Work Text:
“You’re pretty great,” George wondered out loud. “Like, really great.”
“Wow, you’re so good at compliments,” Dream mused in a response, shifting in his position on the bed next to George. “Just so good.”
“You’re being homophobic,” he said, pushing out a pouty lip as he lied in bed next to Dream. “You are an awful best friend.”
Best friend. Ha. As if that’s all they wanted to be. As if Dream wasn’t staring at George’s mouth as he lay beside him on the bed, slightly curled into the crook of his neck. All warm and cozy.
“You’re warm,” George mumbled, right into Dream’s tanned neck as he did. “I want to cuddle.”
Cuddles were a staple in their friendship, of course. Two 18 year-old babies, cuddling and sharing snacks and such. They’d been close friends since they were little, and simply never grew out of the attached-at-the-hip phase of the friendship. They were just glued together all the time.
Not that either of them minded it. Dream especially didn’t mind it—how could he mind it, with the crush he had on George? He’d developed that stupid crush in the 7th grade, and it just stuck around, even to the summer after high school. They were sitting upon George’s full-sized bed that he’d had in his bedroom since 5th grade—his “big kid bed,” as his mother called it—and cuddling.
Admittedly, Dream had dreamed about George in romantic ways many times. He’d been so tempted to kiss George at so many different points—their senior homecoming (where they went as friends since they didn’t have dates), that one time in the pool at Dream’s birthday party, and that one time at that current moment when they were cuddling in bed and George was just… staring.
“Why’re you staring at me like that?” Dream asked, laughing nervously as he looked at George. Handsome George. “Do you want something?”
“You have a lot of freckles,” George said, spacing out slightly. “I want to cover them with paint at some point. Just because. It would be fun.”
“I am not letting you put paint on my face,” he laughed again. “I don’t trust your painting abilities.”
“I don’t trust you either, then!” George giggled, flopping over to bury his face in Dream’s stomach. “You have freckles though. That’s enough for me to trust you again.”
“You make no sense sometimes.”
“Your mum makes no sense sometimes.”
“I want to strangle you, George.”
George looked up, flashing a sweet smile in Dream’s face, even showing his teeth. Dream thought his toothy smile was so cute, so much more special than his passing, closed-mouth grin. He wanted so badly to reach his hand up, to feel all of George’s little smile lines rub against his thumb.
“I hate you,” George teased. “You’re never snuggling with me again.”
“That’s some bullshit, you know you love me,” Dream replied. “My bestie.”
“Never talk to me again.”
“You need a haircut, George.” He pushed his hair back, uncovering his ditzy brown eyes. “It’s getting very long.”
“You know what else is very long?”
“Uhh, how long are rifles? Are they very long?”
“Okay, you are about to mansplain guns to me, let’s just snuggle.”
Dream rolled his eyes, patting George’s hair as he lay on his belly. Platonic cuddles. The best.
“Claaay, I don’t want to lay on your tummy anymore,” George whined from below. “I want to lay on your chest.”
“Okay, then do it,” Dream responded. “Or my shoulder. So I don't shake you that much.”
“Shoulder works.”
“You’re precious.”
“You’re cute when your hair’s in a bun.”
“George, can you redo my bun? Pretty please?”
(George sucked at doing hair, but Dream knew that he loved to do it anyways.)
“Of course!” George cheered. “Pretty blond hair. You’re not allowed to cut it. Ever. Never ever.”
“Okay, grab the brush,” Dream said.
“I’m not doing all that, you get a messy bun. You’ll be cute anyway.”
“Shush, Gogy.”
“Nope.”
They both laughed as George sat up, pulling Dream’s hair out of the rubber band and ruffling it a bit. George always just loved Dream’s hair—decently long, blond, and slightly wavy.
Dream didn’t argue when George sat on his lap to do his hair—why would he? If George was comfortable, Dream was.
After all, George did look adorable. Bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth as he tied Dream’s hair back into a bun, pushing it out of the way. And then, as he finished, flopping forwards to lay on Dream, legs around his waist as they cuddled.
“I’m so happy that I keep my room cold,” George wondered out loud. “So I have an excuse to cuddle with you.”
But Dream’s heart really stopped when George pulled back from the hug, their faces inches apart. Dream never really noticed how pink his lips were, or how nice his eyes were. So nice. He could feel George’s breath on his face.
This is a little more than “cuddling,” isn’t it?
