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George would be the first to admit that he barely knew what he was doing.
It was his friends who’d roped him into this. Made him put down his name for the random chance, screamed loud and in his ear when he got picked.
He hadn’t even wanted his name to be chosen, but here he was. Stood outside the Supreme store close to 11 am on a Thursday, bouncing on his toes with nerves because he had never done this before.
None of his friends had been chosen, but even if they had, it wasn’t like they could talk once they were in the store. George barely felt like he could breathe even outside of the place, he couldn’t imagine talking. He’d drained the more experienced members of his friend group for all their expertise in preparation for today—but even still, he felt pathetically underprepared.
There were too many people and not enough time. George could scarcely remember what it was he was supposed to go for, his mind clouded with red-box logos.
He checked the time on his watch. Five minutes.
The people around him had already fallen silent. It felt like an unspoken rule, one that George hadn’t been warned of, a preemptive quiet between strangers even before they were all supposed to hush. It did nothing to quell George’s nerves—if anything, the painful silence heightened them.
The only sounds left for George’s ears were the busy streets behind him. The rush of passing cars on London streets, distant chatter from people not feeling obligated to keep their mouths shut. George typically found the city noise peaceful, but he felt all-too on edge at that moment. Not even the passing cars could do anything to help him.
Five minutes. George’s mind fabricated the sound of a ticking clock in his ears.
It was funny how agonizing the wait had been, for the act itself was such a mad rush that George could’ve sworn it never happened.
One second he was tapping his foot against the concrete in wait. The next second he was outside with a branded bag, swamped by random strangers each shouting out a higher number.
George’s plan was always to resell, but his friends had advised against selling straight out the store. They all warned him that people would try to buy the stuff off him right out the gate, but they told him not to go for it.
For one, Supreme didn’t like that, and two, selling online would reap better results. And George trusted his more experienced friends. His plan was always to listen to them.
So he shoved through the shouting crowd, as did the other shoppers behind him. Carried on down the street with hundreds of dollars worth of clothes shoved in a not-so-discreet bag.
He might as well wear a neon sign that says “come rob me!” It would have the same effect, perhaps cheaper.
In the midst of attempts to stay alert, George fumbled and ran head-first into someone’s body. His head crashed against someone’s chest, and George reeled backward, putting as much distance between himself and the stranger as possible, yelling out a “sorry!” in the process.
George looked up at the man’s face. George looked up at the man’s face. Fuck, he was tall.
Tall and grinning. “You’re alright.” And American.
George swallowed thickly. The two of them stood like that for a moment, observing each other on the sidewalk. George didn’t realize how much of an idiot he was being until he caught himself counting the freckles on the blond’s face.
Their staring match was interrupted by the sound of a clearing throat. George looked to the left of the tall—and, admittedly, very handsome—stranger to find another, bandana-clad man. He looked less than pleased, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows furrowed.
Huh. George hadn’t noticed him before.
The raven’s eyes flicked downward to the bag on George’s arm. “Made it to the drop?”
George laughed politely. “Yeah. My friends made me sign up.”
“Are you reselling?” the blond asked suddenly, earning an incredulous look from the man accompanying him.
“Uh… yeah,” George said with a smile. “That’s the plan.”
“Will you sell to me?”
The raven scoffed. “Dude, you never—”
“Shh!”
George chuckled. “Depends how much you’re willing to pay.” He shifted the bag on his arm. “Extra large?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ve got a hoodie.” George paused for a moment. “It’s yours for six hundred dollars.”
That was actually more than his friends resold hoodies for. They already sold for incredibly marked-up prices, but George had marked it up even farther. Six hundred was well beyond the hundred-fifty he’d paid in the store.
However, George was all lilted smiles and teasing—this guy wasn’t actually going to give a random stranger on the road six hundred dollars for a hoodie, right?
But the handsome stranger was already nodding. “Deal.”
The raven tried again. “Dude—”
“Shush!”
