Chapter Text
After a gruesomely long day sitting in front of a monitor and tapping rounds of code into a program, George’s tube had been delayed. Or maybe he missed the one that he was meant to catch, he wasn’t too sure, but he couldn’t be bothered to work it out. The tube station was far too busy and frantic for a tired brain to work anything out.
Either way, George got onto the next tube. They all went in the same direction anyway, he’d just be home a little later. Not like that mattered; he didn’t have anything waiting for him, apart from his cat, but he’d survive.
Everything about George’s life in London was so mundane.
He gets onto the same tube every day, he’d trudge out and onto the same bustling streets to walk blindly down the same alleyway that leads to the most dull block of offices that he’d ever seen, ever. And then he’d get out his work ID card, which had the same, unchanging and unflattering photo of him on, to scan himself into that boring, sad looking building.
Once George got to his small, cramped desk, he’d drop his briefcase by his feet and slump into his rather uncomfortable (and mouldy) desk chair to flip on his computer that never seemed to want to work for him. He’d then spend several hours typing code into a program, to build some program that he couldn’t find himself caring for, until it was time to get out his soggy ham and cheese sandwiches.
He doesn’t like sandwiches much, but he never found the will to research for more lunch options. Besides, ham and cheese is reliable. And cheap.
After lunch he’d get back to coding until the day was done, and he’d go home to his cat. Maybe he’d watch some football on the TV, maybe he’d read a book that he was gifted from his mother for his birthday, or maybe he’d just fall straight to sleep.
In short; George’s life was the most basic of basics.
It’s dull. It’s boring. And, for the most part, George likes it that way. He likes the reliability and the stability.
But, some deep part of him craves more from life; he just doesn’t know where to look for it, and he silently hopes that it would look for him instead.
The tube shudders to a halt and the lady on the tannoy spews the usual shit about the current destination and the next destination. Grabbing his briefcase, George lets out a deep sigh and rises from the crusty seat to step off the tube and onto the stained platform.
The station was surprisingly busy— busier than it usually is, that is— and George has to push through several bystanders to reach the exit, receiving some verbal in the process, which is nothing out of the ordinary.
As he climbs the gum-covered stairs, George notices that those coming into the subway were soaking wet with rain, and when he tilts his head up just enough to see the darkening sky outside, he sees fat raindrops pouring from the grey angry clouds.
Once at the top of the stairs, just barely being covered by the subway roof, he stands and stares at the forming floods on the cobbled pavements. “Fuck’s sake,” he grumbles, rubbing a hand down his face.
Of course he didn’t have an umbrella or a raincoat. The weather forecast never said that it would rain, but then again, George shouldn’t trust Apple’s forecast. It’s never correct.
George’s flat was about a twenty minute walk away on a good day, but today was not a good day. He begins to weigh up his options; should he order an uber? should he just endure the rain and walk home? or should he wait it out?
An uber would cost him a fortune, especially with the amount of traffic on the roads because it was raining; so he ruled that option out.
The last option seemed unrealistic, since the clouds kept darkening and darkening and at some point George could’ve sworn that he heard a faint rumble of thunder in the distance.
So, with his decision to endure the weather and walk home made, he lifts a cautious foot to step out into the pouring rain and—
“Well, this is hardly convenient.”
George’s foot stills midair, and he whips around to face the voice coming from behind him.
In a work suit rather similar to his own, stood a man with dark blond curls that brushed the tops of his raised eyebrows that protected dark and witty viridian eyes.
Worried that he’d be caught staring, George faces back towards the hammering rain before he could truly appreciate the beautiful man behind him. He shakes his head and grips his briefcase tighter before going to step out onto the street once more.
“You’re not really going out in that without an umbrella, are you?”
Once again, George stills midstep at the sound of the man’s voice and turns back around to see him sporting a cheeky grin.
George narrows his eyes. He may be absolutely gorgeous, but this guy was really starting to get on his nerves. “Yes.”
