Chapter Text
art by Void Pidgeon
The tale of the beast started like this: deep in the forest, between sharp peaks and serpentine valleys with rivers that glittered like the most precious diamonds, there was a castle cloaked by ancient magic. Nobody could recall anything about its master or if there had ever been one, but everyone knew about the thing that prowled inside its walls like a caged beast.
Some said he had once been a man, cursed to be unrecognizable by his kind, alone and trapped forever. Some that he had sold his soul to demons and became one in return. Others said that such evil could have never been human in the first place, that the beast was instead a nightmare, left behind a long time ago to haunt the earth. The only thing they all had in common was this: there was something in the castle trapped by magic, and that was more than enough reason for the townsfolk to keep away.
Magic was, after all, not to be trifled with.
Dream had learned that lesson way too late to be of any use.
The arrogance of his younger self had been his ruin. Left alone and grieving after his parents had been taken by the plague, his heart had blackened to the point of frostiness, leaving behind an unrecognizable version of the boy he had been before. Numbed by everything, it had been barely a month since their deaths when it happened – a month into his new reign, with land and people to care for that he simply could not be bothered to.
That night, it was raining. Cold seeped through the castle like fingers raking against the walls, unpleasant and unavoidable. Dream shivered in his furs, pulling the collar of his dress shirt up, and he had made up his mind to curl up in the library for the night when he heard banging on the door.
Despite the staff that lived in the castle, Dream still found himself drawn towards the sound. He was not expecting any visitors, so this had to be an emergency, right? Maybe it would prove to be the distraction he needed to escape the grief.
The door opened. Outside, a hunched figure stood, slowly walking towards the light of the hall.
“I seek refuge for the night,” the voice rasped, the woman’s face old and weathered like the gargoyles that perched on the roof of the castle. “I can offer you this rose as payment.”
A bud. Starkly white and yet to bloom, perfectly pristine in contrast to the frayed robes the old woman wore. If Dream closed his eyes, he could recall the smell of a thousand wreaths of those same damned roses clogging the air in the palace after the funeral rites had taken place. The sticky flowery smell had clung to his nostrils for weeks after, haunting him no matter how far he ran.
White, everywhere he looked.
“This is a worthless gift.” Dream’s tongue, sharpened by grief, rudely turned the woman away, voice echoing in the dark hall. “This place is already unsightly enough without you and your damned flower. Begone.”
Outside, the sky was cleaved by lighting – blinding white, terrifying – and in the time it took for him to blink, the old hag transformed into a regal woman, eyes dark like the storm.
Whitch, he thought to himself. Despite being on the cusp of adulthood, Dream had never encountered one in his life.
He felt the air shift with static, swooshing with an eerie noise as the woman took a step closer to him. Words uttered in another language reverberated inside his skull with perfect enunciation.
This will be a lesson, the woman’s voice crooned, an edge of delight hiding behind each syllable. The rose you scorned will bloom, but as soon as the last petal falls, your condition will be permanent.
Fear not, as I am not unjust. Earn another’s affection and care, and true love will break the spell. But – until you have found someone to love you as you are, you shall remain forever as a beast.
Dream fell to his knees from the force of the magic. It clung to him like slime, covering his pores and sinking deep under his skin. Claws spouted from his hand, sharp and dark as coals, and a searing pain in his temple made way for a pair of horns heavy enough to tilt his head forward, unbalanced. But the true shock came when Dream caught his reflection in the mirror: where once there had been a young man with freckled cheeks and a strong jawline, there was now a white oval mask in its place – with rounded edges, smooth as porcelain, weirdly cool to the touch. The eyes in the mirror didn’t blink when Dream did, remaining frozen in their neutral expression. His mouth was reduced to a single line, like a child’s first attempt at drawing a smile, and while he could feel the touch against his lips, he couldn’t see it, fingers phasing through the glamor cast on his face without altering anything.
Panic gripped his heart like a vice. He screamed. The mask stayed unmoving.
The years passed, an endless repetitive cycle of absolute nothingness. The castle inhabitants had also been caught under the dreadful curse in a twist that was almost as cruel as Dream’s own fate, caught in the crossfire because of the brashness of their young master: Puffy had been turned into a feather duster, Sam morphed to an oven; Skeppy had taken the form of coat hanger with all of its six arms, Bad and Sapnap turned into garden tools. All of the castle’s inhabitants transmorphed into sentient objects, bound to the castle in the same way he was. After the initial shock had worn off, though, Dream had been secretly relieved he wasn’t destined to bear the curse alone, even as guilt ate away at his heart when, as time went by, the servants started to feel more like friends than just employees.
It was a horrible thought, but Dream didn’t care. The curse had made him a monster, after all.
1
Once upon a time, Dream had been able to look in a mirror and see the same green eyes of his mother staring right back at him. It felt unnecessarily cruel that the witch had taken the last piece of her that he had.
He had lost count of the years since that fateful night, time moving in a different way than it did outside of the cursed walls of his home. No princess had ever come to his rescue.
Now, all the mirrors in the castle were covered, portraits torn up in a mad fury long ago, but the fire of Dream’s anger had eventually cooled down to the embers of resignation. He had tried venturing to the villages nearby and had only found scorn and fear, desperation making him cry pathetic tears on the way back to his gilded prison. No woman would ever be able to love a beast, simple as that. The curse was unbreakable.
The white rose was kept inside a glass dome in his bedroom, glowing softly in the dark, mocking him. More petals than Dream could be bothered to count had fallen already, and for as much as he tried to ignore it, there was no denying he was running out of time. He figured he had no more than a year to break the spell. He wondered if the pang in his heart could be considered relief.
A growl came from his empty stomach and he was pulled out of his reverie. Huh. Puffy was never late to come fetch him for dinner.
He pulled his robes tighter around his frame and stalked down the stairs, huffing in annoyance when he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Puffy would get an earful, that was sure – hungry Dream was a vicious creature, and he was ready to go on a spiel about her missing her duties to gossip with Sam when he caught faint traces of their conversation, the words giving him pause.
“... truly am sorry, but we cannot help you,” Sam’s voice was stern but not unkind. What was he talking about? “The master of the house has to allow guests.”
“I do not wish to disturb him at this late hour,” a stranger’s voice made itself known, the wisps of an accent clinging to the sharp vowels. “Please. I just need shelter for the night.”
The words had Dream’s hackles rising, way too familiar.
With a loud bang, he pushed the door to the kitchen open, making the stranger jump. The man was wearing a battered coat and had a rucksack hiked over his slim shoulder, hair mussed and wild. When Dream came forward, the stranger flinched but held his ground with a sort of dignity that surprised Dream. Not many people could withstand the dead eyes of his glamoured face.
