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Their hands are in Dream’s hair, and their mouth is moving across his neck, parted lips blowing soft tufts of breath as they leave a trail of spit in their wake. A pale hand, in turn, grasps at their neck, hands curling around it in a desperate attempt to pull them closer, moving gently down their arms and back up their spine. Soft fingers do a slow swirl in the nape of Dream’s neck, right where blonde hair makes way for soft skin. He sighs as hot air passes over the underside of his jaw, chapped lips marking rough bites on smooth skin before they move to nip at his ear. His skirt is ridden up, legs straddling his open thighs as the plaited material bunches at his hips.
George is willing to trade his colorblindness for total blindness as he watches the scene unfold from the couch.
It's not unusual for Dream to find a pretty body and have it against him at every party they go to, but he generally has the decency to not do it in front of George’s eyes. He seems to have forgotten it, though, as he basically gets mauled by a brunette whose name George doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to know, so he doesn’t have to imagine it being whispered in the voice he loves so much.
The pair is right across the couch from him, unaware of the people around them, and he doesn’t want to know how much they’re holding back. He hates it. He wants to wrap Dream up in bubble wrap and place him in a secure room and just keep him somewhere he can’t be touched. He knows it's selfish, but he doesn’t like the way his throat tightens and how his eyes burn whenever his gaze flicks to what's in front of him.
“This won’t be good,” Sapnap appears behind George, unbothered by the display in front of him as he scrolls through his phone, “Luc has been sick since yesterday, and they barely just recovered today.”
Luc, George hates the way his mind can immediately conjure up Dream’s voice saying the name, desire laced in deep tones.
“And it’s not good because?”
George is glad for a distraction, glad to have a conversation to focus on instead of watching the best friend he has been eternally pining for, get pretty purple marks sucked onto the pale expanse of his pretty, polished neck by Luc. He cranes his neck as far as he can till he feels a sharp pain shoot up its back, and relaxes it gently, eyes trailed on Sapnap with much more focus than normal conversation warrants. The younger gives him a weird look, brows furrowing as he watches George run a hand through his hair.
“It’s not good because now Dream might get sick, and I’m leaving for Texas tomorrow.”
Something in George’s heart reels him in as he shifts his gaze, a sudden urge to go up to the two and drag their mouths off each other rising up his chest. Dream’s sighs are too loud, too real, and his guilt reprimands him for being bitter when the blonde is so obviously enjoying himself. It's clear in the way his hands cling to the other’s shirt, mouth falling open as impatient fingers are pressed to his chest. His neck is still being treated as a canvas, lips brushing over it to color all over with purple strokes and reddish tints.
George wants to laugh and say that he deserves it, deserves to get sick. Deserves to have his whole body hurt with the bruises on his flesh.
But for what? A voice rings in his head, he isn’t doing anything wrong.
“George? Did you hear anything I just said?” A voice rings to his left, and he’s reminded that Sapnap is still there, and probably witnessed him watching two people make out, his best friend being of them.
“No, sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if you could take care of Dream while I’m gone.”
“He’s not a child, S. He might not even get sick.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, as a fucking whimper reaches his ears. He needs to get out of there before he commits murder. His parents would not be happy to find him on trial for killing someone out of futile, unreasonable anger.
After a quick walk around the room to bid his friends goodbye and a tense exchange of looks with Sapnap, which ends with the latter shaking his head as he walks away, George is out of the door. Dream doesn’t notice him, doesn’t say goodbye, a small voice tells him he doesn’t care.
He is proud of himself for not having spared a second glance at the bodies on the couch and brings the jacket closer to his frame as a shield against the cold air. It reaches his thighs, the zipper tugged up halfway. He can’t see it, but he knows it's a deep olive green, with simple black lines marking its pockets and lining the sleeves that are just a little too long for his arms. It keeps on falling off one shoulder, engulfing his frame like a coat would, and he tries his best to not bring the collar up to his nose and sniff it.
It’ll smell like Dream. It's his jacket, after all. George doesn’t think he could handle it.
If the shirt he sleeps in that night is a little too big and smells a little too unlike him, George pretends to not care.