“How do you…” George furrowed his eyebrows, hiding shock behind confusion. He didn’t expect to get this far. “How’re you gonna pay me?”
“You have a Venmo?”
He did. But was he going to give some stranger on the road his information?
This whole situation was more than bizarre. Wrestling his phone out of his back pocket to give some stranger who promised him money his Venmo was only half of it.
The idiot hadn’t even seen the hoodie he was buying, for Christ’s sake.
Nonetheless, George gave the guy his Venmo. The random guy on the sidewalk getting suspicious glances from his bandana-wearing friend. Anyone with common sense would’ve slapped George across the face right then, but it seemed no one was there to do so.
But hey, six hundred dollars was six hundred dollars.
“Your name’s George?” the blond asked.
“Yeah,” George responded, watching the notification roll in on his screen. The dumb bitch actually did it. “Clay?”
He laughed. “Everyone calls me Dream.”
Interesting. “Well, Dream,” George wrestled the extra-large hoodie out of the bag, holding it out to the blond. “I believe this is yours.”
Dream smiled sheepishly. The blush on his face made the freckles easier to count. “Thanks, George.”
George nodded in response and they parted ways. He could faintly hear the still-nameless man yelling something at Dream, but they were out of earshot before George could process any of it. He shook his head slightly to himself, holding the bag closer to his body.
Later, his friends would call him stupid for selling to a guy on the steet. But George was the only one who had four-hundred and fifty dollars richer, and the only one who still had clothes left to sell.
He successfully sold everything else online. For lower individual prices than he sold to Dream on the street, but he still made a sizable profit.
The following week, Georgia stood outside the Supreme store again. less nervous than before, but only just barely.
It had come to George’s attention that Monday that he was strangely lucky. At least, that's what his friends had insisted. George's name had been chosen again for the in-store drop and he got to go buy again.
The only thing George was excited about was the money. He had friends who practically got off on the mad dash in the store, but George wasn't like that. The mess of clashing shoulders and greedy hands was not his idea of the perfect Thursday morning.
He'd much rather be asleep.
And it was the same blur that it had been last week. The same mess of shouted numbers outside, the same unfavorable broadcast of how much money George had just spent sent out to the streets of London in the form of an obvious bag.
The same hot blond practically waiting for George to run into him.
Wait.
“Dream?” George asked as he stumbled, once again struck by the arch of his neck to meet Dream’s eyes. He was alone this time.
“George!” he sounded far too giddy. “Made the drop again?”
“Yeah,” George answered. “My friends said I'm lucky.”
“You are,” Dream smiled, the pink tint on his cheeks all-too endearing.
George could only hope that his didn't match. “Whatever.”
“Anything in my size?”
“New hoodie,” George said with a shrug, considering. “Seven hundred.”
“Oh, really?” Dream sounded incredulous, but he was pulling out his phone.
George grinned up at him. “Yes, really.”
The sweatshirt had been the exact same price as the one last week. But George had a suspicion that Dream was a massive idiot, and he was here to test that theory.
The guy had worn jeans and solid color hoodies both times George seen him. no way he knew anything about insanely overpriced clothing brands.
Not that George was anything close to an expert, but he was certainly getting there. And he didn't dress like a total idiot. (No offense to Dream).
“Make sure you got that,” Dream said suddenly, wide eyes staring at George.
“Oh, yeah.”
He pulled out his phone, once again at war with the bag on his arm. Sure enough, he had a seven-hundred dollar Venmo from a certain Clay.
George tried to mask his shock with a laugh. “I got it.”
“Okay, thank god.”
George handed him the extra overpriced hoodie, and they parted ways again.
His friends were starting to get huffy. George was on his third consecutive Thursday standing outside the Supreme store and he was once again alone.
How his friends had managed to go so long without getting chosen was something of a marvel, and not the good kind. The good kind of marvel manifested itself in George getting chosen for the third time in a row, but he was the only one reaping it's benefit.
