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“You should talk dirty to me.”
Dream pauses, fingers sitting still beneath the waistline of Ink’s hakamas. Ink considers Dream’s bare ribcage. He’s completely nude besides his pants and circlet; Ink himself is in a similar state, and hopes to progress even further if time and situation will permit it. It’s safe, here in Dream’s room. Here in their bed.
“You know,” Ink continues, shrugging his shoulders as Dream waits: cheeks a dark hue of gold as his gaze flickers between Ink’s hips and his face. “Talk dirty to me. Talk of dirt? Say sexy things while you desecrate my absolutely definitely totally virgin body. Tell me my pussy uh… clamps good? Chomps your dick like a shark? That I’m a lost tomb and you’re a copyright free archeologist who wants to explore it? I don’t know— maybe not that, but stuff like that.”
It’s always funny when Dream’s face cycles through every possible distressed expression in existence: brows furrowing and unfurrowing, mouth quirking down then up. Ink fights back a snort as Dream clearly takes a breath, blinking away his thoughts. His hands still sit, ready to free Ink from the shackles of clothing. It makes Ink feel… something. Ivy leaves and sunflowers, maybe— how Ink could say just about anything and Dream would still want to ravage him like a fresh, hot meal after days of starving.
“...I can try,” Dream responds. He looks a little hesitant as the words leave his mouth. Ink can tell when he bites the inside of his cheek.“You’re beautiful,” Dream says, and Ink can see the clear light-peeking-through-cloud honesty that infests his gentle tone.
Ink hums into the kiss that he pulls Dream down into. He tastes like sun and smoke: flame and flower. One of Dream’s hands moves to stabilize himself up by Ink’s head while the other remains down by the waist of Ink’s pants. Ink sighs into the affection, bucking his hips as Dream finally pulls the fabric down enough to expose. His palette is nothing but a sunset, and he’s primed and ready for the feeling of pure want as Dream’s tongue brushes against his teeth in permission. Ink happily and enthusiastically gives it.
“Try it in your native language,” Ink says as they break apart, already panting. Dream is focused on getting Ink’s body completely free and open: leaving him in nothing but his thigh high socks and sly grin.
“Pardon?”
“Your native tongue,” Ink repeats. Dream tilts his head, allowing himself to be pulled down into another kiss. It’s quicker this time. Sweet. Sultry. “Talk dirty to me in your native language. You know the trope? You could be telling me you want me to mewl like a cat in heat or that you want me to do your taxes. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference so it would, uh, take some of the pressure off of you. I…”
“...Just want to hear your voice,” Dream finishes his thought, somehow managing to sound completely free of hubris. Ink nods, feeling his own grin deepen as Dream smiles back: warm and fond. Dream taps him, and Ink knows what he’s asking. He sits up and allows Dream to settle himself behind him: body rested against the headboard. Dream pulls Ink back up so Dream is stabilizing him with his body, hands rested on the plumpness of Ink’s thighs, and face buried into the crook of his shoulder.
Ink cranes his neck, fighting the spark of pink that infests his vision as Dream’s tongue caresses the seam of his vertebrae. “I can speak French for you later if that would sweeten the deal. Get your roches off.”
Dream snorts at Ink’s bastardization of his own language. “Okay,” he mutters against Ink’s skull. One of his hands travels up to rest on his false ribs. He traces the trajectory of one of Ink’s markings, splaying his fingers across the comet trail. Eventually, he ends up at the seam of rib and magic. He seems to toy with the idea of indulging for a moment. Ink holds his breath— a failure of his body and mind— as Dream finally allows his warm hand to finally brand the expanse of Ink’s stomach.
“I love you,” Dream says, voice dipping into the confidence of his childhood language. Dream always sounds careful and calculated when he speaks: tone soft, curious, but firm. He sounds… faster, in this language, though. Sharper. “You’re beautiful,” he continues, permitting his other hand to travel beneath the edge of his abdomen. Ink watches as Dream’s elegant, made-for-music fingers stretch— considering the possibility of moving further. But, there they rest as Dream presses another trail of kisses across Ink’s neck. “I love you.”
“I know what that means,” Ink huffs, smiling. He fights back another sigh as Dream sucks a gentle kiss into the sensitivity of Ink’s neck. “Try harder, Dreamy. C’mon. Confuse and befuddle me.”
A moment passes. Dream’s hands continue to burn a deep, burning affection into Ink’s magic.
