Chapter Text
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a coffee shop must tolerate exhilarating customers.
However little the tolerance level may be of such a man on first opening the coffee shop, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of swarming customers that they don’t bother to ask him if he’d be fine with poetry written about his ass.
Granted, it's only one customer, and the customer just so happens to be his best friend. Still, George argues that he should’ve received a warning before becoming the subject of lines like “Your juicy, dumpy peach - it robs me of any speech”.
“Aren’t you an English major?” George asks, wiping the counter with a cloth that’s been there just as long as him, “How is your rhyming so fucked?”
“I just wrote a highly flattering poem for your ass and you criticize me?” Dream fakes offense, the hand leaning against the counter flying to his chest. His smile’s a little crooked, and George wants to lean over and straighten the creases till he can get his Dream smile.
Figuratively, George knows the feelings he has for his best friend are far from platonic, so it's only worse when Dream makes a show of staring him down as he steps in front of him.
“You mean you objectify my ass?”
“You wound me,” Dream gasps, "I have a lot of respect for your ass.”
“Whatever,” He collects himself, “Why did you write that poem?”
“Sapnap dared me to.”
George regrets ever telling Sapnap about that figurative realization of his not-so-platonic feelings more than he regrets double majoring in math and computer.
“And the best you came up with was this?” He motions to the paper that contains praises of his lower anatomy, and Dream has the decency to look embarrassed. It goes away quickly, but George can’t find it in himself to complain when the smug smile that replaces it makes his heart skip a beat.
“Yeah! Didn’t you see how I rhymed juicy with muesli?”
He had. Your two cheeks are so juicy, I dream they’re my breakfast when I eat muesli.
Safe to say, he really wishes he hadn’t.
“They don’t rhyme,” George deadpans.
“Exactly, I made them,” The blond points to himself with an air of assumed genius, “True master of poetry right here.”
“Well, Dream Wordsworth, not all of us can sit around and write poems on butts, some of us have coffee to serve.”
“Is that your way of kicking me out?”
“Yes.”
Dream doesn’t have to know that George keeps the poem, or that the jeans he wears the next day are too tight on purpose.
________
The second time George receives a poem from Dream, it's about his eyes.
In hindsight, he should be thankful. It could've been worse, there's so many parts of the body Dream could've chosen, but he chose eyes. Decent.
What doesn't help, however, was Dream's reason this time around.
"Another dare?"
Instead of saying yes, Dream shrugs, a nonchalant air surrounding him as he plays with a sugar packet while watching George make coffee. "Not really, I was just bored."
The brunette really doesn’t want to start thinking about the implications of his best friend writing poetry about his eyes, even if said poetry has questionable potential, while he’s at work and a single misstep could send hot coffee flying. But then again, things that live in your mind rent free really don’t care if the time and place for them to manifest are appropriate.
George hates that he can feel his cheeks burning up, and quickly ducks his head down to hide it. At least he can control one thing. "Oh yeah?"
"And you always react weirdly to getting compliments, so it's funny.”
The hope that had dared to flicker in his heart, against all his warnings, settles down in an instant. Of course, friends wrote poems about each other because it was funny, no other reason.
George is no critic, but he'd agree that this poem is better than the last one. I don't know any adjective for eyes, but orbs. Your orbs should be on the cover of Forbes.
Such a poetic prodigy.
"Why Forbes?"
"Nothing else was rhyming with orbs."
George nods, going back to the poem. If you die I hope you give your eyes for donation. Those brown orbs are so nice they should be the treasure of a nation.
"Overusing orbs a little, don't you think?" George asks, "You do know not every line has to rhyme, right?"
Dream drops the packet back in the stand, circling around the counter till he's next to George. At that moment, George hopes the manager doesn't come out, or he'd lose the job.
"I personally like the ass one more," Dream says, lips upturned as George bends down to pick up a fallen coffee collar. George despises Dream's whistle for actually doing something to him, because of course he whistles, leaning back as if to look at George's ass.
"Seems like all my claims in the poem were right, Georgie. Really nice ass you got there."
The older wants to say something, somehow muster up a quick retort to hide how affected he is, but he's saved when the back door opens and there's the sound of footsteps, making Dream run back around the counter just in case it's the manager coming in.
