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September had brought a chill to England. It dampened the heat of summer and rushed across exposed skin, bringing out goosebumps on even those who swore never got cold.
June, July, and August had raced by without much of a thought. George could’ve sworn that he blinked, and then summer passed him by without so much of a whisper. Not that he was particularly bothered; he likes the Autumn. The colours were nice, and the fresh breeze was something that he welcomed with open arms.
Though Autumn hadn’t quite arrived, George could almost taste it on his tongue and feel it beneath his trainers as he walked through the local park, a jacket wrapped tightly around the jumper that he had thrown on in the rush of getting out the house.
Fawkes Park rests a five-minute walk from the Jubilee Secondary School, where George and Dream had studied for half of their life in education. The first half of their lives had been spent in a primary school across town on a street lined with small trees that the Caretaker cut when they got a little too leafy. George wasn’t sure if the trees were still there, or if Mick the Caretaker still tended to them— he hadn’t been in that part of town ever since he left at age eleven. He had no need to return.
The park had been the focal point of his childhood growing up in his small-ish town. There was a slide that gives you electric shocks, a swing set with one baby swing that he used to get stuck in, a roundabout that his friends pushed so fast that George almost threw up his Greggs lunch in a nearby dustbin, and a set of monkey bars that the “cool kids” used to climb on top of to sort of, well— prove themselves, in a way.
George pushes through the heavy metal gate, holds it for a few seconds, before he lets it swing back to slam on its hinges with a dull thud. He strolls into the playground, noting each new graffiti mark that had been painted on different apparatus with an internal groan.
The kids in the town had gotten worse; tagging anything that they could find with their “gang” tagline like it actually meant something. They don’t mean anything.
He moves over to the slide. It had a canopy over it— kind of like a treehouse— so the inside didn’t get wet from rain. The steps leading up the slide wound around in a circle, and they were lined with coloured plastic panels.
Leaning under the canopy, George reaches out a hand to glide it along the first plastic panel on his right, fingers tracing tatty graffiti spray paint and pencil marks of where year sevens had written their first love’s names, until the pads on his index and middle finger dipped into a sharp score in the plastic.
His fingers follow the scored lines for a moment more before he leans further in to see “D+G” carved into the plastic.
He smiles. This has meaning.
It had been raining when he and Dream came to the park after school in year eight. They sought shelter in this exact slide, under its little canopy, away from the pouring rain that had turned into a wild thunderstorm in under a minute.
For some bizarre reason that George decided not to question at the time, Dream produced a small penknife that he had stashed away in his school backpack and had leaned over to the plastic panel with a cheeky grin.
“You wanna be immortal, George?” He had asked, the gap between his teeth whistled slightly when he spoke. George would have been absolutely stupid to have said no, and a moment later, Dream had carved their initials into the plastic.
He runs his fingers over the rough plastic again and lets out a half-chuckle before retreating out from under the slide and moving over to the monkey bars, next to the slide.
When he approaches, George runs his hand down the metal bar of the monkey bar frame. It was painted red and the flakes of the paint stuck to his palm. He dusts them off with a distant smile. “Do you, uh,” he starts, but his voice is so weak that he has to clear his throat before continuing, “d’you remember when climbing to sit on top of these bars felt like we were kings of the playground?”
He looks over to Dream, who’s standing off to the side; hands shoved into jean pockets, and eyes drawn to the pile of dirt and dust that he was shifting around with his scuffed navy converse. After a moment he looks up, catching George in a brief gaze, before dropping his eyes back down to the ground.
All that Dream mumbles is a quiet, “yeah.”
They had come to the park together for, effectively, what would be the last time the two of them would see each other in person until Christmas.
In under a week, George would be starting classes at the University of Cardiff; far away from the little town that he had called home for eighteen years of his life.
And, in under a week, Dream would be starting work at his father’s archery business. He was expected to take over the company when his dad retires in several years, so he had a lot of training to do.
It was safe to say that Dream is not overly enthusiastic about George leaving to study computers hundreds of miles away in a different country. The last few days, in particular, had been quite difficult for him as George’s move-out date looms closer and closer.
George had desperately tried to make Dream feel better over this past week despite feeling fairly shit about the situation himself, but it was hard to help someone who had completely shut down.
It was one thing that George had always kind of despised about Dream— shutting off when things got a little too tough. Still, he prevailed, albeit his patience wore thinner and thinner as the slow days dragged by.
“I haven’t come here in ages, probably,” George says again, walking over to sit on the roundabout in front of Dream. Dream says nothing, so he keeps talking. “The last time I came here was probably the day after we had finished all of our GCSE exams. It had been physics— our last exam — and you had told me that you thought you bombed it. I didn’t believe you.”
