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Moonlight peeks in from the shudders of Dream’s bedroom. It illuminates in stripes, streaking across his silk sheets and brightening his face at random.
He sits criss cross on the bed, legs tucked neatly together, covers pooling loosely below his waist and sporting a dark grey t-shirt that was lazily thrown on for the comfort of it all.
Idly scrolling through his phone, brightness low and his Twitter timeline opened, he sits in silent serenity.
Something about being up at a certain hour of the night and basking in the solitude and soft tranquility is refreshing. Like a warm cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter’s night, it acts as a break from all things overbearing. An escape from reality, where, without a worry in the world, Dream can lie around and just breathe.
No deadlines, no burdens on his shoulders, nothing to think about and nothing he wants or has to think about. It is the epitome of a perfect setting.
Although, Dream deems the following event much more preferable as he watches a couple of small, sockless, feet gently prop open his door and step inside of his room.
“Hey,” George greets, hushed. His hair is mussed up on his head and sticking out on a few ends, and his clothes are definitely too large to be his own. A small flutter rushes its way through Dream’s chest as he realises George has his hoodie on.
A sudden, albeit not reluctant, smile etches its way across Dream’s face. A small, soft grin, reserved for George and George only, as he lets his eyes lovingly graze across his lover.
“Hi,” he replies back, breathless and in a small whisper. George reciprocates Dream’s smile, and the blond watches as his eyes replicate the glimmer of stars in a meticulously crafted night sky. It is beautiful. George is beautiful.
After a beat or two, of pristine and comfortable silence, where the pair just admire each other from a small distance, Dream languidly pats his lap.
“C’mere,” he says, and George does.
No more words have to be uttered. George carefully crawls into the other’s lap, smoothing out the covers with his feet, settling down with his arms cradling on either side of Dream’s face, and resting his face in the crook of the taller’s neck.
Slowly, because they have all the time in the world, Dream sets his phone on the side of the bed and wraps his arms around George, one loose around his waist and the other somewhere lost in his hair. Safe, firm. Secure.
Dream starts a motion of threading his fingers through George’s brown locks, sometimes tapping his fingers up and down the base of his head and carefully untangling a few knots. George leans into the touch, fluttering his eyes closed and sighing in content. Dream shivers as his hot breath shoots into his neck. Goosebumps form, but not from the cold of the room.
“Sapnap still streaming?” Dream asks, and George nods. Dream’s breath hitches when the other’s lips lightly graze the crook of his neck when he speaks.
“Mmm,” George mutters, “yeah. Valorant. With Punz.”
Dream hums in response, and starts using his other hand to mindlessly rub circles on George’s back. His touch, featherlight and soft like the feathers of a dove, induces a small but overbearingly lovely reaction out of George.
He shivers slightly under the touch, back arching just the littlest back and sighs even more into his neck. Dream looks upon him with lovestruck eyes, taking in just how lucky he had gotten.
“You like that?” Dream asks, tone teasing but a sweet undertone of laced silk and golden honey and pure and raw unfiltered love peeking out on the edges. Thankfully, George does not catch it.
Instead, he scoffs, obviously flustered to no end. “Maybe.”
Dream continues his movements, brushing his fingers onto warm cloth and occasionally sneaking under to lightly graze at bare skin. At those times, George giggles and Dream wishes he could bottle it up and save it like it is the most important sound in the world.
It is the most important sound in the world, in his mind.
But when George’s giggles edge onto the horizon of too loud, and the fact they can’t get caught by Sapnap this late at night, Dream halts all actions, uses a hand to tilt George’s chin up, and silences him with a kiss.
George quiets and immediately returns the favor.
Their lips connect like puzzle pieces, warm and familiar. Dream suddenly doesn’t feel that tired anymore, his face sparking one of pure elation and his body buzzing with energy as he continues to push forward, to seek out more.
He keeps one hand on George’s chin, the other still in his hair and softly combing through the locks, as George gets more comfortable in his lap and wraps his arms around his neck to pull him impossibly closer.
It is a push and pull, but neither are competing to be the victor in their rhythm. They just relish in the domesticity of it all. The way George’s cheeks are now warm to the touch, and the way Dream pulls on the brunet’s hair light enough not to elicit another sort of resonance from him but hard enough to be pleasurable, and the way George slowly but surely straddles his way across Dream’s body, having him move down until his back is flush on the bed, and the way that George is now on top of Dream, lips still in sync, hands still combing through hair and tingling necks, lungs on fire but neither ready to pull away just yet.
Eventually, because they’re human, because they still have to breathe (and because they’re human, they have to continue to hide their relationship away from the fans and from Sapnap), they part for air.
Their lips part with a soft smack, breaths intermingling for a moment, and then the only other noises in the room are the soft pants of both of the parties trying to catch their breaths. Dream watches, mouth parted slightly and eyes of emeralds, George in all his glory. On top of Dream, reds lip and glistening with spit and all kissed out because of Dream.
His hair, all tousled and more messy than it was before, of chocolate hues and shades of mahogany. His eyes, pupils blown wide and irises glowing auburn, speckles of starlight and lashes prominent. His body, relaxed and calm and collected, with his figure so unbelievably perfect to fit inside of Dream’s arms and his clothes oh so warm and lovely, his-
In the midst of Dream’s internal declarations of love, George promptly collapses onto Dream’s body, chin hitting Dream’s shoulder blade, enlisting a soft oof to fall from his lips. George giggles into his skin, and Dream can’t be mad at him when he sounds like that.
“I wanna cuddle,” George mumbles, and before Dream can even protest (he wouldn’t protest to begin with), George buries his head in Dream’s chest, wrapping one arm around his middle, the other somewhere up his shirt, and legs entangling with Dream’s so much neither can tell where one body begins and the other ends.
Dream lets out an airy chuckle as he copies the same position, wrapping his arms around George and allowing him to snuggle in even closer to his body. Their body heat is one in the same, and flurries of butterflies and flower petals and all things lovely fly around in Dream’s soul and leap in and out of his heart. He feels warm, and loved. He likes to think it is the best feeling he has ever experienced.
With George, Dream feels safe. Dream feels as if George is a glass of cold water on a hot summer’s day. A refresher, a break in their busy lives. Dream doesn’t have to worry about deadlines with George, he doesn’t have to worry about burdens on his shoulders and he doesn’t have to think with George, just act.
Dream thinks being with George is the best possible thing.
And because Dream thinks being with George is the best possible thing, he delivers a soft, chaste kiss to the aforementioned’s forehead to show just that. George lifts his head up the slightest bit, showing off his pearly whites and his red face. “What was that for?”
Dream smiles back. “I love you.”
George plants his head on Dream’s chest once again and groans. “Simp,” he says, but it’s muffled by the fabric of Dream’s shirt. Dream shrugs.
“I guess I am. Only for you, though.” George lets out another strangled noise at that, but it holds no heat to it. Dream settles down on the cool side of his pillow, closes his eyes, and basks.
Dream does not need to look at his partner’s face to know his face in a blazing bloom of red.
Dream does not need to hear George utter the same words of affirmation either to know that he loves him just the same.
All he needs is this moment. George in his arms, quickly falling asleep, protected from all the dangers of the outside world. (And this moment in history, just for them and no one else, unbeknownst to their fans, to society, even to Sapnap.)
Dream and George. George and Dream. In the new, in the future, and in forever.
At that small semblance of a poetic meaning, Dream settles into bed, tightens his grip just a little around George, and wonders when, if ever, they will tell the certain raven head just upstairs.