Novelette {Oneshots}

Love Language ✧ 𝙶𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎

𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

𝚃𝚆𝚜: -

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌: Day 4 of the writing event. Mood board above, quote was "You ride a lonely road, so come take a drive with me."

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"Excuse me sir?" A polite voice cuts through my art class, accompanied by an innocent laugh. I'm not sure why his voice above all others is the one that manages to make me look away from my sketches, but I'm immediately regretting my curiosity when I glance up.

"Sorry for the interruption," the boy smiles sweetly, pushing a strand of hair out of his eyes daintily to feign innocence. "I'm from the writing class down the corridor. We're doing an interview project, and I was wondering if I could borrow one of your students for it?"

"Of course!" my professor responds kindly, glancing around the room in search of someone for the boy to take. Frustratingly, it's in that moment my gaze meets his, and a bitter part of me already knows what's coming next.

"Well, how about George?" he offers, noticing that I'm the only one not looking down. It's obvious that I've been listening to their conversation, so I suppose I deserve it, but the thought isn't enough to stifle my groan.

"Sure, sir," I reluctantly agree, deciding to leave my work out in the hopes it'll indicate I'm not willing to stay with this boy long. Maybe I should've thought this through before letting morbid curiosity get the better of me, again, but I couldn't just ignore that voice.

Soft like silk yet beige like weak coffee, dripping smoothly over every word. There's something elegant about the way it's sweet like a melody, yet twinged with the occasional off-key note when he's brashly pronouncing his t's.

I'm stumbling out of that musty art room before I know how to make sense of him, left with nothing but to follow and wait. He doesn't lead me very far, deciding to stop in one of the unused writing classrooms, and I'm almost annoyed by how little time it gives me to observe him.

A part of me doesn't want to, wants to get this over with as quickly as possible so I can get back to class and my artwork and forget about that voice of his. But another part does want to stay here, let me unpick every detail of what's rapidly becoming my new source of inspiration.

"So, your name is George?" he boy asks suddenly, deciding to perch himself on the edge of the teacher's desk rather than use a chair. I decide then and there that I definitely like the sound of his voice, especially when it's filled with my name.

"Yeah, I am. And you are?" The boy seems to contemplate his answer for a few seconds before uttering, "Dream."

"Dream."

I let the sound fill my mouth, let it taint my tongue with the faintest hint of ambition. If I could ever remember what dreaming felt like, It'd replicate the sensation of staring into someone's mysterious eyes for a little too long, caught in a dream.

Specifically his eyes and this dream currently, but I force myself out of the black hole, to respond with my surname when asked before letting slip, "the name Dream really suits you, actually."

"Oh?" Dream clicks the tip of his pen curiously, scribbling down my full name in handwriting I bet looks at least slightly cursive. "How so?"

"Well, your eyes are warm, but not like the sun," I shrug. "Inviting, but not blinding. They're softer at the edges and more vibrant in the centre, half like silver clouds on the brightest days and half like ones filled with rain."