George sat in the corner of his bed, staring at the book in his hands. The dried flowers he just found between the old, loosening pages were slowly drifting down onto his bed. Golden sun beams falling through the open window brought the smell of ancient paper to his nose, and with the subtle breeze came the memories of long forgotten days buried deep in his unconcious.

George had been acting unconscious for quite a while - some years by now, probably. He had lost track of time, unobservant of the strings he had been holding on to, cutting them one by one, unconsciously. Maybe subconciously.
The strings connecting him to his beloved ones had been getting stronger and stronger, until he cut a harsh stop to it.
He had always been distant from friends and family members, keen on keeping himself apart from the action, not letting anyone come closer than necessary to keep social contact.
The flowers though... they shook something awake in the pale boy. Suddenly shivering from the light wind, he got up and closed the window. With that, the smell of old books died down, and the now quiet room was darker and smaller than before.

The once bright red poppies on his white sheets were bridle when he picked them up. The now creamy white petals jittered, almost see-through and paper thin.
The boy that had collected them with George, the pale, sweet boy with gleaming, bright eyes, was lost. He was lost, and he was the only one that could have saved George.
He had thoughtfully stored away the memory of him, careful not to have them come back, and yet here he was, staring blankly at the poppies he and the boy had picked. Clay had been his name. George had always called him Dream though - he thought it fit him better. Turned out he was right, as it was a nightmare waking up without Dream one day.

The dull light that was reflected by the petals shimmered softly. It blurred when tears started to appear in George's eyes, a sob forming in his throat. He desperately tried to swallow it down, Dream was long gone and there was no reason to cry. A hot tear rolled down his cheek, his eyes squeezed tight, and he was careful not to crush the delicate flower in his fist.
"Dream... I miss you so, so much", George pressed out between sobs and clenched teeth.
He hadn't had a reaction like this in forever. He hadn't had a reaction in general, really. All he had been doing these last years was read and swap between worlds and realities and dimensions. Looking for Dream.

If that sweet boy was living somewhere, George would find him. Eventually. And maybe they would live together again.
George was falling without Dream, the security had been taken out of his life in just one night. It was a harsh way to learn not to get too close to anybody, and the lesson came a bit too late.
So now he was stuck and switching between feeling homesick, lovelorn, angry at himself for falling in love with Dream, angry at Dream for making George fall in love with him - and just plain emptiness. Nothing.

Shaking his head, George harshly wiped the tears of his face. There was no use in crying, there had never been, and the only thing that had happened was him now feeling even sadder than before. Now, that he had let himself actually feel.

He put the flowers back into the book, careful to lay them between the same pages they had dried in for years.
When George thought about it, about the whole finding-Dream-thing, he asked himself if it was really worth it. Why was he going on a hunt for a boy who could be anywhere? Maybe even wanted to be anywhere - any place where George wasn't? And if he found Dream? Would George really let himself be happy again? He hadn't let that happen for a while, cautiously holding himself back and his emotions in. Just in case.
And now, if he found Dream, it would hurt both of them.
No. George made his decision, no. He would not keep switching between worlds, looking for his boy. When he had to, he would rather be careful not to be seen, not to maybe even be found by Dream accidentally.

He closed the book. Walking to his shelf, he tied it up and stored it away behind all the other works he had written, so he wouldn't give in and look at the flowers again, or even consider switching again.

With a sigh, he drew the curtains and shut the world out.

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Jan 04/March 03 2021

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Jan 04/March 03 2021