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He’d never admit it out loud but Dream spends too much time up in his head these days. Exactly the opposite of how he used to be. He used to be the guy in the grocery store telling the woman stocking the shelves all of his life story and aspirations. Dream’s always loved to talk. Growing up Dream would go with his family to church services, not because he believed in what the preacher was shouting but rather so he could visit with anyone and everyone who would listen.
Sadly, Dream cared a whole lot more about talking than he did listening.
That’s why it didn’t work out with George.
Maybe if Dream had just kept his mouth shut. Been less talkative, more considerate, listened better, avoided arguments, cleaned the bathroom after cutting his hair over the sink, made the bed in the morning, bought the right brand of tea that George liked, and warmed George’s chronically cold hands.
Maybe if Dream had done all of those things George would still be here. Running his fingers through Dreams hair as he sits at his computer, feeding Patches at the same time every day, keeping his voice down while Dream takes a nap, listening to Drista’s stories for hours, letting Dream pick out the movie, running a hot bath for the two after a long day, checking all the locks before going to bed.
Dream finds himself doing some of these things, even with George gone. Maybe he encouraged Dream to be a better man. Or maybe Dream’s just trying to make it hurt less when Patches strolls into George’s old office looking for the Brit. If he could just member to feed the cat at exactly 8am and 6pm like George used to then maybe she would stop crying at the door every night. Maybe she wouldn’t curl up in George’s old spot, seeking his warmth.
He misses George too.
A thousand times more than he did for the years before they met in person. A thousand times more than when George traveled back home for the holidays. Dream wishes more than anything that he could go back and miss George like that again. Miss him but know that he’s coming back. That George was going to walk through the airport terminal right into his arms and whisper, “let’s go home.”
But George isn’t coming back.
He’ll never do all those things Dream grieves over every single day.
God, how dramatic. It’s not like George is dead. That would be much worse. Even in his delirious state Dream knows that. Even though he misses George as though he’s dead it's still comforting to know that George is still out there, moving on and finding happiness. Searching for someone who can make up for Dreams mistakes.
Dream remembers the day it fell apart like it was raining and thunder was crashing in the sky. But really it was sunny. The sun was shining and everything seemed perfectly normal. That’s because all the days when it had been raining Dream was smiling and had no idea the sky was pelting at George.
Rain crashed around George, disrespecting him like it had no idea that he wasn’t waterproof.
George spending hours into the night poking around on the internet in the cold air of his office instead of coming to bed should’ve told Dream that something was wrong. When Dream was waiting in bed until his eyelids couldn’t be held up anymore and George still wasn’t in the bed Dream should’ve known. Then when George finally came tiptoeing in, only to sleep on top of the duvet with a separate blanket, Dream should’ve known.
If time could be manipulated Dream would go back and scold himself for being so blissfully unaware. For keeping George’s feelings out of sight and out of mind. Obviously he would do that, a million times over.
“You never listen to me.” George had groaned, head wrapped up in his arms and resting on the dining table. “Do you even care about what have to say or am I just your audience?”
Now Dream hates the sun. He hates it because it was in his face when George said that, when everything took a sharp turn for the worst that he should’ve seen on all the signs of prior.
George, as angry and hurt as he was, still graced Dream with the benefit of the doubt. “I know you’ve had a lot going on with everything.” His voice sounded wet like he was crying, like it was raining. Dream felt too scared to reach over and soothe his back. “But it’s just upsetting when you spend all day talking down to everyone on the internet and then do the exact same thing with me.”
It felt like a punch in the gut. And even though Dream felt defense bubbling up in his throat he swallowed it back down. He knows he was wrong, that what George had said was true. Dream cried as George pleaded, “Are we not at the same level Clay?”
Dream slept on the couch that night. George fell asleep in the bed with tear-stained cheeks and blotchy lips. Dream couldn’t bear to look at him like that. Especially knowing he was the one who caused it all. Dream cracked George’s porcelain skin, started a forest fire in his head, and said fuck you to top it all off.
Some things can be waited out. George remembers arguments with his mom growing up, ones that were healed by time alone, ones where the next morning they were hugging in the middle of the kitchen without a word spoken. Some things just need time.
But George didn’t need any more time. Time meant nothing when that was all he gave Dream for far too long. George spent months excusing Dream's behavior. Convincing himself if he playfully joked about things that were bothering him then Dream would know it wasn’t a joke and change. That Dream would listen better, stop talking down, do his chores around the house, read the grocery list and get everything George had so carefully written down, take responsibility, and be more kind.
Even though George expressed all of those things to trusted friends who would council and listen they would always tell him the same thing. They all said to directly confront Dream, but George hates confrontation and he especially hates arguing. So instead he bottled it up and let the pressure build until every little problem snowballed into one really really big one.
“You're so immature.” George supposes he should not have said that. At that point, they had been arguing for what felt like all day. George remembers yelling at Dream as the younger closed the blinds and trapped the darkness in. “Do you not remember spending hours telling me why this was all a good idea? How we're perfect and moving halfway across the world and leaving literally everything I’ve ever known behind was a good idea?”
Dream said his name so softly “George... Please.” A useless plea that didn’t encourage George to stop but still stabbed him repeatedly in the chest anyway.