“Who are you?”
A beat. “I’m George.”
George. Dream huffed. It wasn’t lost on him that George hadn’t given a last name nor a location he had come from, as it was customary, despite the fact that the accent betrayed a journey that hadn’t been that small. Dream cocked his head to the side, knowing how unnerving that could look.
“What are you doing here?”
George shrugged, appearing unaffected by Dream’s gesture. That earned him another morsel of respect, even if the man didn’t know Dream was keeping a tally of failed attempts at intimidating him. “I was planning on sleeping under the stars but there’s been a change of plans, my lord. Too many wolves roaming around in these woods.”
Dream huffed. What a dumb idea. Maybe George wasn’t anything other than a fool. “Are you not from here? Everyone knows the woods are dangerous.”
He watched the man fiddle with his overgrown fringe, eyes downcast, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “My village is a couple of weeks’ travel away. I’m not familiar with this land.” And before Dream could ask anything else, George’s eyes flitted back up. “So. Can I stay for the night? I promise I’ll be out of your hair come morning.”
The obvious answer would have been a resounding no, but there was no rain tonight – no blazing white light to blind him in grief – and he saw George for what he truly was: a wandering traveler lost in an unfamiliar land with nothing else to do but seek the kindness of a monster.
What a predicament.
The expected thing to do was to turn him away. Instead, Dream huffed and allowed Puffy to set up a room for the man.
There were quite a few things Dream had expected to happen the next morning. He had stayed up late, thinking about how it would feel to break fast with someone else after years of solitude at the abysmally long dining table. As aloof as Dream had grown, he was, at his heart, still curious, and he wondered if George would have any tales of his adventures he would like to share before going on his merry way. Curiosity brimmed in all corners of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to curb his enthusiasm, his heart at war with itself from the ever-present fear of being mistreated. Again.
George hadn’t seemed too scared of him, but Dream fought hard to keep his expectations to a minimum. Those first years after the curse had been the hardest for many different reasons, with constant rejection faring high on the list.
Instead of all the scenarios he had prepared himself to face – having come up with conversation starters that would surely entice the traveler enough to share a glimpse of the outside world with him –, Dream woke up with a crick in his neck from having fallen asleep after picking up a book to distract himself from his errant thoughts, the heavy tome lying open against his mussed sheets. His clothes felt itchy against his skin, the plumage that had replaced his hair a wild mess, and all the shoes he owned suddenly looked very drab and unbecoming of the master of the castle.
After much internal debate, he made his way down the stairs in a fouler mood than usual, mind made up to see his impromptu visitor out as quickly as possible. All of his happy disposition from the night before had been eaten away by the anxious worms crawling inside his stomach, and all he wanted to do was escape back into the deep recesses of the library to brood, manners be damned.
It wasn’t like his mother was still around to scold him anyway.
“Where is he?” was the first thing he mumbled once he stepped into the dining room, eyes roaming over the empty table with a frown no one could really see.
“I haven’t seen our guest yet,” Puffy said, primly dusting the chair Dream usually sat in. “Perhaps he’s still in bed? I’ll go make sure.”
She didn’t wait for an answer before she scurried off to check, only to come back to tell him that the bedroom was empty.
George was nowhere to be found.
Dream ate his breakfast with a heavy heart, wondering if he had managed to somehow scare the man off without even being in the same room as him – a new feat for sure, one he tried to reclaim as a good thing, only because the alternative would be too depressing.
After he was done, he stalked outside, shielding his eyes from the late summer sun. He wasn’t used to the outside anymore, not really. Since last winter, two petals had fallen off the rose, and with that, Dream had found himself more sensitive to both the sun and the heat, choosing to stay inside the cool interior of his prison. If he had been a more naive man, he wouldn’t have made the connection, but his mind had immediately started to wonder if besides being stuck in this wretched form, he would also be cursed to spend his life inside the safe darkness of the castle walls.
According to Sapnap, groundskeeper turned shovel, he had seen George walk into the hedge maze not even an hour ago, which was enough to dispel some of Dream’s worries.
“He’s probably still in there, you know how that thing is. Of course the kid got lost,” Sapnap shook his head, and Dream refrained from pointing out the irony of it. If he were a man, Sapnap would be the same age as Dream, but ever since being turned into a magical talking object, he had taken it upon himself to play it up like he was an old man instead, and while Dream didn’t quite get the appeal, he also didn’t interfere. God knew they all did their best to cope with the terrible situation Dream had plunged them all into.
So, with a nod, Dream walked into the maze, trying to listen to any signs that would give up George’s location.
He kept his palm pressed against the foliage like the hero from a story he remembered reading back when he was still a child, letting out a relieved breath when he heard the distinct noise of water flowing. After a couple more steps, the hedges opened into a clearing, a marble fountain sitting right in the middle of a small semi-circle of stone benches. A marble angel was holding a vase from where the water spilled, sparkling like diamonds that gurgled softly in the morning air, and there George sat, head slightly tilted up to look at the statue.
To Dream’s surprise, Patches was curled up on the man’s lap, big eyes tracking Dream’s movement as he approached them.
Dream made sure to kick a pebble on his way over, enough so the sound would alert George of his presence. The stars knew catching anyone by surprise with his appearance was a recipe for disaster.
“Oh, hello there,” George greeted as Dream sat down on the edge of the fountain, a good few feet away.
“What are you doing here?”
George shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Dream’s presence. He scratched behind Patches’ ear, sending her a fond little look. “I followed her. She’s pretty sweet.”
The cat purred, allowing him a few more scritches before she moved away, jumping from the man’s lap and rubbing against Dream’s leg. The attention was enough to make Dream smile, offering his hand for her to sniff. “Hi Patchy,” he greeted softly, mindful of his claws when she bumped her head against his fingers.
“Is that her name?” George asked and Dream shrugged, letting Patches settle onto his thigh.
“It’s Patches. She’s very nice, usually skittish with strangers.”
“Smart girl,” George said sagely. “I also swiped some salmon from the cook – Sam, right? He let me have it after I told him I’d seen a kitten wandering around.”
That did sound like Sam. Everyone was fond of Patches, but Sam’s soft spot for her was a mile wide. It was curious how most animals tended to avoid the castle, but Patches seemed unbothered by the magic permeating the air. She was special, and Dream loved her for it.
It was quiet for a few more moments until she had enough of Dream’s coddling and slipped away to investigate the trimmed hedges, making Dream aware of the silence hanging around them.
It didn’t last too long.
“I, huh – I was hoping we would have breakfast together.” Dream grimaced at how awkward he sounded, playing with the edge of his cape to have something to do.