“Why—why’re you looking at me like that?” Dream asked. “Are you sure there’s nothing you need to talk about? You’ve been acting all soft today—”
“Clay, what would you do if hypothetically, for the sake of the argument, your best friend had a crush on you?” George blurted out. “Like, say they just think you’re really cute. What do you do?”
“Uh… I’d probably talk to said friend about that,” Dream said. “Like, confront them, but not in a bad way? Depends on which friend it is, really. Also, did you quote Ben Shapiro?”
“That’s unimportant. What I’m trying to say is: you’re fucking cute.”
“I’m not ‘fucking’ anyone.”
“Clay. You are so unbelievably dense.”
George laughed softly, a blush coating his face as he looked into Dream’s green eyes.
“What if, hypothetically, for the sake of the argument, I really wanted to kiss you on the mouth?” George asked. “Like, we make out and call it a social experiment.”
Dream’d never blushed that hard before. He’d never been intimately holding George in his lap and receiving the proposal of a kiss.
“You are blind,” George continued. “You need glasses.”
“Are you saying that you want to kiss me?” Dream asked, cocking his head in confusion.
“No, I’m saying I want to kiss Sapnap,” George mused. “Yes, Clay. I would like to kiss you on the mouth. I thought it was obvious by the way I, you know, said that?”
“You’re horrible,” Dream huffed. “But I’m not against it.”
When George looked into his eyes for permission, Dream nodded. He nodded eagerly.
And he wanted to wag his goddamn tail when George kissed him gently, soft pink lips resting upon his. Dream’s hands instinctively wrapped around George’s, but traveled to wrap around his waist instead.
A year ago, Dream wouldn’t have thought he’d be making out with George. He didn’t think he’d be sitting in bed with George on his lap, his hands wrapped around his waist as they kissed a little rougher than they’d started out.
It wasn’t long before Dream’s hands began to sneak up George’s shirt, one sticking on his waist, and the other hand resting above his tailbone. He made sure not to go up too high, because he didn’t want to make George uncomfortable. George was touchy, but touching under the shirt/being seen shirtless was one of his stricter boundaries in their clingy friendship.
But his hand went up a little higher than it should have, feeling the edge of a binder, and his hand simply teleported out of George’s shirt as a whole.
Dream really did know a lot about being trans, but one thing he’d learned about the most was the dysphoria part of it all. He’d learned that accidentally using the wrong pronouns or name for George was very bad. He’d learned about binders. He’d helped George cut his hair short in the mirror at three in the morning when he simply couldn’t take having longer hair anymore.
“George,” Dream whispered. “Fuck—wow. You’re good at this.”
“Some of us practice,” George hummed. “Why do you think I hang out with Karl so much?”
“Okay, that’s gross.”
“Homophobic.”
“You make out with Karl for ‘practice.’ You could practice with me instead?”
“I practiced for you, Clay, you fucking prick!”
George laughed before getting back to kissing him, softly biting at Dream’s lip as they kissed. Dream had kissed people before, sure, but none of them had ever been as good as George. Practice really did make perfect in that scenario.
Dream was expecting a harsh slap to the face when his finger’s made it to touch the waistband of George’s shorts, but all he got was a nod. George was only really touchy when he was sleepy, apart from the occasional cuddles. So it was interesting that he was letting this happen while he was fully awake and running off of a Monster he probably stole from Karl’s fridge.
I am making out with my best friend, Dream thought. And we are both enjoying it, it seems.
He really was living out his daydreams. He was really doing this—kissing George, running his hands up and down his sides and into his shorts and just losing himself in George’s lips.
“I like you like this,” George whispered, pulling Dream down to cuddle him (and ending their kiss), quite intimately and softly. “Like, romantically. Just saying.”
“Wow, idiot, I’d have never guessed,” Dream whispered back. “I’ll have you know that I feel the same. If it wasn’t obvious.”
“I’m going back to kissing Karl,” George whined. “You’re so sassy. Anyways… we gonna talk about that, or…?”
“We just made out,” Dream stated.
“Okay, that’s obvious,” George replied. “Your hair is all messed up.”
“I want to be boyfriends.”
“So do I.”
“Okay, then, that’s settled.”
“This is so fucking anticlimatic, where is our dramatic love confession?” George joked. “Kidding. But we are boyfriends now.”
“Cool,” Dream said.
“Cool,” George replied.
“Can we kiss again?”
George giggled, pulling his hoodie over his chest with a smile as he planted a soft kiss on Dream's mouth. “Will that do, big baby?” he asked, and Dream nodded.
