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“Hold still,” Dream beckons through quiet laughter. He brushes aside a few strands of hazelnut-colored hair, tracing pink-dusted cheekbones with his fingertips as they pull back to his side. He grips the camera, slung around his neck by a black nylon strip, and twists the lens just right before clicking the button and listening to the satisfying whir of the shutter.
George lolls his head to the side and rests it on his own shoulder. “Good shot?” He asks softly, lips curving up into a smile. The small ladybug resting atop his fingernail crawls across the bend of his knuckle before fluttering away across the open windowsill. It chases the faraway sunset across the horizon, following the slow flow of the wind through hanging plants and lazy vines poking out from other windowsills across the outside of the apartment building.
Dream hums in response and smiles. The orange-gold of the sunset paints George in such a godly light, draping warmth across his skin and drowning him in so much beauty that the blond almost forgets to breathe. The camera does less justice than the real thing, but the memories are kept in little pixels and he treasures them more than life itself. “Of course it is,” he says, tapping his thumb against the slick side of the camera. “I always get a good shot with you, George.”
“Ooh, don’t compliment me like that, Dream,” the brunet teases, shifting so his elbows are leaning against the wooden frame, painted white and peeling ever so slightly at the edges. His eyes aren’t on Dream, but they reflect the colors of the city outside, glowing dark in the evening light and whispering love, affection, across his irises. “You’ll have me thinking about you all night long.”
There’s enough of him left to scoff and roll his eyes, but it’s much too affectionate when it comes out from the bottom of Dream’s throat. It bubbles up as a half-laugh, fingers curling tighter around the camera; he’s mindful not to accidentally crack it. “You wound me, George.”
George laughs along with him, cheekbones pushing up against his bottom eyelids as they mix into a darker red color. “I wound you?” He turns now, meeting Dream’s emerald eyes with his golden-brown ones. The tension is there, lying over them like a hand-knit quilt gifted to each other from their own hands. “Show me the photo.”
Dream nods wordlessly and slips the camera from around his neck, handing it over to George. The latter looks over the photo with a curious gaze, searching every line, every pixel, for a flaw.
In the photo, George is smiling down at the small ladybug that formerly adorned his finger; it stares back at him with innocent curiosity. The lighting is heavenly, sending golden rays of sunshine cascading across George’s cheeks, nose, and ears as if they were horizontal waterfalls, raindrops on the other side of the windowpane glistening under their glory. Hanging ivy curls into view from behind the glass, leaves peeking around the corners of the window and the curve of George’s arm.
“Perfect as always,” he says as he hands the camera back to Dream. “How do you do it?”
Dream chuckles and takes the camera, setting it down against the windowsill. “Anyone could if you were the model, Georgie.”
George rolls his eyes and pulls himself away from the window, shadows twisting and morphing as he steps out of the sunlight and into the bright white glow of the lightbulbs. He hums and lets his eyes fall over the setup of the room, lights and drapes propped up in a professional manner, contrary to Dream’s impulsive window photo. He supposes that either looks nice.
“You flatter me.”
“I try,” Dream pushes, stepping closer. He follows George’s tracks like a lost puppy, yet he has the courage of a stalking lion at times. It’s almost funny.
“And why’s that?”
Dream grins and catches George by the wrist, spinning him around to face him. “You’re pretty,” he says simply, curling a hand around George’s waist. “Can I kiss you?”
He thinks about it—he really, truly does—but then he stops thinking about it and peels Dream’s hand off him. “No,” he teases, gliding his thumb over the rough knuckles of his tanned hand. “You’re an animal, Dream. Who knows what you’d do to me?”
The blond scoffs and twists their hands together, fingers lacing between each other. “Whatever you want me to do with you,” he shoots back playfully. George can only chuckle and pull away again, leading Dream across the room until he’s almost tripping over himself.
“There’s a very nice rose garden near the city park,” he reminds.
Dream quirks an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to come with?”
“If you’d like.”
“Of course I’d like,” Dream replies, scoffing halfway through the words. He races back across the caramel-colored hardwood floors, snatches his camera up again, and hooks it over his neck. Within the next second, he’s back beside George again, pulling his dark, woolen coat from its place over the door’s hook.