While George did look a little chagrined, at least it wasn’t offense that twisted his eyebrows down. “Apologies, Your Highness. I got distracted following Patches to this place, that was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it?”
He looked genuinely apologetic, which in itself was a surprise. Dream had expected a flimsy excuse or a stammered half-lie, and the honesty was very much refreshing.
He smiled at the man, knowing it would go unseen. “You had good reason.”
“Still,” George’s lips thinned into a line, and he brought out a bundled napkin from his pocket. “Did you eat already? I have some fruit Sam gave to me.”
Despite his full stomach, Dream accepted it. The pears tasted sweeter than Dream expected despite his fumbling to eat through the mask – it was not something one could grow used to, no matter how many years it had been. The way food just phased through the ceramic surface was eerie, to say the least, made it even more so when George was sitting close enough to see it.
“She showed up last winter if I remember correctly,” he found himself saying, wishing to distract George from the uncouth display. “It was a relief when she wasn’t affected by the curse. All the other animals that wander in are very spooked by the magic that still hangs around this place.”
George’s curiosity was evident even when he tried to hide it, his next words easily predictable. “Is it rude to ask what exactly the curse is ?”
With a deep exhale, Dream looked away. “It’s not a happy tale, I’m afraid. Maybe it’s better left for dinnertime?”
George gave him a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but his small smile was almost relieved. “It’s a deal. I’ll make sure to not get distracted this time.”
Dream felt his chest fill with tentative happiness, the type that was harder to squash in bright daylight than it was in the darkness of his chambers. He focused on finishing his fruit, folding up the warm feeling of actually having a conversation with someone new and tucking it somewhere close to his heart. It had been so long. He could really use some company.
Patches climbed onto George’s lap again and purred, much to his delight and Dream’s surprise. With George’s attention solely focused on her, Dream felt himself relax against the bench, treacherous heart shielding the small little seed of hope taking root behind his ribs.
Maybe he could distract himself enough that he wouldn’t even notice when his time came. The fall of a rose petal was something soft, after all, practically noiseless. If Dream had enough going on in his life, maybe he would be able to miss it.
art by Linkat
2
“He’s… an odd one, isn’t he?” Dream murmured under his breath, watching George move the cutlery around the table like he was playing a game only he knew the rules of. A childhood of etiquette class had Dream’s fingers itching to sort everything the correct way, but he did his best to refrain. He did not want to spook his guest, especially over silverware. George was the only new thing that had happened in a very long time, and if he wanted to eat his steak with a damn spoon, Dream would not be the one to berate him for it. He would even offer him the biggest one they had to make it easier.
Puffy huffed a quiet laugh, her whole body moving with it. “Yup. Sure know how to pick ‘em, boss.”
“It’s not like I chose him,” Dream shrugged. “It’s not bad he showed up, right? At least it breaks the monotony for a little while.”
She nodded in agreement, smiling at their guest. When the food arrived, Puffy politely excused herself, leaving them alone with the wonderful feast spread in front of them.
Sam and the kitchen staff had outdone themselves this evening. The table was fully laid out with the castle’s finest china and sparkliest crystal glasses, tall pitchers of wine, and water placed along the center of the table. There were soup bowls with Sam’s famous stew, the aromatic spices filling the air, and trays of fresh greens and dried meat, with the same pears from the morning now adorning a delicate cake.
It was honestly a bit too much for only the two of them, but the look of wonder in George’s eyes once he had stepped into the room had been more than worth it. He was dressed in borrowed clothes Puffy had managed to track down, a simple white shirt and dark trousers that accentuated his slim build, and now, refreshed after a shower and without leaves tangled in his hair, he managed to look more regal than Dream himself. He ate with the ravenous hunger of someone who had probably been having a rough time out in the wilderness – no wonder, considering summer was a memory fading from the yellowing leaves – but there was grace to his movements, innate or trained Dream couldn’t yet know for sure.
They had been sitting in pleasant silence all during the entrée, George’s attention entirely devoted to the food, but after the main course was laid out, he seemed to finally have found space to talk.
“So. Tell me about the curse,” he asked without any sort of preamble, cutting into the meat and taking a small, careful bite. It surprised a laugh out of Dream, caught off guard by the man’s bluntness - so at odds with his delicate movements that it was almost a little endearing.
“You’re very direct, huh?”
George shrugged, shooting him a closed-mouth smile as an apology. “I’ve spent the whole day practically dying of curiosity. It’d be cruel to make me wait any longer.”
“Hm. Isn’t a beast supposed to be cruel?”
His words, while disguised under a veil of levity, still gave George pause. Dream watched him cock his head to the side and felt seen , somehow. A trick of the angle, for sure, but still – he couldn’t remember the last time someone had actually managed to, unknowingly as it was, catch his eye.
Surprisingly, it made Dream squirm in his seat a little.
“I don’t know. You don’t seem like a beast to me.”
George’s words were so unexpected – so kind – Dream wanted to flinch away.
“Are you blind?” he huffed, eyes falling to his claws. “I don’t like being made fun of, especially when I have done nothing to deserve it.”
“No beast would’ve offered a stranger such hospitality,” George replied without missing a beat, the sureness in his words making Dream look up to steal a peek. “Believe me when I tell you there is way worse outside the walls of this castle of yours.”
And that – George seemed to speak from experience, and Dream fumbled a little to imagine what could have happened to make him so wary.
Perhaps sensing Dream’s interest, George busied himself by grabbing a piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth, silently telling him to go on.
Fair enough, Dream supposed. George didn’t owe him anything.
“I was young when a witch came to the castle,” he started, trying his hardest to keep his mind from wandering off. “She was disguised as a beggar and I… let’s just say I wasn’t the most gracious towards her. She turned me into this as a punishment.”
Distantly, Dream realized this was the first time he had ever spoken out loud about that night. Everyone else had been there, and anyone he had met after didn’t bother to ask for details about his monstrous appearance. No wonder every word felt like nails scraping against a fresh wound. In a way, it still was.
Oblivious to his discomfort, George hummed in acknowledgment, swallowing delicately before opening his mouth. “Is there a way to break the curse?”
All curses can be broken. Wasn’t that how the saying went? No matter how powerful the magic, there was always a way out. In his case, it wasn’t even anything too complicated, the simplicity of the answer a cruel joke he was certain the witch reveled in.
Until you have found someone to love you as you are, you shall remain forever as a beast.
“True love,” he said mockingly, rolling his eyes behind the mask. “No princess could ever love me like this, so it’s a moot point, anyway.”
George furrowed his eyebrows. “Does it have to be a princess?”
“Mhn, it has to be, right? That’s how the stories usually go.”
