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It’s a gloomy day in New York.
The streets, usually bustling and overflowing with colorful passersby, are now contrastingly empty; about as void of people as they can get when one is in the big city. The sky is ominous today, voluminous clouds looming over the citizen’s heads, promising a storm in the near future. It hasn’t rained in a while, he thinks to himself. Maybe it’s been a little too long.
But Dream doesn’t care. He couldn’t care less, actually. Time waits for no man, and he’s got shit that he wants to do today and if that means that he gets absolutely soaked, and if his hair is flattened by the rain then, well.
That sucks for him, doesn’t it?
A little water never hurt anybody, he tells himself as he pulls his long, black coat on and takes a final glance at the cozy interior of his apartment. There’s not much space to move around, and some of the floorboards are crooked and maybe a little too creaky, but it’s all his and he loves it dearly.
He pulls the tall, heavy door shut behind him, fiddling with his key. Taking another curious look at the sky, it seems to darken minisculely beneath his calculating eyes.
Everything feels too calm, he thinks to himself as he descends down the stairs to the cemented sidewalk, skimming his long fingers across the metallic railing. It’s almost alarming. The only noises he can hear are the distant traffic and perpetual honking, a hushed conversation from two women sitting on a nearby bench, cozied up in their expensive clothing, and his own feet traveling on the hard, unforgiving ground.
The concrete jungle looks endless before him, with its tall buildings and the never ending paved paths and the bright lights that feel like home. It looks like it’s been pulled right from the wishful thoughts that had resided in his mind when he was young; the city is everything he had imagined it would be, even on the days when the sky is murky, grey and sad.
There is something beautiful about the towering clouds, how they look like they’d be soft to the touch, the way that they overlap and overshadow one another, up close and personal, and so dizzyingly far from the ground.
Shoving his hands into his pockets and gripping fabric, he pulls himself out of his thoughts and crosses the street in a light jog, the blonde hair adjusting against his forehead as he looks both ways.
A little girl and her mother cross at the same time, and he smiles softly at her, with her jet black hair and toothless smile. She waves, and he returns the gesture, saying hello to the mother, who’s hand remains stubbornly in her little girl’s hand even when the overexcited bundle of joy tries to run ahead.
That’s another one of his favorite things about the city; the constant interactions. The muffled and quick hello’s and how are you’s of the street. The excuse me’s and the hey, I like your shirt’s and of course, the occasional watch where you’re going, buddy, that he receives when he’s zoned out a little too far. The city is so overwhelmingly alive that it’s enough for him to lose himself in its beauty; but its state of perpetual motion is also enough to pull him right back into reality, just as fast.
He rounds a corner, looking in the shops’ glass windows as he passes by them; there’s anything from clothes, to jewelry, to any art form you can name. There is everything that you could ever want here, really; it’s like the city is everything good wrapped in one place, topped neatly with a ribbon and gifted to those living in it.
There’s a rumble of thunder overhead, but Dream doesn’t hear it; his earbuds are in now, eyes closed, and he’s twirling down the sidewalk with his arms out. There’s no one around. What’s the harm, right? There’s always the possibility that someone is watching, of course, but maybe that makes the moment a little sweeter; the knowledge that somewhere up there in the buildings that tower over him, there could be someone who is observing and smiling, laughing to themself.
The blonde ceases twirling and skids to a stop in his sleek, brown shoes, retracing his path a few steps and skidding along the pavement. How has he never seen this before?
It’s a bookstore, so small that you’d miss it if you glanced quickly, but it’s definitely there. And for the two months he’s been living here, Dream has never seen it. Is he really that out of touch with his surroundings?
The sweet sound of piano plays in his earbuds; it’s a colorful and joyful song in his ears as he thoughtlessly pushes his way inside. As per usual, he runs on impulses and nothing else.
The interior is dimly lit with warm lamps and a couple faux candles; the tiny space is full to the brim with shelves upon shelves of literature. The glorious scents of parchment and old books fill his nose as he waves a timid hello to the old woman who sits behind the counter. She gives him a kind smile, curly grey hair framing her face.
He continues down one of the aisles, comforted by the darkness of the store and the temporary calm of the city outside of it. Dream feels small, in the middle of it all; small in this moment, he thinks, as he looks around at the books around him. Between the hundreds of covers that lay at his fingertips and beneath his emerald gaze, are the words of so many others that are frozen in time and actively transcending it.
