Archive of Our Own

Dream is going to kill George. 

He feels like the universe is playing some sort of sick practical joke on him. There’s no other explanation for the name displayed neatly on Dream’s screen, just beside his own. It taunts him, swimming mockingly in front of his eyes.

In a fluid motion, Dream slams the lid of his laptop shut, much to Sapnap’s amusement. The other boy is lounging back in his chair, arms propped up behind his head as he watches Dream struggle through his homework. He shoots Dream a grin, watching as Dream sighs, rubs his eyes, and opens his computer again, hoping to see a different name.

It’s still there. Black against white in godforsaken twelve point Times New Roman. His eyes ache from staring at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” Sapnap asks, a little too cheerfully for Dream’s taste, so he glances up from his computer solely to glower at his friend.

“Peer tutor assignments just came out.”

Sap grins. “Oh, really? Sick!” He leans over and grabs his phone off the table, unlocking it quickly as he searches for the fateful email. “I wonder which poor freshman has to put up with you this year.”

Dream just groans and drops his head into his hands.

They're settled in their usual nook in the library after a particularly long day of school. Dream is struggling through his homework with Sapnap at his side, curled up on one of the many armchairs as he provides commentary. 

Dream already has a headache from the calculus textbook in front of him and the smart comments. He doesn't need the added stress of tutoring a fucking gremlin.

“I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic about this,” Sapnap says, head still bent over his phone. His hair flops into his eyes without his usual headband to hold it back. “It can’t be that bad.”

Dream looks up from his misery to shoot Sapnap a glare, which the other boy ignores. “Believe me, it can."

A beat passes. “Oh shit,” Sapnap says abruptly, presumably having just scrolled down to the list of assignments and seen Dream’s predicament. He glances up, makes a face. “Oh, shit .”

Dream snorts. Now Sap gets it. “Yeah.”

“Do you think they’d let you switch?” Sapnap frowns down at his phone. “I’m sure Bad wouldn’t mind swapping kids. Look, he has that nice freshman from Debate.”

Bad has, in fact, been paired with the nice freshman from debate—Tubbo something or other. Funnily enough, he’s also Tommy's best friend. “Well, I can’t switch now, can I? Tommy's probably already seen the email.”

Sapnap sets his phone down on the table and arches an eyebrow. “So?”

“He’s just gonna come up to me in the hallway and call me a bitch or something.” Dream sighs, regret threading through his words when he adds, “Why did I ever let you and George talk me into this?”

“Because you care about the underclassmen,” Sapnap says with mock seriousness. Dream snorts. “And because you need service hours for NHS.”

Dream winces, because that part, at least, is true. The NHS service hour requirements loom in front of him mockingly. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. But I don't think I can put up with Tommy for an hour every week, even if it means I get service hours.”

"You just have to help him with his English homework," Sapnap reminds him. "He's a freshman. It's not exactly rocket science."

Dream frowns. He won’t argue with Sapnap, but he remembers, vividly, how much he struggled with freshman year English. Everything had clicked for him in the first semester of tenth grade, but he'd spent a year in tears over essays and tests. Romeo and Juliet, Life of Pi, Lord of the Flies … all the texts had been too much for him. He'd seriously considered just giving up, failing the class. Pity, heavy and unyielding, settles in his chest now at the memory.

Fuck. Fuck . It's awful enough to be assigned Tommy in the first place; he can't believe his conscience is trying to guilt him into taking the younger boy under his wing.

"I guess… I guess it won't be too bad," Dream finally says, voice careful. 

Sapnap, clearly unaware of Dream's internal struggle, nods in smug approval. “There we go! Spoken like a true philanthropist.”

“Philanthropists give money, dumbass!”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Sapnap huffs. He grabs for his phone again, holds down the home button, and says clearly, “Hey Siri, what does philanthropist mean?”

Siri takes a moment to respond. “A philanthropist," she says finally, voice tinny through Sapnap’s crappy phone speaker, “is a person who seeks to promote the welfare of others, especially by the generous donation of money to a good cause."

Dream shakes his head, disapproval coloring his voice when he exclaims, “I just fucking said that!”

“You could still be a philanthropist!” Sapnap points out. “ 'Promoting the welfare of others!’ Spending any amount of time with that little gremlin is definitely considered a public service.”

“You’re insane,” Dream says, shaking his head. “I'm not giving him money. And I don’t care about being a—a philanthropist , or whatever. If I tutor Tommy, one or both of us is going to lose it."

"It’d probably be you," Sap says offhandedly, as if he's deep in thought. "Tommy has a higher endurance for bullshit."

Dream most definitely does not squeak . "What the hell does that mean?!"

"You get pissed off first," Sapnap says, voice still matter-of-fact. "You don't always show it, but Tommy knows how to push your buttons."

Dream rolls his eyes. "He's a child ," he says, lips forming the familiar refrain easily. "I'm way more mature."

"Yeah," Sap says with a smirk. "Keep telling yourself that."

"Hey!"

Sapnap grins, leaning back on the chair so that he's looking up at Dream from underneath his eyelashes. "I bet a hundred dollars that you're the one who's going to break first."

Dream blinks. The prospect of a bet is… not a bad one, actually. He's sure he can outlast any shit that Tommy throws his way. "A bet?"

"A bet."

Dream pretends to consider it, even though he’s already made his mind up, then says, "You're on. One hundred dollars even."

"One hundred dollars," Sap repeats, and they lean forward to shake on it. Sapnap's hand is steady in Dream's, if a bit sweaty, and Dream gives it a firm shake before pulling away. "Bet."

"Bet."

Sapnap reclines again in his chair, looking smug. "I've gotta warn you, Dream, you just fucked up. I've never lost a bet before."

Dream resists the urge to clench his hands into fists and instead grabs his calc textbook. He has two more pages of work to do, despite the fact that he has no idea what the fuck a chain rule is. "I'm ignoring you now," he informs Sapnap primly.

"You do that." 

He wants to scream. Instead, he opens his notebook again, pulls his headphones from his bag, and brings up Spotify. Then he sets about trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do with this derivative shit.

Sapnap's laughter is still audible through his headphones.

Unfortunately for Dream, Sapnap isn't the only friend who seems to enjoy his discomfort. Bad hides a grin when he finds out about Dream’s predicament. He quickly offers his apologies, but still makes sure that Dream knows that Bad and Tubbo have already formed a connection. "I think it's going to go well!" Bad chirps, clearly unaware of Dream's stormy mood. 

Schlatt—the oldest senior in their grade—just barks out a laugh, tells Dream to "Suck it up, pissbaby," and continues his rounds around the cafeteria. He's holding a crumpled piece of paper with the words petition to keep Schlatt's mutton chops scrawled lazily across it, collecting signatures from the poor unassuming freshmen.

If Dream remembers correctly, Schlatt is currently locked in a fierce battle of wills with the administration regarding his facial hair. Apparently, mutton chops break the dress code. Dream hadn't known this before—it’s not the sort of thing they print in the student handbook. It seems like a losing battle, though, especially since Schlatt never even bothers to show up for class anymore. The guy takes senioritis to the next level.

All of Dream’s friends end up laughing at Dream's misfortune in some way or other—and even his rivals: Dream's sure he sees Techno crack a grin across the caf. All of them except George , who doesn't bring up the peer tutoring situation until a few days after it's all blown over.

They're both sprawled on Dream's sofa one day after school, hands entwined, laughing at some stupid Minecraft video that George has queued up on the television. The conversation, a nearly tangible thing, floats between them like string, its ends tied around their wrists. There are no expectations here—everything is soft, hazy, like the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window.

It's a welcome break from the stress of school, of friends, of life . Dream is sick of pretending all the time; he wants to pull George to him in the hallway, clasp their hands together, grin unabashedly. Kiss George in front of everyone at their damn school.

But George has said that he doesn't yet feel ready for that. George wants to take this slow. He's still clearly unsure of the new tension between them and how far it will stretch. Neither of them have pushed it to breaking point yet, and that’s fine. Dream doesn't mind keeping this—keeping them a secret. He'd do anything to make sure George feels comfortable, feels safe, especially at school. 

Anything. No questions asked.

And if Dream can't stop himself from aching with longing during lunch? From staring at George during Lit, watching the way the light filters through his hair? For staining his fingers with ink when he scribbles down line after line of poetry, meant for no one but George?

He's a big boy. He can deal with that. Besides, it's not like anyone has noticed yet. Dream and George’s secret relationship has stayed exactly that: a secret.

Dream leans over to his boyfriend now, still running his fingers lightly through George’s hair. Mr. Beast hums at a low volume on the TV, ignored. He feels safe here, like George is a buoy in the midst of a raging sea. Dream clings to him, murmurs, “George? Who did you get for peer tutoring?”

George stiffens a little at the question. It's obviously a sore subject—maybe this is why he'd avoided the subject earlier this week. “Quackity,” he finally tells Dream, still staring up at the ceiling. His voice is flat, emotionless; he’s clearly resigned to his fate.

