where you go (i will go)—part xiv
Summary: You are reminded that love invites vulnerability—for better and for worse.
AN: This is really the chapter and song that started this entire journey. Highly recommend listening to Taylor Acorn’s acoustic cover of Jamie All Over before reading the first half of this chapter. As for the second half—please don’t hate me.
masterlist
. . .
“Hey, please don’t tell me that I’m dreamin’,
When all I ever wanted was to dream another sunset with you.”
Jamie All Over (Acoustic), Taylor Acorn
. . .
Part xiv
‘Love can be scary. But that’s a good thing. Means you’ve got something worth being afraid of losing.’
‘You deserve to be protected.’
‘I remember you.’
When you open your eyes, you’re greeted by a sky full of stars. High above your head hangs a full moon, pale as a bowl of cream, bathing the beach in soft twilight. The tide is quiet tonight, its whisper no louder than the shuffling of the sand as you rise to your feet.
Your eyes track the dark path of the Milky Way overhead, a dappled stream of black, purple, and pinprick stars that trickles above you. When you turn around to follow its trail, you find that it arches down to meet a very familiar silhouette standing several paces away.
A soft huff of amusement escapes you at the sight. Funny how all paths are leading to him as of late.
Fake Dream watches quietly as you approach from where you came to on the beach. The light of the moon turns his skin luminescent, every beloved feature of his face set aglow. His blue eyes reflect the starry sky back at you. Though they lack the dark gravity that you witnessed in his gallery earlier today, something in those eyes still captures your attention, pulling you in. There’s a quality to them that you can’t quite place, an emotion within them that your mind struggles to put into words. A certain measure of tenderness.
‘Something within you was known to me from the moment we met.’
His words echo in your mind as you come to a stop before him. Oh, how that realization had cut you to the bone. A cure and an affliction, all in one. Keeping yourself from him in that moment had been almost impossible. Here in your unconscious, the compulsion to go to him is even more powerful. The knowledge that this is all an illusion wears on your resolve.
“Did you mean it? When you said that I deserve to be protected?” The question hardly feels real as it slips from your lips, a ghost in the saltwater air.
Fake Dream’s eyes watch you with an intensity that’s almost palpable. His gaze on you feels physical, a soft touch to your cheek. “Yes,” he breathes into the night air.
The sigh that escapes you is one of relief. “I’ve never had someone to protect me before,” you admit, your voice small and hesitant.
Fake Dream’s throat bobs at your words, a nonverbal response. You take one step closer to him, watch his eyes track your shift in position.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to submit, you think. To give in, just for a little while. To pretend that this was real, to pretend he wasn’t fake. To pretend that this was your Dream.
And if it did hurt…well, the only one you’d have to blame was yourself.
Your hands find his with tentative fingers. His skin is soft as silk as your thumbs trace the lines of his palms. Hands that had created, hands that had destroyed. When it came to you, all they had ever done was support, uplift, cultivate. You loved these hands.
The shift in the air when you touch him is tangible. A crescendo in energy, a symphony building. Coiled like a spring, and yet you know he won’t make the first move. He’ll entrust you with that decision.
“I’m tired of running, Dream,” you say, drawing a step nearer to him. Close enough that you can bring his hands to your chest, that when you raise your head to look at him, your nose nearly brushes his skin.
Dream’s voice is soft, betraying nothing of the pressure building within. “Then don’t.”
For a long moment, you don’t dare move. Not out of fear, but because the simple pleasure of allowing yourself to be this close to him, of allowing your guard to finally fall, is utterly intoxicating. Up close, Dream’s eyes are seas you could drown in. Happily, you might add. The warmth of his skin radiates from him, drawing a flush into your cheeks. His breath dances across your skin, a piece of him that you inhale, exhale. Your heart pounds in your ribcage like a bird’s wings, about to take flight. You wonder if he can hear it, too.
Breathing his borrowed breath is almost too sacred, too intimate to sustain. He could set your soul aflame at will. He could rip the air straight from your lungs and fill his own. He could crumple your paper heart in the palm of his hand. And yet, the fear of these fates is minuscule compared to your fear of the next moment never happening at all.
You had thought you’d been in love before. That was nothing compared to this.