“There is not a day since we met that I have not thought of you.”
Ink allows himself to settle into the silence. Dream hums, waiting to see if there’s any reaction. When Ink continues to hold his tongue, Dream seems to accept it as an answer: he presses another kiss to Ink’s neck and breathes into the bone.
It’s… only a lie of omission, really. It shouldn’t be that bad when the truth becomes clear— Dream will forgive him, as he often does.
In all honesty it was easy learning Dream’s native tongue. Language learning came to Ink like the ease of putting pencil to paper. The Creators all spoke different languages, after all. It would be impolite to leave them and their creations without any source of open communication. His memory may be bad, sure. But, all it took was time and passion— things that Ink had in abundance. Of course Ink would dedicate himself to something so pivotal to Dream’s existence. He was one of his favorite characters; It was obvious that he would want to immerse himself in everything that Dream had to offer.
…Dreamtale language included.
“...You’re pretty,” Dream adds, flexing the fingers of his farther traveled hand. It taunts at the edge of Ink’s cunt; Ink traces the movement with his gaze, holding his breath as Dream sucks another kiss into neck. “I love you so, so much. You’re so pretty.”
Ink would tell him soon. He learned to communicate, after all. There was no point in keeping the secret forever. But… for now, Ink will allow himself to indulge in this situation. The trope. He fights back a smile; It was always a treat to get Dream open. To be let in. To be witness to the knowledge.
“Continue,” Ink prods. He watches, vision blotched satisfied-saffron as Dream finally caresses the seam of him. His touch is light and gentle; There isn’t much sensation, but the promise alone sends a shiver down Ink’s spine— only aided when Dream gifts a delightful bite to one of his transverse processes.
Dream’s breath is hot against his bone. The bed creaks, as Dream leans them both back the slightest amount. Again, he allows his fingers to trace the path of Ink’s cunt: light, gentle, and teasing.
“...You irritated me at first,” Dream admits. Ink narrows his sockets, allowing his gaze to focus on the dresser situated in front of Dream’s bed. The room is bathed in gentle dusk light, comfortable and blanketing. Is Ink understanding that word right? He thinks he is. The memories of those early years are… fuzzy at best. But, reaching down into the pits of his mind, Ink can recall how fun it had been to mess with Dream: to set up a reaction, to have his expectations averted— to be faced with something new and interesting. The day he got punched upside the skull— when he got a genuine apology for it— was the day that Ink decided he needed to know more. “Still, you haunted me like a specter. I would lay my eyes to rest and be met with images of you, dancing across my vision like you had lived there all along. Like you were meant to be there. It… unsettled me.”
Finally, Dream allows his touch to meet the visceral part of Ink’s magic. Still, his affection is soft and light as he trails up from Ink’s entrance to the hood of his clit. He doesn’t stay long, though. Just enough for Ink to fight back a sigh; Just enough for Ink’s sockets to flutter as he traces the same path once more.
“I wanted… I wanted to be close to you. Being close to you made me feel annoyed, but it also made me feel… safe. It made me feel like I could be myself. I don’t think I knew what ‘myself’ was, but you made me want to be it.”
Ink so badly wants to ask how he makes Dream feel now. The question is on the tip of his tongue— his memory faltering around his plan— when Dream presses a deeper stroke across his sensitivity. Without active thought, Ink opens his thighs: begging Dream to access what is being presented. When Dream teases the possibility, he does so like he has all the time in the world. All the time in the Multiverse.
Again, Dream presses another sloppy kiss to Ink’s neck. His mouth travels up to the back of Ink’s skull, free hand now grasping at the angle of his waist. “You helped me know myself,” he continues. “It… It made me want to know more about you.”
Oh. Oh, is all Ink can think, as Dream finally presses directly into his clit. His circular strokes are still gentle and slow, teasing in nature. He can feel when Dream sighs against him: hot as fire and cozy as flame.
“I don’t know when I fell in love with you, Ink,” Dream murmurs. The way he says his name— it’s quiet. Reverent. It falls from his mouth with intent, each letter given the care and affection Dream believes it deserves. He says it like Ink is a person; He says it like Ink is known. “I just know I suddenly couldn’t imagine my life without you.”
Dream’s other hand travels from his waist down to join the current activities. With the pads of his phalanges, he anchors his touch— pulling Ink’s hood up to further expose his clit. It’s hard to fight back the whine as Dream continues his gentle, practiced strokes. Ink finds that the noise escapes him, without permission, when Dream settles yet another kiss to his neck.