Dream frowns, recognition sparking in his gut. He shifts on the sofa so that he can curl his head into George's chest. “Isn’t that—“

“—the sophomore who made a slideshow presentation about how much I suck and presented it in front of the entire debate club? Yeah. I’m thrilled,” George says, sounding anything but. He relaxes into Dream's touch, though, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

Dream lets out a breath. “Ah.”

“Enough about me," George says, shifting a little. His voice rumbles deep against Dream’s head. "What about you? Didn’t you get Tommy or something?”

Dream grimaces in confirmation. “How did you know?”

“Sapnap told me. He seemed to think it was the most hilarious thing ever.” George's voice tilts up a little at the end of his sentence, betraying the concealed laughter in his tone, and Dream pokes him roughly. 

"Stop laughing at me, asshole!"

"You've got to admit," George says as his lips curl into a grin, "it is quite funny, you nerd."

Objectively, it's fucking hilarious , but Dream isn't going to say that out loud. "It's not! And I'm not a nerd!"

"It's karma," George decides with mock serenity, like he's a judge deciding Dream's fate.

"Karma? What the hell did I do?" Dream teases. He sits up on the sofa, pulling George with him until they're facing each other. George flushes underneath Dream's attention, eyes dropping to Dream's mouth before he meets his friend's gaze again. "How'd I upset the universe's balance this time?"

"You upset the universe's balance just by existing," George murmurs, unwilling, like the words are being torn from his throat. He flushes and looks away.

Dream is struck by the honesty in George's tone, so he grins and leans forward to peck George on the cheek. He revels in the blush that spreads on George's cheeks from the point of contact. "What kind of mushy poetic shit is that? And you're calling me a nerd?!"

"Oh, shut up and kiss me," George says, rolling his eyes. His voice is warm with affection, just about ready to simmer over.

Dream obliges, and relishes in the burn.

He's doomed to tutor Tommy.

Dream has tried everything—pleading with Bad, cajoling Techno, even approaching the teacher who coordinates the peer tutoring program. She'd taken one look at him, grinned in delight at his misfortune, and adamantly refused to take him off the roster until at least a month into the program.

So he's well and truly fucked. Despite the fate that awaits him, Dream manages to avoid the younger boy for an entire week after peer tutor assignments are released, much to his friends’ amusement. He skips every club meeting that Tommy might possibly attend (including debate) and leaves school immediately after the final bell rings every day.

His strategy might even work a little too well. Dream knows his friends are concerned about him now, since he's spending so much time alone or with George, but he bites back the guilt. His tactics are a tad Machiavellian, but they work, and they work well—all up until the following Monday morning.

“Hey! Dream!”

Dream stops dead in the middle of the hallway, blood freezing in his veins when he hears that voice. It wraps around his limbs like ice, and he quickly ducks out of the way of the other students in order to avoid it. Dream leans against a nearby locker, trying to avoid the flow of traffic. Please, no. 

“Big D!” calls Tommy from about fifteen feet away. He’s surrounded by a group of freshman guys—they all look the same to Dream, mostly dressed in athletic shorts and hoodies despite the freezing temperatures outside. The only other kid Dream recognizes is Tubbo, another freshman, who practically hangs off Tommy’s elbow. “You saw the list, huh?”

Dream ignores him in favor of turning away and plunging back into the crowd, hoping to lose the annoying freshman.

No such luck. “Big D!” Tommy screeches, much louder this time. Dream's sure he's about to suffer premature hearing loss. “Come back! I thought we was friends, man!” Tommy separates from the group, dragging Tubbo along with him, and plunges into the hallway traffic after Dream.

Dream can hear Tubbo complain from behind him, and he hears Tommy's exasperated "Fine!" as the blond boy lets go of his friend and surges on ahead.

Much to Dream’s consternation, Tommy finally corners him in one of the stairwells with a shit-eating grin. “Dream!” he crows. "Long time no see, big man."

Dream sighs, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans back against the lockers, resigning himself to his fate. "Tommy."

"I'm guessing you've heard the good news?" He looks so smug, the little prick, bouncing forward on the balls of his feet like he can't wait to cause chaos. "You. Me. English homework. A dream come true—hah, get it? A dream ?"

Dream wants to pull his own hair out.

"Yeah," he says noncommittally as he attempts to maneuver his way around Tommy, heading in the direction of his last period class—which just so happens to be Lit. Dream squeezes past Tommy, who sticks to his side like glue, still yammering away.

"—an' it's gonna be so fucking hype, Big D!" Tommy exclaims, clearly continuing a conversation that Dream has completely lost the thread of.

Dream pushes roughly past a group of sophomore girls, Tommy at his heels. They giggle at the senior as he passes, and he fights the flush that threatens to spread across his neck. "Please don't call me that."

Tommy cracks a grin, winking at the girls as he passes. "Whatever you say, Big D. D-money. Daddy D. Little D?"

"No, no, God no, and no," Dream says, grimacing. "Those are all so much worse, Tommy, what is wrong with you?!"

"Many, many things," Tommy says proudly. He rushes to catch up with Dream, attempting to throw an arm around the other boy's shoulders. The senior is so much taller than him, though, that the effect is almost comical, and Tommy stumbles. 

Dream snorts. "God, how short are you? You're a child."

Tommy straightens indignantly. "I'm fifteen!" he exclaims, but his voice cracks.

"A child," Dream repeats. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, but he pushes it away as he turns another corner. Almost instantly, he spots George deep in conversation with another boy down the hallway. As Dream approaches, he realizes just who his boyfriend is talking to: Wilbur Soot, a fellow senior. Fuck. Dream frantically tries to catch his boyfriend's eye before Tommy can drag the other two into this.

The universe evidently has it out for him today, because Tommy just follows Dream's gaze, craning his neck to see his older brother and George. His eyes light up almost instantly when he spots them.

"George!" he calls, delighted, as he darts away. Dream winces and follows after him. Time for damage control.

George eyes Tommy cautiously as the freshman bounds over. "Tommy?" he says, unsure.

"Hey, Big G!" Tommy's wearing a shit-eating grin as he runs a hand through his hair. He nods to his brother as well. "Will. Big man Wil-bah. Big dubs. What's up with you, bruv?"

Wilbur takes one look at Dream's expression and sighs, leaning back against the lockers with his guitar case in hand. Dream's memory jogs suddenly, and wait, that's right—Wilbur is heavily involved with the music department. He's one of those guys who makes it their entire personality trait, too, even though the music he personally writes isn't that bad. He’s mostly the brooding, lonely type, but Dream thinks he’s seen Will hanging around with Schlatt. And the two of them are theater kids, to boot.

Now, though, Wilbur looks pissed. He grinds out, "Tommy, I swear to God. Who did you antagonize this time?"

"Hey!" Tommy yelps, violently ducking Wilbur's hand when his brother reaches out to ruffle Tommy's hair. "That's unfair!"

"Your brother is a child," Dream informs Wilbur. "A child ."

Will smirks as Tommy splutters, "I told you, I'm—"

Dream elects to ignore Tommy's protests and instead turns to George. The other senior is smiling faintly; the expression makes something fluttery happen inside Dream's chest. He wants to reach out and grab George's hand, but he's all too aware of Tommy's and Wilbur's eyes on them. "George, did you finish the poetry essay?"

George dips his head, humming an affirmative. "Stayed up until one A.M. this morning finishing it," he says. His voice is thin with exhaustion—he looks like he’d fall over if Dream knocked into him.

"Ha," Tommy says, poking Dream in the ribs and ducking away before he can retaliate. "Imagine staying up all night for an essay . Fuckin' seniors."

"Tommy, you are failing freshman year," Wilbur says pointedly, with the air of someone who had been nowhere close to failing freshman year three years ago.

Tommy's eyes widen. There’s a defensive sort of pride in his voice, but also panic, when he squeaks, "No! No, I'm not! What the fuck?! Will—"

Dream recognizes that sort of panic. It’s bone-achingly familiar to him, all of it: the pride, the defensiveness, using humor to cover it up. His conscience gives another twinge.

Wilbur doesn’t seem to recognize his brother’s plight. He just sighs, cutting across him as George and Dream watch in amusement. Their voices layer over each other in a confusing mess of white noise that really does nothing for Dream’s growing headache. "You're literally—" 

"—do you really think—"

"—only passing three of your classes—"

"—that a big man would be—"

"—and you know what Phil said about raising your grades!"

"—failing his classes?" Tommy finishes triumphantly. Dream's head pounds with the telltale signs of a migraine about to come on. "Ha! Exactly! Pogchamp!"

"You've created a monster," George tells Wilbur, faintly amused.

Clearly, it was a mistake to speak, because Tommy zeroes in on George immediately. "George! Gogy!" Tommy chirps, turning his attention to the other senior. George looks like he regrets ever opening his mouth. "Mister GeorgeNotFound! Can I get a pogchamp ?"

