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Dream knocks faintly and enters the room. George is streaming, headphones in, mouse in hand, already spam clicking. A tight frame on his face illuminates the screens. Dream walks by the camera before sitting down on George’s bed out of view. George slightly turns around to look at the blond man, a smile creeps on his face but he quickly wipes it away as he turns back towards his screen and continues on. Dream watches, interjecting here and there, striking laughter in George’s throat, a hinge of pinkness in his cheeks.
“You’re an idiot,” George says, his voice soft and quiet before roaring back towards the game. “They have our bed! Callahan what did you do?”
Dream eventually sits back on the bed silently, fidgeting and shuffling through his phone, unable to stop himself from glancing towards the dark-haired man just meters away. The bed is messily made, a rogue sweatshirt sprawls across it, and it smells of George’s cologne. It’s soothing, having George yammer on in the background in real life and not through a screen. His eyelids feel heavy, his vision blurs and he puts his phone down, letting his eyes shut just for a few minutes. George’s voice rocks him to sleep.
He dreams of fingers tracing his cheek, of lips brushing against his neck, of hair strands against his skin, a heaviness against his own. He feels himself sink into darkness, a presence falling after him, wrapping itself around him, securing him close as they fall. His body shivers, prickles at the touch, a sweetness grows in him.
“Dream,” a distant voice says. “Dream, help me.”
Dream’s eyes shoot open, his entire body twitches awake. “Hmmm? What?”
“Were you asleep?” George’s voice pitches and chuckles as he tilts towards him. Dream blinks away the sleep, forcing his brain to update. He’s in George’s bed. George is still streaming. Did he fall asleep that quickly?
“I was blinking.”
“You were blinking for an hour,” George scoffs, “stop slacking and help me with this.”
An hour? Dream blames the late-night streams, and not the soft, comfortable bed that smells like his best friend. He stands and walks over to the computer.
“With what?” his voice raspy.
George responds something about one of Dream’s manhunts moves. “Do it for me,” he says. Dream reaches over George, sliding his hands around him to reach the keyboard and mouse. His chest hovers, his chin resting on George’s hair. George shrinks, a shy smile hides behind a sheet of black locks.
“There you go,” Dream says after a few clicks. He retreats his hands and ruffles George’s hair.
“Stop,” he protests.
Dream laughs, “here, wait, hold on,” he takes the man’s headset, slightly brushing against George’s hands. He slides it off and puts it back on him, ensuring the headband slicks the hair back, revealing George’s widow’s peak.
“Yessss,” Dream wheezes, “you’re welcome, chat.”
George’s face is deep red as he adjusts the headset and goes back to his keyboard. Dream falls back onto the bed, slightly blinded by the heat in his hands that have just touched George and ignoring the one growing in his lower stomach.
-
The next time George streams, Dream comes in with food for both of them. They both eat as George plays Minecraft, Dream always just slightly off frame. The only hint of his presence being his hands and voice.
It’s nice. They’re chatting as they eat, the food hot and flavorful.
“You’ve got-” Dream reaches with his hand and wipes away sauce on George’s cheek. The dark-haired man stills and shiver’s under his electric touch. Dream forgets to think, and instead of wiping his finger on a napkin, he brings it to his mouth and licks it.
The fuck am I doing.
He goes back to his fries in the most casual way possible, pushing down the knot in his chest. Don’t mention it, please.
“Okay, Dream, don’t be weird.”
Dream hides the bang in his chest, the sudden sinking feeling in his feet. “What?” he says, trying his best at sounding dumbfounded. I’m a fucking dumbass.
“You’re an idiot,” George chuckles before moving on.
Thank god.
Dream’s mind is stuck on that after, replaying the event over and over again in his head. The touch of his finger to his cheek, the way George stopped and looked at him as if the whole world had suddenly vanished and it was just the two of them. Dream’s eyes had fallen down to his lips and lingered there just a little too long.
He finishes his food slowly then, calculating each bite, chewing with care until he’s done. He eventually tires of sitting at the desk and decides to move to George’s bed. He lingers there again, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, fighting the thought of George in bed with him. His eyelids feel heavy and he yawns. He opens a random YouTube video, hoping the distraction will keep him awake.
He falls asleep before the ad finishes.
He wakes to darkness. His eyes still blurry of sleep, he quickly glances around.
Oh, right. George’s room.