When you lean forward, the universe sighs, ‘Yes.’
When you press your lips to his, it feels like, finally.
The two of you release a bated breath through your noses simultaneously, as if with the same pair of lungs. With the exhalation, the world around you stills. A moment frozen in time. Suspended within it, you’re not sure there was ever a world outside of him at all.
After a long moment, Dream moves. The glide of his lips against your own is soft as cashmere, smooth as silk. The pressure is sure and gentle. His bottom lip is full and round as it slips between yours, just as plush as you’d imagined. With each slow, savoring movement, a fuzzy warmth seeps into your toes, curling up into your stomach, unfurling in your chest. It feels like every attachment you’ve ever fostered–no, better.
What does it taste like to kiss dreams and stars? It tastes like milk and honey.
Only when your lungs burn for air do you reluctantly pull away. When your lashes flutter open, heavy with bliss, you find Dream’s eyes brimming with stars. Pouty lips parted and flushed red from your affection, he looks at you like a beautiful dream, a well-crafted nightmare. Like every ounce of gravity in the universe is pulling him toward you—a celestial body entangled in your gravitational pull.
He looks at you as if he doesn’t fear the inevitable collision. In spite of all that he now knows, he doesn’t look at you as if you’ll break on impact. He looks at you with awe, with reverence. It’s transcending and grounding, all at once. A rush of adrenaline pours through you, frazzling your thoughts, making you giddy.
When you press your lips to his again, it’s with fervor and a grin. Emboldened, your curious hands slide up his arms, fingers tightening around the sinewy strength beneath his cloak. Dream’s features were often so poised, so perfect, that one might expect him to be cold and stiff, like a statue. But the column of his throat is anything but inanimate as your fingers glide over it, eager and exploratory. His jugular tightens under your touch, his skin warm, his steady heartbeat thrumming into your palm.
As satisfying as this particular piece of him is, there’s something you’re even more eager to explore. Dream’s hair is lush and thick as your hand cards through it, the strands soft as cornsilk between your fingers. When they curl into the wild tresses at the back of his head, giving a soft pull, a delicious sound pours from Dream’s mouth into yours. You swallow it greedily, your bones turning to jelly. You want to pull that sound from him, again and again.
Your eagerness sparks a flame in him like steel to flint. In an instant, Dream is all around you—his chest pressed to yours, one hand drawing you into him from the small of your back, the other a cradle for your cheek.
You aren’t sure what you expected his touch to feel like. Dream was one of the most powerful beings in the universe, after all. Perhaps you expected a dominance in his touch, or a sense of power lurking beneath the surface of his skin. But this is neither. The press of his hand to your back is firm, but not forceful. His palm cups your cheek like a treasure, like a masterpiece. When his hands begin to move, searching, mirroring your own curiosity, every touch feels like worship, every nerve set aflame.
The press of his lips against yours, gentle and insistent, is everything. What need do you have of oxygen, of food, of water? None. All you require to remain is this.
“I’ve dreamt of this for so long,” you whisper as your back falls against the sand. Dream’s lithe form hovers over you, all long limbs and draping cloak. Grabbing him by the lapels, you draw him down toward you, unappreciative of the empty space between you.
Dream’s lips find your ear, a brush that sends a mind-bending shiver down your spine. His disheveled hair sweeps over your face, tickling your nose and cheeks. ‘’Dreamt?’” he echoes, lips upturned against your skin.
Your heart swells three sizes at the amused lilt in his tone. Maker, you didn’t know that love could feel like this. Like fire and ice, like a suckerpunch and the sweetest embrace, like a first and final breath, all at once. Your chest feels too small to hold it, and yet all you crave is more.
“You know what I mean,” you laugh, tilting your face to steal his lips again.
Time slips from your grasp as you lose yourself in each other. You had always known Dream to be attentive, a perfectionist, meticulous to a fault. You had spent countless days watching him observe dreams and nightmares in silence, making miniscule adjustments until each was just as he pleased. He shows the same attention to detail here–no curiosity left unsatisfied, no quiet gasp of yours left without follow-through. To be the sole focus of his attention is intoxicating, almost maddening.