Turning to his left, he pushes a book aside gently, peaking at its cover and dragging a soft fingertip along its spine. He leans in closer, observing the deep blue cover of it; the title is in capitalized golden lettering. Pulling it out slowly so as not to disturb, he takes it off the shelf and turns it over in his palm; he’s about to read the inside cover, when he spots movement out of the corner of his eye.
With his removal of the novel, he can see through the space it leaves in its wake, to the other side of the shelf that he stands before. There’s a man with his back turned; he wears a lengthy, dark brown coat, and his hair is dark, the skin on the back of his neck pale.
And suddenly, there is an unfamiliar pair of eyes peeking at him curiously from the other side of the shelf, high cheekbones and pink lips shadowed by the subtle lights of the bookstore. There’s a flayed white collar and a tan overshirt, exposing defined collarbones and dipping against slim shoulders.
He’s face to face with a stranger, ghostly pale and kind of intimidating but also approachable and so attractive .
Not just attractive, actually- he is beautiful.
They take each other in for a moment, and he finds himself staring into the all-encompassing eyes of the new presence, and all he can think about is how dark they are, and how they seem to prick at his skin, piercing him all over. All he can think of is the long and elegant shape of his upper waterlines, and the delicious curl of the stranger’s eyelashes.
Dream’s eyes drop to his lips for a moment- it’s an accident, okay, or maybe it isn’t- and he steels himself from observing anymore. His face glows with warmth, heating rapidly and protesting against his traitorously wandering eyes.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” the man drawls, and the British accent takes him aback; the brunette speaks slowly, languidly- he sounds tired, and somewhat irritated- but the pitch of his voice is almost melodic. It’s music to Dream’s ears.
There’s a startled silence where his mouth opens and closes a few times, and he struggles to remember how to behave in a way that’s socially acceptable.
“I’m- uh, I’m not,” the blonde settles on, miserably floundering. Smooth, Dream. He chides himself. Real smooth. Straight white teeth, fluffy black hair, the shaded color of the chocolate eyes that swallow and eat up any cognitive ability that Dream has, the milky color of his skin- “I’m not looking at you.”
Which only makes absolutely no sense, because he very much is.
And he can’t stop, actually.
Even as he says that, he still can’t avert his eyes through his palpable embarrassment. His gaze remains locked on those expressive brown eyes, and he’d do anything if it meant he didn’t have to look away.
The blonde can’t help but stare at his eyelashes and the curve of his full, pink lips, and then he laughs lightly and Dream’s mind can’t register anything else.
That sound. It cozies itself in his head, stored away in his memory, and he’s sure he’ll come back to it another time.
Many times, actually.
He wishes he could listen to that sound again and again in place of the classical piano tunes that drift from his earbuds; he wants to hear it echoing in his ears for hours. Upon this thought and realizing the headphones are still tucked loosely in his ears, he tugs the white string taut and pulls them from their rightful place.
He’d embarrass himself a million times over with a million different I’m uh, not looking at you’s if it means he can hear that giggle on repeat forever, hushed and soft and so unbelievably gorgeous.
The stranger lifts a thoroughly amused, albeit confused eyebrow and to the blonde’s dismay, he then pushes a book into place so that Dream can’t see his face anymore. The gentle slide of the books’ covers as they shift back together is the only sound in the quiet store, and then there’s the soft sound of retreating footsteps.
There’s a distant creak, and then the door to the shop shuts. He is alone again, earbuds dangling against his chest, long forgotten where he stands on the red and brown carpet.
Nice going, Dream. He drops his face to his hands, laughing at himself lightly.
The librarian is probably contemplating kicking him out right about now, he thinks as he looks at the sign. (That would only make him laugh harder, though). Quiet please, it reads.
At least he’ll never see that guy again, right? It’s no big deal, he assures himself, rolling his shoulders. Never again.
Dream purchases a new journal from the bookstore. He still can’t keep a straight face while he’s talking to the librarian, and he can barely answer coherently when she asks a question. He feels so flustered, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him- maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the prior embarrassment or some hysterical mix of both.
All he knows is that the blush will not leave his cheeks, no matter how hard he tries to fight it.
He shakes his head back and forth quickly, sighing as he presses a clenched fist to his excruciatingly warm face.
All of this just because of some rando at the bookstore. Really, Dream?
Waving goodbye to the old woman who sits behind the desk, he listens to the door creaking as he pushes it open once again, overlaying the sounds of the piano softly droning in his ears. He looks up past the buildings that stretch for hundreds of feet over his head and the sky has darkened considerably. The thunder is loud now, booming, and the wind has picked up just slightly.
