Work Text:
petrichor:
a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather
He was moments away from tearing up his maths homework in frustration when George hears the familiar ringing from his front drive. The digital clock to his right displays 22:18. Despite it, he smiles and rises from his desk chair to swing open his bedroom window, which overlooks the front of his house. When he sees Dream’s silhouette riding circles on his bike just before his driveway, George chuckles.
“It’s so late Dream, what do you want?”
The bike skids to a stop and Dream lifts his arms to gesture at the open space around him with a wide smile.
“It’s raining!”
He exclaims it with such simple excitement, but it makes George’s heart stutter, and it was not supposed to do that. Still, he holds out an open palm from his window, and, like Dream said; it was raining. If George hadn't been told, he wouldn’t have noticed, as he was far too engrossed in the symbols and numbers of trigonometry for his own good.
George leans over the window frame. “So it is.”
The significance of the rainfall is that it had been scorching hot for the past three weeks— scorching hot for England, at least— and the, otherwise dreaded, presence of rain had been severely missed.
Occasional cool light drops hit George’s cheeks and he hums. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was a break; one that Dream had greatly been looking forward to.
Dream rolls forwards on his bike. “C’mon, George. Let’s make the most of it before we have to sweat through history class tomorrow,” he quips, leaning over his handlebars. “You know that Ander’s room has awful air conditioning. We will pass out over a twelve mark question about Winston Churchill.”
George laughs. It was true. There was almost no point in there being an air conditioning unit in Mr. Anderson’s classroom, since it only pumps through room-temperature air. “Of course,” he responds, quickly turning to grab a pair of Nike trainers and stuffing his feet into them. “Don’t wanna let Churchill down.”
He hears Dream snort as he swings his legs out of the window, and then gently lowers himself onto the flat-roofed porch below, careful not to make any sound that would set his dog off on one. Once steady, he turns and pushes his window back in, but leaves a large enough gap so that he could pull it open on his return, and prays that his mother won’t check on him before she goes to bed.
He didn’t want the grief of her waiting for him to return home. Not that she’d be angry, but because she’d stay up for him.
“Hurry up, idiot,” Dream calls impatiently.
George drops down from the porch roof and jogs over to where Dream is standing with his bike. Like him, Dream hadn’t bothered taking off his school shirt and tie, but had switched out his usual school trousers for a pair of black football shorts. His tie was loosened, his shirt was creased, and wavy wet hair was plastered to his forehead, thanks to a likely mix of rain and sweat. It was still rather muggy, after all.
George smiles. Dream looks nice. He wouldn’t tell him that, though.
He loosens his own tie and releases the top button to ease the wrap around his neck and sweeps a quick hand over his forehead; hair already damp. He then swings a leg over Dream’s bike, feet finding the familiar croggy bars attached to its back wheel, and places firm hands on Dream’s shoulders.
Dream kicks off the ground, feet quickly settling on the pedals, and takes them down the street towards the main road.
“Where are we off to?” George asks, leaning against Dream’s back some more. Their destination was always different, so he asks the same question each time.
When Dream rang his bike bell and beckoned George away on their usual nightly adventure last week, they ended up on the dirty roof of their local Tesco Express, watching the stars roll by. The week before that, they had broken into an abandoned warehouse and played a terrifying game of hide and seek before being chased out by a red-faced security guard.
Dream’s answer is always the same:
“You’ll see.”
It’s a surprise with Dream; you never know what you are getting into, until you’re actually in it. George never found himself caring about that, though. As long as he’s with Dream, everything seems to turn out a-okay.
Dusk quickly fades as they ride down the road, and streetlights gradually flicker on to light the way; the small drops of rain becoming clearer in the dim glow that they emit.
It was quiet— almost tranquil— wait, no, scratch that, England was far from ever being ‘tranquil’. George was being generous. He knew there’s likely to be a drug deal happening in one of the alleyways branching off his street. He swallows back a laugh at the thought.
At the end of the street, Dream takes the left down a more busy road, leading them towards an even busier roundabout. George grips Dream’s shoulders a bit tighter, and he feels the rumble of a laugh against his chest.
He tries to ignores the way that it ignites his skin.