You have spent your entire existence pouring love into others. For the first time, you understand how it feels to open your soul to another, to have them open their own in return. To see into the core of another and to be seen. To be thoroughly treasured, entirely engulfed, utterly loved.
You never want it to stop.
As Dream’s fingers drift over your skin, leaving fire in their wake, the rational part of you, the part you’ve been trying desperately to silence, reminds you that this is only a fantasy. You don’t know if the real Dream’s fingers would linger along the dip of your hips and the curve of your spine. Would the tip of his nose fit perfectly into the hollow under your ear, just as it did here? Would his lips quirk upwards each time his affections coaxed a soft hum from your throat, a smile you could feel, but could not see?
“I wish this was real,” you breathe when your lips part for air, leaning your cheek into the palm of his hand. Your fingers trail through the feather-soft hair at the back of his head, already eager to pull him back toward you.
Dream stills slowly above you. When he draws back, ever so slightly, his eyes are so clear you can almost see your reflection in them.
A confession shines in those blue irises, bright and earnest. Of what, you don’t know.
For several moments, all is still save for the rise and fall of your chests as you regain your breath. Then, slowly, Dream weaves his fingers through your hair, drawing your face into the crook of his neck. You press yourself deeper into his lean, slender form, burrowing closer, searching for more places to touch, more places to connect. Yearning to melt together until you can’t be distinguished apart. Until there is no place where he ends and you begin. Nothing less will do.
You remain that way for a long time.
Finally, Dream draws his lips to your ear. “May I?” he asks, barely more than a whisper.
You turn your face to his, nestling your nose into his unruly mop of hair, placing a tender kiss into the hollow under his ear. “Please.”
. . .
“Do we have to leave?”
There is a shift at the back of your head as Dream’s lips quirk against your hair. Damn that smile, elusive as ever. “I’m afraid so,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your scalp.
You heave a soft sigh, pressing closer to him. Dream’s chest is warm and solid against your back, his arms and legs encircling you as you sit together on the beach, watching the moon coax in the tide. Dream’s cloak is draped over you, shielding you from the seabreeze that skims off the waves. You draw it tighter around your neck as a new breath of wind tickles your cheeks.
“What if I just stay forever?” you ask, only half-joking.
Dream’s thumbs stroke your knuckles, his touch slow, thoughtful. “I suspect the world would become a very dismal, lonely place.”
Warmth blooms in your chest, turning you soft and sentimental. You lean your head back against his shoulder, peering up at his face. Mortal and divine vocabulary alike fail to describe the way he looks at you, to capture the feeling his gaze places in your chest. Like having your heart torn apart and sewn together over and over again. It’s a sweet kind of pain, an agony you know you’re blessed to carry.
“What I’d give to see the real you look at me this way,” you say quietly. “I don’t want to leave you.”
Dream watches you in silence for several moments. Finally, he draws one hand out of his cloak, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the wrinkle in your brow. Any sense of sorrow and bittersweetness fades at his touch, replaced by warm contentment.
“Do not urge me to leave you, or to turn back from you.” The words slip from his lips like a prayer, as familiar to you as the blue of his eyes. Instantly, they transport you back in time–back to Cathedral Grove, to the wedding you attended under the green and gold leaves, to the vows that were exchanged there.
That was months ago. Though you’ve heard these words countless times, even recited them to yourself, hearing them in his voice takes your breath away. “Where you go, I will go,” he continues, his voice soft.
The lump in your throat feels insurmountable. When you find your voice, it’s scarcely more than a whisper. “And where you stay, I will stay.”
Dream’s thumb trails down your cheek, favoring the curve of your jaw. “Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried,” he murmurs, eyes bright with stars.
You can still remember the moment you looked up from the young couple’s glowing attachments, still remember the way he looked at you across that clearing. Was that the moment you’d started to love him? Or had it come sooner, later?
You honestly weren’t sure. It felt as if he’d always been yours. Life before him seemed like a strange and distant memory now. You didn’t even want to think of it.
“May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me,” you finish quietly, eyes fluttering shut.
As you lean into him, savoring this moment, this togetherness, for as long as you can, you feel his warm breath over your skin. “What more could one want than to not go through this life alone?”
. . .
