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The back streets of London were quiet; a stark contrast to its bustling nature a few hours prior to dusk. Fire-lit lanterns swing from overhead passages above doors, the wax dripping down onto the wet pavement below for the homeowner to almost slip up on the next morning. Just above the terraced rooftops, where the crows sat in wait for discarded scraps from the baker’s store, billows of charcoal smoke cloak the sky like a second blanket - one that does not bring warmth. There were a few beggars here and there, dotted over the cobbled pavements, and sitting in sludgy gutters crying out pleas for spare change or a nugget of bread to ease their screeching, twisting guts.
George tries to pay no mind to them, his mother had always told him that they should find work of their own to upkeep their withering bodies whenever they had passed a poor beggar in the street. See, George had always felt sorry for them— not pity, of course— but instead, of sympathy. He had been born into wealth, raised on fat mutton chops and healthy, flavourful cups of tea. He had been incredibly lucky, to be born into such a grand family, and for that he was grateful. Yet, he often wishes that he could experience the life of London’s streets, rather than being cooped up in his father’s drawing room with the miserable Ms. Moor for lessons on politics, sciences, and all the boring things in-between. He was well taught on the struggles of the lower class of London, and understood the hardships and struggles of the poor and the horrible nature of workhouses.
So, instead of following his mother’s teachings, George digs a slender hand into the deep pocket of his jacket and produces a sixpence for the beggar (an amount that was certain to provide the bloke several weeks of comfortable food and drink, and even perhaps, some cheap shelter), and, without taking a second to brush the pad of his thumb over the engraved patterns, drops it into eagerly awaiting hands.
When the beggar grins at George, and profusely thanks him with a very rough, but gleeful, handshake, George doesn’t think twice about it and moves on down the dark cobbled road and into the thick fog, pushing his hands back into the deep pockets of his jacket.
They are due to meet at a dark street corner in front of Mr. Leonard’s butchers, where the lamp in the streetlight gave out a few weeks ago. George’s stomach rumbles at the thought of the little shop. Mr. Leonard makes the most fantastic pork pies.
As George approaches the meet-up point, he notices that Dream is there, underneath the streetlight. Alone.
He can tell that it’s Dream because of the way the lad is hunched over, leaning a shoulder against the broken streetlight with a dark green— almost brown — scarf wrapped around his neck and the bottom half of his face, leaving only his viridian eyes on watchful prowl. He wore his usual cap and mud-brown clothing, but instead of the rotting leather boots that were normally on his feet, were the new leather boots that George had gifted Dream for his birthday last week. Somehow, Dream had kept them in pristine condition despite the appalling smog and coal residue that cakedd the back streets of London.
The realisation makes George bite back a smile.
He comes to a stop in front of Dream, who tilts his eyeline down to meet George’s. He sends Dream a quick smile before scanning the empty street for a certain someone. “No appearance from Sapnap this evening?” He asks quietly, head still turned away from Dream.
“Nah. He sent word earlier. His mam found some lad’s trousers under his bed.”
“Oh dear,” George mutters and faces Dream again, whose eyes were trained on a house across the street where a candle came by the window. He had always been so cautious of anything that moved, even just by an inch. “Who’s the boy?”
Dream huffs and stands up from the streetlight, shoving calloused hands into shallow pockets filled with lint and a tatty, unwashed, handkerchief. “Some coal miner’s son. Name’s Karl or somethin’. Never met, but Sap speaks highly of him.”
George hums and brings up his wrist to note the time on his silver wristwatch. 11:54PM. Dream watches, eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer. George only smiles. “Six minutes. Reckon we can make it in time?”
Viridian eyes hold a knowing smugness as Dream slowly backs away from George, hands still in pockets. “Always underestimatin’ me, you are,” he bites, protecting his pride. George’s smile remains, and he follows Dream’s footsteps down the street.
“Underestimating? ” He teases, clicking his tongue, his strides long and painfully slow. “That’s a big word.”