“Dream,” Ink moans proper, sockets fighting to stay open. He’d be embarrassed by his strained, breathy tone if he had any more cyan in him. But, alas, Ink is filled to the brim with sunset-sunrise colors. There is nothing but bliss painted across the edges of his mind.
“You’re doing great,” Dream says, momentarily switching back to the common word. His touch doesn’t stop; The colors keep swirling. “Breathe, please. Keep breathing. You can do it. I believe in you.”
Again, if Ink’s palette were mixed just a little bit differently, he might feel the urge or wherewithal to sling back a snide remark: crack a joke, try to worm his way out of the vulnerability. But, it isn’t. And, so, Ink finds himself basking in the praise and encouragement.
“Keep talking, Sunshine,” Ink mumbles. His voice hitches as Dream deepens his touch— still methodical, and still devastating. “I’m headcanoning that you’re explaining the intricacies of tree reproduction. I’m on the edge of my seat here. Don’t disappoint me, c’mon now.”
“Oh, you’ll be coming all right.”
The sudden switch in both tone and language sends a proper shiver through Ink’s spine; It doesn’t help that Dream chooses that moment to slip two fingers down into his entrance, curling right into his vulnerability.
The word Dream uses is simply the word for ‘orgasm’. But, Ink knows that translation often requires interpretation. The pun was perfectly set up; Ink feels confident that Dream took the opportunity.
It’s nice, hearing him lean into vulgarity. Ink nearly— and likely actually did, now that he thinks about it— pumped his fists upon Dream’s first utterance of the word ‘fuck’. Dream was polite to a fault; He was honestly, truly caring. He embodied his role of positivity. He was the beacon of hope that everyone believed him to be.
But, he was also a gossip. He also loved to bitch and complain: brow cocked and words still carefully chosen. He was feisty, under the right circumstances. His wit was as sharp as an arrow, and his laugh pitched like a whipcrack upon Ink’s quick retorts. He’d never stab someone in the back, but he would comment (carefully, cooly) on someone’s ‘frankly, clownish behavior’ asking ‘do you think they ever attended school for jestering?’ with a perfect, still honest, purity.
“There you go, my sky. Open up for me. I want to hear the sound of rain,” Dream continues, voice gruff and pleasingly low. Still, there is an air of patience to his command: a subtle confidence that despite the assumed barrier, he will be understood. Ink opens himself further— bucking his hips as Dream firmly presses his fingers into that faux bundle of nerves. Ink can feel his own slickness: how easily Dream’s phalanges had slid into him. The sound the arousal makes— displaced by the current rhythm being set— is in fact, downright dirty. Ink almost stifles another moan but allows it to escape past his teeth. Dream would appreciate the encouragement, after all.
Dream did need a lot of encouragement to lean into his honest, rugged self. There were times where he would be balls deep in Ink and would still be holding back an appropriate ‘fuck’ or ‘you feel so good’, his hands politely trailing along the curves of Ink’s ass as his cock carved deep into the depths of his magic. Ink takes pride in how quick and often he can get Dream relaxed and true; But, sometimes Dream gets stuck in his head. Sometimes he needs a little push: a little set up. An opportunity to speak his mind without the fear that he’s playing his role wrong.
“You sound so pretty,” Dream whispers. “So nice. So handsome.”
“Go on,” Ink breathes, focusing on how Dream’s free hand trails back up to his stomach: splaying across the rainbow swirl of magic.
“…There was a time, before we joined our lives, that I would drown in alcohol and allow myself to be taken by anyone that made me think of you,” Dream continues, voice rumbling against Ink’s bone. Ink… doesn’t exactly know how he feels about Dream bringing up his past hookups while he’s fingers deep into Ink’s sex. But, this is just his stream of consciousness— his ongoing thoughts. It’s not like those people matter, anyway. They’re just characters. Plot points. Even then, Ink was the one that Dream had come home to. Ink was the one to clean him up; Ink was the one to comfort him; Ink was the one who, at the end of the day, was chosen. And, here and now, Ink is busy fighting back a whine as Dream presses deeper into his cunt. “…It could have been scent, disposition, or appearance. If they wanted, I would give myself. I don’t think I understood at the time, but I know I called your name more often than not.”