_____
Dream :
george did you leave early?
sorry I didn’t say goodbye
I didn’t see you leave
did u walk home? It was freezing
you walked home didn’t u
idiot
call me
The sun is too bright in George’s eyes when he wakes up, limbs thrown haphazardly across the bed to sink down on his mattress. He stretches while still lying down, hitting his head against the headboard when he reaches over for his phone. Texts lie unopened, caring inquiries from his Mum, updates on the journey from Sapnap, who apparently thought driving for hours without food and water in his system was wise and now needs George to tell him what to buy to deal with the dehydration he feels and of course, those from Dream - a mixture of general questions that shouldn’t really mean anything, but for some reason, they spark a small low flame in his barely-awake senses.
You didn’t see me leave because you were busy sucking face, he almost texts back, of course I walked home, you drove me there.
He doesn’t, just shuts off his phone and throws it to the side, deciding to take a shower. The jacket hangs over his chair, slightly covering the desk, a reminder of the one person he’d rather not think about.
George is used to this, used to going to parties and coming back with the same thoughts in his head - thoughts of Dream’s whereabouts - where his hands have been, where his mouth has left marks, whose bed did he sleep in for the night. Did he stay till the morning? Did he send George a text from their bed or was he home in his own sheets?
He’s used to them, but that doesn’t mean they’re any more welcome.
He gets his towel and pulls out the first sweatpants he finds in the closet, trudging across the room to the bath. It’s a quick shower, and he’s out with wet hair and scrubbed cheeks in a few minutes. He goes for his phone, to put it off silent for the day when he sees three missed calls from Sapnap. Sighing, he calls him back, ready to explain the nutritional value of food available at gas stations and maybe stay on call while he eats.
“He’s sick.” He’s greeted with the words as soon as the call is picked up, turbulence mixing in with Sapnap’s voice.
“Who?”
“Dream, he wasn’t good when I left and I just called him to check up on him. He’s gotten worse.”
Worry is the first thing to creep into his mind, followed closely by satisfaction, which triggers guilt next. The other two leave as fleetingly as they came, but worry remains. He hides it well when his response is a simple “And?”
“And? I asked him to call you if he needed help, but he hasn’t, has he?”
“No.”
“Could you go see him? Please? He doesn’t even know what medicines he needs, he was asking me to identify them by colour.”
His first instinct is to say yes, to go to Dream and gather him in his arms so he can transfer all his body heat to the blonde. His first instinct is to take care of him, hold him close till he feels perfect, warm up a bath and make him soup, and whisper sweet nothings into soft blonde hair as his hands rake up a spine in motions of comfort. His first instinct is Dream and everything he can do for him.
Then he remembers why the blonde is sick.
“He got it from Luc, didn’t he?”
“George, this isn’t the moment to be the jealous alpha male-”
He cuts Sapnap off. “I’m not being a jealous anything, I was just wondering.” His eyebrows furrow at the lie.
“Yeah, it seems the same as what Luc had. Are you gonna go?”
He hates that he can’t say no, that even though anger seeps into his thoughts, they’re still filled with concern and the need to care. “Yes, I’ll pack some food for him. Did you eat?”
“I had fruits and water, just like you asked.”
George hums his approval before hanging up, his mind already rushing to recall what ingredients he has at home and what medicines Dream might need.
It takes over an hour, but he’s at Dream’s doorstep with a bag of meds and another of food containers, tucking one under his arm to ring the doorbell. He’s greeted by the sight of a tall body leaning against the wall as a hand pushes the door open, softening down when the person recognizes him through squeezed eyes.
“George,” Dream breathes out, moving to take a bag from him. A slight frown appears on his face as the other moves away, stepping inside the house and closing the door while the gaze on him remains fixed.
“Why didn’t you call me like Sapnap asked you to?” George asks, unable to keep his tone from bordering on accusatory. He’s being a terrible friend, he thinks, he’s supposed to help Dream feel better.
“You didn’t answer my texts,” Dream’s still staring at him through green eyes, darkness underneath them demanding George’s attention, “I thought you were mad at me.”
“I wasn’t-,” George places the bags on the table, taking out the containers and medicines from them as he talks. “I wasn’t mad at you.”
“You’re lying.”
He turns to look at Dream, and it takes all he has to not hug him there and then. He looks so wonderfully soft, a baby blue jumper loosely hanging down his body. The skin around his nose is a deep pink, and it darkens just slightly as he rubs at it. Light scruff marks his jaw, and George wants to feel it against his hand.
Then his eyes go further down and land on a dark red spot, right below where his throat dips, where George has thought of pressing kisses more times than is appropriate. “I’m not lying.” He quickly draws his eyes away, going back to the bags.