It was becoming routine. Rush on Monday, rush on Thursday, sell to the highest bidder on the days in between. Perhaps it would get tired after a few more weeks, but George wasn't quite there yet.
George even ran into Dream for the third time, only it lacked the collision of bodies. He spotted the blond down the street and waved, unsurprised when he approached him.
His shorter, bandana-wearing friend was with him again. George realized that he still didn’t know his name.
“Again?” Dream asked with a laugh, gesturing toward the bag George carried.
“Yeah.” George noticed that Dream was actually wearing the sweatshirt he'd sold him two weeks ago. “Interested?”
“Always.”
The raven scoffed. “Dream, man, you're fucking stupid.”
Dream rolled his eyes. “And which one of us looks cool right now? I'll give you a hint, it's not you.”
“At least I didn't spend six-hundred dollars on a sweatshirt I don't need.”
George laughed, pulling out his phone preemptively. “New sweatshirt. Eight hundred.” He was pushing it.
“Deal.”
Dream was far too eager, already sending George the money he had asked for. The raven only shook his head, watching his friend practically sell himself out to this random stranger.
When George walked away one sweatshirt lighter and six-hundred fifty dollars richer, he blamed Dream’s idiocy on being American.
Week four was when his friends actually got mad. they had refused to help George and that Monday’s mad rush, focusing instead on themselves.
Once again, George was the only one from his group outside the Supreme store on Thursday morning. All their selfish focus had been for nothing, and were George a bigger asshole, he probably would have laughed at them. But he didn’t do anything but pity, pity their frustrated groans when he had gotten an email and they hadn’t.
Maybe he was strangely lucky.
George realized he was being deliberate when he grabbed a t-shirt in Dream’s size. He'd only wound up with hoodies that fit the blond on accident, and it was because they were easy—that and a friend had told him the first week to go for bigger sizes because they tended to sell better.
But George never went for shirts. He never really went for anything but hoodies, because those were what people wanted the most. Shirts were cheaper and less desirable, so he left them for the people who were actually buying to wear. He barely processed the purchase until he was getting clamored outside the store by yelling strangers, when he finally gave thought to the things in his too-branded bag.
What was he doing?
It would have been pitiful if he didn't run into Dream on the way home. It’s a good thing he did, and a good thing that Dream was still unreasonably eager to throw hundreds of dollars in George's direction for clothes he didn't even seem to wear very much.
Not that George would know very well, but he noticed that Dream had returned to his plain green sweatshirt from the first week, and he'd only seen him in one of the three hoodies he bought.
Christ, how much money had Dream given him at this point? It felt like too much to not be wearing any of the things that he was buying. Too much to already be asking George if he had anything in the right size, too much to already be pulling his phone out of his back pocket while he waited for an answer.
“I have a shirt and a sweatshirt,” George answered. “Which one do you want?”
He gave him the option because he didn't think he’d want both. They were from the same collection, they looked exactly the same—the only difference was what they were. If it were George, he wouldn't have felt the need to have the matching hoodie and t-shirt combination, the only thing it was was redundant.
He assumed Dream would pick the t-shirt. Logically, that would be cheaper than a hoodie. And George knew that was the case, but he didn't tell him upfront.
“I’ll take both.”
George barely managed to mask his shock that time. “Both?”
“Yeah.” Dream shrugged. “How much?”
George could see the thumb hovering over his phone screen. He could see that Dream was practically waiting to send him money, and he felt lost. George hadn’t gotten this far in his head, he didn't know how much to ask for.
If Dream had only bought the hoodie, he would’ve just raised it another hundred dollars like he'd been doing for the past three weeks. He couldn't remember how much he’d even spent on the shirt to begin with, all he knew was that it was probably overpriced.
“Twelve hundred.”
The number practically spilled out of his mouth without thought. The second it registered in his ears, he realized it was too much. There was no way Dream was actually going to give him over a thousand for two not-very-well-made articles of clothing that he definitely didn't need. It seemed completely ridiculous. It was completely ridiculous, even George knew that. And he was the one who kept going back to that store.