Ink’s name. His name. He’d marked Dream early on; Claimed him before he knew it himself. From then, he was chosen. He was wanted. He was desired. Him. Him. Ink allows the grin to pull at the edges of his mouth; He traces the edges of his fangs with his tongue, indulging in the sensation of what should be pain. Oh, he feels like buttercups and bliss: roses and revelations.
It might be a little mean how Ink arches into Dream’s clear and hard erection. But, all he can feel is auburn satisfaction as Dream releases a strained breath: slow and steady. Dream removes his phalanges, but before Ink can protest, he’s drawing them back up— tracing pressured circles around Ink’s clit like it’s the only thing he’s ever known.
“I love the scent of you,” Dream admits. “Sometimes when I eat you out, it’s more for me than for you. I love being surrounded by you. There are times where I crave nothing but your scent and taste. I would perish, happy, between your thighs.”
In reality, Dream didn’t actually say ‘eat you out’. Ink picked up the telltale phrase of ‘taste your name’, and knew what it represented. Again, the interpretation is up to him: and going by the vibes, it’s meant to be filthy. Rugged, honest, and true. ‘Perform oral sex,’ just doesn’t seem right.
Ink fights back the ‘you’re obsessed with me, aren’t you Dreamy?’ that sits at the forefront of his mind; Instead, he focuses on the rhythm: the practiced, calculated strokes. He can feel the blossom of warmth through his marrow: the settling of sun beneath horizon. There’s electricity in his fingertips, rested upon his own chilled ribcage; There’s the cool, forest haze that blankets his skull.
“I want you, Ink. I need you. Please. I would beg.”
“…I’m going to pretend you just asked me to ride you, because I really want to ride you. Giddy up, boy. I’m coming.”
For a moment, Ink mourns the loss of heat and sensation as he draws himself forward, turning around to face Dream.
Dream looks… star struck, for a lack of a better phrase. There’s awe painted across his expression. Clear as day; Bright as gold. He smiles at Ink, mouth upturned in his signature lopsided smile with sockets wide and filled with wonder. When Ink crawls forward to capture him in a kiss, he finds that Dream tastes just as pure as he normally does: concentrated sunshine at its best.
Ink sighs as Dream kisses at the hollow of his mouth. His tongue swipes against Ink’s, and Ink can’t help nor does he want to help the whine that escapes from him. His pink is too busy driving his wandering hands: guiding him to stabilize himself against Dream’s chest. In return, Dream moans: deep and low, rumbling into the affection. It feels like a promise; A declaration.
It’s a little hard from where he’s situated, now hovering above Dream’s hips, but Ink does try to aid in the removal of Dream’s remaining clothes. It doesn't seem like Dream needs much help though. As soon enough, without breaking the kiss, Dream is able to pull his pants and boxers down to his thighs.
“There we go,” Dream mutters as Ink takes his dick in hand. He’s already hard and dripping— as expected. Ink gives him a few good, slow pumps: hand fitting neatly around Dream’s burning, golden length. Dream’s sockets begin to flutter, face still drenched in sunlight tones; Ink focuses on how his expression softens even further as he lines them up: how his hands rest nicely on the cusps of Ink’s thighs.
Ink settles himself down upon Dream’s cock; The warmth embraces every inch of him.
“You feel like heaven, my sky,” Dream breathes. His tone is gentle and very nearly melodic, Ink leans in closer— indulging in the pressure— as if to soak every last syllable up. Ink would say he shares a similar sentiment. The heat only grows as Ink slides his hips up and down: down and up. There is nothing but rose hips and carnations in his mind as he sets the rhythm. “Who said you could feel so good? Who allowed such a thing?”
‘The Creators’ sits on the tip of Ink’s tongue, but these syllables are promptly swallowed as Dream thrusts up to meet him: joined at the perfect pace. Oh, the Creators. What a wonder it has been to be granted the gift of life; What a joy it has been to be granted the gift of experience. All that Ink wants to do is experience— to learn, to know. He wants to imprint Dream’s very code into his being: marked across his bones like a promise. Every interaction, every piece of dialogue, every change day by day and second by second— Ink yearns to be there. Ink yearns.
Right on cue, Ink’s vision blotches pink. The desire and affection and need dances across his mind like a field of windswept cherry blossoms. It calls to him, begs for him. But, it would be flat out embarrassing to lose himself so soon. And so, Ink whistles a strained breath through his teeth as he reaches for his green: his grounding and his peace. With hips still rocking as if they have their own mind— met pace by pace by Dream— Ink rests his hands against Dream’s shoulders in a feeble attempt to stabilize.
