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The soft hum of George’s ceiling fan whirs subtly in Dream’s ears. It’s quiet, apart from the faint flitting overhead, and it’s dark. Dark where the golden light from George’s hallway glides beneath the doorframe and doesn’t quite reach the hidden nooks and crannies of the bedroom.
He watches idly as dust drifts throughout the void air surrounding him, vague glints of illumination catching against the floating specks and giving the appearance of a hundred glimmering orbs. Dream counts the loose particles, as childish as that may be, when he finds the tension behind his eyes not allowing him the rest he only wishes he could attain.
Maybe he’s unable to give in to the taunting drag of sleep because George is right there, eyes shut and breath fluid, right there, tucked comfortably under the thick covers and looking ever so serene. Maybe George was the cause of Dream’s wakeful midnight.
But, then again, when is George not?
It’s been harder for Dream to sleep lately. Slow nights where Dream lays torturously conscious and thinks of nothing but the idiot snoring next to him are more common than they used to be. George seems to somehow continually plague his mind.
Though Dream can’t find it within himself to ever put a stop to the endless trains of thought. Imagining George’s umber eyes and silky lips is nowhere near bothersome. Not even now can he rid his mind of George’s fine freckles or his rumpled hair, or his harmonious laughter and perfect smile. Not even with the boy resting directly beside him can Dream cease the fantasizing of every faultless feature.
A part of Dream finds himself scared in a way, lying so close in proximity to George—like somehow George will overhear his brain’s loud, looping temptations, like Dream’s secrets will work their way into George’s dreams.
Guilt accompanies the fear. Dream feels like a constant liar.
George has no idea of Dream’s incessant desires and yet Dream speaks to him every day as though nothing is wrong. As though he isn’t in love with his best friend.
Maybe it’s better this way, Dream reasons, for George to not know. God only perceives what would come of their friendship if Dream were to vocalize his feelings aloud and the inevitable pain of losing George would be too much to bare.
He can’t lose him. No matter how much Dream’s heart breaks when they do that stupid fucking flirting act or when they make moves on one another that ‘don’t mean anything’, Dream can’t lose him. He is not going to risk what they’ve built for his own selfish emotions.
Because what is Dream without George, really?
George stirs under the blankets and it’s not until then does Dream realize he had begun shamefully staring at him at some given point, lost in his own head. He quickly averts his gaze back to the swimming dust above.
A rustling of sheets tells Dream that George has roused from his dormant state. Could he sense Dream’s burning eyes on him?
“Oh,” George immediately sounds, “you’re still awake?” Dream has to pretend he doesn’t notice how his accent thickens with sleep or how his voice is so fucking low and rough.
“Yeah,” Dream responds, gulps, and passes a quick glance to George like he hadn’t been ogling just mere moments ago. He truly doesn’t know what time it is, however, he assumes that it’s likely very late. He could have undoubtedly been imprisoned to his own brain for hours on end. “Can’t sleep.”
George turns a worried head to him after it seems he has come to terms with being conscious again. “You okay?” He asks a brief second later. “What’s keeping you up?”
You, Dream wants to say, but relents. “I don’t know. Not tired, I guess.” Blatant lie. Dream has been tired for weeks.
George hums. “Sorry.” he reaches a small palm over like it’s nothing and places it comfortingly upon Dream’s bicep. “You can turn on a movie if you’d like?” he offers, gesturing to the small television in the corner of the room with his unoccupied hand.
The fire that spreads down his arm is fucking ridiculous. Why does it burn him? They’ve been friends for years, why can’t Dream see him as that? As a friend?
“No, I don’t really think it’ll help,” Dream smiles apologetically. “Thanks, though.”
Dream is trying so fucking hard to ignore those pretty, pale fingers grazing up his arm, but George has the nerve to rub delicate circles with his thumb and Dream can’t breathe. He has the nerve to squeeze subtly and smile back at him with those perfectly straight teeth and Dream might faint.
How can George do it? How can he act like this doesn’t mean anything?
God, Dream should have never agreed to spend the night. This is all his own fault. He had avoided coming to George’s house for weeks, maybe even months, for this exact reason, yet here he is, losing his fucking mind over touches that have no significance. George is just being a good friend. George is just trying to help.
