Archive of Our Own

Thursday 

It’s George’s first day back when it happens. He had been expecting this, after all. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone, some better than others, but that isn’t the point. 

George is just trying to make a simple trip. He’s supposed to be getting groceries, just a few basic things for the weekend. It’s supposed to be a quick trip, just in and out and back to his parents place. He knows these aisles as well as anyone else in town. He’s walked past every shelf a thousand times, even spent a summer restocking them once. 

This isn’t supposed to be happening. George shouldn’t be staring at the cereal aisle like a complete idiot, but the cruel reality is that he is. He’s back here, in this place, with these people he used to know that he should have forgotten. 

Well, it’s really just one person. 

Things could be worse; George knows this. He could be back in California, crashing on stranger’s couches and wondering where his next meal will be coming from. That’s a thing of the past, though, has been for a while, George is stable now, with material matters, at least. 

This is just… throwing things off. It’s temporary. George will get his box of cheerios and leave. 

Of course, nothing can be that simple. 

“Hey,” the figure standing next to George says. They’re a few feet away, and George can’t decide if the distance is too much or not enough. He stands completely still, arms and legs feeling suddenly stiff. Each breath he takes feels forced. 

George would rather be punched in the gut. He can’t say that confidently since it’s never actually happened to him, but he thinks it would feel better than this. 

Or maybe, this is what a punch to the gut really feels like. 

“How are you?” 

The figure is persistent, always has been. It's something George used to admire, something he still does admire, in fact.

“I’m good, Dream.” 

The name slips from George’s mouth before he can stop it, tumbling out like the lyrics to a song you thought were otherwise forgotten. 

At first, George doesn’t dare look in Dream’s direction, not fully. He keeps his eyes on the cereal, acting like it's the most interesting thing in the building.

The worst part is, George can feel Dream’s eyes on him, and it burns. It burns even when George shoves his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. 

“That’s great! I’m glad,” Dream says, and the smile is overly apparent in his voice. He sounds overly enthusiastic. 

George finally grabs a box of cereal and turns to look at Dream. Turns out, the younger man looks just as off-put as George feels. He’s standing awkwardly, shifting from foot-to-foot and clutching the handle on his grocery cart tightly. Still, there’s a familiar glint in bright green eyes. It’s hopeful, and George can only hope it doesn’t rub off on him, not like last time. 

Dream’s hair is longer now, a little more messy. The dirty blonde locks curl at the ends and frame his face perfectly. He looks a little older, too. He’s still got that boyish look to him, clean-shaven face and long eyelashes that blink against light freckles, but still, older. 

“I’m doing pretty good, too,” Dream says, even though George didn’t ask. He brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his that George had picked up on a while ago. It makes him crack a smile, actually, one that’s small and almost private. It’s meant for him and Dream only. 

George quickly regains his composure, though. He clears his throat and averts his gaze to the shiny linoleum floor. His fingers grip the box of cereal just a little tighter. 

“That’s good,” he says, quiet and reserved. He dares to look up at Dream again, and fuck, he’s met with a small smile. It looks a little unsure, but it’s a smile nonetheless, and George is weak. “I should probably… finish shopping,” he says, turning and walking quickly in the opposite direction before Dream can get another word in. 

George dashes to the milk aisle, cereal box tucked tightly under his armpit. Maybe he should have gotten a cart, or a basket, but he didn’t think that would be necessary. He’s only here for three things, the last item he can’t for the life of him remember.

 He grabs a half gallon of milk quickly. At this point, the only thing George wants to accomplish is getting the hell out of the goddamn grocery store as fast as possible.

On his way to the checkout, George hears the incessant squeaking of shopping car wheels. It’s almost taunting. The sound only gets louder, but George doesn’t dare move. He’s secured himself a spot in line. There’s only one person in front of him and no other registers are open; it would be odd for him to move now. So, he stands as still as possible, ignoring the nervous churning thats settled in the bottom of his stomach. If he doesn’t move, maybe he’ll disappear. 

Unfortunately, George isn’t that lucky. 

He knows who claims the spot in line behind him without even having to look. The shopping cart comes to a sharp halt, tires making an awful screeching sound. George can hear Dream starting to unload his items onto the conveyor belt. 

When it’s George’s turn, he sets his cereal and milk down and greets the cashier. He forces himself to sound more cheery than he feels. 

“That’ll be 4.97,” the cashier tells him when she’s finished scanning his items. George reaches into his back pocket to get his wallet, but it’s empty. He checks his other pocket, and his cheeks start to go hot out of embarrassment. 

“Shit,” George curses under his breath. As if things couldn’t get any worse. He left his wallet at home, and now he’s standing in the middle of a checkout line looking like an idiot. 

“I’ll cover it.” 

And it’s that same, all too familiar, honeyed voice, there to save the day. George doesn’t want to be saved, though. He just wants to pay for his stuff and leave, forget any of this happened, go back to his old life after the week is over. 

But Dream is still here. Somehow , he’s still part of George’s life. He’s something George can’t shake, like a bad cold or a former lover who you have too much history with. 

Yeah. 

“It’s fine,” George says, sounding more irritated than anything. His irritation isn’t directed at Dream, per say, but at the situation in general.

“I’ll get it,” Dream says, more insistent this time. He steps forward, and George can feel his presence more than ever. 

“Dream, it’s fine. I don’t need this stuff that bad anyway,” George says. It’s a full sentence, more than he’s said to Dream in the past ten minutes, or the past year. 

“It’s five dollars, George. Don’t worry about it.” 

