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George’s heart stutters when the sword tip digs into the exposed skin just over his collar, frigid metal a cold shock to his system. It hovers there, unmoving, for a long moment; then it dips, cutting through the air and back to Dream’s side. George exhales a breath, the tension seeping from his body and making his arms buckle under his weight as the adrenaline rush dissipates.
“Not bad,” Sir Dream says cheerfully, offering his hand to George; heaving out a sigh, he takes it, allowing the knight to haul him back to his feet with almost embarrassing ease. The practice grounds are drenched in golden light, orange sunbeams filtering through the treetops that surround the field. An evening breeze rustles the branches, stirring dust, and he lets a shiver run down his spine as Dream stoops to grab George’s dull practice sword from where it had landed in the dirt a few paces away.
George rolls his shoulders, wincing as he prods the stinging spot on his thigh where Dream had hit him just before knocking him over. They’ve been sparring for the better part of two hours, and George had only managed to disarm Dream once, mostly due to the knight tripping on uneven ground. Dream holds the sword out to him, an expectant tilt to his eyebrows.
"I'm tired," George says petulantly, even as he grips the hilt and retreats a handful of paces, readying himself for another round. Dream shoots him one of his radiant, charming smiles as he, too, shifts his weight and raises his own blade.
"Last one," he says by way of offering, and then, placatingly, "you can play dirty this round."
George raises an eyebrow at this. Last time Dream had allowed the same condition, George had waited until Dream had him pinned on the ground before flinging a handful of dirt into his face, taking advantage of his disorientation to wrestle the hilt from his grasp and force Dream to yield to the tip of his own sword. George will never admit it, but it’s a gratifying feeling, winning like that; Dream, ever upright, ever fair, would just shake his head and scold: is that any way for the King to act?
"Are you sure?" George says, and adds, voice a teasing lilt, "you might regret it, you know."
"I'm sure I will," Dream replies, and jabs his sword in George's direction with a lighthearted sort of severity. "Just keep in mind that I can and will make you run laps during your next training session."
George draws himself upwards and tips his nose into the air. “I’ll have you taken to the stocks for that,” he says, pulling the vowels in an over-exaggeration of his accent that he knows will make Dream laugh. George takes the opportunity to dart forwards, blade flashing towards Dream’s unprotected left side. Dream parries him smoothly, dodging lightly away before taking the offensive himself. They trade blows as the sun dips behind the trees- George keeps Dream on his toes, kicking at his knees, aiming cheap swings at his face, and Dream’s brow wrinkles in concentration, an almost-imperceptible smile at his lips. George smiles back and ducks under Dream’s next swing, stepping boldly up to him-
-and kisses the corner of his mouth.
The effect is instantaneous: Dream’s jaw drops, and his tightly-held stance slackens. It only takes a moment for George to loop his sword around Dream's and twist until he loses his grip, pressing closer with a smug grin.
"I win," he declares, and Dream, dazed, makes a wordless noise of agreement. Mercilessly, George hovers in his space even after he drops his own sword. "How did I do?"
"Good," Dream replies absently, eyes still glued to George's, face darkening in a blush. "Um, very good."
"Just 'very good'?" George says teasingly, jutting his bottom lip out into a pout. Dream backtracks immediately.
"Excellent," he says vehemently, swallowing when George smiles, pleased. "You- you've come a long way from when we started, you're doing really well-"
"That's good to know," George hums sweetly, then turns on his heel, stepping out of Dream's personal space and collecting both of their swords. Dream lets out an audible, shaky breath, and George smothers a laugh; the knight has mostly composed himself, though, by the time George turns to face him again.
"It’s getting late,” Dream says as he takes their swords, “here, let’s pack up.” He ushers George over to the storerooms with confident strides before he can make a noise of agreement, their steps in tandem. The shadows have lengthened into darkness, and George hunts about for a lantern while Dream goes through his routine of cleaning and sheathing their blades. By the time George returns, lit lantern swinging in his grasp, Dream has already placed them back on the rack and attached the sheath of his actual sword to his belt. Setting the lantern down, George saunters over to him. Standing in the pool of candlelight, Dream marks a heartbreakingly handsome figure against the shapeless dark.
“Help me with my armour?” George asks, sending Dream a pleased little smile when he rolls his eyes but reaches for one of George’s pauldrons, fingers deftly unclasping the buckles at his shoulder. Dream’s eyes meet his, glinting in the light, as he pulls it off and sets it aside.
“You should learn how to do this yourself,” Dream scolds, although it lacks heat or reproach. George just smiles and turns to give him better access to his other shoulder.
“I already know,” he says loftily. With Dream’s heat at his side, warding off the nighttime chill, he continues, “I want you to do it, though.”
“Spoiled,” Dream mutters as he starts on George’s breastplate.
“You’re the one that made me so spoiled,” George leans in, blinking wide eyes up at him. “You should take responsibility, shouldn’t you?”
Silently, Dream nudges him away so he can pull the armour over George’s head. When George re-emerges, ruffled, Dream smooths his hair back down with an unreadable expression.
“I am,” he murmurs. And then, almost too quietly to hear, “I will.”
The servants have already lit the sconces by the time Dream and George enter the castle, nightstaff fluttering past them with hasty bows and greetings as they make their way up to George’s rooms. Their shadows dance in the flickering light while Dream tells George about their newest, promising trainees.
“Good thing excellent etiquette isn’t required for knighthood,” George remarks drily, opening his bedroom door. “Otherwise, you’d have never made it this far.”
Dream gives him a look of mock outrage. “That hurt,” he says, and cracks a smile when George giggles, light and airy. Silver moonlight slants across his floorboards, and the scent of rosewater warms the air; a servant must have seen them coming out of the training grounds and called for a bath to be drawn. Despite the allure of hot water to wash out the sweat and dust of a day’s work, George lingers in the doorway, the scant inch offered by the threshold their only separation.
“Goodnight,” Dream offers, a little reluctantly, “I’ll be here in the morning to escort you to breakfast.”
Unable to resist the urge to tease, George smiles up at him. “My handsome, diligent knight,” he says coyly, “are you sure you don’t want to stay?”
The blush that floods Dream’s cheeks is expected; his expression, though, shudders and falls.
“George,” he says softly, and George tips his head, confused at the sudden change of tone. “George, you shouldn’t- just because you’re the king doesn’t mean that you should say things you don’t mean.”
George sighs and stretches onto his toes, draping his arms over Dream’s shoulders. He pulls him, gently, through the doorway. “What don’t I mean?” George asks lightly. “That you’re handsome? That you’re mine? Or that I want you to stay?” Helplessly, Dream’s arms loop around his waist. “My knight, my Dream,” he continues, lilting. “Right?”
“I am yours,” Dream responds, an echo of the oath he had taken when he was first knighted, entirely subdued in George’s delicate hold. “Of course I am. But are you mine?”
George touches his cheek, brushes the slope of his jaw. “I am,” he smiles. “I always have been.”
He can feel the exhale that Dream lets out- relief, desperation, a losing sort of devotion. His armour, his shield, his knight, completely powerless in the cradle of his arms.
“Always?” Dream murmurs.
“Yes,” George vows, just as quietly. “Of course.” And then, “Will you stay?”
“Yes,” Dream repeats, a smile George can feel growing on his lips. “Of course.”
When George kisses Dream, this time, Dream meets him halfway.
("Don't go distracting actual enemies by kissing them," Dream blurts, later, helping George out of the bath. George raises a single eyebrow at him, and Dream amends, "Don't go kissing anyone else, actually."
"I wasn't planning to," George returns drily, and, just to prove it, kisses him to seal the promise.)