“Boyfriends,” George mumbled to himself. “That feels good.”
“Yeah, I—I like you a lot,” Dream responded, nervously playing with his fingers.
“No, I meant, like—getting to have the title of your ‘boyfriend.’ Because. You know. Boy.”
“I mean, yeah. You’re a boy, we’re dating, you’re my boyfriend.”
“My last boyfriend called me his—his girlfriend. So it feels nice to be a boyfriend.”
“You’re my boyfriend.”
“Yes, I am aware.”
Dream hated that he remembered that—when George's ex-boyfriend misgendered him on their first date. He remembered picking George up from the ice skating rink, hearing the story of how his ex was asking for the skates and said “size nine for me, six for my girlfriend.” That was before George had cut his hair short, and his ex knew damn well that he was trans.
Let’s just say, that relationship didn’t last longer than a week.
“I still want to murder your ex for that,” Dream said. “Just saying. He’s on my hit list, dumb bitch.”
Without another word, George covered Dream in yet another hug, kissing his cheek.
“You’re the better boyfriend,” George laughed. “You’re cuter.”
“You’re super handsome,” Dream flirted. “Look at you. Also, we can cut your hair again tonight if you want.”
“Yeah, we can,” George said. “Also. Listen up. Boundaries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Grody. Anyways, don’t be weirdly sexual. Underwear stays on. Shirt or hoodie stays on. Don’t touch my chest unless you’re laying on it to cuddle. No feminine terms or pronouns, including pet names. No period jokes. Don’t point out my chest if it’s poking out or whatever. I still would like it if you’d cover your eyes when I change, if that’s okay.”
“One, of course. Two and three, yes, whatever you’re comfortable with. Four, of course, and smack me if I do. Five, literally shoot me if I do. Six, I wouldn’t do that anyways. Seven, I wouldn’t, that’s a weird thing to do anyways. Eight, you don’t even have to ask.”
“You’re the best,” George smiled. “Most of those are to prevent dysphoria.”
“I know. That’s why you have permission to feed me to the alligators if I break those.”
George grinned, kissing Dream’s cheek once again before flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling.
“Give me yours,” George said. “Please.”
“Uh… I don’t have many,” Dream responded. “Just… tell me if I make you uncomfortable or if you don’t want something. And let me know if you need something. Like, Tylenol and stuff for your… yeah. I can always pick stuff up on my way over for you.”
“Oh, I have another one. If it’s a bad dysphoria day, just be there for me. Like, we can just hang out and watch a movie and stuff, but ‘M not very touchy when that’s the case,” George explained, his voice soft and mumbly.
“That’s totally okay,” he assured him. “Just tell me, if you’re comfortable with that. I’ll stay out of your way if you need me to.”
If Dream had the chance, he’d kick every transphobe in the stomach. He’d seen his best friend cry over being misgendered and invalidated, and the sight alone made it hurt enough to want to kill the people who hurt George. He’d donated all of his biggest hoodies to George, all of his big shirts and boxer shorts that didn’t fit (or, ones that did fit, and he just thought George needed them more.)
He hated it in the older days of George’s realization, when he had to purposely use the wrong name/pronouns for George to prevent outing him. Dream was the first to know, of course, and nobody else knew. He didn’t want to out his best friend, so he gave him some stupid nicknames that were nothing like his deadname, just so he could avoid saying it. That’s why you’d hear Dream calling George his “bestie” or his “beloved” in their freshman year of high school. Anything but his deadname.
He knew how fucking badly it hurt when people called George by the name that wasn’t his. That stupid name. One time, Dream and George had been playing Minecraft with their friends, and the name slipped out in the panic of a creeper sneaking up, and he just saw the way George’s heart shattered as he threw down his controller.
(The friend had apologized profusely, of course. They really didn’t mean to say it.)
(George still felt a little scared when he hopped into a VC with said friend, in fear of hearing that stupid name again.)
Dream had only recently slipped up on his name or pronouns once, and luckily, George hadn’t heard. George was having a bad day and Dream was panicking about it over the phone, and the name slipped out when he was asking George why the hell he was crying, and asking if there was someone he needed to beat up. Turns out it was just cramps.
George often said that Dream was “the only cis man that gets it.” Maybe because he told Dream 80% of things—he taught him about periods and binders and how to cut hair and top surgery. He taught him the casual things that friends talk about, too—he was the one who taught Dream about kissing and talking about girls/boys and all of that.