And yet he wanders further still away from his apartment, the incessant crave for adventure welling in his chest and demanding him to keep going.
He’s never felt so free, he thinks, shoving his free hand into a warm, black coat pocket. The cold bites at the hand he’s using to clutch the bag holding his new book, and he flexes his fingers against it.
In it, he will write about his surroundings, about people, about the world around him; the one he doesn’t live in. He much prefers to live inside his head; a complicated universe of its own, of fictional scenarios and alternate sequences of events and wondering what would happen if his unsaid thoughts left his timid lips instead of remaining stubbornly inside.
Why’re you looking at me like that? The stranger had asked, a genuine question; and judging by the exasperated edge to his voice, he thought he was being negatively scrutinized. Little had he known, it was quite the opposite; it was gentle admiration that had overtaken Dream, and nothing else.
Perhaps Dream should have told him so, but he would never do that- especially when he’s talking to someone who looks like that .
He’s never had the courage.
Why’re you looking at me like that?
Because you’re beautiful, he thinks to himself, the words bouncing around in his head and ringing true. Because you have pretty eyes. Because your lips are perfect, and I like the curve of your jaw.
I like your wrists, too. Is that weird?
That’s definitely weird.
And your collarbones.
Also, your accent.
Have I mentioned how much I like your voice?
Dream’s footsteps slow as the lazy, careless voice echoes in his head again.
Why’re you looking at me like that?
Because I thought I was the only one here. And what’re the chances that in this expansive city, I pull this book aside and there you are, looking back at me, glowing like an angel where you stand frozen in your place?
He skids to a stop, flustering himself.
And in that moment, it starts to rain.
It does not begin with a drizzle, nor a gentle shower; the rain comes all at once as the sky empties itself into the city, like a bucket of water turning itself over. It’s heavy, unforgiving, and it pierces his uncovered skin; the streetlights and signs and shops are blurred, almost unrecognizable by the surplus of raindrops zipping past his eyes.
And sure, a little rain never hurt anybody, but he’s got a brand new notebook in his bag and he really likes this coat and it isn’t even waterproof.
What was he thinking when he left the house, honestly? He curses himself, standing in the rain, letting the droplets drift down his eyelashes as they wet his face- which is still pink, mind you. Despite the cold biting at his body, of course his blush remains embarrassingly warm and ever present.
He’s running now, feet hitting against the soaked pavement with a repetitive plat, plat, plat. He needs something to stand under until the rain lets up a little bit and he can run home, or he could catch a cab, maybe. But unfortunately right now, somehow there are no taxis in sight.
The streets are void of people now, only him and a few silhouettes in the distance remaining on the normally bustling expanse of the boulevard. He passes thick, painted white lines of the street, many road signs, the occasional lush tree looming above him before the buildings.
And finally, he comes to a bus stop; the ceiling is opaque, but the walls of it are glass-like in their see-through nature. There’s a lonely bench, dark and small, situated between the three clear walls and overshadowed by the protective layer ten feet above, shielding it from the stormy downpour.
The blonde steps into the unfamiliar safe zone, sighing and brushing his hair back, previously flattened into a sopping wet mess on his forehead. He shakes the droplets from it then takes a seat on the bench, hands clutched neatly in his lap, setting his bag down next to him and leaning it against his foot.
Slouching forward and getting comfortable, he idly watches the rain pouring steadily onto the asphalt, splatting against the dark cement. The sound echoes all around him against the thin walls of the bus stop area, and it’s all he can hear.
Closing his eyes and listening to the pounding of the precipitate on the buildings and against the street, to the thunder gently rumbling above him, he feels strangely calm.
He revels in the way that the sky had unapologetically released its tensions scarcely, and then all at once. He wishes he could do the same. But for now, he is finding solace in the crystalline, endlessly pouring raindrops and their persistent lulling noise.
Dream doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting like this for- he figures it’s been quite a long time- with his eyes closed, hands in his lap, hunching slightly forward with his head lolling to the side.
He feels tired, all of a sudden. His appendages are falling asleep- he can feel it in the warm tingling of his calves and the occasional mindless twitching of his fingertips where he sits quietly, ankles crossed in front of him. There is no one watching him; it’s him alone, sitting at the bus stop and hiding from the pouring rain.
His eyelids are beginning to feel heavy, head dropping forward and mouth parting just slightly. He gives himself over to the feeling, and the world goes dark.
__________________________________
He has no idea how long it's been, when Dream hears shifting in the near distance.