Which is why he was even more surprised than he had been before when Dream accepted the offer. Even more surprised when the notification rolled in on his phone that he actually paid him that much money.
George handed off the clothes without very many words. He failed to find anything other than a “thank you,” though Dream insisted that he should be the one thanking George.
That wasn't true. Even if he had just given him clothes, he had charged him over a thousand dollars for them. And no matter what logo was on the front, that would never not feel completely ridiculous.
On his way home, George remembered that he’d only paid forty bucks for that t-shirt. Not even his friends could comprehend how he'd managed to sell those things for that much money, and they practically made their livings off deals like this.
The fifth Thursday was the first time George wasn't alone.
Finally, finally he'd been chosen alongside one of his friends. And they stood next to each other in complete silence in the line outside the door, waiting patiently for the clock to strike eleven.
Quackity had seemed excited to meet whoever was stupid enough to give so much money to George. He’d been friends with George for years—he knew the guy was a terrible negotiator. Knew that it had absolutely nothing to do with anything the brunet was doing and everything to do with some complete idiot who somehow didn't know that he could get that same stuff for way cheaper online if he only waited a couple of hours.
George learned the hard way that the mad rush was worse when you were trying to watch someone else, too. Learned that attempting to leave the store and get through the mass of screaming people was worse when you were trying not to lose your friend. But he and Quackity managed to find each other on the other side, share a breathless look and start off down the sidewalk.
George pointed to Dream immediately when he saw him. Said faintly under his breath, “that’s the guy.” Quackity grinned and nudged him with his elbow, but George didn't know what that was supposed to mean.
Dream was alone again, once again lacking his nameless friend. But he noticed Quackity at George’s side and pointed at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Who’s your friend?”
“This is Quackity.” George huffed out a laugh. “Someone else finally got to come with.”
“You’re still strangely lucky?”
George held up the bag with an emphasizing eye roll. “Duh.”
“What do you have?”
“Same thing as last week.” George shrugged. “Well, not same same, but the same.”
Dream laughed. “I know what you mean.”
“Woah, you guys have a whole system worked out?” Quackity teased. “That’s crazy, man, this is like a business!”
George scoffed. “Shut up.”
“How much?”
George cast a glance at Quackity. Everything in his friend’s eyes screamed push it. Test the limits of Dream’s wallet, of his resolve, of his complete idiocy. Quackity had shared the sentiment that Dream was a complete fool when George had told him about the past month of interactions, and he was more than ready to see it in real life.
So George pushed. Threw out a number that, in his head, was guaranteed a no.
“Two thousand.”
Dream paid him two thousand dollars.
George gave him an alarmed glance, but Dream only furrowed his eyebrows. Quackity looked beside himself, glancing between Dream and George with wild eyes. He had severely underestimated this guy’s idiocy, and it seemed that George had, too.
He gave Dream the severely marked up clothes and they said their goodbyes, walking away from each other down the street. The moment they were out of earshot, Quackity spun on his heel to walk backwards in front of George.
“He’s totally whipped.”
“What?”
“Dude, he like, loves you!” Quackity laughed. “He’s stupid because he wants to kiss you so bad he’ll pay you a million bucks for your stupid Supreme hoodies.”
“He would not—”
“My point still stands!”
“Dream does not have a…” George shook his head in disbelief, “...a thing for me.”
“He does.”
“He does not.”
“You’re just as stupid as he is if you don’t see it.”
George rolled his eyes. “At least I didn’t just pay him two thousand dollars for something worthless.”
“You’ve been rushing for that worthless shit for a month, George. And I can tell now it’s actually, secretly because you want to see Dreamie again.”
“What—”
“Don’t even try to deny it, you love him too.”
“I don’t love him, and there’s no ‘too’ because he doesn’t love me either!”
“You are so dumb, George.”
“Whatever.”
Maybe George was dumb. And maybe Quackity was right.
Even thinking that made George hurt. Quackity? Right? Those two words didn’t belong anywhere near each other, let alone within the same sentence.