Now Dream is peering at George over his shoulder, his taller stature radiating heat. He grins, and George’s gaze flicks to the side. Dream is grinning at him as he hands the cashier a five dollar bill.

George says nothing. He grabs his single bag of groceries and promptly heads towards the glass doors. He doesn’t turn around to look at Dream. He doesn’t want to see his face. The blond would only look at him, most likely disappointmented, and George would crumble. 

He already is. 

He pushes through the doors and is met with the freezing December air. It’s started snowing; go figure. George pulls his hood over his head and starts walking. 

The thought of Dream doesn’t leave his mind. He thought he was over it, that the flame would eventually die, but it hasn’t. It might not be as strong anymore, but if George sees Dream again, he doesn't know how much longer he’ll be able to keep it together. Seeing Dream was enough to stir the pot a bit. The feeling of Dream pressed against his back in the checkout line was enough to make the water simmer. Now the pot is left unattended until next time, if there’s a next time. 

A part of George wants to see Dream again. Maybe all hope isn’t lost. A bigger part tells him this is all just hopeless. 

The air only gets colder the longer George walks. His fingers are numb, his toes too, and this is one of the moments that makes him regret never getting his license. It makes him least wish he would have listened when his mom told him to wear gloves and scarf.

 George is stubborn; that much is clear, and he only walks faster when he hears a car behind him. He walks faster because he knows whose car it is. It’s a truck, actually, and the muffler would be hard to miss with how loud it is, but it quiets down as the vehicle comes to a near stop. 

“Need a ride?” Dream asks. His tone has a teasing lilt to it. He almost sounds amused, and George guesses that he probably is . 

“I’m fine, Dream,” George calls out. He walks faster, keeping his head down. 

“It’s cold,” Dream pushes. “You’re gonna get sick.” He sounds concerned, and that just might break George a little more. 

He stops dead in his tracks, balling his hands into fists. His nails dig into his palms, but he barely feels it. He takes a deep in and huffs it out. 

George doesn’t say anything as he makes his way around the front of the truck. He keeps his eyes focused on anything but Dream, the snow on the ground, the few houses, the mud on Dream’s truck tires. When he gets to the passenger's side door, it swings open for him. Instead of using the grab handle to haul himself up and inside, George grabs Dream’s extended hand. He does it out of habit, not really even thinking about it until he swears his skin starts to burn where Dream had touched him. 

He tries not to think about it, instead pulling the door shut and putting his seatbelt on. He sets his bag of groceries on the floor in front of his seat, then holds his hands out towards one of the vents to warm them up. The warm air helps to thaw his frozen fingers, but Dream’s touch still lingers. 

“You really should have dressed warmer,” Dream says. He starts driving again, and George peers out the window at the passing trees to avoid looking at the blond. 

“I’m fine,” George says, and that should be enough. Any normal person would take that as a sign to leave him alone, but then, he remembers where he is and who he’s with. Nothing can ever be that simple, not with Dream. 

“You should have worn gloves,” he says as if George hadn’t responded to him at all. 

George rolls his eyes. “You sound like my mother.” 

Dream laughs. It’s full and straight from the chest, and it’s the first time George has heard that laugh in a while. It takes everything in him not to turn his head, to look at Dream and admire the slope of his neck as it cranes back in laughter. And he would tell Dream to keep his eyes on the road, and Dream would tell him it’s fine, and it actually would be. 

“I’m serious, though,” Dream says after he’s stopped laughing. “I don’t want you to like… get frostbite.” 

“You’re being dramatic,” George says, slightly amused. He pulls his hands into his lap and keeps his eyes fixed on the world outside the truck. 

Everything is too familiar, every street corner, every house, the park. It causes a sense of deja vu to wash over George. He’s almost certain he’s been in this same position a thousand times, sitting in Dream’s truck as he watches his hometown passby. It only ever felt like home because Dream was there, and George thinks he might be the only reason it feels that way now. 

“Oh, come on,” Dream scoffs, but the grin in his voice gives everything away. 

George just shakes his head with a slight smile, one that he tries to bite back, but it’s useless. And he doesn’t respond to Dream, mostly because he’s afraid of what might come out of his mouth. 

The streets become even more familiar to George the closer he gets to his destination. He knows these roads like the palm of his hand. 

“How long are you here for?” Dream asks. He’s pulling into a driveway now, putting the truck in park and focusing all his attention on George. 

“A few days,” George says. He’s looking down at his hands, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. He won’t look over at Dream. If he does, he doesn’t know if he would be able to get out of the truck or not. 

“What day are you leaving?”  

George sighs. “Why should I tell you?” He sounds exasperated without meaning to, and he knows it hits Dream hard because the figure beside him stills suddenly. “I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’s okay if you did,” Dream says. “I get it.” He sounds small, and George hates it. 

He reaches for the door handle anyway. 

“Bye, Dream,” he says, grabbing his bag of groceries and hopping down onto the snow covered driveway. He pushes the door shut and starts for the house. 

“You owe me!” Dream calls out a few seconds later. George stops in the middle of his driveway, letting a loud sigh that he’s sure Dream can hear.

“Whatever!” he calls back, and he continues up the driveway. When George finally gets to his front door, Dream yells again. 

“Dinner, tomorrow!” 

And George can’t say no to that. He can’t say yes, either, not explicitly, so he reaches out with his right hand and twists the handle to his door, stepping inside the house without another word. It wouldn’t matter if he said anything, anyway. He knows Dream will show up at his house tomorrow regardless, only leaving if George asks him to. 

As soon as the door shuts behind him, George leans back against it, his head falling back against the wood with a soft ‘thud.’ He’s in over his head, and he hates that he smiles because of it. 