Dream stops shifting dirt and sits next to George on the roundabout. He uses his feet to swing the roundabout back and forth and George lifts up his legs to sit cross-legged.
A breath before George carries on: “We sat on the swing set. It had been free because all the little year sevens and eights weren’t out of school yet, since we were allowed out after our exam. The only people in the park were a couple mum’s and their kids. It was nice.”
“I told you that you had passed the physics exam because I thought I did well. I knew you had passed because you were so much better at physics than I was, so if I felt confident, then you had every reason to be—” George turns to face Dream with a small smile, “—turns out I was right.”
Dream stops swinging the roundabout with a huff and looks down at his hands. They were rough and calloused from all the bow and quiver making that his dad had him doing during the summer for the archery company.
George’s eyes stay on them for a little too long.
“It was a fluke,” Dream says quietly. His voice was thick and strangled.
George knew better than to ask. “It certainly wasn’t,” he chuckles softly. “You were the smartest in the class. You knew that.”
Dream doesn’t answer for a long moment. The streetlight just outside the park flickers on with a buzz and George tilts his head back to look at the sky. Dusk had quickly passed, and now the sky had turned a deep dark blue.
One of George’s favourite things about the winter months is how it got dark in the evenings a lot quicker. Maybe it was the way that the darkness brought a certain atmosphere, or that the sky being dark at 5 PM reminds him of Christmas Eve; either way, he loves it.
“Whatever,” Dream mumbles, somewhat coldly, and something inside George just— snaps.
He whirls around to face Dream. “Why are you making this so much more difficult than it already is?” He cries in exasperation, eyebrows pinching together and cold air rushes out of his nose like dragon breath.
Dream looks at him for half a beat before turning away with a bored expression. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“Are you joking? Are you actually serious?” George asks sarcastically. He rolls his eyes and turns away again, finding the swingset to inspect with false intrigue. “You are the worst.”
Dream takes in a breath. “It just— it hurts so bad and you haven’t even left yet.”
George notices that his voice is shaky and restrained; threatening to spill something that perhaps neither of them wanted to hear in fear of getting too emotional. Emotions weren’t really their kind of thing; especially for George. Dream would always be the one to let the cap on his emotions flip off when it got a little too much for him to handle.
So, George understands why Dream would be holding back. He’s scared of becoming so upset over something that maybe wasn’t that much of a big deal, except it was kind of a big deal for the two of them— they have been inseparable ever since they were put in the same year one class in primary school, and now they were forced apart by the very thing that brought them together in the first place: Education.
Thinking about it, George reckons it was quite stupid (and kind of cheesy) that their education had been a crucial factor in their friendship, but he supposes that it wasn’t something to give much thought on. They were much more than just “childhood friends” who would eventually fall out of touch— they had grown past that.
Despite it, George discovered that some part of Dream holds the belief that the moment George leaves for university, their friendship will crumble. To be honest, he had a good reason to believe it, since their other friend, Bad, had completely dropped off the grid ever since he left after year eleven.
Neither of them had heard from him since. They had no idea where he was. All they had was a promise that he would return someday. George had watched as the hope in Dream’s eyes awaiting Bad’s return dwindled day by day until Dream had stopped mentioning Bad’s name in general conversation, and he swore that he’d never let Dream feel that way again.
“Look,” George starts softly, the tone very unusual for him to use as he’s never been the best at comforting people. “This hasn’t been easy for me, either, you know? Honestly if a Uni close to home had accepted me I’d be going there instead, but it’s just that Cardiff was the only one that wanted me.”
“Every Uni that rejected you are idiots,” Dream spits, tongue laced with anger and frustration, but not towards George. “They’re missing out on a great student and an even better person.”
“Okay, well I don’t—”
“Just take the compliment, George. You’re incredible.”
“Do you ever shut up?” George deadpans.
“Not about you, no.”
“Shut up.”
They laugh; Dream’s low chuckle intertwined with George’s carefree giggles. It feels better, and the slight tension that had floated in the air between them dissolved into buzzing fireflies. In the back of George’s mind, “remember this” echoes, and he tries to count everything to memory; the way that his legs were crossed on the roundabout, and how a handle dug into his lower back; how Dream was swinging them backwards and forth, not quite going anywhere for the moment; the way that the streetlight ahead of them flickers every half-minute; how it felt to feel Dream’s warmth brushing against his side; and the carving of their initials inside the slide.
