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Dream wakes to the feeling of unfamiliarity, circling him like the unexpected chill that sometimes visits Florida on random weekends in January – different, never unwelcomed. He shivers, but it’s not just the cold that’s new. There’s a feathery touch on his cheek, light but unmistakably human, and there’s a boy in his bed.
He blinks, lashes sore with heavy sleep, and finds that both amount to the same thing.
George.
Dream remembers being hesitant to fall asleep the night before, restlessly fixated on consuming information but being pulled towards exhaustion by harsh blue light and drowsy breaths from George’s mouth.
He remembers pulling open the curtains by his bed – the window that’s behind him now – as a promise to rise with the sun. Gold pours into the room, paled by the kiss of winter and dancing across ivory skin. It brings little warmth, aside from the feeling that blossoms boisterously in Dream’s empty stomach at the sight of George’s freckles, littered across his nose like stars in the daytime.
He’s so mesmerized, in fact, that he doesn’t notice George is awake at first.
The boys lay facing each other, Dream on his right side, George on his left. They hardly even moved in their sleep, save for George’s hand, which is pressed to Dream’s face, small palm and thin fingers soft and still on his left cheek. George shifts at the sight of Dream’s open eyes, and his thumb brushes against the side of his nose.
“George,” He dares to breathe. The brunette’s eyes are lidded and cloudy, pretty, the way things are in the morning, and just for Dream. “What are you doing?”
George only blinks slowly. If Dream didn’t know any better, he’d say George looks enamored. He seems captivated, at the very least, focused despite the film that glosses his eyes, amber in the sun. Dream has never seen them look so light.
“Looking.”
For some reason, George’s morning voice sinks surprise into Dream’s chest. He supposes he should have been expecting it, given their position, but he lets it catch him off guard – familiarly terse, and deeper than usual, but breathy and soft in a way Dream’s never heard. He wonders if it’s just something Discord could never pick up, or something new entirely. He wonders if it has anything to do with what he’d spent all night reading about.
“At me?”
George nods, tuffs of his hair tangling with the friction of the pillowcase beneath his head. His palm warms with Dream’s immediate blush.
His voice slips into something shy. “Why?”
He supposes he’s perceiving George the same way, but that’s nothing new. Even when they were still worlds away, Dream has always enjoyed watching George simply exist, and George likes being admired.
This, though – the faraway look in George’s eyes as he stares, matching every movement of sage irises with his own tawny reflection – is different. Bubblegum cheeks adorn a boyish smile, the string of his hoodie pulled between his canines.
Dream feels undeserving.
George doesn’t answer, only continues to chew thoughtlessly on the plastic aglet as he brings a clumsy index finger to Dream’s lips.
He shakes his head, as if to say, ‘Go back to sleep. I’m not finished,’ and Dream isn’t really tired anymore, but unfamiliarity runs warmer now, heavy on his limbs as if in agreement with George’s silent order, and he lets his eyes fall closed again as George’s hand continues with curious, tender movements across his skin.
“Morning, George,” Sapnap mutters from his position on the couch, one leg propped up lazily while he switches between channels with fleeting interest. He turns briefly to watch him – pajama-clad still, walking stoically into the kitchen without so much as a ‘hello’ – and rolls his eyes.
“You just missed Dream,” he adds pointedly.
“Oh,” George responds, hardly trying to disguise his apathy as he rummages through said man’s cereal supply. “Oh well.”
Sapnap’s eyebrows pull together in annoyance.
He waits for George to choose his favorite – one of the really sweet ones that Dream hates buying but does anyway because George is childishly engrossed by the sickening amounts of sugar in American food – and saunter over to the couch, plopping down beside him with the bowl in his lap.
George’s morning laziness is tangible as he rests his head on the younger man’s shoulder to funnel cereal into his mouth. Normally, Sapnap wouldn’t tolerate the potential of fruity milk-drool over his shoulder for even a second, but he knows that the more comfortable George is, the less likely he is to leave when Sapnap continues to push.
“You need to talk to him, dude.”
Sapnap feels the movement of George’s jaw against his shoulder blade when he replies dismissively, “About what?”
“Your fight.”
