Chapter Text
Florida has been a home to Dream for as long as he can remember — summer storms and flickering shade of palm trees, warmth creeping into every corner of every room, inescapable sunlight even when it's late enough to fall asleep. At first, it was just his — long enough ago, he'd tell stories over the phone to his best friends, stories of grocery stores and late night drives, and promise them they'd live here too, once. Then, it was Sapnap's too.
Sapnap brings a different kind of light to his house, the kind that keeps you awake, the kind that shines at the end of the tunnel. Breakfasts and dinners are spent together, couches are filled with each other's company, loneliness is no more. Dream can't even remember the last time he was lonely — January marked the end of that and the start of everything else.
September marked the beginning of George.
George was, and still is, terrifying. Barely a week after he arrives, Dream finds himself trying not to think about anything at all lest it wander into quiet longing. Now that he can hold him, now that they can drive together and lean over the same computer and do things they maybe shouldn't have the power to, things are different.
It's nighttime when Dream realises what different really means.
The movie they've been watching has just finished rolling out the credits, white text on an infinite black screen. Sapnap's disappeared into his bedroom, and George is sprawled on the couch, tired — Dream, across the living room from him, can see the rise and fall of his shoulders in slow, sleepy breaths.
Oh, he realises, he's asleep.
It's barely been seven days, and Dream keeps forgetting that when George goes to sleep he can still come see him, be with him, not like he can when they're sleep calling. No, he can genuinely be right there.
That's a little scary too.
Dream's position across from George becomes restless, watching him like that. There are things he longs to do like this. Way too many things.
He strides over to the couch, where his best friend lies. Leave him, his brain says, but his heart beats louder.
He steps up next to the softly blanketed body, and places a hand on his shoulder.
"Mm—" George shuffles around beneath his touch, shakes his head softly, and buries his face in the covers.
Dream doesn't want to hurt him, disturb him, anything — but he's not doing that by being here, right?
He can't make himself leave, not like this. Well, he could, but—
A hand slides on top of his own.
Okay, and now he definitely can't.
George's lips curve into a soft smile. He's happy. Maybe a little clingy, right now. Maybe I'm okay with that.
"Dream," he breathes, his legs shifting under the fuzzy blanket. "Dream, you're still here?"
"Yeah," he says in barely more than a whisper. "Hey."
He doesn't know what else to say, so he offers a hello. If someone peeled back the layers over that singular word, they'd find a terrifyingly honest part of the truth Dream's not quite willing to admit yet.
George's eyes don't open. He looks peaceful, from the freckles on his cheek to the mess of dark hair in his face. "Stay here," he goes on, "okay?"
Indulgence is easy. He nods. "Okay."
A sigh escapes his boy's lips. "Good."
Dream is stupid for thinking of George as his boy, but in a way, it's sort of always been like that.
George's hand curls warmly around his wrist, his fingertips aching to touch, to hold. Dream wants to believe he's like this all the time, but he knows that's not true. He knows that when the sun is raised on its all-knowing, all-containing silver platter and the sky is fed with light once more, he'll lose this George, this spirit of a touch-starved boy who pretends not to love the way he really does. This shadow of the moon with eyes like the stars that blink behind fatigued clouds.
Losing this will be a curse that dampens the blessing it is now.
Still, he's enjoying it.
George's eyelashes flutter open. In the dark, his eyes look watery. Tired noises slip from his mouth as he shuffles against the couch.
Dream doesn't know what to think, watching him. Florida is treating George kindly. He looks beautiful, warmer and brighter, and Dream is just sitting here watching it all happen.
"Georgie," he murmurs. The nickname is honey on his tongue, almost like second-nature. He barely even cringes as he hears himself speak it. "Are you okay?"
George's tongue flicks out and catches on his lip. Dream follows it as it retracts back into his mouth, and pretends there are sinful things he's never thought in his life.
"Fine," George says tiredly, his voice dipping into a gentle monotone that scratches the edges of his throat. "'M sleepy. I—"
Hesitation washes itself over his face in gentle shades of blue, washing away the faint blush blooming there in its place. "I keep thinking about you," he admits breathily, like a promise he's scared to make.
And Dream's heart fucking melts, because that's so, so soft, and maybe he likes it. Maybe he loves it. Maybe he loves his best friend more than he loves his whole life.
"Do you?" he says quietly, scooting over to sit next to George's sleeping form. "What kind of stuff?"
The last word of the sentence really shouldn't be the last, for if Dream was any more foolish he'd be attaching a hundred fond pet names to the end of it. He doesn't speak further, though, just lets George's body twist over on the couch and allows his hands to ghost over it.
He wants to touch.
"Jus' you, I dunno." His words slur together. He's sleepy, and Dream is beginning to wonder if he's entering some kind of delirium because there really is no way he's this lucky. "I'm happy to get to be with you, I think. It used to be all I thought about, when… when I wasn't."
