Archive of Our Own

12th of January

Dear Dream,

Writing letters seems a bit old-fashioned now. Not many people do it still, though that’s probably why I find the action so lovely. It’s just like our little thing. I hope you’re still the boy I remember you to be, though I know wholeheartedly that’s a lot of me to ask from you.

The time has come for me to return to the States. I always knew the day would come, but I pictured it feeling far better than I feel now. Truthfully, I am still as scared of loneliness as I used to be, which is why I’m writing to you. Not for forgiveness, not for sympathy, but rather for another chance.

I leave for America in three days time. In a pathetic, weak way, I hope you’ll have it in your heart to speak to me once more. Either way, I’ll see you then, old friend.

With love,

George

There was a state of loneliness that Dream was very much familiar with. He’d grown up with it, hand in hand with everything that came with coming from the family background he did—dead father and distant mother, with varying boyfriends who never stuck around long enough. He’d been born into a household that didn’t love him in a way he ever truly understood, and his childhood was strung with isolation. Isolation brought on by that eternal state of loneliness, that felt like it was never going to leave.

The state of loneliness wasn’t even just that type of physically isolating either.

It was emotional too, like when you were stood in a room full of people, and yet none of them paid any mind to you. Some may not view it in the same way physical loneliness shrivels you up, but Dream knew the emotional loneliness hurt just as much, making you wilt like a flower, whether you blossom and bloom or not. And Dream was accustomed to this kind of loneliness too.

Which is why the sting of loneliness so clearly present in George’s echoing words had struck him with so much surprise.

It was also why Dream found himself curled up in his car’s front seat one night, at two in the morning, in the parking lot of a Target, with his best friend beside him. It was Winter, the cold settling upon them alongside the dawning of the approach to Christmas, pressing up against the barriers of Dream’s mind like it was lonesome, yearning for his undivided attention. Yet he kept it held at arm’s length, Winter’s grasps not at the top of his priorities.

“This type of night,” Sapnap was saying, voice strung with sentiment, “I think it’s the most forgiving.”

The words made Dream frown curiously around the cigarette he held to his chapped lips. His blackthorn fingertips cradled the death stick like it was (ironically) his lifeline, as he steadily inhaled. His worn knuckles slowly dragged the cigarette away from his mouth, and ever so lazily, he turned to exhale curling smoke out the open window beside him.

When he turned back, Sapnap was gazing across at him, as though awaiting a comment.

Dream provided him with one, tilting his head slightly, and asking, “Why forgiving?”

The question seemed to make Sapnap ponder, and Dream gazed at his friend unashamedly as his eyebrows knitted together quietly. He was in deep thought now—Dream knew his expressions like the back of his hand, even when dimly-lit, only traced by the yellowed, warm light from the streetlight just a little way away from them.

Eventually, Sapnap spoke, tone just as sentimental as it was before, “Because the darkness allows you to accept everything, to stay hidden if you wanted to. Sometimes staying hidden allows you to be your own, generic self; something that’s easier said than fucking done in a world as cruel as this.” Movements sharp, Sapnap gestured, to the parking lot before them, which was mainly empty, but Dream knew what he meant.

Sapnap firmly sucked on the end of his own cigarette, then exhaled the smoke perfectly out the open window, in a manner of expertise.

Then, he continued once more, calmer now, “It’s forgiving, because everything is quiet. Everything is peaceful, too tired to reprimand you after a long day of light and busyness and unbearable noise. It allows you to accept yourself. Forgiveness.”

His friend’s words made Dream think. Long and hard, as he watched the curling embers grow impatient at the end of his cigarette.

Once a thought had come to mind, he allowed it to speak, traveling from the back of his throat quieter than he intended it to be. “I think it’s unforgiving, really.”

There was a slight pause.

Then, “Well, aren’t you a right fuckin’ bearer of bad news,” Sapnap scoffed, but there was no bite in his voice. When Dream glanced over at him, the boy’s dark eyes were glistening in teasing amusement, dragging up the corners of his lips as well.

After a pause, Sapnap made a vague, wild gesture with his free hand.

