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George entered his room, throwing off his jacket to one corner the moment his door closed. The exhaustion of going outside was already wearing him down; All the jokes made about him being the gamer boy who doesn’t leave his room, George had to admit they were partly true. It wasn’t his fault, when the British air was so chilly and Tommy was a child who needed three people to babysit him.
George laughed to himself, thinking of the young boy, who towered over him despite being 7 years his junior. Meeting him and Wilbur had certainly made George happy, anyone who saw the pictures that overtook twitter could see that he was all smiles and casual shoulder bumps and soft features drawn on pale skin. It had also been the first time he met fans, and for someone who considered himself awkward, George was sure it went as well as it could. If anything, it was still overwhelming to realize that his face was recognizable, that he was someone people would actively ask to take pictures with. But George had dealt with it all, with his usual politeness, and was now looking forward to sinking deep into the comfort of his bed.
It was his first time, and maybe that was why it still seemed unbelievable, and he couldn’t help thinking of how he’d got there, how he went from thousands to millions in the short span of a year. He allowed himself to admit that, once he had recovered from the initial shock of fame, he’d adjusted to it to the best of his ability. After all, he’d had his best friends by his side – both of them skyrocketing in subscribers with him as it happened, all 3 of them learning to use their suddenly massive platforms together – taking the hand that Dream had extended, following the voice that said “look, I’m gonna blow up, come with me” and never letting it go.
Dream. In the privacy of his bedroom, George let himself think of his best friend. Dream, away in Florida, where the sun was probably shining while George had to wear multiple layers to keep warm. Dream, typing away tweets on his phone, replying to Tommy while countless thoughts played in his mind. Dream, speaking to George before he left, repeatedly telling him to be careful and safe outside and wear double masks if he had to. Dream, mocking George for his height, then saying he was adorable when the sun had set and there was no one to judge them except themselves.
Dream, who, George realized, was calling him now, as his screen lit up with the notification. He picked up, pressing the phone to his ear and melting further into his pillow. A quiet “hello” left his mouth.
“Hey, George, you’re back?” Dream asked, quiet muffling on his side.
Dream, who loves roses and avocado but not on sushi and who wrote persuasive essays just to get out of having a bed time. Dream, who calms George down when he’s frustrated over a plugin and who is the first to defend his friends. Dream, who was talking to him, so close yet so far. Dream, who George missed so much he felt he was about to cry.
“George, you okay?” Dream sounded concerned, and George quickly gathered himself, not knowing why he suddenly felt like this.
“Yeah, just tired.”
As he heard Dream hum in response, reasons for the longing pit in his stomach started to manifest before him. One, Dream’s voice grounded him.
“Aww, did going outside hurt your brittle bones, old man?” Dream teased.
Two, Dream was silly and sometimes had the humor of a 13-year old and George never wanted to stop listening to him.
“At least I went outside, when was the last time you met up with someone?” Dream laughed at his word’s, both of them knowing why he hadn’t met up with anyone besides Sapnap and Alyssa.
Three, Dream wanted to meet George before he met anyone else and knowing this made George forget how to breathe for a moment.
“How was it? Meeting everyone?” Dream’s voice was softer now, lower, as if he had realized that George actually was tired.
Four, Dream knew George and could tell how he felt from his voice alone, and it made George actively try to not think of what his grandmother had told him, years ago. To love is to know, and to be loved is to be known.
“It was nice. Wilbur kept on teasing me to call you and prank everyone again, but I told him the fans might actually commit manslaughter if we did.” Dream wheezed at that, drawn out and heaved.
Five, Dream’s laughs were infective and George wanted to hear them in person.
“Tommy is more,” George paused for a moment, trying to find a word to describe the 17-year old, and failing. “Tommy is just him, but I think when we seem him on stream with millions of viewers, we forget he’s a child, you know? We tease him about being a child, sure, but we forget that he actually is just a child creating content for millions and shouldering that responsibility carefully.”
George could feel himself smile, “Meeting him in person was really cool, after he stopped calling me georgenotfound or gogy and settled for my name.”
“Did he actually,” Dream asked, “settle for your name?”
Six, Dream knew when George was lying, and George was sure he never wanted to lie to Dream.
“No,” George felt himself laughing, but the tiredness made it come out as a giggle, “He kept on calling me gogy or by the whole username. Wilbur offered we dump him somewhere and run, but we were both too nice.”
Dream chuckled, before some rustling was heard on his end. Quiet meowing followed, then suddenly stopped. “Sorry, I tried to get into bed but then Patches decided to get all up in my space. Now she has claimed the blanket over my chest and won’t leave.”
Seven, Dream was absolutely adorable. Sometimes.
“She’s pampered.” George provided.
“As she should be.” Dream retorted, proceeding to whisper to his cat in the silence of the night as George listened to him, pretending to be annoyed at the baby voice he used.
Eight, there were some parts of him that Dream reserved for George, and it made the latter feel giddy and special.
“How was it meeting the fans?” Dream asked, emphasizing ‘the fans’ teasingly.