Rubbing his eyes and inhaling sharply through his nose, he looks to the side. There’s someone sitting on the bench with him; he quickly realizes that the ceiling is leaky in the area where the newcomer sits, raindrops occasionally seeping through the ceiling and staining the person’s coat.
“Hello,” Dream says, voice rough and gravelly as he tilts his head, trying to get a look at the anomalous presence that sits on the very opposite side of the seat from him. They’re sitting as far apart as humanly possible, in their current situation.
The stranger turns around, and Dream knew that brown coat was familiar.
A black strand of hair curls up in its dampness above his dark, arched eyebrows, and his collarbones are glistening with raindrops. With his bottom lip bitten, tucked in surprise beneath his clean and straight white teeth, he looks like a dream.
And the blonde wants to ask this pretty stranger again- what are the chances of this? That in this city, so far and wide, you and I end up sitting at the same bus stop, on the same bench, shielding ourselves from the downpour?
“Hi,” the pretty boy greets, lips curling leniently into a half smile. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I think I was,” Dream says. His mind is still foggy with exhaustion, and it’s sparking his confidence.
“I’m surprised you could doze off in the middle of this.”
“The sound of the rain is calming.”
“It is,” the stranger muses, crossing his slender, long legs and swaying forward. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
“Don’t be,” Dream assures, shaking his head. “It’s nice to see you again. I wasn’t sure if I’d get the chance to or not.”
“Do I know you from somewhere?” the brunette asks, and Dream thinks that maybe running through the treacherous storm wouldn’t be so bad right now. This is pathetic, he ridicules himself in silence. “I’m just kidding. My name is George, it’s nice to meet you officially.”
“Dream,” he mimics the other, and he’s desperately hoping that his breath of relief wasn’t too obvious. “I’ve never been in that bookstore before. It’s nice.”
“Sure,” the shorter of the pair agrees, peering over at the other with dark and watchful eyes. Dream doesn’t know what to do with himself under his gaze, and he fights the urge to fidget. “I stop by there almost every day. I find the best things in this city are the ones that people mostly overlook.”
“I’m realizing the same thing,” Dream says, eyes caught on the uncovered area of milky skin on George’s upper chest. He looks tiny, bundled up in his coat and his billowy white collared shirt. It’s almost mind numbingly endearing how his clothes swallow him whole.
“So, Dream . Are you done ‘not looking at me’ now?” George asks, in reference to the embarrassing encounter at the small corner store that’s proving itself to somehow be more and more humiliating by the second.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you there!” Dream outbursts, and he doesn’t know why he’s being so overdramatic, but he’s suddenly extremely defensive. He’s gesturing over exaggeratedly, and he hears light laughter over the rain. “I just- you caught me off guard, okay? I don’t even know why I said that to you.”
“It’s okay, I thought it was funny,” the other responds, and his eyes may be dark but they glimmer when he’s smiling like that, delicately curled into shapes of crescents. He’s the brightest thing Dream’s ever seen. “I’m just happy to know that you do, in fact, speak coherent sentences.”
“You’re awful,” the blonde huffs, leaning on his hand. “And an idiot.”
“Oh, I’m the idiot?” George asks, and his eyes widen owlishly, over exaggeratedly staring at the blonde and mockingly deepening his voice when he taunts, “I’m, uh. I’m not looking at you.”
Dream picks his bag up off the ground next to his feet, swings it above his head, and hits the brunette in the back with it, laughing and blushing like a maniac. “Am I ever going to live this down?” he asks between bashes, punctuating every other word or so as he hits the other gently.
“Probably not.”
“You’re evil,” Dream teases, while talking to the near-stranger who he thinks looks like an angel.
“Yeah, right. I know what you really think of me,” George mutters, knowing brown eyes gleaming with flirtation. He looks so good like that, confident and open, self-assured.
“George-” Dream says, mouth dropping open slightly, and he finds himself smiling a little bit. Is he really that obvious?
“Anyways,” the dark haired boy interrupts, smiling coyly and leaning forward onto an elegant, pale hand. It’s so small, compared to his own; he’d love to see what it looks like with his own wrapped around it, fingers intertwined.
Dream would hold onto him tight.
And he’s suddenly he’s so curious about the bubbly, flirtatious enigma sitting three feet from him, and he has so many questions. He wants to know if he’ll ever see him again. He interrupts George’s interruption: “How long have you been living here?”
“A few years now. My apartment’s a few blocks that way,” George says. “What about you?”
“I’ve been living here for around two months, now.”