"Tommy's failing English," Wilbur informs George diplomatically.

Tommy practically chokes on his saliva. "Am not!"

"Well, then you're clearly living in an alternate reality where a D counts as a passing grade." Will's eyes flash with a cruel sort of amusement underneath his teasing tone.

"Fuck you!" Tommy explodes, glaring up at Will. Dream gets the sense that there’s something else they’re dancing around here—something that runs deeper than just grades. "I have a D plus!"

"A D plus, huh?" George says, clearly grinning despite himself. "Failing English is not poggers, Tommy."

Despite his best efforts, Dream absolutely loses it at that, practically choking with laughter. It’s like the sound is being dragged out of his lungs, a high-pitched noise reminiscent of a kettle’s wheeze.

"Fuck off!" Tommy says, flushing angrily as the three seniors laugh at his expense. "Fuck you! You know what, I don't have to stand here and take this. I have a fucking… a fucking study , or something, hold on—"

He darts out of their little circle in one quick motion, clutching his phone to his chest like a lifeline, and absolutely legs it down the hallway. Dream watches him go, still chuckling.

"You're insane," he tells George, leaning closer to the other boy. To Wilbur: "Is Tommy really failing English?" Guilt pricks at his words, and George shoots him a strange look.

Wilbur gives him a nod, unaware of Dream's internal conflict. "Phil's pissed," he says with a sigh, mockingly serious. "That's why he forced Tommy to sign up for the whole peer tutoring shebang. You’re the unlucky bastard who has to tutor him, huh?”

Dream bristles a little, but nods. “Yeah. Yeah, we got paired together.”

“Well, good fucking luck,” Wilbur says loftily. Dream does not like the air of disdain laced through his words. “Tommy’s a little shit when it comes to homework. Phil even paid Techno to tutor him last month, but Techno quit on the second day.”

Dream, who would more than happily accept good money to put up with Tommy, swallows audibly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says finally, almost forcing the words out. Like he’s trying to convince himself.

“You think he’ll listen to you ?” Wilbur asks scornfully, a note of… something entering his tone. It can’t be jealousy; surely not. Will is an absolute dick to his younger brother most of the time. There’s no way he’s jealous of Tommy’s admiration for Dream.

Still, Dream tenses. George looks between them, frowning, clearly reading into Dream’s body language, and attempts to defend his boyfriend. “Sure. Why wouldn’t he?”

Wilbur’s voice roughens. “I mean, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Techno couldn’t even get him to cooperate.”

“No offense, Wilbur,” Dream says, even though his tone implies anything but, “but I don’t think Tommy is the biggest fan of you guys.”

Wilbur’s mouth draws into a thin line, and all he says is: “I have to get to Music Theory. Excuse me.” He pushes past Dream a little more roughly than needed, his guitar case slapping against his legs with every movement, before he follows after Tommy.

Dream watches him go with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“What was that all about?” George asks, following Dream’s gaze.

He swallows thickly. “Trouble in paradise, maybe. I don’t know.”

“Seems like there’s something going on there,” George says offhandedly, eyes flicking to Dream, like he wants his friend to think out loud. Include me, his eyes beg. Don’t get stuck in that head of yours.

Dream doesn’t take the bait. “We’d better get to Lit,” he says, glancing down at his watch. “The bell’s gonna ring.”

George sighs, like was expecting Dream to be a little more forthcoming, but he nods anyway. “Come on, then,” he says, before he starts off down the hallway, leaving Dream with no choice but to follow.

He hopes he won’t have to interact with any more of Phil Watson’s little family that day, but Tommy manages to catch them again—outside, this time, in the senior lot. Dream usually drives George to and from school, since the older boy still doesn’t have a license (what a loser), and they’re standing in front of Dream’s car talking and laughing, as usual.

“You’re an asshole, Dream,” George complains, knocking Dream with his shoulder. Dream grins roguishly, leaning in close so that he can slip his hand into George’s with ease.

“Aw, you know you love me, Gogy,” he teases. George blushes bright red and opens his mouth to say something, before— 

"Hey! Dream!" 

Dream freezes at the sound of Tommy's voice, his hand still entwined with George's. It’s a compromising position, and his heart pounds even faster as Tommy curses, then calls, "Wait up!"

George groans, gently disentangling himself from Dream—evidently, he isn’t as worried about being seen by Tommy—and glancing over at the approaching freshman. "You weren't lying. He's so clingy," he tells Dream.

"Hey!" Tommy yelps as he crunches his way through the snow banks, stumbling when he jumps down off the curb to face them. "That's just fucking rude!"

"What do you want, Tommy?" Dream sighs, sounding far more patient than he currently feels. He leans back against the car door, eyeing the freshman cautiously.

Tommy grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I need a ride."

"Hell no."

"Come on, Dream!" he whines, pushing his lower lip out. He’s clearly trying for a puppy dog pout, but it just looks like he’s biting his lip. "Please?"

"You need a ride?" George repeats skeptically, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tommy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Wilbur has fucking drama club or some shit, and Techno's working. I told Phil I'd find someone to drive me home." Tommy widens his eyes, but the put-upon expression only makes him look more ridiculous than pitiful. "Please?"

Shit.  Now is definitely not the time for Dream's dumb conscience to flutter in his chest. Pity tastes sharp on his tongue, like metal, and it clouds his senses.

So Dream just sighs, shoots George an apologetic look, and motions to the backseat. Tommy's entire face lights up. "Fine. Get in."

Tommy grins, clambers into the car in a flurry of awkward limbs. George grimaces as he heads over to the passenger seat on the other side of the car. "I can't believe you agreed to this. Dreamー"

"Just get in the car, George," Dream says, very aware of Tommy's eyes on the two seniors. He doesn't want to get into this argument. Not here.

Something unspoken passes between them before George sighs and ducks into the car. He immediately slaps Tommy's hand away from the aux cable, and the younger boy lets out a squawk of indignation.

"Hey! I was there first, bitch boyー"

"No way I'm letting you have aux," Dream says as he slams his door closed, pulls his seatbelt across his chest, and starts the engine. It rumbles to life as he adds, "You have awful taste in music, Tommy."

"You're the one who listened to Holiday on loop for four hours straight last week," George counters from the front seat.

Tommy coos, leaning forward to stick his head between them as Dream begins to reverse out of the space. "Aw, Gogy, were you stalking Dream's Spotify?"

"No," George says just a little too quickly. His cheeks burn red, and Dream shoots him a grin.

"Tommy, if you don't stop harassing George, I'm gonna play Bruno Mars on repeat," Dream tells the freshman as he navigates his way through the school parking lot. It takes him a moment to pull onto the main straight as Tommy splutters.

"Jump in the Cadillac," George teases, sing-song.

"Girl, let's put some miles on it,” Dream adds as Tommy begins to curse up a storm.

"Don't you dare!" he threatens, shoulders shaking with explosive laughter despite himself. That's the thing about Tommyーeven when the joke is at his expense, he's still the one laughing the loudest. "Don't you fucking dare!"

"Okay, okay, fine," George says, grinning. The sound of his laughter warms Dream from the inside. George leans forward to hook his phone up to the car's aux cable, and Dream hums in contentment as rap begins to filter quietly through the speakers. "See, Tommy?"

"Fuck off," Tommy grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest as Dream takes a sharp right turn onto Tommy's street. The freshman probably could have walked homeーPhil's house is only a fifteen minute walk awayーbut it's cold, and there's snow on the ground, and Tommy is wearing fucking athletic shorts today like the freshman gremlin he is. 

"When's your first tutoring session?" George asks quietly, grinning, and Dream almost groans out loud. Almost— he catches himself at the last moment, because Tommy's eyes light up at George’s words. Dream can’t quite bring himself to shatter Tommy’s illusion of a picture-perfect partnership yet.

“Next Tuesday,” he says, glancing at Tommy in the rearview mirror as he pulls up close to the curb and shifts the car into park. “Tommy, this is your stop.”

Tommy makes a face. “I’m gonna rate you a zero out of ten on Uber,” he informs Dream matter-of-factly as he unclips his seatbelt, scrabbling to grab his things off the seat. “You have shitty music taste, Big D!”

“Don’t call me that!” Dream yells, but Tommy slams the car door behind him and flips him off as he runs into his house. There’s a moment of silence as both seniors try to catch their breath, savoring the sudden calm after the storm.

George recovers first. “He’s—”

“A handful,” Dream finishes, grimacing. He pulls away from the curb, glancing over at his boyfriend as he does so. “I know. But I can’t help but feel bad for the kid, you know?”

“I know,” George says grouchily, sliding down in his seat until his chin touches the seatbelt. “Heart of gold and all that. You’re too nice, Dream.”

Dream sighs, tensing a little. “I just—Wilbur was being a dick earlier. He needed a ride.”

“Maybe Tommy deserved it.”

Dream shoots him a sharp look. “What?” he snaps, and George shifts a little, uncomfortable underneath Dream’s gaze.