He just didn’t tell him what he didn’t need to know, which he really probably didn’t need to know half of the things that he told him, but it was up to George.
Being honest, George was surprised when Dream reacted positively to him coming out as trans. He was expecting ridiculing or getting deadnamed or even losing Dream as a friend. He instead got smiles and cheers and questions of “is there anything I could give you to help out?”s and such. Dream even called him “handsome” when he came out, because he’d always platonically called George “pretty” when he identified as female.
George had to admit that things hadn’t gone smoothly since he realized and came out, because he was… too aware of everything once he did. He noticed too much when someone said “she” instead of “he.” He noticed too much when his chest was poking out a little more in a shirt. He definitely noticed and cried when he bled through his pants and onto his bedsheets. One time, he’d bled onto Dream’s bedsheets, and he didn’t talk to Dream for a week out of humiliation.
Dream, of course, didn’t yell at him or make fun of him or anything. Dream simply gave him some underwear and shorts, threw on some rubber gloves, and cleaned everything up while getting George settled into the guest bedroom. He changed his sheets, simply explaining to his mother that George had a little accident the night before.
Dream’s sweetheart of a mother was the first adult that George told. She was very nice about it—she’d already slightly caught on when she cleaned a few strands of George's cut-up hair off of Dream’s bathroom floor, and found the tight sports bra in there as well. Dream’s mother was very kind and understanding when George bled through his shorts that one morning, providing him with Tylenol and stashing a box of period products in Dream’s bathroom for George.
Back to the story. George cried a lot that morning—he felt so awful, since he’d ruined Dream’s sheets with something he thought was so gross and feminine. He nearly threw a fit when Dream began cleaning the blood up. Dream’s mother sat in the bathroom with George and helped him by preparing a bath—George was only 14 at the time, and he’d never bled out in bed like that before. Hell, he’d only had his period for a year or so before that, and he usually tried to steer clear of hanging out when he was on it. He didn’t want that to happen.
The worst part of his period was that he got it for the first time after he came to terms with being trans, so it was basically a monthly reminder. His mother didn’t want him on birth control—something about it making his breasts grow and causing him “dysmorphia” (wrong word, she had learned, after George told her) or something about boys and babies or whatever. But his mother did make sure George had the good brand of pads, and the kind with the non-feminine wrappers. No flowers and “woman product” labels on the packaging. She’d opted to emptying the products into a second box in George’s bathroom with no designs or anything on it, just a blue plastic box.
George hated being fussed over. He really hated it. Dream fussed over his dysphoria a lot and it made him feel so guilty. When he went shopping for Dream’s household groceries with him, Dream bitched at the cashier for asking if the pads were for a “lady-friend,” because they were for George. When George had bled onto Dream’s sheets for the second time, Dream hugged him and helped him start up a warm shower (which was the closest their friendship had gotten, by the way. Dream closing his eyes and preparing George’s shower while George just sobbed in the corner of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.)
The second time was worse. Messier. George was already having a bad day before, and he woke up in the middle of the night to a big mess in Dream’s bed, and he simply cried. He cried loud enough to wake Dream up.
But Dream wasn’t a dick about it. He immediately got up and let George steal some clothes and go take care of his business, and he stripped the bed of its sheets and blanket that were bloody. He did politely ask George to stick a towel under his lower half when/if they had sleepovers during his period, and he obliged. George was embarrassed.
George really admired how well Dream handled those situations. Dream was one of the only guys he’d ever seen that wouldn’t get super grossed out because of periods—Dream always listened to George’s complaints about the whole thing, and if there was an accident, he’d clean up so George could shower. He’d set up the guest bed, since George would usually feel uncomfortable once he got out of the shower, and he’d let George sleep all day if he wanted to. He’d wash George’s soiled clothes, too, no matter how bloody.
He showed George a whole lot of love. He’d run George warm showers or baths during his period. He’d bring him to get ice cream or snacks. He’d always make sure to keep his bathroom stacked on pads. If George had cramps, he’d rub his belly or pop a painkiller in his mouth.
Once, Dream literally punched someone at school for making insensitive comments towards George’s binder in the locker room. Dream remembered how upset George had been that evening after the locker room incident—he went to George’s house to find his binder thrown onto the floor, George braless in his bed with a huge hoodie on and crying over having breasts. He remembered how George was just pleading to nobody for his chest to shrink and become flat. He remembered overhearing George ask his mother why he couldn’t be “more like Clay” and “less like [deadname]” and that just broke his heart so badly.