“Well go on, then,” Sapnap grinned at him widely, crinkling the corners of his eyes in the way Dream loved. Whenever it happened, Dream had to fight the irritating urge to take a picture, to preserve the happiness he enjoyed his friend feeling. Teasingly, Sapnap added, “Enlighten me, Einstein. Why am I wrong?”

Unable to keep the smile off his face now, Dream said, “Oh, quit teasing. Difference of opinion, Sapnap, that’s all.”

“Then explain it to me,” Sapnap told him, quirking an eyebrow daringly.

Sighing slightly, Dream looked away from his friend again, peering out at the gloom that coated the near-empty parking lot. It was a dark night, and in a way, he found the parking lot peaceful, when it was abandoned.

Slowly, Dream began, letting his words flow freely, “Mornings are too calm and… pure for anything to taint them, I think. The light comes alongside it—untroubled. Forgiving. A fresh start to a new day. But evenings, times like this, are when everything in the day builds up upon your shoulders, and you want nothing more than to shrink away into the dark. Even if it’s bad for you to run from your feelings. The dark, the night—it’s unforgiving.”

There was another pause that followed his sentence, stroking the surface of Dream’s skin like a summer’s breeze.

Glancing over at his friend, he was surprised to see Sapnap staring unwaveringly at him with narrowed eyes. But there was that amused glint in his eyes once more, one that made Dream feel easier.

“Agree to disagree,” Sapnap finally said bluntly, leaning back in his seat, sucking on the end of his cigarette almost agressively.

Dream couldn’t help but grin at him.

Until, all of a sudden, he felt he couldn’t anymore.

Time trickled on tauntingly slowly, each second spurred on only by his yearning for time to flicker past in an untouchable manner, as the folded-up letter he received earlier that day lay in his pocket. He wanted to say that he hadn’t thought about it, but that would be a lie—there were fewer moments where Dream didn’t think about it than when he did. It somehow found a way to enter his mind no matter what.

And now was no exception, although George’s words, that Dream now knew well enough to recite off by heart, were rhapsodising with the boy beside him’s words too.

This type of night, I think it’s most forgiving.

George spoke of forgiveness too.

Dream knew his mind was made up well before he could stop his movements. Hastily, so as to not lose himself along the way, he dug out the letter from his pocket, thrusting it over to Sapnap with an outstretched arm. It was a wild, untamed action.

Feeling the silence of puzzlement, Dream glanced over at Sapnap. Predictably, the boy was frowning, sharp features dragged into a gentle frown, eyes pooling with unspoken questions.

Quietly, Dream said to him, “Take it.”

There was only a few seconds of stillness; the calm before the storm, before Dream felt he’d become exposed, examined under narrow spotlight. But, still, after a moment’s hesitation, Sapnap wordlessly accepted the letter. Dream felt it slip away from between his fingertips, and he fought the urge to steal it back. To keep it to himself, like some secret just for him, holding it close to his heart. But that would be foolish.

Needing to do something with his itching limbs, Dream lifted the cigarette back to his lips, clutching it there with his jaw, inhaling one long breath, as Sapnap read.

When he exhaled the smoke out the window, Sapnap cleared his throat beside him, and Dream looked over.

“George? Who’s George?” Sapnap questioned softly.

It was a question Dream didn’t know how to answer—not anymore.

“He was… well, I knew him a long time ago. His family lived next to mine, we were very close.” Dream’s words were threaded into somewhere close to the truth, but it still felt like a lie, spilling sinfully from his lips. “Then his family had to go back to England, where he was born. His dad got a business offer. And… I never heard from him again.”

Dream let his words linger in the air, the weight of them pulling down the previously lighthearted mood. There was something bittersweet about thinking of George, and he felt that Sapnap knew that too; it was hoarse and dry at the edges of his voice.

“Until now,” Sapnap said softly.

Right now, as Dream looked over at Sapnap, he was having trouble deducing how the boy was feeling. For once, his expression seemed guarded, his eyes swirling in a whirlwind of emotions that Dream couldn’t pick out.

“Until now,” Dream echoed gently.

//

The next few days passed in a blur of messy, obscure emotions. Dream was completely torn over what to feel; anger, joy, frustration, sadness, excitement—his mind would never settle on just one, always ebbing to and fro, like the tide.