It's not, it's just Karl, bringing in more muffins to put in the display area. He smiles at them both as he walks by, and when he raises his eyebrows at George's reddened cheeks, he's met with a glare.
This time, the poem goes in his bedside drawer, and if he starts bending a little more - well, it's only human to drop a few pens everyday in front of your best friend.
________
There's a lot of questionable things George has done in his life, and a lot more that he's probably going to do if he doesn't die of embarrassment at an early age.
Nothing so far, however, rivals his reaction when Dream gives him a poem about his hair.
In his defense, he didn't mean to sprint out of the coffee shop like that. Heck, if Karl hadn't been there to take over, he'd probably get fired.
"So you just ran?"
"Yes, Sapnap, how many times do I have to say that?" His face is in his hands, eyes closed as he mutters, "Fucking idiot."
"Are you calling me an idiot or yourself?" The question goes unheard.
"Why did I do it?"
Sapnap sighs, arms coming around George in what is probably an attempt to comfort him, but only makes him put his entire weight on the younger. He murmurs defeatedly, and Sapnap simply pats his back, muttering an, "It's okay, it's okay."
The poem wasn't even that bad, but with the amount of time George had spent thinking about running his hand through Dream's hair, it made something in him melt at seeing Dream say the same about his hair, even as a joke.
Your curly, brown, beautiful locks
Like a chicken, to them I flock
Yes, I had first rhymed that with cock.
I'm your chicken. Bawk, bawk, bawk.
A part of George wants to burn the poem in the biggest incinerator he can find, but another wants to place it on the top of his collection.
He knows he’s going to have to face Dream sooner or later and explain why he sprinted out, but he’s determined on it being way, way later. Life, however, doesn’t care for his plans yet again, because an hour later, Dream is rapping at his apartment door, asking to be let in.
His knocks call to George like a siren song, going against his resolution to pretend he’s asleep and let Dream give up and go. He gets up and walks to the door, opening it with downturned eyes and shaky hands.
“Hey, George.”
His voice is so soft that George wants to make a blanket out of it, and it’s that thought of using his best friend’s voice as a blanket that brings him out of stupor and makes him run a hand through his hair in an attempt to push away the voice calling out pathetic he is.
“Hi.”
He realizes they’re still standing at the door, and moves out of the way, motioning for Dream to come in. The stuff thrown around the apartment is nothing new to the blond, so George scrapes the instinct telling him to make it look presentable. In fact, he’s pretty sure some of Dream’s stuff is mixed in with his and Sapnap’s and strewn around from all the times he’s stayed over.
“I’m sorry.”
It’s the first thing Dream says, and George is taken by surprise. Shouldn’t he be apologizing? Shouldn’t Dream be asking him how he ran out like that?
The younger doesn’t wait for him to respond, and continues, “I should’ve asked if you were comfortable with all the poems. You obviously weren’t, with the way you ran today. And I’m really sorry for not considering that before, I just thought it’d be funny and I thought you found it funny too so I-”
He doesn’t know why he puts his hand over Dream’s mouth - he tells himself it’s to stop the blond from rambling - but he does, and then the latter is just staring at him with golden eyes, waiting for him to move his hand or speak - George doesn’t know which one.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
Dream’s eyes widen and he looks down to where his lips are pressed against George’s palm, and the brunette hurriedly draws his hand away.
“You weren’t?” Dream asks once he’s able to speak again.
George hadn’t noticed how close they’d gotten when he reached his hand out to cover the other’s mouth. He doesn’t want to move away, doesn’t want to do anything that might make Dream feel more guilty.
“Of course not, Dream,” He smiles, finally looking up, and allows his nails to dig into his palms. Dream’s eyes are immediately drawn to his side, where the palm rests, and he frowns.
“Don’t do that,” At George’s confused expression, he continues, “The palm thing. It’s your left hand, it’ll sting when you write.”
George stills and, no longer knowing what to do with his hands, brings them both in front of him and clasps them together. It feels kind of stiff like this, standing a little too closely in the living room and passing short sentences like they’re scared of toeing some line.
“Like I said, I wasn’t uncomfortable,” George reiterates, noticing the discomfort in Dream’s posture. One hand rises to gently rest on the other's bicep, running up and down to assure him, “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Then why did you run out like that?”