Friday 

Dream is late. George wishes he could that he’s surprised, but he isn't. It’s one of the younger man's less redeeming qualities, never being on time, but George knows he would never bail completely. 

George isn’t sure why he even cares that much, either. They’re just going to get dinner. George owes it to Dream for giving him a ride home yesterday. They’ll eat and call it even, then go their separate ways. 

It’ll be nice to catch up. After over a year of not talking to each other at all, it’ll be nice, even if when George left they weren’t on the best terms.

He’s over it now, though. The fact that he got in Dream’s truck yesterday is proof of that. 

Still, George can’t help that he’s nervous. 

He has no idea where Dream is planning on taking him. The younger man gave no hint to that in his texts. All he did was mention a time and make sure that time worked. 

George checks his phone for the thousandth time, making sure he didn’t get ready too early. He checks his outfit, too. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt and black jeans. Immediately, he starts to think he’s underdressed. Maybe he should put on a different shirt, or different pants. But George has to remind himself that this is Dream he’s thinking about. Dream wouldn’t take him anywhere fancy without telling him. They would have to actually go into town to go anywhere fancy anyway. He’s overthinking everything already. 

The sound of a loud muffler pulls George from his thoughts. He gets up from the edge of his bed quicker than he would ever admit. As he walks out of his room, he pockets his phone. This time, he makes sure he has his wallet, too. 

“Is that Dream?” 

George slows as he nears his front door. He doesn’t turn to look at his mother, afraid of the expression on her face. She sounds neutral, but he’s afraid her face will be painted with disappointment. 

“Yes,” George settles for saying, short and simple. He bends over to pull his shoes on. 

“You boys are talking to each other again?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful. 

“Sort of,” George says. He shrugs and grabs his coat off one of the hooks fastened to the wall. He turns to look at his mom as he pulls the jacket on. She’s reading a magazine, but she pauses to smile up at him. 

“Good. He was always very lovely to you.” 

George blanks, not sure how to respond. He can feel a blush creeping up his neck, which says more than anyone needs to know. 

“I’ll be back later,” George says, and he turns for the door. He can see Dream’s truck through the window, and his stomach flips in a way it hasn’t for a long while. “Love you!” George calls, and then he’s out the door. 

It isn’t as cold as the previous day, but it’s still cold enough to make George’s teeth chatter. He makes his way to Dream’s truck quickly, hoping it will be a bit warmer inside. 

When he opens the car door, Dream doesn’t offer a hand in his direction. He merely smiles, and George has to look away. For whatever reason, looking at Dream makes him even more nervous. 

“Sorry it’s cold in here. I got in my truck this morning and the heat wouldn’t turn on,” Dream says. George looks over to him, eyes landing on a strong hand that has it’s finger curled around the gear shift. 

“It’s alright,” he says quietly, offering Dream an unsure smile, and he fastens his seatbelt when the truck moves forward. 

“Are you sure? I have a blanket in the back if you’re cold-” 

“Dream, I’m fine,” George says. He smiles for real this time, and his words are truthful. He does look straight ahead out the windshield, though. Looking at Dream is still a work in progress. 

“Okay,” Dream says. He sounds happy, but he sounds a little nervous, too. At least George isn’t the only one feeling that way. 

The car ride remains mostly quiet after that. George turns the radio on at some point, just to fill the silence a bit. It isn’t awkward, not talking, which surprises George. He had expected this to be harder. 

Soon, Dream is pulling into the parking lot of a small diner. It’s a place they used to go to together a lot. The building is small with a white and red exterior. It’s something you would see in a movie, as cliche as that sounds. 

George is the first one out of the truck as soon as Dream parks. The wind blows strongly, messing up his hair that he had worked so hard to make perfect. He stays in place for a moment, wrapping his arms around himself in an attempt to warm up a bit. Dream walks around the truck and meets him, flashing him a warm smile before leading the way up to the diner. The blond opens the door for him, and George gives a small nod as thanks. 

The inside of the diner is warm, and George sighs in relief. It smells wonderful, too, the scent of burgers and fries filling his nose as he breathes in. 

“Take a seat anywhere you like,” a woman says, the hostess, George presumes. She hands Dream two menus and smiles at him. 

“Thank you,” Dream says, polite as ever. He glances over his shoulder, and George locks eyes with him. “You want a booth?” 

“Sure,” George says, and then he tears his gaze away. This still feels weird to him in a way he can’t explain. Him and Dream are talking, they’re together and hanging out, but they aren’t really together . 

Maybe it feels empty. 

George doesn’t have time to think about that, not when Dream slides into a booth and he realizes they’re going to be sitting across from each other. He’s immediately filled with dread, or something similar to it. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe George shouldn’t have agreed to this. Maybe- 

“George, sit,” Dream says, voice filled with amusement. 

So, George gets it over with and sits down across from Dream. When he’s settled, he realizes it’s not as bad as it seemed a few seconds ago. He shrugs his jacket off and gets comfortable. 

His gaze drifts back to Dream. The blond takes his own jacket off, then unwraps the scarf from around his neck and takes that off, too. Dream’s eyes are focused on the menu in front of him. George can tell he’s scanning over the items by the way his eyes move up and down the laminated paper. 

“You’re staring.” 

Before George knows it, green eyes are staring back at his own. He feels caught. His cheeks immediately turn red. He knows because he can feel the heat on his skin. 

“No I'm not,” George denies. He quickly grabs the other menu and opens it, pretending to look at the different options even though he already knows what he’s going to get. 

