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It’s fast approaching two in the morning when Dream’s door clicks open and he stirs awake, squinting against the darkness filling his room and lifting his head towards the entrance. It’s dark, and the dim light coming from the street outside is barely enough to see anything, but the figure lingering hesitantly near the doorway is familiar.
“Dream?” George’s soft voice cuts through the quiet, the door creaking as he opens it wider. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” he responds, half tempted to sit up. He doesn’t, just lays on his bed and stares up at the roof, wondering. George doesn’t usually do these types of things unless he really needs it. “You can come in. Are you okay?”
“Not really,” George admits. His voice trembles. Dream pats the place next to him invitingly, offering a reassuring smile when quiet footsteps approach and the mattress dips as George sits down.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” He asks. George shakes his head. He sucks in a breath, brain awakening with every passing second, and shifts a little in his spot. “Okay.” And then, impulsively, he holds up a hand, “Do you wanna..?”
It only takes a split second for George’s hand to slip into his, soft and cool, fingers sliding up his palm to slot between his own. Dream smiles dazedly, fully aware of the fact that this kind of hand holding isn’t something that people who refer to themselves as just best friends do, but right now he’s tired, and George needs this, so he doesn’t spend too long pondering over that thought.
“Talk to me,” George murmurs, squeezing his hand, “please?”
He takes a moment, racking his brain, thumb rubbing steady over the back of George’s hand. Eventually he talks, quietly, beginning to tell him about his day. George listens wordlessly, hand warm in his, laughing softly whenever he’d slip a joke in and smiling whenever he caught himself rambling off course.
It’s just as nice for Dream as it is for George. He enjoys talking about these things; he likes telling people about the things he spends so much time on like Minecraft and streaming and Geoguessr. And George — George likes listening, he doesn’t mind letting Dream ramble on for hours and hours and hours about whatever niche topic he’d found himself preoccupied with for the day. It’s been like this even before George moved in, when he was just a bunch of carefully arranged pixels on Dream’s monitor and a lively, accented voice coming through his headset.
And now he’s here, and real, and sometimes Dream still has to remind himself that George is physical and alive and really, truly living in this house with him. It’s surreal to think about, surreal how it’s been almost five years since they’ve met despite being a whole ocean apart and now they’re actually living together.
Eventually, Dream notices through the darkness of the room that George’s eyes are drooping. He pauses, squeezes his hand again and asks softly, “Feeling better?”
“Yeah,” George whispers, unmoving from his spot, and he doesn’t need to say anything for Dream to understand. He scoots over a little, pats the space next to him, and then George is tossing him a shy, grateful smile. The mattress dips again as George settles next to him, tucking his head under Dream’s chin, palm coming to rest flat on his chest — just over his heartbeat.
Dream hums, wrapping an arm around him. Their legs brush together. George fits so nicely against him, like a jigsaw puzzle clicking into place, and he can’t help but feel all warm and bubbly inside. He is well aware that he and George are teetering — have been teetering — on the thinning line between friendship and something more than that for a while. It’s something that neither of them have yet to acknowledge aloud, and Dream thinks that it’s okay for them to stay this way. They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.
For now, though, he can simply sit here and appreciate how George’s hair brushes softly against his cheek, soft like silk and smelling of lavender shampoo.
“Thank you,” George mumbles after a moment, the words vibrating up his throat and into Dream’s chest. Dream smiles.
“‘Course,” he pauses, and then adds on softly, “sleepy?”
George nods. His fingers tap gently on Dream’s chest, as if he’s nervous. “It’s okay if I…?”
“Yeah,” Dream assures, “I don’t mind. It’s nice.” He presses his nose into brown hair, nuzzling gently and smiling at the affectionate sigh that he tugs from George’s chest.
The silence that fills what little space between them is comfortable. George’s breaths are steady, rhythmic, syncing with his. He rubs circles into soft skin, staring quietly at the roof as his mind whirrs with slow thoughts. There’s nothing much to think about now, and he can already feel sleep beginning to tug him down again, can already hear how George’s breaths have slowed and how he’s finally fallen under.
His eyelids weigh heavy. Dream hums, tugs George closer to him, and allows darkness to consume him.
Dream wakes up again; at a reasonable hour, this time, when bright sunlight is slithering through his window and into his room. George is still beside him, curled up nicely at his side with one of his legs thrown half across Dream’s body and his arm wrapping around him like he's a teddy bear.
There’s a quiet knock on his door. Dream stirs, doing his best not to shift too much to avoid waking up the man at his side, and lifts his head. The handle turns slowly, like they’re hesitant to open it, and then Sapnap is peeking his head in the room curiously, clearly having woken up a while ago.
Dream raises a finger to his lips in manner telling him to hush. Sapnap takes the hint and nods, eyes catching onto the pile of gray fabric and brown hair latched tightly onto Dream’s side. He blinks, tilts his head in a silent question of ‘What happened?’, but all Dream does is shake his head.
He frowns, but accepts the answer, and Dream makes a motion for him to shoo. Sapnap rolls his eyes, lighthearted irritation evident on his features, but jams a thumb behind him in the direction of the kitchen as if to say ‘I’ll make breakfast’, which is odd considering none of them really eat breakfast together, but Dream thinks that the change will be nice for George, so he just nods.
The door closes, quiet footsteps receding down the hallway, and Dream settles back down. George shifts, mumbles out something incoherent that still manages to etch a fond smile onto his face, and presses closer. Dream’s heart threatens to burst.
God, he really is whipped.