Dream, however, would do anything to make sure George was comfortable and happy and euphoric. He’d been the one to get onto George for unsafe binding and his deprecating thoughts that would come and go. He was the one who told George that what was between his legs or under his shirt didn’t make him any less of a man than any other cis guy.
Dream was the only person George trusted with everything. When he felt shitty, Dream knew. When he was upset or angry, Dream knew. Dream had a period tracker app on his phone just for George, to make sure that “the Incident” (as they called it) didn’t happen again—not that it bothered Dream, but George waking up to a reminder that he wasn’t born in the correct body was really dysphoria-inducing for him. George was also uncomfortable with Dream having to see him waddle around his bedroom at five in the morning with blood dripping from where the sun didn't shine.
Having a cisgender male to model after was kind of helpful for George, though. He got Dream’s “manly” clothes. George’s parents knew, and they did care, but they just weren’t the type to replace George’s wardrobe and turn his feminine childhood room into a “masculine wonderland.” They were the type to use his name and pronouns, and to keep his “secret” safe from the rest of the family. George figured that it was better than transphobic parents.
But he did end up moving to the guest bedroom after a few months. He ended up moving all of his clothes and trinkets and everything to the guest bedroom—his parents might as well have just boarded up the door to George's old room, because nobody touched it. George preferred his neutral, plain guest bedroom (which had basically been turned into George’s bedroom anyways.) His parents ended up giving the guest room a little makeover one night while George was staying over with Dream, and when he got home, he had cool lights and Minecraft posters and a brand-new first binder laid out on the bed for him with a little note from his parents. He’d put it on his Christmas list and ended up receiving it in October.
That was one of the best days ever for George. Knowing that his parents had accepted him enough to spend money on certain period products and a chest binder and some more masculine clothing, just to make sure their son felt comfortable in his skin. Even if he really wasn’t comfortable in his skin.
But the binder and the boxers and the big hoodies definitely helped.
George was still super warmed by Dream’s reaction. He was surprised and happy for George, and then ended up making him a little gift basket (which George thought was totally cringeworthy at first, but appreciated the sports bra and boxers and body spray and men’s deodorant.) It was so sweet.
In total, the basket contained the following:
-
Boxers, with a note explaining that he didn’t know what size to get, so he guessed
-
A Nike sports bra, nicer than the kind George had been using (which was an older one from his soccer days)
-
Men’s body spray (and men’s deodorant, matching scents)
-
A big hoodie that smelled just like Dream
-
A few packs of George’s favorite snacks
-
A couple pairs of shorts and shirts from the boy’s section, with a note similar to the boxers’s note (and shirts way bigger than the size George wore in a girl’s)
-
A tiny little Minecraft cat, just because. Minecraft eliminates dysphoria.
-
A little note, telling George that he was always there for him, and that he would do anything to help out.
That gesture made George cry. He gave Dream a big hug with zero regard for the fact that he wasn’t binding, though he remembered and pulled away quickly. He really didn’t like to hug Dream without something flattening his chest, and when Dream had delivered the gift, George was wearing a regular underwire bra.
Dream had felt so happy when he saw how positively George responded to the gifts. All he wanted was for his best friend to feel like himself, and he felt so good to know that he helped with that.
Dream was always so understanding with everything regarding George’s dysphoria and gender in general. He never made insensitive comments or used the wrong terms. He touched George’s boob once and nearly cried while George blushed and cackled—he was trying to playfully push him away, and his hand just rested too much on George’s left tit, and they both just stared at each other for a second before Dream realized that he was touching George’s chest. But George wasn’t mad. He knew it wasn’t meant to make him feel bad. It was funny at the time.
George liked to teach Dream the good parts about being trans, though. For starters, he really did feel more like a boy once he’d come out. Sometimes, it was fun to squeeze his boobs (which made Dream very flustered when he’d do it in his presence. He’d look over and George would just be poking at his titty.) He didn’t have to stand up to pee, and it didn’t hurt if someone were to kick him in his area.
He’d even trusted Dream enough to be around him without a top on before—once, because he cried hysterically after, but still. Dream didn’t care that he went to George’s house and George was walking around in a bra, even if he did do everything to avoid looking at them. And then George ended up crying because he realized that oh shit, he was around someone else and that someone else could see his boobs and he didn’t even want to see his own boobs.
He looked down, noticed his cleavage, and literally stole Dream’s hoodie off of his body. He also received a very profuse apology from Dream.