“You were,” Dream says, accusatory and teasing. He’s got a smug smile plastered on his face. George only gets a glimpse of it before he looks back down at the menu. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” George says, his tone sounding almost neutral, but there’s a hint of a joking lilt there. 

“Oh, I don’t need to,” Dream says. He sets his menu down and leans back against the seat. “I just think it’s cute how much you like looking at me.” 

George brings his menu up to cover his face. He totally isn’t blushing more at the fact that Dream called him, that definitely isn’t it. 

He narrows his eyes at the blond, hoping to seem a little intimidating. It might get him to stop being such an idiot. Dream’s smile only grows, so George decides he might need to be a little more blunt. 

“You’re dumb,” he says, but his words sound defensive instead of insulting. 

Dream only chuckles softly, fondly, even. 

George wants to dig himself a hole to curl up in and die. 

They’re interrupted by a waitress. She has long, dark brown hair and chocolate eyes. Her attention is almost fully on Dream

“Hello, my name is Lindsey and I’ll be taking care of you guys this afternoon,” she says, only glancing over at George once. “Can I get you started with some drinks?” 

“Yeah, I’ll just have a large strawberry milkshake, please,” Dream says. “Do you want your regular?” The question is directed at George, and he nods. “And he’ll have a cup of coffee. Black.” 

“Coming right up!” she says, overenthusiastic with a much too big smile directed at Dream.

“Did you see that?” George asks. He finally puts his menu down and places his hands in his lap. 

“What?” Dream asks. One of eyebrows raises more than the other, a quirk George has always found to be- 

“She-“ George huffs. “She kept looking at you.” He sounds defeated. Why should he even care how the waitress was looking at him? It’s not like it matters. 

“She wasn’t looking at me,” Dream says, shaking head with a small smile. “Well, I mean she was , but not like that .” 

George scoffs, rolling his eyes. “She was, Dream.”

“Even if that’s true, why do you care?” 

That’s a question George isn’t even sure he has the answer to, so he says “I don’t.” 

“Okay,” Dream says. That same smug grin is back on his face. George just scowls and sinks into his seat. 

The waitress is back within a few minutes, a steaming mug in hand along with a milkshake and water. 

“Here you go,” she says, setting the various drinks down. “Are you ready to order yet or do you need a few more minutes?” 

“I’m ready,” George says, quick to respond so he can get the waitress to leave in as little time as possible. “I’ll have the burger with curly fries,” he says.

“How would you like that cooked?” 

“Medium,” George says. 

“Alright… and for you, love?” she asks, scribbling away at her little notepad as she, once again, gives her utmost attention to Dream. 

George rolls his eyes at the use of ‘love’ and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“I’ll have the same thing,” Dream says. “Medium.” He gathers up both of the menus and hands them to the waitress.

“Perfect. That should be ready in about fifteen minutes.” 

She leaves, and George lets out the scoff he had been holding in. 

“What?” Dream asks. He grabs his milkshake, lips curling into a smile around the straw as he takes a sip. 

“Nothing,” George says. He uncrosses his arms and reaches for his coffee. He blows softly on the dark liquid before taking a sip, and he manages not to burn his tongue. 

“Do you wanna try my milkshake?” Dream asks, changing the subject. It distracts George from his thoughts about the waitress, which he’s grateful for. 

“Sure,” he says and reaches for the tall glass hesitantly. Dream helps and pushes it forward slightly. They meet in the middle, and George’s fingers brush over Dream knuckles as he grabs the drink. He doesn’t say anything about it and tries not to think about how the touch lingers. 

George holds the straw in place with his thumb and index finger as he takes a sip. 

“It’s good, right?” Dream asks. George nods, setting the shake down and sliding it back over to Dream. He takes a sip of his coffee to cut back the sweetness still lingering on his tongue. 

They sit in silence for a few seconds longer. George looks out the window and keeps his hands wrapped around his mug. It’s started to snow, but not hard, just a few flurries here and there. 

“So, how’s L. A.?” Dream asks, interrupting the comfortable silence and causing a fucking avalanche. 

George isn’t sure how to respond. He could lie and say it’s amazing and that he never wants to leave, that he’s only here for the holidays and then he’s on a plane the next day. The latter would be true, unfortunately. 

“It’s okay,” he shrugs. It’s the truth because he doesn’t know if he can lie to Dream. The younger man would probably catch on, anyway. “People there are different,” he adds. 

Dream nods like he knows, but George doubts he understands even a little bit. 

“Are they at least… bearable?” Dream asks. He’s got a concerned look on his face, the same one he had yesterday when he offered George a ride. 

George doesn’t understand why Dream cares so much. 

“Yeah,” George says. “I have a couple friends that are, you know, more like us.” 

One of Dream’s eyebrows shoots up, and he offers a quizzical smile as he takes another sip from his milkshake. 

“Like us?” he asks. 

“You know,” George gestures with his hands, trying to get his point across a little more clearly. “Less caught up in everything.” 

“Isn’t that your job, though?” Dream asks. 

“Dream,” George groans, letting his head fall back against his seat. He tries to hide the smile forming on lips, but he’s almost certain Dream sees it. “You know what I mean.” 

“Hm, I don’t think I do. Can you explain it to me?” 

Dream is playing dumb, that much is apparent. 

“No, you’re an idiot,” George says, and he actually laughs . He hasn’t laughed like this in a while. Of course his friends in L.A. make him laugh. They make the whole goddamn town not seem so awful, but this is different. It’s different because it’s Dream. 

George looks out the window as his laughter dies out. The sun is starting to set, the horizon glowing what George can only assume is orange and pink. 