They take the third exit from the roundabout, which takes them up a main road that leads to the next village over. Half-way up the road, Dream stops the bike at a pedestrian crossing in the middle of the road.
It was like a small island; a safe place for pedestrians to stand when crossing a busy road like the one they were on. On each end of the small concrete platform, were two fluorescent blue and yellow bollards. The same bollards were on almost every English main road to steer cars away from crashing into the island.
“We’re here,” Dream announces, and twists around to send George a smile. “You can get off.”
George complies and stands to the side, as Dream lowers the bike to the ground in the middle of the concrete island.
“Well,” he starts, glancing up and down the familiar road. “This might be the least interesting place you’ve ever brought me to.”
Dream clicks his tongue and wags his finger at George. “That’s not the point.”
George raises an eyebrow, and Dream brushes past him to lean against one of the neon bollards. He slowly slides his back down the glowing plastic, until he’s sitting on the damp concrete, leaning his head back into the bollard.
A car roars past, and Dream inhales.
“It's a good place to breathe.”
George scrunches up his nose. “Since when did you get all zen-y? ”
A small huff of laughter passes through Dream’s lips, and he casts a quick glance up to George. “Just sit down,” he says, almost tiredly, and points a thumb over his shoulder to the other-side of the bollard.
George stares at the side of Dream’s face for a moment more (briefly finding himself wondering how on Earth Dream’s jawline was so sharp), before moving to slide down the dirty plastic and onto the cold floor. He, too, tips his head back to lean it against the bollard, and pulls his legs up to his chest.
If you were to take the bollard away, the two of them would be sitting back-to-back.
They sit like that for a bit, in silence, despite George still being confused. He couldn’t lie, though, sitting there in the drizzling rain, feeling the still air actually shift as cars thunder past, sweaty school uniform slowly getting damper and damper by the minute, was something that George didn’t realise he needed.
And Dream was right, it was a good place to breathe; especially when a car would rush past, because then George has the chance to breathe in some cool air for the first time in three weeks. All he’d been breathing in throughout the past weeks was muggy, dusty air.
Nothing felt better to seemingly breathe in fresh air; even though it was just the same air.
He cranes his neck further back and sees the moon peeking out from the clouds above. A raindrop falls into his eye and he clamps his eyelids shut with a small hiss, dropping his forehead to his knees.
“Did you know that the smell of rain has a name?” Dream asks, breaking the comfortable quietness that surrounded them.
George lifts his head slightly, blinking slowly, and looks to his left at nothing in particular. “Yeah,” he replies softly. “Don’t know the word though.”
There’s a scuffling from behind him, and George thinks that Dream’s legs are now crossed.
“Petrichor.”
“That’s what it’s called?”
“Yeah.”
“Petrichor,” George tries with a hum before taking a steady breath through his nose. It smells fresh, but dusty at the same time; almost like a smell that has the power to reset all other smells— reset the day for tomorrow. It resembles a sigh of relief. “Cool.”
“Very,” Dream says, a smile evident in his voice. A smile that George finds himself wishing to see, if he wasn't back-to-back with Dream, or had a fucking bollard between them.
He cranes his neck further to the left, so that he was looking past his shoulder and behind him. Blonde tufts of wet hair stick out from the side of the bollard. George smiles. He tilts his eyesight down and notices Dream’s discarded hand, open and resting.
George’s fingers itch to reach out, to trace the lines in Dream’s palm, to slot his fingers between rough calloused knuckles and sooth gentle circles into Dream’s thumb with his own. He flexes his fingers—
A van speeds past, flicking up the spray from the wet road, dusting George with a light shower. Dream’s hand slips away.
He curls up his fist and it retreats to his chest, tugging at his tie with a shameful sigh.
This was all so out of the blue— he had never found himself thinking or feeling this way about his friend before. He’d known Dream forever , practically ever since they first learned how to tie their shoelaces using the Bunny Ear method, and he had never thought about reaching out to clasp his hand against Dream’s. Hell— he’d never even thought about a boy in this way before.
So why the fuck, does he want to see Dream smile from his terrible jokes? to catch him staring when he thinks George isn’t looking? to tease him about the nice things he does for George on a whim? to watch his eyes light up whenever George opens his arms wide for a hug? to hear him laugh hysterically whenever George trips over his own feet? to spot him, cheering, on the sidelines during George’s school football match?