As soon as he said it, Dream felt like a kid again, curled up at his mother’s side in the sunny little nook of the library, her voice painting images of magical forests and beautiful realms under the sea, tales of bravery, friendship, and the type of love that always came attached to a pretty princess and a guaranteed happy ending.
The memory left him feeling way too exposed, so he cleared his throat and took a deliberate sip of his wine, the bite of the alcohol grounding him in the present.
“Anyway. What about you? What made you choose a life of wandering around?” he said with a huff, a little careless in his rush to change the subject, and almost immediately regretted it, seeing how George’s shoulders rose up.
“Who says I chose it?”
“You didn’t?”
This time, it was George who took a measured sip from his wine, failing to meet Dream’s eyes – not an uncommon occurrence, so Dream tried not to feel too disappointed.
“It’s late. I wouldn’t want to keep you up, Your Highness. Maybe…” Here, George stopped, eyes flitting back and forth between the tablecloth and Dream’s face, visibly uncomfortable. “Can we talk about this another time? Maybe over breakfast?”
So you’re staying? Dream bit back his question. His gut told him George was way too stubborn to ask for asylum two nights in a row, and Dream couldn’t fool himself into thinking he would be okay with losing his company so soon – not if George wanted to stay.
“Now who’s the one being cruel?” he tried to joke, a concept so foreign to him that he immediately cringed after the words left his mouth, feeling silly for having even tried it.
He cleared his throat, taking pride in how George’s tense shoulders relaxed, as small as the movement was. Tapping his foot against the carpet, Dream made a conscious effort to slow down his thoughts, only so his words wouldn’t come out a garbled mess of excitement. “Very well. I expect to see you at the table bright and early. Patches usually comes to find me after, so no spoiling her breakfast with salmon again.”
The grin George shot him was small, bright like the evening star. Dinner resumed quietly, an unexpected, delicate type of happiness blooming inside Dream’s chest. The long trek back up to his chambers passed in a blur, and, for once, he was looking forward to what the next day would bring.
3
Despite his promise, it seemed like George wanted to talk about anything but the reason why he had left home.
He skirted around the subject with the delicate grace of a ballet dancer. During breakfast, he smiled politely, bowed, and stuffed his mouth full of French toast and syrup. He complimented Sam’s cooking and engaged Puffy in conversation, and Dream let him, trying to smother the curiosity bubbling up his chest. He wasn’t known for his patience, but George’s bright laughter was so infinitely better than the gloom he was used to that Dream found himself at a loss for what to do with it.
Much like the little rats that hung out in the deep recesses of the castle cellar, Dream had grown used to the darkness, to the solitude of his inescapable fate. He couldn’t remember the last time he had put effort into making himself presentable – for what did it matter, since no princess ever came to the castle anyway. Now, faced with someone so normal, someone who called him Your Highness and who held himself tall and gracious despite his commoner status, Dream was acutely aware of the stain that marred his left pant leg, as well as the missing buttons of his shirt.
Those thoughts started to plague Dream, made even more acute by how effortlessly George engaged everyone around him. While usually most of the castle’s workers would keep to themselves and avoid Dream’s foul moods, now they seemed to go out of their way to introduce themselves to George, to offer him cheery good mornings and practically trip over themselves to accompany him places inside the castle grounds.
It became so grating that Dream excused himself from the table before he had even finished eating, the weight of his shortcomings making him hunch in on himself. George shot him an apprehensive look that only helped in making Dream feel even more self-conscious, scurrying out of the room in haste.
He had Skeppy run him a bath, pacing the tiled floor of his bathroom with nervous energy until it was ready. The water was nice and warm, and in a bout of energy he hadn’t felt in a long while, Dream added a bunch of scented oils to it, lavender and honeysuckle and something herbal that made his nose itch. He scrubbed himself clean as if he could scrape off the scales from his skin, trying to refrain from digging his claws under the edges – it served no purpose trying to pluck them out since they would just grow back in a matter of hours. The curse made sure of it.
The pads of his fingers were all pruny, made slick from the soap and the oils, pink and soft. It had been months since the last time he had bothered to take his time like this, and after lathering his skin and counting down from two hundred, Dream’s mind started to grow anxious again.
This was silly, wasn’t it? No matter how nice he smelled, a beast would always be a beast.
With a resigned sigh, he got out and dried himself, stalking toward his closet in search of something that wasn’t in tatters, either by disuse or from his own bouts of anger. He ended up dressed in a pair of old pants that had no holes in them and a simple long-sleeved shirt whose fabric didn’t itch too much against the patches of scales that lined the outside of his arms. All in all, it was with an agitated heart that he stepped away from the closet, feeling unmoored in his own body in a different way than he was used to.
The ripped canopy of his bed made him feel trapped, the unseeing eyes of the portraits hung high in the walls bearing witness to this pathetic farce he was putting on. What was the point of all this? No matter how fine the clothes were he donned or how nice his perfumes smelled, he was still a beast – and a rude one at that, someone who had lost his temper and had fled the table without making any excuses to his guest.
He bet George wouldn’t even bid him farewell before he left the castle.
In his haste to get out, he flung the door open and stepped out of the room, promptly crashing into someone and sending them careening onto the floor.
Goodness gracious. Of course it had to be George.
“Oh, my – Apologies!” He rushed to help him up, freezing up when he realized how dangerous his claws looked right next to the pink softness of George’s palm. But before he could retract his hand, George grabbed it, using it to get back on his feet with flushed cheeks, quickly letting it go like he had been burned.
“I’m sorry I stopped by unannounced. I know I’m not supposed to be here.” Awkwardly, George crossed his arms over his chest, looking like he was regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.
That kicked Dream’s mind into gear.
“No, no, it was my fault,” he rushed to reassure him. “I, huh – had a lot on my mind.”
That had George looking worried instead, tilting his head to the side in a way that had no right to feel so familiar. Dream should be more careful. He was growing attached way too quickly.
“You left breakfast quite in a hurry, Your Highness. Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I just had some business to sort out. Better to get an early start.”
The excuse sounded lame even to his ears. George, it seemed, had also picked up on the lie, and Dream watched his face morph into a mask of neutrality. It was a subtle draw of eyebrows and the flattening of his mouth into a line, but to Dream, all those micro-expressions spoke louder than if George had screamed about it – he’d had years and years of studying his own unmoving mask to miss how clear George’s feelings were etched into the lines of his face.
“Oh. I see. I imagine you’re used to more interesting topics, right? I’m sorry conversation wasn’t up to your standards.”
Huh. Dream hadn’t even realized he had implied all that. “Not at all. I find your presence here refreshing,” he blurted out, but George only squinted at him.
“Don’t mock me.”
“I wasn’t,” he replied, wishing George could see there was nothing but truth to his statement. “I was actually wondering if you’d like to stay.”
