Work Text:
Have you ever wondered why you see the moon during the day?
~
He’s not an idiot, not like Icarus.
Icarus was greedy, ears made to never listen. He took and took, reaching for something he didn’t deserve- should have never wanted in the first place. He spread wings which weren’t his to fly with, swam in a sky which wasn’t his to claim and for that, he fell. He fell hard and fast, plummeting into an ocean that did not care for him, that never tried to save him. His lungs filled with water, ice-cold and salty, as he struggled to float when melted wax dragged him down. The last thing he saw before deep blues took him was the same bright gold that brought upon his demise, the ethereal light that made the sky cerulean.. It was then that the seas navy kissed him with curses and took away his final breaths as broken wings took him down.
George doesn’t feel sorry for him. He empathises, as much as he can with a heart as numb as his. He remembers the night when the sky turned dark and the stars gathered to laugh at the pitiful man who fell in love with the sun. He understands, more so than anyone else the magnetism of the one star which the world revolves around.
“It’s a lovely night,” He hears gold, gushing like a river, smooth and rich.
George doesn’t turn, facing forward while resting against the railings of the bridge. The sky above is starting to fade from pitch black to pale purples and blues. It’s still quiet, the roads empty and houses asleep. He’s always liked his hours like this. Wasting away as time slips through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, not needed anywhere but here. The stars have started to fade into the nothing and he thinks it’s time to go. He wants to stay.
He looks down as the voice beside him flicks a golden coin into the river below and George says, “You missed it. The night.”
“Only the opening act,” The coin makes a soft plop, sending ripples on the surface of the water as it sinks, “I haven’t missed out on you.”
“What am I then?” He asks and he squints, just barely seeing the glint of the coin.
It was a cold night, the wind shivering and the paths turning to ice but George suddenly feels his cheeks go warm when the golden voice laughs with mirth, “You’re the grand finale of course. The end of a lovely night with a lovelier moon.”
George turns impatiently and he regrets it.
When you look at the sun- well you can’t. Not without it hurting. But George tries, peering past the brightness that puts all the other stars to shame, and what he sees takes away the breath in his lungs just like every other time he looks at him. The winds play with golden locks which frame a strong jawline, freckled with stardust. He’s gorgeous, the way the corner of his eyes crinkle and soft dimples appear on his cheeks. George wants to poke them, wants to play with the other’s hair but he’s scared he would burn. The other radiates something vibrant, a life of colour and warmth as the flames dance around the crown of his head.
“George,” Gold eyes dip into a familiar fondness, one built over centuries of knowing each other, “Hi.”
“Dream,” He nods, looking away when his heart starts to hurt for a reason he doesn’t want to understand, “Hello.”
“Ready for a new day?” The other gestures to the light sky above them.
“Here comes the sun,” George murmurs, vowels dripping with slight teasing, “So warm and bright. Make the sky green for me today.”
“Green?” Dream looks at him curiously, “You can’t see green. That’s why I make the sky blue.”
He smiles to himself. He likes the thought that the sun wakes up every sunrise and paints the sky blue just for the moon. It makes him feel warm, it makes him feel light because a sky he has to share with every mortal on earth, every star in the sky, every bird, every cloud is always blue for him. Something larger than them both and Dream dips his paintbrush into a swirl of colours every morning to create a masterpiece to please only one pair of eyes, a pair that is as broken as they can come.
“I suppose,” He leans back against the railing of the bridge, “How much time until sunrise?”
How much longer till you leave?
“Not enough.” The other draws a small circle in the air, light following where his finger goes, and a coin forms out of thin air, “A wish for your thoughts?”
He offers his hand outstretched, the coin flat in the centre of his palm. George looks at it, quiet scrutiny before he decides. His own fingers, pale and cold, reach forward and curl around the metal disc. The top of the dull gold is cool to the touch but the bottom burns and he hisses, jumping back.
The coin falls into the river. He watches from the bridge as the river takes his wish away before he can use it, it’s a shame.
“Sorry-” Dream curses, “I didn’t mean to, you okay?”
“Radiation,” He murmurs, rubbing the patch of red on his skin, “Careful now, the humans say I might become a mutant.”
“You’re such an idiot,” The taller man breathes dragon smoke in the cold air and smiles so bright, George can’t stand it, “No thoughts tonight then?
“No wishes to spend.”
“That’s fine by me.”