As you make your way toward Cliff’s coffee shop, you’re convinced that you’ve never seen so many mortals smiling on a Monday morning in the dead of winter.
Normally, Monday morning coffee runs are filled with tired eyes, whispers of plans for the Friday ahead, and faces glued to phones as everyone scrambles to organize their lives for the week. But today’s walk is filled with bright eyes, refreshed faces, and contented smiles. For once, everyone’s faces are turned up to the sky, or steeped in conversation with a friend. You barely see a phone in sight.
Must be something in the water, you muse with a grin of your own as you step into Cliff’s coffee shop. When the white-haired man affixes you with a toothy smile from behind the counter, you grin even wider.
“‘Morning, Cliff. The usual, please,” you say as you fish the cash out of your pocket, placing it into his waiting hand. “And add an earl grey to go, please.”
“Of course, miss.” Cliff is already pulling the container of milk from the fridge below the counter as he deposits the money into the cash register.
You can’t help the lopsided grin that warms your face as you watch Cliff set to work tamping the grounds, foaming the milk, brewing the tea. He’s always seemed agile for his years, but the way he moves this morning looks downright youthful.
When he twirls the long-handled spoon between his fingers before stirring the earl grey, you can’t help but laugh. “You’re in a good mood this morning.”
Cliff’s white beard frames his smile perfectly as he places the to-go cups before you, slipping lids onto them with nimble fingers. “Indeed, miss. ‘Suppose I got an extra good night of sleep,” he says.
Heat creeps up your neck as your own activities from last night come to mind. You hide a cheeky grin behind the rim of your coffee cup. “Glad to hear it.”
A mixture of excitement and nerves makes you impervious to the cold as you walk back to your townhome. Mind racing, you mull over possible phrases for the thousandth time since you awoke.
Hey, Dream. Do you mind if we talk in private for a moment?
That was as good a place to start as any. But what next?
Dream, what I’m about to say sounds crazy—
My unconscious mind is so enamored with you that it’s created a fake you that I’ve been hanging out with every night—
And we’re actually soulmates. Like, romantic soulmates—
You huff with dissatisfaction, taking a long drink of your coffee. That wouldn’t do. He’d think Matthew had fried your brain with a bad joke or something.
Dream, there’s something I need to tell you.
Balancing one to-go cup precariously atop the other, you dig through your pocket for the keys to your front door. Perhaps you could just wing it from there. Or perhaps you’d totally lose your nerve once you saw him in person. Right now, you were riding the high of your time with Fake Dream, drunk off the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin. Would you be able to speak the truth when everything was real, when you were face-to-face? You weren’t really sure. After last night, all you knew was that you were tired of running, tired of hiding. Tired of not letting him know how you felt.
You were ready to make the leap. You could only hope and pray that you’d make it to the other side.
Your key slips into the lock with a resolute click. Warmth creeps into your cheeks as you step inside, locking the door behind you. When you turn to take your cups to the kitchen, the sight of someone sitting on the counter nearly makes you jump out of your skin.
“Maker, what is wrong with you Endless? Are you completely incapable of making a normal entrance? Is knocking a foreign concept to you?”
Desire of the Endless grins at you from their place on the kitchen counter, legs crossed, eyes flashing. “You sure know how to make a guest feel welcome, don’t you, darling?” they coo, all blood-red lips and bone-white teeth.
You shoot Desire a pointed glare, placing your to-go cups on the end of the counter furthest from them. “The term guest implies that someone is welcome, which you are most definitely not.”
Desire’s eyebrows perk up, making their golden eyes even wider. “So touchy these days. You used to cower in my presence. I must say, this is much more entertaining.”
Your jaw sets tightly as you drape your coat over a dining table chair. As much as it pains you to admit it, Desire was right. The helplessness you had felt in their presence had seemed inescapable once. The shift from fear to annoyance had been subtle. Looking back, you suppose that as your power had grown over the past few months, so too had your confidence, your willingness to stand up for yourself. In the past, your fear had stemmed from a lack of control over your circumstances. Now, you felt like you had a say in your future, a way to combat Desire’s interferences. Another blessing of Dream entering your life.
