Chapter Text
George was eight years old when he first met him .
Or, rather, when he was first rescued by him.
Kids tended to be mean, after all.
At eight, George was especially short for his age. He was scrawny, not unlike most other kids, but what they lacked in muscle, they made up for in height. George, however, was not as fortunate.
Usually, his height wasn’t much of an issue. Sure, there’d be the occasional day where the other boys would boast about finally reaching 135 centimeters, and George would just stand there awkwardly, but that didn’t bother him much.
Today, however, his shortness was proving to be an obstacle.
George was standing in front of the climbing wall of his Primary School’s playground, watching as the other young boys easily scaled and descended from the wall of artificial rocks.
As all of the other kids eventually dismounted, George soon realized it was now his turn to climb it.
Briefly, George wondered if he should skip the wall altogether, but he knew that would only lead to more incessant teasing. Thus, he began climbing.
At first, it wasn’t all too bad.
Sure, there was the occasional rock that he had to stand on his tippy-toes to reach, but otherwise, George’s climb was fairly successful.
That is, until he reached the halfway point.
Ironically, despite his elevation, it only went downhill from there.
Once he passed the first section of the wall, every rock above him seemed just a bit too tall and just a tad too far for him to reach.
It’s not exactly like he could back out now, though.
George knew if he gave up halfway through and decided to climb back down, he would never hear the end of it. He was already tormented for being short. He did not need to be tormented for being a quitter, too.
Thus, he forced himself to keep climbing.
Or, rather, tried to.
As George reached his hand up to grasp the nearest rock above him, something in the pads of his fingertips slipped. He couldn’t seem to grab any traction, thus leaving his hand to fall limp.
Soon, the rest of his body followed.
It happened almost instantly; the heel of George’s foot jutted out from the rock below him, leaving his other to do the same. George closed his eyes on instinct. His body was overtaken by gravity, and in a matter of milliseconds, he was on the ground.
George heard something thud. He didn’t realize it was himself.
He felt something ache, although he couldn’t quite place what was hurting him so intensely.
He couldn’t get himself to open his eyes.
George could make out muffled voices, although he couldn’t distinguish what they were saying.
After a few moments, George heard a loud voice significantly closer than all of the others. He didn’t recognize it, but he could at least understand whatever they were saying.
“Leave him alone! He just fell! Now isn’t the time to laugh at him.”
George couldn’t get himself to speak to thank whoever the hell had just stood up for him, whether out of embarrassment, or pain, so he internally sent his gratitude.
After a couple of moments, head buzzing, George felt himself being lifted.
He still wouldn’t open his eyes.
After what felt like an eternity, George opened his eyes to see he was laying on his back on a bench in the nurse’s office of his school.
At least it was better than the playground floor.
George tried to shift into a more upright position, however immediately stopped himself when a shooting pain split through his rib.
He hissed, lifting his arm to wipe the remnants of tears off of his face that he quickly realized were there.
“Are you okay?”
George’s gaze shot up to a boy who looked around his age. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and if George didn’t know any better, he almost looked scared.
“Who are you?” George asked, dismissing the boy’s question.
“Oh, sorry. I’m the one who carried you from the playground,” the boy explained. “I hope that’s, like, okay. Sorry, you just seemed pretty hurt from your fall.”
George’s face instantly reddened with the reminder of his mishap on the playground. He looked at the boy standing across the room from him, now allowing himself to observe some of his features. His hair was longer than George’s, slight golden waves curving around and ending behind his ears. His eyes looked green, or blue maybe, though George couldn’t really tell with the distance between the two. The final thing George noticed, however, was how tall this boy seemed to be. There was a stark contrast between the two.
“I’m George,” he blurted out, suddenly.
The other boy laughed softly, walking from where he was on the wall to the bench George was situated on.
“Hi, George. I’m Clay.”
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From then on, the two had been practically attached at the hip.
It was nice, really. George finally had someone to ward off the endless harassment about his height.
The first time this happened, George was not expecting it.
They were in the middle of gym class, and the boys were told by their teacher to get in height order from tallest to shortest.
George watched as Clay, of course, was the third tallest, standing almost a foot taller than George himself.
Eventually, the other boys ordered themselves, a defined line forming.
George, however, begrudgingly marched to the very end. Out of everyone, he was the shortest by a significant margin.
As he walked to the end of the line, he heard loud snickers follow him closely.
“He’s literally like four feet tall.”
“Do you think he can hear us from all the way down there?”
George did his best to ignore the taunts coming from his classmates, however a certain loud one caught his attention.