“Mind it, pretty boy,” Dream warns, before spinning on his heel and taking off down a side alley that branches off the street that they were on. George lets out a light chuckle, but quickly follows the other, worn leather boots pounding against the uneven cobble road.
Dream dipped and dived down alleys, passageways, small gaps between houses, and even through a small coal warehouse, to try and lose George. It had become customary, that Dream would lead the way - a different route every time, mind you - and would attempt to shake George off his trail by taking the most intricate shortcuts and turns. Usually, though, Sapnap would be with them, in which case the three of them would take turns every time that they met up. But even then, it would be Dream or Sapnap taking the lead since they both knew the backstreets much better than George did.
Ahead of him, George spots Dream flick his ankle in an odd direction, and suddenly a number of empty crates topple over from where they were stacked against the wall. George frowns at the foul play, having a good mind to yell at the mischievous boy, but remembers that they were in a narrow alleyway in between two lots of houses. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with that, so he jumps over the mess with a huff and continues to speed after Dream, who takes a sharp right as he exits the passage.
The right takes them down a dimly lit street, similar to the one they met on a few minutes prior, but this one was more familiar to George so he allows himself to slow down to a steady jog in the direction of where Dream was waiting for him. He stood at the bottom of a narrow set of steel stairs that scaled the side of a large warehouse containing bags upon bags of coal from the nearby coal mines. Sapnap had recently gotten a job there after his mother begged him to start providing for the family, which, George supposes, was how Sapnap had come to find the company of a coal miner’s son.
George stops short of Dream, and wipes a clean sleeve of his jacket across his sweaty forehead, huffing out heavy pants and exhaustion. Dream does not mirror his fatigue. “Time?” He asks simply, readjusting his scarf so that it covered his nose again.
George rolls his eyes, but brings his wrist up to note the time. “Eleven fifty-eight,” he muses and lifts his eyes up to meet Dream’s. “Will we be racing up the stairs as well?”
The scarf around Dream’s face shifts slightly, in a way that George knows that the boy is exhibiting a sly smirk. “Only if it means you get even more out of breath.”
George’s eyes widen and he lunges forwards to shove Dream back onto the steps, but Dream evades the attempt by stepping to one side with a low chuckle. “Gotta be quicker than that, pretty boy,” he tsks lightly, beginning to make his fast ascent of the stairs.
George grunts a retort, collecting himself before following Dream up the stairs too. “Stop calling me that,” he grumbles quietly, half hoping that Dream doesn’t hear him, and half that he does, but decides to ignore him. Dream doesn’t show any sign of hearing him, so George pushes the thought to one side until another day.
The warehouse itself was very large— possibly one of the largest in a 3 mile radius— and was located in the perfect position, and the perfect height, for a clear night of sitting under the moon. A quarter of the way up, Dream turns and grabs George’s hand (George tries to ignore the fire that suddenly rages with warmth from within) to drag them both up the stairs, breaking into a sprint-like climb so that they could make it to the rooftop in time.
The warehouse’s roof was so high up, that a little before they made it to the peak, the two boys pushed through the layer of thick black smog that blanketed London in darkness for most hours of the day. It’s a terribly high climb and pushing through the black smog is god-awful, but once the boys make it to the top, the stars and the moon shine down on them, and the gentle London breeze drifts through their clothes, lifting up the material as if they were winged beings, on the edge of a building, ready to jump off and soar into the night sky. Across the landscape of terraced roofs and coughing chimneys, stood the city’s clock, tall and proud; Big Ben. Across from the clock, to the left and slightly further on, stood St Paul’s Cathedral; a magnificent place of worship filled with beautiful art and breathtaking architecture. George would take Dream, but Dream had never seemed interested in the idea; muttering things about looking out of place , or being mistaken as a beggar seeking shelter .
With both feet planted on the rooftop, George faced the wind and tilted his neck back, throwing out his arms with a bubble of laughter to feel the cool gust better. He really did feel like he was flying. As he did so, the bells of Big Ben chimed out for twelve o’clock, their tolls rolling over London in routine fashion. Growing up in London, George had quickly found comfort in Big Ben’s chimes - no matter the hour. He opens his eyes to see Dream watching him, a couple metres way. George grins at him.