Desire’s gaze darts to the second to-go cup resting on the counter. ‘Earl grey’ is scrawled across the side in Cliff’s cursive handwriting.’ “Who might that be for?” they ask, voice sickeningly sweet.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to snatch the cup from their sight. You settle for crossing your arms, instead. “That’s none of your business. Did you just come here to make idle chit-chat? If so, I really have better things to do.”
“Like what? Get back to your darling Dream?”
Something about the sense of knowing in Desire’s voice chills the blood in your veins.
Desire grins widely, leaning forward. “How was your night? Very eventful, I presume.”
Dread trickles down your spine, numbness creeping forth from the cracks it sews. You try your best to keep your expression neutral. When Desire licks their lips like a predator eager to feast, you suspect you’re failing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie through clenched teeth.
Desire rolls their eyes, irritation pinching their feline features. “Come now, little goddess. You’re a terrible liar. Did you forget that all beings fall under my domain of desire? When I sensed your connection to the Threshold last night, I could hardly believe it. I thought, ‘Could she really be such a fool to place herself within my grasp again? Surely not.’”
The walls of your townhome pull away as darkness encroaches on your vision. One hand steadies yourself against the counter as numbness grips your knees.
The soft purr of Desire’s laughter meets your ears, followed by the sound of two feet hitting the floor. “That’s when I went to your quaint little realm to investigate. Imagine my surprise when I found that you and my darling brother share a soulmate attachment. And not only that, but eros, erotoropia, and pragma, as well. I swear upon my eldest sibling, you truly are a fool.”
Eros, erotoropia, and pragma? You hadn’t even known about those. The last time you’d been to the Realm of Attachment, only the philia had been present. Had the others formed last night? you wonder, mind racing.
“I must say, you did an admirable job of keeping it from me at first. A ‘B’ for effort if I ever saw one. But nothing could conceal what I felt last night.”
The feeling of hot breath on your face jerks you back to your senses. With a shake of your head, the darkness clears from your vision, revealing Desire’s grinning face mere inches from yours. “When I killed you all those years ago, I couldn’t have dreamt of the ramifications I’d see today. That toying with a mortal would lead to my brother’s undoing. I must say, you’ve surprised me, Love. And for that, I am quite pleased.”
Your fingernails grind against the countertop as you brace yourself against it. You fight the urge to run, force yourself to stand your ground. “What do you mean, ‘undoing?’” you ask coldly, trying to sound more assertive than you feel.
Desire takes a step closer, pressing in on you. Their close proximity, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the dread weighing down your bones–it’s all too much. When Desire’s fingers cup your chin, you want to crawl out of your skin. You fight the urge to push them away, unsure of what they’d do if you did.
“Though it might be hard to believe, my brother Dream is quite the romantic. That lonely heart of his has gotten him into all sorts of trouble, caused him all sorts of pain. Some of it my doing, some of it not.” Desire flashes you a cheek-splitting grin. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, darling. Nor was my somber, solitary sibling. ”
You clench your eyes closed, repulsed by the sweet malice in Desire’s expression. Killala. Nada. Calliope. You can still remember the sight of their names in Dream’s book in your library. You can still picture how he’d looked at you when you’d asked what happened with them that night on the dock. ‘I am not entirely sure. Perhaps that is why the process continues to repeat itself,’ he’d said, his voice soft and sad.
Now, the truth dawns on you. The realization that, while he wasn’t entirely excused of blame for the outcome of his past relationships, their demise hadn’t entirely been his fault, either. How many times had Desire interfered with Dream’s relationships, and in what ways? How many times had they been responsible for Dream’s sadness, his loneliness, his broken, distrustful heart?
The thought makes you want to run to Dream, to throw your arms around him. It makes you want to tell him everything.
Your feet move beneath you as you resolve to follow through. However, just as you start to pull away, Desire’s voice makes you halt. “Dream’s falling out with Calliope left a nasty scar. Made him impassioned, turned him into a recluse. He’s walled himself off for a long, long time. But with you here, I finally have a way in.”
The world around you goes very, very still.
“My brother’s heart has always been his greatest weakness.” The feeling of fingernails pressing into your skin spurs your eyes open. Desire tilts your chin to meet their gaze with an agonizing slowness. When you lock eyes, you’re met not with malice, or anger, or annoyance. Only cold, hollow contempt.