“So you’re really going?” Dream asks quietly, and George feels his gaze for a brief moment. He doesn’t dare turn to meet it.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’m really going.”
George says it like he’s trying to convince himself, as if he wasn’t entirely sure that he’s actually leaving the only town he’s ever known. He hadn’t given the move away much thought— just that he’d be moving away.
Sure, he’s bought the things he would need for his dorm room and stuff, but at no point did it actually feel real. Maybe right now is the point in which he finally realises what’s going to happen, or maybe he’ll never feel like any of it is real. Maybe he’ll drop out after one year and return to his hometown to help Dream with the archery business, or maybe he’ll stick to his degree and get employed at a real fancy company where he will spend the rest of his working life.
George suddenly realises that his life is full of unknowns, various possibilities and winding pathways that will lead him to certain circumstances. In the same moment, he also realises that he has one constant.
This time, he turns to face Dream with a gentle smile. “I’ll come home to see you on every single holiday.”
“Every single one?”
“Promise,” George says, and produces a hand to list off examples. “Halloween, Christmas— and I’ll stay for New Years, obviously— Easter, and…” he trails off for a moment, tasting the words in his mouth before finishing; “and Valentines.”
Dream tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. For a moment, George thinks he looks kissable. “Valentines?”
“Valentines,” George repeats with a nod.
“Don’t reckon you’ll find anyone worth your time up in Cardiff, then?” Dream asks with a slight grin, and George wonders if he’s flirting.
George shakes his head. “Probably not.”
“It’s a long way to come home for a one-day holiday.”
“Not if it’s worth it.”
Dream hums and looks down at his hands again. “The person you’ll be coming back to see must be pretty special, then.”
“He is.”
Green eyes glance up to meet George’s, and then he’s being offered a nervous smile. “You should introduce me one day.”
“Maybe,” George shrugs, smiling teasingly, and then the two of them are caught in a gaze that neither of them break and it’s every emotion and feeling that George had ever felt for the boy sitting beside him coming up to lodge themselves in his throat like a golf ball. And maybe— just maybe— Dream was feeling the same thing, because his Adam’s Apple bobs when he swallows thickly.
But then George feels the first raindrop land on his head, and the bubble is broken.
Dream is the first to jump up, and he offers George a hand to take. “Let’s go home, yeah?”
George slips his hand into the rough, calloused one, and pulls himself up off the roundabout with a sigh. “Less time for you to say goodbye.”
“I’m not saying goodbye, idiot.”
Dream leads them out of the park and onto the street pavement under the flickering streetlight.
“No?”
“No.”
George reckons he’s okay with that, really. It was probably better that way.
Despite it, they take their time walking back to Dream’s house. Neither of them say much at all.
Not that George minded, he was quite content with strolling down the darkening streets hand-in-hand with the pretty boy.
It certainly wasn’t unusual for them to hold hands like this, but if you were to ask George where he stood with Dream, he wouldn’t be able to give you an answer.
The relationship between George and Dream was— how George would best describe it— a ‘goop’ . It’s something and it’s nothing and it’s also a mess, but it’s everything George had wanted. The two of them don’t talk about their goop of a relationship— hell, Dream doesn’t even know that George calls it a goop— but perhaps that’s the best way for them to carry on forwards without much of an issue. They’ll cross the bridge one day, George is sure, but right now he was perfectly content encased in their little goop bubble of stolen glances, hand holding, and teasing remarks.
When they reach Dream’s house, George’s hand is dropped back to his side and Dream moves away, calling “I’ll FaceTime you!” over his shoulder, and George watches him trudge up the drive.
Dream doesn’t look back.
George is thankful for that; he wasn’t sure how he’d manage to walk away and down the street to his house had he seen Dream’s face again. He wouldn’t want to leave.
When Dream pushes through his front door and it shuts behind him, George doesn’t move for a moment. He looks over the detached house, those white-framed windows and the apricot bricks that the both of them had kicked their feet out of and against when it got a little musty in Dream’s room whilst studying; and the rickety fence that lines the Harris’ back garden of which inhabits a great marble fountain that he and Dream used to splash about in on those rare hot summer days in the July months; and the cobalt garage door that Dream had thrown open with a grand smile most weekends, just so that he could show George what progress his dad had made on fixing up the rusty old blue ‘69 Chevrolet Caprice that the bloke had managed to snatch up at a classic car fare a couple towns over.
George smiles, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and steps away from Dream’s house.
Somewhere, off in the distance, an owl hoots its night-time melody, and George swears that when he returns home for Halloween, he will kiss Dream the way he had wanted to tonight, and every other time he had wanted to before.