“I’ve been hanging out with Sapnap a lot more,” Dream says. George turns towards his voice instantly. “He misses you.”

George sighs and takes a big gulp from his mug in response. He feels bad, almost, knowing that he’s left behind so many people. 

“Sorry,” Dream says. George almost doesn’t hear it, but he sees the blond's hands fiddling around for a moment before finally grabbing his milkshake again. He finds Dream’s nervousness endearing, and he smiles. 

“Don’t be,” he says. 

They're food comes a few minutes later. The waitress sets their plates down in front of them and makes sure they don’t need anything else before walking off again. 

“You don’t even like curly fries,” George says, amusement laced in his tone. He picks up one of his own fries and takes a bite. 

“Yes I do,” Dream says, but he doesn't touch his fries at all. 

They eat in comfortable silence. George mostly focuses on his food, but every once in a while he’ll catch himself watching Dream, and then Dream will catch him . 

“Are you obsessed with me or something?” Dream asks eventually. He stops eating so he can flash George one of his signature, cheeky smiles. 

“No,” George says flatly, but his red cheeks give away everything. “Are you gonna eat your fries?” he asks, hoping desperately that his attempt to change the subject works. 

“I got them for you anyway,” Dream says, gentle and sincere. He pushes his plate forward, and George reaches for the pile of fries still left on it. 

“Here,” George says, and he pushes his plate forward, too. There’s still some of his burger left, and Dream chuckles. 

George grins as he’s filled with overwhelming nostalgia. He and Dream used to do this a lot, share and finish each other’s meals. In fact, they used to share a lot of things. 

George realizes for the first time in a while that he misses that. 

He misses the security and warmth of being with Dream. They used to spend so much time together, staying at each other’s dorms in college and eventually at Dream’s apartment. They have a lot of memories there. George would sleep in and wake up to the smell of pancakes being made, and he would tease Dream for the way he makes pancakes, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless. 

“It’s getting dark,” Dream says. George knows that’s his way of saying they should get going soon. 

“Yeah,” George says dismissively. He pulls the plate of fries closer to himself and grins. “Wanna see how many fries I can fit into my mouth at once?” 

Dream bursts into laughter, shaking his head back and forth wildly. “No no, that’s such a bad idea!” 

“I think it’s an awesome idea,” George says. 

“You’re an idiot, you’ll choke,” Dream speaks through his laughter. 

“Fine, fine, whatever.” 

George joins in on the laughter, though, because it’s just that contagious. 

“We should probably get the check,” Dream says once they’ve both calmed down. George nods as he lets out his last few giggles. 

“I’m paying,” George says.

“No, you’re n-“ 

“Are you two still doing alright? Want any desert or anything?” The waitress interupts as she approaches the booth. 

“No that’s okay, the check would be great, though,” Dream answers. She’s off, and then Dream is looking at George again. “I’m paying,” he says, hands already reaching for his pocket.

“No, I am,” George argues, and he does the same. He gets his wallet out before Dream, surprisingly. “I owe you for paying for my groceries.” 

“That wasn’t the deal, Georgie,” Dream says, and he’s got a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “The deal was that you go on a dinner date with me.” 

“This is a date now?” George raises his eyebrows in question, though he’s really just teasing. 

It’s worth it to see how Dream blushes, his neck and cheeks blossoming a beautiful pink. 

“Shut up. I’m paying.” He ignores the accusation entirely, and George scoffs. 

“I’m paying.” 

Before Dream can respond, the waitress is back again with the bill. He takes it directly from her and sets it on the table. He pulls out his wallet next and pulls out money, despite George’s previous protests. 

“Dream,” he groans, searching through his own wallet for money. “At least let me cover the tip.” He pulls out a ten dollar bill and tosses it towards Dream. 

“Fine,” Dream finally caves. 

George works on cleaning up the table. He stacks his and Dream’s plates together and gathers their dirty napkins. When that's done, he pulls his coat on and zips it up. It’s hard to see outside because of how dark it’s getting, but George can tell that it's started to snow heavily. 

“Ready?” Dream asks, and George nods, watching as the blond pulls his own coat on and grabs his scarf. 

As soon as they step outside, George shivers. The snow is coming down hard, immediately covering his jacket and making his hands feel freezing cold. 

“Here,” Dream says, and suddenly he’s standing directly in front of George, holding his scarf out. He’s smiling, and George stares up at him through the snowflakes. 

“You sure?” George asks, reaching forward for the piece of fabric, but Dream seems to have another idea. 

“Of course,” Dream says. He loops the scarf around George’s neck, wrapping it around once and then tucking it in. 

George can only imagine how flushed he is. He’s completely speechless, the butterflies in his stomach having a parade. 

“Thanks,” he manages, and they continue towards Dream’s truck. 

The ride back to George’s house is quiet. The radio plays so it isn’t completely silent, but George and Dream don’t talk much other than short of comments here and there. There’s a lot to be said, George knows that. There’s so much they should probably talk about, talk through , but George can’t bring himself to be the first one to bring anything up. He’s never been good at this, at communicating, not verbally at least. He’s great at showing his emotions through his body language and expressions, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. It’s especially not enough when Dream is such a confrontational personal. Most would think that they would match, that Dream would help George through his issues and vice versa, but it didn’t work two years ago, and George doesn’t know if it can work now. But he has such little time. He can’t just sit around and wait. He’ll be gone in a couple days, and he’s not sure if Dream will even want to talk to him when he leaves again. 

“We’re here,” Dream says. He says it with a sad finality. 

George looks out the car window, and he sees the front door to his parents house. 