The next words they say will haunt you forever. “Perhaps you really were made for each other.”
For a long moment, there is nothing. And then, like a loose thread, the world you know begins to unravel.
It’s a strange feeling, having the foundation of your life crumble beneath you. A war between emptiness and overstimulation, between immobility and urgency, between desperation and surrender. Sense of control slips through your fingers like tears. Surety flees with it, like a rug ripped out from beneath your feet. Your stomach bottoms out as you freefall, down, down, down, with no end in sight.
When would you hit the bottom? Was there a bottom to hit?
You had thought you held your life in your own hands. You had thought that the future was yours to create. You had thought you’d known what that future might hold.
You were wrong.
Your palms hit the trash can by the fridge with enough force to bruise. The acidic burn of bile and coffee floods your mouth as the sad truth crashes through you, again and again. As you realize what your future now holds.
Your gaze, hot and blurry with tears, rises to the cup of earl grey sitting on the counter just a few feet away. The one you’d bought for him. The one you wouldn’t be able to give him, now that your sorry heart had ruined everything.
The salt of your tears reminds you of the Dreaming’s sea. You heave into the trash can again.
Desire’s fingers rest on your shoulder in mock sympathy. You can’t bring yourself to pull away. “I told you I’d find what you loved and squeeze, darling. You should have listened.”
The trash can’s steel lid is cool and smooth against your cheek. You blink past the tears in your eyes, watching as Desire saunters toward the door. “You’ll regret this,” you choke past the vice that grips your throat.
Desire unlocks the door, then pauses. Slowly, they turn to look at you over their shoulder. For once, their lips are not pulled into a devilish grin. Their expression is devoid of emotion, their gold eyes hard with disdain. “Funny, the only one who looks like they have any regrets here is you.”
And without another word, they slip out the door.
. . .
You don’t go to the Dreaming that day, or the next day, or the next.
. . .
Once, spending your days alone had come easily to you. Though lonely, it had been preferable, really, to the painful possibility of having your trust betrayed. The painful possibility of losing something–or someone–you cared about.
Oh, what you’d give to return to those days now.
The Realm of Attachment starts to lose its beauty after so many days spent there without reprieve. The rainbow tapestry of the sky seems duller in color, the attachments between mortals glowing with less fervor than they used to. You’re not sure if it’s simply your imagination, or if your Realm is siphoning off the negative energy of its creator. You’re not sure you have the strength to care.
In spite of your homesickness for the mortal world, you spend as much time in your Realm as possible. You know the Dream Lord can’t reach you there. Only yourself and Desire are capable of traversing the realm freely.
Out of an abundance of caution, you don’t allow yourself to rest, either. Not out of fear of Dream finding you. You’re well aware that you can’t dream, that him contacting you in such a way is impossible. Rather, you don’t trust your unconscious to resist conjuring Fake Dream if you were to give in. You’re not sure what you would do if you saw him there. Fear that it would crumble your resolve keeps you alert at all hours, in spite of your mind’s pleas for rest.
It’s only when you need to grab your list of daily assignments from the Fates that you depart your Realm for the mortal world. Just enough time to grab your list, and nothing more.
It’s on one of these brief outings that he finally finds you.
When you walk through the front door of your townhome, you’re intent on grabbing your assignments from the kitchen and finding the nearest mortal to pass through without delay. At the sight of Dream standing in the center of your living room, however, all plans and intentions are thrown out the door.
Nothing could have prepared you for seeing him again. After so many days parted from him, it feels like it’s for the first time. The force of his presence, of how much you’ve missed him, of how badly you want to run to him, hits you all at once, knocking the breath from your lungs.
The realization that he must have been waiting for you here comes after.
Your mouth hangs agape, any semblance of coherent thought far from your reach. In spite of your mind’s protests, your body carries you forward, through the doorway. The front door closes behind you with a resolute click.
Silence.
“You have been avoiding me,” Dream finally says, his voice matter-of-fact, measured.
You draw in a breath to speak, only to come up at a loss. What is there to say? Any possible response feels like both too much and too little. You settle for closing your mouth, hands fisting anxiously at your sides.