It’s been days since Sapnap cuddled George to sleep, and hence, days since Sapnap watched Dream storm out of the same room, red faced and scraping rapidly at angry tears.
George hasn’t come close to regressing since, and has – in typical George fashion – been ignoring it. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. We were on stream together yesterday, we’re fi–”
“Spare me,” Sapnap groans. “This time was different. We both know Dream won’t hold a grudge, but just because he isn’t still mad doesn’t mean it wasn’t a big deal.”
George takes another bite, calculated.
“You need to apologize.”
He nearly spits it back out into the bowl. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, George.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Neither did he.”
George pulls away from Sapnap, betrayal in his posture, breakfast discarded on the coffee table. “Why do I have to apologize, then, if neither of us did anything wrong?”
“George,” Sapnap sighs. “You don’t have to tell us what’s going on with you, but you can’t get mad at us for noticing. All Dream wants is for you to be happy here, and you lashed out at him.”
George cowers a little. “I am happy.”
“That’s not my point,” Sapnap shifts to face George fully, but he only shies away. “You don’t have to be, like, happy all the time. I just want you to understand where he’s coming from,”
“Wha– You guys are ganging up on me,” George splutters, bordering on a pout. “He’s not even here, why are you taking his side?”
“I'm not,” Sapnap defends. “I’m impartial. Besides, I already defended you to him, now I’m just doing my part on the other end.”
George smirks a little, despite himself. “You did?”
There's no point in arguing, and they both realize it at the same time. Sapnap hates arguing, and hates being in the center of arguments even more, so who is George to put up a fight when he knows – deep, deep, deep down – that he's right anyways.
“Mmhm.”
It’s easy with them in a way it isn’t with Dream. Sapnap shares George’s hatred for confrontation, allowing disputes between them to fizzle out into nothing without much genuine arguing at all, while Dream always needs closure. Dream holds onto things, even if he pretends not to, for the other person's sake.
“I told him you seemed overwhelmed, and that it wasn’t his fault if you snapped at him, because I know you, and I know it wasn’t. I also said that he should give you some space, but… I, uh, also agree with him… in being worried.”
George frowns, eyeing his abandoned cereal with distaste as guilt makes nausea swirl in his gut.
“I’m not going to push you,” Sapnap goes out of his way to place a comforting hand on George’s knee, and George appreciates it more than his small, tense smile can demonstrate. “Just… We’re your best friends, George, and you can tell us anything, no matter what it is.”
“I know,” Honestly, he does, even if his brain sometimes tells him otherwise. He sighs, “It was never supposed to be this big thing.”
There’s a silence that settles between them, not particularly comfortable or uncomfortable. It makes the low volume of whatever TV channel is playing seem more real than them, for a moment.
“Sorry if we blew it out of proportion. I know that kind of attention doesn’t always feel good.”
George nods thoughtfully. “It’s okay. Maybe I did that to myself by keeping it a secret in the first place, I just– I don’t know.”
Sapnap only hums, and George quickly tacks on, “But you guys don’t have to worry about me, really.”
“Okay,” Sapnap laughs in soft acknowledgement, though nothing is really funny. It’s more of a, You know we still will, than anything. A laugh, maybe, because he knows that George knows this.
“I think I’ll talk to Dream later,” he relents. “I need to… gather my thoughts, and I think he’s editing, so,”
They’re both aware of how much it sounds like an excuse, but something in George’s eyes tells Sapnap he’s being honest.
“Good luck,” Sapnap flashes a satisfactory grin. “I’m proud of you,” he teases, reaching to further disrupt George’s bedhead.
“Thanks,” George smiles back, easy with closed lips. “For everything. Idiot.”
Hesitance fills the moment before George gets up and leaves, contemplation evident in his gaze. Ultimately, he decides to lean forward, giving Sapnap a quick, awkward hug before retreating with his soggy half-eaten cereal, embarrassment and adoration flaming the tips of his ears.
George doesn’t really knock.
It’s a trait of his that startled Dream when he first moved in, months ago. For all the late night guesses he’d made to thousands of listeners on Discord about how George would act upon moving to Florida, that was surprisingly the most accurate.
