Work Text:
It's a few hours past midnight. Dream can't remember how many matcha lattes he's had since the two of them had stepped in here to cram and do homework, but he's definitely had more than two.
Instead of studying (like he's supposed to be doing), though, he's staring at George. Understandable, really--the man is really fucking beautiful and his best features only seem to be accentuated more in the beautiful, gentle lighting of the café. The colour of his lips reminds Dream of pink coral. His face is a bit pale---likely because of the fact it's far past their usual bedtime, but he doesn't look too terrible or sick or anything. George's hair has gotten a bit long, not too long , his hair is just so voluminous and fluffed up that it looks like it'll topple over if it grows any longer. It looks so airy and soft that Dream wants to sift his fingers through it.
George's eyes--brown and blue orbs that shine like jewels in the sunlight, are focused down on his workbook in front of him. He blinks, hard, and the skin at the corners of his eyes are tugged back as he just barely stifles a yawn. George is tired, but he's still working quite diligently. He hasn't even paused to take a break since the last time they refilled their drinks, and that was around half an hour ago.
Dream raises his wrist to take a look at the time on his watch. It's almost three-thirty in the morning, and he hasn't even noticed. It's too early (from a societal standard, anyways) for them to be out in public at this hour. A year younger than the age they were right now and it'd be illegal for them to be here without adult supervision. Sixteen comes with a lot of new privileges that Dream enjoys, but also a lot of new responsibilities and obstacles as well. That's only fair, he supposes. The benefits and downsides seem to weigh each other out, so it's fine.
Either way, Dream thinks it's about time they head home. He takes a small sip from his (third? fourth??) matcha latte as he fixes on George again, memorising the lines and ridges of the other boy's face better than how he memorises the vocabulary for his biology class. They'll turn in for the night in a bit. He just wants to admire George's pretty face for a few moments more.
The brunet in front of him seems to catch on, lip twitching in an almost nervous sort of way as he looks up and locks eyes with Dream's. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
"What do you mean, 'why?' I like staring at your face, it's cute," Dream says jauntily, with a lopsided grin. "I could stare at your face for hours, Georgie--and I wouldn't get bored."
George simply rolls his eyes. "You seem to fancy the idea."
"Well, I do," Dream responds without missing a beat. He’s being completely honest.
George snorts. "If you're going to stare at my face for hours, you should find some other activity to do that's more worth your time." And then George goes back to revising, or at least, he tries to. His heart is beating a bit faster, and Dream doesn’t miss the dark flush of rouge that swarms George’s cheeks.
Dream laughs. It’s iconic in the way that it is, his voice warm and hoarse when he says:
"Let's go home, pretty boy."
George doesn't object. He doesn't even say a single word, doesn't mouth even a small, "okay," and immediately starts packing up his study materials into his bag. He helps Dream as well, hands him his pencils and pens, along with the pastel blue highlighter George borrowed from him earlier. They're out of the café a mere few minutes later, after a stop to the bathroom and waving a hasty goodbye to the only barista in the shop (it is half past three AM, after all). George is clinging to his arm as they walk through the quiet town, keeping one eye open and gradually losing consciousness as Dream walks them home.
"You're staying over tonight, right?" The blond asks, pausing in front of the street where George lives. He just wants to make sure.
George, again, doesn't say a word--only nodding lazily and humming against Dream's shoulder in unspoken confirmation. It's so subtle, not explicit, but Dream understands. He's grown to understand what George is saying without having to hear him say anything.
The only sound that can be heard is the sound of their own rhythmic footsteps against the concrete of the pavement. It’d be a lot more eerie if Dream was alone, but with George by his side it feels peaceful. Safer, if roaming around the streets at 3 in the morning is even safe at all. It’s nice.
When they cross the road over to where Dream's house is, George's eyes are both shut. So George doesn't see the fireflies hovering just slightly over the long blades of grass in his front lawn, he doesn't get to ogle at them and marvel at their glow. Dream is sure that, if George was fully awake and conscious, the brunet would be heading over towards them and trying to catch their light in his hands. But George is sleepy. George is tired. And Dream doesn't want to disturb him, so he doesn’t.
With one hand, he manages to unlock the door, trying not to be too loud when he does. His parents didn't mind him going out and coming back late at night (or early in the morning, interpret it as you will), as long as he came back in one piece every time. They don't mind if he brings people over, either. Maybe his parents are the slightest bit too lenient, too flexible--sometimes even he wonders how they don't appear to be concerned at all whenever he's out of the house this late. One time he came home at six in the morning, clothes drenched from the early rain, and met face to face with his father. His old man was seated at the breakfast table reading the newspaper, and greeted him with a nonchalant smile, along with a question inquiring how his night went. Dream didn't give him the full story (it's far too complicated to explain in a short amount of time), but as bizarre he thought his answer was, his father seemed completely unfazed about the fact that he had run off from a sleep over at a friend's house and spend an entire night out on the streets. His parents never really seemed to mind. A part of Dream wishes that they minded just a bit more.
When the two of them are inside, Dream closes and locks the door with subtle care. It's pitch black, so he switches on a light, and both of them wince. It stings, and even through closed and heavy eyelids, George can still sense the sudden change in brightness.
Carefully, Dream guides his boyfriend up the stairs. The grip on his arm has loosened slightly, but George is still hanging onto him like a koala. It's a bit troublesome--not annoying, it's cute, but makes it just somewhat difficult to go up the steps. Dream manages.
When they get to his room, Dream turns on a lamp instead of hitting the light switch so that it's easier on the eyes. He sets George down gently on the bed, admiring how he looks, illuminated by soft rays and golden warmth. It's so quiet in his room that the only thing he can hear is George's shallow, delicate breaths.
After a few moments, the shorter man sits up, rubbing his eyes as he turns to look at Dream. "I think I left my toothbrush at home," He says, voice raspy.
"That's alright," Dream says soothingly. He reaches out a hand to rub circles on his boyfriend's back. "There's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. It's blue," Your favourite colour.
George giggles, breathily. "Like me."
"Yeah, like you." Dream murmurs, tender and kind. He bought that toothbrush with George in mind--because they stay over at each other’s places often nowadays that they keep things of theirs in the other’s house. Dream knows he has some shirts over at George’s house, hell, George even wears his clothing sometimes (and it’s so adorable whenever he does, it’s absolutely criminal).
They lock eyes for a moment, and the next, they're intertwining fingers. Leaning towards each other and kissing like it's second nature to them--they're sleep deprived and drunk on caffeine, though, so their movements are (of course) not perfect. Their noses bump every so often. George keeps giggling for some reason, and Dream is smiling into the kiss.
"Why are you--pfft, laughing?" The blond asks, pulling back for a moment to say the words. George is shaking his head and his chest keeps moving in broken shudders, and Dream playfully shushes him. "You're going to wake everyone else in the house up!"
"I don't--I don't know," George manages to get out, trying his hardest to hold back his laughs. There's a glint of adorable amusement in his eyes that Dream finds so endearing.
Dream's words are practically oozing with admiration when he says, "You're such an idiot."
George is beaming. "You love me for it."
And he does. He really does.