That managed to pierce through George’s frown. He uncrossed his arms, taking a subconscious step closer to Dream. “Stay?”
“Here, in the castle.” With me, Dream completed in his head, the vulnerability of the offer making him want to run back into his bedroom and slam the doors behind him. God. What was he doing? Had he not been hurt enough already?
“There’s plenty of space,” his mouth kept running without a single input from his mind. “More than I know what to do with. It’d be my pleasure to offer you a place to stay for as long as you want.”
There was silence for a few terrible moments. George was clearly surprised, maybe even open to it, but the fact that he didn’t immediately accept Dream’s offer had him wishing he could rewind time and keep his big mouth shut. It wasn’t like he had been planning this – if he had, there would certainly be way grander gestures than this.
He would have set aside a nice room for George, made Puffy discover his favorite color, and have the linens match it. There were plenty of empty bedrooms in the East Wing, with big windows that faced the mountains in the distance, and a gorgeous view from the forest that hid the castle away from the rest of the world – maybe George would even appreciate the fine wallpaper, still untouched by Dream’s whirlwind of destruction.
As it was, there was no silver platter to disguise the vulnerability of his offer.
“I couldn’t,” George’s words interrupted his musings. “Your kindness is already way too much, I don’t want to impose.”
“If that’s the true reason for your denial, it’s a foolish one,” he grumbled before he could stop himself, ignoring George’s scoff. “I meant it, George. You don’t need to go if you don’t want to.”
“ If I don’t want to,” George repeated in a pale imitation of Dream’s voice, but it didn’t faze him. Quite the opposite, actually: Dream could tell George was conflicted, hiding behind his mocking words.
He could recognize true emotion finally bleeding through George’s carefully neutral rebuttal and the beast inside him rejoiced, always keen to toss aside asinine pleasantries and half-lies. There was a glint of longing in how George looked around the corridor, a brief flash of white where his teeth bit on his bottom lip. “That’s a novel concept, Your Highness. It’s been a long while since anyone bothered with asking what I wish for.”
“Only more reason to stay.”
George shook his head, showing he could be just as stubborn as Dream. “I don’t want to be in your debt. You have so much – everything, really, that one could wish for. There’s nothing I can offer.”
I can offer this rose.
For a brief moment, Dream’s mind flashed back to that terrible night, the stench of roses so vivid it almost made him gag. George really had no idea of all the things Dream had been robbed of.
“I don’t have everything,” he muttered, looking down at his claws. Inside his chest, self-preservation warred with the need to make George understand, even if just a little, just so at least someone would. The beast paced inside his chest, but Dream pushed it down as much as he could. “I… maybe I could use a friend.”
“A friend.” George sounded so taken aback that Dream looked up, finding George’s eyes searching his masked face, expression softer even if he was still guarded.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Dream said, hating how fragile his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and rolled back his shoulders, faking nonchalance. “I understand that this is… an unusual place. I’m sure you have better prospects out there, but still – this castle can be your home, for as long as you wish to stay.”
Seconds ticked by. It was clear to Dream that George was waiting for the other shoe to drop – for there to be a catch behind his generous offer – but when nothing else came, Dream watched him let out a delicate breath, practically folding in on himself.
“I can be a friend.” George shifted from foot to foot, glancing away before he continued, “Don’t have a lot of those back home.”
Relief swirled inside his chest, and if Dream had ears, they would have perked up, hungry to hear more. “Is that so?”
George’s mouth twitched in a smile at his eagerness, but it looked a little sad, different from his usual brightness. “I know you want to know about me or, like – where I came from, but I’m not ready to share that. That’s why I came to look for you. I thought I had made you upset at breakfast.”
“George, no. I was lost in my head, but it had nothing to do with you.” At least, not in the way George was thinking. If he was to live with him from now on, Dream would have to come to terms with being confronted every day about how much of his own humanity had been lost. It wasn’t George’s fault his manners had set Dream off in a spiral of insecurity.
But it was fine. Better get used to it anyway. Last time he had been stupid enough to check, there hadn’t been a lot of petals left on the rose.
Oblivious to everything, George smiled at him. “Good to know. And… I do have a sister, back where I came from. She used to be my best friend.”
“What’s her name?”
“Gia.” George let the silence linger. There was that softness to his eyes again, the hint of sadness that made Dream feel ashamed of the size of his curiosity, of how many questions were taking form behind his tongue, just waiting for the proper time to be released.
He caught how George nodded to himself, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet. He looked at Dream again, almost catching his eyes, and took a large step towards the middle of the corridor, seeming to have come to a sort of conclusion Dream wasn’t privy to.
“If I’m staying, I want a bigger room,” he said in a way that sounded like he expected Dream to refuse him, and when that didn’t happen, George looked pleased, finally smiling like he meant it. “And – we have to find you a new hobby. Leave the brooding to the ghosts.”
Dream laughed, a wheezing little sound that he hoped didn’t betray his relief. George was staying. And not only that - he wasn’t treating Dream like he was someone who needed to be feared . There was an air of levity around him that Dream hadn’t even noticed had been missing , something playful that was a rare commodity to be found inside the walls of this castle.
4
The first weeks of George’s presence went by in a blur.
Dream couldn’t remember the last time he had been so busy. He helped George get settled in and gave him a tour of the common areas of the castle, thinking that would be it, but the man kept seeking him out – perhaps because of the same lack of self-preservation that had led him here, perhaps by the curiosity that sometimes sparkled behind those dark eyes of his.
Whatever it was, it had George worming his way into Dream’s routine like it was nothing. At first, he asked to be shown the palace and to properly meet all the staff, a task more challenging than Dream could have ever anticipated. George was delighted to introduce himself to everyone, bending down to bring Patches along when she made the mistake of peeking her head into the kitchen, and even Skeppy seemed charmed by George after their introduction.
After that, he heavily implied he wanted to go outside to properly see the gardens, and Dream rushed to agree, still feeling like he was missing some clues here. It was obvious they weren’t equals: Dream towered over George even as he hunched over, his horns casting an ominous shadow ahead as they went down the stone steps that led to the courtyard, keeping his head down to avoid the glare of the morning sun. And while there was nothing he could do to remedy that fact, he tried his best to treat George with courtesy and patience, reigning in his short temper whenever he grew annoyed at the smallest inconveniences.
“Are you feeling alright, Your Highness?”
“You know you can call me Dream, right? No need to be so polite if we are to be friends,” he grumbled, shading his eyes with his hand. “And yeah, I’m alright. Just a migraine.”
