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Beams of light poked through the openings of Flansburgh's fingers as he held his hand over his face to block the sun.
He squinted. He knew he should have pulled his eyes away. He learned early, as most people do, not to look directly into the sun. But something about it pulled him in.
Despite how bright it was, it didn't burn his eyed at all. He squinted, yet it was only from habit. It felt like looking at anything else — it felt like nothing.
He had one hand in the pocket of his green bomber jacket, the nail of his pointer finger scratching at the side of his thumb. Though he didn't know why.
He couldn't pin what he was feeling. It felt like nothing and everything, all at the same time. His body felt like it was floating, though his feet were planted firmly on the ground.
He was dreaming, though this was far less eventful than his normal dreams.
It wasn't the first one. He became aware of this as pictures suddenly flashed through his mind, though he could barely make sense of them. All he saw at first was blood. And then a hand holding an unknown object. It was not yet clear to him what exactly it was.
He tried to close his eyes, but what use did it make if he was already asleep?
He lowered his hand, allowing himself to look directly into the sun, with nothing obstructing his view.
It was beautiful once he finally got to look at it.
"Wow.." He whispered in complete awe. Perhaps it was because he was dreaming, but he noticed finer details. The differences in colour in the burning star, and the way the clouds framed it.
How could something so dangerous be so beautiful?
He felt a wave of vertigo wash over him as he continued to stare up at the sky. It was probably the most he had felt during the dream. His head spun as he fought to keep his balance.
It was not a battle he was meant to win.
He fell backwards, his back hitting the floor. Though the fall was much kinder to him than he anticipated. It felt like falling onto a bed of feathers, even though what he knew he had actually fallen onto was grass.
He stared up at the leaves of the tree that now towered over him. From the angle he was laying at, the sun was now far more difficult to see. He almost mourned the sight of it. He worried he hadn't appreciated it enough.
He then heard the crunching of grass and leaves, as if someone was walking on them. The sound grew louder, and a shadow began to loom over him. Though something about it made him feel safe. He kept his eyes fixated on the swaying tree branches above him as he waited for whatever it was.
The crunching stopped as a man stood over him. The man appeared as a shadow at first, until he leaned down.
Flansburgh smiled. It was only his best friend, his bandmate, and his everything — John Linnell.
"Thats not a bed," he said playfully, his lips curling back into a smile.
Flansburgh smiled in return, looking up at Linnell. "Oh, but it's so comfortable."
"Is it now?" Linnell raised a brow. "Maybe I should join you."
"That would be nice."
And so he did.
Linnell moved to Flansburghs side, sitting next to him. He brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them close. He looked out to the sight around him, taking a deep breath.
"What's on your mind?" Flansburgh asked, reaching an arm behind his head to prop himself up. His other arm reached out, placing his hand on Linnells back.
He watched the fabric move as he gently rubbed his back. His eyes trailed back up to Linnells face, admiring his side profile and the way the wind blew his hair.
"This is your dream," Linnell said softly, turning back to look at Flansburgh. "I should be asking you that."
"Mm.. maybe," Flansburgh hummed with a shrug. "But thats boring. I like talking about you more."
Linnell laughed softly, his nose scrunching up. "You're sweet."
"Lay with me," Flansburgh suggested as he gently gripped the back of Linnells turtleneck. He tugged on it in an attempt to get him to follow.
Linnell didn't need convincing, though. He placed his hands behind him on the grass, pushing his body further down on the ground before laying back. Flansburgh rested his arm over his stomach, turning his head to face Linnell.
"Hey," he whispered.
"Hey."
There was a moment of silence as they looked at each other. Flansburgh reached his hand back out, touching Linnells face. His pointer finger rested underneath his chin.
"Have you ever looked at the sun before?" Flansburgh asked suddenly.
"I think I value my eyesight," Linnell chuckled as he furrowed his brows. "But I've quickly looked at it as a kid."
"Look at it now," Flansburgh suggested. "I'm serious, it won't burn. It's pretty."
Linnell slowly turned his head up to the sky. Flansburgh watched his eyes search for the sun.
Though where Flansburgh could stand the sight, Linnell apparently could not. He quickly shut his eyes, turning his body fully to Flansburgh. He reached out, gently hitting Flansburghs chest. There was no malice in the action, and it felt like being hit with a pillow.
"Ah, why did I believe you?" Linnell questioned.
"Did it hurt?" Flansburgh asked, looking back over at Linnell. "Thats strange. It doesn't hurt me."
"You're real," Linnell mumbled, opening his eyes to look at Flansburgh. "I'm just a dream."
Flansburgh had almost forgotten. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He bit his lip.
"Right," he said, watching as the world began to slowly fade away. He was waking up. "Wait—"
"I'll see you when you wake up," Linnell said, his voice beginning to fade. "The real me."
"Wait—"
And then the world faded to the harsh red of the sun shining through Flansburghs eyelids.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, groaning softly. He moved his head to the side, feeling hair in his face as he did so.
It was Linnell.
He opened his eyes, looking down at the sight in front of him. Linnell had his back against his chest, Flansburghs arms holding him closely. His longer, messy hair was sprawled out onto the pillow and in Flansburghs face.
He smiled. It was exactly what he had dreamed of waking up to.
"Mm.." Linnell hummed in his sleep, tucking his arms closer to his own chest.
Flansburgh closed his eyes, resting his head back onto the pillow.
Five more minutes wouldn't hurt.