“He’s such a freak.”
Not about his height. Not about how he looked. Just about him being a freak . Still, George shook his head to himself. He wasn’t about to start crying in front of people who already took pleasure in his (very obvious) pain.
“Hey,” George heard a familiar voice say. George jerked his head to see what was going on.
“Leave George alone.”
“Why?” one of the earlier voices asked. “He’s so weird.”
“Well,” Clay said, George locking eyes with him from across the line. George felt himself smile. “He’s my friend, that’s why.”
This led to a couple of scoffs but ultimately came with a chorus of okay s and whatever s.
George didn’t know why, but everyone seemed to listen to Clay.
Maybe it was because he was tall.
Still, somehow, George didn’t feel small at that moment.
Clay tended to protect him from feeling that way.
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George was twelve years old when he slept over at Clay’s house for the first time.
The two, despite being inseparable, both had equally strict parents with equally inflexible schedules.
Despite hanging out as much as they could, the two never had the chance to spend time together past their respective curfews.
Until today, that is.
George pulled up to Clay’s house in his mother’s car, giving her a kiss on the cheek as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. As he waved her goodbye, he turned to head towards Clay’s porch.
Before he could even knock, the door swung open to reveal Clay smiling brightly.
By now, George was no longer nearly as short as he used to be, reaching average height. For Clay, however, his tallness only increased.
Clay was around a head taller than him, leaving George to dramatically roll his eyes whenever the height difference between the two was acknowledged.
“George!” Clay exclaimed, wrapping a supportive arm around the boy’s shoulders as he guided him towards his room.
George let himself be led, allowing his eyes to wander around Clay’s house.
George smiled to himself as Clay opened the door to his bedroom. George had been here more times than he could count, small reminders of past memories littering the room.
There was the “C+G = BEST FRIENDS” written on the wall in ballpoint pen over Clay’s headboard from the day the two had first started middle school. There was the galaxy-themed computer mouse pad George had bought Clay after Clay had ranted for an hour about his favorite planets. There was the unfilled hole in the wall from when Clay and George had a plastic lightsaber battle and Clay plunged George’s weapon into the wall. The last one had gotten the two into quite a bit of trouble.
George unpacked his things, laying out the blanket he had brought on the floor and kicking his shoes off.
“George,” Clay said, picking up the blanket from where George had just left it, “You can literally just sleep in my bed. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
George rolled his eyes light-heartedly. “You’re so dumb. There’s no way we’d both fit in that.”
George watched as a proud smirk infiltrated Clay’s face. “Fine, then. You take the bed, I take the floor.”
George shook his head with assertion. “No. You’re not sleeping on the floor in your own home.”
“Well, you’re not sleeping on the floor as a guest.”
“Watch me,” George said, laying on the ground dramatically.
George felt a foot nudge his rib as his back laid uncomfortably on the ground. “George, c’mon. Just sleep in the bed with me.”
George conceded, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t help but giggle. “Fine, weirdo.”
Later that night, after the two had hung out around Clay’s room for a few hours, the two were settled into Clay’s bed.
George nudged Clay’s shoulder with his nose, leaving Clay to chuckle quietly.
“What do you want?” Clay whispered loudly, clearly trying and failing not to laugh.
“Let’s play a game,” George responded. “I’m bored.”
“George,” Clay said, still giggling. “It’s like one in the morning. Go to sleep.”
George shook his head stubbornly. “Mm-mm,” he hummed in protest. “Let’s play truth or dare.”
George grinned proudly as he watched Clay roll his eyes and sit up. “Fine.”
The two shifted so they were sitting cross-legged across from each other.
“We have to be quiet, though,” Clay reasoned, whispering. “My mom is gonna kill me if she hears us awake this late.”
George nodded.
Clay quietly cleared his throat. “Truth or dare?”
George considered his options for a moment, eventually deciding on dare.
He watched as Clay stroked his chin in thought, eyes eventually brightening when he seemingly decided on the dare for George. “I dare you to show me your craziest scar.”
George giggled, rolling his eyes. He turned closer to Clay and lifted up the side of his t-shirt, revealing a long linear scar on the side of his rib. It wasn’t all that bad, and definitely close to faded, but it was still visible.
George watched as Clay’s face softened with something he now recognized as concern. It was the same fear Clay had on his face the day they had officially met in the nurse’s office.
“Is that from the fall?” Clay asked softly, tone unreadable but inching towards nervousness.