“Just needed some fresh air.”
Dream’s eyebrows furrow, “Suddenly? In such panic?”
“I-,” George sighs, not knowing what to say. All he can manage is a weak, “Yeah,” hoping Dream believes him.
“I don’t believe you.”
George is getting tired of standing like a visitor in his own living room, so he starts to move to his bedroom. Dream follows him and plops down beside him on the bed, a little too close for George’s heart rate.
“What do you want me to say then?”
“The truth. Just tell me if you were uncomfortable- I really won’t mind.”
“I wasn’t.”
Dream turns towards him, and now their faces are so close that George is pretty sure he’s going to stop breathing in 3..2…
“You ran out of there with your face all red, George.”
Oh God, he’s going to die in his own bed with Dream’s breath blowing on his face and his lips right in front of him to meet with his own. He’s going to die within reach of all he’s ever wanted.
“I did.” He’s sure his voice sounds breathy, but he’s too far to care.
“Why?”
“The poem- you,” He wants to stop talking, “Um- the hair- I.” Really, it's unfair how English isn’t on his side right now.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” Real eloquent, George.
“What about me?”
“Your poem was about hair.”
Dream laughs, and George feels it on his face. “I know, I wrote it.”
It's like the universe is saying a huge fuck you to him, because Dream chooses that exact moment to run his hands through his own hair, and because they're lying so close and because Dream has the hands of a fucking giant, his palm's heel hits George's head, and George let's out an instinctive 'ouch'. Then Dream's fingers are replacing his heel, gently smoothing over where a crease has formed on the brunette's forehead.
The touch is soft, and caring, and Dream's completely focused on it, and George is fucked.
"It was about my hair," He blurts out.
"Yet again George, I know. I wrote it."
Call him an idiot, because the next thing he says is, "That's how I feel about your hair."
Dream laughs, because of course he does. Because they're friends, and this should be funny to both of them. But George doesn't join him, and when the blond ultimately notices it, his wheezing stops in favor of a concerned look as his eyes dart over a familiar face.
"Wait, you're serious?"
"Not about the entire poem," Because while George is okay with an embarrassing confession, he's not going to associate himself with horrible poetry, "But the sentiments behind it. Yes."
"Aw," Dream is still grinning, and George doesn't know what to make of it, "And here I thought we could be chickens together. Bawk, bawk-"
He never really gets to finish his chicken roleplay, because his lips soon meet another's. They don't know who moved first, just that they were slowly leaning into each other till there was nothing to lean into anymore. First, it's just a peck. A slight push of rough skin against skin, before Dream is pushing him further into the mattresses, deepening it.
George feels goosebumps rise and spread over his skin as Dream's fingertips lightly touch his forehead, tapping till they're right at his hairline and curling into his hair. Suddenly, George is reminded of why they ended up here - why he ran out of the café like that. Dream's hair.
His hands have probably never moved faster than they do as he reaches up to grab Dream's hair. It's as smooth as he imagined, and he continues to run his hand through it over and over, focusing on the softness of it, on Dream's ghosting touch and of their bodies closely pressed against each other, sharing warmth.
Dream's other hand traces small patterns on his arm, and the blond shifts so that he's directly over George, kissing him in a slow and careful way that makes him forget about the rest of the world that's not Dream.
When they pull apart, they're both too breathless to speak, but too scared to look away from each other.
"I-," Dream decides to go first, and George loves him for it, "I have wanted to do that for so long."
"Me too." It feels good to admit it out loud.
"God, we're idiots."
"I can't even disagree."
They're idiots, but they're idiots in love, so they spend the rest of the day in their little bubble, a shared space of giggles and kisses and laughter and love and everything in between.
________
"I have another poem for you."
George groans, because he knows how it's going to be. The last time he got a poem from Dream, he almost threw coffee at the blond. Almost.
This chicken's yours now, deal with it.
Your ass is mine now, it's a plump gift.
My poetry leaves much to desire, I'm sure,
But I'm glad you still liked me enough to make me yours.
If the poem resides in George's bedroom drawer, that doesn't invalidate his open criticism of Dream's poetry. At least in that one poem, he was self aware.
"Is there any way to stop you from sharing it?"
