Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s August 3rd when,

George begins packing his room in a cardboard box, when he goes to the tall shelves in the corner of his room to stand on a wobbly wooden stool that he had bought just for this. He grabs every book from top to bottom, never missing a second to flip through its pages, the books seem to be perfumed with a unique fragrance each. Reflecting how unique each of their written pages were, how each cover has a different texture.

How each hard cover has a different amount of dust particles amalgamated. Some of the books have slightly worn pages from his constant re-reading of them, the corners of pages stand up whenever he opens them. This was most notable with the seven books that laid atop his bedside drawer, it was the full series of Harry Potter.

His parents would always ask him if he ever got bored of re-reading the same words upon the white pages. And he’d always answer the same answer every time, no he didn’t.

Because everytime his eyes bounced atop those words he found something he didn’t see the last time, allowing him to feel the endorphins of jubilation run along his nerves. He may have always put out vivid expressions but whenever this happened he’d just let the fingers that held the top corner of the page give a slight twitch.

He wondered if it counted as him being selfish, for wanting to keep a new secret of a book to himself.

He had four books stacked atop his arms that trembled slightly from their weight, and the shivering stool didn’t ease his fear at all. A few extra inches would have been a nice gift to have received last year, but the money he was given for more books was enough to compensate.

His legs were twigs threatening to snap when he crooked his knees to crouch, before bouncing off the stool. Raising his shoulders at the the audible slap the stool gave against the floor, he almost fell, he belatedly realized, cringing.

His hands were starting to get buttery the longer he stood there and pondered how his face would have gotten a bruise if he had fallen.

He startled in a flinch when he heard a yell from downstairs presumably telling him to hurry up, that they needed to get the last box onto the moving truck so it could get there faster.

Their voices rang out through the stripped walls: orderly paintings, ticking clocks, smiling faces frozen in time, flustering childhood memories. They were all off the wall, packed away into a cramped box that awaited their rushing fingers to open them.

It left George with a nostalgic outlook on the nail punctured paint. 

As for his room, well it was bare as well, the only thing that was left to rest was the bed frame that would creak under his weight whenever he had laid down on it. Admittedly he would miss seeing the tangled white strings of cobwebs outside his window and the odd smell the air conditioning would give when in use.

Hopefully it hadn’t been anything toxic for his lungs.

He walked across the wooden floor, hearing every faint whisper under his feet as he did. He sat down to face the cardboard box in front of him, he set the books down on his crossed legs, opened the boxes’ wings to settle his favourite literature inside. 

At least he could take the words that he had read in this room with him.

Next to the box was a roll of clear duct tape, he grabbed it, forcefully tearing the adhesive off when it protested to come off. He adhered it onto the boxes’ wings tying them down with the clear sticky plastic?

He tossed it aside after its use, moving his hands to the sides of the box he slips his fingers under it to heave it up, nearly plummeting onto the floor like the stool had done.

His back gives a dull ache, and he’s sure he doesn’t know how to correctly lift up things even after reading all the books he had bought. Knowledge didn’t come from books all the time, or else he would have known how to prepare to say goodbye to his room.

He did however spend minutes forlornly reading text over his phone and computer, hoping he would find a treatment for his wandering eyes, that seemed to blur his vision whenever he remembered what would happen in a few days. 

He had felt nauseous, his stomach had left him frightful that he might have had his dinner on the table again. That’s right, it had been two weeks ago when his parents had unsubtly sent his head into a frenzy, when his pulse had become a beat in his ears.

Though he only let out a noise in agreement, he had bit his tongue, resisting the urge to spit out tart words of worry and distaste.

He didn’t say anything to his parents, and he dazedly wonders if he should have said something. He sees no point in saying anything now, after all he’s carrying the last of his things down the creaky wooden stairs.

He’s turning to get one last look at his childhood home, the outside walls have swirling vines hugging them, the trees around the house surely have a robin nesting.

The box in his arms feels warm.

He whispers into the delicate breeze that sweeps by a goodbye.

✢✤✢

It’s ,August 19th when,

George realizes that he’s been counting the warm sunrises and dark luminescent stippled skies since the day he’s moved. He doesn’t know why he does it, perhaps he finds comfort in having a fantasy where his parents walk through the door to tell him they’re going back.

He leans his head against the wall, the wall of his new house. The paint on the walls is a vibrant blue, one of his favourite colours and the only colour he can truly see. The back of his head begins to hurt when he continues to lean against the wall with it, but the phone he has in his hold keeps him distracted, a song plays in his ears. 

He can hear every vibration and chorus and the background that may be missed, he knows the lyrics like he knows the summary of the first Harry Potter book. He lets his free hand run against his bedding, feeling the smooth fabric fold into his touch. He hasn’t touched his books as of lately, which would have been three days ago. He’s been focused on the new landscape and climate around him.

His mattress sinks under his weight and his bed frame no longer cries out in pain when he jumps on it. The floor is now carpeted instead of wooden which he finds oddly dissatisfying to his eyes, though he’s now allowed barefoot around the house, except the living room and halls where the floor is wooden.

His parents had told him the day they got here to go outside and look at the garden, he had done so, and he had seen rolled up leaves that had yet to open and a few sprouts of what seemed to be tomato plants. The tomato’s hairy stem and smooth leaves smelled good he had concluded after curiously taking a whiff at it. The aroma it had was intoxicating, but he decided to stop after doing it three more times.

The climate outside for the most part was absolutely horrid, the air around him felt muggy for the most part and the sun’s stinging slaps against his skin didn’t help him to cool down. The skin under his shirt would become slippery and gross as drops of sweat quietly streamed by. The insects in his garden seemed to be having fun though, a ladybug ate at the black pests that tried to eat away at the remaining blooms from spring and small yellow butterflies flew by.

Mosquitoes would occasionally buzz tediously around his ears, perhaps that’s why he had run inside after swatting at his face in an effort to ward them off. He also remembers having downed two full cups of water to ease his parched mouth and heated skin.

Outside his window the sun was setting once again, giving his room a fuzzy look, dark shadows figure skated across his room as if it were an ice rink. He still had some boxes lying around that he had yet to unpack, the tops of the boxes were beginning to accumulate items, his parents had bought him a lizard plushie, he hadn’t known what to do with it so he settled for letting it sleep atop the boxes.

Across from his bed was his desk, a computer with a dark face sat quietly waiting to be used.

He tapped the screen on his phone which lit up to show its digital numbers, the virtual clock was about to hit 6pm and he was here listening to music in his darkening room. And it wouldn’t be until another hour when his parents would call out to him that dinner was being set at the table.

He felt dread blanket him when he noted that today was Sunday, the Sunday before he would start school tomorrow. 

✢✤✢

It’s August 20th, when

George slips out of bed with sticky skin and regrets of not turning on the ceiling fan to help him stay cool throughout the tepid night. The clock on his bed stand illuminated its surface, it was around six in the morning. And he felt his eyelids beginning to close again, but his clamminess didn’t allow him to snuggle under the blankets again. 

It was after running a cold shower; swallowing corn flakes, that he was now at school.

