Archive of Our Own

Okay, okay, Dream chuckles. They had been on a string of weird hypothetical questions that the other seemed oddly overqualified in answering. Metaphorically, Dream pauses dramatically, if you were to kill someone, how would you do it?

Without skipping a beat, George shrugs, A shot of air between the toes. It looks like a normal heart attack.

Dream blinks, taking a deep breath. How on earth did he find the most perfect man? Sweet, but so terrifyingly smart? But also endearingly dumb? And so easy to tease and fluster, and when George blushes-

It must be too good to be true, he has to be dreaming.

…

Frowning, George pulls idly at his hair. Keys on his keyboard clack furiously. Then rapidfire backspacing. More typing, more deleting. Clicking around with this mouse as he highlights an entire page of text.

Trying to peer over his shoulder, Dream steps up behind George, leaning his head close to his. Before he can ask, George lets his head fall against his keyboard. He whimpers, and all his writing is replaced with random letters.

Writer’s block? Dream offers, resting his hands gently on George’s shoulders. The poor author jolts at the touch at first before reminding his jumpy muscles that it’s his boyfriend. Shaking his head, George tosses off his reading glasses, rubbing at his face.

He groans pitifully before cutting himself off, apparently remembering something. Snapping his head around, George blink those beautiful wide eyes at him, and Dream just melts.

You know a bunch of random things, George states instead of asks.

I mean, Dream shrugs, kind of? Shoot.

Pressing his fingers together, George looks up to Dream as if praying for wisdom.

How long would it take to die if you were to potentially stab someone in the guts?

That’s it? Dream frowns. George’s hope deflates for a second before Dream answers.

I mean, it’s anywhere from 2 to 30 minutes. Kinda depends on the stab, and if you remove the knife or not.

Cold hands snatch his, George staring at them for a solid second.

He ponders just how soon is too soon to propose to his man who doesn’t question his sanity. Dream doesn’t judge him for his creativity, doesn’t blink an eye. He just knows- everything! Anything George asks, Dream knows. Is this a blessing? Does he deserve this?

Slowly releasing his hands, George turns back to his work, typing furiously.

Thanks, he sputters out shakily, not trusting his voice to stand up to Dream’s warmth much longer. Dream chuckles, kissing the top of his head. Surprisingly, he doesn’t tease George for the blush that reaches up to his ears.

…

Okay! Okay, okay, okay… George closes his eyes, stepping away from his computer. Dream doesn’t glance up from idly playing Dark Souls. He doesn’t even play the game properly, as far as George is concerned, but if killing all the possible entities is entertainment for Dream, he really isn’t one to judge. He’s the one writing sanity-questioning murders all day.

Dream? George actually wins attention, even if he doesn’t look away from the screen. He hums, lifting his head attentively.

Could you read this? I’m- well… George trails off, and Dream finally shuts down the game to turn to him. George stands off to the side of the couch, nervously wringing his hands. I’m not really sure this would work? It sounds- it sounds super lame and unrealistic.

I’m sure it’s fine, Dream reassures casually, tossing a lazy smirk as he casually drags his hand over George’s hip. It earns him the ever predictable flush. With a smile, he crouches to read the scene.

As his eyes flick along the words, his focus draws his scowl in deeper and deeper. Out of the corner of his eye, he vaguely recognizes George biting his lip, waiting for his response. The imagery is so vivid, Dream almost feels like he’s there. His heart rate picks up, and he can feel the desperate itch in his fingers. They curl inside his hoodie pocket so as to not upset George.

Well? George prompts as Dream straightens up. His scowl nor focus hasn’t left the screen. With a deep breath, Dream turns slowly towards George.

George’s heart sinks. He knew it. It was too unrealistic. He’s going to start laughing and wheezing, and while it’s a heart-melting wheeze, he can’t bear the thought of Dream not liking it. Dream likes everything he writes, no matter how gory or disturbing! Again, he’s the one playing the most violent video games just to be violent, but maybe this is his breaking point.

With all that concentrated focus, overdosing on adrenaline, Dream snatches George by his hoodie. He absorbs his mouth in a deep full open kiss, and George feels like he’s transcending into a new plane of existence. He can hardly keep up with Dream’s fiery passion and affection. They’re connected chest to chest, heart to heart, mouth to mouth - they could never be separated.

Unfortunately, his mind is still trying to find traction. Just as he starts thinking too hard, Dream pulls away, mumbling a quick be right back, before darting out the front door.