They're sitting in a park a few miles from the coffee shop, George cashing in his break to have lunch with his boyfriend. There's a lake in the middle of the park, and there's boat rides happening on it. He makes a mental note to go on one with Dream when they come there with more time.
"None," Dream gives him that smile that reminds him of a puppy when it's refusing to get down from your bed, knowing you're too deep in to force him to anyway.
"Okay, go ahead." George hopes his sigh can convey his despair, while concealing his anticipation. As much as he might act like the poems annoy him, he can't help but melt a little at each word.
"Okay, here goes," Dream makes a show of clearing his throat.
"You're my best friend - but that's nothing new.
A development is that now there's kissing too.
and even though i laugh funny, and my eyes looks like piss to you,
I'm so into you, honey, you're my boo."
George really wants to stop smiling, but he can't, and it only grows when Dream begins to wear one matching his.
"So, how'd you like it?"
George doesn't think he can put into words how much he feels for Dream, but if he could, a four line poem certainly couldn't ever contain it. He'd write him poems over and over and over, kind of how Dream does, and he wouldn't care how they were received. Because he'd want Dream to know somehow how much he felt for him.
There's a couple taking a boat ride, and he can see them smiling at each other and at their reflections in the water.
He's not a poet. So he hopes his next words can satisfy.
"I love you."
Dream visibly melts, if the way his eyes crinkle is anything to go by. His arms come around George, pulling him close and encasing him in a bubble of comfort and warmth.
"But if you ever call me honey or boo, I'm ending this relationship."
"George, my honey boo."
________
George has never written anything in his life.
That's a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, he knows how to write, and of course he has written things. But he has never been an author, or a poet, or a playwright - or anyone who use that ability of writing and combine it with creativity, beauty and emotions.
Dream, on the other hand, has always been a writer.
His poems might not be a good proof of it, but Dream can actually write when he wants to. George has seen the things he's written seriously - short stories drawn up on blank pages, novel ideas sketched out and half-written on ill-titled Google documents, and even poem-like notes that aren't just sentences that have been made to rhyme to compliment his boyfriend and put a smile on his face.
Dream has also always been someone George can never say no to. So when it's their one month anniversary, and George's drawer is almost filled with all the poems he's kept there, he can't say no to Dream's request. The request is for him to write a poem.
"It can be just two lines, and we don't have to do it if you don't want," Dream repeats.
"So if I give you a poem that's like," He thinks for a moment, "I love your laugh, I'll knit you a scarf - that's okay?"
Dream laughs, a beautiful sound to George's ears, and pulls him in by the sleeves of his hoodie. "That's perfect."
Despite Dream's reassurances, George is still determined to come up with something good. Something that's not a half-assed attempt.
It's the day of their anniversary soon enough, and George wakes up early to put a note at his Dream's bedside. He slips back under the covers once it's secure, and waits for Dream to wake up and see it.
The blond is up half an hour later, arms tightening around George as he comes to full consciousness. George feels a smile pressed into his hair, and then a pair of lips, before breath is blown at the curve of his neck. He feels Dream bury his nose in the crook, inhaling deeply, and wants to call him out for smelling him. But he's faking sleep.
Once Dream's fully awake, his hand reaches for his phone, ruffling through things on the bedside table. Sure enough, he finds it, but it's with a note taped to the back cover. George can imagine his face, how confused he must look. He's not ashamed to admit that he's memorized all of Dream's expressions, and makes it a mission to commit to memory every new face that Dream makes.
"George," He hears his name, a gasp really. And then there are arms around him again, pulling him close and crushing him against a solid, warm chest. He nuzzles into Dream's collarbone, letting him know he's awake.
"George."
He never thought he could ever want someone to say his name that much.
"Yes?"
"I saw your poem," Dream's grin is audible.
"And?"
Dream moves him around so his face is no longer buried in the younger's shirt, and George almost whines in protest. Once they're face to face again, Dream gives him a dazzling smile - bright enough to remind him of a sun, and George has never been more eager to burn.
"I love you, idiot."
Dream's smiling at him. He looks like sunshine and home and comfort and everything that's worth living for on this earth, and George really wants to kiss him. So, he does.
"I love you too, silly."
I follow you
like light follows the brightest stars,
blinded by stardust and a promise of forever
believing, shining, aimlessly loving.