“I’m just saying.”

Dream glances forward and frowns at the road ahead of him. “That’s kind of out of pocket, don’t you think?”

“You literally just called him a gremlin yourself!” George says defensively. “Five minutes ago! How is that any different?”

Clearly, George is upset about more than Dream calling Tommy names. Clearly, he's upset about something much bigger, something between the lines. But there are entire paragraphs between the lines here, and Dream doesn’t know how to respond, so he says nothing. Silence stretches out between them, like they’re oceans apart instead of just inches. Dream aches to reach out, to brush his fingers against George’s, but something stops him. A jerk of conscience, just underneath his heart, like someone has lodged a fishing hook in his chest.

They sit in silence for the rest of the way home.

The tutoring is a nightmare.

For one thing, Tommy adamantly refuses to send Dream his homework in advance. He responds to Dream’s email in all caps, a size 28 Comic Sans monstrosity with several exclamation marks—NO CAN DO, BIG D!! PRIVACY!! IM BEING WATCHED BY THE BIG BROTHER — and a questionable 1984 reference thrown in to boot. For a kid who claims to despise English, Dream thinks, Tommy is awfully adept at twisting his words, finding loopholes where there should be none.

It’s exasperating . Dream can’t prepare for their first tutoring session without seeing Tommy’s homework in advance, so he resigns himself to going in blind.

Tuesday dawns hazy—the sky is still dark when Dream pulls into the senior lot, with George half-awake in the passenger seat. He’s bundled up in a hoodie, eyes barely open as he watches Dream drive with a small smile.

None of their friends seem to question the fact that Dream and George show up practically everywhere together, or what the implications of that would mean. Sapnap, the only one who is actually aware of the events of October eighteenth—or the Day of the Letter, as Dream likes to call it in his mind—usually shoots Dream a knowing grin. He’s surprisingly good at keeping his mouth shut about their secret, though.

George yawns now, stretching languidly as Dream switches the engine off. The sun is preparing to make its debut above the horizon, peeking over the line of trees—the sky comes alight in beautiful shades of dark orange, purple, and a blue so deep that Dream could get lost in it. George’s face is painted in the hues of the sunrise, and he can’t stop himself from staring.

George notices after a moment, brows crinkling in confusion. “What? What’s wrong?” he says, suddenly self-conscious.

Words hang in the balance between them, left unsaid. Ever since Dream gave Tommy a ride home last week, they’ve been off-kilter. Dream’s hoping their balance will even out soon, just because he doesn’t know how much more of this he can take.

“Nothing,” Dream says honestly, even though he aches inside. He leans closer to George, propping an elbow up on the armrest with his keys still clutched tightly in his fist. “Just thinking about how much I want to kiss you right now.”

George flushes, true to form, staying on script. Cast in the soft glow of the sunrise, he looks almost ethereal, all soft lines and hazy edges as he stares back at Dream. Like a Roman statue carved from stone—untouchable and bold. George’s eyes are wide, like Dream is the most interesting thing in the world to him right now. “ Dream… I—you can’t just say that.” 

“Really? Who’s going to stop me?” Dream teases, feeling his lips quirk up into a grin. “Oh, come on, now, George, what’s a guy gotta do around here to get a—”

And George kisses him, effectively cutting off the thought. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, clearly trying to keep a straight face as he reaches out and brushes Dream’s hair away from his face.

“You love it,” Dream points out, relishing the sight of early-morning George—soft smiles, tired eyes, snarky comments that don’t quite hit their targets.

“I do,” George admits after a moment. He sighs, pulling away and unclipping his seatbelt, effectively breaking the magic of the moment. “Come on. It’s seven twenty-five; Sapnap’s gonna kill us if we miss World.”

“Sapnap’s the only one who actually participates in that class,” Dream complains, missing George’s warmth as he watches his friend pull his coat out from where it’s wrapped around the seatbelt. “George, come on—”

George leans forward and silences him with another kiss, which is totally unfair— Dream would never do such a thing. He pulls away after a moment, but hangs there, eyes closed, basking in the moment.  Life stays suspended between them, interminable, before George whispers, “If I could write the beauty of your eyes / And in fresh numbers number all your graces / The age to come would say ‘This poet lies,’” all in one breath.

Dream goes dizzy. The next line comes out all at once, unbidden, from his tongue: “‘Such heavenly touches ne’er touched earthly faces.’” He inhales unsteadily, watching George’s lips part at the words. “Do you really think so?”

Because this is a thing that they do now. Quoting Shakespeare, poetry, anything to each other. Using other people’s words instead of their own; the entire thing kind of blows Dream’s mind. He feels like he’s stuck in some cheesy high school rom-com, because there’s no way this is real. When he’d teased George back in October with whispered lines of Shakespeare during class, he never expected to be here, two months later.

“I do,” George says. “I do,” he repeats, and he steals another kiss, lightning quick, before adding, “Come on. We’re definitely gonna be late now.”

Dream groans, but obliges, because when has he ever been able to say no to George?

Even the tardy slip that Dream is handed when he steps through the front door isn’t enough to deter his good mood. He hums his way through World History, much to Sapnap’s annoyance, and keeps a secret smile reserved only for when George decides to look his way.

It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. But there had been a moment there, in the front seat of Dream’s shitty 2001 Subaru Outback, when Dream had felt so undeniably happy that he felt fit to burst. And that happiness dogs him throughout the rest of the school day.

It even withstands the force of nature that is TommyInnit. Tommy is a whirlwind of action from the moment he steps through the library doors at 2:30, slamming the door behind him and chattering a mile a minute to Tubbo, at his side.

“Dream!” Tommy calls, waving as he waltzes over to the table that Dream had already claimed earlier. He settles into the chair opposite the senior with an audible thud, all of his stuff quickly growing roots and taking over the table. “How’re you feeling, bruv?”

Dream is taken aback, to say the least. “Tommy, I—”

“Are you ready for this, big man?” he says, grinning, cutting Dream off. “It’s us! The Dynamic Duo! The Dream Team—wait, no, shit, that’s you guys and Sapnap, isn’t it, fuck—”

“Slow down,” Dream cautions as Tommy takes a break to breathe. “Slow down. We’ve got an hour, you don’t have to rush. Why don’t you start by taking out your homework? Let’s see what we can get done.”  

Tommy nods after shutting his mouth with a click , and surprisingly obeys. Absently, Dream thinks that maybe Wilbur’s jealousy isn’t so misplaced after all.

That first tutoring session isn’t a total shitshow, to Dream’s surprise. Sure, Tommy flares up a few times when Dream offers criticism, and he goes off on a long rant about Lord of the Flies and cannibalism and something else that Dream doesn’t quite catch, but it’s not awful . He manages to guide Tommy through a few worksheets and they even discuss Shakespeare , which is shocking . Tommy seems to have some background knowledge regarding the Bard, too.

“Yeah, I had to help Will learn his lines,” Tommy reminisces, lips curling into a faint scowl. “For Romeo and Juliet. Fucking theater kids.”

Dream restrains his own amusement at the thought of Tommy reading Shakespeare and says, “Anything else?”

Tommy looks taken aback. “Uh… shit, I mean, I know Romeo and Juliet, and Hamlet ’s the one where everyone dies, right…” He trails off, evidently wracking his brain for any more knowledge of Shakespeare, before he bursts out, “Villain, I have done thy mother!”  

Dream bursts out laughing.

“Hey, hey, fuck you!” Tommy exclaims. “That was meant to be an insult, dickhead! Stop laughing!”

“Out of everything Shakespeare wrote,” Dream says through fits of laughter, “out of everything he wrote, all the—the plays and sonnets, you fixate on the your mom joke?!”

Tommy splutters, which is answer enough for Dream, and opens his mouth to release the flood of words. “You know what?! I don’t have to sit here and take this lying down! I’m a big man, Dream! Big T! So fuck you, genius, at least I’m not a pretentious English nerd who gets off on Shakespeare sonnets, holy shit—”

Dream raises his hands defensively, trying not to laugh. “I don’t get off on—you can't—not on Shakespeare sonnets—” 

“You do as well!” Tommy complains, grinning despite himself. “You and George are all chummy about it, too! It’s fuckin’ weird, man!”

Dream rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the fact that Tommy is far too close to uncovering something secret here. “Just because I’m good at English doesn’t make it weird!”

“You’re, like, beyond good. You’re fucking obsessed, Big D,” Tommy says, frowning, sounding completely serious now for some reason. “Do we need to stage an intervention? Is that what this is? A cry for help?”

Dream slams the papers he’s holding down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “I wouldn’t be complaining if I were you, Tommy,” he says sharply. “We’re only here because you need help.”

“So help me, then,” Tommy bites out, rather childishly.

Dream sighs. “I’m literally trying to teach—”

“Exactly what I thought,” Tommy snipes, cutting the senior off. Dream clenches his fists underneath the table. “Do your job, Big D.”