Dream sometimes wonders if maybe George heard that particular assumption of his and took it as an invitation. Not that he minds. It’s a sweet sort of quality time he doesn’t really get with Sapnap – who’s much more shy in that regard (they’re perfectly complementary in that way, Dream thinks, yin and yang, two harmonious phases of the same moon).
He’s pulled gently from his thoughts by a repetitive sound, the one that got him thinking in the first place. It catches him off guard, because Sapnap is hardly capable of the softness it carries, and well, George doesn’t knock.
“I stand corrected,” Dream admits, silver doorknob in hand as he’s greeted with chocolate hair and pink-rimmed bambi eyes.
He would be lying if he said their height difference – though less drastic than he’d once imagined – didn’t instill him with pride in moments like this, looking up and down at one another. Dream lowers his chin, and thinks that George looks tired.
George furrows his brows. “What?”
“Nothing,” Dream answers breathily. “Why’d you knock, idiot?”
“Oh,” George looks down at snowy knuckles, as if they’d acted out of their own free will. “I– I don’t know, just–”
He looks back up. Dream pours confidence over him in the shape of quirked lips.
“Are you busy?”
When he is – really, truly busy, as in, too busy for even George – Dream has developed a habit of letting his roommates know with scribbled explanations taped to his door. George knows this, but asks anyway, acting shy for a reason Dream can’t place.
“I need to talk to you.”
Oh, Dream thinks, George is full of surprises tonight.
“Okay,” He takes a step back into the room, and when George doesn’t immediately follow, he extends an invitation. “Come in. Let’s talk.”
Their position feels familiar in an awful way, both seated on Dream’s bed, hands in their laps and avoiding eye contact like the mismatched colors of their irises would burn if they ever locked.
“So, uh–”
“I’m sorry,” George blurts. “First, sorry, I just–”
Dream doesn’t mind George’s stuttering, of course, but it does spark something hot and protective inside him whenever it happens.
“I… I have a lot to say, but f-first, I wanted to say that.”
“It’s okay,” Dream assures instantly. He’d already forgiven him, not really expecting an apology at all. “Thanks for saying it, though.”
“I want to tell you about what’s been... bothering me, I guess. Well, I don’t want to–” he laughs nervously. “But I should, so I will, and you obviously care so I’m go–”
“George,” Dream frowns. “You don’t–”
“Let me finish.”
The command whips from George’s lips in a tone he rarely uses – not an angry one, just one with instantaneous effects. It’s a tone Dream knows well, the breaking point of someone with too much patience. Bad has one just like it. So does his mother.
Dream quiets as intended.
“I– I’ve been having,” George looks up from his lap with shaky eyes, as if physically searching for the words. “a hard time adjusting.”
It feels like the roof is collapsing on top of them, suddenly, debris in Dream’s lungs at the admission.
He must look like he’s suffocating, because George quickly adds, “Not because of anything you did. Or Sapnap. Neither of you– not even Florida– It’s just a lot.”
Dream nods, slow. He tries to breathe in anything but smoke.
“I feel like…” George trails, and Dream knows it’s hard for him to talk about. He can see the moments he stops and tries to rewrite his thoughts. “I feel like I shouldn’t be struggling after so long, but, I was just so excited at first, and now that being with you guys feels like an everyday thing and not some crazy dream, I don’t–”
“Do you want to go home?” Dream asks, again in different words, at the same time George says, “I’ve never had this much change.”
His response is quicker this time. “No.”
“I don’t want you to feel like–”
“Dream,” George lets loose a quiet laugh that feels misplaced, but lightens the air nonetheless. “Don’t cut me off.”
“Right. Sorry,”
They both take a moment after that, the flow of George’s confession disrupted, but he starts again with newfound determination.
“I think I’ve been anxious.”
Dream hums.
“But that’s not– It’s not the reason I’ve been weird. Well, actually, it kinda indirectly is, but, God, I don’t know… I–”
Dream finds himself subconsciously copying the deep breath George takes.
“I feel scared, sometimes, when things feel like a lot. I don’t really get it, but it’s brought up something that, like, I never had any intention of sharing with anyone.”
Dream bites his tongue. Feeling restless, he tries to focus his energy into making sure that George knows he’s listening.