Already heading through the double glass doors that had other teenagers like him on the other side. The school was quite enormous, with three stories of long ass staircases. He couldn’t wait to be rushing up the stairs with cramping calves. He could find some gratitude that when he went into the building no one paid him mind, everyone was in their own world. There were cliques hanging out throughout the hallways, spilling piping hot tea and bickering and snickering amongst each other.

Everyone seemed to be loitering around waiting for the first bell to ring aloud.

 George stood alone, shifting his feet to accommodate the weight on his back. He had made sure to bring along a short novel to entertain himself with throughout the day if the teacher’s lessons began to bore him. He planned to sit at the back of every class, so he could provide a facade of paying attention. Because he knew that teachers would often only pester the students who sat at the front, occasionally dropping minuscule droplets of spittle onto them.

Now that was a repulsive thought, he had been looking down at his shoelaces following the interwoven laces, breaking down how they were possibly tied.

He lightly winced when the bell rang, the hallways flooded with rushing water. Students began to push through each other to get to class, some took their time chatting amongst their clique while others would scurry off, clutching binders and loose notebook papers that he was sure would run across the floor if spilled.

It was difficult to navigate the numbers on the classroom doors with the walls of students around him, some people would stand out from the crowd. Most notably the people who were blessed with a wealthy growth spurt. Most had what he assumed was brown and black hair, though there was someone who he took particular curiosity in, a boy with hair that was a shade brighter than muddy brown. If it wasn’t too odd to think he thought that it looked very silky and soft to the touch.

He decided to secretly name him, ‘fluffy boy’, in spite of probably never getting their name on his tongue or ears. 

George vaguely had an idea of what dirty gold numbers he should be looking out for on the sides of doors. By now the hallway was less congested with only some people still walking by painfully slow, a tortoise could outrun them, he bitterly thought. He just had a large distaste for people who did that.

Eventually he found himself walking through his classroom door, abhorrent of the possibilities that could happen. But just as planned he went to the back of the classroom and sat down to pull out his book, he hid it on his lap, glancing between the instructor and the written words on paper.

This was a process that was repeated with every class period he had throughout the day, all was going to plan, but as time usually does with weathering things down. His plan soon weathered down as well around his last class, where the teacher had already assigned seats to them. The tables were arranged in a way that would make you have to look at the person in front of you.

The novel he had in hand was nearly completed, as in he was almost done reading through it. Around the last two chapters was a page that stood up from the corner, he had creased it. If all went well this last class he could finish it. None of the teachers so far had made a fuss out of his literacy practice in class.

He looked at the whiteboard in front of the classroom searching the boxed names in search of his own. Not bothering to read any name that didn’t begin with a G, his name repeated in his head like rain against a window.

His name was boxed in with someone named, Clay.

At the back of the classroom, thankfully, he hoped this person wouldn’t be an ass or thorn in his shoe. He walked through the desks feeling a tinge of heat lick the tips of his ears that went away when he finally sat down at his chair. This day had been dragging on far too long, the sky outside was already dunking orange juice on itself.

He set the book at the corner of his desk, sliding himself forward to press his arms atop the cold gray tabletop. He rested his chin atop his arms, looking around the classroom, like any other class the room had ‘inspirational’ quotes and vibrant syllables lining up the walls.

How fun would creative writing be?

It was an odd contrast, he liked to read but not write, maybe he was just too lazy, but the truth was he never had an ambition to write. In fact the only reason he was in this class was because they must have run out of space for other electives, that or the teacher for another elective just dipped.

His gaze drifted up when he heard the screeching of a chair that was in sync with the bell’s scream. A boy dropped himself on the chair in front of him, flinging his backpack on the table. Which in turn caused George to not be able to see anything in front of him, he could however hear sharp breaths being taken along with a particular loud swallow.

Had they run across the building?

He sat up straight and saw a tomato in front of him, though he was only saying that because the boy in front of him was red cheeked, maybe his cheeks were more reminiscent of an apple, but then again he couldn’t really see the colour red.

George wanted to scowl at the way his hair seemed slightly wet, it was probably sweat.

As the boy in front of his was leveling his breathing George took notice of the same light brown hairs from earlier. Though the slowly dusking sun from outside gave him a more lighter coloured appearance, nevertheless the fluffed up hair the boy had this morning was the same.

It was ‘fluffy boy’.

He scrunched up his face in amusement at having the same boy from this morning right in front of him. 

The teacher at the front soon began to start their introduction into class about what they would do for the year and what their expectations were.

Not that thrilling if you asked George, he slid his fingers to the corner of his desk to pick up the book he had and placed it on his lap to continue what he’d been doing all day. The boy’s laboured breathing seemed to calm down as the clock on the wall ticked by quietly.

He heard the shuffling of what he assumed was the boy moving his bag down to the floor, he heard the boy mutter out words discreetly under his breath when he heard the sharp purr of the backpack’s zipper being opened. The class for the most part was quiet, with the teacher’s humming voice and stray voices of his peers being left as background noise.

Though after some time, George perked up when he heard there was an assignment being assigned, a small one to start the year. To get to know your table mate that you would most likely be sitting with the rest of the year.

The teacher walked around the tables, slipping two sheets of notebook paper per table pair. He did so while explaining the requirements, getting their name, five of their favourite things and other basic things you would have to know to call someone an acquaintance. He doubts he’ll have much conversation with ‘fluffy boy’, either way he takes out a pencil from his own backpack.

Grabs his paper and looks at the boy in front of him, who’s already looking back at him with not much of an expression unless his slightly ajar eyes indicate anything.

He looks down at the paper in front of him to avoid having to make eye contact with him. Worst part is he doesn’t know how to start this off, asking his name is easier said than done.

‘Fluffy boy’ comes to the rescue though.

“Your name is George right?” 

George takes his eyes off the lines of paper to attempt looking at the boy, “Yeah,” he wants to ask how he knows, but he feels foolish because soon he remembers their names were on the board.

So this is Clay.

“And you’re Clay right?”

“Yes that’s my name,” Clay responds, already moving his pencil on the paper. George watches as he writes his name in swift clear letters, and feels a dusting of subconsciousness pepper him.

George brings his pencil down nevertheless to write out the boy’s name in his own hand movements. He wants to erase the letters to try and fix them, to make them look neat as well, but he stops himself from turning his pencil around to drag it. 

Right he had to write down five things Clay liked.

He sucks in his bottom lip slightly to lick at it as he thinks of what he could ask. Once again it seems like Clay came more ready than him.

“Are you British?” he asks slightly leaning forward.

“Yeah I moved here a while ago, it’s really hot here,” he blurts out surprisingly, he brings his hands up to cover his mouth.

He thinks Clay may tease him, or something for it but he sees him smile at him with creased eyes and a quiet huff of a laugh.

“That’s usually how it is here, you’ll get used to it,” Clay says, “just like you should get used to calling me this,” 

He is ready to pull out a protest of confusion when Clay slips his paper from beneath his fingers and begins to write on it. He thinks the worst possible scenarios that may litter his paper in seconds, his paper gets handed back shortly to him.

Beside George’s jagged graphite in parentheses is another name.

“Dream?” 

“George,” Dream slips out as well, “do you like it so far?” 

“Like what so far?,” that could be quite a lot of things: the school, the people, the odd undertones of accents everyone bares, or even the water from the water fountain.