“Two months? I figured you’d been living here for years.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it seems like you belong here.”
“What makes you say that?” Dream asks.
“I may or may not have seen you outside the store,” George admits, and he’s obviously biting back a smile.
“What?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“You were like.. Dancing. Spinning around. You looked ridiculous, but then again, definitely not the weirdest thing I’ve seen here,” he says, and the rain comes down extra hard for a few moments. They sit together, almost perfectly mirroring each other's comfortably slumped postures in their trench coats; the only real difference between their silhouettes is the towering height of the blonde over the brunette. “You looked happy, I don’t know. It made me smile.”
“Did you follow me in there, then?” Dream asks, narrowing his eyes.
“What would you say if I did?” George returns, and it feels like they’re dancing around each other just as Dream had been whilst alone on the sidewalk; but now it’s more of a partner dance, spinning in circles around one another in an exhilarating back and forth.
“I’d say that’s really sweet.”
“I definitely didn’t, then,” George decides aloud, delightfully teasing and playful. But his bright smile, all puffed cheeks and teeth, says otherwise. He gestures vaguely with a finger- Dream wants to hold his hand so badly, and doesn’t know why the impulse is so strong- and then he asks, “What’s in the bag? You know, the one that you beat me with?”
“New notebook,” the blonde responds, grinning fully, and his heart twangs when George flushes a little bit at the sight. “I like to write. Nothing big, just little poems and drabbles about my surroundings.”
“Will you write about today?” the other asks, and he sounds hopeful and curious, and Dream just wants to protect him from everything bad in the world in the same way that the overhead of the bus stop protects them together from the storm outside.
“I’ll write about you and the bookstore, and the sudden rain.”
“You’ll write about me?”
“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Dream says, and he surprises himself a little bit. He doesn’t mean to voice this thought aloud, but he loves how honest it feels; he loves the feeling of his admirations pouring in loving waterfalls from his mouth.“Of course I will.”
“ Dream, ” George warns with a choked laugh, and finally, he’s the one that’s flushing. If this is where being upfront and honest gets Dream, then he’ll never keep a compliment to himself again. Dream’s name sounds like it’s coated with honey, glimmering in the sun as it’s sputtered timidly from his pretty pink lips and overlaid by the pounding of the rain. There’s a muted, blotchy pink that rises to his cheeks and it paints his delicious, snowy skin with lively and saturated color. “Stop.”
It’s then where he remembers that George is sitting under the leaky ceiling, and there are raindrops seeping through it ever so often, landing on the back of the shorter man’s neck, in his hair, slipping down his gently angled nose.
“Come sit,” Dream says, patting the bench next to him. He grins lightly when the brunette finally meets his gaze again, and there’s still a light blush that overtakes his features; it travels down his neck, and Dream distantly wonders if it goes any further. “I didn’t realize it was leaky over there, I would’ve said something earlier.”
“Thanks,” George says as he slides his way across the bench, situating himself against the other man’s side. He’s a small, warm presence, and his thigh is timidly pressed against Dream’s own, and it feels so nice to have him this close. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve caught you on multiple embarrassing occasions today. When I got here, you were dozing off with your mouth wide open.”
The blonde rubs his legs together, squirming at the closeness of George’s voice; their hands rest timidly on their upper legs, inches apart. Dream’s is bigger, lightly tanned and spidery; George’s is milky white, all slender fingers and small wrists.
“Pretend like you didn’t see that,” Dream jokes, and he cannot turn his head to look at George when they’re so close. Seeing him like this, pressed against him, soft and warm, will render Dream a mess again, and he knows it.
“I thought it was cute, but okay,” George responds languidly, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. In response, Dream turns to look at him, and suddenly his mind feels like it’s gone blank again. Because up close, his eyes aren’t just black; they’re a myriad of browns, and dark lines. His pupils are huge, shadowed by the very eyelashes that he looks at Dream through. His skin looks so soft. “Why’d you even come out today?”
“Just wanted to get out of my apartment,” Dream says, and he has to look away. His heart is pounding rapidly in his chest, hammering in his ears, and his face feels warm again. “I tend to be a bit hyperactive.”
“Really? I’m quite the opposite. Normally I sleep half the day,” George admits, and he can’t help but laugh a little. He also can’t help but imagine the smaller man curled up at his side, snoozing in the light of the morning on his white sheets, lips parted slightly. If he’s already reduced to a mess just by the gorgeous brown eyes and lips and the warmth of a soft thigh against his, he wonders what a kiss would feel like, then.
