Work Text:
There’s a regular at the record store George works at.
He sees him around enough, but - whatever the reason - George finds himself on shift whenever he comes around.
Not that he’s necessarily complaining, the man in question seems nice enough. He’s polite and friendly and maybe a bit more than a little attractive and maybe George has a slight crush on the mystery regular. Vaguely, he knows it isn’t going to go anywhere, just a simple fleeting crush that fades as time goes on. Vaguely, he knows that. Vaguely.
It doesn’t stop him from noticing, though.
He notices he always wears the same yellow (? maybe green, George can’t tell from this far away) hoodie. He notices he usually comes in with a motorcycle helmet under his arm and he notices the slightly wild way his hair falls and he notices the subtle confidence he holds himself with.
“I think you should ask him out,” he catches Wilbur saying, “you’ve been pining after him for weeks and frankly it’s starting to get sad.”
George throws him a glare. “Yeah, yeah.” He gestures dismissively, turning to lean against the cashier. “Anyway, it’s not like it’ll go anywhere, I’ll get over it soon enough.”
He really hopes he gets over it soon enough.
“Hi,” George hears from the other side of the cashier, “do you have Taylor Swift’s 2010 Speak Now album?”
He steels himself, readying the automatic smile he gives and -
Oh god, it’s the hoodie guy.
Oh god, it’s the hoodie guy.
There’s a beat of silence before Wilbur speaks up from beside him, “Yeah, actually do you want me to bring it ‘round?” God bless Wilbur.
“Yeah, that’d be great.” The hoodie guy smiles, charming and slightly crooked and George is going to die. “Do I just stay here, or?” he trails off, gesturing towards the cashier.
“Oh yeah, yeah sure. I bet George here wouldn’t mind, right?” Never mind, Wilbur is Satan’s unholy spawn. Fuck you, Wilbur.
“Yeah, sure,” George hears himself reply, internally cringing as he gets up to face him.
“Right! I’ll be right back, you two keep each other company, yeah?” Wilbur smiles as he walks away. What the fuck Wilbur.
A silence stretches between them, small but thoroughly awkward.
Eventually, he asks, “Why is your hoodie piss colored?”
There’s a beat of stunned silence, and it’s enough for George to regret ever being born. What the FUCK was he thinking oh god -
He hears a barely concealed laugh in what he can vaguely assume is hoodie man’s direction and looks up to see him smiling, broad and wide and charming and George thinks he’s fallen in love all over again.
“It,” he manages over badly hidden laughter, “it’s green.” His smile is infectious and George can’t help but feel himself grin along with him.
“Yeah, and I,” he gestures to his eyes, “am colorblind.”
“So you say,” his voice is teasing, with a lilt of challenge and confidence bleeding into his every word. “George, is it?” He reaches out a hand for him to shake. “I go by Dream.”
“Is that really your name?” He says with a laugh, “Dream.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He smiles and he looks like trouble.
He takes his hand and tries to ignore the jolt of electricity it sends through his veins. “Nice to meet you, Dream.”
God, he’s going to have to get Wilbur back for this.
Unknown Number: hi! its dream from the record store :)
It’s the afternoon after George’s shift, it’s raining, and Dream is here again.
George likes to think they’ve gotten closer since their first meeting, offhand glances turned into bright hellos with accompanying infectious smiles. If George is more honest with himself, he’ll admit he likes that smile more than he probably should, he’ll admit the days when Dream stops by feel a bit more vibrant, he’ll admit that he looks forward to his visits every now and again.
Maybe, just maybe, he’ll admit that he likes Dream more than he cares to recognize.
“Need a ride?” Dream asks beside him, staring out onto the raining street.
“For what?” George responds, leaning back into the cashier, “nothing to do, nowhere to be, so I might as well just stay here.”
“Well, I’ve got nothing to do and neither do you,” Dream says, audible smile lilting and teasing and George thinks he could get drunk on the sound of his voice alone.
“Meaning?”