“Yes you are, your eyebrows just scrunched up.” He looks over to see Dream cupping his mouth with a hand, and the next moment he’s coughing into it, body heaving with the force before he stabilizes himself and clears his throat. “Two lies in a row, you’re on a roll today Georgie.”
“Don’t call me that,” George huffs, his hands finally finding the pill he was looking for. He goes to fill a glass with water and comes back, handing both the things to Dream. “Have that, then you can eat something and sleep.”
“Sapnap sent you here to babysit me?”
“Yes, now have the medicine so you can eat actual food.”
He doesn’t need to look at Dream to know he’s giving him puppy eyes, “Food's not tasting good," His voice is smaller than George is used to, and he despises himself for a moment. Dream is sick, and the older is throwing a temper tantrum instead of caring for him. “It never does when I’m sick.”
"Should've thought of that before kissing a stranger."
George doesn’t mean to sound as bitter as he feels and his heart sinks as Dream's face grows visibly smaller. He's almost shrinking back into his chair at this point, gone is his previous attempt to look okay.
"I didn't think," Dream stops himself, gulping as his eyes flit narrowly between George and something random behind him, "I didn't know I was supposed to look up someone's medical history before kissing them."
George doesn’t know whether he's relieved or annoyed that Dream can still maintain his snark, even when his face is red with cold and his hands are visibly trembling as he holds the glass of water to his lips.
"Maybe not go around kissing people then," He mumbles, but Dream could never miss his voice, no matter how quietly he spoke, not when it was a mere whispering in a crowded room, and certainly not when the two were alone and there was nothing to drown it out.
"What?" He’s trying to put some force into his tone, George realizes, trying to take some power back. "I didn't realize you had a problem with me kissing people."
You weren’t supposed to. George doesn’t know whom he wants to scream at more - himself or the idiot who’s swallowing a pill. His hands grip the table, teetering on the edge too tightly, and he could pull off the table cloth in one swift motion if he wanted - have the things thrown on it go flying across the room. He almost wants to do it, wants to relieve the itch in his hands in a way that broadcasts his frustration to the person who’s caused it.
“Can we move past this? You’re sick.”
“And? I don’t need you to pity me for it.”
“I’m not-,” George rubs a hand over his head, struggling to stay calm, “I’m not here to pity you. I’m here cause you’re my best friend, and I want to take care of you. So can you please just sit there while I heat up your food and then sleep? For the sake of your own health?”
Dream looks like he’s debating whether to argue or listen for once. He decides upon the latter, chewing on pink lips as he shifts his chair completely into the circle of the table and sets his head down upon the cold glass. His hair flays out, falling over his face and he presses it further into the nook of his arm. No more words are said, not when George heats up his soup and puts it in front of him, not when his hand is just a little too hot from the fever when George's fingers brush against it. The medicine he was given makes him sleepy, and soon his actions become slower, to the point where his struggle to lift a spoon becomes clear.
Despite knowing better, George moves to sit next to him, hand gently covering the other's to tug it down till his palm is flat against the table. "Let me," He says, a little too soft with his lips a little too close.
Swift fingers take the spoon from Dream's hands and pull the bowl closer, dipping the steel down and holding it back up to rough lips. George is desperate in his attempt to not think of where they've been, not when he can feel the air from them on his fingers.
It feels like an invasion of privacy to look at Dream's eyes, and if he's embarrassed at being hand-fed, he doesn't say so, just leans into his warmth so the brunette doesn't have to stretch his arms too much. He lets George sit close, lets him graze Dream's side, lets him blow on the soup for a while, and feel the hot breath against his shoulder. George curls towards him so he can use his left hand instead of right, and the latter is set on the back of the chair. His body practically shields Dream, his front turned to him while his hand makes a barrier to his back. It's a split-second decision when he moves it from the chair to his waist, feeling the softness of blue fabric under his skin when the pads of fingers press ever so lightly into smooth flesh.
When his eye catches sight of a red mark, he shifts his gaze, hoping the other didn't catch him. He keeps his focus trained on feeding Dream, setting up a pattern of picking the soup up and rubbing Dream's back when he gulped it down, simple circles that feel just barely there but at the same, feel too much.
"I'm sorry," He says at last, when the soup is finished and he has no excuse to keep touching the blonde, "I was mad at you, I'm not now, though. I never had any right to be in the first place, either."
When Dream's hand moves to remove the spoon from his own and cup it, fingers fitting perfectly into his and reassurance being delivered in a gentle squeeze, he turns his head up. George thinks he just might be looking at the most beautiful boy in the world.