George nodded. Clay didn’t need to specify which “fall” he was talking about.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Clay sympathized, inching closer towards George to rest his forehead on George’s shoulder. “I thought it was just a fall, and that’s it. I didn’t know there was a scar.”
George leaned the side of his head closer to Clay’s. “Yeah, one of the rocks scraped part of my skin as I fell, or something. Don’t worry, it isn’t bad, though.”
George felt the comforting warmth of Clay’s head dissipate from his shoulder as Clay picked up his head to look him in the eye. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, George.”
George shrugged, unsure of why Clay seemed so distressed. “It’s not like it’s your fault or anything.”
Clay shook his head. “Still, that sucks.”
The boy sat centimeters across from each other, sharing a comfortable silence for a few moments.
After half a minute or so, Clay began speaking. “Is it okay if I touch it?”
George raised a brow. “The scar?” he clarified, and Clay nodded.
“Sure, I guess.”
Clay shifted from where he was situated so he was lined up with George’s side. George almost flinched, but quickly relaxed into the touch as he felt a warm finger glide across his scar.
George closed his eyes, savoring such a comforting moment with his friend.
George’s breath paused as he felt what seemed like lips lightly peck where his scar was, pulling away almost instantly.
“Clay!” he exclaimed, laughing.
As he turned to look at Clay, the boy was grinning brightly. “There, now it’s all better!”
George scoffed, shaking his head as he jokingly flicked Clay’s forehead. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Okay,” George continued. “Enough about my scar. Your turn. Truth or dare?”
Immediately, Clay responded. “Truth.”
George thought for a second, weighing the options. Quite honestly, he didn’t have many things he could ask. Clay and George told each other everything, so there wasn’t anything to go off of.
“What is your favorite song?” he blurted, saying the first thing that came to mind.
Immediately, Clay started laughing. “You had the option to ask me anything, and you asked for my favorite song?” he asked between quiet giggles.
George rolled his eyes, although he couldn’t hold back a smile at the pleasant sound of Clay giggling. “I couldn’t think of anything.”
Clay playfully flicked George in the shoulder. “I don’t have a favorite song.”
George flicked him back. “You’re boring.”
“And you,” Clay began, getting up from where he was seated across from George, “look like you’re about to pass out. C’mon, let’s go to sleep.”
George shook his head. “Not tired. Plus, I’m like ninety percent sure I forgot to bring pyjamas anyways, and I refuse to sleep in these jeans.”
Clay laughed quietly. “Just borrow some of my clothes. Please? I’m tired.”
George rolled his eyes but accepted nonetheless. “Fine. Just please give me the absolute smallest clothes you have. I don’t think my self-esteem could take the blow of how long your pants are going to be.”
Clay chuckled as he walked towards his drawer. George watched as he pulled out a pair of black sweatpants and a blank blue t-shirt. He handed it to George and the two quickly changed out of their usual clothes into pyjamas.
The pants were, much to George’s dismay, too long for him.
The two settled into Clay’s bed, shifting awkwardly until each of them found a comfortable position. George’s head was leaned against Clay’s chest, and it seemed like the golden-haired boy didn’t mind because his hand was resting gently on George’s stomach.
The two fell asleep without a word.
That night, George dreamt of golden-haired boys and black sweatpants.
The next morning, George woke to gentle poking on his cheek.
He looked up to see Clay playfully grinning at him, finger still poking George’s face.
George rolled his eyes, sitting up so he was eye-level with Clay.
“How long have you been awake?” George asked between a yawn.
“Only a couple minutes. You just looked peaceful, so I didn’t want to wake you up.”
George’s face reddened. He wasn’t sure why.
“That reminds me,” George started, getting up from the bed and watching as Clay did the same, “You were in my dream last night.”
George watched as Clay’s face practically lighted up at this. “Oh, yeah? What was it about?”
George tried recalling exactly what it was, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “I don’t remember, honestly. All I can remember is that you were in it.”
“It was probably about how cool I am,” Clay joked, leading to a playful punch to his shoulder.
“As if.”
“Guess I’m just a ‘dream,’ then, George,” Clay continued, eliciting yet another punch from George.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you wanna tell yourself,” George dismissed, cheeks dusted rose.
“You should call me that, I think,” Clay said between giggles. “Your ‘dream’.”
George rolled his eyes. “I am not calling you ‘my dream’,” George deadpanned.
“Watch,” Clay said with a smug grin. “It’ll catch on. You’ll call me that eventually.”
George shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he retorted, laughing. “Never gonna happen.”
