Work Text:
They met because Dream was being Dream.
It was late, the kind of evening where the streets looked shiny under the city lights, where everything felt too loud and too alive. Dream was running — not from his problems (for once), but from actual cops, because apparently causing chaos was his full-time job at eighteen.
George had been minding his own business, walking home with his hands in his pockets and his hoodie zipped up, when he heard shouting, hurried footsteps, and laughter that didn’t belong in a situation like that.
And then, before George could even react—
BAM.
Dream crashed into him like a meteor.
George stumbled back, trying to catch his balance, but his heel slipped over the edge of something that absolutely should’ve been fenced off.
A construction site.
A pit.
Filled with water.
George had exactly half a second to register what was happening before he went down with a splash so dramatic it could’ve been a movie scene.
He came back up choking, soaked, furious—only to see Dream standing at the edge above him, eyes wide, mouth open…
And then Dream burst into laughter.
George hated it.
George loved it.
“What—” George spluttered, wiping water from his eyes. “What is wrong with you?!”
“I’m so sorry!” Dream said, not sounding sorry at all. “Oh my God—wait, no, you’re gonna get sick—”
“I’m gonna drown!” George snapped, and Dream’s laugh got worse.
But before George could climb out, the sound of police whistles grew louder. Dream’s head snapped toward the street and for the first time, he looked properly panicked.
“We have to go,” Dream blurted.
George blinked. “We?”
Dream stared at him like the answer was obvious. “Yes, we. I literally just committed assault by accident. I’m not leaving you.”
And George didn’t know why—maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the ridiculousness of it all, maybe it was the way Dream looked at him like they were already a team—but George laughed.
“Fine,” George breathed, grinning despite himself. “Let’s go.”
Dream offered him a hand, and George took it.
Dream pulled him out of the pit like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then they ran.
They ran through streets and alleys, ducking behind cars and fences, laughing so hard it hurt. Dream kept stealing glances at George as if he couldn’t believe he’d found someone willing to match his chaos, and George couldn’t stop thinking about how warm Dream’s hand felt around his wrist.
And after they finally lost the cops, breathless and shaking with laughter, Dream looked at George’s soaked hair and wet clothes, suddenly guilty.
“Oh my God,” Dream muttered. “You’re so wet. I’m so sorry.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
Dream’s face turned a bright shade of red. “NOT LIKE THAT. I— I mean you’re soaked, George! You’re literally dripping!”
George snorted, watching Dream spiral with amusement.
Dream tugged at the hoodie he was wearing and shoved it into George’s hands. “Here. Put this on before you freeze.”
George looked down at it.
It smelled like Dream. Warm, clean, a little like vanilla detergent and something else he couldn’t name yet.
He put it on.
And something in Dream’s chest almost caved in.
That was five years ago.
Dream was eighteen. George was seventeen.
Now they were twenty-three and twenty-two—and somehow, Dream still hadn’t stopped falling.
Since that night, they became friends like it was inevitable.
Dream and George were the kind of friendship that didn’t need explaining: Dream loud and reckless, George sharp and calm, but never cold. They balanced each other without even trying.
Dream made George laugh until his stomach hurt.
George made Dream feel grounded like he wasn’t always about to fly off the edge of the world.
And still—Dream was down bad.
It started small. Small enough that Dream could pretend it wasn’t a big deal.
The way George looked at him when he thought Dream wasn’t paying attention.
The way his smile softened only for Dream.
The way George would sit just a little too close, shoulder brushing Dream’s like it was nothing.
Then came the clothes stealing.
At first it was George borrowing hoodies because he claimed Dream’s were “softer.” Then it was T-shirts. Sweatpants. Socks. Anything George could get away with.
Dream would pretend to complain. “George, that’s literally mine.”
George would shrug, innocent as a saint. “And? It looks better on me.”
Dream would look away, cheeks warm, because yeah—it did.
He never refused.
He couldn’t.
Because having George wrapped in his clothes felt like having him wrapped around his heart.
And what Dream didn’t know—what Dream couldn’t know, because his brain shut down every time George smiled—was that George felt the same.
George had been falling too. Quietly. Terrifyingly.
He was just better at hiding it.
George noticed everything: the way Dream’s eyes always flicked to his lips for half a second too long, the way Dream would stand behind him in the kitchen, hand brushing George’s waist as if it belonged there.
George noticed how Dream held him whenever he sensed George needed it, like Dream somehow had a direct line to his heart.
And George was dying to know.
Dying to know what it would feel like to kiss Dream.
To taste him.
To finally stop wanting and start having.
It was almost tragic, really—how neither of them realized the other was already halfway in love.
The way their eyes lit up around each other.
The way Dream’s laughter got softer when George was tired.
The way George’s voice got warmer when he said Dream’s name.
Two idiots in love. Unlucky, but almost sweet.
Almost.
Then Christmas came.
George hated being alone around Christmas. It made the quiet feel louder, made the shadows stretch longer. And this year, it was worse.
So he ended up at Dream’s house with a casual excuse that neither of them believed.
“I don’t want to be alone,” George admitted, and Dream’s expression softened instantly.
“Then don’t be,” Dream said, like it was the simplest solution in the world.
That night, they decided not to go out like they usually did. No friends, no noise, no chaos.
Just them.