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” After a beat too long, George asks. His gorgeous smile morphs into something of concern, brows furrowed and lips straight.
"Well," Dream finds himself replying before he can accurately process the words that are slipping through his teeth, “maybe there is.” Fuck.
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” The small circles grow heavier until George is casually massaging the muscle of Dream’s arm, easy and languid motions. “I’m always here for you.”
Dream allows his lips to tug upward into a curled smile because he just can’t help it and George does the same. “I know, I’m just—I’m being dumb. Don’t worry about it,” he tries to reassure, but George can see right through him and Dream hates it. He has to break the eye contact. “I promise, George, I’m okay.”
If real-life was like The Office, Dream is sure George would have looked into the camera and rolled his eyes just then. Instead, he only rolls his eyes in Dream’s direction.
“Dream,” George scoffs, “you know I can read you like a book. What is it? Is it your college application? Because you’re a genius, I’m sure you’ll get accepte—”
“No, no, it’s not that,” Dream cuts off. Honestly, college has been the last thing on his mind even though, as a high school senior, it should be on the forefront. He takes note of George’s fingers that halt their soothing motions.
“Well, then wh—”
“Nothing, go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to keep you up too.”
Dream may have come off a tad sharp, but George knows when to stop pushing and so he does—he stops. He supplies a sympathetic look and resumes the flimsy kneading to Dream’s bicep. “Sorry,” he whispers.
Dream immediately feels the guilt welling in his stomach. “Don’t be,” he returns quietly. “I just don’t think there’s anything you can do about this one.”
When George’s hand leaves Dream’s arm for good, Dream thinks he’s fucked up. He thinks he’s pissed him off. He expects George to bid him a small ‘good night’ and drop the conversation completely. What he didn’t expect was for George to scoot over beneath the blankets and get closer.
George leans into him with a passing delay and slowly settles his head down onto Dream’s chest, so steadily that it comes off as hesitant. Dream’s mind is running at a million miles per hour because what the fuck is he doing? This isn’t what friends do, is it?
Dream’s sure his brain has short-circuited when George places a shaky palm to his sternum and rests it there beside his face. He’s completely snuggled into Dream’s side now and Dream doesn’t know what the fuck to do with his hands. Where is appropriate to touch? When does this no longer become platonic?
“Is this okay?” George’s voice is much shakier than it was beforehand and Dream almost winces at the unsureness of it. Is it? He doesn’t know.
After a pregnant pause Dream realizes he has yet to answer and quickly rushes out a breathy, “yes,” even if he’s uncertain, because going silent was most definitely not helping George’s obvious nerves. George immediately releases the tension in his shoulders at the confirmation and exhales a small sigh of relief.
George appears to slacken, but Dream still doesn’t understand what to do with his arms. They are currently floating awkwardly above George’s body because what if Dream is taking advantage of the situation? What if he does something wrong? What if he touches George somewh—
“Your thoughts are very loud,” George mumbles into Dream’s sweatshirt. The boy reaches his hand behind his back and grabs one of Dream’s hovering wrists to promptly release it onto the dip of his waist. Dream is going to fucking explode. “Just chill.”
As Dream peers down, his eyes are presented with a sight he has only ever dreamt of; George curled into his strong arms, warm and safe; dark tufts of hair sprawled across his own sweatshirt, a pretty spiral of silky strands that wind into the crown of George’s scalp. He wants to fucking kiss it.
God.
“Sorry.” He’s embarrassed at the way his dialect comes out choked and mildly strained. If George hears it, he doesn’t say anything.
Dream’s body is as stiff as a board, he is well aware of that fact, painfully aware, despite George’s casual attempt to get him to relax. His larger hand that covers George’s side is also unmoving and tense, too afraid of letting his fingers go lax and having a chance of touching George in a way that would make him uncomfortable.
Though George doesn’t seem to be uncomfortable in any way when he begins tracing mindless shapes with his index finger against Dream’s chest. His fingertip leaves a trail of sparks and ash, burning any sort of poise left in him at this point to the ground. He clears his throat and it stings through his neck.