“The book,” Dream specifies, eyeing the book beside George, who picks it up to flip through its pages as though he is recounting every word and meaning with detail.

“Could be better truthfully,”

Dream hums at his answer, lacing his fingers together for a second before releasing them to grab at his pencil and write.

“What are you doing?” 

“Writing that you like good books,” 

“Isn’t that a normal thing?” George comments, mindlessly moving his pencil against the paper to draw small leaves reminiscent of the tomato sprouts in his garden.

“I don’t know, maybe it is, what would you say about Percy Jackson then?”

He stops drawing the faint tunneling green veins the leaves have in order to think of a response, “Has nothing on Harry Potter,”

He hears Dream let out a mock gasp, “George I thought you implied you liked reading good novels,”

“I do,” George retorts, already writing that Dream likes to read bad books.

They switch topics as easily as switching from an entreé to dessert, eagerly.

“Are you here willingly?” George queries

“Believe it or not I do like writing apart from running in the hot field,” 

That would explain the harsh breathing that had taken place earlier, “what sport do you play?,” 

“Quick to assume I play a sport,” Dream gives him a look while squinting his eyes, “what if I’m a water boy?”

“Then that’d also be fine but I doubt you get that fit from carrying water,” 

“Now you think I’m fit? Then am I fit enough to be yours?”

George wasn’t sure if he liked the sudden leak of confidence that had come with that last second pick up line. He left himself with the imagery that he didn’t hear, the only possible sign that might have made that imagery shatter was the subtle movement he made on his chair.

“So do you play a sport?” He asks once again, tempted to know about Dream’s flushed cheeks and lack of air earlier.

Dream doesn’t make the effort to reiterate his previous statement, “I play football, quarterback actually,” Dream opens his backpack once again to bring out a pen, confusing George slightly only for a bit, “for your leaves so you can colour them,”

The pen was a bright syrupy yellow, he would ask if it were green or not, but goes against it using his past experiences of never having seen a yellow pen. He hesitated to reach a hand out to grab it, he didn’t want to seem weird for grabbing at it too quickly. He felt his pinky brush against Dream's, the slight contact giving him a slight stutter to his movements.

The rest of the class followed through like the other classes George had experienced, except this time he felt himself get more anxious as the clock on the wall quickly ticked away, the bell rang out unexpectedly even after having had his eyes on the clock for too long.

He didn’t want to be late to his bus either, hastily he shoved all his materials into his backpack.

But kept the loose sheet of paper with Dream’s intricate dexterity out, with five simple things he learned about him.

He liked bad books.

He played Football.

Dream’s favourite colour is lime like the enormous elephant leaves you see flailing in the tepid air.

Dream liked George’s accent, said it had a nice lilt to it like water passing through pebbles down a stream.

Dream was excited to talk to George more, to see his expressive thoughts and dancing syllables that came from his mouth.

Those last three were written by Dream himself after he snatched the paper out of his hands.

He continued to reread them as he sat on the bus seat that would send him up every once in a while, the sun from the bus’ window was heating the side of his face unpleasantly. With the misty rays giving the bus a lazy hue, George traced his thumb over the tomato leaves Dream had helped him colour.

He can see why Dream picked creative writing.

✢✤✢

It’s, August 31st, when

George is sure he could fill out pages and pages of what he knows of Dream. The following day after they had begun to talk was only full of more prodding conversations, what Dream liked to eat, or what George didn’t like about white cookie chocolate.

Today was no exception to that, George had already put his novel in the polyester depths of his backpack, swallowed down by multiple notebooks, misplaced assignments and surely squished down by now.

Dream sits in front of him already marking hard pencil strokes on the paper in front of him. Dream pens down sentences like he probably runs out in the fields. George is glad he isn’t the paper, swallowing down every phrase Dream plates while knitting metaphors together. 

“Poor paper,” George cooes, his words are a small triumph for the paper Dream is scarring right now. He discerns Dream’s hand when he loosens his fingers around the plastic pencil in hand ascertaining minimal wonder at the lack of cracked lead smudging Dream’s paper.

“It’s fine George,” he says, already pressing harshly against the paper again. George had seen an article once, describing that heavy pressing against paper usually meant the individual was excited. 

“Is it that exciting?” And just because he finds it entertaining he adds on, ”are you not as excited to talk to me anymore?”

Dream tilts his head up from where he’s scrutinizing a line to glance at George, “I’m all ears George, tell me about how you tie your shoelaces, how many ice cubes you like in your water,”

“You’re so stupid, how many ice cubes I like in my water? What’s that even mean?,” 

He has yet to start his assignment, the only words tainting the paper sit in the top right corner of his page. His name and the date of today, some more crudely drawn plants grow from the opposite side.

Dream seems engrossed by his confusion as told when he lets out a bouncing laugh.

“It means I’m still as eager to read about you George,”

George pushes his legs against Dream’s lightly grazing him with his shoes, he gives a slight squeak when Dream stretches his legs to catch him pulling him forward to his desk. The chair under him gives a hideous yelp against the linoleum floor, possibly alerting some people.

“You know I have the higher ground here George, literally,” Dream smiles at him, George notices just now that Dream has freckles speckled atop his nose and cheeks.

“You have freckles,” he comments, the witty outcome he had on his tongue was swallowed to point out the obvious.

Dream saw them everyday of course he knows.

“Interesting observation George,” Dream continues to pull him forward until the desk pushes back its solid plastic exterior against his stomach. 

He presses his hands onto the side of the desk in an attempt to push himself back, his hands slip from the slight perspiration that’s gathered on them, “Dream stop you’re h-hurting me,” he had no intention for it to come out like that.

The desk stops pushing against him, and he breathes out a shuddered exhale.

“George, I-I’m sorry,” Dream stammers out, George doesn’t miss the way his voice wavers slightly. Dream’s already getting ready to stand from his chair.

“No no it’s fine, you didn’t know,” 

“Are you sure?,” Dream studies his eyes with lingering concern, “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” 

“Here,” 

George tries to hop to another lily of conversation by snatching Dream’s paper and drawing a small smiley face. Dream keeps giving him a look he can’t recognize entirely, though it seems to lessen when he scrawls a small smiley face on George’s paper as well.

“So about your freckles,” George restates, subtly beginning to count them with his eyes.

“What about them?,” Dream leans his head forward, even now he still maintains the same fluffed up hair from the first day of school.

“They’re interesting,”

Dream hums at his answer, moving one of his hands to press a finger onto them, “I can give you some if you want,” he swipes at the stippled bridge of his nose then brings his hand to George, “just lean forward a bit,” 

He knows Dream is just being mirthful with him, that he’s just poking fun at him. Though he still finds himself willing to lean his head slightly forward, except Dream actually ends up poking him with his finger.

“Ah! Dream!,” Dream pokes his nose, it’s a quick movement but he still manages awareness of Dream’s tepid finger against him.

“Tomorrow you should wake up with freckles,” Dream murmurs, “they’d fit you,”

George moves his own hand to cover his nose, wistful of the gentle nudge he had received.

“I doubt it,” he pouts faintly.

“I don’t,”

When George gets on the bus he spends a few moments running the pad of his own finger over the bridge of his nose puffing out a laugh to himself.

Dream’s such an idiot.

