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Maybe this is the end. It has to be. The world outside is dark and there are absolutely no stars shining. It’s the kind of dark that can only exist when you think the asteroids are going to hit, when you feel the sting of a head-on car collision.
In this case, George can feel his earth shattering, and Dream seems to be the cause of all things bad in the world.
“Just start the car,” George mutters. He’s exhausted, and the seat under him feels too itchy.
George is sweating. The air in the car is humid and he’s still angry. It’s one of the reasons George doesn’t like going to parties anymore. It always ends like this, him exasperated and worked up, and Dream the one who always swerves the car into the ditch.
“I’m trying ,” George hears Dream says. His brain almost doesn’t register the words. He had been too caught up in the heat and smoke in his lungs to really pay attention to the blond. “Where are my keys?”
Now, Dream is looking around frantically, hands searching and searching while George just sits . He watches and doesn’t help; a few months ago he would have.
“I don’t know,” George says, voice devoid of clear emotion. He’s mad, jealous, numb, hurt .
And there’s absolutely no reason for him to be.
This is supposed to be the point where he and Dream drop it. George will plug the aux into his phone and fill the car with music. They won’t talk until Dream parks the car outside of George's house and kisses him goodbye.
That’s just how it goes, now. The normal and good times are far and few between, so George has stopped expecting them.
He thinks he’s fucked everything up.
“Didn’t I give them to you?” Dream asks. He sounds tired, too, maybe more tired than George.
“No,” George says. He refuses to look Dream in the eyes even though he can feel the irritated stare being directed at him. Instead, George crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window. He tries to breathe, and the wet air only makes it harder.
“I did,” Dream says. He says it in a way that leaves no room for argument. George has heard him speak like this countless times, usually during silly arguments that didn’t matter. More recently, he’s used it in situations like this .
Maybe he’s the problem, too.
“No you didn’t. God, you're such a mess,” George spits out. It comes out more venomous than he meant it to. He didn’t even really mean to say it at all.
So this time, George is the one swerving out of his respective lane. Dream is staring at him like deer caught in headlights, and only then does George look back.
Dream is gripping the steering wheel with a single hand. His knuckles are turning white. His other hand is resting on his car seat headrest, nails digging into the beige fabric.
George is still in love with him, even when things are like this. Even though George can tell that Dream is worked up, there’s still a certain softness behind his eyes.
“And you aren’t?” Dream bites back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
This isn’t a good back and forth. This isn’t playful banter that will end up in a heated makeout session.
This is the reason parents get divorced.
This is why couples break up.
“You are so uptight sometimes,” Dream says. He says it with finality as he turns to face forward, hands falling into his lap.
George doesn’t say anything for a while. Maybe he’s stunned into silence or maybe he’s scared of facing the truth.
“And you’re an arrogant asshole,” George mutters under his breath, long after Dream’s previous statement. This should be the part where he stops. He should just drop it and move on, ignore the problem and forget anything ever happened.
“Why-“
“You’re so fucking oblivious,” George interupts.
He’s swerving.
“Am I?” Dream asks, tone harsh. He turns to face George again, this time, his gaze cold.
“Yes! You go around talking to all these girls at parties and expect me not to be worried about us,” George says, raising his voice. His hands flail wildly as he speaks.
“George, I’m not- you know it isn’t like that. I’m not like that.”
The car is full of red-hot anger. It’s insults being thrown back and forth for no real reason other than George’s own ignorance.
“You used to be,” George says; it’s a weak argument, and he knows it. He’s pushing, revving up an already blown engine just to start a fire.
“What are you trying to accomplish here?” Dream is damn near yelling now, obviously past the point of irritation. “This isn’t some… competition… some race to see who can say what faster.”
This is surely the part where they break up. George can feel it in the way his heart stutters and stops. This should be the aftermath of the crash. That fact is solidified more when George actually starts sniffling, tears welling up in his eyes even though he’s desperately trying not to cry.
Instead of the crackling fire and sirens that George was expecting , he gets silence. It’s the kind of silence that exists when snow is falling gently and the only sound audible is the quiet crunching under your feet.
It’s December, and George is freezing (except it’s all in his head.)
“Hey,” Dream says; soft.
George can hear his own breathing. It’s heavy and laboured, and he feels like he did back in the house only minutes ago. His throat is closing up and his hands are shaking.
“Talk to me,” Dream says. He reaches over the middle counsel and takes George’s hand in his.
The warmth helps ground George, but he still can’t think straight. He’s sitting in a car on the side of the road outside of a house party, and he’s crying. He thinks this is the worst way things could possibly happen.