No. Quackity was not right. One, because he was Quackity, and two, there was just no way. Dream was just so completely stupid that he was blinded by the first number spit in his direction. He was probably new to this whole thing, barely knew how it worked. He was still figuring it out.
Perhaps if George were less of an asshole, he’d offer the guy some help rather than practically exploiting him out of thousands of dollars. How did that guy even have so much money? And why was he spending it like this?
George only bought a sweatshirt this time. He felt strangely hazy, and he had for the past week. It was a miracle he even made the sign-up list on Monday, and the defeated groans from his friends when he was once again chosen at random had not been fuel for laughter this time. Not only was it Quackity’s—very incorrect—words from last week, but it was something akin to guilt.
George hadn’t felt it before. But he was suddenly a mess of thoughts, a mess of regret for pushing so hard just to see how much Dream would take.
How far George was going to have to go before Dream started refusing, before he’d raise an eyebrow and ask with a scoff “isn’t that a little much?” Was he really that dense? Had he not spoken to anyone ever?
It was his friend who seemed to know there was a drop on the first week. He had to know something, didn’t he? Hadn’t he told Dream that George was asking for too much, told him to stop entertaining those ridiculous prices?
George was such a mess that he actually crashed into Dream again. He hadn’t done that in weeks, but he was running skull-first into Dream’s chest before he could even process that he was there.
“Sorry, Dream,” George sputtered, rubbing a palm over his forehead. “I was a little distracted.”
“You’re alright, don’t worry.”
“I do…” George paused, pursing his lips. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“I…” He took a deep breath. “I keep charging you way too much.”
Dream only laughed in response. Laughed? “That’s not a question, George.”
“Well, I know that, but…” George sighed. “Are you stupid? Like, seriously, are you a fucking idiot, Dream?”
Dream laughed again. Proper, open-mouthed, head thrown back laughed. It drew the attention of people passing on the street, leading George to start frantically flailing his free arm in an attempt to shut the idiot up.
“Why do you ask?” Dream asked, finally calm enough to speak.
“Well,” George shifted uncomfortably, “I have a sweatshirt in this bag right now. Your size. If I asked you to give me a price, what’re you going to say?”
“I’d pay you four thousand for that thing if you asked.”
“What?” George sputtered, eyes wide and lost to Dream. “I could never take that much, it’s not worth—”
“You deserve it, George.”
He sounded so… earnest. George had never heard someone say something so completely stupid and mean it like that. He didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone say anything with that much meaning laced behind it. It left him wide-eyed and speechless, his gaze finally meeting Dream’s. His face was just as honest as his words were, a soft smile and kinder eyes.
“God.” George said finally. “I think Quackity was right.”
Dream chuckled. “What’d he say?”
“That you have a crush on me.”
His face went red. “Well, I mean… maybe?”
George would be the first to admit that he barely even meant it. He was more than fully expecting Dream to laugh, to tell George that he was the idiot and never talk to him again. Which was fine, they were barely friends. They weren’t anything more than business partners, and they were barely even that.
So then how did Dream have a crush on him?
“You don’t even know me!”
Dream smirked. “Well, it’s shallow, but I think you’re really cute.”
“You’ve given me—god, you’ve given me how much money, because you think I’m cute?”
“I could never say no to you, George.” It was both in earnest and lilt. The same painful honesty from earlier, twisted taut with something teasing. Something like an invitation. “Ask me to do anything, and I’ll say yes.”
George played back. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
“So if I asked you to kiss me, you’d say yes?”
“Of course, I would.”
And that was all it took to get Dream to kiss him. It didn’t have to be thousands of dollars or an unhealthy amount of Supreme hoodies, or Venmo on the sidewalk. Well, maybe that was a necessary step, but it still got Dream kissing George on the side of the road in London.
It kind of felt like them. George wouldn’t have changed it for anything.
When George asked Dream to be his boyfriend two weeks later, he didn’t say no to that, either.