✢✤✢

It’s September 2nd, when

George is sitting in the school library forking the last slices of glazed peaches, from his styrofoam tray and into his mouth. The librarians were lenient on the students who chose to eat here during lunch, you just had to make sure to pick up your wrappers and crumbs.

Since the first day of school George had found himself sitting in his lonesomeness by the sunny side windows of the library, the bookshelves weren’t too tall. Permitting him easy access to run his fingers blindly along the spines of books, always picking out a book at random to skim through the thirty minutes he had for lunch.

Thirty minutes too little.

He hadn’t gotten any book to skim through today, instead sighing begrudgingly whenever sweet syrup would drip onto his chin instead. At least he’d been resourceful enough to grab more than one napkin, admittedly it was tedious to keep wiping at his mouth only to get it stained again.

But the canned peaches from the cafeteria were tasty.

If only people hadn’t given the peach a second connotation. Then he wouldn’t be having to re hear the innuendo playing like a broken record in his head, as he tried to bask in the tang and soft sugar that coated his tongue

His noon lunchtime was soon to end he noted as told from the clock he could see from his peripheral. 

“George,”

He bunches his shoulders up at the placement of heavy hands, it was an achievement that he didn’t let out one of his high pitched cries. The only sound that did manage to come out his mouth was a stilted, “Dream, bloody hell you scared the shit out of me!”

“Aw George that’s cute,” Dream cooed, startling George when he began to rub his head along his neck and shoulders. Dream’s hair tickled along his ear letting shivers pass slowly down his spine.

“What’re you doing now?”

“Celebrating because I found you George,” Dream answers as though it’s apparent, “I’ve been looking for you for awhile now, speedran my lunch, waved bye to Sapnap and went sprinting around the cafeteria looking for a short boy,”

Sapnap?

It’s when George is starting to lax his shoulders that Dream stops pressing his head against him to take a seat beside him instead, Dream moves his chair as close as he can to George’s, pushing his side against his.

“Dream I’m trying to finish my peaches,” 

Dream only whines his name in response,”George, please,”

George let’s himself giggle at Dream’s actions, slightly leaning against his side, “Please what?”

“Please George I don’t want to leave you tomorrow,”

“Then don’t leave,” George retorts, was something happening tomorrow?

Dream seems to notice George’s confusion though, when he responds, “I wish, I have my first football game of the season tomorrow,”

“Then why would you leave me?,” 

“Because it’s every Thursday afternoon basically and that means I won’t see you in the afternoons then,”

Well that’s disappointing, and he means it in the way he feels like he’s swallowed pebbles that are now slowly sinking into his stomach.

Dream seems somewhat distressed by it as well, even if he hides it by telling George in a light hearted way. It would just be one day of many, a day without Dream in class every once in a while would be fine. He’d been without Dream for the last couple of years in his life, a day without seeing Dream walk in with red cheeks from the sun as he tries to still his breath would be nothing.

“It’s just one day Dream, I can live without you,” 

He hadn’t even noticed the slight stiffness Dream’s arm had been clothed in, the only clue given to him was when Dream leaned into his side as well with a sigh. Sitting in the library with the sun outside lightly stinging his skin wasn’t the only reason his cheeks felt warmer than usual.

George allows his hand to grip the plastic fork tighter to finally get the last peach slice into his mouth.

It’s when George is pushing Dream off him weakly to throw his trash that Dream murmurs, “I have to give you something today anyways George,”

“Is that why you came looking for me then?,” he wants to add with a slight bitterness, ‘so you didn’t come here to talk to me?’

At least George can recognize that the last part of his sentence is dense. Dream had made it obvious since day one that he was more than interested to talk to George or as he had said, ‘read about him.’

“Well no—I did come for you obviously. To see if I could make you cry from the news that I won’t be in class tomorrow,” 

George wants to yell at him now, but the library’s soundless walls would just echo his syllables right back at him. And he didn’t find his parents receiving a notification of his misbehaviour at school fun, so he kept quiet and let the muffled chatter of the cafeteria down the hall fill the room.

George stood, withholding a snigger when Dream began to drop sideways onto his chair. The only thing that helped him from smacking his cheek on the chair was the table in front of him which he grabbed onto brusquely, emitting a harsh slap into the library.

Honestly he didn’t think he would get this terrified when he saw Dream sit up, “George…you better run right now,”

He didn’t want to ask or even imagine what would happen if he stayed there another minute, but he didn’t want to leave Dream. He felt soft tremors hold his hands as he stood there, Dream was fast from what the internet had told him about quarterbacks and what they did.

Sprinting out the library to blend into the cafeteria’s crowd would be a good move, but Dream was tall; he'd probably just spot him right away.

The bell’s resounding wail in the library gave him an answer to his query. Resulting in him sprinting out of the library, tossing his trash in the nearest bin, and squashing down the protests that the lunch ladies gave him to come back and recycle his trash. As expected the cafeteria was overflowing with bantering students and cliques.

His heart was a drumming in his ears when he allowed himself to walk near a large crowd.

Luckily Dream didn’t find him.

George occasionally saw Dream during passing periods with a dull fear still lingering in his legs in case he needed to sprint off again. It was like they were playing hide and seek throughout the day, tense muscles and silenced breaths when near each other.

Their small chase ended when they were actually sitting in front of each other in class with George actually working on his assignment for once.

They were tasked to write an anecdote with no real ending or start.

It wasn’t anything new, the teacher was a coach as Dream had said. And they really didn’t know what they were doing teaching a class. That they were probably forced, or told they’d increase their salary if they took the job. So what did their teacher do? Give them an assignment to write a short story every class.

Dream was as ever enthusiastic, scrambling to get his pencil out so he could scrape the paper and complain to George whenever the lead snapped from his excitement.

“Dream how’s my writing?,”

“Hold on a sec,” Dream continued to glide his pencil along one of the light blue lines of many on his paper. George’s eyes focused on Dream’s hand, how the bottom side of his palm began to collect a grey silver tint against it, whenever it would run against any other printed word.

George looked at his own hand, slightly frowning when he found a similar colour on his own palm, even the paper was slightly smudged.

The paper in front of him slid out of view from his peripheral, causing him to return his attention to Dream. Who began to examine his writing, letting out a huff of laughter whenever he found something comical on George’s paper.

“You didn’t draw any leaves today,” Dream stated, putting the paper down to grab his pencil again, he doodled a vine of leaves with three points snaking down the side of his paper. He even took some time to draw the lines a leaf would have inside of it, though George slightly tilted his head when Dream began to draw numerals along the vine.

Dream regarded George, and then he started folding his paper.

“DREAM!” he darts forward to reach for his paper, only to end up with his fingers grazing the top of it before it drifted off swiftly in Dream’s hands.

“George it’s okay,” Dream assured, whistling out a laugh as he continued to fold his paper in different angles.

“No it’s not okay, that’s my grade Dream,”

“I’ll do it for you, then,” Dream nonchalantly replied, pushing down a corner of the now square paper in front of him.

“Fine,” George sighed out so disappointed that he didn’t have to work, he’ll just watch Dream as he crumbles down his built work of thirty minutes. Dream’s fingers look soft like rose petals, the way they slide over the paper with intent and precision. His nails are somewhat long, long enough to protect the tender skin under but not too long that they may crack or break when he’s out running with a ball in the humid football fields. 