“You’re living in the city that never sleeps, and yet that’s all you do?”
“Exactly,” he affirms, and Dream snorts.
“How’d you end up living here, anyways?”
“I moved here from Britain when I was 19, I came alone and went to college for computer science.”
“That’s ballsy. Coming to a new country by yourself? I don’t know if I could do that.”
“My parents didn’t think I could do it,” George says, tilting his head slightly. “So obviously, I had to prove them wrong.”
Dream smiles at him, leaning so that their shoulders are touching. “Do you think you’ll go back to living in Britain?”
The blonde turns his palm over, looking down at their hands; they’re lingering close together, hovering, orbiting around one another. A silent question: do I have to let you go?
“I’m not sure. Not anytime soon, at least,” George says, and his elegant fingers slide in place with Dream’s own.
They’re cold, he observes as he runs his thumb across the broad expanse of the other’s hand. A silent answer: you can keep me, for a while.
They sit in comfortable silence, hands conjoined, enjoying the warmth of each other. In the city that refuses to sit still, they do exactly that, and they enjoy the storm together.
The rain has stopped.
There are dogs barking in the distance, and the familiar sounds of honking, children laughing, and people talking.
“I should go,” Dream says after a little while. He wasn’t lying when he said he’s always been hyperactive; standing in one place for too long makes him anxious. And he needs to go home and write about this feeling while it’s fresh in his mind, so that he’ll never forget it.
With these thoughts in his mind, he convinces himself to stand up.
Pressing a chaste kiss to George’s knuckles, he intently watches the paled vermillion blotches rise to the pretty boy’s skin one more time, committing the vision before him to memory.
“Okay,” he responds quietly. “It was so nice to meet you.”
“It was lovely to meet you, George,” and again, Dream curses himself for his inability to properly express his emotions. He wants to say, I love the feeling of your hand in mine. It’s never felt so natural to hold someone before. I can’t take my eyes off of you, and I’ve never really felt like this, and you’re just so beautiful.
But he’s never really had the courage.
Maybe a few compliments is as good as it gets, with Dream.
“See ya.”
See ya, Dream says, but he’s not sure if he will.
He’s not sure if he’ll ever see George again, in this big city with all of it’s people with all of their different schedules and lives.
He walks away with long strides, sandy blonde hair parting as he looks up at the sky again to see that the clouds are clearing. The sky is crystalline blue above them, and he sees it as a promise of the good things to come. Hands in his pockets, strolling down the boulevard, he finds himself lost in his head again.
He’s endlessly distracted by thoughts of brown eyes, of a steady warm presence at his side. The smell of parchment, and the sound of pouring rain.
He wouldn’t mind being distracted like that forever.
“Wait!” a familiar voice cuts through the air. It’s him again, and Dream wishes it would always be George calling for him, and he’s holding out the notebook that the blonde had purchased earlier that day in his gentle, pearly grip. He’s a little out of breath. “You left this. Why do you walk so fast?”
“Thank you so much,” Dream says through a hearty laugh, and he hopes it sounds as grateful as he feels. “I really hope I bump into you again.”
The smile he gets in return is big, bright and beautiful. Maybe everything is like that, when it’s George.
“No need for hoping,” he responds, and it’s not an uncertainty, but rather a promise. “I’ll see you around.”
How can he be so certain, though?
And why can’t Dream just find the courage to ask him for his number or something? Ask him to meet somewhere this week, at a coffee shop or a restaurant? He wants to. He wants to say be mine, take my hand again and let’s give this a try.
But he can’t.
“Bye bye,” the blonde says instead, waving the same hand that had clasped George’s minutes earlier. He takes the other man in for what could be the last time, and he wishes he could’ve lived in that moment at the bus stop under the downpour forever.
“Bye, Dream.”
_____________________________________
Dream sits down and opens his notebook with every intent of writing about the pale, raven-haired boy with the nuclear smile that sets his soul on fire, and the calming rain that had helpfully extinguished his brightest flame.
He clicks his pen beneath an impatient finger, needing to get his thoughts out somehow, and wanting to eternalize the events of the earlier day forever so that they may transcend time, just like all the words inside novels of the petite bookstore where they had first truly glimpsed each other.
The sleek black cover of the notebook hits his desk.
He squints through his circular glasses, wondering if his eyes deceive him. It’s too good to be true.
Scrawled across the first page in swirly, messy handwriting is a phone number, and a message:
I’m glad that out of all the people in New York, today you were looking at me.
Text me whenever, I’ll be waiting.
-George