“Fuck!” Ink cries out, unable to stop the flooding of sunset and nebula that flows through him.
“Let it all out, my love. Let me be your only witness.”
In an act that should be considered a crime against Ink’s already fading composure, Dream takes a hand and settles the pad of his thumb directly on Ink’s clit: anchored against the continued movement. The phrase that Dream ended with… it sounds like an idiom of some kind? A saying, maybe? Ink wants to inquire further, but now isn’t exactly the time or space. If only he could jot down a note; It’s both a blessing and a curse, that he’s so, very occupied.
Ink grinds his hips in a particular way as he settles once more, and this gets a satisfyingly breathy, “Ink,” from Dream. Going against his instincts— the pink driving every thought and action— Ink takes a moment to appreciate the work of art beneath him.
Dream smiles up at him and Ink can only think of the sun. His sockets are half lidded, his grin lopsided and dorky, and his perfect scarred ribcage shines gold from the magic beneath. Ink cups Dream’s cheek, and Dream turns his head to press a kiss into Ink’s palm: gaze unbroken.
“I love you,” Dream murmurs. It sounds like a secret; It sounds like he somehow believes that Ink doesn’t know. After all this time? After all this trust? After how many times he’s declared it?
Ink snorts, gently pinching Dream’s cheek as he settles his hand back on his shoulder. “Dream, I know what that means. Did you forget?”
“No,” Dream responds. He allows his gaze to travel. He breathes, as he considers where they are still connected. With movements gentle and slow, he traces Ink’s clit once more. “...You deserve to know. I’m glad that you do. I love you.”
It shouldn’t be so hard to say it back. It’s at the tip of his tongue— the cusp of his being. Of course he loves Dream. Of course. He wouldn’t trust him with everything he is, if he didn’t. He wouldn’t consider him family. He wouldn’t consider him important.
Still, the colors coagulate within his marrow. Ink finds himself at a loss for words.
It doesn’t help that Dream continues his perfect, devastating strokes; It doesn’t help that Ink finds himself a prisoner of his own body, unable to fight the urge to fuck himself upon Dream’s dick. Just this once, which may be once in a sea of the past and future, Ink allows himself to get lost within the sensations. The feelings. The experience. The warmth blooms through him and throughout him. There is nothing but Ink, Dream, and what they are sharing: creation of a moment.
“Keep talking, Sunshine. Fuck— Dream, please,” Ink whines after a particularly rough meeting. He forces a breath and invites in the feeling of pure bliss.
“I love when you say my name. I never knew that it could sound like that— so… real. I wish that you could know what it does to me.”
It may be mean, but Ink doesn’t care. As he rides the next wave of pleasure Ink makes sure to moan the breathiest, pleasure-filled, “Dream,” that he can muster. The sound from Dream he gets in return is all that Ink could ever ask for and more; The way he reaches to pull Ink down, hands blazing against his hips, as he thrusts up directly into his sensitivity— it will be the sensation that Ink calls upon the next time he is alone and desperate.
“Please,” Ink repeats, a plea preached directly to the choir. Like a gathering storm, the warmth brews within him. There’s only so much that he can hold back; There’s only so much that can be ignored. The dancing palette of need and want and love and peace and pleasure swirls within him as the wind itself. Dream’s body is as hot as flame, but Ink wouldn’t want it any other way.
“Ink,” Dream breathes, accepting all that Ink is upon him. “I want all that you are. Please, I need to know every sigh and sorrow. I beg of you, Ink, name me.”
The warmth is too much; The love is, and always has been, enough.
Ink’s orgasm starts in his chest and flows throughout every inch of him. Ink doesn’t know where Dream’s orgasm starts, but Ink knows exactly where it ends. Deep, warm, and safe.
With a satisfied smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, Ink finds himself collapsing on top of Dream. If he had more energy— more orange, perhaps— he may be pumping his fists at the wonderful event of a simultaneous orgasm. But, Ink is too busy being pulled into the Multiverse’s warmest, safest arms. Dream kisses the top of Ink’s skull and Ink allows the still burning sunset within him to pull out a giggle. His forehead is next, and then his cheek; Both are equally warm. And, both are equally sweet.