Even though George said he wasn’t asking for forgiveness for leaving in the letter, Dream had granted him forgiveness a long, long time ago. When he had first heard, fifteen-year-old him had been heartbroken. Then came the anger and hurt, seeping into his bones in torrents, soaking up any sweetness he previously had. It left their friendship rotting and withered.

But Dream never could stay mad at George for long back then.

It was the day after George had left that Dream forgave him. But it had been too late then—forgiveness was a strong thing then, and he’d wasted it away. So really, Dream had forgiven George a long, long time ago. He just wasn’t sure what to think about it now.

However, when the day finally came for George to be in Florida, he wasn’t there.

“Don’t stress yourself over it,” Sapnap assured Dream that morning, when they arrived in school, and George was nowhere to be found. “He’ll turn up eventually.”

“Yeah,” Dream said tiredly, though his heart wasn’t really in it, and Sapnap seemed to sense that. After all, Sapnap always knew Dream well, better than he even knew himself.

After a pause, Sapnap added, tone one of strained enthusiasm, “I’m excited to meet him, really.”

Sapnap had been slightly weird about George’s announcement recently. Out of wistful thinking, Dream tried to ignore the way Sapnap always went tense when the boy was brought up, or the way he always smiled so stiffly when thinking about it. Dream tried to ignore it because really, he wanted desperately for George and Sapnap to at least get along. After all, he didn’t know how he and George were going to be around each other, let alone his other friend.

“He’ll probably be here tomorrow,” Sapnap told him. “Gotta settle in first.”

George wasn’t in school the next day. Or the day after, or the day after that, and then it was the weekend, and the first sprinkles of snow dawned upon them, and Dream was at a loss of things to do. He spent the weekend tenderly caring for his aching mind in the best way he knew how—distracting himself. After all, he’d never been best at managing his emotions, and spending time away from his mother was best for him. At a time like this, certainly.

A lot had changed in the two years George had been away.

And for Dream, the biggest change had been the absence of George—it gathered everywhere, like dust, blanketing every vulnerable surface of his mind, slowly suffocating him. Now that he was meant to be returning, though, Dream didn’t know what to do.

//

Monday came back round again, dreary and dull—fellow teenagers grovelling to succeed, reaching higher and higher upwards with trembling, bloodied hands. Only to be turned down again, blood pooling in their palms, defeat etched across their faces as they made their way back out into the hallways, into the sea of similarly exhausted faces. Back to dreaming of significance once more.

It was bitterly, bitterly cold. This had been Dream’s first thought that morning, when the world around him had been painted even purer white overnight, the scenery around him stroked with pale shadows of Winter’s welcome. Snow could wring the cruelest of emotions from even the most sweet of hearts, or it could act as the opposite—warming some hearts whilst it cooled everything else. But for Dream, snow only made him bitterly cold, the freeze thawing his mind all the way down to the brittle depths of his darkest thoughts.

Trudging to school that morning in his snow boots was far from ideal. It was made even lesser so when the snow actually started seeping into the boots, when he had made the mistake of misjudging the depth of one stack of snow outside the school.

Monday therefore would’ve been dreary and dull, until it was made so much less so by the boy stood by the desk of Dream’s Biology class.

Dream was dropping off the homework he forgot to do for Friday, planning on depositing it on his teacher’s desk and catching Sapnap before they had to go to American History together. That plan would’ve worked, if it wasn’t for the slightly startling, slightly eery appearance of George Davidson.

At first, Dream wasn’t even sure that it was him—he had to make a double take, eyes widening, heart skipping a beat in his narrow ribcage.

But it was definitely him—and the sight of a bittersweet memory from his past made him go completely still, stiffening inexplicably. He felt almost afraid to move; if he did, he’d scare George away, like he was some wild, untamed animal.

For a second, it felt like neither of them knew what to do. Dream was rooted to the spot he stood in, one hand on the door handle, the other clutching his flyaway homework sheet in the other. George was leaning against the desk, legs strewn casually out before him, head turning to cast a glance at Dream as he entered.

And for a split-second, it was almost like George didn’t recognise Dream at all.