A day later, George caught himself accidentally calling Clay “Dream”.
_________________
George was thirteen when he completely stopped calling Clay by his name.
“Dream is easier,” he reasoned, rolling his eyes. “The C-L in Clay is annoying to say.”
“Admit it, George, you just think I’m a dream to be around,” Clay, Dream, joked back.
George flicked him on the back of the head for that one.
“You’re so annoying, Dream.”
George liked the way Dream’s eyes crinkled at the sides when he called him that. So, he didn’t stop.
_________________
George was fourteen when Dream got his first girlfriend.
George was fourteen when he realized he hated Dream’s first girlfriend, too.
She was nice - too nice - and frankly, it pissed George off. He wanted a reason to hate her, but he couldn’t find one. She was perfect.
She and Dream were a perfect couple as well, of course.
Her name was Maeve, adorning reddish-blondish hair and piercing blue eyes. She was in the same grade as Dream and George, always clinging onto Dream in the halls and kissing him on the cheek when no one was looking. No one but George, that is.
At first, George chalked it up to jealousy.
Dream was with objectively the prettiest girl in their grade, after all. How could George not be jealous?
When he acknowledged he wanted to practically punch Maeve every time he saw her, however, George reasoned that jealousy might not be the culprit.
After the boys eventually moved on to high school a year or so ago, George had made a considerable amount of friends. He was no longer reminded of his elementary-school tormentors, which was an easy plus.
One afternoon, George decided to speak to his and Dream’s mutual friend, Sapnap, about the Maeve situation during the boys’ lunch period.
“I just don’t like her,” George explained, anxiously tapping his foot on the floor. “I can’t stand her, and I don’t know why.”
Sapnap shrugged, exhaling. “Has she, I don’t know, done anything wrong?”
George cocked his head, trying to think of any wrongdoings Maeve had committed, but came up short. “She’s done nothing. I just can’t stand the sight of her, especially when she kisses Dream.”
“ Dream ?” Sapnap questioned.
“Clay,” George explained. “I call him Dream.” George could tell by Sapnap’s bewildered expression that his explanation was not sufficient. “It’s a thing from when we were younger. Just, don’t call him that, I guess. It’d be weird.”
Sapnap scoffed, light-heartedly placing a hand on George’s shoulder. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
“Now, back to Maeve. So, you said you get pissed when she kisses Clay, right?”
George nodded.
“So, you like Maeve!” Sapnap exclaimed, probably louder than he should’ve.
Still, George shook his head. “I don’t, though. That’s the issue. Sometimes she’ll even try to talk to me to be nice, and I still can’t stand the sight of her.”
“I dunno, man,” Sapnap said, shrugging. “Maybe talk to Clay about it?”
George nodded. He could talk to Dream about anything, even his own girlfriend.
Around a week later, George was at Dream’s house, as was customary.
The two boys were laying on Dream’s bed, George’s head in Dream’s lap as Dream absentmindedly played with George’s dark brown hair.
“Hey, Dream?” George asked, sitting up slightly so he could meet Dream’s gaze.
Dream turned so George had his full attention. “Hey, what’s up?” The blonde’s smile was soft.
“Can I tell you something potentially really weird about your girlfriend?”
Dream’s brows furrowed, but the smile remained all the same. “Sure, shoot.”
George sighed, leaning forward so his forehead was on Dream’s shoulder. “I don’t know, I just don’t like her. She seems so nice, though, so I feel so bad .”
Dream shifted, George’s head falling off of his shoulder. George looked up guiltily at Dream, who was staring at him.
“You don’t like Maeve?” Dream asked, tone unreadable.
George shook his head.
“Okay,” Dream said simply, relaxing back into the bed.
George raised a brow, but followed Dream all the same, leaning his head onto Dream’s shoulder.
George’s heartbeat quickened as he felt a warm finger lock with his pinkie.
Still, he remained unmoving.
His heart rate increased tenfold as Dream completely intertwined his fingers with his own.
They sat there in silence for a long moment.
After a while, George spoke up.
“Hey, Dream?” George asked, eyes unable to meet Dream’s gaze from where his head was situated on his shoulder. Instead, he stared at his jaw, pronounced and flexed.
“Yeah?” the boy asked, now rubbing circles into his knuckles with his fingers.
“I’m sorry about the whole Maeve thing.”
Dream scoffed quietly, no malice audible. “You have nothing to be sorry for, George. I value your opinion more than anyone else we know.”
We .
George tightened his grip on Dream’s hand.