Uncertainty crawls at the edges of George's tone, reaching with spindly fingers through the dead of the night and drowning the last words in quiet denial. It doesn't do anything, though. Denial doesn't work when you're right here in front of the truth, and you can't run away from it, and you've already tried.
And Dream has already tried. And it's late, and the lines are fuzzier than ever right now.
"I thought about you, too," he says gently, feeling all too many things as he places his free hand on the small of George's back. "Don't worry."
"Not worried." George lifts his head, and his body drags it back down like a dead weight as he hits the pillow again. "Fuck, Dream, I'm… so tired."
Sleep, he wants to say, but not long enough that you forget what it's like to be mine. Sleep, and dream of me, so I don't have to lose this.
"Why don't you sleep?" It's rhetorical. Dream is selfish.
George pulls the blankets over his shoulders. He looks at home. "I need you to be here," he whispers, "if you don't— mind."
If there's anyone who minds, Dream thinks they must be on the brink of insanity. "I don't," he swears, swears on his life. "Do you want me to sit with you?"
"I wanna," he starts and stops, and the sentence lands suspended in the air, "I wanna hold you."
Dream hears the words, lets them sink, knows what's going to happen next.
He's going to say yes, going to scoop a beautiful boy into his arms and try hard not to think about kissing him. When he wakes up, he will have to pretend he doesn't need to try. He'll shower, and George will wash off his hands with soap and water, and with him will disappear the thoughts that are following him right now. And he definitely won't imagine what it's like for damp hair to press beneath his skin, or pale skin to gather droplets beneath the running water, or think about closing the shower curtain behind two people rather than one.
It will be agonizing. Dream lets it be.
"Come here," he says, "let me."
George shuffles so close that their chests are touching, and buries himself into Dream. His hair is warm and soft on Dream's shoulder, curling in dark tufts behind his ears. He's perfect. God, he's perfect.
He shifts his arms, slides them up to reach George's waist beneath the t-shirt. Even more stupidly than before, he lets George fall onto his lap.
"This good?"
"Y-yeah."
The soft movement of thighs against his own legs is way too close to heaven, and George is some kind of stupid fucking angel. All he needs is a pair of wings and a cleaner conscience, and he's not even human anymore.
If George had wings, would he fly away from him?
Dream thinks he's about to go insane. Yeah, let's not. Let's not think about that.
"Mmn," George whispers. His arms shiver as he wraps them around Dream's chest. "Dream. Clay. Do I have to call you Clay, now?"
"Why—" He almost laughs. It's preposterous that names are such a strange subject, even in the dead of night when George could say the stupidest thing in the world and Dream's heart would tear itself in two. "Why would you have to do that, baby?"
It's not on purpose. Really, it isn't. He lets the name slip out anyways.
"'M-not so far anymore," he says, voice tangled and sleepy. "So… feels like I should call you something else. Now that I'm here. I dunno."
"You can call me Dream," he mumbles. "You can call me whatever you want."
He thinks he forgets to breathe when George lifts his head from the crook of his neck, and when their cheeks brush he isn't sure he ever knew how to in the first place.
Their eyes meet. They share the same breath, and the oxygen rushes straight back into Dream's lungs.
"Dream," George says. It feels so personal. "I like it when it gets like this."
"How d'you mean?" He sounds nonchalant. Good.
"When you touch me—" Oh, god. "Even though you haven't done that much yet. And when you… talk to me in that really soft voice, the one you're doing right now. I like that."
And there goes the casually unaffected tone, all at once, because Dream can't keep it together.
"You're killing me," he forces out, quiet. "You know that, George?"
George giggles very softly. "Sorry."
It feels like Dream might explode into smoke and burn until he's ashes on the floor. It feels like his platonic best friend should not be making him feel romantic things.
I'm in love with you, he thinks when he shuts his mouth and swallows the words until they burn and melt in his throat. Believe me.
"Mm, I— I keep thinking," George goes on in a dangerous, dangerous way, "you're gonna kiss me."
Dream feels electric as he squeezes George's back and ignores his heartbeat as best he can when it's racing at the speed of an oncoming freight train. He tries to tell himself that doesn't mean anything.
But it does.
"Do you want me to?" he breathes, not that he's thinking about the words until after he says them. He doesn't think much anymore, just says to George what he means, and sometimes disguises it.
A tired smile crosses the brunet's face, and Dream knows he isn't getting his answer.
"Goodnight, Dream," George murmurs. And he's asleep.
"Good—" His heart slams, breath stutters. Whoa, Dream. Whoa.
Calm. Be calm.
He breathes.
"Goodnight," he tries, again. "Goodnight, Georgie."
Sleep doesn't come easy, but with George's body wrapped around his and an ocean no longer forcing them in opposite directions, Dream thinks he can pretend it will.