“There’s a place,” he says, smiling, dazzling and bright and George knows he’d do anything for the man in front of him. “Down the road, a couple blocks from here, d’you wanna come with?”
“What, and waste my afternoon with you?” George shoots back, grinning, knowing full well he’ll travel to hell and back with Dream if he so asks.
“Maybe.” He said, grabbing his motorcycle helmet. “So are you coming with?”
“Maybe.”
George: ughh work today was awful :[ how are u holding up?
“What the fuck. That was so fast. I hate you.” George gasped, maintaining his iron grip around Dream’s waist. “I hate you so much it’s actually unreal.”
“Oh come on ,” Dream laughs, gently pulling his hands loose. George pointedly does not notice the fizzing thrill that explodes under his skin, screaming longing hidden underneath white lies and evasive subjects. “It wasn’t that bad.”
George climbs down, clinging desperately onto Dream’s arm, “It was. It definitely was and I hate you.”
Dream laughs again at that, a slight and guilty laugh that George can listen to for hours. “You love me.”
“I don’t. I really don’t.”
“Oh come on now,” he says again, still smiling and guiding George around by his wrist. “C’mon George, just tell me you love me.”
“You’re an idiot, Dream,” George says, pulling him so they’re facing each other.
“An idiot you love,” Dream counters with a smile, stepping ever so closer.
“Says who?”
Dream hums, stepping yet closer, a hair’s breadth away and god , how George so deeply wishes he could close that gap. “Me.”
Oh.
Oh.
He’s in love, isn’t he?
“Oh yeah?” he breathes, refusing to move, refusing to break the moment.
“Yeah,” Dream says. His smile is bright and genuine this time and wow, George is gone for the man in front of him.
Then he moves.
Backwards.
“Well, then again there’s always the you factor,” he says, pulling away to bring George around again. “Anyway, we’re almost there, I think. Come on.” And George lets himself be dragged, mind still reeling, going a hundred metres per second.
“Yeah,” he hears himself say, “yeah, yeah sure sure.”
What the fuck am I going to do now?
Dream: are u down for movie night sat
“And we’re here,” Dream says, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome, George, to my favorite place in the city.”
“A,” George looks around, smiling hesitantly, “a playground?”
The playground in question is old, slightly rusted, and overgrown - yet through the flecks of paint and brighter colors, markings, and legacies left behind, the place feels alive. Old, but breathing, content with the life it's lived. Vines curling up fences tied with long-forgotten keepsakes, unintelligible words scribbled upon the plant-ridden walls - George can see why Dream likes it here. It feels odd, forgotten but immortalized.
Dream vaults over the gate, unlocks it and gestures for George to follow him. George would be lying if he said it wasn't a little attractive. He walks over to a set of swings, painted hinges and frames peeling from age, revealing its metallic structure underneath. “Sit with me,” he says, swinging idly.
George follows him through the gate and to the swings, eyes bright at the near ethereal scene before him.
Dream looks beautiful , he thinks, and he knows he’s right. The sunlight hits Dream perfectly, turning his dirty blonde hair a halo of brilliant gleaming gold - underneath the slight shadows cast by the surrounding overgrowth, he looks stunning . He’s smiling brightly back at George, beaming and so, so happy and George wishes he can keep this moment forever.
I want to get drunk on the golden sunbeams just barely visible under the canopy of trees, I want to get tipsy over the barest windows into the lives this place has lived, I want to stay in this intoxicating sweetness of us, here, with you.
“So,” George takes the seat adjacent to him, “why exactly did you bring me here?” He kicks carelessly, letting the swing sway back and forth as it pleased.
“What, is it a crime to want to waste an afternoon with the cute guy from the record store?”
He thinks I’m cute?
“You think I’m cute?” George says, regretting the words as soon as they come out of his mouth.
“Well, like, objectively, right?” Dream says, Dream says, and George is too caught up in his own internal monologue to notice to flush rushing up his cheeks.
“I mean, okay, I guess so,” he mumbles, dredging up some vague memory of Wilbur calling him the pretty boy of the store (second only to himself, of course).