Why does he feel this way about his best friend?
Dream clears his throat, cutting George out from the criss-crossing strings of his racing thoughts wired through his brain and chest.
“I have a sharpie,” he says, like George is supposed to know what he means by it.
George furrows his eyebrows. “Okay?”
“And we have a white-ish bollard.”
“Right?”
The bollard jolts against George’s back, and he feels Dream’s shoe poke his thigh. He turns to face the movement; Dream was now facing the side of the bollard that neither of them were leaning on, with a navy sharpie clutched in his right hand, and sporting a cheeky grin on his face.
“Let’s write something,” he suggests excitedly, though it was more of a “we’re going to do it and I know you might argue but you’ll give in because it’s me” kind of suggestion.
George eyes the sharpie before meeting Dream’s gaze, and after a quiet, contemplative moment, shuffles to his left, scooting closer to Dream. His knee rests on top of Dream’s leg and he smiles to himself. Dream sends him a sort-of-knowing look, so George hurriedly grabs the sharpie from his hand.
“What should we put?” He asks, mind going blank of all possibilities. Dream was far more creative than him, he’d be better at this. George quickly concludes that he shouldn’t have snatched the sharpie away.
Dream places his right hand behind George and puts his weight on it, his side leaning against George’s. “Whatever you’d like. You have the pen,” Dream responds easily, his breath tickling George’s ear.
As a result, George’s eyes widen and he stares at the black bollard in front of them. What the hell?
He feels like he was literally malfunctioning on the spot. Everything had consumed him so quickly, it was almost like he was overloading. His ears suddenly go fuzzy and his eyesight blurs.
What the actual fuck.
“George? George! ”
The hand shaking his shoulder grounds him as he blinks and quickly shakes his head, returning back to Earth, allowing his eyes to refocus. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, glancing back at Dream’s worried gaze over his shoulder. “Zoned out. Gave me an idea of what to write though.”
“Oh yeah?”
George hums and uncaps the sharpie. Leaning forward, he zeroes in on a blank white space just below the blue circle with the arrow pointing downwards. He catches his tongue between his teeth as the pen tip meets the white plastic. He takes a breath in through his nose and writes; the blue felt tip gliding across dirty plastic. Once satisfied, he pulls back and caps the pen.
“Zoning out,” Dream muses in thought, taking the pen that George offers; their fingers brush together for a brief moment. George almost forgets to breathe. “404. I get it. It’s a literal human error.”
George gives a light scoff. “I s’pose so.”
Dream shuffles forwards, placing a steady hand on George’s thigh. “I love it,” he smiles.
“Good,” George teases, glancing back at the navy blue 404 scrawled onto white plastic. He’d written it right below where the white arrow was pointing. He hopes that Dream puts his next to it.
It takes a minute for Dream to come up with an idea, and when he does, he leans forwards— just like George had done— and gets to work. He pulls away not a moment later, a small smile on his face.
Just below and to the right of George’s 404, was a smiley face.
The simplest thing ever; two dots and a flat curve for a smile.
It was ever so simple, and it was so… Dream, and he adored it.
From the corner of his eye, George notices Dream face him, watching intently for his reaction. But, George says nothing and turns to look back at Dream instead, immediately stilling at the unprecedented slither of air between them; noses almost brushing.
Dream’s blinking is slow.
George can see the freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose.
And somehow, he manages to breathe.
George had known Dream for almost his entire life. They met in Mrs Mason’s class when they were seven years old— Dream had just come in from the US— and they bonded over a terribly drawn sheep for the class nativity play. Ever since, they were practically inseparable; digging holes in the school courtyard during break, ‘accidentally’ booting footballs at windows, leading school clubs side-by-side, getting detention together (or, Dream saving George from detention with his Prefect badge), and going to support the other at George’s football games or Dream’s debates.
George met Dream ten years ago.
But here, sitting in the middle of a main road, knees knocking the other’s, breaths mixing in the space between them, sitting in front of the freshly marked bollard, barely illuminated by the soft orange glow of a nearby streetlight; George felt like he was meeting Dream for the first time.
“Yeah?” Dream asks in a hesitant breath.
George hums. “Yeah.”