“We are,” he says, echoing Dream. Maybe it’ll help sink things in a little more. Whatever’s going on between them is a fleeting thing. 

“Can I walk you to your door?” Dream asks. 

“Of course.” 

George thinks this must be his downfall. He’s falling victim to old habits, but fuck , it feels good. 

“Don’t get out yet,” Dream says, and he sounds really happy, excited, even. 

George doesn’t open the passengers door, but he does unbuckle his seatbelt and wait as Dream gets out of the truck. In a few seconds, Dream is opening the car door for George, holding his hand out to help him down. George takes it, and he doesn’t let go, not even when they start walking. 

When they reach the house, George doesn’t head inside right away. He turns around instead, back pressed against the door. Dream’s hand is still warm in his, a stark contrast to how his own skin feels. 

Dream is close, but he keeps his distance. He only steps closer when George tugs him forward. 

“George,” he says. His voice is low and it sounds like danger. 

They’re dangerously close now, and George has to tilt his head back a considerable amount to actually look Dream in the eyes. And when their eyes do meet, George’s breath catches in his throat. 

“God,” Dream whispers, and he looks away for a moment, an ear splitting grin adorning his face. When he looks back at George a few seconds later, he pulls his hand out of the other's grasp and instead places it on George’s hip. 

“What?” George asks, smiling softly. He moves one of his hands up Dream’s arm, stopping when he gets just above the blonds elbow. His hand settles there, pulling Dream even closer. 

“You-“ Dream starts, but he doesn’t finish. His eyes squeeze shut, and his head hangs low. “I really want to kiss you right now,” he says, and he opens his eyes again. George feels like he’s staring into his soul, but he isn’t mad about it. 

“Dream-“ 

“You can say no. That’s- that’s fine. I just-“ 

George grins, not letting Dream get out another word as his free hand comes up to grab the younger man's jaw and pull him in. 

The kiss is incredibly soft, and George is reminded just how much he missed this specifically. He can tell Dream is putting his all into the kiss, moving his lips slowly but with so much meaning. George can feel it, all the emotion and pent up yearning, and he’s sure Dream can feel it coming from him, too. 

“George,” Dream sing-songs quietly when they part, his forehead pressed against George’s and both hands on his waist. 

“Yeah,” George says, slightly breathless even though the kiss wasn’t intense. He wraps both his arms around Dream’s shoulders, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“George,” Dream repeats, clearer now. 

“What?” George giggles. But Dream only

grins, pursing his lips and pecking George’s nose lightly. 

“Nothing,” he whispers. 

They stand outside George’s front door for a little while longer, Dream’s arms wrapped fully around George’s waist, now. They kiss softly again, then say their goodbyes into the quiet of the night. 

Sunday 

George doesn’t see Dream on Saturday. They text all day, but they don’t see each other at all. A part of George feels like he’s wasting time.

 What if this is it? 

Instead of doing something about it, George is laying in his bed sulking and overthinking. He’s missing what few shots he has left out of fear, which might just be the most tragic thing about this all. 

Fear of what? George can’t pinpoint it. Maybe it’s fear of the unknown, or maybe it’s the fear that George knows exactly what will happen when he leaves. 

But maybe that’s a good thing. He’ll savor what he has for the moment, then leave it all behind again. If he’s done it once, he can do it again, right? 

There’s a few taps at his bedroom window. George ignores it at first, figuring it’s a tree branch hitting the glass. But the taps are too calculated, so he looks over to his window.

Dream is standing outside, grinning at George through the window. 

George rolls his eyes as he plants his feet flat on the ground and pushes himself up from his bed. He walks across his room to the window, looking down at Dream. The blond mouths ‘let me in,’ breath fogging up the glass, and George’s face breaks out into a smile. He reaches forward with both hands, pushing up the window and letting in the freezing December air. George steps back, letting Dream climb awkwardly through the window and into the room. He slides it shut once he’s inside and then takes a step towards George. 

They fall into each other easily. 

George has his arms crossed over his chest, trying to maintain any self control he still has left, but Dream’s hand on his upper arm is tender and soft. The touch burns, but it only makes him crack more. 

“You could have helped me in, y’know,” Dream says. George can’t keep his eyes off Dream’s lips. The younger man seems to notice this because he lifts his free hand to George’s face, tilting his jaw up. George flushes instantly, skin red-hot under Dream’s gaze.

George still stands his ground, though, smiling cheekily and grabbing a hold of Dream’s hand and moving it off his arm. 

Dream chuckles, and suddenly both of his hands are cupping George’s jaw. He takes another step forward, and George buzzes due to their closeness. 

“Are you going to kiss me?” George asks. He’s finding it harder and harder to keep his hands to himself, but he manages, fingernails clawing at his sweatpants.

“Maybe,” Dream says, tilting his head to the side like he’s really considering it. “Can I?” 

“No,” George deadpans, but he has a hard time holding back his smile. He does, however, pull completely away from Dream. He steps backwards until his thighs hit the edge of his bed, and he sits down. 

“Oh come on,” Dream scoffs. He approaches the edge of the bed, and George looks up at him smugly. 

“What?” 

Dream huffs but seemingly drops everything all together. “Can I sit next to you?” he asks. 

George smiles at his stupidity. 

“You don’t have to ask,” George says. He repositions himself so he’s sitting on the right side of his bed, back pressed against his headboard, and he pats the spot next to him. Dream joins him instantly, laying down beside him and peering up at him. George smiles down at him, moving one of his hands to thread through Dream’s hair. 

“You’re pretty,” Dream says, softly like it’s a secret. George’s hand stills, the pads of his fingers resting against Dream’s scalp. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, turning away and grinning widely.