“Yeah, see?” Dream smiles again. “Cute,” he says, the slightest traces of fondness lingering in his voice.
“Okay, yeah yeah, sure,” George says, turning away from Dream, attempting in any way to calm his alacritously beating heart.
There’s a moment of silence between them, teetering on the edge of uncomfortable. Stolen glances turn away once the other person notices, waiting for each other to make a move.
“Y’know you never answered me.” George says, looking out over the rest of the playground.
“Answered what?”
“Why’d you bring me here, Dream?”
Dream pauses, face scrunching up as if he's thinking of what to say and - George really shouldn't find that as endearing as he does. “I thought you’d like it, made me think of you.”
“Why’s that?”
“You make me feel the same.”
“What?”
“Lips are sealed on that, sorry!” Dream smiles, wide and goofy and so, so ridiculously charming.
“You suck,” George says through laughter, gently shoving Dream away. “I just can’t figure you out.”
“Well,” Dream says, voice dropping lower as he inches closer, “maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
“Dream,” George whispers, breathless and longing.
“George,” he feels more than he hears, breath just ghosting over his own.
There’s a moment of silence, of stillness, a stalemate neither of them refuse to break until -
The sound of a phone ringing shatters it entirely.
“Sorry, so sorry that’s mine,” Dream says quickly, flushing as he rushes to answer his phone, “do you,” he says, pointing to his phone, “do you mind?”
“Oh, no no it’s okay.” George placates, leaning backward.
“Thank you,” Dream says apologetically, moving to answer his phone.
George shoots him a faint smile, kicking the ground to let the swing sway once again.
Dream comes back a few minutes later. “Hey,” George looks up at him - he’s still so beautiful . “I’m really sorry, I forgot I was gonna do something with my friend Sapnap and,” he chuckles slightly at that, face scrunching up the constellations of freckles George could spend hours counting, tracing, connecting and making his own. “That was just him getting on me for being late.” He laughs, short and infectious and George can’t help but smile. “I have to go, do you need another ride?”
“No, no it’s okay,” George says, “I’ll just call an Uber or something to my place.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Dream,” he smiles so exasperatedly fond. “Now go, you have a thing you’re late for, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dream says, pausing just a moment before pulling his jacket around George’s shoulders. “Here, it’s getting cold.”
“I - what?”
“Something to come back for, yeah?” Dream smiles, eyes dancing with mirth and hidden meanings and layers and layers of secrets George would give anything to uncover. “For next time.”
“What, next time?” George asks, but when he looks up, Dream is already gone. He pulls the jacket closer around him, enveloped in the scent of Dream’s cologne and the faintest trace of engine oil - George has never felt more home .
George: who are you, really?
George: i think u’d like this song
George: [link sent]
It’s raining again, and George is sitting on Dream’s floor. It’s expected and unexpected all at once but the infallible truth is it all screams Dream . The song he sent loops around, drums and guitar riffs doing little to hide George’s thundering pulse as Dream scoots closer, guitar in hand.
“Want me to play you something?” he says, playing an idle tune, and George can’t help but be mesmerised by the way his fingers fly over the strings. “I’ll serenade you.” He laughs and it’s his favorite song.
“Surprise me.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffs, turning the music off. “I’ll play Elvis Presley’s I Can’t Help Falling in Love .” He smiles and George can see stars in his eyes. “C’mon Georgie, give me a song.”
“Oh my god,” he laughs, bright and unrestricted, “don’t ever call me that again.”
“Or you’ll what?” he smiles, sly, and adds, “Georgie?”
“Stop, stop.” He says and he’s laughing more than he’s had in months, pushing Dream away in an attempt to hide his flush.
Dream is laughing too, head tipping back in glee and here, on a rainy day in an apartment surrounded by pieces of him, of Dream , beside an enigma who refuses to be known, George falls in love.
“Are you done?” He manages through badly hidden giggles. “Are you done laughing at my misfortune?”