George kept looking at him for a moment longer before turning his gaze away, a small furl between his eyebrows, but he didn’t ask for more details. Side by side, they walked down paths that Dream hadn’t been on in years, all sorts of memories rushing back to his mind no matter how hard he tried to push them away. It was like watching the calm waters of a lake as the fish swam just beneath the surface – there were glimpses of people long gone and wisps of conversation scattered through the air, bright as fireflies dancing behind his mind’s eye. If he looked too closely, the waters got muddled, memories fading away, so he tried to tread carefully, unaware of where the shallow waters ended.
Their walk led them past a familiar apple tree, tucked between a patch of hydrangeas and a long-forgotten well, the branches dried up and far more fragile than Dream recalled, and he found himself rooted at the spot. He kicked a few leaves away from the patch of grass surrounding the stone well, ignoring how his mouth suddenly felt too dry. If he squinted, he could almost picture the wicker chair that used to sit right in this spot, his mother’s sunhat discarded on the ground among the sticks of coal she would let Dream play with.
His heart squeezed. He hadn’t thought about that in years.
“My mom liked it here,” he mumbled, almost choking on the words. He didn’t look at George. He didn’t understand why he was even talking about this. “She was an artist. We used to come here a lot when I was younger.”
“It is a very pretty spot.” George’s voice sounded neutral, maybe even sympathetic, but Dream still curled into himself, hugging his cape tighter around his shoulders.
“It is.” There was a lot more he could say – about the way his mother’s perfume would mix with the scent of flowers and the smell of paper, how her hands would be all dusty with coal, and how proud Dream felt to be the one to raise the bucket full of water so she could clean it up – but he was at a complete loss for how to go about it, words stuck to his tongue like bugs trapped in amber.
With a final look, he turned on his heel and kept walking, secretly grateful when he heard George’s footsteps match his own.
The crunch of gravel was loud beneath his boots. The wind rustled his hair. All the noise and the sensations were overwhelming, the world all too real.
He was starting to spiral when he felt a gentle touch against his shoulder. He whipped his head around to find George already looking at him. “My apologies,” he said softly. “I think I need to sit down. Is that okay, Your Highness?”
Dream grunted an affirmative and they crossed the distance to one of the stone benches that lined the path back to the castle.
“I like it here,” George said after they sat down. His face was turned up to the sky, hair rustling in the soft wind. “The town I used to live in was quite… busy, so there was always a lot of noise.”
That gathered some parts of Dream’s splintered attention and reeled him back from that dark place that always threatened to consume him – grief, he figured, and anger and resentment and a regret that went so deep it might as well be forever embedded in his soul.
“My father was an inventor before he passed away. I used to go with him to the fair when I was little – I liked that.”
“I’m sorry.”
George shook his head, curls swaying in the breeze. “It was a long time ago.”
It was quite unexpected to be offered information so freely like this. So far, most of what Dream knew about George had been things he had gathered through the power of (obsessive) observation: how he favored apple juice instead of orange, no matter how fresh; how he was playful and sweet with Patches, patient whenever she got into her moods; he knew George had fast reflexes from the time where Dream had accidentally knocked a vase with his bulk and George had dived to catch it, and that day Dream had also learned George wasn’t afraid to laugh in his face about it.
It was fine. Dream was learning he only minded jokes made at his expense – when George teased him, it was like they were in on a secret, filling Dream with the hot cocoa type of warmth instead of the burning embers of discomfort he was used to.
They sat together until Dream didn’t feel like the world was spinning around him, and then stayed for a bit longer just because.
“Oh, what is this,” George’s voice sounded curious, and Dream looked down to see him kneeling on the floor, touching the stone bench. “Nick? Who is that?”
This was the bench Dream and Sapnap had carved their name onto, many years before the boy had been old enough to help his father out on the property; with his claws, Dream reached out to scrape off some of the moss covering their clumsy handwriting, heart squeezing in a familiar vice of guilt.
“That’s Sapnap. He’s Bad’s kid – we met him the other day, the gardener… Sapnap was starting his apprenticeship to be a groundskeeper when the curse was cast. He was my best friend.”
“Not anymore?”
“I don’t know. None of us are the same anymore,” he said with a shrug, following the divots of Nick’s name carved into stone. He had completely forgotten this was here. He tried not to dwell too much on what else might have been lost – way too much, that was for sure. “The longer the curse stays, the harder it is for them to remember who they used to be.”
Dream swallowed around a lump in his throat, pulling his hand back.
“That’s cruel.” George’s sympathy felt undeserved, but Dream took it anyway.
“It’s okay.” He sighed, biting his lip. Another little morsel of truth resurfaced, heavy on his tongue. “It’s just hard, sometimes, to remember how much everyone lost because of me.”
To that, George had nothing to say, but the silence didn’t feel loaded with judgment, and for that Dream was grateful.
The following day, George asked to stay inside, mentioning how much of the castle there was still unknown to him. Dream didn’t think too much of it, silently grateful for the chance to avoid the sun, but he did catch George looking outside, almost lost in thought. In the familiar comfort of the shaded halls, Dream guided George across the big hall where his father would sometimes hold court, and towards the rooms that held the grandeur of years past.
The floor still held a shine to it, and the wooden slats didn’t make a single noise as they walked through the gallery rooms: marble statues of women caught mid-movement with their hair billowing in a forever wind; oil paintings as big as an entire section of the wall depicting idyllic pastures and honorable battles, the deep red of the soldier’s capes so saturated it was almost impossible to look away.
And – in the middle of it all stood George, clad in secondhand clothes that fit him more precisely than they had any right to, in a way that Dream would never be able to mimic, even if he ever managed to break the curse: George was all graceful lines even in the shape of his ears, and while Dream’s current bulk justified his clumsiness, he had never been quite as… alluring as George. He looked at the art pieces with a detached sort of curiosity, hands clasped behind his back as they circled a sculpture of a man wearing a golden laurel – a great-grandfather if Dream remembered correctly, his likeness commissioned to celebrate some grand achievement lost to the folds of time. Victory, or honor, or whatever else the crown of laurels could mean.
No crown would ever fit around Dream’s head anymore. That, he knew to be a loss.
“Do you often spend time here, Your Highness?” George’s voice sounded delicate in the spacious room, their steps quiet as they weaved in between the sculptures.
Somewhere in here, tucked in a corner, there was a bust of a young boy at the cusp of adulthood, captured in marble that had been so well-worked that the boy’s skin looked soft to the touch. There was no color to it, but Dream knew his eyes were green and his face dotted with brown freckles that bloomed in the summer, and it hadn’t escaped him how the white of his mask was an almost exact match to the milky white of the marble.
He had almost destroyed it once, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. He still wasn’t sure why.
“Not at all,” he answered, keeping his eyes entirely fixed on the floor underneath his feet. “Been years since I came to this side of the castle.”