They made hot chocolate. The kind with whipped cream and too many marshmallows. Dream tried to convince George to add cinnamon. George told him to shut up. Dream did it anyway.
They sat together on the couch, knees touching, warm blanket thrown over both of them like neither wanted to admit they’d chosen it that way.
The first movie was George’s pick.
Last Christmas.
It was safe to say both of them ended up crying.
Dream wiped his eyes aggressively, like the movie had personally insulted him.
George sniffled, pretending he wasn’t emotional.
“Are you crying?” Dream asked, voice thick.
“No,” George said immediately, eyes glossy as hell.
Dream stared at him.
George stared back.
Dream broke first, laughing through tears. “You’re literally crying.”
George shoved him with a pillow. “Shut up.”
Dream laughed louder, the sound bright, and George found himself smiling even as his eyes burned.
When the movie ended, Dream reached for the remote, still smiling, ready to pick the next one.
George watched him.
Just watched.
The side of Dream’s face looked softer like this, in dim lights. His hair was messy, his cheeks a little flushed from laughter and warmth, eyelashes casting shadows under his eyes.
And George couldn’t help it.
His gaze lingered.
He’s gorgeous, George thought, so quietly it didn’t even feel like a thought—more like a truth he’d been carrying for years.
He didn’t notice Dream looking back until—
“Everything good?” Dream asked, smirking. “I can feel you staring.”
George immediately felt heat crawl up his neck.
He snapped his eyes to the TV like it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the universe.
“Shut up, you idiot,” George muttered, softer than he meant to.
Dream’s smirk deepened. “Aww, George. Do you think I’m pretty?”
George inhaled slowly.
Normally, he’d roll his eyes. Normally, he’d banter.
But something in him was tired of normal.
So George turned his head and looked directly at Dream, serious and steady.
“And if I do,” George said, voice low, “then what?”
Dream froze.
His smile faltered in pure shock, eyes going wide like George had just punched him.
George leaned closer by just a fraction—close enough that Dream’s breath caught.
Dream stuttered, panicking. “No—nothing, I just— I think it’s cute.”
He tried to recover with a confident grin, leaning in too, like he could match George’s energy.
But his hands were shaking slightly in his lap.
Now it was George’s turn to get nervous—except he didn’t move away.
He stared straight into Dream’s eyes, heartbeat punching at his ribs.
“Then I can stare whenever I want,” George murmured.
Dream swallowed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “You can look at me whenever you want. I don’t mind.”
Dream’s gaze flickered down to George’s mouth, then back up, like he was fighting himself.
“...But can I look at you?” Dream asked, voice quiet, like the question mattered more than anything.
George’s throat felt tight.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I’ll let you stare at me.”
And George’s eyes drifted to Dream’s lips without permission.
Dream noticed immediately.
His expression shifted—soft, stunned, helpless.
Like he couldn’t believe he’d been wanted back this whole time.
Then Dream spoke before he could stop himself.
“I’m so in love with you.”
The words fell into the room like something sacred.
Dream’s face went blank with horror right after, like he’d just ruined everything.
His mouth started moving too fast.
“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean—I mean I did mean it but I didn’t want to say it like this, I don’t want you to run away or—”
George’s heart cracked open.
“You…” George swallowed. “You don’t mean it?”
Dream’s chest tightened when he heard the break in George’s voice.
“No,” Dream rushed, desperate. “No, I do, I promise. I just— I didn’t want it to be messy. I didn’t want to scare you—”
Dream was still talking when George kissed him.
Just—kissed him.
George took Dream’s face with both hands like he belonged there and pressed their mouths together with all the feelings he’d been hiding for years.
Dream went still.
For half a second he didn’t move, stunned by the reality of it.
Then he melted into George like he’d been waiting his whole life.
His hand slid to George’s waist, pulling him closer, like Dream couldn’t stand even an inch of space.
The kiss wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t hungry.
It was warm. Real. The kind of kiss that said finally.
When they pulled apart, George stayed close, forehead almost touching Dream’s.
Dream looked dazed.
His lips were pink. His eyes were shining.
George hugged him tight and whispered against him, voice trembling but sure.
“I’m also in love with you,” George confessed. “If you didn’t notice… I’m not running away.”
Dream let out a laugh that sounded like relief, like he’d been holding his breath for years.
“Now I notice,” Dream murmured, hugging George back like he’d never let go.
The movie was forgotten.
The world outside didn’t exist.
Just them.
They didn’t officially get together as fast as they wanted—not because they didn’t want it, but because they wanted it to feel right.
They wanted every first to be intentional.
The first hand-holding with meaning.
The first kiss with no fear.
The first I love you without panic.
So they took their time.
They spent Christmas together, building memories so soft it felt unfair. They shared blankets and hot chocolate, Dream’s hoodies and George’s laughter. They traded glances that lasted too long, touches that made their hearts stutter.
They spent New Year’s together too.
When the countdown hit zero, they kissed—slow, sweet, like a promise.
And finally, they became what they’d been for years without saying it out loud.
Boyfriend and boyfriend.
Dream and George.
And they were happier than they’d ever been.
Not just because they were together—but because they didn’t feel like they had to run anymore.
They had once run from the cops laughing like idiots, hearts pounding, hands linked.
Now, they stayed.
Because for the first time…
They weren’t running from anything.
They were running toward each other.
And this time, they had all the time in the world.