George knew how Dream valued his interactions with the community, how he appreciated everyone who supported him, and how he just wanted to make them happy. George, on the other hand, let his actions speak for him. Streaming just because he left his offline chat open and didn’t want to disappoint anyone, thanking every donation and noting everything they wanted him to check out, etcetera.
Him and Dream had always talked about it, meeting fans together, they never thought some of them would meet George before Dream did. It had made George happy, of course, but the reality also left a bitter aftertaste.
“It was nice.” George didn’t know what else to say, what else he could say without slipping up.
“Not too much?”
Nine, Dream was so unbelievably kind.
“I thought it would be, but no.” He could almost picture Dream smiling them, lying in a cluster of sheets, his cat cuddled close as he petted her, one hand in her fur and the other holding his phone.
“I’m proud of you.”
Ten, Dream made George feel like he was enough.
George giggled softly, muttering an embarrassed “thank you”. Why the fuck are you embarrassed, he thought to himself, before making himself more comfortable, layering his blankets as he kicked off his shoes.
“I can’t believe Tommy’s taller than you.”
George knew the Floridian wouldn’t let that pass by, sighing into the phone in resignation. “He’s not that tall. The angles-"
Dream scoffed, cutting him off. “Really? Every single person who took your picture angled it to make you look short? Why? What do they have against you?”
George ran a hand through his hair, messed up by the humidity. He wasn’t a fan of UK weather in general, besides the rare moments they got a good balance of warmth and cool, but this type of weather he hated in particular – where it rapidly fluctuated from cold and humid to positively freezing and still, humid. He just particularly disliked humidity.
He remembered Dream telling him how humid Florida was, saying he’d never visit the sunshine state if that was the case. Dream had laughed and said he’d fight the humid air if he had to, anything to get George there. “Besides, its not like you’d leave the house anyway.” He’d added, leading to George voicing his protests and disagreement with the statement.
Eleven, Dream made George feel like he was worth everything, and George wanted Dream to know he was everything.
“George? Did you zone out again?” He heard the careful, mellow voice reach out, and it latched into his heart and pulled on it like anxious hands tugging on a drawstring.
The brunette hummed to let Dream know he was there, still somewhat lost in his thoughts to form a reply. It was normal between the pair – either of them would get absorbed in his mind, and the other talked for the sake of talking, keeping each other company as much as they could.
“Geez, didn’t know height was such a touchy topic.” Dream’s voice had a teasing edge in it, and it made a smile bloom yet again on George’s face, his eyes crinkling in fondness as he imagined the American tucked in his bed, snickering to himself.
“Shut up.”
Dream did, and for a while the two sat in silence, an ocean away but still somehow closer than most people hoped to be. The comfortable silence transformed into a state of mutual existence, a norm for the two, as they listened to each other breath, Patches contributing a meow every now and then as it ran its paws over Dream’s hoodie.
Twelve, being with Dream was as natural as existing.
“Dream?” George murmured after a while, drowsiness finding its way into his tone. He had been awake for almost fourteen hours, and even though it was barely 9 pm, he could feel sleep slowly putting its spell on him.
“Yeah?” Dream replied, sounding equally tired. George knew he had been awake even longer, sleeping with him on call but waking up before George had.
“I just,” George paused, unsure of himself, “it’s weird, isn’t it?” He extended one hand to bring the blanket up even more, till it was almost covering his face.
“What’s weird?”
“I don’t know… meeting all these people in real life today-“ He didn’t finish his sentence, not knowing how to say what he thought without feeling like he shouldn’t be thinking it.
“You can tell me, go on.”
Thirteen, George could talk about everything and nothing, and Dream would listen.
George still took a moment before continuing, taking a dream bre- I mean, a deep breath. The sky outside was dark when he turned his head to it, glass window panes shielding him from the cold air but letting him look at the twinkling bodies spread over the black canvas – constellations of stars adorning the firmament. George had thought about Dream’s freckles spotting his skin in the same way more times than he’d like to admit.
“I met all these people today, and they were there, physically there.” Dream made a noise to let George know he was listening, not knowing where the latter was going with this.
“They were there, and they were all real, you know? I could see their body move as they talked, and their expressions change with time.” He took another deep breath for courage, “Its not like I don’t physically meet people,” George heard Dream snicker softly at his words, “I mean, I meet people everyday and see them talk and move and you know, just exist in real time in front of me.”
“Damn, here I thought you had no real life social interaction whatsoever.” Dream tried to sound teasing, but his voice gave away the desperation he had behind wanting to know what George was thinking. He was glad when George chose to ignore his comment and continue.
“But these are people whom I only knew online before this, right? Besides Wilbur, I mean. I knew them as a person behind a screen, or they knew me as a person behind a screen,” George glanced at the sky again, dark and dim and dusky.
“And I don’t know why, exactly, but I met them today,” George remembered everyone’s broad smiles and welcoming looks and the happiness they exuded, “and it was amazing, and I really was happy, but-"
George found himself at a loss for words, the English Language cruelly choosing to leave his mind and putting his braincells in havoc. He rubbed his feet under the covers, as if trying to elicit extra warmth and use it as energy. It failed, and lying there, alone with the sky to keep him company and Dream on the phone, George somehow felt colder than ever.