Frowning at the door, George dismisses Dream’s strange antics and decides maybe he should finally take that shower he meant to take this morning. Or, was it yesterday morning? When did he last shower? Scratching his hair makes him think it’s been far too long either way. Dream disappears randomly for a few hours, but one thing George knows for certain by now is that he’ll be back.

Dream always comes back for him.

~

It’s in the early hours of the morning when the bedroom door opens. George blinks barely to consciousness, watching a dark shadow slink around the room without making a noise. Dream has always been very quiet. Shuffling, George pulls himself up.

Dream? George mutters, his voice muddled with sleep. Dream whips his head around, as if surprised that George noticed him. He doesn’t have his glasses, but Dream’s thin smile seems out of place, and his face looks unusually pale. There’s splatters on his face, but Dream turns his back to him before George can study him further.

Oh hey George. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you, you can go back to sleep. I’m just gonna take a quick shower, Dream’s words all rush out just above a whisper. If he was more coherent, George might’ve noticed it seemed out of breath instead of trying to stay quiet.

Dream tosses off his hoodie hurriedly, also pulling off his undershirt on his way to the bathroom. He closes the door gently before turning on the light.

George groans, pulling himself out of bed. He knows it’s late, but Dream’s hoodie doesn’t belong on the floor. He scoops it up and heads to put it straight in the laundry room. He frowns at the sour smell of sweat and whatever the hell Dream rolled around in, deciding to instead take it to the kitchen sink. It won’t do either of them any good if his favorite hoodie got stained.

He chucks it into the sink as he feels around for the switch, waddling around the kitchen. As soon as he flicks it on, he drags his feet back towards the sink.

As soon as he reaches the sink, the light goes out. Frowning at the lightbulbs, George wonders if the electricity just went out, or whether they suddenly need new bulbs.

Just as he turns to try the switch again, Dream is there, right behind him. His heart jumps to his throat, causing him to gape at Dream for just a moment before swallowing it back down. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn Dream snuck up on him, like a predator in the night. Dream keeps his chin up, studying George intently instead of his usual softness.

Dream? I thought you were taking a shower, don’t sneak up on me like that, George half-heartedly shoves at Dream.

Maybe it’s because he’s shirtless, but George never realized just how strong the taller man is. There is all resistance and no give in the wall of muscle he jokingly shoved at. And if George gets a little excited about it, well, he’s glad the lights are out so that Dream can’t see his flaming blush.

Sorry, Dream mutters, his voice low and sending a chill down his spine. I finished my shower. What are you doing?

I’m just… George frowns, gesturing back towards the sink. Your hoodie was filthy, so I was gonna wash it before it got all stained.

Dream’s hand whips out, snatching George’s wrist before he could blink. He spins him around in the next heartbeat, shoving him against the wall. His bright hazel eyes take a deeper, faint light that George assumes must be red in the dark. Dream’s eyes rake up and down his form, and George is sure he’s no longer sleepy, but not sure if he’s dreaming or not. Surely Dream hears his heart hammering against his chest.

You should be in bed, Dream insists. He knows he means it lovingly, but George can’t help but pick up a subtle command in his words. It’s not like he expects him to be sleeping, he just expects him to not wash his hoodie.

Why? I was just gonna wash your-

I know, but you really don’t want to get all dirty, now would you? Dream purrs, stepping closer.

He smells fresh like a shower, and George is secretly thankful that Dream’s hand is pinning him up, for his legs feel like giving out at any second. Plus, he would really argue that Dream just took a shower and therefore would ruin all that work being clean if he got all dirty from his hoodie, but the look Dream gives him tells him not to argue.

Alright, George gives up, raising his other hand in surrender. But I think our lights just went out. I think we have a torch in the drawer if you need light.

Dream stares at him for another long moment, before slowly releasing his hand with a nod.

Thanks George.

Of course, Dream.

With the simmering adrenaline from the moment and the little bit of courage he can muster, George lifts himself on his toes to snatch a kiss right from Dream’s lips. Dream seems stunned, glued to the floor as George slips out from under him.

Goodnight, Dream. Don’t be up too late.

Of course, Georgie, Dream purrs.

As soon as the bedroom door closes, Dream forces himself to unclench his jaw. He reflexively tightens his fist, before he calms himself. Tonight was a very successful night. Who knew George was so creative, so smart, so crafty? He was terrifyingly inspiring.

Staring down his hoodie in the sink, Dream sets to work, rubbing cold water and dish soap to rinse out the dark stains. He realizes belatedly how thankful he could be for George’s colorblindness:

Even in the light, George couldn’t ever tell his green hoodie had dark red stains...