The man tilts his head and eyes George’s suit. “You wearing that tomorrow?”
George follows his gaze and looks down at his work suit. It was a cheaper one he managed to snag up from Marks and Spencers when there was a sale. It wasn’t anything special, just a normal business suit. Honestly, he wasn’t too sure why he had to wear a suit to work considering all that he does is sit at a desk all day. It’s not like he sees anyone important, apart from his boss— but George wouldn’t say he was important.
“Yes.”
“Will you be able to dry it in time for the morning?”
It was unlikely, but if George has to put on a slightly damp suit to sit in a poorly air-conditioned office to get his full paycheck, then he will. “Why should it concern you?” he bites, irritation for the man growing stronger each time he opens his mouth.
The blond immediately swings up his arms in surrender, but a small smile growing on his lips contradicts it. “Just being a friendly stranger looking out for another. What’s the harm?”
George eyes him suspiciously. “You don’t get friendly strangers in London.”
“Then I guess I’m one in a million, or however much the population of London is,” the man chirps with a grin, lowering his arms to present himself.
George scoffs, and manages to keep a growing smile at bay before noticing that the man had an umbrella in his hand. The man promptly realises what George was looking at and goes to unfasten the strap holding the fabric together.
“You wanna share?” He asks, shaking the umbrella.
“I mean I was just gonna go straight home…” George replies, pointing a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of ‘home’.
The man blinks at him. “You’re not very spontaneous, are you?”
“What—” George starts, but he’s interrupted when the man opens up his umbrella only a few centimetres from his face, and he bats it away from him with a grunt. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
The man only grins at George and raises the umbrella above his head. “Come on a walk with me through the storm.”
“I literally don’t know who you are,” George contests, despite the urge to go with him roaring from within.
“That’s the fun of it,” the man winks. He was clearly aware of his good looks and the intriguing sense of mystery that surrounds him, and George finds himself struggling to refuse the offer.
This was what his ache was looking for. This is the kind of thrill that he desired to seek from life; it was right here, standing in front of him, in the form of the most beautiful, charming, and slightly irritating, man.
There weren’t many moments in George’s life where he had to go ‘fuck it’ ; in fact, there weren’t any at all. But in this moment, right here, George thinks exactly that: Fuck it.
“So,” George ponders, ducking under the widespread umbrella; vaguely noting how huge it was for just one person. “What’s your name?”
The man glances down at him with a raised eyebrow and the start of a teasing smile, his thought obvious behind those knowing eyes. “You can call me Dream,” he decides, sending a grin to George.
They step out from the subway’s canopy and onto the street. “Doesn’t sound like a real name.”
“That’s because it isn’t. ”
“Oh, so that’s what this is,” George exclaims, almost sarcastically, and stabs a finger in ‘Dream’s’ face. “An alias, yeah?”
Dream shrugs. “Makes me sound cooler, don’t you think?”
George snorts, and a clenched fist shoots up to cover his mouth. “Okay, Dream. Whatever you say, Dream. ”
“Okay. Well if you’re gonna say it like that, I feel dumb,” Dream argues, eyes narrowing and challenging George’s.
Still, George stands firm. “That’s because the name is dumb.”
“Alright, I’ll be taking this away then,” Dream says whimsically, shaking the umbrella slightly and then pushing George out from its protection and into the open pouring rain.
He stumbles over the slabbed pavement, shooting his arms out to balance himself as he skids to a halt in the middle of the path. He grins to himself, proud to stop himself from tripping over, but then his once fluffy curls are suddenly plastered to his forehead in a wet, sopping mess, and his glasses are being clouded up with his breath.
Shit.
George spins on his heel to glare at ‘Dream’, who hasn’t moved any further along the pavement and was instead watching George getting more and more drenched by the second with a wild laugh.
He looks radiant, George thinks , despite the pouring rain and clouded sky. So radiant that George finds a small smile settling onto his lips, replacing his frown, as he strolls back towards Dream and presents a soaking wet hand.
