Chapter Text
“Where are we going?”
Dream doesn’t give an answer, humming to the music playing from the speakers. George doesn’t push for one. This is his third time asking, and he doesn’t exactly expect a response at this point. A slight wind ruffles George’s bangs as he sticks his head out the car window, peeking at milky-white clouds drifting across periwinkle blue. They’re magnificent and giant, so different from the flat, grey ones in Brighton.
“Don’t do that,” Dream warns from the driver’s seat, ever the over-concerned friend, and George giggles.
“Where is that?” he asks innocently, feeling a flicker of success as Dream lets out a snort of amusement.
“You’re such an idiot,” his friend complains fondly. “Just close the window, George. You’re letting all the cold air out.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
An exasperated sigh. “At least stop sticking your head so far out.”
So easy. Why is Dream so easy? George smiles, obliging just enough to stop his friend from complaining. Air continues to gently blow across his forehead like a whisper as he asks again, “So? Where’re we going?”
It’s a cool day in Orlando. It was humid on George’s first day here when he left the airport, but thankfully, today is nicer. More tolerable. Dream said Florida must’ve known George was coming and personally changed its weather to accommodate him. George thinks Florida is a simp, and he said as much.
And frankly, Dream is a simp too.
“A beach,” Dream finally caves. “Nothing too crazy.”
George raises his eyebrows. “A beach,” he repeats.
He must not sound very impressed, because Dream launches into defensive mode. “It’s not like your crappy, pebble Brighton beaches, George. Florida has real beaches, and actual sand, and it’s just, it’s better. Trust me.”
He says the last bit so softly, like he’s telling a secret he wants no one else to hear. Like he’s confiding something into George, saying these words with such tender emphasis.
It’s no secret, though. Of course George trusts Dream. But he’s never going to say it out loud. It’s one thing among many that George keeps to himself.
“Why a beach?” he asks instead.
A shrug. “I just thought I should keep it simple — didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
George feels a little guilty hearing that. He knows he must’ve come off as pretty stressed yesterday. It’s just, it hadn’t really settled in that he’d be seeing his best friend a day ago. It wasn’t until he was actually on the plane, hours away from the place he’s been waiting so long to visit, that he finally felt that realization sink in.
He was excited. He was terrified. He wasn’t ready.
He considered maybe not coming to Florida after all.
Which was a stupid thought, granted at that point he had already boarded the plane. Unfortunately, his lingering thoughts must’ve filtered through to his texts, because Dream has been acting weirdly careful around him. Like he’s scared of being too overbearing, or something. Like he thinks he can actually scare George off, if he’s too overt.
George wants to tell him he’s alright, that Dream doesn’t have to tip-toe, but he doesn’t have the courage. Words are hard sometimes. “Okay,” is all he says.
Dream parks the car, and they walk a short distance before George finally sees it: pale sand stretching into the distance, meeting the darker patch of water in the far horizon. It’s so… wide. It looks endless, feels like they’re on the edge of the world.
Dream gestures for George’s flip flops, and he obediently slips them off. There’s now rough bits of sand between his toes, and his heels sink into the unsteady ground. He’s instantly very aware of how his skin feels in contact with the outside world.
Their hands brush as George hands his shoes over, and he’s suddenly reminded of the fact that these are shoes Dream bought for him since he’d forgotten to bring his own sandals from Brighton. Before that, Dream had tried to get George to wear his pair, only to laugh at him because of how loosely they fit on his feet.
George remembers that feeling, of how small he felt in those shoes. Like he was wearing a future that was too big on him, one that was too slippery to grasp.
George hisses when he finally feels it. “Dr-Dream!” he shouts with panic, “The sand is so hot.”
His friend wheezes gently, stringing their shoes onto his sling bag. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”
“It literally is Dream,” George argues, and he knows he must look silly with the way he’s dancing around, so he quickly scurries to a nearby palm tree, his feet sinking with every step. Once he’s in the shade, he lets out a huge breath of relief.
“It’ll be better once we reach the water,” Dream reassures him, already jogging towards the shore. “Come on, I’ll race you there!”
It’s hardly a fair competition — George had known the moment they’d started running that he’d lose — but he goes off sprinting nonetheless. The heat of the sand isn’t as terrible when his feet are moving quickly. The sun is warm on his skin and he shouts at the top of his lungs, simply because he can. Seconds after Dream’s touched the water, George makes it to the shoreline. The sand holds up his weight better when it’s damp, so George slows to a walk to prevent it from cracking.
“That was literally not fair.”
“Wha— how?” Dream laughs.
“Your legs are so much longer,” George complains, aiming a small kick at Dream’s shins, and his friend squeals as he runs away, splashing up water around them. Specks land on George’s calves, water from the tide pools around his ankles, and he feels himself melt from how refreshing it feels to sink into the sand, like he’s slowly being enveloped by a foot embrace.