No, he's sure of it.
Dream's hand feels cold against his own, and he wants to harness the heat of the sun and keep it caged, ready to give it to Dream as and when needed. It's hard, because George has always considered Dream as the sun, and the sun just isn't meant to be cold, so he squeezes his hand in return. It's tighter, firmer, and carries all the warmth he can gather into his skin. Dream's skin reddens where his fingers press, flushing lightly with the blood that runs through them, veins rising up at the pressure.
"It's okay," The younger replies, smiling despite the hoarseness in his voice, "Could you tell me why though? I'd like to not make you mad again."
George wants to tell him its nothing he did, that it's just his own irritation seeping into friendships and taking up unnecessary headspace, but Dream is so close and somehow he smells so nice, despite his sickness, and all George wants is to tell him what he's been struggling to keep hidden for years, what keeps him from initiating contact when they end up sleeping in the same bed, what makes him look at anywhere but at Dream when they're at a party and someone's already got their hands up his shirt, what's making him almost choke on his words right now.
Now. Because Dream has just asked him a question, and he needs to answer it. Right.
"It's not-," George wants to look away from him, but Dream has him pinned with his gaze, "You... um, you kinda made out? With someone? In front of me?" The blonde's eyes widen with each word, and his fingers rub into George's callouses, "Last night?" He finishes, cringing at his own voice.
"Oh," Dream's eyes search his face for something, and his own is still white from the cold. George wants to press kisses all over it till it blooms red. "Oh," Dream has the decency to blush. "Did that make you uncomfortable?"
I just wished it was me on your lap. "No, I-" George glances at Dream's hair. It looks soft, just like the rest of him.
"I don't know how to explain this to you, I feel like I'll start talking and ramble for hours." He could, in hindsight. He thinks he might even want to - just talk for hours about the way green eyes look like they have the world's beauty stored in them when he can't even fucking see the color, the way a casual hand ran through blonde hair often feels like his death sentence. He could talk and talk and talk, but it would never be enough.
"I'd listen to you for hours."
Dream's not making it easier for him, George almost wishes he would. He wishes the other would drag his hand away and move to the other corner, that he'd reject George and accelerate his heartbreak, rather than sit there and smile so prettily and talk so fondly and almost give him the ever spiteful spark of hope that he's heard of dying down more often than it bursts into a flame.
Dream doesn't though, he remains where he is - all soft smiles and simple patience, even when his skin feels too cold and his voice is too rough and- shit, he should really be under the blankets right now. He needs to not be subjected to his best friend's conflict, a best friend who's been hiding a secret from him, for God's sake, and he needs to rest and feel better and-
"George? Did I lose you?"
George almost screams when his first instinct is the most predictable answer of all. You could never lose me.
"No, I was thinking."
"Of what?"
You. "Of what I want to say." Us. Could we be a thing?
"I know what I want to say."
George is glad for it, not just because he never grows tired of hearing Dream's voice, but because they might just forget about the question he has to answer. Well, Dream might. He could pretend to. Pretending has gotten him a long way so far. He can pretend a simple chuckle from Dream doesn't set off butterflies in his stomach, that a slight curve of his lips doesn't blind his eyes with a beam of light where he's the only one visible, that he tries not to let his imagination run wild when his name on the other's tongue sounds like a confession (maybe he imagines that, it doesn't make it any less hard) and he can surely pretend to not have heard the question whose answer he's been dreaming of confessing since forever.
"You're my best friend, George," He starts, and George is immediately brought back to reality, "And I never want to make you uncomfortable," friend, best friend. "I'm sorry for yesterday, and for making you walk home."
"You didn't make me," George is quick to defend, "I could've asked Sapnap. I just didn't."
"It's a surprise you're not sick instead of me. At least tell me you took a jacket?"
"I took yours," It shouldn't make him bashful, its happened countless times over the course of their friendship, "Sorry, I should've brought it to give it ba-," There's a finger on his lips and the fear of a sensory attack in his mind.
"Keep it," The finger moves from his lips to trace his cheekbone, rising till its at the tip of his eyes. There, it presses gently, and he closes his eyes to savor the feeling, opening them when it's gone. "I bet it looks better on you."
George tries to act like it's not an angel's wings he can see flapping over him when the finger is replaced by a hand, large enough to cup his entire cheek and still be able to rub a finger over the lines on his forehead. It's easy this time, because angels don't have wings. He'd know, one is right in front of him.
