Chapter Text
Boxes lined off-white walls like a frame to an unfinished painting, thrown to the side and forgotten about until the colors began to fade. Strips of wood with inconsistent coloring stretched across the floor and mirrored doors not quite large enough for their frames. George bumped about mindlessly as his frail arms lugged yet another pack of his life in Britain into his new apartment. They engulfed his small form, casting shadows over his legs and torso, swallowing him up and shrinking him down. The contents of each over-filled cardboard case rattled and rang out into the empty house as the Brit dropped them down, shaking out the pain in his arms as the weight relieved itself from his grip. Pale fingers caught in brown knots of hair, pushing them away from tired eyes as beads of sweat began to thread their way across a ruffled hairline like a needle laced with glue.
Slumping down on the floor, knees to his chest, George took out his phone and sighed. He held it tightly in his left hand, cupping it with his right before lifting it to his forehead and letting it knock against his soft skin as his legs bounced ever so slightly. He was only halfway done with moving himself in and he already wanted to go home. This had been a terrible idea, and the regret was slowly seeping into George as if it was rainwater pounding softly against a cracked tin roof. Loud, consistent, and painfully annoying. He didn't even have anyone to help him get in, and he certainly wouldn't have anywhere to sleep tonight if he continued at the pace he'd set himself.
George's phone buzzed to life between his palms, cutting through the silence enough to make the brunet jump. His shoulders lifted, eyes pressing shut, fingers threatening to launch his phone towards the floor. Blinking slowly, he huffed, flipping the screen towards himself. He was on edge, and inexplicably pissy.
Wilby: hey gogy
Wilby: GEORGE* fuck sorry, autocorrect
George rolled his eyes, a breath of frustration lingering on his lips. He certainly didn't like that Wilbur's phone was implying that he said 'Gogy' instead of 'George' often. What kind of name was Gogy, anyway?
Wilby: just wanted to see if u were procrastinating already lol
Wilby: how's unpacking?
George sighed to himself, flipping his phone back over and tapping the case mindlessly. He bowed his head, resting it against his knees as he thought. Wilbur was scarily good at reading him, even if they were an ocean apart now.
Me: I'm almost in :)
George almost felt bad lying about something so insignificant, but he couldn't admit to Wilbur that he'd already messed up. He hadn't been in his new apartment a day and he was already proving that he wasn't made to live alone. He wished his family was here. Or even simpler, he wished he'd just stayed in Britain. Being overambitious would be the death of him.
Wilby: oh really? you're ahead of schedule !
Wilby: didn't think you'd be able to do it considering the amount of books you took LMAO
Wilby: glad america's treating you alright :)
George sighed yet again, this time slipping his phone back into his coat pocket. With a soft clunk, it hit against something as it came to rest. Wilbur had warned him against taking a whole box of books, but they were some of George's favorites, and how was he supposed to keep his book review blog afloat if he had nothing to write about? Besides, there was no way George was leaving without at least one copy of his favorite author's work. Just thinking about it made his heart flutter, breath hitching in his throat as he smiled to himself. Dream was an international treasure, and, Jesus, was he good at what he did. Every book he wrote was an instant classic, the words on each pages running in wet ink into a puddle before evaporating, swirling like mist around each reader's mind and painting an individual picture with every new sentence scanned, read and studied. Each corner folded, book spine broken and cover tattered was a new experience. These books were loved, often more than the reader themselves, and that was simply a fact.
As George sat and hummed to himself in delight, imagining every page he'd feverishly scanned over again and again and again, he began to tune back into his surroundings. The soft pour of rain had begun to knock continuously against his windows and through the door he'd left open in his rush to get his belongings off of the pavement and into the living room. Through the doorway, George could clearly see a pile of abandoned boxes melting away, cardboard softening and dragging itself towards the concrete, losing against the weight of whatever it had previously been holding. He jumped up in terror, tripping over his own feet twice as he bolted out of the front door. The rain was harsh and unforgiving, shooting down at pale skin and blocking blue and brown eyes alike as they scanned the mess in front of them repeatedly as George nervously attempted to check for any damaged items among clumps of wet box. He began to drag the boxes indoors slowly, the struggle equivalent to an uphill battle for his tired arms and weak grip. Passers-by must have thought he was either insane or a robber as they turned a blind eye of the pale Brit getting soaked.