“What do you do, instead? I have to admit I’ve been struggling to find something to occupy my mind with.”
That had Dream turning his face up, carefully watching George’s face. He couldn’t leave . “What did you use to do back home?”
“There were always chores, things to fix around the house… I used to take really long walks around the lake nearby, go for a swim in the summer. Things like that.”
“You can take walks if you’d like. I can draw you a map for the trails around here.” Unlike Dream, George’s appearance didn’t make him a prisoner of the castle. He could go anywhere he wanted, and Dream was still waiting for the day the man realized that.
He was sure George wouldn’t ever be back.
Perhaps because he couldn’t fathom ever going back to the emptiness of before, he blurted out, “There’s also a library on the third floor of the South wing. I could take you there tomorrow if you’d like.”
George lit up, a grin spreading over his lips. “Show me.”
5
Tucked away within the high walls of the castle lay Dream’s most precious treasure.
As he pushed open the heavy ornate doors, he was greeted by the familiar scent of wood, aged parchment and leather, helping settle some of the nerves he was feeling by bringing someone to one of the most important places he knew of. Like the underbelly of a beast, vulnerable, Dream felt like he was showing George a piece of himself that often stayed hidden away, safe from prying eyes.
For the longest time, the library had been his refuge, a safe little haven to escape whenever his royal duties had threatened to overwhelm him. It was there that Dream had learned his love for stories and, years later, was kept sane by his childhood favorites whenever his cursed existence got to be too much. There was escape in the yellowed pages and a promise of a happy ending at the end of each adventure – and if not that, at least there was a clear motive, rhyme and reason to the hero’s fate, unlike the harsh reality of his own life.
Reality was a chaotic mess of injustice where the price to pay didn’t fit the crime. And while George had yet to share whatever reason had made him run away from home, maybe he could appreciate the type of comfort found in a place like this.
Sunlight streamed through the grand windows, spots of purples and pinks filtering through the stained glass and casting a colorful, warm hue over the rows of towering bookshelves. Little spots of dust floated in the air like glittering fairies, betraying just how long it had been since Dream had allowed anyone in here – even Puffy knew to avoid this place – but with George’s presence by his side, he found himself wishing he had the hindsight to make sure this place would be glittering like the jewel it truly was.
George seemed to like it though. Small mercies.
His neck was craned up, mouth slightly open as he took everything in. On chosen spots of the vaulted ceiling and spaces between the bookshelves, frescos depicted specific scenes from his mother’s favorite classics – a lion and the hero that slayed it, a ship braving the most terrifying storm – and Dream watched George’s eyes sparkle with a look of awe that filled Dream with the same type of warmth as a cup of tea on a winter night.
Every corner of the library whispered secrets and promises of adventure, but over the days that followed, it came to mean something more. There were books left open and a forgotten mug by the windowsill, signs of a life that didn’t belong to Dream strewn around like breadcrumbs – and if Dream followed them, he would usually find George curled up in one of the big armchairs tucked in between the huge bookcases, or sat down in one of the window seats basking in the afternoon sun. His heart would never fail to stumble a clumsy beat inside his chest when George would stretch his arms up, eyes soft and posture cat-like, grinning at Dream after having woken up from his afternoon nap.
In a way, the library became their spot.
And, as such, it wasn’t long before Dream realized something odd about it.
“You don’t really finish the books, do you?”
George shrugged, but the gesture looked almost too casual, lacking the usual innate grace Dream was so conscious of.
“What do you mean?”
“The books,” Dream gestured to the table laden with George's choices from the past days. “I see you pick up a new one every time we are here, but you never actually read them to the end.”
It was only the growing familiarity between them that kept Dream from over-explaining himself, but just barely. The words were right there, itching to be let out: how this wasn't an accusation, how he was just curious. It was a hard habit to break, residue from that awful night that had changed the course of his entire life, but George made it easier somehow. He never rushed to pass judgment on Dream's odd behaviors, much more like a lazy cat stretching in the sun than a predator waiting to pounce at the faintest sign of weakness, and it was probably one of the main reasons he had been able to slip by Dream's defenses so smoothly.
The honorable thing to do was to extend him the same courtesy, no matter how difficult it was to keep still.
“I don’t know. My mind keeps floating away, it’s hard to concentrate,” George answered after a couple of seconds, gaze sliding away to look around the room.
The subtle way George struggled to read the titles of Dream’s books sometimes, almost like he wasn’t as familiar with the written word as Dream himself was, told him all he needed to know. Learning George was an exercise in patience. It took effort, a delicate balance where sharp eyes sometimes needed to pretend to be unseen, if only so George wouldn’t spook and hide away again, and Dream – blunt and clumsy – had learned from experience to talk in circles around what he wanted, starting to grow fluent in George-language to pick up on the hidden meaning of his words.
It was worth it, though. Especially when George’s walls lowered by their own accord – like they did in this moment as he reclined back against the chair, a soft smile curling his lips.
“I like it here, though. This is nice.”
“Yeah?”
“It's getting a bit chilly to just wander around outside,” he admitted, looking away. “The murals are pretty, the glass windows too. We only had these at church and I don’t – I stopped going a while ago.”
Dead inventor father. A younger sister named Gia, and a mother Dream had heard nothing of substance about yet. A bustling town with a lake nearby, a loud house, an endless list of chores that kept him busy. And now – the high towers of a church with its colored glass windows glittering in the sun. If he were to ever read the story of George, these would almost be enough to make up the basic outlines of his character, just enough to keep Dream interested and ready for more.
Either way, Dream tucked that piece of information into his little trove, folded its corners and put a pin in it to examine later, for he would not make the same mistake again. His impulsivity had gotten the best of him two times already – first with offering George a place to stay without a suitable proposal, and then after, inviting him here without making sure there would be a comfortable fire burning in the hearth.
Outside, there was something Dream was sure George would like, but this time – this time he would do it right.
“I could read for you,” he offered instead, drawing George's attention back to him. He had to thread carefully now, aware of George’s prickly exterior whenever he felt like Dream’s offers veered too close to pity.
“Really?”
Dream shrugged, picking one of George's discarded books to peruse it. “I don't mind. Sometimes reading aloud helps me understand things better, and since we are already here anyway…”
It took George a few moments to agree, narrowed eyes giving way to a shy grin Dream had not yet been privy to. His heart ached, similar to those first few times Patches had fallen asleep curled in his lap. It was the press of a tender bruise, a hollow ache made sweet by the implicit trust housed in the gesture, how special it felt to be on the receiving end of such a rare sight.
They settled in, afternoon turning to evening as Dream's voice filled the empty air. In the spaces between words, in the quiet that followed the turn of a page, Dream's mind whittled away until his idea from earlier started to take shape.