Dream is quick to start pushing.

He sits up, and George’s hand falls. 

“What if I don’t?” Dream asks. George still doesn’t look at him, huffing instead. 

Then, there’s a hand in George's hair, carefully carding through the locks. George melts into the touch, all the tension leaving his shoulders in waves. His eyes slip shut, and he swears he could fall asleep like this. 

“George,” Dream calls softly, that same sing-song voice that drives him absolutely crazy sometimes, but in a good way. 

“Did you want something?” George asks, opening his eyes and quirking a brow at Dream. 

“ Yes ,” Dream says, hand settling on the nape of George’s neck and pulling him closer by only a few centimeters. “Kiss me,” he says. 

George rolls his eyes but connects their lips anyway. 

This kiss lacks any of the softness or tenderness from the kiss they shared on Friday. It’s hungry and George doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. 

He sinks into his bed, sheets bunching up underneath him. His head falls to lay on his pillow, and he has to strain his jaw to be able to kiss Dream. So, he pulls the blond closer, both hands finding his waist and pulling. Dream gets the memo easily, and he moves to hover over him. 

Dream licks into George’s mouth, and that’s really all that needs to be said. 

Monday

When George wakes up, Dream is still in bed with him. In fact, he’s laying completely on top of the blond, head tucked into the crook of his neck, their legs tangled together. 

It shouldn’t be surprising to him that Dream is still here, but it is. 

Maybe he’s gotten too used to the L.A. scene, disposable friends and ever more hookups. 

So, George shifts, careful not to wake Dream up just yet. He lifts a hand up to Dream’s face, cupping his cheek gently. 

Dream looks peaceful like this, like George isn’t going to inevitably break his heart again. He looks sweet and oblivious and beautiful. George isn’t sure how to handle it. His heart swells, and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to do this all over again. 

The leaving part, that is. 

So, George presses a kiss to Dream’s jaw, making his way up to the younger man’s ear. Dream stirs eventually, grip tightening around George’s small frame momentarily before he starts to rub his back. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says, voice rough and quiet from not being used all night. He offers a small smile, and George returns it. 

“Merry Christmas,” George says. He’s propped up more now, elbows probably digging into Dream’s chest. He brushes a few stray pieces of hair away from Dream’s face, then leans down and pecks his lips. He pulls away with a sigh. “I’m seeing someone,” he says. 

It comes out of nowhere, George is aware of that, but it feels necessary. Maybe it will make all this less painful, give him another empty reason to leave. 

The expression that appears on Dream’s face is unreadable. 

“Are you in love with them?” Dream asks. His hand stops at the small of George’s back, resting there flatly. 

“No,” George says. 

“Are you guys exclusive?” 

“No.” 

“Figures,” Dream says, but George misses his playful smile. 

“What?” George asks. He sits up quickly, pulling away from Dream far enough so they aren’t touching. The sheets and blankets fall from his body, but he quickly grabs them to wrap around himself. “I never cheated on you,” he says, mildly shocked. 

“It was a joke, George,” Dream says, chuckling softly. He sits up, too, stretching and yawning. 

“It wasn’t funny,” George says, not backing off. He knows he should. He shouldn’t leave with them like this, broken and barely patched up. But he can’t help it, not with the knowledge he has of himself, not when he’s spent the last year trying to date and hook up with other people. 

“Why are you getting worked up?” Dream aska. He’s still calm, which is probably for the best. A part of George wishes he wasn’t. A part of George wishes Dream would scream at him, and then he would have another empty reason to leave. 

“Does it matter?” George asks, it’s rhetorical. He gets out of bed, turning away from Dream because he can’t handle looking at him right now. He searches the floor around the bed for underwear and something to cover his upper half as well. He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs and hoodie that isn’t his. 

Maybe this is the sign he needs. They’ve never really fought before. Maybe this is fate telling George this will never work out. 

“Why are you being like this?” Dream asks. He sounds frustrated, and George hates it. 

“Like what, Dream” he snaps back, turning to glare at the man in his bed. 

“I dunno, dismissive? Careless? I need to know that this means something to you, George.” Dream ends the sentence sounding defeated. 

“It does! That’s the problem!” George yells. He’s fuming, hands balled into fists at his sides while he tries to breathe evenly. “And I’m leaving tomorrow and we’re fighting .” 

The ball has dropped, but no one cheers. 

It’s eerily silent in George’s room. Dream looks at him blankly. He isn't sure if the younger man is going to yell at him or cry, maybe both. 

George doesn’t stay around to find out. He exits the room instead, not bothering to close the door behind him because a part of him still wants Dream to come after him. 

The rest of the house is quiet. No one else is awake watching TV or having breakfast in the dining room. The only sound is coming from the floorboards creaking whenever George takes a step. 

When he reaches the kitchen, he starts his coffee maker. A gentle crackling noise fills the room as he waits. 

George figures this is the end. He left one time and Dream is just going to watch him leave a second. It’s an awful realization, but George knows it’s the truth. 

He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he barely hears Dream enter the kitchen. He doesn’t look at him, either. He simply watches the drip of coffee into the coffee pot. 

“George,” Dream says softly, simply, and he wraps his arms around George’s torso from behind. George leans back against him due to lack of self control. 

“You let me go, y’know,” George whispers, barely audible over the crackling of the machine in front of him. He feels Dream’s arms tighten around him, and he supposes that this is him trying to stop him. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Dream asks, a genuine question. His tone holds none of the frustration it carried only minutes ago. 

“You didn’t even call me.” 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.” 