“George?” He heard Dream mutter, worried at his friend’s silence for the third time that night, “Seriously, are you okay?”
Fourteen, as long as Dream was okay, George knew he’d be okay too.
“Yes,” then he added, as an afterthought, “Just cold.”
Dream hummed in response, waiting for the older man to continue what he had been saying.
“I was happy today, you know?” George reiterated, and he could almost hear Dream’s smile when the blonde replied, “And I’m happy for you.”
“But I just-“ George was speedrunning breathing at this point, “It was all so real, yet it wasn’t, somehow.” He knew he might be sounding absurd but he didn’t care.
Because, fifteen, George trusted Dream with all his thoughts, seemingly absurd or not.
Fuck it, the brunette thought, and went for it. “It was all real, but you just seem more,” George’s breath hitched in his thought.
“More, what?” Dream prompted, his focus conveyed through his voice.
“More real.” George looked around his room, feeling like the walls were judging him, “I don’t know, Dream. We’ve never met, and I met these people today, and every person is real, so how could you seem more real?”
George knew the answer to his question, but he was too afraid to say it. Everyone he’d met that day, besides his two friends, were just people. Real people, supporters whom he was grateful for, but he didn’t have any attributes to associate with them. No late night laughs, no whispered secrets, no day-long calls – they were people, amazing people, he was sure, who probably shared their attributes with others, but not with him. Dream, on the other hand, was his person, in whatever sense it implied. They were each other’s person.
“George I-,” He heard shuffling, a deep intake of breath, and wondered if he’d weirded Dream out.
“I don’t know either, George, but trust me, you are the most real person I have.” The sincerity in Dream’s voice was enough to send shivers down one’s spine, all the way from Orlando to Brighton.
“Sapnap’s not gonna like that.” He joked, not really meaning it. He knew how much Dream cared for Sapnap, how differently he cared for his best friend of 9 years, and despite all the bickering they did on stream, George knew that he too had a best friend in the 20-year old.
“Yeah, actually, I’ll move you to number 2. You did match clothes with Wilbur today.” Dream managed to sound genuinely dejected at that, making George wish he was in front of him so he could push his shoulder and call him an idiot to his face.
“It was unintentional.” George offered, playing along.
“Sure it was, pictures of him wearing that were all over twitter before you two met up.” The reply came with a mocking tone of hurt, “I can’t believe you’d betray me like that.”
“I did not see those pictures.” George defended himself still, only for Dream to make fake noises of crying, trying his best not to laugh.
“Well, you still could’ve worn something else.”
“Yeah, like what?” George challenged, hitting his head on the headboard when he tried to move further up his pillow. He let out a small ‘ow’ and got a laugh in return, then wanted nothing more than to smack a pillow across Dream’s face.
Dream’s tanned, sunkissed, freckled, gold-speckled, beau- Okay, George told his mind, you know many appreciative adjectives, we get it. You can stop now.
“You could’ve worn my hoodie.”
George felt his breath caught in his throat as he realized what Dream had said. My hoodie. The hoodie that George bought, purposely oversized, sprayed with cologne, and which he had referred to Dream’s hoodie. That hoodie.
This was the first time he had called the hoodie as his, always calling it “my merch” before. Something bubbled in George’s chest, something he didn’t dare try and put a name to, afraid he’d want to run away from the intensity of it if he acknowledged it.
“Send me an actual one and I will.”
The word’s were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he heard a silly grin in Dream’s voice when the latter spoke, “All you had to do was ask, George. It’ll be there in two weeks, max.”
Sixteen, George could ask for the universe and Dream would give it to him.
“I didn’t actually mea-“ He tried to save himself, but when Dream was determined, nothing could stop him.
“Too late, I already picked out the one I’m sending you, actually,” the younger’s tone perked up as he realized something, “I’ll send you two of them, just so you don’t unintentionally match with anyone else.”
George desperately hoped he wasn’t misreading the excitement in Dream’s voice when he summoned up the courage to ask, “Anyone who’s not you?”
George wanted to record the sharp intake of breath that Dream supplied at his words and replay it a thousand times over.
“Anyone who’s not me.” Dream didn’t waver.
Seventeen, Dream was an unwavering part of George’s life – a constant, its presence undisturbed by what the brunette went through. He was just there, always.
“Okay,” George whispered into his phone, "Clay," breathy and trembling.
“Okay.”
Another few seconds passed, with George staring at the sky and Dream breathing into the phone, before Dream spoke up again. "I miss you, George."
George felt his heart constrict in his ribcage, like rats were racing over it, "I miss you, I wish I could be there."
"Me too."
Eighteen, he wanted nothing more than to be with Dream.
____
If the hoodies came exactly two weeks later, George never mentioned it. And if George wore them on stream and turned on his facecam and positively murdered Dream, Dream didn't mention it either.
George had two more reasons, he realized, when he first put one on and brought it up to his chin, tugging on the drawstrings - Nineteen, Dream's hoodies smelled amazing and made him want to nuzzle into the blonde's neck and twenty, he was in love with his best friend.