Dream closes his eyes and counts to ten silently before he opens them again, willing away the anger that’s burning underneath his skin. He’s not going to blow up at Tommy this early. He’s not.

“Can you grab your copy of Lord of the Flies?” he says finally, choosing to change the subject. He’s not going to win an argument over stupid shit like whether Dream gets off on Shakespeare or not. “You do have one, right?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, surprised, “hold on—” He leans over and rummages through his bag, sending papers flying as he looks for the paperback. Dream sighs and resigns himself to another hour of this.

Finally, the minute hand reaches the six, and the tension drains out of Dream’s shoulders almost instantly. He’s so ready for this to be over. But Tommy, head bent over his book, doesn’t react when Dream says pointedly, “It’s three-thirty.”

“I still have five more pages.”

“It’s three-thirty.”

“And I’m not moving until I finish this chapter!” Tommy says stubbornly. “Stop distracting me.”

Dream chokes on an indignant noise. “I’m literally—I have to go to work, Tommy. I have a job. Put the book down.” 

“The longer you lecture me, the longer it’s gonna take me to read,” Tommy points out before he turns his attention back to the book.

Dream most certainly does not scowl as he gathers his things, tucking his pencil away in a special pocket of his backpack before he grabs his phone and keys. When he glances over, Tommy is still plodding through the last two pages of chapter six, eyelids drooping as he struggles to make it through the chapter.

Before he can make a pointed comment about Tommy suddenly being a tryhard or something, loud voices pull his gaze to the hallway outside of the library. Through the large glass window, his eyes catch on George and his heart gives a little flutter.

George, however, is currently locked in a heated debate with none other than Quackity. The sophomore talks loudly with his hands, motioning in circles that make no sense to an onlooker. He throws in the occasional insult, too, mouthing off at George in Spanish.

Dream pulls the library door open and sticks his head out, calling, “George?"

But Quackity catches sight of Dream first. His eyes widen imperceptibly and a huge grin splits as he yells, “Dream! How’s it going, my man?”

“Hi, Quackity,” Dream says mildly. “George.” His boyfriend’s entire body seems to flush with relief as George comes over, reaching up to ruffle Dream’s hair. Dream manages a bit-off complaint: “Hey!”

“It’s too fluffy for your own good,” George informs him, completely serious, before he turns back to Quackity. Some of the familiar fire enters his voice as he challenges, “Go on then. Ask Dream, dickhead. Ask him.”

Quackity splutters, pulling his beanie down more firmly and pointedly avoiding eye contact. “I’m not gonna—I’m not gonna ask Dream, what the fuck, George—”

Dream starts. “Ask me what?” 

“If you’re not gonna do it—”

“Fine!” Quackity says, throwing his hands up. “Dream, do you think poptarts count as a type of ravioli?”

Dream blinks at the strange question, but doesn’t have to spend much time thinking about it. “Uh—yeah?”

The other two boys burst into motion. George yells, “I told you! I told you, you’re wrong, bruv—” at the exact same time that Quackity says “Fuck you,” rather vehemently, “that’s fucking awful, hell, man, I trusted you—”  

Dream feels the corner of his lip tug up into a smirk. “Is it really that big of a deal?” he says, and he receives twin glares in answer to his question.

“It’s a huge deal,” George says, looking completely serious.

There’s a beat, then: “Poptarts count as ravioli!” Tommy yells from within the library, evidently used to this debate—is this what the debate club had been doing during Dream's absence?—and both George and Quackity start up arguing again.

Dream puts his head in his hands, sighs, and tries his best to ignore the pangs of an oncoming headache.

One thing is certain: this is going to be a long year.

A week of tutoring passes, then another. Amidst the teasing remarks and gripes about homework, Dream learns that Tommy very easily gets off track, and he starts planning ways to keep the younger boy’s focus in one place. Tommy reminds him of himself, if he's being honest. He also learns that Tommy is bright, overwhelming so, almost like a supernova—it’s not that the freshman lacks words, which he definitely has in abundance, but he finds it tricky to pen them down. To twist them into an essay, to read into literature. 

Dream finds himself starting to look forward to their tutoring sessions after a few weeks have passed. Sure, Tommy can be incredibly annoying—like when he hacks into Dream’s laptop and changes the title of all Dream’s documents to read big man tommyinnit. But he’s also a quick learner, and Dream appreciates the comfortable banter that grows between them.  

George doesn’t seem to find it as amusing. He keeps asking Dream when he’s going to quit, throw in the towel, give up. Even if Dream didn’t have a bet going with Sapnap (which the other boy has definitely not forgotten about—he keeps sending Dream weird reaction images on Instagram to remind him), he thinks teaching Tommy isn’t the worst thing in the world.

“I thought you said you were going to email the advisor?” George presses one day, head on Dream’s shoulder so that he’s reading the phone screen that Dream currently has in his hand. 

“Nah. I still need the service hours, dude,” Dream says as he scrolls through his email, and tries to ignore the way George’s lips curl into a frown at the words.

There’s no explanation for George’s behavior. It’s downright strange, and Dream resists the urge to ask

A month passes in this strange rhythm—tutoring with Tommy on Tuesdays, kisses in the car before school, dealing with George’s moods the rest of the time—and Dream thinks, life is good. It could be better, but he hasn’t done anything to mess up this precarious balance yet.

Another Tuesday rolls around, along with an irate Tommy—Dream thinks he’s currently in a fight with his older brothers, but he isn’t too sure. The only inclination of this is that today, Tommy refuses to pay attention to Dream’s lecture. Halfway through their session, he turns on his phone, balancing it on his thigh underneath the desk, and Dream sighs.

“Tommy. Give me the phone.”

“What?” Tommy snaps, and he clutches the phone a little bit tighter. “No. This is mine.”

“Either put it away and focus on Lord of the Flies, ” Dream says, sounding far too much like a teacher for his own comfort, “or give it to me.”  

Tommy ignores him, spitting a, “Fuck you,” in Dream’s direction, and alright. He’s had enough—he reaches over and plucks the phone from Tommy’s hand, backing away a few steps once he has the device in his possession.

Tommy reacts instantly. “My streaks!” He shrieks, scrabbling for his phone. Dream grimaces at the volume, cradling Tommy’s device closely to his chest. He now has two phones in his hand—his own and Tommy’s. “Give it back! Give it back!”

“Not until you finish your essay!”

“Give it back!” Tommy almost screams, sounding exactly like the gremlin-child that he is. He launches himself across the table, almost knocking over his chair in the process. Dream, completely unprepared for the violent movement, squeaks as he scrambles back.

It’s a completely undignified noise, but in his defense, he is being chased by a blond imp.

“Fuck you, give it back!” Tommy says, suddenly in front of him, and he punches Dream in the arm with far more force than necessary. An oof escapes Dream’s throat as Tommy swipes both phones from his hand and scampers off.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Not anymore! ‘s mine now!” Tommy says, and he sticks his tongue out at Dream as he reaches the empty shelves on the west wall and begins to fucking climb. Thankfully, they’re the only ones in the library, or else Dream would be seriously concerned about getting suspended , holy shit.

“What are you—Tommy!” Dream’s voice most decidedly does not raise an octave as he watches the freshman scale the bookshelves. “Tommy, what the hell, get back down here!”

“Make me!” Tommy tosses over his shoulder.

Dream starts. “I’m not—Jesus Christ, Tommy, you’re gonna get us both expelled!”

Tommy flips him off in lieu of a verbal response. He settles himself on top of the bookshelf—now ten feet in the air—and turns his attention to Dream’s phone. Dream’s stomach does a series of flips as he tries, in vain, to talk Tommy down.

“Tommy, please, get off the fucking bookshelf, Jesus—”

“What’s your password, Big D?” Tommy calls down, intently focused on getting past Dream’s lock screen. “Hold on, let me guess—G-E-O-R-G.” He enunciates each letter loudly, looking pleased with himself.

Dream scoffs, even though his stomach twinges again. His password is not George—that’d be too simple, too easy to guess. “That’s not how you spell George!” he complains. “There’s an E on the end.”

There’s a beat. Tommy grunts in frustration when the second attempt proves futile. “Not George, then. What else, let’s see—Shakespeare? English? ILoveGeorge?” He shakes his head when each password does not work.

“No, no, and no. Besides, that’s not true!” Dream insists, his panicked tone rising a few octaves. “If you disable my phone, I am going to punt you across this fucking school, Tommy, I swear to God—”

“Got it!” Tommy crows, cutting him off, and Dream’s blood turns to ice in his veins. “Gogy, huh? Very creative, Big Man.”

Fuck. Fuck. How had Tommy guessed it? He’d figured Gogy was a safe bet, especially since Tommy’s sticky fingers are usually nowhere near Dream’s phone. Now Dream is about five seconds away from giving up and scaling the bookshelves himself. “Tommy, give me the phone!”