Then, finally, Dream pulls Ink up into a proper kiss.
“I love you,” Ink whispers into the intimacy of Dream’s mouth. Here, it will be heard; Here, it will be known. “I love you,” Ink repeats a little louder. Dream presses kisses into the corners of Ink’s expression, hand trailing the curves of his cheeks. He rests his forehead against Ink’s. And, even if he doesn’t need to breathe, there are two breaths shared: mixed together, a palette painted of this perfect moment.
“What did you mean?” Ink asks, voice still quiet. Dream presses another round of kisses across Ink’s face before he pulls back. He gives Ink an honest, curious expression. Ink clears his throat. “By, uh, ‘name me’. You know, ‘Por favor, necesito conocer todo tu suspiro y pena. Te lo ruego, Ink, nómbrame’. What did you mean?”
“Oh,” Dream says, tracing Ink’s splotch with the pad of his thumb. “It’s… a phrase specific to my village. It’s a way of expressing your desire to be vulnerable…”
Ink can spot the exact moment when Dream processes. That twitch of his brow, furrowing of his mouth, and widening of his eye-lights— his surprise is as clear as day.
“You learned!” Dream exclaims as he sits up. Here in the gentle dusk of this room, Dream’s pure joy shines like a match at night. He beams at Ink, truly beams: smile lopsided and perfect as always. Ink is in the middle of sitting up as well when Dream pulls him into another, slightly bone-crushing hug. “You learned,” he repeats, as if he had never considered it a possibility. Ink wraps his arms around Dream’s back. And, he feels the exact moment when Dream’s comprehension reaches beyond. “You… understand.”
Understood, is what he means.
“Shush, Sunshine. I can already hear your thoughts,” Ink says as he pulls away, keeping his hands settled on Dream’s shoulder. Dream is looking at him like a rainy-day, all concern and worry. Before Dream can interject, Ink is continuing.
“That was hot as hell, Dreamy. You’ve been keeping that from me, really? This whole time?”
Ink is thankful that his palette is the way it is. He’s been practicing, but the words still feel odd in his mouth. He smiles at Dream— fangs on display— and Dream buries his head into his hand, clearly fighting back the golden blush that has infested his face. He breathes. And, then, he reaches out to cradle Ink’s face.
“...Your accent is cute,” he murmurs. He blinks at Ink, slow and careful. Soft
“Is it, uh…” Ink trails off, taking a moment to press a kiss into the tips of Dream’s phalanges. A perfect distraction. “...Good?”
Dream hums. He’s gentle as he takes Ink by the waist. Ink allows himself to be laid flat against the bed, head cushioned by the soft pillow. Despite the darkness that pours through the window, the smell of sunshine remains. Dream gazes down upon him; Ink indulges in the feeling of being seen.
“It’s cute,” Dream finally responds. “...It’s you.”
Well, if that's good to Dream, then Ink won’t complain.
Dream rests his head against Ink’s ribcage, and Ink can tell when he starts to purr. “Thank you,” Dream says, voice barely above a rumble. “For learning. You didn’t have to.”
Ink wants to say something like ‘Well, I did. So deal with it’, or ‘Hmm… I don’t think I can take the knowledge back now, so I guess I’m stuck with it’, or even ‘I wanted to’. He doesn’t know what colors lead him astray. He doesn’t know if it truly matters, in the end.
What Ink says is, “I love you.”
Dream smiles at him. He smiles like he knows; He smiles like he’s always known. Ink, in the quiet of this moment, hopes he does. He hopes he always has.
Ink hums, as he rubs circles into Dream’s cheek. “...What do you think about eating me out? That sound nice to you?”
It’s cute how Dream’s brows furrow in confusion at Ink’s seamless transfer to his own native tongue. Ink can’t help but snort, barely able to catch his breath as he explains, “...that’s French for ‘do you desire to perform oral sex on me? Nasty style. Perchance. Finder’s keeper’s, loser’s weeper’s— or however the saying goes. Maybe.”
Dream laughs. It sounds like the first warmth of spring.
“Yes, please,” Dream responds. But, just before he can maneuver himself down, he pauses.
He smiles that perfect, lopsided smile: the sun itself in all its glory. And, in its light, Ink knows that he is seen.
Learning for Dream— it’s the least that Ink could do, really. Dream deserves to be understood. Dream deserves to be seen.
Ink is known; Dream should be, too.