Dream felt very guilty, though, be it for no reason other than the wondering of “did I do something for him not to trust me?” He noticed how George didn’t let the hoodie shift too low that night when they had a sleepover, and he felt shitty because he didn’t want George to think he was trying to sexualize their friendship or his body.
(George ended up forgiving him an hour later, even if he didn’t really do anything.)
“George,” Dream said, snapping him straight back to the present. “Oh, you were falling asleep. ‘M lonely without you.”
“You’re clingy already,” George teased. “Also, please move your arm down.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
George loved cuddling until a hand or an arm or a face went anywhere near his breasts. Then, he was all uncomfortable. That was a no-exceptions rule—not even for partners or family. Nobody apart from George was allowed to touch the parts of his body that were covered by a (women’s) bathing suit. Not until top surgery.
Then, it could shift to a men’s bathing suit.
George was insecure about what he had in his pants. He hated looking down to see what wasn’t a dick. He hated the lack of comfort with intimacy in his past partners because he didn’t want his boyfriend/girlfriend to have to deal with him not performing well in bed due to dysphoria that would definitely make its way into his brain. He wasn’t even down to do that with Dream, and he trusted Dream more than anyone. For fuck’s sake, Dream walked in on him changing that morning, and he freaked out. That wasn’t the first time Dream had seen him in only his underwear, but it still scared him.
“You’re so cuddly,” George laughed. “God, give your boy some space. Also, I will need you to leave the room for a second. I am suffocating.”
That was their little code for “If I keep this binder on for any longer, my heart might explode. It is hot. Help.”
“Okay. Also, now that I’m your boyfriend, I’m getting onto you more about your binding. Because you wear that thing for way too long sometimes.”
“I wear your mum for way too long sometimes.”
“George, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. Let them breathe.”
“I don’t want them, they don’t deserve it. The second I get enough money, I’m getting surgery.”
“The top one?”
“Yeah. I’m tired of having them.”
“Hey, at least binders exist until then, ya know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You’re still really handsome. No matter what’s going on in there.”
“I—thank you, Clay.”
George looked away, covering his chest with his arms. All of a sudden, they felt huge. Dream’s eyes filled with worry, George’s filled with tearful panic.
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered. “I need to—it’s making my chest hurt.”
“Of course, take all the time you need,” Dream responded. “Be safe. I have a hoodie if you want it.”
George sprinted off to the bathroom, locking the door. Sobbing. Basically ripping off his binder, seeing how they moved, like they were taunting him as a reminder of you’re not a real man.
He threw the big hoodie on, hugging it to his chest and crying. Crying a lot. He didn’t know if this was pure dysphoria, hormones, or a mix of the two. But he just didn’t want to be there anymore.
Dream gently knocked on the bathroom door. “George, is everything alright in there?” he asked. “You’ve been in there for a bit.”
“Yeah,” George whispered back. “Just—you know.”
“Shh… it’s okay, George, it’s okay.”
“I just want it to stop!”
That one made Dream tear up. The sadness in his voice as he just sobbed.
“Can we get ice cream?” George asked. “I just want a vanilla cone.”
“Of course we can. We can always get ice cream.”
Another unspoken rule of Dream’s feelings for George: “Take George’s mind off of it. Even if George doesn't ask you to take his car to get gas or clean up his bathroom, do it. Make him smile. Don’t let him feel bad.”
George was there for Dream, too. It wasn’t one-sided. If Dream was upset, George dropped everything for him, and that was that. George would stop his own crying to go cry with Dream instead.
So after he put on a pad (the last from his stock), he slowly stood up, opening the door. Letting Dream see him sobbing and clutching the binder to his chest. George put his binder in the same drawer he put his underwear in—if a new friend was over, they didn’t need to find that anywhere.
As if they’d care.
“Hey, handsome,” Dream cooed. “D’you want me to put that up for you?”
George just nodded.
“Do you need anything?” Dream asked. “From the store. We can stop by on the way to get ice cream.”
“‘M almost out of pads,” George mumbled. “And I’m on my period.”
“Okay, I’ll get some for you.”
George smiled softly, holding Dream’s hand as he pulled a white t-shirt over his body. Blond hair covered by a shirt, and the shirt consuming toned abs and a flat chest and fuck, George just really wanted to look like that.
He dropped Dream’s hand, instead hugging his arms over his chest. Dream understood, just affirmingly patting George’s shoulder and smiling nervously.
Dream knew better than to hug George right now, because George wasn’t wearing a bra or binder. George’s most feminine trait was just… hanging out, covered by a hoodie.