“No!” Tommy yells down, clutching it tighter as his eyes greedily scan the screen. “Ooo, look, a Snapchat notification, let’s see what this is—you’ve got a Snapchat from Gogy,” he reads out, looking pleased as punch. 

Dream feels like the floor has fallen out from underneath him. If Tommy reads their Snapchats, their chat history… it’s all over. It’s all over. “Fuck you,” he hisses, violently angry and desperate all at once, “Tommy, don’t you dare—” 

Tommy clicks on the Snap. Dream can pinpoint the exact moment he sees it—all their good natured flirting, all their incriminating words, all their ‘good morning’ Snaps—because Tommy’s eyes widen and his mouth moves into an O shape.

In the silence of this new revelation, Dream lunges up and scales the shelves, his heart beating a mile a minute. He’s not as light and lithe as Tommy, but he’s got muscle on his side, and it only takes him thirty seconds to reach the top, where Tommy is still staring at an incriminating photo.

It’s a Snapchat Memory from last month, clearly showing the two of them with their arms wrapped around each other. George is smiling, clearly happy, while Dream makes a face at the camera. George has added a caption that says, Look at your dumb face. Love you man, with a couple of kisses to boot. (Dream has never understood why British people add ‘X’ after every message they send, but he’s learned to tolerate it. He even looks forward to George's virtual kisses now).

His stomach does another set of acrobatics. He makes an aborted grab for the phone, but Tommy is quicker, and he holds it out of reach.

Dream’s voice is hard as flint, boring into Tommy. “Give. It. Back.”

“Big D, this isn’t—you and George—holy shit.” Tommy’s breathing comes hard and fast; he looks like Christmas has come early. “Holy shit. You’re dating?!”

Dream winces. Does the gremlin have to be so fucking loud? “If I tell you, will you give me the phone back?”

“Probably not,” says Tommy. At least he’s being honest, Dream thinks humorlessly as he stares down the freshman.

“Fine,” he snaps, succumbing to the pressure. “Fine, you asshole, we’ve been dating for three months. But it’s a fucking secret, okay? You can’t tell anyone.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone knows already,” Tommy says, matter-of-fact. He’s still holding Dream’s phone to his chest. “Or they all suspect something, anyway, Big Man. You’re a little worked up about this, huh, bruv?”

Dream wants to punch him. “It’s a secret,” he repeats, slowly, so that Tommy can get it through his thick skull that this isn’t Tommy’s secret to tell. “Give me the fucking phone now, and then you can go along and do whatever babies do in their free time.”

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, because Tommy’s expression blackens. “I’m not a child,” he repeats for the umpteenth time today, and he scrambles away from Dream, ignoring the fact that they are currently ten feet in the fucking air . “If you want it, come get it, pussy.”

Dream has had enough. He throws himself toward Tommy, hissing, “You little shit ,” as he attempts to grab his phone. He manages to grab one end of it, but Tommy screeches, “Don’t touch me!” and turns away as they grapple for the device.

The sudden whoosh of a Snapchat sending breaks their violent reverie, and both boys freeze.

“Tommy,” Dream says, tongue numb, “what did you just do?” There’s silence, overwhelmingly loud in his ears, and he demands, “What did you just do?!” again as Tommy flinches.

Wordless, Tommy turns the phone over. Their eyes both catch on the glowing icon at the top of the screen—denoting Dream’s public Snapchat story, which he has not posted on in weeks.

Heart in his throat, Dream clicks on the story.

He doesn’t know why he bothered. It’s there. The incriminating Snap is there, in all its motherfucking glory, revealing Dream and George’s relationship to the world. Panic rises in his throat like bile, and Dream tears the phone from Tommy’s grasp and frantically sets about deleting the story.

Tommy’s voice is barely audible. “Dream, I—”

“Shut up,” Dream breathes as he finally manages to delete the Snap. He’s so angry he thinks he could kill someone. “Shut up.” He swipes up to check the viewer list, and freezes when he sees that five people have already viewed the story. Curse high school social media politics.

Shit.

“Dream, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

“I told you to shut up,” Dream hisses. Tommy looks like a cornered animal now, all bright eyes and bared teeth. “I don’t fucking want your apology, Jesus Christ, kid.”

For some unknown reason, Tommy tries again. “Dream—” 

“No!” Dream’s voice shakes when he bites the words out. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Voice small, Tommy says, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” Dream snorts. “Yeah, you should be. You know, this is why I didn’t want you.”

Tommy flinches back like he’s been physically slapped. “Dream—I thought—”  

“No,” Dream says, Tommy’s reaction only fueling his anger, “ no, can’t you get it through your head that you’re a fucking nuisance? You think everything is a joke. It’s not. It’s fucking not. I didn’t want to tutor you, Tommy, because you always pull shit like this. You take the joke too far.”

“I thought—”

“Your actions have consequences, Tommy!” Dream’s voice turns violent when he manages, “Your actions have consequences . You ever stop and wonder why you’re failing English, why Wilbur hates you, why none of the upperclassmen tolerate you?”

At the mention of Wilbur, Tommy goes completely white. “Don’t,” he hisses, “bring Wilbur into this.”

Dream grins, purposefully cruel now. His words are meant to ignite, to burn. “Why not?”

“Fuck off!” Tommy yells, startlingly loud. “I’m sorry about the Snapchat, okay, that was a dick move, but don’t you dare sit here and talk about Wilbur like you—like you know him, like you know me!” Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he speaks.

“He can’t stand you.”

There’s a fierce crack when Tommy slaps him. Head thrown back, Dream reels away from the blow, barely keeping his balance on top of the shelves.

He thinks he probably deserved that.

“Fuck you,” Tommy hisses as he scrambles down the shelves. “Fuck you, Dream. You’re an asshole .”

And with that, he jumps the last few feet to the floor, gathers his stuff quickly from their forgotten tutoring table, and pulls the library door open violently.

The flow of Dream’s anger starts to ebb slightly, and he can taste the sharp tang of regret on his tongue. “Tommy—”

“Go fuck yourself,” Tommy hisses again, and he pulls the door shut with a bang that shakes the entire room.

Dream sits there ten feet in the air, breathing hard, as he watches his fire rage out of control and burn everything down to ashes. 

His fire; his fault.

The picture spreads. 

It’s only natural; high schoolers are fueled by the promise of gossip, by a good story, by juicy details and illicit dealings. When Dream checks his Snap notifications and sees the telltale screenshot icon, his stomach drops again.

It’s on Instagram within the hour. Dream watches his carefully planned life unravel with the accidental push of a button, heart in his throat.

He’s not a bystander, not at all—he jumps into action immediately when he sees anything incriminating. Immediately, he DMs several people asking them to take the screenshots down: one sophomore, two juniors, and a senior who he doesn’t know personally. Most of them agree, caught off guard by Dream’s messages. Some don’t even respond. One person leaves him on read.

Even so, Dream’s damage control stops the problem from spiraling too out of hand, but the destruction is done. His and George’s relationship is private no longer.

He ignores the messages that start flooding in from his friends and acquaintances—some comforting, some surprised, and a particularly memorable one from Schlatt that reads you are a prime example of what zero pussy does to a mf. 

George remains silent; when Dream texts him, a simple fuck, i’m so sorry, george, the messages are marked as read almost instantly, but there’s no response. The typing bubble pops up for a moment before it disappears. Dream feels like he’s going to throw up.

Hours pass, still with no response from George. Dream’s phone screen comforts him late into the night, casting his face in a bright glow as he scrolls anxiously through Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter, and then back again. 

The panic from earlier has faded to a dull ache, a longing for closure. Maybe, Dream thinks, thoughts hazy and slow, this was destined to happen. Maybe him and George, for all their poetry, were too much.

You upset the universe’s balance just by existing, George had said a month ago, face flushed. Maybe that’s true. Maybe this is their couplet, their final rhyme.

Dream is living through their volta—their turn, their shift in argument and subject—right now. And it’s all his fault .   

He glances at the clock, which reads an ungodly hour—it’s almost two o’clock in the morning. As he does so, the sound of a notification echoes through his room, and he whips his head back to stare at his phone screen.

Gogy is typing…

Dream’s heart jumps into his throat as his phone pings again, with a definite message this time. He flicks away the banner that reads Message from Gogy and opens Snapchat, blood thundering in his ears.

His vision tunnels, focusing only on two words. U up?

Hands shaking, Dream types out a response. Yeah.

He doesn’t know what he expects—anger, sorrow, hatred—but it isn’t this: his phone rings, displaying George’s contact photo along with his caller ID. Dream stares at it for three seconds, swallows roughly, and presses the green icon.

“George?”

A beat. “Dream,” George says from down the line, and he sounds so uncertain, so awkward , that Dream inhales a little too sharply. “I thought—it’s two A.M.”

“Yeah.” Dream’s eyes rove over his clock again—the shining digits mock him. “It is.”