There was no recognition pooling in his dark eyes, no warmth curling at his lips in the way it always used to—until all of a sudden, his expression was struck with stunned familiarity. And he stared. George stared, unwavering and relentless, his dark brown eyes never straying from Dream’s. It felt like for the first time since Dream had known George, the boy didn’t seem to have anything to say. Nostalgia stung Dream’s mind like a wound, breaking through his early-morning drowsiness.

It dawned on Dream then that he’d been staring for a very long time, in a way that would’ve creeped other people out. But not George—Dream’s unwavering stare only seemed to welcome him to gaze back, studying his face like he was trying to figure out what had changed; what had stayed the same. His dark eyes traced over every line etched into Dream’s face, every tainted emotion painted onto his face.

The door slipped from his grasp, and Dream was vaguely aware of it clicking quietly shut.

Then the silence got to Dream.

“George,” was all he could say, the name sounded sacred upon his tongue. It was a name he felt he hadn’t used in far too long, dusted and bruised as it spilled past his lips.

Looking as taken aback as Dream felt, George blinked at him.

“Dream,” he said, very quietly.

As soon as the word fell from George’s lips, Dream found himself tumbling beneath the surface of clarity, drowning in an ocean of yearning that he wanted nothing more than to escape from. Wanting was a fickle thing, but George spelling out Dream’s name, syllables strung together with soft nostalgia and sweet memories, made Dream succumb to it, as much as he ridiculed himself mentally for it.

He felt like crumbling, decaying beneath the gaze of the boy he once knew better than himself—the boy he would’ve given his life for before the blink of an eye. Now everything was different, and a spark of nauseating fear travelled sourly up Dream’s throat.

It was like the trickling of sour, salty bile, clawing at the edges of his throat like revenge.

And Dream didn’t know what to say.

The room was plunged into a horrible, uncomfortable silence, settling upon the both of them in a strained, tense way. It hung like a raincloud above them, lingering above their heads, ruffling the tips of their hairs. Dream was consumed by an overwhelming urge to turn and run.

But he didn’t, not when George so bravely broke the silence, commenting quietly, “You look the same as when I left.”

Those words made Dream have to fight the urge to break down right then and there, and it was made so much worse (oh, so much worse) when George’s lips started to quirk upwards. And before he knew it, Dream was being smiled at, and he felt like crying.

For George’s smile had always been beautiful. The most beautiful thing about him, Dream had always known; when picturing happiness, it had come in the memory of that warm smile. The smile that lit up his whole face in an aureole of joy, juvenile and blissfully unaware of everything—yet perhaps that was the sweetest thing about it. George’s smile had always made Dream feel inexplicable, unavoidable things, that remained untouched otherwise.

Now, though, it was all so overwhelming. There was a lump in Dream’s throat, and it wasn’t going away.

“I don’t feel the same,” Dream croaked, weakly clearing his throat, and for the first time, looking away. His eyes darted to the floor, as emotions raged through his bloodstream.

“No,” George accepted, though he sounded tired then, the edges of his voice frayed and split. “No, it would be cruel of me to think otherwise.”

There was another horrible silence. Dream still refused to look up, trying his hardest to gather strength, to gather his loose emotions, and knot them all together, out of harm’s way. Out of George’s way.

He knew the silence had dragged on for too long now, but he didn’t know what to say in order to break it. The frostiness of the outdoors seemed to have embedded itself into his mind, because his thoughts were dewy and ice-coated, dripping droplets of doubt through his head. Everything was moving, nothing was still, nothing was still like the early mornings Dream knew his mother used to love; instead everyone was storming, like snow swirling, bitter and cruel, taunting humankind with its devouring nature. Dream couldn’t think, he couldn’t act.

“I’ve got to—I need—I’ve got to go,” Dream blurted out, vaguely aware of the homework he was meant to hand in. But in that moment, he didn’t care enough to stay, not in this room, not with him.

He turned, blindly fumbling for the door, and he heard George call out his name, voice strung in desperation, “Dream.”

Acting as though he hadn’t heard it, he continued on, hand finding the door handle, preparing to tug.

“Dream—” George called, louder this time, voice tainted with even more betraying desperation that it made Dream freeze. Perhaps it was the frost in his mind that made him do it. Or perhaps it was the selfish yearning that had called home in his heart. George continued on, and Dream heard him move behind him, “Dream, I never ever meant to hurt you, I’m sorry that I did—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Dream’s heart spilled words he hadn’t meant to say, spilling them like dark blood, tainting the chilled air without a thought of the consequences. “You—you didn’t hurt me.”