The following days were filled with lots of talking. Between reading to George during the afternoon and explaining his plan to everyone else in the stolen moments in between, his vocal cords were getting quite the workout. He had never realized just how long he stayed by himself until it wasn't an option anymore, and it wouldn't be a lie to admit he quite enjoyed interacting with everyone. Under the guise of getting everything ready for his surprise, he ended up reaching out to people he hadn't talked to in ages – and, with a subject that had nothing to do with the curse, he did not feel the usual guilt making his words that much more weary.
In the end, it only took him over a week to get everything set up to his standards. Everyone had been more than happy to help, either directly or just by keeping George distracted enough he wouldn't notice the buzzing energy coursing through the walls of the castle, alive after such a long hibernation.
On the first clear day after everything was done, Dream headed towards George's room with an unusual spring to his steps, rapping his knuckles against the wood.
“Morning,” he greeted once the door opened, a disheveled George blinking blearily at him. “My apologies. Did I wake you?”
George yawned, stretching his arms up. “You did,” he grinned, “now you have to make it up to me.”
“That's quite fortunate. I do have something I want to show you.”
In an instant, George perked up, curious as Dream had learned him to be. “What is it?”
“You'll have to come with me, I'm afraid.”
“Dream, come on — stop being mysterious. Tell me. Tell me.”
“Nope. You have to see it.”
George huffed and did not stop pestering him as they made their way down the stairs, whining and pleading and touching Dream to make a point – a finger poking his arm or a hand closing around his shoulder to shake him, friendly little nudges that somehow left a trail of goosebumps over his skin. Dream wondered if this much exposure to touch after so long without had gotten him sick, somehow, made him way too sensitive. That had to be the only explanation for why he was so overly aware of it, heartbeat thumping loud in his ears whenever George closed the distance between them with a friendly gesture.
They walked past familiar halls and climbed down the stairs, and for once the watchful eyes of his servants did not fill Dream with anxiety. He caught Puffy's gaze and even managed to nod at her, grin hidden behind his mask.
There was a soft poke to his shoulder, and there went his heart again.
“You look like you're up to something,” George pouted. “I hate that I don't know.”
Ignoring the way his heart squeezed at the sight of George's furrowed brows, Dream tried to focus on the important part of what he had said.
“How can you even tell? Stop lying.”
“I just can. I'm good like that, Dream.”
Their bickering led them through the final steps of the main hall and out to the gardens. The autumn sun felt warm against his shoulders, not as hot as in the height of summer. The sound of gravel under his feet was a welcome distraction from his loud heartbeat, George's arm brushing against his own as they made their way around the castle walls. They went East, past the parterres and the white pergolas, up until the gravel gave way to stone and the soft grass seemed to merge with the trusses that lined the path towards their destination.
George's surprise was nestled on top of a small hill: a greenhouse, fresh coat of paint on its columns, the delicate glass panes shining like gemstones under the sun. Before, the whole area had been overtaken by vines and a blanket of moss had covered the curved roofs, years of neglect brought on by Dream's apathy after having been cursed. It had taken a lot of effort and some extra bit of help from Shadoune’s green thumb, but what waited for them inside was even more beautiful, and Dream had to make a conscious effort to slow his steps down to match George's pace.
The man looked absolutely floored. George's surprise was evident in the way he walked, careful steps like they were back at the gallery, like any sort of misstep could set the whole thing tumbling like a castle of cards. His mouth was parted, eyebrows arched up high in amazement
“Is this – can I go inside?”
“Of course. This is yours, George.”
Inside, there was an explosion of color. Tomatoes, zucchinis, eggplants and grapes, and small pepper bouquets that looked like tiny bursts in an ocean of green. Strawberries hung from tall planters and Dream snuck one into his mouth, the sweet flavor bursting over his tongue. As they made their way further inside, an herbal scent started to overtake Dream's senses, and he found himself blabbering to George about the Alliums and the herbal beds Shadoune had taught him, about companion planting and how thyme and dill could grow together with everything else – how there was probably a match to every single plant out there, that one just needed to pay attention to figure it out.
They came to a stop near the citrus tree close to the center of the greenhouse, light spilling from the glass ceiling all around them. George had been sporting a soft smile on his lips ever since they had walked in, but now it was fully blooming into something fuller, a happiness that felt tender, new, a seedling starting to sprout.
“Dream… This is wonderful,” he murmured, launching himself into his arms in a hug. A hug. Full-bodied and warm and something Dream hadn't seen coming at all – perhaps not ever, not when he had gone so many years without.
His heart came to a stop. His entire body froze, numb except for the prickling feeling behind his eyes – and then everything hit him at once: George’s scent, the warmth of his limbs, how fragile his arms felt around Dream’s middle, how much smaller he was, and how he slotted almost seamlessly to the space under Dream’s jaw, easy to hold. Perhaps even easier to keep.
Robbed of breath, it felt like time stretched into something meaningless, almost like the curse had no power here. There was no way to care about the dwindling rose petals because how could he? There was so much life surrounding him right now that a single flower held no weight in his mind.
It was… freeing, to say the least.
“I had it restored for you,” Dream murmured, finding it easier to confess his reasons when he could be sure George wouldn't accidentally catch his eyes. “Winter is going to come soon and I know how much you like the outside… You said something about the glass back in the library and I just – I remembered this was here. Then I just had to give it to you.”
George nodded against his chest, finally pulling back. “Thank you,” he said in a voice that betrayed how much this meant to him, and it was easy enough to look away to give the man a moment to collect himself.
The rest of the day was spent inside. Dream watched George touch every single type of foliage, and laugh when the texture tickled his fingers; he decided to give all the plants a name, one more silly than the other, and when they arrived at the end of the greenhouse and saw the patch of empty dirt meant for any other flowers George might want to plant, he didn't hesitate to get his hands dirty.
On his knees, he shrieked when a worm made its way onto the back of his hand, laughing maniacally when another poked its head out of the ground, almost like it wanted to chastise them for disturbing the peace.
“Look, Dream – they're best friends. Worm. Worm,” he giggled, delicately putting the second one inside a glass jar together with the first, to be released later. “I hope we find more. They're so funny-looking.”
And here, with his clothes dirtied by mud and soil, cheeks flushed pink from amusement, hair a complete mess as he cooed at a jar of worms, George looked as far removed from a princess as he could ever be, and yet – Dream's heart skipped a confused, stubborn beat, heat spilling from the slightest crack in its tough shell.
For a moment, his eyes fell onto George's smiling mouth and he wondered – for the fleeting, most damning moment – what happiness would taste like if he stole it straight off George's lips.
Oh, Dream thought to himself. That’s new.