“You should wear a ring or two,” George tumbles out, moving his hands up to press against his cheeks.

“Why?,” Dream hums, twirling more vines along the envelope he had managed to fold. He gives the vines on the envelope the same treatment as the ones inside.

“Your hands would look pretty with them,” he murmurs, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth to hush himself.

He can hear a quick inhale come from Dream as he ducks his head down to hide his face, giving George a good view of his fluffed up head. But Dream doesn’t stop doing what he’s doing after George’s comment, he writes George’s name in curls almost like the vines of ivy now sprouting on his paper.

Cursive?

“Surely they’re not as pretty as your smile, such a cutie George,” Dream says breathily, his cheeks stained with watermelon pink once again.

George allows the compliment to slip into his ears like the songs that play through his earbuds when alone.

He can’t help it when a smile turns his lips up, he stretches his legs forward to try and brush his feet against Dream’s. 

“There it is so pretty,” Dream cooes, sliding him the envelope he had been polishing.

George just laughs, brightening his smile while pointing his feet as far forward as he can. Dream eventually discerns George’s unspoken struggle, as told by when he moves his own legs forward to kiss his worn shoes against George’s.

“Finally,” George huffs out, relaxing his feet against Dream’s.

“You’re so dumb though,” 

George attempts to dampen his grin at Dream’s words, but finds himself unable to. “I wouldn’t be one to talk,” 

“By the way your writing was good but it’s in better use now,” 

“Like being your personal messenger?,” George quips at him waving the letter in his hand by the corner.

“You’ll thank me later,” Dream says, putting the soles of his shoes against George to move them in tandem with his. Side to side, a soft sway, they dance with their feet under the table to the rhythm of their humming voices. 

“As for your ring recommendation, I’ll look into it,” 

“Make sure they look nice, they might increase your writing skill,” George adds.

“Are you saying my writing is shit?”

“Yes.”

As Dream had said, by the end of class, he finished both of their assignments in record time just before the bell rang. 

He had raised his brows when Dream asked to walk with him to the bus area, blanketing his actions by saying he wouldn’t be in class tomorrow.

And just before he had to leave for his bus, Dream told him to not open the envelope till he got home. Forsaking George with trying to put a leash on his curiosity when he sat down on the faux leather of the bus. He tried to quell it even more by pulling out his phone to listen to songs while he ran his index finger over the vines of ivy that encircled his name.

When he got home he rushed to greet his mother who took notice of the envelope in George’s hand by the way she looked down at.

After having tossed his school bag near the end of the bed he strode over to his desk, sitting down to open the envelope as he would turn the pages of a book, delicately.

He ignored his unsightly print, to direct his eyes onto the numerals Dream had attempted to discreetly hide within the vines of ivy. He scanned the winding lines of graphite for any context behind them, and there was.

It was Dream’s phone number.

✢✤✢

It’s September 3rd, when

George is sitting by his desk with one of his books opened, the lines of text not being paid much attention to as they blur in front of him. He’s still on the first page, his phone is right atop the book opened on Dream’s contact. A blank slate of white waiting to be filled so it bubbles the message and sends it with a pop to Dream.

He can hear the air that strums out of the air conditioner in his room, his skin feels slightly cold despite the moist climate outside his room.

He had sat in class with his music plugged in his ears as he tuned out the many conversations happening in the classroom. He had only written a paragraph of print for his assignment just so he could open his book once again, the book’s pages were like a butterfly’s wings in his lap.

The chair in front of him had been empty as expected.

Dream had come by lunch to ask if he liked what he gave him, he did. But he hadn’t mustered up enough brevity to compose a message, he did say that he would later today though.

But now it was around six in the afternoon, and the crickets outside were beginning to play their violins in the darkening day.

The envelope Dream had made for him was now hidden in one of the drawers by his desk. Kept safe from danger, sometimes doing homework made him frustrated. He sighed, shutting off his phone to open the drawer beside him. He pulled out the envelope to open it again, re reading the small encouragement Dream had put.

‘Text me :)‘

The dark graphite had begun to turn grey from when George would run his thumb over it, he regarded the illustrated leaves on the paper.

His breath feels caught in his throat like a wad of gum, his heart feels accelerated as it becomes the only audible thing for him. The palms of his hands struggle to remain dry, as he considers what he should write.

And before he can close the contact name again he types out the sluggishly clouding letters hoping there's no mistakes and clicks send.

I miss you Dream.

He hears the swooping pop as the bubble of text sends, it’s when he stands to toss his phone on his bed that he notices the tremor in his legs.

He’ll just go eat dinner and shower, so he can see if Dream has responded by then.

It was around nine in the evening by the time George had finished eating along with showering. He had even asked to wash the dishes downstairs himself as a way to contemplate any answers he could give back to Dream if he had answered by then. 

He had played with the glimmering suds of soap that collected on his hands, blowing small bubbles into the kitchen sink. The window in front of the sink served for more distraction to him as he saw the various leaves and tiny blossoms dance from the wind.

It was as he was snuggling his head against his pillow that night that he finally picked his phone up from where it laid on his comforter.

His room is now painted in dark shades or monotonous colours, the air conditioner silenced for the time being.

He fiddles with his feet under the covers, scrutinizing the dark screen of his phone before he finally turns it on.

George, my gumdrop. I miss your sweet smile. 

The hairs on his scalp prickle as they stand from his words, and his eyes widen slightly, but Gumdrop? Did he look like a gumdrop? George ponders, as he skims through Dream’s message. It hadn’t been too long since it had been sent, the time stamp marking it’s only been ten minutes.

Why am I a gumdrop? He texts back wanting a reason for Dream’s comparison. Almost immediately three bubbles appear and begin to have a ballad as George waits for Dream to write back.

He subconsciously hides his face deeper into the pillow as he beams brightly in contrast to the dark room, his cheeks prickle with warmth.

Your cheeks get red like one and your grin is so sweet, I may get cavities from seeing it too often.

He tries to think of something to say back, thinking back to any metaphors or figurative language he had seen in a book. He leaves Dream on read in favour of searching up a quick pick up line, something catchy but not something too obvious that he didn’t think of.

He should pick up a romance novel soon.

Thank you , is all he can really say, his mind is fogged up scratching out any attempt he could think of to make the other hide under his blankets as well.

<3

It wasn’t a full sentence at all but it’s enough for George to want to keep tarnishing his eyes in the blue light of his phone.

Dream is quite resourceful in his words , George admits to his pillow.

✢✤✢

It’s September 28th, when

George watches as Dream sets down a small fabric pouch in front of him. It’s tied with a ribbon and Dream gazes at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

“Dream what’s this?” He asks, moving his hands forward to pick up the small pouch in his hands. He can hear the faint rattling of things twinkling inside, perplexed he shakes it. The pouch rings from what it has inside, he wants to open it.

“Open it, George,” 

He pulls the ribbon, the ribbon comes undone, fainting onto the table. He pokes a finger inside, it feels cold ,smooth and polished under his touch. He glances at Dream who smiles at him, “take them out,”

He opens the pouch and unceremoniously flips the pouch over to see as two rings drop out ringing out against the table. They glisten from the ceilings light winking back at him, hesitantly he picks one up. Doing his best to examine it in his trembling fingers, it feels cold, the ring wraps in a circle with vines and silver leaves.