“Oh come on, Georgie.” Enticing, dangerous. “You know you like it.”
“You or the nickname?” he challenges, wholly unprepared.
Dream is closer now, a breath away, eyes blown wide and unreadable. “Me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You don’t have to.” He whispers and George feels infinite .
“Let me.” He’s quiet, lost in the haze of sweet melodies trailing engine oil. “Please.”
“Keep me a mystery, George.” He murmurs, lips ghosting over his own. “It’s better that way.”
“No, Dream please,” he pleads and he’s pulling away, air unbreathable, “let me know you.”
“No, George -”
“You told me, that day in the playground, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing Dream. What if you were right?” He feels the words tumble out of his mouth, “What if I wanted to know you — would that be such a bad thing?” he pauses, heartbroken, “what are you hiding? What’s your name?”
Dream is silent when he finishes, face stoic and unreadable and George feels transparent under the intensity.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“I said get out, George.”
“What - you can’t just do that.” It’s incredulous, the way he pushes away so easily. “Was I - was this just a joke to you?” He’s standing now, and everything is falling apart around him. “You know what? I don’t care. Fine. I’m leaving.”
“Alright.”
“ Alright ? That’s all you have to say for yourself?” He scoffs, “you’re unbelievable.”
When he steps out the door all he can hear are the faint guitar strings, an echo of melancholic finality.
Wilbur: if youre late im eating all your cheezits
It’s been a week since George visited. He thinks it’s for the better. He pretends he hasn’t been checking his phone religiously, he pretends a piece of him doesn’t shatter every time he sees there’s nothing there. He almost deletes the photo of the playground, taken on the swing and stupidly reminiscent of the first time Dream took him there.
He dreams of him, of them, sometimes. In those dreams, he tells Dream everything ( you make me feel so much more than anyone else ever has, i think i might be in love with you ), flings insult after insult ( selfish, unknown, bastard ), spills venom ( why won’t you let me know you, why won’t you tell me anything? ) Dream, he pleads in those fake realities, let me know you . In his worst nightmares, he’s wrapped in that stupid leather jacket he never bothered to give back, Dream’s lips on his like he wouldn’t be anywhere else but here. In his worst nightmares, he whispers that he loves him, wrapped in black leather under the setting sun. In his worst nightmares, Dream tells him his name .
He doesn’t think about any of it when he wakes up.
It’s Tuesday, and Dream isn’t there.
“What’s your deal with him anyway?” Wilbur asks, leaning on the counter, as he idly scrolls on his phone.
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I think it kind of just, y’know, hit me — how little I knew about him.”
“That’s expected though, right? New friends and all.”
“We’ve known each other a month and I still don’t know any of his friends, Wil.” He sighs, organising the cashier for the nth time that day. “He was talking to someone like a week ago and I have no idea who the hell he is, didn’t even bother to introduce me. What if he’s like, on the run or something?” He pauses, suddenly rigid, “Wilbur. Did I fall for a criminal?”
“Right, okay, enough of that for you.” He says, taking George’s hands away from the cashier displays. “Sit down, you’re catastrophising.”
“I don’t think that’s a word.”
“It is now, and it’s what you’re doing,” he interrupts, sitting George down and kneeling so they’re eye-level. “He isn’t some criminal, alright? He’s probably just some prick.”
“Handsome prick.”
“Yes, that too, alright but he isn’t a criminal or a mafia boss or whatever you’ve got going in there.” He sighs, “it’s okay, George. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”
“We weren’t even a thing, Wil.” George whines, “it’s pathetic, I feel like I’m mourning something that never existed in the first place.”
“No way,” Wilbur almost laughs, “have you seen the way you two look at each other?”
“You know you’re not helping, right?”
“Look, okay, point is you felt a lot for the guy, yeah? It’s normal to feel a little bit shit.”
“You are the least comforting person I’ve ever met,” George sighs with a smile. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”
Wilbur smiles back at him, “Right, well, can you sort the CDs then?”
“What? Why me?” He laughs incredulously, “Isn’t that your job?”
