Truths into Facts.
Oz knows that it's a dream because everything is dark and everything is peaceful. There is no noise, barely a heartbeat that he supposes must be his.
There is a mirror, polished like silver, a golden frame around it, golden leaves and flowers that are barely this side of tasteful rather than overbearing. Oz approaches it, touches the surface, unsurprised when the hand on the mirror is his for a moment and then it isn't, how it changes, a gloved hand against the reflection of his naked hand.
The eyes that look back at him are the same shade of green, and yet they are different. The face is similar, too, not quite a reflection but close. Not quite a dream, then.
"Jack," he says, and the not-reflection smiles.
Oz closes his eyes, leans his forehead against the mirror and he breaths. A few seconds go by and then it's as if he was dreaming, the mirror melting around him, and Jack's arms are around him. Oz tries to imagine that Jack's clothes smell of something, the same way he can almost feel his warmth.
Or maybe it's the other way around. Jack is the one who's warm and Oz is merely the reflection. It would make sense, that. It all would make much more sense like that.
Jack rubs his hand, hums softly, barely above his breathing, some nonsense melody. There is a heartbeat and Oz decides that it's Jack's as he holds unto him, deciding that he's the dream, he's the one who doesn't exist. There is a pulse against his lips, when he kisses Jack's neck, and that must count for something, for exactly the same sound he makes when Jack kisses him, soft.
Later, Oz supposes he wakes up, maybe. Perhaps.