“It makes me feel embarrassed, and– and then mad, when you asked me about it and I wasn’t ready to tell you, but that wasn’t fair. You didn’t know, and I’m just– I’m sorry, again.”
When the pause between George’s words grows long enough that it seems like he’s waiting for something, Dream takes it as his cue to finally respond.
“Were you– did you want to tell me, whatever it is that you’re talking about? It’s okay if you don’t. It just seemed like you did, for a second there,” He smiles softly, hoping it’s reassuring. “I’m a little confused.”
“Yeah,” George huffs. “I did. I do.”
Dream nods, anticipation tight in his throat. “Take your time then.”
“I only did it, like, twice,” George starts. He focuses his attention on Dream’s lap, where his phone is resting face down on his thigh. “The first time it was an accident, and the second time I just– I was curious, but it– it felt weird. It was weird, I don’t know. I never did it again after that, but… now, with all these emotions, I guess, I’ve kinda been wanting to do it again. Subconsciously, but also kind of consciously.”
Dream prepares himself to break the dam. Whatever George is talking about, it’s clearly something important. It’s also something he never wanted to tell Dream before, so for better or for worse, this is going to change things.
“What is it, George?”
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Just, please,” George opens his hand, a trace of insecurity in the movement.
Dream slips the device into his open palm without another word. He doesn’t even have to tell George the password for him to unlock it, clicking the Safari app before he pulls the phone to his chest, shielding it while he types.
“This is hard.”
“I know,” Dream nods, watching the blue light flicker over George’s brow bone. “You’re okay,” he reminds him.
Hesitantly, George slots the phone back into Dream’s hand, but he doesn’t dare look down at it while George is still talking so nervously.
“I think I’d prefer if you just read up on it, instead of me trying to explain.”
They stare at each other for no longer than a second before George sighs.
“Go ahead, look.”
There in the search bar, traces of George’s uncertainty in the thin, cardinal text,
age regression.
Dream blinks. “I know what this is.”
“You do?”
George’s eyes are wide, too dark to read. The bed is trembling with the force of his shaking, and all Dream can do is try not to frown at how badly he wants to take all of his nerves away.
He talks slowly, carefully, “I think so, yeah.”
George looks like he’s about to throw up.
“I mean, I’ll still research. I don’t know that much. I think I’ve just heard of it.”
“I was hoping I could leave the room before you figured it out,” His laugh is wet and shaky this time. It sounds like regret. “That didn’t work.”
Dream reaches for his hand when words fail, taking hold of the pale skin like he’s going to kiss it. Like George is royalty. George lets himself be held like he’s being led into a dance, and Dream pulls both hands closer to himself. “I'd rather you stay.”
George’s response comes out in a whisper. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll read,” he raises his phone for emphasis. “Just stay.”
“O-Okay.”
And read, Dream does, for nearly two hours before George suddenly jolts from behind him, where he’d been reading over Dream’s shoulder and offering occasional single-word feedback.
Dream rests his thumb on the piece of text he’d last read before turning back and finding George blushing and blinking slowly.
“You okay?”
“Mmhm,” He rubs his eyes and blinks again. “Yeah, sorry.”
“You’re falling asleep,” Dream realizes, much to George’s dismay.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I swear I’m not trying to. I know we’re being serious and– and ‘s important, but… I’m really tired now.”
Dream can only chuckle slightly, because no matter the circumstances, George is still George. The thought fills him with insurmountable warmth.
“Go to bed, Georgie.”
George lowers his head bashfully, rose blush unmoving with the attention Dream is giving him over his shoulder. The weight of his worries seems nearly lifted, for a moment, before it all comes crashing down.
“I can’t believe I told you,” he whispers. “I don’t want you to think I’m weird.”
“What?” Dream startles, voice ever-soft with George, though incredulous, almost offended. “That’s– No, George– Listen, it’s not weird,”
At the pitiful look George gives him, he admits, “Okay, it’s not– it’s not what I was expecting, but only because you’ve never once mentioned even knowing what age regression is, let alone partaking in it.”
He doesn’t miss the way George winces.
“I don’t think you’re weird. You’re not hurting anyone, and if it makes you feel safe, and happy, then no one is going to make fun of that, least of all me.”