“I want my bra,” George said. “I don’t think I can let them breathe today.”
“George, you’ve already binded for hours today,” Dream replied. “Be safe, baby.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to go anymore. I feel—I don’t feel good.”
That’s totally fine!” Dream exclaimed. “Don’t stress, ba—George, it’s okay. What’s not feeling good?”
“I have cramps, and periods make your boobs get bigger.”
“I can still go to the store real quick. For stuff. I can get you some snacks if you want? Like, chocolate ‘n shit? Isn’t that what helps with periods?”
George nodded.
He’s the best.
“What brand do you want?” Dream asked. “Of pads.”
“I don’t know, Kotex,” George replied. “I just don’t want to bleed on my bed again.”
“It’s okay if you do, accidents happen.”
“It’s gross.”
“It’s just blood.”
“Blood from my vagina—“
“Oookay, I’m getting pads.”
“Aww, big manly man is scared of the word ‘vagina?’”
“No!”
George laughed at him, but slightly stopped laughing when he felt them jiggle. And then he doubled over with cramps, and Dream jumped to hold his hand.
“Ow ow ow ow—It hurts, it hurts!”
“Shh… it’s okay, I—I think I have some Tylenol in my bag—George, don’t cry—“
“Ow—they hurt!”
“Do you want belly rubs?”
George nodded. “Just stay on my belly.”
“I wouldn’t touch them without permission anyways,” Dream assured him. “That’s illegal. And gross.”
His hand gently poked at the bottom of George’s shirt, just… rubbing his stomach. Wiping George’s tears away with his thumb.
Watching as George’s hoodie came up a little too high, seeing how his breast poked out from beneath. George’s eyes widened. Dream pulled the hoodie down.
“Your tit just popped out,” Dream said. “Like, God. Hey there.”
That made George laugh.
“Oh, my God,” George said. “I have, like, a scratch on my boob. I don’t know what happened. My cat does not manage to scratch me there.”
“I’m not a doctor, it’s probably from binding too long,” Dream hummed. “Remember, it’s eight hours at a time. Wear it during the day and take it off at night, okay?”
Dream remembered how excited George was when he got a binder. He remembered George going to his house, jumping around in excitement, and Dream didn’t know why, until George just ripped his shirt off and showed Dream how flat he looked. He remembered hugging George once he got his shirt back on, feeling a flat chest against his instead of boobs.
He remembered how upset George was when he took the binder off and realized that his chest wasn't really flat. He still had C-cup breasts. He still had to wear a regular underwire bra with some shirts to avoid his binder showing.
He still was seen as a girl. Even if he wasn’t one.
“It can fuck with top surgery,” Dream whispered. “And I know how badly you want the surgery. I’ve been around for all of you, I know this.”
“What do you mean, ‘all of me?’”
“Exactly what I said. I’ve known you since you weren’t George yet, and I know you now that you’re George.”
“I’ve always been George. I just didn’t get called that until 7th grade.”
Dream went quiet, holding his boyfriend’s hand. He really wished he could kiss George, to hold his frame and just love on him, but George obviously wasn’t in the mood to be kissed. He’d pulled himself out from Dream’s cuddles.
“I’m sorry,” George whispered. “Can we nap?”
“Don’t you need pads?” Dream replied. “Or does your mum have some?”
“My sister probably has some, go ask her for a few.”
“You’re gonna make me go into your little sister’s room and ask if she has pads?”
“Do you want my period blood all over the place?”
“Okay, I’m going to ask her.”
That was another plus of being a trans man with a cis man best friend: George could always get Dream to grab pads or chocolate by pulling the “I’m bleeding from my vagina” line on him. Dream never thought to argue that periods don’t make your legs stop working, and George always ended up with a Hershey’s bar or a pad because of this.
Dream also didn’t see the point in refusing. It wasn’t that George having a period made him uncomfortable—hell, he’d cleaned the blood up himself—but he didn’t understand how it hurt, so he just complied. He didn’t want to make George do anything he didn’t want to do during Shark Week.
Shark Week. George was very emotional during his period—part of it being dysphoria, part of it being hormones. But Dream did sometimes get annoyed or even scared of Period George. One time, George had walked to Dream’s house, flopped down on the bed, and simply said he was going to sell his uterus for science.
It made Dream feel so guilty when he’d complain about a boner or getting hit in the balls or other penis-related, knowing damn well that his best friend would kill to get to complain about that. When he’d feel insecure about being tall and big, knowing small, feminine-figured George would sell his soul for a masculine body.