George sighs, covering Dream’s hands with his own. The position they’re in is achingly domestic, and George let’s that ache consume him. 

He knows Dream feels it too. 

“Stay,” Dream says. It’s less of a suggestion and more of a plea, George knows this. He knows it by the way Dream kisses the top of his head, then the shell of his ear. He knows it by the way Dream’s hands flex against his stomach and hold him in place tightly. 

“You know I can’t- i can’t just do that,” George says. “I left this place for a reason. I have a life in California, Dream.” 

“You can only run so far,” Dream says. 

The words hit George like a truck. Dream is right, he’s running from god knows what, and he’s out of breath and tired. 

That still isn’t stopping him. 

“And I’m going to keep running,” George says, and he shrugs Dream away. Strong arms fall away from him, and he hates how empty it makes him feel. 

“Why are you fighting this so much?” Dream asks. George doesn’t turn to look at him. He keeps his eyes glued to the coffee pot. He watches the dark liquid drip, and drip, and drip. 

“Because I’m leaving,” George says simply. It’s his only excuse, and he’s beginning to wonder if he’s used it too many times.

“What? So you can go back to your… friends who’ll write books about you or something? So you can continue being unhappy?” The frustration is back in Dream’s voice. It’s presence is heavy, and George is drowning. 

“I’m not unhappy,” George says. It’s not entirely a lie, but he knows deep down he would be a lot happier surrounded by different people, people who are like Dream and people who are like Sapnap. “I feel out of place here.” 

George thinks he would feel out of place no matter where he goes, and maybe that's the true tragedy. 

He hears Dream let out a breath, an angry sigh, it seems. Then there’s pacing and quiet cursing that George doesn’t dare respond to. 

“So you’re just-“ there’s a painful pause before Dream speaks again. “You let me… We went to dinner, and you let me kiss you… and, fuck, George. We had sex last night. You’re treating this like just another one of your hookups.” 

George is silent because, yet again, Dream is right. He’ll never admit that out loud, though. So instead, he reaches for the overhead cabinets and grabs himself a mug. 

Then he pours himself a cup of coffee. 

“I’m sorry,” George says, his voice quiet and full of emotion. He’s fucked everything up, just like last time. 

“You need to figure out what you want,” Dream says. He doesn’t sound angry anymore, or even irritated. 

He sounds devastated. 

“Dream,” George says, a last ditch effort to try and salvage things. Maybe they can just be friends, just until George figures things out. It’s wishful thinking, but maybe there’s a chance to save what’s left. 

Instead, George listens to quiet footsteps. They get fainter and fainter as the seconds pass. 

George remains standing in the kitchen, coffee untouched and hands gripping the edge of the counter. He closes his eyes, and tips his head back, breathing in deeply before he goes after Dream. 

The younger man is in his bedroom, pulling on his shirt and then grabbing his phone off the nightstand. George stands in the doorway, saying nothing. He’s not sure anything he could say would fix this. 

This is it. 

He crosses his arms over his chest, the fabric of Dream’s hoodie consuming his entire being whole. 

When Dream walks over to him, George still remains silent. 

He’s pulled into a bone crushing hug, one that shocks him and one that he doesn’t return. Dream’s arms wrap around him like a vise, chin resting atop his head. 

“Bye, George,” Dream says with finality. The hug doesn’t last more than two seconds longer. Dream’s hands move to George’s shoulders, and the blond presses a lingering kiss to his forehead. 

And despite everything, George still blushes as Dream walks away. 

When he’s alone again, George is left wondering if things could have really worked out. Maybe they could have if George wasn’t the person he is, unpredictability and cautious, never knowing exactly what he wants. He’s reckless and indecisive, and it’s cost him everything. 

And George doesn’t cry when he crawls back into his bed. He simply looks out his window, thinking about how cold Dream must be without his hoodie. 

He doesn’t blame Dream, either, because he is perfect. He’s been kind and persistent, but not too pushy, and all George has done is push him away in the end. 

George doesn’t put all the blame on himself, though, because he knows Dream could be more understanding, he could push harder, but he doesn’t. 

George isn’t sure if that would change anything, anyway. 

Maybe this is the life he’s meant for, countless encounters with warm bodies that will never stay around for long.

George thinks he could end up being okay with that. 

Still, Dream haunts him. 

Tuesday 

The airport is surprisingly empty. The people that are there are moving around quickly, some may even say frantic. The holidays are over for everyone who isn’t spending new years with family, but it seems like most people are. 

George almost wishes he was. It would give him an excuse to stay a few extra days, maybe run into Dream. 

He shouldn’t be thinking this way.

It’s over, and that’s only sinking in for George now. He’s sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the middle of an airport, and he thinks his life is ending. His chest hurts, and the tension behind his eyes is becoming too much. 

He let himself have whatever he had with Dream for just one more weekend. He figured that would be enough, that it would satisfy this hunger that lives within him, but he’s still starving. 

People rush past George in a blur, and he can’t tell if that’s some sort of metaphor if the tears have finally clouded his vision. 

George sniffles, and he lifts a hand to wipe at his eyes. Not surprisingly, his cheeks are damp with arm tears. Luckily, no one is around to ask if he’s okay. He thinks that might make him cry even more. 

The tears don’t last long, though, George doesn’t let them. He straightens out his back and blinks away any oncoming tears. 

He keeps his eyes glued to the doors leading outside. In another world, Dream would walk through those doors right now. He would have his bags packed too, and he would tell George that he’s going to L.A. with him. He would tell George that they would figure things out, or that he would wait for him to come around. At the very least, he would try and stop George from leaving. 

In this world, no one walks through the doors.