A few days later, George noticed a welcomed lack of Maeve.
George could now walk with Dream in the halls and annoyingly mess with his hair at lunch with no looming redheaded girl to worry about.
During lunch that day, however, he could vaguely make out Maeve crying from across the cafeteria at a separate table.
Apparently, according to Sapnap, Dream broke up with her.
George couldn’t find it in himself not to smile at the news.
_________________
George was sixteen when a girl first asked him out.
He was also sixteen when he said yes.
Her name was Clara.
She was beautiful, really, with dirty blonde hair and blueish-greenish eyes. She was fairly tall compared to the other girls, but George didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he found it attractive. She had a strong jawline, too. George admired her quite a lot.
They would sometimes hold hands in the hallways. George wasn’t a fan of public displays of affection, though, so he tended to not go any further than that.
George liked that her hands were slightly big, too. He liked to close his eyes when they held hands. He would imagine holding something warm, although he wasn’t sure exactly what.
George was sixteen when Dream first started playing American football.
He was a natural at it, too.
George had never been one for sports, besides soccer, but he still found himself sitting in the bleachers during each one of Dream’s practices.
Sapnap was on the football team as well, but George only ever found himself watching Dream as the boys played. It was due to Dream’s height, George presumed. He was easier to spot.
Sometimes, Clara would join him watching Dream practice.
Those days, George noticed, Dream played especially hard.
One day, however, when Clara had accompanied George to Dream’s football practice, Dream seemed out of it.
Out of it, as in he had been full-body tackled by someone on the opposing team during a scrimmage.
From George’s distance, he could make out Dream’s coach pointing towards the locker room. Dream seemed to limp in that direction.
George, of course, bolted towards the field, eventually coming up towards the door leading to the locker room.
George swung it open, not caring if it slammed behind him.
“Dream!” George exclaimed, the blonde boy’s back turned away from him. “Are you okay?”
Dream turned to face him, eyes bloodshot and face splotched with red.
Immediately, George collapsed into the boy with a hug, swinging his arms around Dream’s neck.
“What happened?” he asked softly, his voice muffled from being squished into Dream’s chest.
He heard Dream sniffle. It broke his heart.
“I’m okay,” Dream said, voice clearly broken.
“You’re not,” George stated matter-of-factly, still embracing Dream. George’s face warmed as he felt Dream’s hands land on his waist.
“I’ll be okay,” Dream said instead, grip on George’s waist growing the slightest bit tighter.
The boys settled into the embrace, standing there for a few moments of comfortable silence.
The door swung open, however, interrupting their hug.
The two boys jumped instinctively as the person in the doorway revealed themself to be Clara.
“George, what the hell? You just ran off!” she exclaimed aggressively, clearly not caring enough to notice how distraught Dream looked.
George furrowed his brow. “You saw Dream get tackled! I’m obviously going to run over to help him!”
Clara shook her head. “‘Dream’,” she exclaimed, using air quotes on the nickname. “Is a fucking quarterback! He can take a stupid tackle! You should’ve at least told me where you were going!”
George scoffed, rolling his eyes.
Clara was being irrational. Right?
George watched as Clara stormed out of the locker room, door slamming loudly behind her.
“George,” Dream said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder from behind him. “You should go after her.”
George shook his head. “She’s being stupid. I came here to help you, Dream. I’m not chasing her down just to be yelled at again.”
Dream nodded slowly. Thankfully, he didn’t protest.
The boys eventually returned to their initial embrace.
George was at Dream’s house a day later when Clara called him.
George’s head leaned on Dream’s shoulder, and he listened on the phone with the side of his ear not leaning into the blonde’s neck.
“George?”
“Hi,” he responded, flatly.
“You didn’t even bother to check up on me after Clay’s practice.”
George shifted his head more towards Dream’s neck. “I know. I didn’t have anything to say. You were being irrational, meanwhile I was just trying to help him.”
George felt Dream grip his hand gently.
He heard Clara scoff over the phone. He was tempted to just hang up.
“George?” Clara asked. She didn’t sound amused.
“What?”
“I’m sick of this. We need to break up.”
George didn’t bother responding. He simply hung up.
Dream was staring at him nervously. “What happened?” the golden-haired boy asked, lifting George’s chin so he was facing him instead of leaning into his shoulder.
“She broke up with me,” George said with no emotion in his voice.
Quite honestly, he didn’t really care.
“Oh, George,” Dream said softly, eyes filled with the same fear and concern as when George was in the nurse’s office years ago, and subsequently when George had first shown him his scar. “I’m so sorry.”