“No, but I—”

George began to speak, but trailed off into strained silence for a moment, his words losing their momentum, freely falling now.

When he tried again , Dream screwed his eyes tightly shut, the words pummelling bruises against the mellow materials of his weak heart. “I never meant to, but… but you’re hurt, Dream. I can hear it in your voice. I hurt you, and this is me trying to fix it—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Dream repeated, trying to sound firm, but he knew the way it truly sounded: weakened and lost within the ribbons of admittance threading their way through the room. “It wasn’t you. You had to leave, you had no choice, you didn’t hurt me.”

There was another silence. There were so many silences between them now; there never used to be.

Until, the stretch of silence was disturbed by George moving. Dream heard it all in the room, counted his padding, gentle footsteps until the Brit was so close to him that Dream thought he could feel George’s breath tickling his back.

Then, George whispered his name once more. It was low and rough, and it was beautiful.

“Dream.”

This time, it was definitely selfish yearning that made him listen. That made him turn around, waveringly and unsteadily, clenching his jaw for steadiness. It was definitely longing in his chest that made his head throb and his heart clench as he gazed down at the boy in front of him.

They were close. So close that if Dream wanted to, he could’ve counted each and every freckle that blossomed upon George’s cheeks if he really wanted to. Of course, he’d done it before. And he had the sudden urge to count them again. Every peppered constellation that spread their way across the bridge of his nose.

When George spoke, his words were drowning in such brutal honesty that it felt like a punch to the gut.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we just pretended I had broken your heart? Shattered it into tiny torn pieces? Then, I’d be here to put you back together again. And I’m… I’m here now.”

It was such an oration that it clutched Dream’s mind in a chokehold for a few split-seconds of shellshocked silence.

The words exuded a profound secretion of hurt around Dream’s body, infiltrating all his organs, threading hearty ribbons that stung like battle wounds around the terrain of his chest. If they squeezed, if they pressed—if George were to say any more—Dream was sure he’d suffocate. They’d crush him, unavoidably and irrevocably, stretching further and further away from healing before his very eyes.

It was the piercing sound of the school bell that broke the deafening quietude between them.

“I’m… I need to go,” Dream whispered to George, eyes never straying from the gaze they both held.

It was a form of magic, tugging them into place, slotting their gazes into a position that years ago, would’ve been normal. Now, it just stung. Dream spoke these words, hushed and honest, and yet he didn’t move. He hardly dared to.

Only when George uttered his name for the last time was it that Dream felt he needed to move. The way George’s voice cracked so harshly, and the broken remains of hope that clutched to his tone like an infestation—they all dug into Dream’s heart, cruelly and painfully.

“Dream…”

It triggered something within Dream’s limbs, something that made his gaze tumble and fall, and his hands jerk round the door handle. The door swung open, the sounds of the raucous in the hallway tumbling into the otherwise silent room. Dream had never been so glad for his peers’ noise as he was then, as he exited the room, forcing down the trembling breaths trickling past his lips, and clenching his fist. It was a weak action, for he didn’t feel he had the strength to do much more.

As he stumbled to his first class of the day, the stains George’s dark brown eyes had left behind on him remained achingly at the forefront of his mind.

//

That day was a hard one to get through. Really, really hard—everything was just so loud, just so glaringly loud that it made the snowstorm in Dream’s mind spin even fiercer. George’s gaze was the only constant amongst that, and it made Dream’s heart sink in his chest.

He was really out of it that morning, time trickling past so slowly it was frustrating to him.

Sapnap’s concern was perpetual, all throughout History that morning—the raven-haired boy was frowning across at him from where they say on the different ends of the room, trying to mouth words that Dream didn’t want to understand. His concern was unwavering, even after American History, when Dream fled to the washroom, needing space from everything that crowded him. Sapnap followed.

“What’s going on?” Sapnap asked him instantly, as soon as the door swung shut behind them, and the cool interior of the washroom engulfed them. “What’s wrong?”