“I just dealt with something traumatic, Gogy,” he says, feigning hurt.
“And what would that be?”
“Your love life.” He deadpans, pulling out his phone again, “Now go fix the CDs.”
“I hate you,” he laughs and it’s the lightest he’s felt in days.
He blocks the number an hour later.
BLOCKED NUMBER: [message redacted]
It's Thursday, and there's someone in the playground when George visits.
Dream sits on the swings, idly kicking the ground as he does. “What are you doing here?” George calls, frozen at the gate.
“This is my place,” he says and Dream isn’t looking at him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m,” he pauses, “thinking.”
“Alright, come here,” he says gesturing to the swing next to him, “the shade’s nice.”
George sees more than he feels himself walk towards him, pulled by an unseen red string. They’re quiet for a moment, the squeaky intermittent creaking of swings filling the lightyears between them.
“It’s Clay.” Dream finally says.
“What?”
“My name.” He says and green meets blue and brown. “My name is Clay.”
“Clay, huh?” He says, testing the way the name feels on his tongue, “I kinda pegged you for some basic white boy name like Jaden.”
“ Jaden ?” Dream, Clay, wheezes out, falling easily into their routine. “No way.”
“Yes way,” George laughs, “I could totally see you as a Jaden.”
“Yeah right,” he cackles and it’s light and George feels he’s found a part of himself again.
The laughter dissolves, and they’re silent once more.
“I’m sorry, George.” Clay murmurs, as if terrified of saying the words out loud. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve that.”
“Why’d you do it?” he asks, “why did you hide so much of yourself?”
“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I don’t know how to act around you.” He confesses, and he can’t bring himself to look at his eyes. “I thought, maybe, if I kept up the mysterious act you’d love me the way I love you.” He’s looking up at the leaves now, drenched in endlessly kaleidoscoping shades. “I’m sorry, George.”
“Play twenty questions with me.” George says, and it’s not a request. “Let me get to know you, Clay.”
He laughs at that, a soft embarrassed chuckle stained with light blue tears. “Okay, George. You first.”
“Why did you keep going to the record store?”
“You were there.” He flushes, “honestly at first I just wandered in looking for something I can’t even think of right now.” He laughs, fond, “then I saw you, and I knew I had to get you to notice me somehow, so I kept going.”
George smiles, coy, “what did you notice about me?”
“Did you expect me to wax poetic about you, Georgie?” He teases, “ oh your hair so dark and luscious as a midnight sky, your skin as fair as milk .”
“Stop,” he laughs, pushing Dream’s swing. “For what it’s worth I definitely did notice you.”
“You did?”
“Yeah,” he says through shaking laughter, “you can ask Wil, I couldn’t stop talking about you. I think he got a little sick of it actually.”
“Did you, now?” He smiles, sharp and teasing and George loves it all the more.
“ Yes ,” he says and he’s laughing again, “now stop I have another question.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Who called you? The first time we went to the playground? Are you some sort of criminal?”
“George!” He gasps in mock outrage, “how dare you assume I’m anything but an upstanding citizen!” He says and he’s laughing and it’s golden. “I was talking to my best friend. I needed to go help him with first date jitters.”
George hums, “and did he help you?”
“What?”
“When you first brought me here.”
“Would you bully me if I said yes?”
“Most definitely.”
“Then I did not.”
There’s a beat of stillness, before a burst of delighted laughter.
“Stop, stop it I can hear you making fun of me in your head.” he says through wheezing laughs. “Stop it you suck.” And there’s no malice behind his tone.
“What? I didn’t even say anything!” George laughs through tears, “you’re just making stuff up now.”
A beat after the laughs die down, everything is still, and Dream is kicking the ground again.
“What if we started over?” Is what he says, “reintroduce ourselves.”
“Really? Okay,” George says, shifting to look at the man in front of him. “Hi,” he reaches his hand out, “I’m George.”
And Dream smiles, fond and full of promises, “hey,” he takes his hand, “I’m Clay.”