Then he’s burning. Because Dream has that look on his face like it’s the moon he’d rather orbit around like the solar system does to him. He has that look on his face like everything he’s ever wanted is in George and everything else he’ll ever need can wait. He hates that look, he loves that look. He never knows how to feel properly around the other.
“Stupid sun,” He mutters under his breath.
“Lovely moon,” The other whispers, “I need to go. The day is waiting.”
“So is the night.”
“Sunset,” The gold sounds like a promise, firm and final, as certain as most are to see the days change from day to night.
“Sunset,” George echoes slowly as Dream climbs the railing, jumping off before fading away into stardust, “See you.”
He thinks, as he stands there on the bridge alone and his skin starts to glow and dissolve into moon dust, he thinks the sunrise is beautiful. The way the first rays of the day ripple on the lake, becoming a call for adventure, the trigger for a symphony of song birds. It takes away as much as it gives and sometimes he wishes he were close enough to seize it by his hand, strong enough not to burn. He thinks of the gold coin tumbling away in the riverstream, wasted and untouched.
The moon sets behind him and when it dips under the horizon, George is gone- nothing but moon dust and the bridge is empty.
~
“I’m waning.”
The first time George says that to Dream, confusion settles on a gorgeous face as it blinks owlishly at him. He remembers laughing at the other who asked if that was a real word even though it wasn’t that funny. Now it’s a bit different, centuries later the moon doesn’t have the exact words that explain how he feels during this certain phase but the sun understands exactly what the other needs.
“C’mere,” Gold consumes him and he feels safe. He’s tried his best to formulate words to describe what he means by waxing and waning. Sometimes he feels big, feels too much and everything feels brighter and louder. Sometimes he feels small, heart numb and cold as the world falls silent and everything slowly withers away.
“It’s dark,” he says to the sun, “The shadows are awake.”
“That would be my doing,” Dream winces, “Sorry.”
“S’okay, they’re nice. Most of the time at least,” George thinks the other should stop apologising so much, “One of them taught me how to dance.”
“Is it the waltz? They have a weird obsession with the waltz.”
“They tried to. I told them it was too hard,” George looks at their feet and then the way their arms held onto each, moving Dream's left hand to perch upon his shoulder, “We compromised.”
“Compromised?” Something wet hits them from above, “It’s raining.”
“The sky is crying.” The moon muses, “And I’m waning. I think I know why.”
Dream blinks and George can see the cogs turn to try make sense out of it all, “Why?”
“They want us to dance. I want us to dance,” George likes the way the other flushes red, “Until sunrise. The birds can be our music.”
The moon lends out his hand and the sun looks at it hesitantly, “I never learnt how to dance.”
“It’ll be fun. Watching you fall over yourself.” The other laughs and everything is warm despite the cold rain.
“Alright then, let’s dance.” Then Dream takes his hand.
~
They’re on the bridge again. It’s sunset.
Dream is leaning against him, eyes drooping and breath shallow. He’s usually tired when sunset comes upon the horizon, slowly sinking into something akin to slumber. The sun and moon never sleep, there’s never enough time and there’s always someone in need of them. George plays with golden locks, humming quietly to himself. He can feel the sun’s heart, warm against him, beating a song, a rhythm that always plays in the moon’s mind.
“Anything interesting today?” Dream’s skin doesn’t scorch as much by sunset as it does sunrise, a little older, a little tamer.
“Define interesting,” The other mumbles, gold eyes fluttering shut, “A car. A red one I think, almost ran over a flock of ducks.”
“That’s bad.”
“You don’t really care.”
George hums and clears the stray locks that get in the way of the sun’s vision, “I always care, keep talking.”
The moon loves the way Dream comes to life when he talks, spinning a story of his day with golden threads. His face lights up, widened animatedly and reborn with an energy he didn’t have a few minutes before. George smiles, something warm growing inside of him, as the other goes on to mention the schools of flying fish in the Pacific, a ballet recital held wide in the open and a man who played a flute in the heart of New York. Sometimes the other needs this, needs someone to listen and this is the most the moon can do.
“George,” The other flickers for a moment, “Why did the universe make sunsets so short?”
The moon falters and looks up, over the bridge and to the horizon where the sun has nearly drowned, the only things left of it being it’s final breaths. It’s nearly time to wish the other a goodnight, to greet the night with a bittersweet smile.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles, “That’s how things are.”
“Do you think the mortals would let us sue the universe?”
“I think they’d help us.”
