Chapter Text
As usual, London’s streets bustled with the lunchtime summer madness of city holiday makers and disgruntled employees attempting to find some good food for their lunch break. The sun was beaming harsh light and uncomfortable humidity down onto the concrete streets, threatening to burn anyone who dares go outside without any sun cream on.
And, as usual , George was amongst the city’s chaotic lunchtime rush— trying to find some food to pick up before he heads back home. He had only worked half a day and was greatly looking forward to kicking back on the sofa with his cat with the house’s windows flung wide open in efforts to get some draught, and watch some Come Dine With Me on Channel Four (his guilty pleasure).
He’s strolling down Westminster Bridge when a red double decker breezes past him, cascading a welcoming cool breeze over him before the stillness of humid air returns and clings to his skin like a second blanket.
It had been about 18 months since he met Dream and said goodbye to him on that same evening. Despite barely knowing the bloke, George couldn’t help but feel a sense of great loss when that red double decker bus pulled away from the curb and into the thunderstorm, taking him home.
For the first couple months afterward, George had religiously searched and Googled pottery artists and exhibitions in London; but each search turned up absolutely nothing, and he began to wonder whether Dream had lied to him about his profession in pottery.
Four months after they met and parted, George gave up on the idea of finding Dream completely.
But even after a year and a half, Dream still impacts George’s day-to-day life in ways that he sometimes fails to notice; instead of catching the tube, taxi, or bus home during a rainstorm, George learnt to walk through it and suffer the consequences of a bad cough and wet work clothes later on.
He began to sit outside more; in parks, outside cafés, at bus stops (despite not needing a bus), on any random patch of grass he could find in public, on walls, on curbs, basically anything he could find that wasn’t a bench. Benches are boring.
And instead of taking his regular route home, he would go by road signs and signposts, using them to guide him home instead of Google Maps or the familiar road names. Sure, it may not be much different than his past life, but it made his life that bit more interesting, and it allowed him to explore parts of London that he never knew existed; like that time he stumbled upon the real Diagon Alley from Harry Potter hidden away in Covent Garden, and although George prefers the books over the films, he still had to admit that his discovery was very cool.
George had even quit his office job— finally realising that he was wasting away at that stupid desk— and found a new, better, higher-paying job as a developer for some posh company that he had never heard of before.
He thanks Dream for that— actually— he thanks Dream for everything nowadays. George lives more freely and wholly because of Dream and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to express his gratitude to the man in person again; his hopes of seeing Dream again wear thinner and thinner as each day passes by.
George turns right off Westminster Bridge and down Whitehall, with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben looming over his shoulder behind him. There’s a Tesco Express down at Trafalgar Square, just a two minute walk from Charing Cross Underground, where he’d catch the tube to head homebound.
There’s also a Co-Operative right outside of the underground, which he briefly considers for a humiliating moment; who the fuck would willing shop at the Co-op? Tescos is always the way to go for a healthy (money-wise) meal deal. You can get a £2.50 Innocent smoothie drink included in a £3 meal deal, which is something that George would never, in his right mind, pass up.
Trafalgar Square was, unsurprisingly, bustling with all kinds of people from all walks of the world; most of them gazing up at the magnificent lion statues that guarded Nelson’s Column with unmistakable awe. Parents and children alike skipped around in the fountains, splashing each other with delighted squeals and shouts, cooling down after a hot morning of exploring the capital. Families picnicked on the wide steps leading up to The National Gallery, some enjoying a Greggs sausage roll and some contentedly licking their ice-creams bought from the idling ice-cream truck.
George had been like that too, once, when his father first brought him to The Square at age nine. He had seen the lions on the television, legs-crossed and mouth agape at the sight of the wondrous statues— he had begged and begged his parents to visit them until that one late Friday afternoon in the autumn, when the trees were crisp with dappled red and orange, and dusk was a gentle yet deep midnight navy blue; he was able to run his palms over the rough cast bronze with a dizzy grin.
It was one of George’s favourite memories.
Glass doors slide open and he enters the small Tesco, the air conditioning immediately settling onto his skin and diffusing the heat in his muscles. Despite it being lunchtime, the meal deal section was surprisingly fully-stocked, giving George a wider range to choose from than what he had originally expected. He took the opportunity to grab a tuna pasta pot (he was done with sandwiches, especially ham and cheese ones), a Mars bar, and a strawberry and banana Innocent smoothie.