“Dream…,” he murmurs quietly.

“You said I should wear a ring or two, but I think one would look nice on you as well,” Dream explains, grabbing the other lonely ring to fidget with it.

“Can I see your hand?,” George asks, motioning for Dream to move his hand forward. Dream’s face gets red from the question but reluctantly pulls through.

George wants to frown when he feels Dream’s hand flinch from his touch, he wants to run his hand up to rub against the palm of his hand to see if they’re rough from holding a leather ball, to run his fingers over the pads of his fingers to see if they still have that rose petal touch to them.

He doesn’t do any of that though, instead he holds Dream’s palm with his thumb and index finger and slides them up to his index finger. Where he dips his finger through the ring, it goes through in one smooth motion, settling.

George unconfidently let’s go of Dream’s hand, he peers up in time to see Dream breathing a little too quickly.

“See your hands are prettier now,” George says, he’s being pulled forward once again but with more caution. Dream’s legs attempt to hug his own, and George’s legs feel warm when Dream stops to kick his shoes against his again in a small kiss. 

He kicks back softly in return giggling, he ignores the urge of wanting to cover his face. Even after Dream takes hold of his hand to slip the ring on his own index finger, the ring is cold but Dream seems to make it feel warm after he takes a moment to glance at it, rubbing it pensively.

Dream smiles, and George thinks he finally understands why Dream may get cavities from his own smile.

✢✤✢

It’s October 10th, when 

George is in the passenger seat of Dream’s car gazing outside the window as houses with different stories inside them pass by. 

Everyone’s backyard here is like a jungle, with palm trees and vibrant blooms and greens George pretends to see.

Dream plays some tune with pops and swoops in the car that he hums along to, it’s barely past the afternoon on a Saturday that should have been spent laying around his room. The sun flowers with it’s radiant rays making the road in front look as though there’s puddles of water sitting there. 

It’s October and it’s still steaming hot outside, he shifts in his seat once again to cross his legs slowly. Dream has offered to take him to a bookstore George had stumbled upon, when wandering through the virtual streets of Google Maps.

He had spilled great interest in going there the week prior, he just wanted to go and take a look.

But he honestly felt stiff from having Dream take him there, he had told him it was fine. That he didn’t have to, that he’d ask his parents soon, that Dream didn’t have to waste his time doing that.

“George, it’s alright,” Dream says softly, turning his head to look at him as they wait at the traffic lights. George begins to play with a random fold on his shirt, leaving his other hand to lay atop the car’s console in the middle.

“Seriously, I wanted to take you remember? Sugar, George, my saccharine love,” Dream stops to place his hand atop George’s, which feels cold from the air conditioner inside the car, “I do it because I want to okay,” Dream finished, massaging his thumb atop George’s hand.

George stops playing with the fabric on his shirt to contemplate how Dream called him ‘love’, it was pleasant to hear even if it had sounded teasing. The hand atop his is warm, pleasant tingles caress his lower back.

“Okay, okay, but can you please put on a different song. This one is kind of shit,” 

“The radio is all yours, play what you want,” Dream hums, removing his hand to place it atop the steering wheel once again. His right hand still holds the ring George had placed on, it still shines in the same way it had under the ceiling lights at school.

George doesn’t say a word, so he decides to guide his hand to the aux cord he can see snaking out of one of the cup holders. He grabs his own phone to plug it in, he scrolls through his playlists ignoring how his heart throbs at certain songs. As he scrolls through he can hear the light tapping of Dream’s fingers as they hold the black leather of the wheel.

Once a coordinated piano begins to hum along the car’s frame, he asks, “what did you think of me when you first met me?”

“I thought you wouldn’t speak to me all year,” Dream says, sliding the wheel smoothly to turn. And if George doesn’t feel like hiding his face then he certainly feels like turning the other way.

“I mean you looked so engrossed in your reading, so I was like no way he’s gonna talk me,”

George squeaks out a small giggle, and even though Dream didn’t ask he still adds his own input making sure to leave out the part of when he saw him in the hallways, “I thought you were going to be an asshole honestly, and smelly. You came in panting and red with wet hair.”

Dream tightens his lips at his words, “I showered though… that’s why my hair was wet,”

“Well I wasn’t there to see, so I apologize,”

Dream grins wildly for a second with a glow prancing his freckled cheeks, already beginning to laugh, “would you like to be there next time then?,”

And there goes George’s brain, already recording distasteful images into his head: The slide of fabric against soft skin, bubbly hands covered in soap, the fragrance of mint and tea that would waft off wet hair, tepid steam that leaves small droplets of water to cool on skin.

“Oh is that a yes? I didn’t hear a no,” Dream continues to pester, already slotting the keys out of the car.

It’s when the door beside him opens that George actually realizes that they’re here. In an almost empty parking lot, save for the trees that stay rooted in dirt and plastic bags that imitate tumbleweeds.

“George, I was just playing around. Are you okay?,” 

George nods, tumbling out the car slightly after sitting in it for too long. He feels like balloons are rubbing against his face and neck, making him feel warmer.

He forgets about it when he gives a small tremor inside the bookstore where the air conditioner appears to be set down to the coldest temperature. There are multiple shelves in the large room, they’re put in aisles with signs raised above them to display genres and topics ranging, from psychology to even multi language dictionaries. They vaguely remind him of when he had been attempting to learn spanish his freshman year of high school back in England.

Along the entrance there are glass frames displaying various baubles and trinkets of varying scale, some action figures and plastic covered comics. Some games from the 90’s would also lay sprinkled. There was even a cork board beside the wall where they stood with doodles and drawings pinned on it.

George sets his hand on Dream’s heated wrist to walk deeper into the store, he vaguely pays attention to the person who waves at them from the cash register. Just walking along the carpeted floor had him shaking slightly in jubilation.

Dream let out some quiet laughs into his other hand to muffle the sound from George’s ears.

There were also carts overflowing with books as well, with intriguing covers and varying width. He had to stop walking though when he reached the back of the store where three shelves stood almost making a box, it was somewhat of a tight fit, but he’d manage.

As for Dream’s tall form, well he didn’t know, though he found out soon enough when he turned his head slightly to look at him and how he squared his shoulders in an attempt to fit in correctly.

He let go of Dream’s wrist to make it easier for him to adjust, he didn’t miss the way Dream’s fingers lightly brushed against his hand in weak reluctance.

He takes a deep breath in, feeling satiated with the torn newspaper smell that filters through his lungs. It reminds him of the tomato leaves he had smelled when he moved in. He skims his eyes over the book's tattooed spines, seeing if a particular font catches his eyes or not.

Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, yeah right.

He eventually grabs a book because of the poppies that are imprinted onto it’s spine, the cover is polished for the most part, smoothing through his fingers like a marble counter. When he opens the book he can smell the ink of printed letters and classic paper scent, he closes it in favour to read the summary on the back. Enthralled by the first few sentences that slip through his eyes, it certainly seemed intriguing.