Your silence is answer enough for him. “Why?” Dream asks, his dark brows furrowing.
Again, words seem to fail you. Your eyes slowly drift to the to-go cup sitting on your kitchen counter, still filled with earl grey tea. You haven’t touched it since that day, haven’t garnered the willpower to throw it away.
“I’m sorry,” you finally croak, barely more than a whisper.
Something in Dream’s expression shifts at the sound of your voice. He takes a step toward you, his long cloak sweeping the floor. However, when you step in the opposite direction, maintaining the distance between you, he stops. Confusion pinches his handsome features, darkening his eyes, forming new wrinkles in his brow. Knowing that you placed them there makes you want to tear your heart out and stomp on it.
“What is going on, Love?” he asks quietly, his voice softening around your name.
This is it. The moment you’ve been dreading. The moment you’ve been desperately trying to avoid.
You swallow thickly, steeling yourself for what’s to come. “I can’t see you anymore, Dream.”
Your words hang in the air, suspended in time. Perhaps they’ll never leave. Perhaps they’ll remain here even after you're gone, a permanent blemish upon this place you call home, like a scuffed wall, or faulty wiring.
When the weight of the silence becomes too great, you add a strained, “I’m sorry.”
Dream studies your face for a long time, his troubled gaze lingering on the furrow in your brow, the reluctance in your eyes. Finally, he shakes his head, just once. “What is the reason for this?”
A shaky breath slips from you. You’ve planned for this conversation for days, rehearsed it in your head over and over. Even still, you can’t conceal the hesitation in your tone as you answer, “I can’t tell you.”
Dream’s lips tighten in displeasure. Maker, how you’ve missed those lips. “You must.”
“I can’t.”
Dream’s mouth opens, then closes, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly.
You draw in another inhale, release another breath. Though it goes against every fiber of your being, against everything you want, you have to stick to your decision. That day in the gallery, you had told Dream that the war between you and Desire was yours to wage. In your heart, the sentiment still rings true. A battle between two Endless was sure to be catastrophic in ways you couldn’t even fathom. It would certainly rock the foundation of mortals’ lives as they knew it. Who knew how it would impact the universe at large. The only way to protect them was to wage it alone.
And then there was Dream. As long as you were with him, as long as the soul tie between you had the chance to fulfill itself, Desire would have a way into Dream’s heart. Dream would be vulnerable.
The only way to protect him was to keep him from you. You had accepted that now. Making yourself his villain was the price you’d have to pay.
Dream shakes his head again, a flicker of resolve flashing in his eyes. He begins to approach you again, each step swift, purposeful. When you begin to step backward, he opens his mouth to protest. Just as he does, your back collides with the wall, stopping you in your tracks. Though only a few feet stand between you, it feels like miles.
“I don’t understand,” he says again, his voice tight with an emotion you can’t quite place. “You told me that you were tired of running.You told me that you wished it was real.” He pauses, a thick swallow working down the column of his throat. “You told me that you wanted to stay.”
For a moment, there is nothing but the shallow hush of his breathing, a soft rush of air as the breath is pulled from your lungs.
And then, it all clicks.
‘I wish this was real,’ you’d breathed into Fake Dream’s skin beneath the star-lit sky on that honey-gold beach.
And he’d paused.
“Dream.”
At the sound of his name on your lips, Dream surges forward, closing the distance between you. He stops shy of touching you, instead clenching his hands at his sides. You wonder if he suspects that you’d run if he did. If only you could tell him just how desperately you wanted to do the opposite.
You shake your head, searching his eyes for answers. “How?” you ask, brow furrowed in confusion. “You said it yourself. Gods and goddesses don’t dream.”
“You are right,” he says, his voice gentle. “The divine do not dream. But you do possess an unconscious.” He pauses, considering his words, then dips his chin toward you. “I once told you that I contain the entire collective unconscious of the universe. Though I had never traversed the plane of a deity’s, I suspected that I could. I only needed a way to get there.”
Your hand slips into the pocket of your coat with a mind of its own. The cloth of Dream’s pouch of sand is soft and familiar against your palm. You’d carried it with you each day since he’d given it to you. Even now, when you’d been avoiding him, you couldn’t bear to part with it. It was a piece of him you carried everywhere you went.
