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George hates drinking. He hates the taste, the way it melts away his inhibition and hesitance, he loathes the way it causes reckless courage to flow in his veins.
He doesn’t mind the prohibition usually, but today is different.
He can easily blame his mother or Bernice, but it is his own fault in truth.
George needs to forget, to lose himself for just a moment in a cup of poorly distilled moonshine.
It wasn’t hard to find a bar, all he had to do was give Nick a few not-so-subtle hints and a promise of his silence for him to lead George to his desires. Nick left him there alone, George didn’t mind. He isn’t here to talk anyways, just to stop thinking for a moment.
“Enjoying your cup?” A voice asks. George looks up carefully. A man stands above him, wine in hand and a bright pink smile, tinted from the red lampshade at George’s table.
“Who’s asking?” George asks back. The man throws his head back and laughs, unrestrained and real. It’s been a while since George heard real laughter.
“Ah, I’m no one. I’m not a cop if that’s what you’re concerned about,” The man sits at George’s table, uninvited and uncaring about George’s clear distaste and distrust. “All of the officers in the area are plenty bribed besides,”
“I didn’t offer you a seat,” George says. Maybe he’s being rude, he can excuse that on the drinking and the bitter taste that seems forever stuck in his mouth, rebelling against George’s attempts to drown his sorrow.
“What brings you here?” The man asks. “I come here often and I’ve never seen you,”
"My first time," George frowns. “I came here to ignore the world and its people, not make friends,”
“Oh neither did I,” The man smirks and George instantly hates it. So proud and full of himself. Quite the opposite of Bernice, quiet and always needing reassurance that George could never give. Oh tell me you love me, she’d beg. He never would. He was no liar. “So I ask again, what brings you here? Why might you need to drown your sorrows in moonshine?” George shrugs, why should he answer? Why should he care?
“Needed to be alone,”
The man doesn’t take the hint, instead offering his empty hand towards George’s. “I’m Dream,” George scoffs. It’s a terrible name. Fitting. He moves to turn away, but his eyes recklessly catch onto Dream’s jaw. Harsh and sharp, mouth pressed onto a seemingly permanent grin.
George sighs, how could he say no to such a face?
“I’m George,” He mumbles and shakes his hand. The grin that stretches further across Dream’s face is blinding.
“That’s a lovely name,” He wants to come up with some quip, but he just feels his cheeks turn red. “So what’s the issue? Did someone perish? Someone close to you? Hate your job? A woman?” George’s face shifts at the words, instinctually turning hard in defense against being vulnerable again. “Ah, so it was a woman. It usually is,”
“I don’t even know you,” George mutters.
“You don’t know anyone until you start up a conversation,” Dream says. “So here I am, starting. Well, I’ve had my share of girls as well, I find it helps greatly to talk about it,”
“Do you really care?” George asks. “Do you work here? Are you trying to get me to buy more drinks?”
“I simply want to get to know people,” Dream says innocently. “Why so defensive? Not used to people caring?”
George huffs and swirls his drink. “No, plenty of people care,” Too many, George muses.
“What was her name?” Dream inquires.
George hesitates for just a moment before giving in. “Bernice,” George sighs. “I didn’t love her, I think- I think she always knew that, deep down,” He wants to drop the drink, go back home, forget about this night and his sorrows. But the drink whispers to him, life is short, take your shot, be yourself.
And like the fool he is, George listens.
“We were childhood friends, our parents basically set us up,” George takes a quick drink. “I’ve never really loved anyone in the way she loved me, she wanted kids and a family. A white picket fence, Sunday church, to be a good wife,” George sighs. “She is everything a man could ever want,”
“But nothing you want,” Dream fills in. George finds himself nodding along.
“Earlier today she- she suggested we finally make it official,” Dream sucks in a breath and takes a sip of wine. “I just couldn’t imagine it, being inside a woman and spending my life with someone I couldn’t love back,” George shakes his head and chugs the rest of his drink.
“Sounds like you need something new,” Dream suggests. “A change of pace, you need something a woman cannot give,”
“Maybe,” George nods. “Maybe I need to go to church more, let god into my heart-” He is cut off abruptly by a wheezing, for a second he thinks it's a kettle, but the noise is coming from Dream. The man is doubled over, blonde hair facing the ground as he makes strange noises of delight and humor. George smiles despite himself.
“You don’t need god,” Dream says when he collects himself. “God cannot give you what you need, god isn’t even real,” George gasps at the mere thought.