“I can’t believe I let you convince me that this was a good idea.” George gently said the most hurtful things. “But it had to be Florida. It had to be me moving to you instead of you to me. It had to be the house that you picked out and the life that you wanted and you, you, you.” George sobbed down his face, and usually, he liked to lick the tears on their way down but that was a cry unlike any other. One that clouded judgment and removed the desire to taste the salt.
His hands weakly hit Dreams chest and they stood there. George wonders if Dream had just wrapped his arms around their bodies and promised to change, if he would still be there. If everything would’ve worked out. If they would be hugging in the middle of the kitchen the next morning.
It’s too bad that change doesn’t come like that.
“We said this wouldn’t change anything,” George lifted his forehead off of Dreams chest, released his fists, and sat back onto the couch. “Our friendship. That we couldn’t not be together.”
They had. They both swore through cracking microphones that it wouldn’t change anything. Friends first, lovers second. Leaps of faith into whatever the hell George thought it would be. George had too much faith, too much trust, and too much ignorance. He ignored every thought that walked across the stage in his mind, every single one of them warning him that if it didn’t work out things would never be the same.
“I told you it was risky, Clay.” George didn’t. Not back then. On the couch with the burning sun seeping through the cracks in the blinds was the first time he said it out loud. Dream didn’t correct him, because they had both thought it. “And now we’ve ruined everything.”
“George,” Dream pleaded again, muffled by his sleeve. “You’re still my best friend. This doesn’t change anything.”
“No! It changes everything Dream!” His voice raised, scraping up this throat. “I can’t be your friend anymore. I can’t just talk to you and look at you like we’ve never kissed or fucked or said I love you. Like, like you don’t know all of my secrets.”
At the time, and even now, George wishes he could erase events.
Going back would be so easy. George would’ve never egged Dream on or flirted back. He would’ve set a boundary early on, said he didn't want to date dream and didn’t have feelings for him. Then when Dream confessed after filming that stupid video with that stupid plugin George would’ve apologized and said he didn’t feel the same. And even though he knows Dream would be sad he’d still let him down softly, tell him that there are billions of people and at least millions who will love Dream back in the way George wouldn’t allow himself to.
He’d have to remind Dream how long it’s taken to build up their friendship, how they shouldn’t throw it all away just because Dream has a stupid playground crush. He would tell him it's too risky.
Then they could’ve forgotten the whole thing, been awkward for a few days, then moved on.
“Just tell me what to do George,” Dream was quite literally on his knees in front of George, hands gripping George's thighs and desperation seeping out of every pore. “We can- I can fix this baby.”
“I did.” George pushed Dreams hands off his legs before they sunk under the skin and started to scrape at his veins, “I told you so many times.”
George knows he rushed into it. He was the one who pushed the move up by several weeks. Breathing that he couldn’t wait, he needed Dream immediately. Telling Dream he finally understood why people write love songs. All of that cheesy shit he wishes he could take back.
It didn’t take long for George to catch the next flight back to London. He made the purchase the day after the confrontation, left the next. Dream didn’t even get to see George off or beg him to stay one last time. All Dream was left with was a text message.
‘I have some movers coming on Tuesday, my stuff is in the office and all boxed. Just let them pass through.’
Dream punched a hole in the wall. Never had he resorted to physical violence before. Not even when his parents got divorced and he felt so lost and upset. Yet there he was, fist in the drywall, blood peeking out of the flesh on his knuckles, and hand aching. No more tears to cry, only anger and disbelief.
Dream deserved a second chance. George didn’t say anything for months, they were fine for months. Then George exploded, turned the house upside down, cursed Dreams name, and left the country all within the span of three days.
They spoke on the phone a few days after George left, but the conversation is so blurry in Dreams memory. He had hardly eaten or drank water since George left so moving hurt and opening his eyes felt impossible. George had mumbled something about how he was sorry for a few specific things he said, wasn’t coming back, and that Dream needed to take care of himself.
The anger came back and manifested through the phone. Dream said what he held back. God only knows the hurtful things he said because only two minutes later George hung up and Dream blacked out from exhaustion. And when Dream tried to call back a few hours later after he calmed down George's phone number was out of service and his Discord account gone.
Now It’s been months since then. The summer sun has been replaced by the brisk late winter. Dream has never been happy that the sun sets so early with the season's change. But he decided this year that he likes it. That the less he’s around the sun the less he’s reminded of George.
But he’s finally gotten into the habit of feeding Patches at the same times every day. And he doesn’t spill his heart out to the woman working at the grocery store. Actually, Dream doesn’t talk to much of anyone anymore, not even YouTube. Dream’s working on not talking down to people and listening better.
His mom, one of the few people Dream still talks to, has noticed Dreams change. For the first time, when she came over for their weekly dinner Dream sat quietly. Lips only separating to form questions and let her know he was present. She praised him, told him he was doing well despite everything.
Dream begs to differ. He still stalks George’s Instagram from a secret account. Watches the first few minutes of George’s new videos until he’s ripping his headphones off his ears and choking on air. He still checks to see if George has unblocked or followed him back. His feed is full of fans asking where he’s at, where George is, when they’ll be streaming together again, when Dream will be back online, and a million other questions Dream doesn’t want to answer.
Because George is gone. Not just as a partner but as a friend and a lover and a support system and someone to laugh with and reminisce inside jokes and plan their future with.
George is gone in every aspect of Dreams life that he used to take up. His spot on the couch is empty and the kitchen utensils he bought are unused.
George is gone, and it doesn’t look like he’s coming home.