The sun laughs and it’s extremely nice on his ears. Warm and light, dancing on the surface of water without causing a ripple. The other’s head is on George’s shoulder and he wonders if he can kiss the golden freckles which decorate the other like little stars. Dream starts to fade away, skin glowing as it turns to stardust and says: “Sunrise?”
He’s gone, as quickly as he came- a beauty disappearing just like that. The moon sighs, once again all alone. He lets the sky take him as he whispers to no one but himself, “Sunrise.”
~
“Sunspots?”
George’s voice is quiet, soft like waves that greet the morning. Dream’s already waiting at the bridge, their bridge; leaning against the railing with a silence that only speaks to time. The other has his eyes trained on the riverbed, scorching gold transfixed with serene blues. There are scars on his face where there weren’t before, darkening to devilled reds and ashened blacks. They’re scattered on his back, up his neck and down his wrists.
“Sunspots,” Gold wavers like if it hurts to speak but still Dream turns to beam at him and George is reminded of a beauty he never forgot, “It’s just how things are.”
The moon comes near, close enough to melt against the sun but he doesn’t care. He brings up the other’s right hand, the one with small scars drawn from the index finger and up to his forearm. The sun is warm, too warm for George not to burn and be left alone in his own ashes. It doesn’t matter.
He gasps when he curls his fingers around the other’s hands, lacing them together as if the two were a story in a tapestry with their tales destined to intertwine. It hurts, singing and leaving red hand prints against George but he likes it, soft marks of the sun claiming the moon. He thinks one looks like a rabbit.
“You look,” George doesn’t have the right words, he never does and it’s terrible. He doesn’t have the right word for that feeling, the pull that always brings him home to Dream and he never has the right words to explain how he burns, how he melts and how he breathes because of the sun.
“They’re worse than usual,” Dream murmurs and he sounds ashamed, haunted, “The scars are all over.”
Gold dims and the sun is setting behind them; George thinks but doesn’t say. He thinks about how the other is an idiot, how he’s in love with the same idiot and he thinks about how much the dark sunspots don’t matter but then they do. They matter because Dream cares for them, in a way which makes the sun shine less brighter but the moon can’t say anything. Dream wears them as a punishment, as a curse. As a reminder that the scars ruin him, his beauty as the almighty stars.
George brings the other’s hand to his lips and kisses the first scar. It burns and his lips are a livid red but he’s drowning in gold. He hears Dream inhale sharply and the moon keeps kissing the trail of little scars up the sun’s neck.
Dream thinks of his sunspots as a curse and it’s George’s job to teach him that they’re a blessing. Because the sun is gorgeous, the sun is beautiful and the moon falls every day for it. The scars mean nothing to him because everything he needs is right in his arms, melting against his lips. They mean something to Dream and he needs to teach the other that he’s something more, that the scars serenade him and he’s a masterpiece made more beautiful with a few wrong brushstrokes.
“Kiss me?” Dream pleads and the moon doesn’t know how he could say no.
He’s burning when their lips meet and he’s burning when they part for air. Dream drowns him, gold running down like waterfalls and he feels hands curling in his own. He doesn’t want to breathe, he doesn’t want to let go- not until the sun understands that he is loved, that he is lovelier with his sunspots.
There’s an art, far in the east where the sun rises. An art to mend broken ceramic with gold, with silver. To show that broken things are beautiful, that broken things can be fixed and put together to make something lovely and delicate.
George doesn’t think Dream needs fixing but he thinks that if you put the sun and moon together, it’s something more than just beautiful.
~
It’s a new moon. George hates it when it’s a new moon.
He’s alone in the sky and no one sees him among the array of bright lights. People try to look for him but no matter how hard they squint, all that’s left of him in the sky is a dark shadow. Those nights he’s a ghost, there but not here, existing but not corporeal. Overtaken by sidereal lanterns and fading into dark skies, he sinks forgotten and unknown.
But it’s not his invisibility that bothers him, it’s not his anonymity. It’s the fact that he’s always cold, so so cold as he freezes to the point his lips turn blue and wants to fall asleep so he never has to be awake. There’s no light where he is, he’s waiting in the darkness- curled up and shaken. His heart barely beats and he can’t feel his fingers, muscles growing brittle and tired. He hates this, he hates how he’s lost sense in his arms, he hates how if he stays like this any longer is blood might grow blue and he hates-
He hates how the new moon means this is the furthest away from Dream he’ll ever be.