“Nice to meet you, Dream. I’m George,” he grins, drops of rain dripping down his face and running off the bridge of his nose. He was sure that he looks like an absolute dog, but this man was just so intriguing that George couldn’t bear to pass up the opportunity of spending the evening with him.
Dream accepts the handshake with a raised eyebrow. “Is that your real name?”
“I shall abstain from answering.”
“You’re quite odd, George, ” Dream admits with a kind smile, releasing George’s hand and prompts the two of them to walk up the pavement. “I like it.”
George follows and scrunches his face in confusion. “Thanks? I guess?” A crack of thunder erupted overhead, causing George to accidentally bump into Dream and he utters a small apology.
“Sounds like the storm is getting closer,” Dream muses, peeping out from under the umbrella to analyse the sky before ducking back under it to send a quick grin to George, hastily grabbing his wrist. “Come on!”
George is suddenly yanked forwards into a sprint; polished work shoes breaking through deep puddles and his tie flapping over his shoulder as he let out a gleeful laugh. “Where are we going?” He yells over the thundering sound of rain hammering the street, hoping that Dream would be able to hear him.
Dream glances back at George, not watching where he was running but seemingly knowing where his feet were taking him, and his lips flicker up into a quick grin. “On an adventure!” He laughs back, pulling them into the street and diving in front of a beeping cab, forcing a scream out of George.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He cries, sending an apologetic look to the frustrated cab driver, but is suddenly yanked again as Dream increases their pace and he nearly trips up the curb as a result. “You’re gonna get us killed!”
“That’s what makes it exciting,” Dream throws over his shoulder, skidding to the left down another street and nearly sending George flying into the road, but he manages to keep his footing and the hold of his work briefcase.
Shit, his briefcase.
“My case is gonna get ruined,” George shouts, pushing his legs to work harder so he could catch up to Dream, and pries his wrist out of Dream’s iron grip. “I have my work stuff in here!”
Dream slows to a stop— George has to grab his shoulder to stop so that he doesn't slip on the wet concrete— and raises his eyebrows. “Are the contents important? Irreplaceable?”
“I…”
A hand quickly pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose as George glances down at his soaked leather case, as if he could see through the material and account for each piece of paper in there. Nothing inside was important, and if it was, George struggles to find himself caring very much. Most of his work emails should contain all the information he needs for his job, right? Right.
“... suppose not?” He finishes in a breath, though it poses more of a question and he cringes slightly at his uncertainty.
Dream finds humor in it and chuckles, clapping George on the shoulder with a bright smile. “I’m sure you’ll be able to replace them, if you care enough for it.”
“I’ll have to carry it around with me the whole evening, though,” George groans, letting his head fall back in an effort to make a point of how tiring it would be to carry it everywhere.
Dream hums in thought. “You could leave it somewhere and we’ll pick it up at the end? It’s not like anyone’s gonna be here.”
George looks back down to meet Dream’s gaze. “Where is ‘here’ ?” He asks, though he could probably answer his own question if he looked at his surroundings.
Currently, the two of them were standing on a pavement beside a main road with cars whizzing past, threatening to catch a puddle with a tyre and spray water at them. George looks past Dream’s shoulder and through a gap in the hedge, immediately realising where they were.
“Hyde Park,” Dream announces, rocking on his heels.
George raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it usually super busy?”
“Not when it’s storming, idiot,” Dream laughs, collapsing his umbrella and letting the two of them get soaked.
“Dream!” George scolds, though he could feel his lips flickering up to a restrained smile. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Dream doesn’t answer, and grabs George’s wrist again to pull him into the park. “C’mon, we’ll hide our stuff together in a bush or something.”
George makes a wild noise but lets himself be pulled forwards and away from the curb; part of him slightly concerned about their stuff being nicked by someone who happens to be snooping through the Hyde Park bushes, but the other part of him buzzes with excitement with the knowledge of a spontaneous adventure with a gorgeous stranger.