“Wouldn’t get this in Cornwall!” He shouts to Dream over the clock’s tolls, watching as the other tilts his head ever-so-slightly and lifts a steady hand to pull down the scarf that was concealing his nose and mouth. From it, appeared a crooked nose dotted with light freckles, and a set of pale pink lips that were quirked up at the corners to form a small smile.
“You got cliffs though, ain’t ya?” Dream questions, crouching down and taking a seat on one of the crates that the two of them and Sapnap had brought up to the rooftop previously. “Over the sea, aye? Must be nice.”
Before taking his own crate-seat beside Dream, George fishes a small, damp packet of cigarettes alongside from his trouser pocket, but no means to light them. He frowns. “It’s too quiet in Cornwall,” George pauses to look over the rooftop for the lamp that usually hangs outside a door that led down into the top floor of the warehouse. “I like the clock’s chimes and London’s song.”
George turns away from the crates to head to the lamp outside the door, pulling out a cigarette to slot in-between his lips, and then carefully leaning forward into the lamp to light it. With it lit, George leans back and inhales a heavy drag, holds it for a few seconds, then exhales; the tobacco quickly working its magic.
“How poetic. I’d much rather have some bloody peace n’ quiet,” Dream mutters, holding up an eager hand for his own cigarette. George strolls over to him. “Can never get that ‘round ‘ere.”
George hands Dream a cigarette and Dream props it between his teeth with a grin and leans forward, expectant. George narrows his eyes, but compiles and leans down to meet the end of his cigarette with Dream’s, their eyes meeting in a brief silence. George wonders what it would be like to gently kiss Dream’s eyelids with the bells of Big Ben tolling behind them.
When Dream’s cigarette is lit, he doesn’t pull away. The two of them stay like that for a moment, carefully watching the other, before George leans back. He takes a seat on the crate beside Dream, and peers out over the city of London and its bleakness in the dead of night. They were sat somewhere in between the edge of the rooftop and the middle of it; far enough away to suit Dream’s fear of heights, but close enough to the edge to feed George’s need of thrill and excitement of being so high above the rest of the world.
“Do you reckon you would like the serenity of the countryside, then?” George asks, his eyes trained on the silhouette of St Paul’s Cathedral ahead of them. He thought the countryside was rather pleasant, but living in an estate home with a large garden his whole life had made the never-ending roling fields particularly dull.
Dream takes a drag of the cigarette, and lets out a deep exhale with a nod. “I’d get me own place. Couple of sheep or cattle to me name. Tend to the chickens, go down to the seaside every evening to watch the sunset,” he takes a moment to pause, frowning at the city below, before adding on; “my own little paradise.”
“Sounds nice,” George hums, taking off his hat and running a hand through his fringe.
“You could live with me—” George stills “—though you’ve made it clear that it’s not the place for you.” Dream looks at George out of the corner of his eye, lifting his arm to take another steady drag.
Dream was right; George didn’t think the countryside was for him but— “Well,” he starts with a slight chuckle, placing his cap natly back atop his raven hair, “they say that it’s the people and not the place, correct?”
Dream says nothing, but raises his eyebrows in interest.
Minutes of comfortable silence pass by, the only movement on the rooftop were Dream and George’s hands raising and lowering to take drags of their cigarettes, the smoke disappearing before them to join the rest of London’s smog.
Dream inhales once more, and drops the cigarette onto the floor, moving his boot over to stamp out its flame; small stones crunching under the pressure. He then leans back; hands planted behind him so that he could knock his head back and close his eyes. After a moment, he lets the smoke escape from his mouth and nostrils and into the night sky. George forces himself to look away.
“The future is too far away. We needn’t speak of it now,” Dream mumbles, perhaps more to himself, but George hears him loud and clear.
“It’s never too early.”