Except George isn’t streaming anymore. He’s not even at his desk. The room is pitch black save for the lights coming off the PC. It’s only when he turns around does Dream realizes he’s not alone in the bed. George is tucked in on the other side, fast asleep.
George let him sleep. He didn’t wake Dream. He didn’t shove him off and tell him to go sleep in his own damn bed.
What time is it? He checks his phone. 4:00 AM. Dream contemplates staying. He’s made it this far into the night, anyways. He might as well finish it. Dream just isn’t sure how to face George in the morning. Not that it would be weird, or anything. He just fell asleep. Dream has slept in the same bed as his friends many times before. It’s not a big deal. It’s fine.
It is not, you dumb fuck. It’s George.
Dream gets up and strays into his own bedroom.
He chases sleep all night. It feels out of reach like he’s racing against the light and each time he reaches the dark, his arm fails to stretch far enough, and he’s back at running against his own turmoil. He fights until the sun makes its way across the horizon, and Dream reluctantly gets up for the day. Neither speaks of the night before, and Dream counts on keeping it that way.
-
This time, there’s an actual purpose for Dream to be in George’s room when he streams. They’ve got new merch, and Dream is modeling a few hoodies.
“Dream, give us a spin,” George says as he grabs the sides of Dream’s hoodie, pushing Dream into turning around himself. Dream spins. George gasps and turns to the camera.
“Okay, now take it off and put the other one on,” George commands as he grabs another hoodie from the chair.
Dream doesn’t protest and puts on the piece of clothing as instructed. He likes helping George. He likes seeing his eyes crinkle as he smiles and turns him away from the camera to show the back of the hoodie. He’d let him do just about anything if it means he can spend time with him.
“Isn’t this epic,” George asks, pointing at the pattern.
“It is.” Dream’s voice is soft, warm, and full of a love he’ll never admit he has for his best friend.
George plugs his merch store one last time before moving on to another game of bedwars. Dream sits back down, still wearing the last hoodie he was displaying. It smells of new, of what could be. He plans on keeping it even if it’s George’s. Kicking the chair away from the desk, he turns to the bed and flops down across it, shoving the hood over his head and pulling on the strings. He mindlessly plays with them, thinking them George’s hair in the back of his mind.
He doesn’t question it when the lights turn off and only George’s screen faintly illuminates the room as Dream’s eyes close shut.
Dream stretches out his arm and feels another presence next to him. His mind is still half asleep, he lets it slide around the person, nudging closer, sinking his face in what feels like heated skin and strands of hair. The person is smaller, slenderer than him. It’s easy for Dream to wrap himself around them, engulfing them in his own presence. Dream doesn’t think twice of it. It’s just a dream, a nice, sweet dream.
A ray of light seeps through his eyelid and Dream wakes up. He’s alone in the bed. George’s side is neatly made, the only hint of his presence the night before being a half drank cup of water on his bedside. Dream suddenly remembers his dream of wrapping his arms around someone.
It was a dream. Nothing more, nothing less.
Dream decides to not think too hard about it. Maybe George went on the couch. Or George slept in his own bed, and Dream simply dreamt. Or something.
He certainly doesn’t mention it to George when he sees him in the kitchen later on, nor does he. They’re on the same terms. Sometimes best friends fall asleep. And since Dream was dreaming, there’s nothing to talk about.
-
George isn’t streaming. He’s editing a video for his channel, one that he, Dream, and Sapnap recorded the day prior. Dream sits at the edge of the bed and helps George cut his footage. He catches himself looking at George, focused, eyes pressed, lips in a tight line. When George whines, begging for Dream to edit it for him instead, he steps in, grabs the mouse, slides the cursor across the screen, moving files, splitting, deleting audios, adding effects. His hand brushes against George’s, it sends an electric jolt through his arm, his body hyperaware of the other man’s. He synchronizes his breathing with his, wanting to feel small, forgotten, so that George’s attention on him feels even more present.
“George, you just have to do it at some point,” Dream says as he flops down on George’s bed. He grabs a pillow and tucks it under his chin, George’s smell overwhelms him.
“I can’t upload it, it’s still missing some footage,” George draws out, letting his arm flop over his armrest.
“Then work on it,” Dream chuckles. George throws his head backward and groans.
“I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t,” Dream smiles, “come chill here.” He pats the side of the bed. George straightens and looks at him. His eyes are hard to read, his face always so stoic, composed, until it breaks into a smile.