Dream hugged George, not tightly, but with such gentleness that George felt he might explode. George nuzzled into Dream’s chest, not bothering to care how absolutely pathetic he must’ve looked.
“You deserve so much better, George,” Dream said into his hair, rubbing circles into George’s side where his skin was exposed from his t-shirt riding up.
George leaned into the touch.
After a while, George realized the part of his side that Dream was touching was the skin around his faded scar.
It was a couple of weeks later when George had returned to watch Dream play football.
This time, however, it was one of his games rather than just a practice.
Unlike usual, when he was one of maybe two or three people watching, there were dozens of onlookers joining him on the stands.
George was sitting with a light-brown-haired boy named Karl, who was supposedly Sapnap’s friend, and a raven-haired boy named Quackity, who was supposedly there because Karl made him.
“Quackity?” George asked, questioning the boy’s strange name. He did call Clay ‘Dream,’ however, so he wasn’t exactly in a place to judge.
“It’s a nickname,” the boy explained. “I used to own a pet duck, and I guess no one ever let me live it down.”
“It’s true,” the other boy, Karl, interjected. “He had a name for the duck and everything!”
“Oh fuck off,” Quackity said between a laugh, jokingly punching the brunet in the shoulder.
“So,” Karl began, changing the subject. “You’re here for Clay?”
George nodded. “Yeah, you know him?”
Karl scoffed light-heartedly. “Of course, everyone knows Clay. He’s arguably the most popular dude in our grade with the number of girls he rejects every day.”
“Not to mention he’s been our friend for like a year, too,” Quackity interjected, Karl nodding in affirmation.
George raised a brow. “Wait, what do you mean?”
Quackity laughed at first, presumably thinking George was joking. After a while, the boy’s brow furrowed. “What, do you not see the amount of girls who ask him out every day?”
“Luckily, he rejects them so there’s some for the rest of us,” Karl said, laughing.
George shook his head softly. “I guess I haven’t really paid attention.”
The other two shrugged, and the boys exchanged small talk until the players ran out onto the field.
Immediately, George found Dream out of all the players, and his cheeks lit up at the realization that Dream was already staring at him.
Dream gave him a smile, and then a wink, and then turned back to focus his attention on his team.
As George turned back to convene with Quackity and Karl once again, he was met with two confused smiles.
“Dude, did Clay just wink at you?” Quackity asked, chuckling.
George’s face instantly felt red-hot. “No- no he didn’t,” he stammered unconvincingly.
“No wonder Clay’s rejecting all those girls,” Karl joked, leaving Quackity and George to laugh in response.
A part of George wanted that to be true.
A very, very small part.
God, was that small part loud.
The game had finished, their school’s team beating the opposition 13 to 3.
Unsurprisingly, Dream was responsible for the majority of their win.
After the roar of the crowd had dwindled following their school’s victory, George rushed down to congratulate Dream. Karl and Quackity were following close behind him.
George watched as Dream, sweat-covered, red-faced, and toothy grinned, ran over to him. Before George could even mutter out a “good job,” Dream had already collapsed into him with a hug.
“George!” Dream exclaimed, practically swinging the boy around. “We did it!”
George laughed into Dream’s jersey-covered chest. “Good job, idiot.”
Eventually, the two parted. George glanced at Karl and Quackity who were staring at the two with brows raised and sly smiles.
George thought back on what the boys had said.
Something in his mind acknowledged that he wished he was the sole reason for Dream rejecting all of those girls.
George turned his attention towards Dream who was already looking at him with a bright smile. George’s heart lurched as a word popped into his mind: beautiful .
Yeah, George let himself think as he smiled stupidly, Dream is beautiful.
After a moment, however, that giddy feeling was replaced with unabridged guilt.
Guilt for feelings he had no control over.
He wanted to look at Dream and think of how gorgeous he was - of how gorgeous a feeling he catalyzed. Yet, looking at him under the bright stadium lights of the field, all he could feel was bitter resentment and masked disgust towards himself.
He was guilty.
Part of him still wished he wasn’t.
George turned away without a word and ran off of the field.
Familiar footsteps followed him, as did calls for his name, but he paid them no mind. He didn’t want to talk to him right now. He couldn’t talk to Dream- Clay. He couldn’t talk to Clay right now.
George was still sixteen, and he wasn’t jealous of Dream. He was jealous of Maeve.
George was still sixteen, except he realized it didn’t matter that a girl asked him out.
It only mattered if Dream did.
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