This was probably the most thrilling thing that George has done his whole life, apart from that one time he fell out of a tree when he was fourteen, but he doesn’t think that it counts.
Dream leads them both down a flooded path, the water almost reaching their ankles as they wade through, before coming to a stop at a rather full and dense looking patch of greenery and bushes. Dream releases George’s wrist and goes to take his briefcase, to stash it away (alongside Dream’s umbrella) inside the bush with a faint prayer of the items being exactly where he left them once they returned.
George whistles awkwardly, unsure of what to do. “So…” he draws out, wringing his hands out in front of him and watching as raindrops pool and fall from his palms. “What do we do now?”
Dream spins on his heel and sends a wink in George’s direction, before catching George’s wrist in his hand for the third time and pulling him back towards the large puddle that they had waded through a few minutes earlier. “No plans. Only spontaneity,” he finally answers, pushing his already drenched work shoes back through the rainwater and sweeping a quick hand through wet curls so that they come to slump messily on the top of his head.
George watches as Dream drops down into the puddle, settling in the water on his back before sending a toothy grin up to George. His hair was long enough so that it pools around his head in the water. It looks like he’s wearing a halo and George briefly wonders if Dream was actually real… or a dream.
“C’mon,” Dream beckons eagerly, slapping the puddle's surface next to him in encouragement. He looks as if he’s done this before— or he’s just absolutely mad— and George grimaces at him, swirling a hesitant foot around in the puddle.
“I genuinely feel like I’m gonna get sick from this,” he says, sending a look to the maniac laying at his feet before crouching down to join him in the water, his suit and blazer quickly filling up with the cool liquid, but sends a delightful shiver down his spine despite it.
Dream snorts and turns his head to the side to look at George. “Well, of course. We’re wet through,” he snickers lightly, lifting and dropping both hands to splash water over the both of them, eliciting a small cry from George. “We’ll have fevers tomorrow, I bet. At least you’ll get a day off work.”
George makes a noise from the back of his throat, frowning at the dark rolling clouds above before squeezing his eyes shut when a drop of rain somehow lands right in his pupil, despite him wearing glasses, and forces a small cry out of his lips. “This is not enjoyable at all,” he mutters, sitting up in the puddle and rubbing his eyes.
Dream laughs freely and pushes himself up from the puddle, shaking his head and flicking water onto George who scowls and pushes Dream, making him fall back into the puddle. George giggles at him and runs a hand through the fringe that hangs over his forehead; strands of hair darting in various directions and angles before being plastered to his forehead again by the heavy rain.
“Let’s go to the playground, then,” Dream suggests, getting to his feet and offering a hand out to George. “There’s more to do there, I guess.”
George clasps his hand in Dream’s and hauls himself up, feeling heavier thanks to the rainwater absorbed by his clothing. “It’s gonna be wet,” he points out, releasing Dream’s hand and lightly brushing past him.
“No shit, it’s gonna be wet,” Dream exclaims with a breathy laugh, turning to follow George down the gravel path that leads to the playground. “I’m beginning to think that you’re actually an idiot.”
George casts a smile over his shoulder, catching sparkling green in his soft brown. Dream was truly ethereal, and George reckons he’s one of the luckiest guys alive to be able to spend so much time admiring such a stunning man like Dream.
Dream raises an eyebrow and George quickly redirects his gaze to the gravel crunching beneath his shoes with false intrigue. “I may be an idiot,” George says, “but I’m not deliberately thick.”
Dream hums, kicking a stone ahead of them both with the tip of his shoe. The stone scuffs the polish and leaves a dull mark. “I don’t know you well enough to comment on that.”
“You don’t know me well enough to comment on anything, and yet you still do.”
A light chuckles passes through Dream’s lips as he kicks another stone, making another mark on his shoe. “You’re a very expressive person, which makes you easy to read in that sense. I can read your more expressive emotions like shock, happiness, irritation and anger,” Dream lists off his fingers easily, “but other than that, you’re a difficult read.”