His tone was stroked with such undiluted worry that it hurt Dream even more.

For a moment, Dream thought about locking himself into one of the cubicles, just so he wouldn’t have to talk about George… or anything, really. But that did seem hugely unappealing, so he let the idea shrink away into a gloomy corner of his mind as he turned so he could just see Sapnap in the corner of his vision. Facing the younger boy seemed like too much right now.

“George is here. Here, at school.” He said it quietly, hoping that it came out firmer than it had in his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dream saw Sapnap completely still, like that was the least thing he expected. However, when Dream dared to glance across at him, he was puzzled to see that there was very little surprise painted upon his features, his eyes instead pooling with something akin to disappointment. As quick as it appeared, however, it had been vanquished to melancholic pools of sympathy gazing across at Dream.

There was contemplation in Sapnap’s stare too, shown by the way he started gnawing on the inside of his cheek so characteristically. Dream knew his expressions well. Like the back of his hand.

“Are you sure?”

It was a silly question, one that actually made Dream let out a huff of amusement.

“Yes, idiot, I saw him. I spoke to him. It’s him, and he’s… well, yeah. He’s here.”

There was a pause that followed that. It clung to the two of them, like some lonesome ghost seeking the sanctuary of comfort. As the silence spread, they gazed at each other, eyes locking together, though there was no awkwardness in the gaze. It was just understanding slotting into their sight, warmth gathering in the pools of their eyes.

Then, the silence was intersected by a short sigh from Sapnap, and another small huff of half-hearted amusement from Dream.

“I’m sorry,” Sapnap told him, his voice stroked by tender honesty, and ever so slowly, he approached Dream, his steps steady but ginger. Dream wasn’t sure what he was exactly apologising for, but didn’t really want to ask. Quieter now, Sapnap repeated, “I’m sorry.”

They were close to one another now, and Dream swore it was so cold in the room that he could see the whimsical strays of their breath diluting the gap between them. There, they’d collide, vanquished to nothingness when the Winter air overcome their warmth. It was like the smoke of their cigarettes, the scent of which Dream always used to hate, but now he loved. Sapnap always held the traces of cigarettes.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” Dream told him. “I’m fine… it’s all fine.”

The words weren’t quite dishonest, but they were blotted with such uncertainty that it almost felt like they were. And it seemed like Sapnap knew it too, the small, heavy smile he pressed upon his lips falling lopsided tiredly.

“I know,” Sapnap said ever so quietly, raising one calloused hand to cradle one side of Dream’s head, fingertips landing upon his dusted blond hair.

Dream fought the sudden urge to lean into the younger boy’s touch.

Sapnap never stopped smiling that warm smile as he finished quietly, “I’m glad.”

//

Over the next week, Dream found himself being the most on edge he could remember himself ever being. It was a shame, really, because it wasn’t a bad week—not at all. On the contrary, his week was full of things he enjoyed—football practice, coding with school friends, late night drives with Sapnap, and there weren’t even any exams for him to worry about.

The residing cause of his tension happened to be George Davidson.

Most of the time, Dream plainly avoided him. It was a tricky process, and was one that Sapnap scornfully called “running away from his problems”, but Dream ignored that. There was an essence of truth in the boy’s words, but if his problem was George, then he would gladly continue running.

This was easier said than done, the boy seeming to appear out of nowhere every now and then, rounding corners at just the wrong moment, or finding Dream’s eyes in a sea full of unconcerned strangers. And every time something would happen between the two of them, Dream would feel the ache tightening itself around his chest rigidify even further. Then, he’d vanish, and Dream would lose him.

It wasn’t like Dream hated George’s guts—that was far from the truth, and he knew that the flaring emotions he held guarded in his chest were far from hatred. They were something different, some emotion that was fictive and quixotic, one gilded with care that Dream felt almost a stranger to.

It was more that the idea of interacting with George again was terrifying to him.

Perhaps to someone a little braver it wouldn’t have been so terrifying, but Dream was not brave. He was nothing but a coward when it came to love.

He’ll be lonely without you, a small voice in the back of Dream’s mind would whisper late at night, when his head was at most unease, when he was at his most vulnerable. And for a second, he’d believe it. Until he’d come into school the next day, and he’d see George was far from lonely.

