no bite. “I know you’re not even sure right now, but I— I missed you too much, I just wanted to see you. Wanted you to see me, actually.”

“But why now, George?” he asks again, gaze not leaving his boyfriend’s for a split second. George’s smile is in his eyes.

“Because you bought the Spirit Box,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You opened yourself up to the possibility. One year ago, you wouldn’t even consider it.”

Dream nods slowly, lips curling up into a comprehensive little smile. “I can be a bitch sometimes.”

“Tell me about it,” he jokes and they both chuckle, heart eyes fixed on one another. “Good thing you’re out of your ass now.”

“Okay, George,” he rolls his eyes playfully. George’s gesture falters, but Dream’s happiness doesn’t. “You have to go?”

“I kinda do, yeah,” he confesses, not even reacting to the fact that Dream just basically read his mind. It’s not new. “It’s hard for me, you know? To just— appear. Takes up energy.”

Dream nods, understanding. “Figured.”

“Yeah, ‘m sure you did. You didn’t even believe in me two hours ago,” he pokes as a lighthearted joke, but the smile his boyfriend gives him is nothing short of profound.

“I’ve always believed in you,” he tells him, a hypnotic green stare piercing through chocolate eyes. “You’re the one thing I’ve always known, actually. Everything else is— secondary.”

George’s smile widens, and Dream notices he doesn’t feel the touch on his shoulder and arm anymore. He really does have to go. “It’s been like that.”

He blooms. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“You just did,” he sighs and shakes his head, like he’s sorry. Dream pushes a grin and George’s face softens. “Fine, one more. I want to share my knowledge with the kids.”

“Shut up,” his laugh comes out wet and airy, and he can finally acknowledge the thin path that tears have been tracing on his cheeks. “Earlier, on the Spirit Box… You said something about being here forever.”

“That’s not a question, love,” he dismisses, but the intent curiosity he gets through the mirror tells him that yes, it is. “Let’s just say that… this isn’t the first time we’ve done this,” he says, and it’s not an explanation more than it is a puzzle.

“What do you mean?”

“You and me, baby,” he tells him, soft and musical. “A little dying wasn’t gonna take us down. We’re soulmates,” he finally says, tapping fingers against Dream’s skin. He doesn’t feel it, but knows his touch so well that he can imagine them when he catches them in the reflection.

He doesn’t think he’s ever smiled this hard in his entire life. “Oh, are we?”

“Uh-huh,” he assures, pairing it with a nod. He tilts his head when he looks at Dream, all caring and ethereal in a way only he could. “We’ll find each other again.”

Dream tilts his head, too. His voice drops below a whisper. “How do you know?”

“Duh. I know everything,” he rolls his eyes, an obvious tone lacing his words. His face softens again before his final comeback. “Didn’t I tell you ghosts were real?”

Dream’s scoff is drowned by his love tears and he shakes his head. George, in any form, will always be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It only makes sense for them to fall in love repeatedly, letting forever tie them up in an unavoidable divine condemnation.

Dream is happy to acknowledge how wrong he was. At the end of the day, there’s only one thing that matters.

“Idiot,” he shoots, aimlessly. George would retort, but Dream beats him to it. “I love you so fucking much.”