"Tell me if I'm reading this wrong, George." Does he think I can speak right now?
"Tell me to stop and we can pretend it never happened."
Pretending has always been easy for George. He decides to brave his way over it, to choose something that might not be easy, but something that he wants. So he shakes his head, leaning into the hand covering it, and whispers out his truth.
"I don't want to."
The gentlest of lips graze over his naked cheek, light as a feather but hot as a furnace. It's strange how Dream's entire body is cold, but his lips manage to burn a fire warm enough to comfort George in the coldest of winters. He sucks in a breath, the hand on his other cheek moving down to brush his jaw and make space for the lips shifting sides. A similar featherlight touch is pressed there, and Dream is so close that George can count the freckles on his nose. He has, already, once before, when they'd fallen asleep and he'd woken up before the other, face too close to his and a will too weak to hold on to. He can recheck though, counting just to be double-sure of their number if he ever has to narrate it to an artist.
He positively collapses when the lips move to his forehead, kissing over his lines in an attempt to smooth them all over. They ghost over his hairline with the most beautiful of feelings, tracing it with themselves. His nose is next, and this time teeth appear to playfully nip at it, before a kiss is pressed there too, drawing all the redness from it into pale lips.
He knows his lips are next, and he'd been lying if he said this isn't what he's always been waiting for. But something in him tells him to stop, and he shifts ever so slightly. Dream catches it, and the slightest look of confusion masks his face as he pulls back, words already tumbling out of his mouth. Mouth that was on me. George can't help the grin that envelops his face.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- I'm so sorry, George, can we forg-," This time it's George who places the finger, and Dream's lips are the landing spot.
"Shut up. You absolutely should have," He wants to laugh, "I just don't want to kiss you when there's still someone else's hickeys on your neck." He rubs the back of his neck nervously, fingers rubbing circles onto the hand he still holds.
"Just, I've waited for this for so long, you know? I'd rather not do it when there's..," He nods his head towards Dream's neck, and the blonde has a sheepish look on his face as he draws the jumper higher.
"So long?" Dream has a bright grin now, and George prefers it over anything else in the world, "I- is that why? Yesterday?" George nods, heat rushing up his neck quicker than he thought neurons could send signals to the brain.
"Oh my god, you were jealous." If it weren't for how much he loved it, George wouldn't hesitate to wipe the smug look off Dream's face. But Dream's laughing and George would confess to his pathetic, prolonged pining a thousand times if it makes the blonde's face wrinkle with laughter.
"How long?" He asks next, eyes bubbling with mirth.
"Too long."
"Me too."
"Is that why- the parties?"
Dream looks down at his lap. "I thought I could fuck it out of me." He smiles, head-turning back up, "You can see though, I was wrong."
"Not the first time," George leans forward to press his lips to the other's nose, his hand coming back from his waist to caress a light stubble, "Won't be the last either, with how stupid you are."
"I'm in love with you." He says it like it's granted like it's a simple fact that he expects to be general knowledge.
"I know."
"Good. Now say it back."
"It back."
"Georgie," He whines, and George thinks it's the sweetest sound in the universe. He boops his nose, pressing his thumb against his lips to push the pout back. He succeeds, and a kiss is delivered to the pad of his thumb.
"You're still burning up, you know. You should sleep."
"Join me?"
Their hands don't leave each other as footsteps move up the staircase, movements punctuated by giggles and moments to squeeze a hand, trace palm lines with fingers, or kiss a scar fading on an arm. They tumble down on the bed as soon they step inside Dream's room, faces flushed with a pink hue as their bodies curled in on each other. It's tentative when George carefully wraps an arm around Dream's waist, but not when Dream fully lets himself fall under it, taking his arm and pressing it completely over. Legs are thrown carelessly together and smiles are pressed into chests, and careful hands calm any goosebumps that erupt. Their bodies relax against each other, Dream placing one hand over the frantic beating of George's heart, and the brunette covers his hand with his own, pressing the palm just a little further into his chest. It's yours.
If the jackets and shirts in George's closet increase, all falling past his thighs and rarely fitting him properly, it's nothing out of ordinary. He's always worn clothes that smelled unlike him, clothes that smelled like apples and the detergent Dream used.
But if the marks visible on Dream's skin start to look the same every day, not like their source is a new stranger every other night but a constant in his life, then that's a new development.
And it's an extremely welcome one.