They round a hedge and stroll up to the playground gates. George pushes it open with a huff. “You read people often?”
“Only the most intriguing people.”
“How invasive,” George retorts with a hint of teasing, grabbing the wet chain of a swing and pulling it towards him so he could perch on the damp seat. It wasn’t actually damp, it had a puddle on it, but George’s trousers were already so soaked through that he didn’t feel any difference.
Dream joins him on the swing to his right. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
Minutes pass of the two stranger swinging in a comfortable silence; both captivated by the way that the rain hammers to the ground without mercy, and how where it was slightly slanted in the playground, a small stream had formed and runs through the middle of the gated area and to the nearest drain that it finds. The drain gurgles and George can’t help but chuckle at the sound.
From the corner of his eye, George catches Dream fiddling with his fingers. Despite the rain, they look calloused and worn and tired. Also very attractive, but George shoves that thought to the back of his mind. “What do you do for work?”
The movement stops and Dream spreads out his hands, as if to inspect them. “I was more thinking that we’d stay fairly anonymous, George, ” he teases lightly, sending a half-grin to George, “and maybe one day, on a sunnier day, we’ll meet again.”
“What’s the point?”
Dream curls his tired fingers up into fists, watching how his veins become more prominent under the dim glow of the playground light. “The longing,” he answers simply.
George’s eyebrows knit together; confused. “Longing?”
“The helpless longing that comes from not trading contact details, real names, and addresses with someone seemingly special. And then the steady searching of that someone, in the hopes that they weren’t just a dream.”
George pulls his left leg up and over his swing, so that he was straddling it, and faces Dream. Under the dim light and fat falling raindrops, Dream looks utterly gorgeous; his complexion was warmer— deeper— than gold, it was as if he were best friends with the sun and all the light in the world, because George reckoned that Dream would look good in any light.
“Isn’t that kinda sad?” George asks softly. “Longing for someone?”
Dream exhales and faces George with a small smile. “Only for a short time after you part ways. After that, you learn to grow hopeful.”
George can’t help but sit in awe at this man. He seems so wise despite only being George’s age, and his eyes held so much intelligence and hope for the future, it encouraged George to adopt the same feelings and appreciation for life.
“Oh, and I make pottery. You know, with the—” Dream makes some weird up and down swirly gesturing motion with his hands and George’s eyes follow in a confused daze, “—with the clay and the spinning table. You know? The—”
George lands a hand on Dream’s forearm with a loud laugh, stilling Dream’s wild gestures. “Yes, Dream, I know what pottery making is.”
Dream smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry. I just get excited about it, since it’s been my dream job since I was a kid.”
“I’m glad you got where you wanted to be,” George says, ignoring the irk of jealousy that pinches at his throat, and slipping his hand away from Dream’s arm. “Why are you wearing a suit, though?”
As if he’d just remembered he was wearing one, Dream pats down the suit with a chuckle. “Oh, it’s because I had a pottery exhibition today. Kind of a big deal so I had to dress up for it.”
“Did it go well?”
“Now, now,” Dream chuckles, “that’ll be telling you too much.”
George heaves a deep sigh and leans back onto the chain behind him. “You’re fully adamant about this 'anonymity' thing, aren’t you?” He mutters, using his fingers to quote his words.
“Hell yeah,” Dream chirps, bouncing up to his feet and holding his hands out for George. “Let’s make the most of this night, Georgie.”
“Call me that again and you die.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting killed by a pretty man like yourself,” Dream quips with a small smirk, wrapping his fingers around George’s hands when they meet.
“I’ll make it look like manslaughter.”
Dream whistles. “And he’s sneaky too!” He exclaims, pulling George flush to his chest to whisper in his ear; “just my type.”
George squeaks and feels red rise but then he’s being spun around in a circle, his hands still clasped in Dream’s, and the rain beats against his side, threatening to hit his glasses off of his nose.