“You’re just so funny, aren’t you?” He rubs his nose as he turns back to the computer. Dream spends the rest of the evening on his phone, pretending he’s paying attention to the game he’s playing and definitely not on the man in front of him. He pretends he doesn’t notice when he feels sleep creep upon him. He also doesn’t do much to fight it.
Dream feels the bed shift and moves slightly as George slips under the covers. His leg touches Dreams for a second, and his hair prickles. Dream freezes. George doesn’t leave. He doesn’t wake Dream up, either. George is here, in his bed, with Dream. It’s fine. It’s happened before. It’s nothing Dream can’t handle.
He imagines George’s skin touching him all over as he presses against him, wrapping him around in his safety, pressing his lips against his neck.
Shut your dumb brain and go back to sleep, idiot.
George shifts in his direction and Dream can hear his breathing. He’s so close. He feigns unconsciousness as he turns towards George, stretching his arms until it reaches the other man, letting it slide over him. He can feel George’s breathing still against his own cheeks. George’s forehead barely touching his.
What am I doing.
He nudges closer, eyes still closed. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. None of this is real.
“I know you’re awake,” George murmurs. Dream shoots up to the surface feeling like a deer caught in headlights. His whole body is frozen, his breathing gone, a venom spreads in his chest as his anxiety rises.
“Do you want me to leave?” Dream whispers back, feeling nauseated.
There’s a pause. “No.”
Dream doesn’t relax immediately, his heart still pounding out of his chest. “Are you sure?” Please don’t say no.
George’s voice becomes more distant, muffled. “I’m sure.” He presses his forehead against Dream’s chest. He can’t hear my heartbeat. Dream lets himself breathe again. He’s colorblind, not deaf, idiot. Slowly, he runs his hand down the other man’s back. He feels George’s leg slowly intertwine with his.
I wish this wasn’t a dream.
Dream sighs, eager for the touch, desperate for closeness. He lets the man sink into his embrace, resting his head against his chest. Before Dream can do anything else, darkness overcomes him.
George is gone again when Dream wakes. His side is neatly made. Covers are pulled up over his pillows. The glass on the nightstand is empty. The shutters are still closed, and the door is barely cracked open. He sighs. He recalls the whispers, the drowned pillow talk, and George’s forehead against his chest. How real it had felt. He thinks he should stop falling asleep in his best friend’s bed. The dreams make him miss something he’s never had, and never will. He’s got to make peace with that.
-
Dream’s been playing with George more often. He games on his computer, thinking he’s in need of breaking his habit of falling asleep in George’s bed whenever he streams. He can’t fall asleep if he’s not even there, right? It’s been working for him, and now when he goes in George’s room, he actually leaves it without even touching George’s bed.
His dreams are still filled with flashes of his best friend looking at him, smiling, laughing, of his arms around his chest and his forehead against Dreams’. It’s an alternate reality Dream likes to bathe himself in. He feels guilty, though, whenever he sees George. He thinks himself an impostor for bending his friend’s will in his mind. George doesn’t feel the same. Friends sleep in the same beds, but they don’t cuddle like they do in his dreams. And that’s okay, Dream tells himself. He can live with the friendship he has with George. He’s too scared of losing it. He’s not sure how he’d manage if it shattered.
It was all going fine. Maybe Dream’s feelings would go away with time-they’d at least diminish, or so at least he hoped. But, tonight Dream’s computer is broken. Something with the processor, he needs to upgrade it. He orders the new part and stares at his black computer screen. He sees his reflection, his messy hair is getting long, his skin glows as the sun peaks its rays across his cheek and his eyes are tired. He glimpses at his own bed behind him.
He stands before he can think too hard about it, and makes his way to George’s room.
“I can’t stream with you,” Dream says as he enters the room.
George is lost in his shirt as he shoves it over his head, his stomach sticking out before the fabric hides it. Dream pretends he didn’t look, a twinge of guilt rising in him.
“Why not?” George asks, running a hand through his thick black hair.
“Not sure, I think my processor is fucked for whatever reason.”
“Sucks to be you.”
Dream chuckles. Yes, it does.
George starts his stream, and Dream resolves to leave the room. He walks back and forth, from the kitchen to the living room and back to his own room, munching on a snack, turning on the tv, watering the plants, feeding Patches. His mind is a torrent. A storm wavers in his brain unable to settle. He tries his computer again before walking another few laps around the house until he’s back in front of George’s door. The door stands tall and daunting in front of him. His thoughts quiet, then.
