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Dream lets himself into the practice room, door opening inaudibly under the fast-paced trill of a violin. George is standing by the piano, a steady tick-tick-tick playing from his phone; even from behind, Dream can tell that his posture is stiff, shoulders a tense line. Dream holds his breath as the notes pick up in speed- and then they trip over themselves, the song quickly dissolving into an off-tempo jumble. George lets out a frustrated groan and, with all the dignity of a violinist that’s been playing for over a decade, saws his bow back and forth across the strings.
Dream winces at the discordant noise.
“Hey, Georgie,” he says, and George turns to him with a cute little frown that dissipates as soon as he sees Dream, which does funny things to Dream’s heart. He sets his violin on the piano and pauses the incessant beat of his phone as Dream saunters toward him, flopping onto the piano seat and dropping his gym bag next to George’s own duffel. “Having a good time, I can tell.”
“Don’t even,” George sighs as he perches on the seat as well, flipping through his sheet music; the black dots fly by, an unreadable blur to Dream. “I’ve been here for four hours-”
“I know,” Dream says, amused, and leans over to reach into his bag. “That’s why I'm here, I brought you lunch.”
“Lunch was ages ago,” George immediately quips back, and then, “Wait, you can’t have food in the practice rooms, Dream.”
“I’m not having it,” Dream points out cheerfully as he hands the sandwich to George, “You are.”
“You’re going to get me kicked out,” George mutters, even as he unwraps his sandwich and proceeds to inhale it in under a minute, which is both mildly terrifying and horribly endearing. Dream props his elbow up on the closed lid over the piano keys and watches him eat in the least creepy way possible, offering him a napkin when he finishes.
“Thanks,” George says with mock reluctance, “This was a pretty good last meal, I guess.”
“You’re such an idiot,” Dream laughs, “you’re not dying, and you’re not getting kicked out.”
“You don’t know that,” George tosses his head. “They’ve got cameras in every room, they’re supposed to be there so that teachers can yell at students for taking breaks but now they’re going to use it as evidence have me arrested-”
“-you’re not going to get arrested-” Dream wheezes.
“-and I’m going to spend the rest of my days behind bars. All because of a sandwich,” he finishes passionately. “But at least I won’t have to do my examination.”
“What’re you practicing this time?” Dream squints at one of the pages, an indecipherable mass of notes and lines and symbols. Page 6, the top of the sheet reads, and Dream watches with trepidation as George flips- yep, that’s a whole five other equally confusing pages- back to the beginning.
“Spohr’s Concerto 9 in D Minor,” George sighs desolately, and openly laughs at Dream’s face. “The first movement.”
“First what?” Dream questions, lost. “Wait, there’s nine of them?”
“I know,” George sighs. “I have to play 1 and 3 for my exam.”
“Two concertos?” Dream asks with increasing bewilderment.
“Two movements from this Concerto,” George pauses. “I have to do two sonatas, though.”
“Why,” Dream says plaintively. “Stop saying words at me.”
George shoots him a blinding grin and stands, leaving the napkin and wrapper balled up in his bag. He picks his violin back up from where he’d set it and offers both the instrument and bow to Dream. “Want to try?”
“I think trying to play that will kill me,” Dream says bluntly, even as he takes them, gingerly, from George, allowing himself to be ushered to his feet. “You never let other people touch your violin.”
“Yeah, cause it cost me like, more than my portion of two months' rent,” George says drily. “I trust you.” He steps closer before Dream can process his words, moving Dream’s arms with gentle, easy confidence. “Here, keep the violin under your chin, and set the bow on the strings, I'll adjust your grip." Teasingly, he adds, "Relax, Dreamie, you're not going to drop it."
"You don't know that," Dream argues instead of saying something like George, you're so pretty, or I've been in love with you for three years can we kiss, which would be stupid. This close, Dream can count George's eyelashes; it's a surprise that Dream only ends up fumbling with the bow, given that he can barely think over how hard his heart is pounding. George laughs and corrects his grip as he walks him through a scale, and then Hot Cross Buns; by the time George beckons for Dream to hand him back his violin so they can pack up before the next person arrives, Dream can- albeit shakily- make his way through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Dream watches as George stores his violin away, his deft fingers pulling the shoulder rest off and loosening his bow, tucking the instrument back into its velvet-lined case with practiced moves. Your hands are so nice, Dream doesn't say, opting to grab both of their bags as George slings his violin over his shoulder. They drop their room keys off by the front desk, ducking away from the receptionist's curious gaze with muffled laughter, and walk out into the afternoon sun; George's entire face scrunches up adorably as he squints against the light, letting Dream lead them to his car.
"You'll ace your exam," Dream finally says as he unlocks the doors, popping open the trunk to drop their bags inside as George sets his violin in the backseat. George sends him a sideways glance.
"You really think so?" he asks, and Dream can hear the uncertainty lingering under his playful tone.
"I know so," he says honestly. George's unrestrained smile crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"I'll dedicate this concerto to you, then," he says, and Dream's heart sings.