It all made sense now.
As you hold Dream’s pale blue gaze, liquid warmth bubbles up in your chest. Slowly at first, and then spilling forth, overflowing, flooding everything.
It had been your Dream, all along. It was his fingers that had caressed the dip of your hips and the curve of your spine. It was his nose that had fit so perfectly into the hollow under your ear. It was his lips that had upturned into your kiss.
He had vowed to go where you went, to stay where you stayed. He felt the same.
He feels the same.
You almost wish you didn’t know. It makes what has to come so much harder.
With a shuddering breath, you steal your nerves, gathering courage. You close your eyes, unsure if you can find the strength to press on if you look at him. “Dream, you have to listen to me. You have to let me go. Please.”
“No.” His voice is firm, absolute.
You swallow, hard. “Then I’ll have to go,” you say, moving to step around him.
The touch on your elbow is immediate. “Wait,” he insists, stepping with you. In spite of the urgency in his tone, his touch is gentle, entreating. It makes you want to cry.
“Is that truly what you want?” he asks, his voice imploring. Asking you to open your eyes, asking you to look at him.
With reluctance, you do. Dream’s ocean eyes–always full of stars, full of thoughtfulness, full of intrigue–are soft, their edges red, their surface wet. They cut straight through to your soul as he holds your gaze, waiting for your answer.
It’s the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him, this moment when you’re breaking his heart. The realization that you’ve brought him to tears before you’ve ever brought him to laughter hits you like a ton of bricks. The thought of it is suffocating.
In this moment, you hate yourself more than anything on this earth, or any realm beyond. Breaking his heart is the worst thing you’ve ever done. The worst thing you’ll ever do.
You ache to take him in your arms, to card your fingers through that wild hair, to cradle his face in the crook of your neck. One day, I hope I can explain everything, you long to say.
The bitter taste of copper fills your mouth as you bite your tongue. You don’t trust yourself to speak, or even breathe. Though you have a plan for what’s next, you’re unsure if you have any chance at succeeding. It’s entirely possible that you and Desire are doomed to maintain this cruel dance between you for the remainder of time. If that’s the case, you can’t bear to give Dream false hope.
Still, you can’t help but picture the bond between you, imagine it glowing white, vigorous, and radiant. You hope beyond all hope that he can feel it too, that he can hear the whisper of your heart against his, that he can sense your intentions.
Let me fix this, you think, holding his gaze as tears sting in your own. You drink in each thread of blue, each dark lash that frames those eyes you love, committing each detail to memory. Wondering if it’s for the last time. Let me protect you.
Dream takes your hands in his ever so gently. His thumbs skim across your knuckles, just as they had days ago on the beach. You can feel the request behind them, one last attempt to convince you. Please, they seem to say with each stroke.
You close your eyes as your heart cracks in two.
“As you wish,” he concedes quietly.
And in a breath, his touch is gone.
When you open your eyes, you’re alone. Your hands are outstretched in front of you, fingers still curled from where he’d held them. You can still feel the ghost of his touch against your skin.
Completely, utterly alone.
The first scream is torn from somewhere deep within you, a black, cavernous space you didn’t even know you held. Adrenaline rips through you, bright and painful, as you storm into the kitchen, throwing your arm at the pile of assignments sitting on the kitchen counter. The papers scatter in a flurry of white, flying across the floor, twirling in the air like snow.
The second shout is guttural, more animal than human. A howl of pain, a howl of longing. Your coat is ripped from your shoulders in rage and flung across the room. Other items follow–throw pillows, blankets, shoes, novels. Whatever is in sight.
It’s only when the cup of earl grey tea enters your vision that you finally stop. Chest heaving, skin slick with sweat, muscles caught between exhaustion and exhilaration. When your eyes settle on the cup, everything else fades away.
It’s only then that the tears finally fall.
As the sound of wet, choked sobs echoes through the room, you look at the wreckage around you. All of it mirrors the destruction you feel within–the pain, the chaos. None of it fills the gaping void that his departure leaves in your soul.
As the last vestige of your adrenaline slips away, you crumple to the floor, knowing that you, too, belong to the ruin.