“I’m–”
“Please,” Dream discards the phone, turning to face George with his whole body once the strain on his neck becomes unbearable. “Don’t be sorry, George. I understand why you were scared, but I’m glad you told me.”
George makes a sound dangerously close to crying.
“I want you to go to bed knowing that I – or we, if you– if you decide to tell Sap, either way – would never judge you for something like this.”
The words settle in the space between them, and George’s blatant exhaustion resurges with a vengeance, blinking turned rapid.
“Can I stay here for a little bit longer? Just–” He shuffles closer, leaning his head on Dream’s shoulder again, except this time they’re facing each other, and when he lowers his head onto the muscle they’re chest to chest. “Here, for a sec.”
Dream tries not to move too much when he laughs. “Sure, George.”
Without the light from Dream’s phone to illuminate it, the room feels especially dark. It’s nearing 4 a.m., and moonlight doesn’t grace this side of the house often. Dream can still see, but when he closes his eyes against George’s hair, he becomes more of a feeling wrapped around him than a person he can see – a voice, like he used to be. It makes Dream hold him a little tighter, and it gives him the courage to say what he does.
“I’m all in, you know?”
“Wha–” George lifts his face a little to get a clear speaking voice, but otherwise makes no effort to move. “Dream.”
“I mean, if this is something you want to do alone then I won’t bother you about it again, but if you need – or want – someone to…”
“...Take care of me?”
It’s Dream turn to blush, the timid whisper leaving him to wonder if he’s gone too far, but while they’re communicating so openly, he supposes he should stand his ground.
“Is that something you want?”
“I– I don’t know, honestly.”
Dream can tell that George is trying to sound more awake than he is, but the gravel in his voice is unforgiving.
“It’s not something I’ve ever had before,” he adds, testing out a term that both boys are familiar with by now. “A caregiver.”
He cringes a little against Dream, but the blonde soothes his embarrassment by gently caressing his shoulder.
Dream hums thoughtfully. “You’ve always had me.”
George laughs. “I know.”
“Give me a trial run,” Dream half-jokes, leaning into the base of George’s neck as he speaks, dropping the humor quickly in favor of proposing, “Let me take care of you right now.”
“Wh-What?”
“Please.”
“But I’m not–”
“You don’t have to be. I always want to take care of you, even if you’re just tired,” George is like water in Dream’s hands as he cradles his face to lift it, bleary eyes conflicted. “Even if there’s no reason at all.”
“I don’t want to leave,” he admits.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Dream counters. “I want you to sleep.”
Dream has never seen this expression on George’s face before, stunned and star-kissed. His eyes flicker with lingering worry, and Dream, still holding his cheeks, starts slow, patterned movements with his thumbs.
“I want you to relax,” he adds.
George goes lax in a way that says, I trust you.
“Okay?”
“Mmhm,” George agrees a little desperately.
Dream lowers them both slowly, facing each other still as they land weightlessly on their respective pillows, George’s perfectly fluffed from lack of use.
“Just this,” Dream says. “Is this okay? Do you feel safe?”
George blinks his eyes open at the unfamiliar question. He feels hot, the way he always does when Dream says ‘wholesome’ things, but he fights the urge to resist it, just this once. “Yes.”
Dream smiles impossibly bright, that enchanting pride welcoming him again. “Then I’ve done it, haven’t I? See, easy.”
George hides his face in the pillowcase, eliciting sleepy giggles from them both. “You’re insufferable.”
Dream’s laughter dissolves into seriousness once again, easy like he makes everything.
“I’d do anything to make you feel like this, George. In any state of mind.”
George is silent for a long time. So long that Dream assumes he’s asleep and gets up to preemptively open his curtains – afraid he’ll oversleep in the morning.
When he lowers back down to his previous position, though, phone in hand to finish what he’d left, George mutters. “I’m going to sleep now.”
“I thought you already were, moron,”
“I was thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
Another long pause. Dream wonders if he does it on purpose.
“That I’m happy to be here,” There’s the sound of a smile in his voice. “and that I think I might want you to do this again, when I’m– whenever I– y’know,”
“You come find me, then, okay? Tell me what you need and I’ll be that.”
George nods sleepily, and mutual understanding fills the room in place of their consciousness.