He struggled to keep all of his belongings together as he shoved the dying boxes into his hallway. Coming to the last box, stand-alone and previously marked in purple sharpie to signify importance, George slowed. It took him a minute to process what he'd left until last, and when he noticed, he felt sick. He could have cried where he stood. All of his books, and especially every special edition of Dream's work he'd ever owned, were soaked through. A slender hand reached down, slim fingers wrapping softly around the covers of a few books as George pulled them towards himself. He flicked open the cover of the top book, watching as the pages clung together desperately, ink smudging slightly as the brunet shakily traced his thumb across each marked off page. He had frozen on the street, almost in disbelief, as he watched his most prized possessions melt away in front of his very eyes.. He'd spent years collecting these. Special editions of such a highly renowned author's work weren't easy to come by at release, let alone months to years later. George could only watch as his hard work dripped onto the pavement, running away from him in streams, puddling below the curb before disappearing down a drain. He dropped the three books he had been holding back into the box carelessly, shutting the top back up and lifting his soaking sleeve to wipe his eyes as he tried desperately not to let his emotions overwhelm him. This was pathetic. He felt pathetic.
Across the street, a figure slowed and stopped to watch George. His hands tensed against his umbrella handle as the brunet began to cry softly. It was a sorry sight, to say the least, but empathy shot through the man's veins as he worked up the courage to cut across to ask George is he was alright. Just a quick word so as not to draw attention to himself, and he'd head home. He darted across the road, eyes on his feet, but as he approached, their eyes met, and the Brit turned to leave in shame, suddenly aware of how exposed he was. As if he was on autopilot, the figure reached out to stop him, long, tanned fingers gripping George's slim, pale, wrists. The contrast stopped both of them in their tracks as they stared before the figure realized how unnerving this must have been.
'God! Sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm not- I don't wanna be weird, I just wanted to see if you were okay? I saw you from across the road.' He began, letting George go. Their height difference was enough to make George flinch. He felt completely overshadowed by the man in front of him. The brunet reached his free hand up to his wrist, rubbing it slightly as he began to speak.
'I'm okay. Thanks.' He muttered before he turned to leave again. The taller of the two went to stop him again, shooting a glance towards the box labeled 'Books' by his feet.
'Is it about these?' He called out in a rush, gesturing towards the wrecked cardboard below them. George didn't speak.
'I- I own the bookshop on the corner, if it is. I can see if I can hook you up with whatever it is that got ruined in here.'
Expression unchanging, George sighed, hair falling over his eyes as it dripped in the rain. The man stepped closer, hovering his umbrella over the shorter boy's head.
'You don't need to help me. I don't know who you are.' He stated, flicking brown locks off of his forehead. The man shrugged.
'Judging by your accent, you're not from around here. And you're obviously in boxes. It's the least I could do to help you settle in.' He smiled, genuine and warm. George fought the urge to roll his eyes, and finally, with a great deal of reluctance, agreed. If he was being honest, he wanted nothing to do with this guy. He just wanted to see where the bookshop was so he could commit the way there to memory. Then he'd thank this guy for his time and leave. Bookshops were a second home to him, whether some creep ran them or not.
The taller man beamed, helping to shift the ruined box inside of the doorway so George could lock up, much to George's dismay. He was much stronger than the brunet, and that made him twitch slightly. This guy couldn't be dangerous, could he?
George realized he had been overthinking as the taller man held out his umbrella for him. He jogged to catch up, and the two began to walk side by side in silence. It was less awkward and more fearful. George didn't want this guy to get attached. The man didn't want to scare George more than he already had.
'I'm Dream, by the way.' The blond boy finally stated matter-of-factly, breaking the silence. His green hoodie was pulled tightly around his head, freckles dancing lightly across his cheeks and coming to rest under piercing green eyes. How could someone like this own a bookshop?
George had to check he'd heard Dream right.
'I'm sorry, your name is Dream?' He began in disbelief. There was no way this guy was THE Dream.
'O-Oh! Nonono, not like the author.' The taller man chuckled, nervous, guessing what George must have meant. It was like he had read George's mind. 'That's the nickname my friends gave me. Because, y'know, the bookshop?'
He himself didn't sound convinced, but George brushed it off.
'I'm George.' He smiled, wishing he was back home already.
'George is a nice name. Very English, though.' Dream chuckled. His eyes pressed shut when he laughed, and it was quite the sight. George felt his cheeks grow warm as he desperately looked away. What was wrong with him?
'At least I have a proper name.' He joked back, nudging the blond boy softly. He felt the pressure lift off of his shoulders as the blond boy beamed down at him, smiling from ear to ear. He smiled like Wilbur, George noted. He smiled like a friend would.
'Hey!' Dream exclaimed, feigning anger as the two turned the corner. They walked in unison, footsteps harmonizing with one another as they headed towards a cosy looking bookstore.
'Oh, here we are.' Dream muttered, attention leaving George as he stopped in front of the window. George stared in disbelief.
Yeah, he was definitely spending all his time here.