Dream grunts. “You sound like me mam. Always botherin’ me about becoming a chimney cleaner.” He sits back up in time to watch George stamp out his own cigarette. “There’s no chance I’m gonna be one of ‘em sweepers. I’d be in the casket by the time I reach twenty-two.”
George sends a teasing nudge into Dream’s shoulder with a lopsided grin. “Then I suppose you will have to make those last five years worthwhile,” he jokes with a tilt of his head.
Dream returns an equal grin with one eyebrow raised and shifts a little closer to George. “You suggestin’ I gotta live a bit more, George?”
George eyes the very short distance between the two of them and gulps. Under Dream’s excruciating gaze, he tries his absolute damndest to stay calm but it’s proving to be very difficult as the familiar feeling of heat rising up his neck tickles his thought process. As a result, his brain stuttered to a halt as intrusive ‘ what ifs’ and ‘ he mights’ cloud his judgement like London factory smog.
“Well I should have something to say during the epilogue that I would deliver at your untimely funeral.”
“You keepin’ records or somethin’?” Dream laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners with the appearance of a dimple on his left cheek.
George lifts a deft finger to tap against his temple with a smug smile. “All pleasant memories are documented here at my convenience.”
Dream twists on his crate, knees knocking with George’s. “You wanna add something to the collection?”
“What—”
And then George is being yanked forwards by the front of his collar, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. His hands land heavily on Dream’s thighs and then soft lips are being pressed against his.
George closes his eyes and sighs. The rotten taste and smell of smoke should not be this addicting. And yet, George is left aching for more when Dream releases his hold on George’s collar and pulls back with a shy look.
“Was that pleasant enough?” He asks with a wobble.
For a moment, George sits and stares at Dream, trying to form some sort of coherent sentence, but looks more like a fish out of water. Dream chuckles and stands up from his crate. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he jokes, offering a hand out for George to take.
Not wanting to embarrass himself anymore than he already has, George takes Dream’s hand and is pulled to his feet. Then, his brain kicks back into gear and a smug look takes over his previous, rather bashful, expression.
“So,” he drawls out, eyeing Dream with a knowing look. “May there be more of that before you turn twenty-two?”
Dream chokes on air and sends a punch into George’s shoulder, who steps back with a chortle. Though Dream’s actions betray his expression, as a nervous smile settles on his lips and a crimson red creeps up the sides of his neck. George couldn’t help but smile.
“The tough pauper boy is not so tough after all.”
“Shut your gob,” Dream grumbles, and moves to grab George’s hand, leading them both back to the stairwell. “You’re an idiot.”
George hums with a soft smile on his lips as they descend the steel stairs together in a comfortable silence; hand in hand, through the black blanket and back onto the solid ground of the backstreets of London.
Once they step off the last stair, the sudden sound of thudding footsteps echoes through the alleyway beside them and the warehouse, and Dream is quick to drop George’s hand to pull up his scarf to cover the bottom half of his face again. George barely has any time to register what had happened when a shout rings out.
“RUN, LADS! ME MAM’S ON ME HEELS WITH A WOODEN SPOON.”
Dream turns to George, a perplexed look in his eyes. “Aye?”
A panting Sapnap rounds the corner and he skids to a halt in front of Dream and George, his signature white bandana tied around his head; though it was more greyish-brown from working in the coal mines.
“What’re you boys doin’? I gotta—”
A high shout pierces the quiet London atmosphere and Sapnap’s eyes widen in fear. “Lads, we gotta go. Like, right now. I’m in so much bother but I had to see you guys before Georgie left for the country,” Sapnap pants out; so quickly that George struggles to make out what he's saying.
Another cry echoes down the alleyway, seemingly even closer than before, and all three of them jump into action; running down the abandoned street with yelps of gleeful laughter, jackets flowing in the wind behind them and leather boots beating the dirt road in unison.
A shout from Dream: “Race you losers to London Bridge!”
And the three of them dive down three separate routes; each hoping to be the first to cross the finish line, each with carefree minds and easy grins.
Ready to take on the world.