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(I guess we'll have to see)
“Did you catch anything?” Dream asks, and George shakes his head. Dream frowns, mouth opening to ask another question, or maybe suggest a new spot to try—he’s taken to asking his family for their secret places, which melts George into an irreparable puddle of goo—but George kisses the words from his tongue with an easy slide of his hand down Dream’s face to tilt his head at the right angle.
They don’t talk more of fishing, or anything at all. The bag lies nearly forgotten, save for the soft press of it against George’s memory, a sister awareness to the physical press of Dream’s body to his as they sink into sleep.
George dreams often of things he once desired.
or; george catches memories lost to time instead of fish
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