“Are you gonna break up with me?” George asks. He looks up at Dream with tears clouding his vision.
The crash never comes.
“ No ,” Dream says, and he’s actually chuckling now. “God no.” And he shakes his head like he can’t believe it.
George sits, wide-eyed and so still. His hands are shaking and his nose is starting to run.
Dream gives his hand a good squeeze, and all the air escapes George’s lungs at once. He’s relieved, but he’s also fucking terrified .
“I’m sorry.”
George and Dream both speak in unison, words blending together in a way that doesn't clash. Instead, it makes George smile the slightest bit. His lips curl up at the corners, and the tears stop.
“We’re so stupid,” George says, turning his head to finally look Dream in the eyes. The blond has his shoulders slumped, eyes downcast but still glued to George nonetheless.
“Yeah,” Dream says, and he offers his signature toothy smile.
George takes it.
“Please, just…” Dream trails off, his free hand running through his messy hair. “Talk. Let’s just talk, okay?”
This is something neither of them are good at.
George gives Dream a look. It’s the same look he gave him when they arrived at the party earlier. The same look that says ‘I really don’t want to do this.’
At least the tears have stopped by now, and George really needs to do is take his foot off the gas, completely this time.
“I need some air,” he says. They’re the first words that come out of his mouth, and he supposes it's better than some of the other things he could have said in his messy emotional state.
“Okay,” Dream says, careful.
He sounds like he's treading on thin ice.
Dream gets out of the car first, and George realizes at this moment that Dream is much more grounded than he is. Meanwhile, George can still feel the aftereffects of the vodka settled deep in his stomach.
He didn’t drink much, only enough to try and maybe ignore Dream and definitely enough to prove that something was wrong.
George stays firmly planted in his seat. He hears the driver's side door quietly click shit, then soft footsteps making their way around to the other side of the car. Dream opens the door for him, then beckons him out. It’s surprisingly cold outside, and George shivers.
“It isn’t too late to talk,” Dream says. George knows it’s supposed to be encouraging, but it doesn’t necessarily feel that way. He feels the same way he does when his parents try to get him to admit to something bad he’s done. The only difference is that this time, there shouldn’t be any consequences.
This should be good, George thinks.
The car door clicks shut behind him, and he hears that same click play through his mind a thousand times, replacing the crash.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Dream says, and he takes a hold of George's hand again softly. He’s so gentle that even George might be convinced that his hand is broken.
They stay completely still for a moment longer, George staring down at their hands as he becomes distracted by the music still blaring from the house.
But Dream tugs him forward, and they walk.
George keeps his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. He blindly follows Dream, walking wherever the blond decides to lead them.
“I just get so… worried, and jealous. I don’t know why,” George says.
This is George’s crash.
“And I’ve dug myself this big hole that I'm just wallowing in.”
Dream sighs, his breath coming out shaky and uncertain.
George goes back to thinking that this is it.
“I'm sorry.”
“Stop,” Dream says, soft and short, and he presses his cheek into George’s hair as they continue walking. George relaxes under the touch, tension leaving his shoulders in plateaus.
“I messed up,” George mutters. He curses himself silently for being so stupid. He hates himself for creating this mess.
“Yeah,” Dream agrees quietly, his words followed by a soft chuckle. “You know I wouldn’t-“
“I know,” George says, and he says it in defeat.
Dream pulls his hand away from George’s grasp, instead wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He pulls George close and presses a kiss to the top of his head.
“I love you, but you’re an idiot,” Dream says.
George sighs. His fingers claw at the side of his own thighs, nails digging into the denim in frustration. A part of him knew this was coming eventually, the part where he faces his own feelings. It’s harder than he thought it would be, but also easier.
Things might start finally rolling uphill.
“I just… want you to talk to me if you’re feeling negative in any way. Especially about us. Or me,” Dream says. As he speaks, he gives George’s shoulder a good squeeze.
“I will,” George says. “I’m trying now.”
He’s trying, and his hands are still shaking, and he’s still a little sweaty.
At least they’re away from the party, out of Dream’s stuffy car where they probably would have just burned to death in the aftermath of ignoring the situation.
But instead, George managed to stop swerving.
“I love you,” Dream says. “I love you so much.”
He says it with honey and gold laced in his tone, neck craned to look George in the eyes. Then, he inclines his jaw and presses a lingering kiss to George’s temple.
George grins, really grins for the first time in a while.
“Dream,” he says, and Dream lands another kiss on his cheek. He starts to slow his pace, then stops altogether in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Hm?”
“Your keys are in my pocket.”