“It’s not my fault I’m tall,” Dream argues.
“It kind of is, Dream.”
“Then just wear high heels next time, genius.”
For a second, George pauses. Dream is standing there grinning, tendrils of his hair floating in the wind, printed on a backdrop of blue. Truthfully, even this is a bit much. George considers forcing out a laugh, considers pretending he didn’t hear it, wonders if maybe he’s waited past an acceptable time to respond.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” George blurts, and at Dream’s expression, he bursts into laughter.
“You know it,” his friend jokes back. Dream’s freckled cheeks are pink from the sun already.
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“It’s like a hot dog,” Dream explains, setting the white bag of ingredients on the counter, “but you stuff it with lobster instead.”
They’d just returned from Cousin’s Maine Lobster, and the whole ride back, George had been puzzling over the provided instructions on how to put the meal together. Dream had been unhelpful as usual, laughing at the expense of George’s confusion and making snarky comments about George’s skilless cooking streams.
“Why didn’t you just buy them already prepared?” George complains. He knows Dream promised they’d be good, but at this point, he’s convinced his friend decided on this just to mess with him.
“It’s cheaper,” Dream replies. At George’s comically raised brows, Dream chuckles. “Oh, shut up. What if I just wanted us to make it together?”
George detects it, the small hint of genuinity hidden underneath the joke. “Sure Dream,” he rolls his eyes.
Don’t show that he heard it. Don’t reveal that he knows.
Dream is turned away, digging around his cupboards. “You’re on butter duty.”
George digs out a plastic sack of hot dog buns from the ingredient bag, questioningly raising a small container of yellow liquid. “It’s bread time?”
“Yeah, sure, bread time,” Dream chuckles, producing a brush from a drawer. “Come on, I’ll show you how to do it.”
Dream’s kitchen literally has no right being as big as it is. Actually, much of the same thing could be said for the rest of the house as well. There’s hardly any clutter, the complete opposite of George’s mess of a room. George was actually surprised by how tidy everything was. Dream doesn’t keep a lot of things, other than the room dedicated to fanmail (and that one dnf shrine George’s pointedly ignored), so the place is really just… spacious.
At times, it can feel empty. George wonders if that’s why Dream has so many plants on his balcony, wonders if that’s why Dream was so intent on getting George to come visit, wonders how Dream can handle it.
He wonders if Dream ever feels lonely here by himself.
A meow appears at his feet, as if trying to disprove his theory. George giggles and bends down momentarily to share some affection. Dream was right, honestly, about Patches being a sweetheart. The feline welcomed George without a hint of distrust, treating him as if he were just another trusted member of the household.
When George expressed his surprise then, Dream had just laughed and said, Of course Patches likes you. He said it like it was obvious.
George wonders if Dream knows he’s obvious too.
When George looks up, he catches Dream staring. “What?”
His friend blinks, startled out of his gaze, and he shakes his head. “Nothing.” He taps the tongs against the counter. “It’s nothing.”
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“No, George, we are not getting boba.”
“Do it for the fans Dream, it’s vlog content—”
A laugh. “What are you talking about? They won’t even see my face.”
“It’s not like they need to,” George explains cheerily. “We just need to hear your reaction. Think of all the people that’ll clip it: Famous minecrafter Dream’s first impression of boba. ”
“You’re such an idiot,” Dream snorts, bumping George in the shoulder. “Fine. Maybe tomorrow.”
“But Dream,” George argues, grinning at Dream’s “done” expression, “Don’t I deserve a reward? I worked so hard to toast all the buns—”
“And burned them.”
“—and I just really want boba right n— wait, no? Dream, it was literally just a light char.”
A wheeze. “Uh-huh.”
“Dream, please. It’ll be really quick. We can even post a picture of our drinks side by side! Think of all the likes we’ll get.”
“What the hell,” Dream laughs, this time shoving at George’s arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Come on,” George pleads, pouting his lower lip, but at this point he’s just playing it out. He already knows what Dream’s answer will be.
Ten minutes later, they’re at Tsaocaa and George is pointing out all the different options Dream can try. They spend so long pondering over the menu that they actually end up stepping aside to let other customers go ahead.
“Just pick one for me I’d like,” he says at the end of George’s spiel. There’s a couple cute-faced boba cup plushies sitting on their couch, and Dream grabs one nearby to sit on his lap.
“Really?” George frowns. “Nothing on this entire menu interests you?”
Dream squeezes his plushie and appears to consider it. “…that depends. Are you on it?”
For a second, George allowed himself to humor the question. He glances at the menu, eyes searching for blue drinks, but when he realizes what he’s doing, he shakes his head and laughs.