He finds himself wondering if Dream had meant it; if George was his type. Honestly, he definitely would not mind getting to know this gorgeous man some more, but he has some stupid rules that disallow it.
Then he wonders why on Earth he’s got a crush on a stranger. A stranger who calls himself Dream and is a pottery artist. George hardly knew him, or anything about him, yet he felt the burning desire to explore every inch of Dream from head to toe.
But before he could think about it anymore, Dream swings them out of their wild spinning and drags him out of the playground to a small nearby hill, and begins rolling down it, covering himself in wet grass before landing in the boggy marsh at the bottom.
George lets out a bellowing laugh, clutching his stomach at the sight of grass stuck to Dream’s face and lips, before rolling down the hill himself and landing next to Dream, covered in grass.
The thunderstorm never stops; and neither do they. They chase each other through bushes and down gravel paths, they run through massive puddles and splash each other in fits of giggling laughter, they lay down in the grass together, fingers lightly brushing as they talk about anything and everything other than themselves.
Dream shows him how to appreciate little things, to make them more enjoyable and worthwhile, and it makes George feel alive.
Every tip and toe of his body is crackling with jolting electricity, it feels like he has been struck by lightning and he wants to savour this feeling forever and ever.
They’re walking down a gravel path, hand in hand, when fingers suddenly leave George’s, and then Dream is walking away to a large tree littered with spiky green balls. George follows, and watches as Dream bends down, picking something up, before turning around with a wide grin.
In his hand was a conker; half in its spiky green shell, and half uncovered. It shines with rain and George’s lips lift up in a confused smile. “A conker,” he comments, but Dream shakes his head, raindrops dripping from hanging tufts of hair.
“A memory—” George tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together, prompting Dream to continue, “—of you,” Dream smiles sweetly, enclosing the conker in the palm of his hand and squeezing gently before pocketing it in the breast pocket of his blazer.
George feels his heart tighten and his cheeks turn a bright pink. How a stranger was making him feel like this, he wasn’t sure, but hell it feels incredible. He steps around Dream, lightly catching his wrist to spin him around as he walks towards the base of the tree and he, too, bends down to choose a conker.
After settling on one that he thought was perfect, George straightens up and shows Dream a fully encased conker, green spikes protruding from the rough skin, waiting to be split open to reveal the beauty inside.
“My memory,” George announces softly, “of you.” He holds the conker in his palm and curls his fist— just like Dream had done— and (ignoring the spikes) squeezes before tucking it away in his own breast blazer pocket.
Through the thickness of rain, George sees Dream’s lips grow into an ear-splitting grin, his dimple being the exclamation point to his smile, and George thinks the absolute world of the sight.
“C’mon,” Dream says, holding out his hand for George to glide his fingers into. “Let’s go.”
George blinks at him, smile fading. “Go?”
Dream only nods solemnly with a sad, tightlipped smile and he leads them to where they left their belongings at the start of the evening; both grab their respective item before interlocking fingers again and walking out of the park and down the road to the nearest bus stop.
It doesn’t take long for an infamous red double-decker bus to trundle towards Dream and George, its doors sliding open to reveal an exhausted looking driver.
George slowly slips his fingers out from Dream’s, stepping onto the hissing bus, but Dream keeps his pinky interlocked, forcing George to look back at him.
“Is your name really George?” He asks in a whisper, barely audible over the rumbling engine of the bus.
George gives him a sad smile, a chuckle caught in the back of his throat. “I don’t think I’m allowed to answer that.”
Dream’s pinky curls tighter around his, and George could swear he saw tears filling up in Dream’s eyes, but maybe it was just the rain.
“No,” Dream chokes out a laugh. “You’re not.”
George only scoffs, full of sorrow, and clasps his fingers around Dream’s hand again, giving it a final tight squeeze, before stepping back into the bus and greeting the driver.
He hears the doors squeak shut behind him as he walks down the aisle to settle at a window seat.
When the bus pulls away from the curb, George watches Dream’s figure become smaller and smaller through rain-stained windows with a sad smile.
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