George eyes him curiously and pulls a light maroon scarf off the same hook, followed by a light jacket of his own. He digs in the pockets and pulls out cotton gloves, sliding them over his fingers and tugging them tight to his wrists. “Don’t bug me if your hands get cold,” he says, holding out his hand. Dream takes it eagerly and laces their fingers together. Even if he can’t feel the bare skin, he can still feel the warmth radiating from under the thin fabric and it’s enough to make him giddy. “Simp.”
He scoffs again. “You know you’re pretty,” he squeezes his palm around George’s hand, “and you tease me for pointing it out.” Dream allows himself to be led across the cool hallway, heavy door clicking shut behind them, and dragged down the spiraling stairs until they’re standing at the curb of the road. Their shoes tap against the concrete, echoing in the still air of the evening, accompanied only by the whir of a car passing every so often. Lamplights illuminate their path, glowing golden against the darkening sheet of sky above, dotted with bright lights so far away neither could ever think of reaching them.
George stops as he swings open the black metal gate, rusted at the hinges from overuse and occasional mistreatment from children and wild animals. They step in and he shuts it again behind them; there aren’t many people mingling aside from them, but then again there never are at this time of evening. People prefer the sunlight in this part of the city.
“Want me to take a few photos?”
“Do you even have to ask at this point? You’ll take them anyway.” George slips away from Dream’s grasp and leans over to one of the framed, tended, bushes and inhales the flowery scent of the roses. It’s such a specific, soft scent that he barely knows how to describe it, but he doesn’t have to. He glances behind him as a shutter clicks and he laughs quietly.
They smell a bit like Dream.
“Do you remember when we first met?”
Dream hums as George runs a petal carefully between his thumb and forefinger, so soft and fragile. “Of course I do,” he says, twisting the lens. “It was the first job I had ever gotten for a human model—I’d only ever worked with Mother Nature herself before.”
The Brit finds his smile growing at the memory; originally awkward and ill-mannered but now fond and full of warmth. He holds it dearly. “Yup,” he nods and gently untangles a rose from amongst its brethren, “and we didn’t get along. At all.”
“You hated me,” Dream offers.
“I did,” George agrees. “I thought you were annoying—the kind of person who thinks he knows better than everyone.”
“Come on, now.”
He snickers, catching glimpses of flickering yellow lights in apartment buildings and studio spaces. George saunters over to Dream and pushes the rose into his free hand, other comfortably holding the camera in the brisk night air. “I don’t hate you anymore. Consider yourself lucky, pretty boy.”
“Oh?” Dream raises an eyebrow and curls his fingers around the stem of the rose. “You think I’m pretty,” he says through a toothy grin; it almost sparkles under the bright moonlight that filters through the trees and flowers.
“Always did,” George confesses. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots whilst pulling down the stray strands. “But there was no way I was going to tell you that back then and, what, let you have the upper hand on me?”
“I don’t think I’d mind.”
“That was the problem, idiot.”
“Was?”
“Oh, shut it.” George reaches up and flicks Dream on the nose, causing him to wince and scrunch it up in return. “You know I love you.”
The blond laughs and snaps the stem of the rose to a shorter length, tucking it neatly behind George’s ear, then smiles and glides his hands down to pull him in by the waist. “I don’t think I do,” he teases. “You should show me how much you love me.”
George scoffs again, rolling his eyes, but he still leans up and steadies himself with Dream’s shoulders as he presses into his lips. It’s soft, slow, quiet, and he tastes like honeydew in the summertime. A welcome reminder of home amongst the autumn air.
He leans back when he figures he’s indulged Dream enough, but allows his fingers to link behind the latter’s neck and hold him there safely. The wind rushes through the park, swirling and swaying around them; the moon peaks and the stars hang like decorations of white-gold, reflecting their affections in the sky. “Good?”
“Great,” Dream responds, bordering breathless. “You could show me again, maybe.”
George laughs, cheeks tugging upward so much he thinks he’ll wrinkle the surrounding skin—a mindset he still hasn’t fully recovered from, but he doesn’t mind it much. “Maybe,” he returns fondly. “I also couldn’t, though.”
“But I want you to.”
“Do you?”
“Terribly,” Dream presses with that stupid, dopey grin that has George melting.
“Fine,” he mumbles, and leans back in.