He goes through the self-checkout easily enough and breaks out of the shop’s cool bubble and back into the humidity of Trafalgar Square, crossing the road right in front of the shop front and diving in front of a beeping taxi to avoid getting hit. He laughs it off, clutching his tuna pasta closer to his chest as he crosses the next road with less trouble and strolls down the Strand, towards Charing Cross Underground.
Deciding to eat his Mars Bar later on, George shoves the chocolate into the front pocket of his backpack, alongside the smoothie, and peels open the tuna pasta pot, retrieving the wooden fork hidden away underneath the lid and sinking the prongs into delicious creamy goodness with a content hum.
He rounds the railing to the Underground, almost bumping into a grumpy-looking corporate woman at the top of the stairs and uttering a quick apology, and skips down the stained concrete steps, shoving mouthfuls of pasta into his mouth. The tube station was almost as bust as the streets above, but it didn’t deter George from swiping through the entrance gates and leisurely making his way to the platforms.
His tube wasn’t for another five-or-so minutes, so he finds a grimy tiled wall and leans against it. He would’ve sat on a bench, but they were all taken up, and there was no way in hell he was gonna sit on the floor.
Half a pot of pasta down, a tube trundles into the station and opens its doors with a ding, threads of people pouring out of the carriages and onto the platform, raising the volume level of the station with loud chatter and shouts.
It wasn’t George’s tube so he stays in his position against the wall and pokes his remaining pasta with the wearing wooden fork, silently hoping that it wouldn’t snap because then he wouldn’t have any means to finish the pasta off with.
George lifts his head as the tube doors slide shut with a hiss, bringing another forkful of pasta to his parting lips when his eyes catch on something— or rather, someone.
The pasta drops off of his fork and onto the concrete below as he gapes into the carriage, the foggy tube window slightly concealing a mop of dirty blond hair, but not enough for George to not recognise that head.
With a slight squeal, he pushes himself off of the wall and dashes to the carriage window just as the tube begins to move away. He hears a harsh shout from behind, but George ignores it as he raps against the glass window; wooden fork in one hand and his pot of tuna pasta in the other.
He walks along with the carriage, shouting against the glass and fogging it up further before the head finally fucking turns to face him; relaxed, bright green eyes widen at the sight of him and a hand slams against the glass parallel to his own, followed by muffled shouts from the man behind the glass.
“Dream!” George cries against the glass, quickening his pace to keep up with the moving tube. The man inside the carriage grins and shouts something back, but George can’t hear and his own grin falters. He hopes that Dream can hear him when he shouts again; “Stay at Leicester Cross! I’ll run to you! Please, just wait for me!”
George was running out of platform to run on, and the tube is going faster than he can keep up with, and the shouts from behind him grow louder. His hand begins to slip away from where it was pressed up against the glass, mirroring Dream’s, and he sees Dream’s lips move again before the tube disappears through the dark tunnel and down to the next station.
“Oh, my fucking God,” George pants out, spinning on his heel to dash away from the platform, pushing past the tube station staff members and ignoring their angry cries. He flings his fork and pasta pot into a bin as he passes and hurls out lightning fast apologies to the people he bumps into as he sprints through the station towards the light at the top of the steps.
Heart beating and feet pounding, George nears the turnstiles and plants a solid hand against the cool metal machine, flinging both legs up and to the side to hurdle over the mechanics; feet just breezing by a boy with a skateboard tucked under his arm.
When he lands, feet astonishingly solid, George pushes his legs to work faster, ignoring his whizzing brain and his own surprise at his capabilities to jump a fucking turnstile, and grabs the banister lining the steps to haul himself up the steady ascent, two steps at a time. He weaves in and out of families, individuals, and couples with nothing more than a “sorry” , before breaking through the barrier separating dark from light and coming face to face with the thickness of London’s general public and holidaymakers.
“Shit.”
Leicester Square Underground was a five minute walk from Charing Cross, but George could make it in two.
He ducks left to dart down Duncannon Street, pushing through throngs of families and groups and the rest of the like, and past the church looming on his right; “Sorry! So sorry— oh my excuse me! Ah- sorry everyone! Coming thro— fuck — let me through, please!”
Stumbling out of the bottom of the street with a heavy exhale, George ignores the wild looks he gets from passersby, and twists right down Charing Cross Road; a direct road headed straight for Leicester Square Underground.
