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The gardens, as they are most of the time, are quiet.
Bright sunlight shines down onto cobble walkways, evaporating the morning dew with its warmth and providing light to the exposed vegetation. A breeze blows by, warm and gentle and smelling of sweet flora. Dream lets the wind ruffle through his hair, only serving to further fluff up the blond locks, and listens to the quiet hums of the man beside him. The song is unfamiliar.
He leans his back against the hard bark of the tree, turning his head down and beginning to pick through the pile of lush flowers that George had thoughtfully picked out earlier this morning. Most of them are recognizable, their meanings unknown but familiar flowers nonetheless, and one particular one catches his eye. His hand closes around the smooth stem and he lifts it away from the others.
“What does this one symbolize?” He asks, disturbing the silence.
The petals of the flower in his hand are soft under his touch. George looks up from his lap, eyes catching on to the vibrantly colored blossom clenched delicately between the former’s fingers and taking in the unique shape and color. Recognition flickers briefly in the rich brown pools before he answers.
“That’s an amaryllis,” he responds simply. His head dips back down to focus on the project at hand. “It means pride.” He pauses for a second, eyebrows dipping slightly as he tries to find the words he’s searching for. A moment passes before he speaks again, “Pride, beauty, and determination.”
Dream hums, “That’s cool.” George makes a noise of agreement.
“Quite fitting for you.” He comments offhandedly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dream asks, lighthearted defensiveness sparking at the tone of the other’s voice. George just laughs in that accented voice of his, the sound soothing and familiar, and tilts his head as if he’s pondering whether to continue or not. It takes a second, and Dream is half tempted to just give him a gentle shove and force it out of him.
"You're sort of pompous, y'know?" His eyes gleam when he lifts his head to look at the blond, warm with fond amusement and mischief. Dream rolls his eyes, letting the flower go and watching it drift back to settle on the soft grass. George continues, “You’d give Narcissus a run for his money.”
“Shut up,” he huffs, scowling at the mention of the myth. “I’m not pompous, it's confidence. And I don’t need money, I’m royalty.”
George snorts, picking up another blossom from the pile. “Precisely why you are so egotistical.”
“I’ll have you beheaded for that,” he shoots back, even if his words hold no sincerity in them. George knows this and laughs softly, the sound sweet in Dream’s ears. The empty threats are nothing new to their relationship.
“I’m starting to believe that’s the only threat you’re able to come up with.” He teases.
Dream scoffs. “I just don’t want to waste my brain power on a lowly peasant like you.”
George rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize the palace started hiring ‘lowly peasants’ to tend to their incredibly expensive gardens,” he counters cleverly. “And I certainly did not expect the Crown Prince to enjoy the company ,” his voice drops low, the words almost mocking, in a way, “of a lowly peasant. ”
There’s a long pause in their banter where Dream just stares blankly into George’s eyes, cheeks feeling oddly warm, and doesn’t say anything. George knows he’s won and snickers, lips lifting into a triumphant smirk. Dream hates that. It’s a triumphant, sly smirk, two characteristics of which happen to fit George strangely well. It’s annoying, though. He scowls and debates not saying anything, but knows that George wouldn’t let him get away with it.
“Fair enough,” He grumbles eventually, conceding defeat rather reluctantly. In revenge, he tugs up a few strands of grass and tosses it at George, who flinches away with an offended yelp. “Anyway, are you done yet?”
George scoffs, “You’re so impatient.”
Dream chooses to ignore him, repeating the question impatiently. “Are you done yet?” He receives an eye roll in return.
“One second.” George tugs another flower from the dwindling pile at their feet. He works in silence, nimble fingers moving quickly, and soon enough he holds up the finished product, a colorful flower crown that looks as if it were made by a professional.
Well, George could be considered a professional, he supposes.
“It looks good,” he offers softly. George smiles.
“This one,” he holds up the crown higher and brushes his fingers over a purple flower, the petals trembling under his touch, “this is an aster. And this is a white clover.” Dream nods, taking note of all the flowers George is listing off, his accented voice uncharacteristically soft for once. Daisies, red chrysanthemums, pink camellias, he remembers all of them. George does not give the meanings of each flower, and Dream does not ask. When he is done, all the flowers listed, George shuffles forward on the soft grass where they sit.
The smell of soothing vanilla wafts into Dream’s nose, and he resists the urge to inhale again. The flower crown is settled gently onto his head, flattening his fluffy blond hair and pressing against his temples gently. He allows himself to lean closer, feeling the warmth of George’s finger flutter across the top of his head as he secures the crown a little more firmly.
Something about this feels wrong — these little meetings he has with George in the palace gardens. It feels secret, which is nice, and as much as Dream claims to want to execute the foreign garden caretaker that has slipped into his life in a flurry of sweet scented flower petals and teasing giggles, it really is the exact opposite. George is like a breath of fresh air — a breath of what it feels to be normal, in a world where Dream has been treated as anything but.
His tutors are definitely less than happy about the fact that the heir to the throne spends more time frolicking in the gardens with his commoner friend (an understatement, really), rather than studying. Judging by the swamps of work he had been tasked with in the past few days, they are more than aware of the way Dream likes to spend his free time. How could they blame him? There’s an odd sort of comfort to be found in the times spent smoothing George’s flawless skin under his fingers, threading his hands through silky brown hair and nuzzling his face into the pale neck that smells most strongly like warmth and love and happiness all at once.
The way his hands move to wrap gently around George’s waist, giving him all the time to pull away, is automatic. George doesn’t resist though, and allows himself to be tugged into a firm chest and Dream’s nose to press into the skin just above his collarbone, where a red flush has already begun to rise.
“I missed this,” he mumbles quietly, happiness blooming like spring flowers in his chest when George’s hands come to settle around his neck in something that’s almost a hug, but not quite. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” George says, albeit a bit shyly. George had always been a little shy when it comes to these things — a trait that Dream finds endearing. Dream finds a lot of things about George endearing, from the way he laughs to how he blushes, to how he rounds his vowels when he speaks and how his voice pitches whenever he’s nervous. “Do you…” his breath sounds like it catches in his throat, “do you like the crown?”
“‘Course I do,” he breathes, letting his head settle into the crook of George’s neck as the latter finally settles against him, his smaller body fitting almost perfectly into Dream’s. “I love everything you make.”
“Reassuring,” George hums softly, and they fall into another comfortable silence. It’s content, this one. It’s in these moments that Dream finally allows himself to relax, allows himself to let the worries that constantly plague his mind to dissipate, give away under the gentle love and comforting warmth that George brings wherever he goes.
This love — their love — is forbidden, and they know it. Dream knows better than anyone else what the consequences of being found out are, but for some reason he keeps coming back, keeps coming back to the gardens, to George. It’s an addiction, he thinks, one that he isn’t trying to fight very hard. Why would he? George makes his heart swell with love so strong it feels like he could combust just from the very strength of it. It’s a nice feeling. He likes this feeling.
Forbidden or not, this love is something he wouldn’t give up for the world.