“I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“You know me, the grind never stops,” he jokes, trying to lift the mood a little. He instantly regrets it, though, because the line goes silent right after. “George—”

“Why did you post that photo on your story, Dream?” George’s tone is quiet, reserved, but Dream can hear the hurt in his voice.

“I—well—it was an accident.” He cringes away from the phone, hating the way he stumbles over the words. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t the one who posted it, technically.”

“An accident ?” George repeats, sounding skeptical.

“Yeah, uh—”

“You accidentally posted a photo of us on your public Snapchat story?”

“Yes,” Dream snaps, but he softens his tone to add, “is that so hard to believe?” Because what is he supposed to say, here? It was an accident, sure, but the repercussions are far too painful to deal with.

He’s been silent for too long. George clears his throat, asks carefully, “Does Tommy have something to do with this?”

Yes. “It was an accident,” Dream repeats stubbornly.

“You’re not answering my question.”

“Because the minute you hear Tommy’s name, you’re just gonna immediately assume the worst!”

“So he was involved,” George says, tone unreadable. “Are you really trying to protect him right now?”

Fuck. “No, of course not!”

“Then tell me what happened!” George snaps in an uncharacteristic burst of fire. “Tell me, Dream.”

And so Dream does. He leaves nothing out—he tells George about Lord of the Flies, about the phone, about Tommy climbing the bookshelves. The fight; Dream scrambling up furniture after Tommy, snatching his phone back. Tommy discovering their relationship. Dream’s harsh words, lit by anger and pain and hurt. Tommy’s tears as he slammed the library door, as he told Dream to go fuck himself.

George is silent. Dream trails off as he comes to the end of his story, listening to George’s breathing down the line. It would be a comfort if his heart weren’t about to burst right out of his chest.

“Did you really say that to Tommy?” George asks finally, sounding surprised. “About Wilbur?”

Dream winces. “Unfortunately.”

George scoffs. “That’s kind of cruel, Dream.”

“I know.”

“He’s just a kid, really.”

“George, cut it out,” Dream says, annoyance lining his words. “You never liked the idea of me tutoring Tommy—”

“You didn’t either!”

“ —so don’t you dare act all high-and-mighty right now.” A thought strikes him, heavy and unyielding, and he manages, “Wait, are you—are you jealous?”

With that last missing piece, everything else falls into place. Dream sees it clear as day: George’s scowl whenever Tommy joins their group, his resistance to giving Tommy a ride, the way his mood shifts last period on Tuesday.  George is jealous . Of Tommy .

“No!” George says, sounding extremely jealous. “Of course not. I just think that you’ve been enjoying the attention, is all. You hate Tommy, Dream, why the hell would you tutor him?”

“Because I got assigned—”

“And don’t give me that bullshit.” Dream can hear the hurt in his voice as he adds, “If you really value the stupid tutoring over our relationship, then I’m not sure what else I can say.”

The words steal Dream’s breath. It takes him a moment, but he manages, “George?”

George sighs. “I need to think.”

Panic bubbles up in Dream’s throat, and words spill out. “George, I know this is—this is awful, right, we were keeping it secret for a reason—but it doesn’t need to be. We can still… we can still do this, if you want, George.”   

There’s a beat. George inhales shakily. “Just—give me space, okay, Dream?”

Fuck. “George, please— ”

The other boy hangs up, cutting him off. Dream listens to the dial tone resound against his bare walls, listless.

If this is their couplet, he thinks humorlessly, the last two lines of their sonnet, then they’ll be hard pressed to make it rhyme.

The trouble with being a legend, Dream thinks the following day—a Wednesday—is that he has a whole lot to live up to.

He remembers the awe he felt as a freshman—four hazy years ago—whenever he saw a notable senior. Names line the tip of his tongue; the personalities of that senior class and every one since. They’re like celebrities in his mind, carved out of stone. Untouchable.

Unfortunately, Dream seems to have attained that status himself. Everyone in this damn school knows his name. He’s on the yearbook cover for this year, even, posing with several other seniors who had been up for a laugh.

However, his status also means that everyone thinks they’re his friend or something. And so everyone asks him about George. Everyone asks him about George— George, who hadn’t been there when Dream dropped by his house to pick him up this morning. George, who had clearly arrived early to first period in order to ask the teacher to change his seat. George, who hasn't spoken a word to him since the fateful phone call last night.

It stings. George avoids his gaze, and so Dream gives him space. He forces a laugh and mock outrage when Sapnap makes some dumb comment about unresolved sexual tension as, one by one, their friends start to notice. Sapnap’s the first one to ask, voice uncharacteristically soft with pity, and Dream tells him everything—from the story post to his late night conversation with George.  Sapnap doesn’t press about the bet, but Dream venmos him the one hundred bucks anyway.

With Tommy and George both avoiding him now, Dream dreads school. That first dreary day turns into two, which turns into a week, which turns into a month. It doesn’t hurt any less now when George pushes himself out of his seat as soon as the bell rings, when Tommy takes an alternate route around the school so he doesn’t have to bump into Dream. It stings, like a deep cut on Dream’s chest that someone has reopened after it scarred.

The poem is over. The sonnet is done and dusted. Dream resigns himself to a grim existence for the rest of the year—they’re almost into February, now, and the first semester grades close in a matter of days.

Enter one Technoblade, stage right. 

Dream isn’t scared of Technoblade; not exactly. They’re bound by more than fear—something like a deep sense of rivalry, a grudging mutual respect. He doesn’t hate Techno, and he doesn’t think Techno hates him, either. 

See, that's all well and good in theory, but when Dream watches the other boy approach afterschool one day with intent in his step and murder in his eyes, he rethinks that whole not-being-afraid-of-technoblade thing. Because Techno is fucking terrifying, goddamnit, even with those stupid little glasses he wears.

Dream resists the urge to run to shrink back in his seat, and instead meets Techno’s gaze evenly. His heart pounds in his throat. “Technoblade?” he asks, reclining slightly in his chair and ignoring the debate papers that flutter to the ground as he does so. “What’s up?”

“Dream,” Techno says evenly. He scans Dream’s face for a moment, as if he’s coming to a conclusion, before he speaks. “I’m gonna cut to the chase here.” He’s not smiling, but Dream can still sense that almost ever-present undercurrent of amusement in Techno’s words. “You need to talk to Tommy.”

Dream bristles; he’s been expecting something like this from Techno for a while now, but that doesn’t mean the reminder doesn’t hurt. “Look, Techno—”

“You said some pretty messed-up stuff to him,” Techno says evenly, cutting Dream off. “And let’s be honest, the kid’s a real pain, but I don’t think he deserved it.”

Unbidden, an image of Tommy in the library comes to mind—face red, eyes filling with tears, jaw set roughly as Dream tore into him. Dream swallows audibly and resists the urge to curse aloud. Instead, he manages,  “Actions have consequences.”

It’s what he said to Tommy over a month ago, voice scathing, but Techno doesn’t know that. Techno only snorts, voice dry when he says, “So you think insultin’ the kid’s family is gonna teach him not to be an annoying little shit?”

Dream freezes, remembering at the last moment that Wilbur is Techno’s brother—his twin, to be exact—and not just Tommy’s. Wilbur might act like an asshole when he’s talking to Tommy, but he’s fiercely protective of Techno, and that protective streak goes both ways.

“It’s not an insult if it’s true,” Dream says, rather petulantly. He feels like an outsider here—the Watson family have their own issues to solve, goddamnit.

“We both know it’s true,” Techno grinds out, “but Tommy spends hours tryin’ to get Will to like him. Have some tact, Dream, for goodness’ sake.”

“I’m not—”

“The kid messes up on Snapchat once and you throw a pissy fit?” Techno’s glare stings as his eyes bore into Dream’s face. “Grow up.”

“It wasn’t his secret to share,” Dream maintains, because it’s true, goddamnit. Even if Dream’s not so innocent, George is still the real victim here.

“Dream, you’re actin’ stupid,” Techno says. “Everyone already knew. You two don’t have a subtle bone in your body.”

It’s a struggle, but Dream manages to keep his voice steady when he repeats, “It was private,” almost as if he’s trying to convince himself.

“The thing is, Dream,” Techno drawls, “privacy is subjective. The only thing that Snapchat did was confirm everybody’s suspicions. You’re seriously gonna break up with George just because everyone knows for sure that you guys are making out in Barnes and Noble now?”

Dream flushes hotly. Ignoring the snipe about breaking up with George—which is completely not fair; if anything, George was the one who broke up with him, he says, “We didn’t make out in Barnes and Noble, dickhead—”

“Coulda fooled me,” Techno snipes. Which is unfair really—why is everyone so keen on making fun of them for the whole English thing? “Probably quote sonnets to each other in your free time, too.”

Dream’s red face is answer enough, and he chokes, “No, no, fuck you,” right as Techno yells, “You do! Oh my god, that’s so cringe, you two are made for each other,” in victory, right back at him.

Kill me slowly, Dream thinks. The universe, unfortunately, does not oblige.