There were a lot of times where Dream wished he could trade places with George. George had only gone swimming once or twice since he came out, and one of those times was with Dream. When he was only with Dream, he just wore a sports bra with his swim shorts, and when he was with a bunch of friends, he wore a bikini to avoid outing himself. That made for a very bad dysphoria week.
Being trans wasn’t fun. George wanted to just be a cis man, to be hairy and have a dick and all of that. He wanted a voice that didn’t sound so girly. He wanted a flat chest and no period. He wanted to be able to do intimate things with his partners, with Dream. He wanted to let Dream’s hands go in his shirt without the fear of will he like it or does he think it’s weird or does he see me as a girl.
He was tired of dreaming up these fantasies. He’d close his eyes to rest and dream about having hickeys on his flat chest. He dreamed about a deep voice and big muscles and hairy legs and veiny hands. He dreamed about other parts between his legs and being called “George” from birth, not his deadname.
Instead, he got tits. He got scared about being pregnant every single time his period was a day late. He had a feminine voice and smaller muscles and light leg hair and dainty hands. He had this stupidly sensitive thing between his legs that gushed out blood every month. He was “George” to some and the name to others. He was too afraid to let anyone see him without a hoodie on. Too afraid to get intimate, to let anyone under his shirt. He was more comfortable with talking about it than actually doing it.
“Clay,” George whispered. “Do you still see me as a girl sometimes?”
“No, of course not,” Dream replied. “You’re a boy. You’re my best friend and my boyfriend and George. You’re perfect to me, you’ve always been perfect.”
“But I’m—I’m not all manly like other boys you’ve liked.”
“Yeah, you are. Besides, I don’t like you because of your gender. I like you because you’re George. What matters to me is that you’re the guy I've liked forever, and I just really care about you. Your body doesn’t change that for me.”
“I just feel so shitty, I feel like I’m forcing you to follow my rules, all because I can’t handle a boy touching my tits!” George sobbed. “I’m so stupid—“
“I don’t mind following your boundaries, and it doesn’t bother me. I don’t want you to feel dysphoric, and I’ll literally do anything to prevent it, alright?”
Dream’s voice was quiet, loving. Honey dripping into George’s ears.
“Can you just grab those pads for me?” George mumbled. “I’m really too tired to clean blood off my sheets today.”
“Yeah, I can, handsome.”
“‘George’ works. You’re obviously trying too hard.”
“Sorry.”
“Ow, my—my stomach, I fucking hate cramps.”
He balled up into fetal position as Dream ran off to his sister’s room, uncomfortably asking if she had a few pads George could borrow. She did, handing Dream about five.
“Here,” Dream said, worried and quick.
“Thank you.”
George quietly walked away to the bathroom to stash them off, leaving Dream alone in bed. Wishing he could trade with George. Wishing he was the one with the breasts and period cramps and dysphoria, because he thought George didn’t deserve it.
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” George said upon returning. “Fucking stupid cramps. Kill me.”
“I refuse to kill you,” Dream replied. “I am sorry.”
“Aw, okay.”
“Well, do you still want me to go to the store? I can pick some things up for you,” Dream asked. “It’s not a problem for me, really, George.”
“If you don’t mind,” George responded, clutching a pillow to his stomach. “I want a Twix bar. And pads. But Twix bar the most.”
“Okay, I’ll be back.”
“You’re the best.”
“Stay here and get some rest, George. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“It’s hot.”
“Switch out that hoodie for a t-shirt, maybe.”
When it got hot in the summers, George usually just threw on a sports bra and locked his bedroom door, but… Dream.
George didn’t want to do that with someone else’s company. He’d rather the burning heat of the hoodie (and the uncomfortable sweat beneath his chest) than showing off his femininity.
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well, I’ll be back in a sec, okay? Sit here, deep breaths. Take a nap or something, I can also plug in the heating pad for you if you’d like.”
“I’m good,” George smiled. “Cramps just suck.”
“I hate that you have to go through this, babe—sorry, George, I’m a pet-name person—it’s just stupid that you have to have your period. You don’t want babies.”
“‘Babe’ is okay,” George laughed. “It’s not too feminine or anything. You can use that. But sometimes, I just like ‘George.’”
“Okay, okay. I’m going to get your pads. I don’t want you to bleed out or anything.”
“You’re the best.”
“I’ll see you in a sec, don’t miss me too much.”
“Don’t forget the Twix bar.”