Dream’s nudges him out of his reverie when he begins to murmur in a muted tone, just barely audible to George, “the red roses have a pleasant resemblance to your lips, my doll,”

He closes the book silently, ready to turn and tell Dream to repeat his statement, so he can scold Dream for naming the flowers on the cover of the book wrong, and to keep quiet lest George want more bubbles to rise in his stomach

But is thoroughly disappointed when he averts his eyes to Dream who is reading a book from a cart beside them. It was simply Dream reciting saccharine words to his own ears. He fails to notice when Dream smiles to himself, and how he slips his bottom lip into his mouth to suckle on it, or how his ears go cerise from heat.

Dream’s comments flustered him at times, mostly when unexpected, he notes to himself as they walk out the store with paper bags carrying books and a pouch of marbles Dream had found himself fond of.

✢✤✢

It’s October 22nd, when

George is sitting on the school bleachers, the metal reverberating under his feet as students climb the steps.

The skies have drank orange juice and lemon juice once again as the colours begin to collide, grapes seem to be swallowed as well by the sky. The clouds are stray cottons above his head forming hippos and fish and other shapes for people to name.

Beside him he has a plastic bag of crisps open, that noisesly crackles every time he hazily reaches his hand in for a funky shaped crisp.  His dominant hand holds a sweating drink with too much ice for his tastes, he chews on the straw hesitantly with every sip of sour lemonade.

The ice seems to frighten the bitterness of the drink though as time passes.

By his feet is a mustard yellow duffel bag that’s been left slightly open by the owner who rushed to take out his things. A water bottle peeks out to try and spot his owner as it waits partially unscrewed.

Said owner was Dream.

Who was out playing on the field, running along the turf covered ground. The students around him chatter and cheer, at times some camera stutters can be heard through the boisterous bunch as they pose for pictures.

He had told Dream he knew nothing of football, that he didn’t really understand how the game mostly functioned. One thing was evident to him though, no one actually kicked the ball as expected. Instead players would cradle it in their gloved vinyl hands and toss it to each other.

He does recall that at some point they were in coordinated positions that George honestly, can’t name.

He only came because Dream had been insistent that he come to at least one of his games to watch him. And he was, he was watching his hard plastic covered head and back that displayed his number. 

At times he had considered pulling out his phone to plug his earbuds in, so he could muffle out more of the crowd's jubilant cheers.

By the time the game had come to an end the sky was already dark with suburban lights providing a luminescent aura around the deep violets and blues. Dream had come sprinting with his helmet off, George wanted to grimace at the moist appearance of his now brown hair.

But he couldn’t make his facial muscles contract when Dream sat down next to him beaming at him as he removed his leather gloves to toss them in the bag below George.

He felt a tickling heat kiss his ears in embarrassment when he got a hint of Dream’s weak musk combined with the mint and tea shampoo that often followed him.

“I’m gonna go take a quick shower in the locker room, so we can leave okay?” Dream hummed, uncapping the loose water bottle that had waited for his arrival, “and if you’re hungry I’ll buy you something from the concession stand,”

George begins to nod, and just as Dream is slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder to run down the bleachers, George asks, “do you have like a sweater or something…,” a whistling nighttime draft had begun to sing along his hair ruffling it slightly, it gave him a weak tremor on his arms but truthfully he just wanted more of Dream’s scent to be left behind.

Selfish.

Guilt ties his ankles when he explains, “it’s getting a little chilly,”

Dream blinks at him for a few seconds, and George already has a never mind prepared in his throat, “sure let me just check,” Dream acquiesces, zipping the duffel bag open to stuff his hands in it.

He runs the soles of his shoes together as he waits, noting the steps of students still leaving the bleachers and others who stay to socialize under the murky stars. The air smells of soil and salt with undertones of rain, mayhaps rain was to come in the following days.

Dream gives out a loud hum when he fishes out a rumpled up green sweater with the drawstrings tied together, “hold one let me just,” Dream unties the drawstrings with shaky fingers and George observes how the backs of Dream’s hands have veins contrasting harshly against his smooth skin. His knuckles are rubbed red from when the leather gloves would harshly collide with anything.

Dream is eventually leaving the sweater in his arms, “does it hurt?,” George asks, regarding Dream’s hands, “your hands,” he clarifies when Dream stares at him confused.

He gives him an indescribable look, but his eyes bunch up slightly as his brows relax, “no George, it doesn’t hurt my sweetness,” to make his point he rubs his knuckles with one of his hands, and George wants to laugh when he watches him try to withhold a wince, “I’ll be back, wait here,”

At last he runs down the bleachers to go to one of the open gates across the field, where George presumes are the locker rooms.

The sweater lays in his arms, George lifts it in front of him to inspect it. The polyester fabric dipped between his fingers, it was soft and it looked fairly clean, thankfully. The drawstrings seemed slightly worn, probably from fiddling on then too often. He slides the sweater on when he notices that it almost touches the dusty bleachers.

He shivers when it envelops him, the hair on his arms and nape stand as he gets goosebumps from the soft fabric. He’s cocooned in a comforting scent that just says ‘Dream’ to his ears, his hands are engulfed by the sweater’s sleeves. He bunches the loose fabric around his wrists to keep it out of the way, the hoodie of the sweater lays on his back, deflated.

He pities it and flips it onto his head, it covers his eyes from how large it is. That’s why draw strings exist; he scolds himself, as he pulls on the strings in front.

He spends the latter half on his phone while he waits, feeling slightly tense from the students that remain behind. He knows he’s being paranoid, no one is looking at him but worry still scratches his arms.

Eventually though Dream comes running back from the locker rooms, it’s when George pockets his phone to look at him that he wants the hoodie to hide his face now.

Dream’s hair is toweled in different directions and he’s just wearing a black shirt with shorts, yet George still feels prickles on his cheeks. Dream’s cheeks are flushed from earlier but they seem to redden more when he’s standing near George.

“Is it to your liking?,” Dream asks.

George swallows a marble down his throat, “yeah, thank you,” to accentuate his point he tightens the hoodie around his head to fit more snuggly.

He can hear Dream let out a puff of air, and watches curiously when he pops his knuckles quietly by his side, “so are you hungry? We could get something at the concession stand or I could take you somewhere, it’s not too late. It’s around—,” he pauses to check his phone, “it’s like nine, but of course you can decide what you want,”

“I’m not really hungry, more like sleepy and thirsty, maybe more lemonade would be good,” George answers, standing up so they could begin making their way down the bleachers.

“Lemonade? From like any other food or drink available?”

“Yes it’s better than water.”

Dream did end up getting him another cup of lemonade before he went to drop him off. He had even let George take the sweater back inside when he noticed how George was drowsily mumbling words as he walked him to the door.

George just remembers waving him a goodnight before dashing into his room to sleep.

Did Dream not like lemonade?

✢✤✢

It’s when,

George is clipping his window open, that he has to do his best to not laugh too loudly. The house is quiet with ambiance whispering and the sky is licorice with no stars or moon tonight, he can hear a chorus of frogs croaking in the distance.

But all that comes second, Dream is busy trying to crawl in through his bedroom window. His cheeks are ballooned as he tries to withhold his wheezes, he yelps out a quiet ‘George’ with every subtle movement he makes.

“Hurry up Dream, or I’m closing this window,” he whispers, tugging Dream by his shirt. He just wants to pull him inside already.