“Look, are you gonna talk to Tommy or not?” Techno says finally, once he’s calmed down a little.

Dream’s mouth goes dry. He manages, “It’s not—”

“You are actively avoidin’ him right now,” Techno reminds him.

“He started it!”

“You told him his brother hates him, are you really surprised?”

No, Dream thinks, guilt curling in his stomach. “Yes,” he says aloud, stubborn to the last.

Techno shakes his head, listless. “You scare me,” is all he says, clearly paying no mind to the fact that he stands 6’3 with bright pink hair, glasses, and a constant scowl on his face. Seriously. The guy is intimidating on a good day. “Just ask him to talk. Send him a text or somethin’—do you need his number?”  

Dream stares at the desk. “He refused to unblock me,” he grumbles.

Techno lets out an uncharacteristic bark of laughter at that. “He would,” he says, and he sounds almost fond. Almost . “Here. Call the landline later today—if Phil picks up, he’ll make him talk to you.” He bends down, grabs one of the discarded papers off the floor, and scribbles down a quick series of numbers before he tosses it in Dream’s direction.

Dream catches it out of the air and clutches the Watsons’ phone number close to his chest. “Thanks,” he says dryly.

“Anytime,” Techno says, sounding surprisingly genuine. “Just don’t mess around with him again, or I will knock out your front teeth.”

The threat is genuine, too. Dream shivers as Techno stalks away, suddenly hyper aware of the paper in his hands. 

Techno has some good points. His words, innocuous as they seem, fan the embers of guilt left in Dream’s stomach. Dream knows it was wrong of him to taunt Tommy like that; he’d known the moment the words left his lips. Tommy and Wilbur’s relationship is none of his business.

So that’s how he finds himself gearing up to call the Watson house later that night, parked in front of a Cumberland Farms with his phone in his hand and the spare scrap of paper on the passenger seat. Techno’s writing is almost illegible, and Dream squints at the numbers until he has some semblance of who to call.

The line rings twice when he hits call, until there’s the telltale sound of the phone being picked up and a jaunty, “Hello?” resounds throughout the car. 

Dream winces and takes Phil off speaker. “Hi, is that Phil?’

“Yes, it is.” A beat. Phil’s voice is forcefully polite when he inquires, “Who’s speaking, please?”

“Oh, oh yeah—this is Dream, sorry.” Dream winces as he stumbles over his words, surging recklessly forward. “I’m a friend of your son’s. From school. Techno gave me your number. Can I—is there any way I could speak to Tommy?”

Phil hums in recognition as Dream introduces himself, voice a touch warmer now. “Oh, hi, Dream. Hope you’re having a good night. Let me just call him down for you.” Then, muffled: “Tommy! Phone!”

Tommy yells back something that Dream can’t quite make out, probably who is it?! and Phil says, “A friend of yours from school, I think! Come down!”

A few more seconds pass. The phone bumps around on Phil’s end, probably fumbled into Tommy’s grip, and finally the younger boy’s voice comes through clear as he says, “Hello?”

Dream takes a deep breath. It’s now or never. “Hi, Tommy,” he says carefully. “It’s Dream.”

Tommy’s reaction is instantaneous. “What the fuck?!” he spits—Dream can almost hear the way he glares at Philza, indignant. “How dare you—how did you get this number?”

“Techno gave it to me,” Dream admits. “Please don’t hang up.” He takes another deep breath, steadies himself before saying, “Tommy, I need to apologize to you.”

A pause. “Go on,” Tommy says cautiously, like a scared animal waiting to be struck. 

It’s better than nothing, so Dream continues. “I said some horrible things to you,” he says, the rehearsed lines falling off his tongue easily. “A lot of awful things, actually. Lies and slander. None of it was true, and you didn’t deserve any of it. I overreacted, and I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

He’s met with heavy silence from down the line.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Dream says quickly, “or even talk to me anymore. But I—I hope we can move past this.” He stops, there, wanting to hear Tommy’s response.

It takes a few moments, but Tommy sounds broken when he speaks, defensive and aching. “You told me that I’m a nuisance,” he says slowly, and Dream grimaces at the reminder of his words. “You said that it was my fault nobody liked me, that Wilbur doesn’t love me. That’s fucking traumatizing, man.”

Dream doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing.

“And you think that you can just—that you can just call me, at home, waltz back into my life? It’s been a month, dickhead!”

“I know it’s been a month—”

“So why would you wait this long to call?” Tommy challenges.

Dream sighs. “You blocked me.”

“You blocked me first,” Tommy complains, “what was I supposed to do?!” 

“But I unblocked you!”

“And I didn’t, prick, so what’s your problem?” Tommy sounds like he’s got tears in his eyes. “You’ve got some nerve calling the landline, pal.”

“Techno gave me the number,” Dream repeats, staring at the caller ID on his screen. He sighs. “Look, I really am sorry. If you need time, that’s fine—I’ll be here. When you’re ready.”

He looks up from his phone and makes sudden, startled eye contact with George. 

“Uh, I-I have to go,” Dream stutters. His mouth seems to have stopped working as he gazes at his friend standing in the doorway to Cumberland Farms, who looks equally as shocked to see Dream here. “I’m sorry, Tommy. Good night.”

“Wait, Big D!” Tommy bursts out.

He pauses, finger hovering over the red end call button. George is coming this way, intent written into his stride. “Yeah?”

“...D’you think you can help me with my Romeo and Juliet essay?” Tommy finally says. He sounds almost shy, for once—the words are soft, unobtrusive, completely out of character for the younger boy. “It’s due on Sunday.” Almost instantly, he backtracks, saying, “It’s fine if not, I completely understand, you’re a busy guy—”

“Tommy,” says Dream, face breaking out into a huge grin, “I’d love to.”

Tommy sounds similarly pleased. Dream, distracted, watches George come over to the passenger side of his car and pull the door open. Cool night air invades the stuffy interior of his car, and they stare at each other for a few silent moments, interminable before Tommy says, “Alright, and then, “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, Tommy,” Dream says, holding George’s gaze as he ends the call with the press of a button.

Silence falls. Dream’s breath comes heavy, like there’s a weight on his chest, as George slips into the passenger seat of his car and pulls the door shut behind him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” George says, sounding unsure. He’s holding a bag of salt-n-vinegar chips and one of those little pizza slices that Dream loves so much because they only cost ninety-nine cents. 

“George,” Dream says breathily, because he hasn’t spoken to his friend in—what, a month? —and seeing him here, in Dream’s car… it’s almost too much to bear.  

George nods, says delicately, “Was that Tommy?”

Dream thinks very briefly about lying before he answers, truthfully, “Yeah. I’m going to help him with his essay next week.”

“That’s nice,” George says mildly, in a tone that reveals nothing.

Dream makes an aborted movement towards his friend, born out of months of habit, before he stops abruptly. “Why are you here?”

“Snacks,” George says, holding up his chips and pizza before he opens the bag of Lays with a pop.

“No, I mean, why are you here?” Dream gestures around them. “In my car.”

George eats a handful of chips before he responds. “I saw you on the phone,” he says, which isn’t an answer at all, really, just a statement. “I bought you pizza, by the way, here,” he adds, and he holds the pizza out to Dream.

Annoyance burns low in Dream’s gut. He doesn’t take the pizza even though his stomach rumbles. “You haven’t spoken to me for a month.”

“I’ve been thinking.” 

“You said you needed space.”

“I did.”

A pause. “Well?” Dream prompts. “What did you think about? What did you come up with?”

George inspects the bag of chips, suddenly shy. “I… I might have, have overreacted,” he says finally. “About Tommy.”

Dream nods, but doesn’t say anything. Silence is the best way to drag answers out of George—he gets uncomfortable with long, quiet stretches, and feels the burning need to say something.

“It wasn’t fair to pressure you to quit tutoring,” George says. “You were right. I was jealous. That Snapchat was the final straw.”

Dream fights to keep his expression neutral, even though his heart rate picks up at the words. “You were jealous?”

“I was so, so jealous,” George says mournfully, and Dream barks out a surprise laugh. Just like that, the tension between them shatters. Maybe they’ve got issues to work through, but George is back on his side, in his passenger seat, in his life.  “You gotta believe me, Dream. I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

“I was an asshole first,” Dream points. “To Tommy, and then to you, for expecting that the Snapchat thing wasn’t a big deal.”

“It wasn’t,” George says, and damn, he’s had some character development over the last month. “Everybody knew already.”

“Oh, not you too,” Dream complains. He’ll never live that down. Grinning at George, he says, “I would kiss you,” feeling fit to burst, “but you just ate an entire bag of salt-n-vinegar chips in, like, five minutes.”

“Oh, fuck you, too,” George says, laughing, and the sound is like balm to Dream’s wounded soul. He feels fit to grow wings and fly far away, riding the wave of serotonin and happiness that Dream feels right now. “I bought you pizza, dickhead!”

Spoiler alert: Dream kisses him anyway.