Without the sun, the moon can’t shine. It can’t bring light to quiet nights and sleeping streets, glowing faintly upon the world below. Without the star, the moon grows bitter and cold- cloaked in a cape of slate and onyx. It freezes, ice in the sky but no one cares until sunrise. The sun doesn’t rise till later so here he lies, suffocating in gentle frost and sharper ice. It needs the sun, George needs Dream.
Frostbite grows on him like a virus, a disease. It makes him sick and spins his head and then his world. Pins and needles, needles and pins on his legs, his back and his palms. His skin is now patches of blue and red, some of it numb and the rest stinging. There are drops of ice where his tears should be and he watches the horizon, patiently, desperately. Please , he wants, please come up-
“George-” Hands cup the side of his cheeks, he’s burning now, “George, I’m here.”
The sun holds him, melting the frost that makes him choke, burning the ice that turns him blue. His heart thumps, singing a song written just for Dream and he feels warm red flood through his body. He’s on fire and it hurts like the frostbite but in a way he doesn’t care. Because the other is here, refusing to let him go as golden eyes drown in him, washing over George with heat waves. His lungs start to breathe, the ice is now water, and his fingers curl into tan skin.
“Don’t you dare let go,” He sobs into a broader chest and warm hands hold onto him tighter, “It hurts. Dream, it hurts when you’re not here.”
“I’m sorry,” Gold whispers, kissing softly the crown of his head, “I came as fast as I could.”
Not fast enough , he wants to blame but he knows it’s not Dream’s fault. It’s just how the universe works, the moon needs the sun just like everything else does. But the sun needs no one, it spins it’s little dance and it decides the first turn and last leap. Everyone else follows, everyone else sings for the sun and that’s how things are, how they’ve always been. The universe said so.
“You’re thinking about the big things again,” The sun murmurs kissing the side of his cheek, “Careful now.”
But the sun decided that the moon was special, that George was worth something more than the cold and dark. So Dream gave away some of his light, reflecting his own rays of gold and warm onto someone lonelier and more unknown. Out of all the other stars, out of all the other planets, it’s the moon who the sun chose to lead the dance with. A pair, a partner- Dream chose George and that’s what the sun said so.
“What are you thinking about then?”
“You.” Gold meets blue, fire melts ice and George thinks he could spend the rest of his days in the other’s arms, “Always you.”
“Idiot,” He’s still shaking and the frostbite lingers but he’ll be fine, “How long can you stay?”
“As long as you need.” His voice is final and firm. He acts like he has all the time in the world but he’s the sun, he really doesn’t. George wants to laugh but it would hurt his lungs and make his heart miss something he still has for now.
“But the day needs to start.”
“The day can wait.”
“They need you.” They’re on the bridge now, he wonders how they got here, when they got here. The river is flowing like there’s nothing wrong in the world.
“I need you,” Dream says, “I need you, preferably not frozen and blue.”
“I match the sky now.” He can smile now since his face isn’t as stiff, “Do you think I’m pretty enough to play the part?”
“You were always pretty,” The sun dips into that fondness which makes his dimple show, “Always prettier than the sky.”
He looks at the river, dark navy with deeper shades of grey, and then looks back up at a lighter sky. With a free hand, he draws a circle in the air and a silver coin falls into his hand. He brings it up, pressing his lips against the cool metal and then brings it forward to touch Dream’s lips. The coin grows warm and he smiles.
“A wish for your thoughts?”
“Oh?” Gold curls softly and it takes the coin.
George watches the other, tan fingers speckled by stardust dancing around the coin as if it were stalling time. Contemplation, quietly settles in golden eyes and the moon waits.
“If I,” The sun starts, “If I threw this coin into the river below, would you follow me?”
“Follow you?” The moon echoes like it does with the other’s rays of light, “Follow you where?”
“To visit the day,” Dream has that look again, “To be with me.”
“How would one do that?”
“Rise,” he says simply, “At the wrong time. The wrong place.”
The sun chooses the moon, again and again. Over the universe, over the day. Gold steals silver away from the darkness of slate nights and hidden from a million other stars. He doesn’t believe it sometimes, his head goes a bit dizzy and he holds onto the other tighter.
“Go on then,” George says quietly, “Throw the coin. It’s almost day.”
The sun chooses the moon everytime and he supposes, it’s only fair if the moon does the same.
~
Have you ever wondered why you see the moon during the day?