He decides to let his feet take him where his mind desperately wants to go. He opens the door.
“Dream? Dream’s here!” George says excitedly before turning back, spam clicking his mouse. His stream voice is deeper, more articulate, more present than his normal voice.
“What’s up?” Dream’s voice cracks. He clears his throat before taking a seat next to George, always out of frame. The dark-haired man frantically hammers on his keyboard.
“Dream, HELP.” George’s eyes are fixated on the screen as he tries to kill his opponent in a game of bedwars.
Dream laughs, “I can’t do anything over here.”
“You’re so useless, shut up,” George retorts, “go fix your computer.”
Dream’s lips curl into a faint smile. He follows the game on the screen at the edge of his seat, his hands twitching as he follows George’s movements, a reflex almost, his muscle memory kicking in.
The tension grows, the speaker plays epic music. It’s just George and Callahan and another player now. If they kill the player, they win. Callahan falls to his death, and George is left to cross the bridge to face his adversary. The music tenses, builds, and when the beat drops, George charges into the fray.
He hits the other player one last time before falling into the void of the game. The screen displays “VICTORY.”
George screams, his voice strident in the microphone.
Dream is on his feet, he shakes George’s shoulders and roars, “let’s fucking goooooooo!”
He doesn’t stop himself as he presses a hard kiss amongst George’s curls. George hysterically laughs, a smile spread across his cheeks.
“That was insane,” George grins, slightly out of breath, “that was actually insane.”
“You popped off!” Dream sits back down, his blood still flowing with adrenaline. “You actually did it, George, you popped off.”
George looks back at him for a split second, as if only Dream was privy to all the bright things that were held in his eyes. The moment is gone as quickly as it came, and George turns back to his screen, chatting away to his viewers.
Dream grows quiet as George starts another game. George’s smile is radiant, and Dream can’t help himself but stare. He can’t help but notice the curls that fall on George’s forehead, the way they wrap around the headset, how some strands have gone rogue against the band. His jawline is sharp, his smile wide and his voice fills the room and bounces off the walls and into Dream’s mind like a sweet summer song.
He thinks of all his hard work of not being in George’s room, and how it has been rendered useless. He’s not sure how much longer he can suppress his feelings.
They’re not going away.
Dream stays on the chair for a few more games, constantly towing with the idea of flopping on George’s bed. Each time he thinks George is about to end the stream, the dark-haired man starts another game.
It won’t hurt if Dream goes on his bed. The chair is uncomfortable and he’s barely paying attention anyway. It makes perfect sense for Dream to go lay down. So he does. He gets up, stretches, and lets himself fall on the bed off camera. He pretends he doesn’t notice the sun has gone down. He rests his chin on a pillow and scrolls his Twitter.
He tells himself it’s the last time he’s allowing himself to fall asleep in his best friend’s bed as he shuts his eyes and welcomes the sweet darkness of sleep.
When he opens his eyes, he sees the moon in its crescent through the window. George is in bed, tossing and turning, fixing his pillow, throwing a leg out before putting it back under the covers. Dream watches him until George settles facing him. He doesn’t think George can see him looking at him until George opens his eyes.
They don’t say anything. Dream can feel his heart drum in his chest.
It’s a dream, he tells himself. Is it a dream? He can’t tell anymore. He’s not sure he really cares, either.
Dream lifts his hand and gently caresses George’s cheek. It’s dark, and he can only make out the blurred features of the other man. George’s eyes bore into Dream’s and time slows. Gently, Dream leans in and presses his lips against George’s. It’s a sweet, tender kiss filled with sleep. It’s experimental, and Dream stops to breathe as George chases his lips.
They don’t say anything.
George looks down at Dream’s lips and kisses him, and he feels his whole body melt at the touch. His mind goes fuzzy. He feels high kissing George. He lets his mouth open for their tongue to meet. It’s electric, ants play in his feet, his stomach up to his throat, he feels hot all over. It is so much better than whatever he’s been dreaming.
When he wakes up again, the sun spills into the room and onto the bed. This time, George is still here. He’s wrapped around Dream’s arms with their hands intertwined. Dream nestles into his neck, begging time to stop forever.
His dreams have been sweet, but this is sweeter.