“That’s- that’s cruel,”
“God is cruel,” Dream counters. “What kind of benevolent being keeps the people who love each other apart?”
“Whatever do you mean?” George asks. Dream reaches over the table and runs a thumb over George’s knuckles. He shivers even though he's quite warm.
“God said that only a man can love a woman and only a woman can love a man,” Dream says it like it is the funniest joke he’s heard in ages. “I think he’s nothing short of evil, trying to keep people apart. I’ve had my way with many a woman and many a man, all of the men are just as beautiful as the women. God must be horrible to try and keep me to only one,” George pulls his hand away abruptly and puts his drink to the table. He runs his own thumb over the places where Dream had just touched.
“You-” It was a sin to feel that way about a man. “You’ve been with men ?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Dream asks. “They are just as deserving of everything I have to give,”
“But it’s sin,”
“And?” Dream points to George’s cup sitting idly at the table. “Your drink is sin, have you read the entire Bible? From front to back?”
“I-” George stutters. “I’ve read sections,”
“I have,” Dream says. “Your clothes are sin, cotton and wool. Two different fabrics are sin. Do you eat pork?”
“I do,” George admits slowly.
“More sin,” Dream shrugs. “Your god kills countless people in the name of love,”
“He works in ways we cannot understand,” George says.
“We are ants to him, why should he care about who I choose to love?” Dream asks and George cannot provide an answer. He once again blames the alcohol. “Would you like to dance?”
“What?” George trips over his words. Dream grins and grabs his hand.
“Dance with me,” Dream drags him from his seat and over to the music machine, some new invention the owner invested in. Dream pulls a coin from his pocket, slides it in, and selects some slow song. The bar is practically empty, an elderly man sleeps in a booth and two women are chatting quietly in a corner, backs turned to them. No one seems to care that Dream has taken over the atmosphere.
“I- I don’t know how to dance,” George admits.
“Perfect time to learn,” Dream smiles. “Put your left arm on my shoulder,” George complies. Dream puts a hand under George’s arm. He jerks at the touch. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” Dream asks, seeming quite genuine. All George can manage is to shake his head. The sin and drink have clouded his mind, but he knows that he likes Dream’s hands on him.
“No,” George mumbles. “No I quite like it,”
“Good,” Dream lulls, quiet and rumbling. He reaches for George’s hand, lacing their fingers together and holding them up for the world to see. “And now you just sway,”
“Just sway,” George echoes. “What do I do with my feet?”
“Just go with your instincts,” Dream says.
“My instincts are terrible,” George laughs at his own words. Instincts tell him to go back to Bernice, apologize and settle down. Live in the little yellow house she’d fallen in love with, the one with a white picket fence. Give her children and all the love he could.
“Alright,” Dream muses. He sways to the side, taking George with him. “Act on impulse then,”
“What’s the difference?” George asks with a smile. Dream pulls the hand from George’s waist, up and up, cupping his cheek. George should jerk away, move lest they be seen, but his fingertips are so warm on his skin, setting them alight with fire.
“Instincts are for the mind, impulse is for the heart,” Dream murmurs.
“You seem like a man with a lot of impulses,” George breathes and Dream continues to rock him side to side. “A man who does what his heart says rather than his mind,”
“I do,” Dream admits. “If I was to act on impulse, what would you do?”
George knows what he means, he hates that he knows.
“Would you act on instinct?” Dream asks, his thumb traces George’s jawline. “Would you follow your book and your cruel god?” George might have stopped breathing. “Or would you listen to your heart?”
“Only one way to find out,”
Dream grins, wide and proud before tightening his hold on George’s jaw then leaning down.
George can feel the smile on his lips, the proud, arrogant, confident way Dream pushes further and further, giving George all he has to offer. He can taste the wine on his lips, sweet and wrong.
Every part of his mind screams and wails, clawing at the walls of his brain, begging him to not stoop so low, to go home, buy a yellow house-
George leans into the kiss and Dream takes, biting on George’s lip ever so gently it makes him gasp.
“You’re beautiful,” Dream says when he pulls away. George is breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in sync with his heartbeat.
“Beautiful?” George echos. Dream’s face is red from the crimson lampshades and from their guilty pleasure. His hand untangles itself from George’s and cups his face with two hands.
“Sinful,” Dream adds. “Impulsive and perfect,” George shudders as Dream kisses him again and again.