George glances up. “Are you sure this is okay?” he asks, a portrait of unease washing over his features for a moment’s notice, it hurts Dream to look at, “we don’t have to if you think it’s weird or something, I just thought that it might help.”
Dream doesn’t respond because he truly doesn’t have an answer. Is this okay? The question repeats over and over in his mind. How can it be when Dream yearns for nothing other than to hold him tighter and never let go? He feels like he’s betraying George for thinking this way.
The silence is deafening, but what is he supposed to say? That he’s fine with George slowly unraveling any ounce of sanity he has left?
Dream can feel his walls crumbling down, his guard is slipping. All he can seem to do is stare into those hypnotic, honey-brown eyes, awaiting an answer. Those eyes that are filled with something so damn unreadable that it’s driving Dream up a wall.
George breaks eye contact after the quiet lasts a second too long, after what feels like centuries, and the man fucking scoffs at him. He rolls his eyes and grabs Dream’s hand again with bitter fingers, this time throwing it off of his waist instead. Panic alarms are ringing in Dream’s head as George sits up and scoots back over to his side of the bed, leaving Dream’s side cold and empty.
George easily finds a position with his back facing Dream and his shoulder pressed into the mattress without a word said.
Dream’s body feels frozen, it’s like all time has stopped, like his muscles have been frosted over and the blood in his veins is being turned solid at the sight of George’s spine. He senses the overwhelming pool of regret quickly puddling in his stomach, dripping guilt over ice-cold bones.
He already wants to take it all back, wants to pull George back in and ease him of any distress he may have caused. Simple contact overpowered a kind act, he read too much into the situation.
Dream stares vacantly at the small body opposite to him, hurt and distant, and decides he needs to do something. Anything.
The air around them is thick, heavily weighing Dream’s limbs down into the mattress, paralyzing him until he finally regains the intelligible ability to move again.
Without giving himself the chance to overthink, he shuffles towards George and meets the welcoming heat of the man’s body again.
Dream mirrors the position on his side to press his chest against George’s back and when he hears George’s breath hitch, their bodies are flush against each other. He hopes there is nothing negative behind the reaction and snakes his arm around the boy’s waist again, taking initiative this time to allow his hand to lay on the flat of George’s stomach.
His mouth is hovering dangerously close to dark hair and it tickles his chin when George seems to look down at Dream’s splayed palm.
Instead of letting his mind accelerate out of control like last time, he draws his focus onto nudging George closer with the arm hooked around his little frame.
“Sorry,” he whispers against the tip of George’s head after a fleeting moment, lips brushing over feathery locks.
The tension in George’s shoulders doesn’t leave like it did earlier. “Why are you doing this?” He asks, voice matching the low level of Dream’s. “It obviously made you uncomfortable before.”
Dream copies what the other had been doing minutes prior and traces comforting shapes onto the shirt adorning George’s belly with his finger. He ignores whatever flames ignite in his chest at the innocent contact and buries it deep down. “I was being stupid,” he states simply. “Now go back to sleep.”
George shakily exhales, but he seems to relax a tad in Dream’s embrace. “Are you sure?” he asks for what seems the millionth time that night and Dream feels a wave of guilt wash over him for making George second guess himself so many times.
“Positive.” He accentuates the word with a brief squeeze, hugging tight.
The excruciating urge to think about all of the things that are wrong with this shouts loudly at him in the smarter parts of his brain, begging for attention. He wants to think about the hand on George’s stomach, George’s back against his chest, their legs locked and feet intermingled.
But he won’t. Instead, focuses on George melting into his touch and how good it feels, not how it will effectively wreck his mental health when he rethinks of this moment in the foreseeable future.
He flutters his eyes shut to the sounds of George’s soft breathing, swallows down any stupid emotions, and by the time George lays his hand over Dream’s and intertwines their fingers, Dream is already asleep from countless wakeful nights.
He’s asleep when George raises both of their hands and presses a light kiss to the front of Dream’s knuckles.
He’s asleep when George lies conscious for two more hours just to savor the feeling of being held tight in Dream’s arms.