He thinks about Dream, and the chance of him not getting off the tube to meet him and it burns it from within, birthing a desperation to get himself down onto that platform as soon as he possibly can to drag Dream off the tube if he had to— though he was also desperately hoping that it wouldn’t come to that.
Raging adrenaline courses through his veins and swirls around his muscles to push him on, sprinting down the street and darting in between moving cabs, cars, and buses without a worry in the world; eyes set on the underground entrance and heart set on the dirty blond with deep green eyes that made him feel the most he’s ever felt in just a couple of hours.
His hand grasps onto the step railings as he swings himself around the tight corner, practically flinging himself down the fucking stairs and colliding shoulders with every fucker who was heading in the opposite direction. He swears under his breath and jumps the last four steps, landing with a thud before straightening up again and dashing towards the tunnel leading to the turnstiles at the platform entrance.
The sudden burst of adrenaline and the distance he had just ran slows George down to a steady jog, and he starts to hope that Dream actually got off the bloody tube because otherwise he risks never seeing the bloke again, and George isn’t too sure how he’d take that.
George runs a hand, feather-light, against the tile as it rounds him left towards the turnstiles, but then he halts in his tracks and his hand drops to his side.
He was here.
George feels his neck flame up and his ears tinge red, a wide smile growing on his lips at the sight of Dream pushing himself through the turnstiles with a coat slung over an arm and a shoulder bag hung over his other. He looks like a coat rack and George reckons it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen, ever.
They both do that stupid awkward fucking half-walk-half-jog thing towards each other until they’re just a couple feet away from the other’s nose. Dream gazes at George with a shy smile and George wonders what the fucking hell he’s meant to do; does he go in for a hug? shake his hand? leap into his hands and wrap his legs around his waist? kiss him until the dimness of the tube station erupts into ever-glowing light?
Due to his panic, George does absolutely fuck all.
Luckily, Dream seems like he, too, wasn’t too sure how to go about this reunion. “Hi,” he offers with a small wave.
George’s smile splits into a light giggle, and he steps closer. “Hi.”
Dream clears his throat. “Your hair is longer,” he notes, shifting on his feet and wringing his hands out in front of him like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
“And you’re nervous, ” George teases, a toothy grin growing as he takes another step closer to Dream. He pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and tilts his head. “Where did all your confidence go?”
“I like it— your hair, I mean,” Dream stumbles, eyes darting everywhere over George’s face except his eyes. “It’s nice long.”
“Thank y—”
“You look pre—”
They interrupt each other with equal bashful smiles, mirrored tinged cheeks, and nervous chuckles; each one carefully crafted and reserved for the other, though neither of them knew of that just yet.
“It’s been a while,” George pushes on, ignoring the urge to reach out and grab Dream’s hand, to trail the veins on the back with delicate fingers, to press his cool palm against his warm one with small smiles and slight inhales.
Dream hums and digs a hand into his shoulder bag, rooting around for a good thirty seconds before smiling, seemingly having found what he had been looking for, and pulls out a plastic see-through box. “Too long,” he admits with a sad smile, uncurling his fingers from the box to really showcase what it was.
George gasps, leaning back slightly in shock and awe at the sight of a browning and wilted conker settled inside the plastic box. While the sentiment was there, which George found incredibly adorable, the actual fucking thing was somewhat gross and we wasn’t entirely sure how to react before he settles on an ‘awww’ , and then; “It’s dead, Dream.”
Dream lets out a laugh and pushes the box back into his bag. “Yeah, I know. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”
“I s’pose so,” George smiles. “I planted my one in a pot when it shed its skin and Googled how to grow it and shit, so now it’s like two foot tall and planted in my garden back home.”
Dream’s face widens into a grin. “You planted it?”
“Of course I did,” George scoffs, pushing his glasses up his nose again as a nervous habit under Dream’s gaze. “I’m not an idiot by keeping plants in a box to let it wilt and die.”
Dream laughs again and sweeps a hand through his thick curls to set them back onto his forehead rather than in his eyes. “I’ve missed you, George .”
“I’ve missed you, too, Dream.”
Dream smiles and looks past George’s shoulder for a brief second before grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him further into the slimy tiled wall, out of the way from a large crowd of school kids and their teachers. They’re suddenly very close and George can hear Dream’s steady breaths.
“You want to go on another adventure?”
The corners of George’s lips quirk up into a smile. “Maybe one a little more long-term?”
“Oh,” Dream snickers, gentle fingers sliding down to take George’s hand in his, “definitely.”