Dream’s hair for some reason already has loose twigs and leaves protruding out, he’s sure some of them will land onto the carpet. So he can shriek in fear when he steps on a twig in the midst of the night.

“Okay, okay and—I’m in,” Dream whispers triumphantly, he kicks off his shoes paying mind to how George’s own feet are bare.

“Finally,” George groans exasperatedly, sliding the window shut so he can hear the satisfying clack of it closing, he hopes no insects have gotten in.

He doesn’t like the sight he sees when he turns around, Dream is already draped over his bed, with a hand brushing his loose hair back.

“Dream stop, I don’t want your hair shit on my bed!” he’s already walking towards his bed to push Dream off.

“Just take them out George,” 

“You want me to just pluck them out?”

“Well yeah, maybe get a brush,” Dream murmurs, moving up to sit on the edge of his bed. The bed’s springs for once protest at the sudden change of weight in so long.

“Yeah okay,” George acquisieses, he doesn’t have a brush in his room, a comb perhaps, but he said brush. Perhaps his mother withholds a brush in her room, preferably one that has not been used.

He glances at his door, the gray porcelain colour seems terrifying now. 

“I’ll be right back then,” George says, he goes to his clothing drawer to pull out some socks, and then goes to his closet where he pulls out Dream’s sweater. He slips on the sweater first, tugging at the bottom to fix it and then he sits down with a huff to pull up the socks.

He had to be as quiet as possible, afterwards he stands up and trots slowly to his door. He opens it as carefully as he can, so the door won’t cry tonight. He glances at Dream once more as he stares at him owlishly, he’s about to speak but George goes through the small crevice before he can and out into the hallway.

Polished wooden floors threaten to trip him as he walks down the hall to his parents room.

On tippy toes.

His calves are sure to burn when he turns to make his way back, he wanders his eyes all along the portraits in the hall. The living room and kitchen all get scrutinized under his heavy peering, all too soon he’s in front of his parents door.

Cringing when the door’s hinges squeak against his ears.  

It’s a miracle when George is finally back in his room clutching a brush in his clammy hands with Dream’s back facing him. They’re sitting on George’s bed, with George almost falling forward everytime Dream moves. The bed is dipping just slightly like water under them, nevertheless his hands are quivering.

He begins to pull out little twigs and leaves from Dream’s hair, doing his best to not actually touch his head. The twigs tangle in Dream’s hair, strands getting slightly knotted around them, the leaves come out easily though.

Oval and pointed leaves of the sort accumulate on George’s night stand where he places them along with the twigs.

He thinks he’s done but a tiny white daisy holds onto Dream’s strands. He pulls it out as well but more delicately for later.

“I’m gonna start brushing okay,” George states, parting Dream’s hair. By now his hair reaches near his shoulders, it’s wavy and the locks curl around his fingers.

It’s soft.

“Just don’t pull too hard, George,” Dream warns, lolling his head slightly back.

“I won’t,” George assures, he sits on his legs to accommodate himself. He grabs at one of the separated locks of hair and as softly as he can presses the brushes’ points against it. They sink smoothly into his hair and George drags it down in a repeating motions afterwards.

For a while it’s just them, their noiseless breaths filtering through their noses. The crickets and frogs harmonize outside in their trills, the occasional car that whizzes by the road out front. The muted bed springs under them and Dream’s sudden humming to a nameless song.

He flushes when Dream gasps, he had accidentally brushed against his sensitive scalp. He apologizes profusely afterwards, but Dream hushes him with a croon of his name.

“You know I actually saw you in the halls on the first day of school,” George begins.

“Mmm yeah?” Dream murmurs slowly, shifting slightly.

“Yeah, and I thought to myself, ‘hey his hair looks soft, I hope that’s not weird to think’,”

Dream rumbles a quiet chuckle, “is it to your expectations, George?”

George stops brushing his hair to twirl a strand between his fingers, sandy blond to plain brown at times, “yeah it is,” he finishes up untangling some sparing knots at the bottom.

“Can you turn around?,” George asks, setting the brush down to reach towards the bedside table. He plucks out the small daisy he had found and faces Dream, who now looks at him with a small smile.

His freckles stay contrasting atop his nose and cheeks, almost like a chocolate chip cookie and Dream’s eyes consider him with fantasies and hopes.

“May I?” George twirls the daisy by the stem, feeling the grooving patterns beneath his slippery fingers.

Dream leans forward as George expects him to, his fingers threaten to drop the daisy when he places it behind Dream’s ear, he tucks it in so it doesn’t fall and his hand accidentally swipes at the skin atop his ear. His breath is fast paced and his neck burns and he wants to pull his hand back.

“My sweetie, it’s okay, George” Dream assures, bringing his hand up to hold George’s. He exhales at the way it covers his whole hand, Dream rubs at his palm with his thumb, adding differing pressures between his swipes.

“Why do you do that?,” 

“Do what, George?”

“Say my name like that?”

“George?” Dream cooes, “or George,” he drawls, deep in his throat, gingerly placing George’s hand against his cheek, the skin there is particularly warm.

George feels ticklish near the lower part of his back, “yeah like that, and then you add some candy or sugar related reference,”

Dream closes his eyes as if in thought, “I say it like that because your name is like hard candy on my tongue, I love tasting it,”

George inhales a shuddery breath, catching the fading smell of Dream’s hoodie.

“But I want to know if your tongue is sugar, will your lips melt like cotton candy against mine?”

“Looks like we’ll have to find out,” George teases, moving closer to clumsily sit atop Dream’s lap, he jumps slightly when Dream settles his hands near his hips to hold him. 

Dream huffs at him with a slight laugh, he waits, staring at George. His eyelashes cast a shadow over his speckled eyes.

He’s scared admittedly, but he still manages to lean forward, to shakily brush his lips against Dream’s. They’re chapped, scraping slightly against his own, he moves his own hands to clasp at Dream’s shoulders that are stiff as well.

He flinches slightly when Dream darts his tongue out, licking at the seam of his lips, it’s the encouragement they both need he supposes as he bunches his lips up.

He almost hits his nose against Dream’s but Dream catches his lips just fine. He can feel the hands near his hips tighten slightly as Dream slides him closer to himself.

He wants to squeeze his legs closed when Dream nibbles on his bottom lip, tugging on it weakly. He pushes his tongue out to lick against Dream’s teeth, his skin is heated especially as Dream delivers a low groan against his mouth.

Dream gives him the same treatment back and licks against his teeth, attempting to trespass into his mouth. He vaguely realizes he’s letting quiet whimpers slip out of his mouth, it’s late at night and his room is being filled with the quiet sounds of lips and groans that he can blame the bed for.

He tenses when Dream slides his hands from his hips and up to his back, bunching the fabric of his hoodie up along the way. His hands palm up his back, pressing out more quiet noises from him.

They both eventually pull back with slick lips that cool in the air of his room.

Tentatively George asks, “was it like cotton candy?”

“More like a sugary delight,” Dream exhales.

Later on, George is being introduced as Dream’s boyfriend to an exuberant Sapnap that boasts about his wingman skills.

“You should have seen him George, fucking writing George all over his notebook everyday, like a caveman discovering a word,” Sapnap, tells him.

✢✤✢

It’s when,

 George meets Dream.