“Dream, seriously.”
His friend gives a short wheeze, gesturing helplessly. “Just pick something for me! Anything will work.”
“Okay, fine,” George huffs out a laugh, “I will!”
George has just decided on the caramel one for Dream when the taller goes: “Just don’t choose one that’s too sweet.”
An exasperated sigh. “You literally just said anything will work, Dream.” It was fine though. George could just order with a smaller percentage of sugar—
“Actually, let’s just go with this one! It’s green like me.”
“You—” George knows he ought to be irritated, but he can only bark out a short laugh. “Okay. Whatever, Mr. Matcha.”
They finally step back in line, but at this point, there’s no one else waiting to order. George was honestly a little excited for Dream. But upon relaying their order, the cashier gives them an apologetic look.
“Sorry, but we’re out of boba right now.”
George’s jaw drops open. “What?” What kind of half-assed service was this? He glances over at the pick-up counter, watches in distressed disbelief as the customers they’d let cut in front of them grab their own drinks with boba.
To his surprise, even Dream looks a little disappointed. “How long would we have to wait for you to make more?”
“Around fifteen minutes.”
The two friends share a helpless look. “Is there another boba shop nearby?”
“No,” Dream confirms, “going to another place would take twenty more minutes.”
“Ughhh,” George groans, unable to believe their luck. “This sucks.”
“Sorry,” Dream says, looking genuinely apologetic. “If I didn’t take so long to pick, we could’ve placed our order before they ran out.”
George almost agrees, just for banter’s sake, but looking at Dream’s expression, he suddenly doesn’t want to. “We’ll just take our orders without the boba,” George tells the cashier. When Dream gives him a puzzled look, George shrugs. “I mean, we’re already here, so we might as well get it. As long as you’re okay with it, I guess?”
It takes him a second, but Dream eventually nods. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
They sit back down, and when Dream picks up his huge plushie again, George copies him with a second smaller one. Amiable conversation quickly turns into them attacking each others’ stuffed toys, first starting with small harmless jabs, and slowly descending into chaotic wrestling.
It’s when Dream’s got both of George’s arms pinned that the cashier calls out the names of their drinks, giving them a funny look while they’re at it. It takes George a second to realize how weird their position must look. He stands up quickly, pretending not to have seen the flash of longing on Dream’s expression when he tugged his arms away.
George considers making a joke about how the cashier woman probably thinks they’re dating or something, but he decides against it. “Here,” he says, handing Dream his very green drink. “You can get yourself a straw from over there.”
“Wait,” Dream frowns while George is sticking his own straw into his drink, “What happened to making blog content?”
“Oh,” George pauses, blinking innocently up at his friend. “I forgot.”
Dream’s eyes crinkle. “George…”
“We can still take the picture though,” George grins back. “Come on, let’s hold them side by side.”
George fishes out his phone and raises it to take a picture. He suspiciously notes that Dream has moved behind him, and jumps a little when he feels a slight pressure settle on his clavicle.
“D-Dream?” George asks confusedly, trying to keep his voice even, “What are you doing?”
“Posing for the picture,” is the nonchalant response. Dream’s chin is propped on George’s shoulder, his cheek terribly close to George’s own, one hand placed carelessly on George’s opposite arm. He’s so close that George can smell the scent of the shampoo he uses from his hair. “Give me the phone, I have longer arms.”
“But,” George hesitates, still bewildered, “your face will be in it…?”
“We’ll keep this one for us,” Dream replies, giving an easy smile in the reflection of George’s camera. “Now come on!”
George smiles, an eyebrow raised in surprise uncertainty, and Dream snaps the picture. George looks silly in it, as he often does in most pictures, but Dream is genuinely beaming, looking the happiest he’s ever been in his life.
You look good, George almost says, but he knows it isn’t right to take advantage of his friend, to overstep those thin boundaries. He considers telling Dream he looks like an idiot, but decides against that too.
“It’s a good picture,” he says instead. Not too aggressive, not too affectionate.
“Obviously, because I took it,” Dream chuckles. “I’m sending it to myself, okay?”
George nods, sipping from his cup as he watches Dream scroll through his phone. There’s this dumb expression of fondness on his face that just isn’t sitting well with George. It makes him feel like he needs to say something, maybe be a little more honest. As the silence stretches on, it feels like a second chance to speak up.
But George’s mouth is lead, and before he can get anything out, Dream has looked up to hand the phone back. “Thanks,” he says, poking a straw into his drink. “I’m gonna see if mine is any good now.”
“It’s your own fault if it’s bad,” George jabs, internally sighing in relief from the fact that he didn’t say anything unnecessary. He would hate leading Dream on for nothing.
Because George knows: Dream has a crush on him.