As the new kid, he’d attracted plenty of attention from their peers, people attempting to befriend him left and right. And to those who remember him from when he was here those years ago, it was a reunion—and a sweet, golden one too, so unlike the one Dream experienced. Thinking of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

So instead of facing George and the heavy weight of everything his presence brought with him, Dream avoided it, busying himself elsewhere.

Any time they were in school, Dream would do everything to avoid George. They only shared one class together—English, which was unfortunately his favourite class—but Dream would sit at the very back with his friends, pretending not to notice when George’s eyes flickered over to him from the other side of the room.

He would spend long afternoons after school out on the football pitch with his team. They’d chuck balls back and forth, sprint up and down the pitch, push and shove and let their hearts soar. It was freeing, and Dream loved it. At night, when it was too bitterly cold to be outside anymore, he’d venture round to Sapnap’s apartment that he shared with their friend Quackity. They’d sit and drink stolen beer, Sapnap strumming on his electric guitar—a violent red shade—as Quackity would sing out in a drunken haze of song.

Sapnap, when he was tipsy, would always have looser lips, always speaking right from the depths of his heart. This was something Dream would’ve appreciated, had it not been a topic he didn’t enjoy discussing.

“You look at him all dopey-eyed,” Sapnap told him truthfully, staring at Dream with his dark, dark eyes from across the room.

Dream felt his brain flatline. Before he could even think of coming up with a response, Quackity sleepily intervened, “Who is ‘he’?”

Sapnap answered right away, tone disguised by ugly emotions that Dream couldn’t decipher,  “George Davidson.”

“Ooh,” Quackity sang teasingly, very much alert and awake now. His dark eyes glimmered with a taunting burst of emotion as his gaze found Dream’s from where he sat, slumped across the dingy sofa. “The new kid? You gotta crush on the new kid?”

“Not a crush,” Dream responded instantly, feeling a stab of annoyance in his chest as his eyes flickered over to Sapnap. The raven-haired bow stared back at him with little empathy in his gaze, instead studying Dream closely, despite the distance between them. Firmer now, Dream repeated, looking down at the floor, “Not a crush.”

There was a slight pause. When Dream glanced up again, his eyes found Sapnap’s.  The boy hadn’t moved, his eyes still firmly trained on Dream, until he glanced away, fixing his attention on his guitar once more. He raised one hand, pressing his lips around his guitar pick as he switched his fingers’ positioning on the strings.

Dream’s eyes followed the boy’s jagged movements as Sapnap shrugged gruffly, “Whatever you say, man.”

//

Sunday morning greeted Dream with rays of chilled Winter sunshine stroking his windowsill. There were slight gusts of wind that were still bitterly cold, lingering like a breath of Winter’s presence. Yet they were diluted by the the entangled threads of sunshine, and warmed even further by the sight of a familiar face stood upon Dream’s doorstep.

Dream saw him before he heard the doorbell. It only took Dream’s curiosity to get the better of him when he felt the morning sun filtering into his room, and one glance out his window informed him of George’s presence.

And a meagre split-second after that, the doorbell was ringing.

For a second, contemplation riddled Dream’s mind, and he caved to his own temptations and queries—to answer the door, or ignore him utterly. The latter seemed far more likeable for him, but as he stood there, shock coursing through his bloodstream in vermillion angst, Dream realised he wasn’t alone in the house. His sister was just down the hall, his mother downstairs with her new boyfriend, the tall one with the empty blue eyes. He wasn’t alone, and if he didn’t answer the door, then somebody else would—

Before he could comprehend what his body was doing, he was moving, the cold that had seeped into his bones whirring through his veins, his heart thudding away in his chest like some dying monstrosity of man, and then he was there. Stood in the hallway, cold floorboards creaking beneath him, mind accepting his state of unease.

Fear was the killer of men.

Fear was what had gripped the hearts of the very greatest before they succumbed to it; fear was one’s downfall.

Yet Dream was achingly full of it, brimming at all his jagged edges and surfaces as he walked to the door, and yanked the door open. A gust of cool air bled through the gap of the doorway; a streak of forbidden sunlight echoed through the morning air. George Davidson stood there, painted prettily by the dusted lighting.

Everything about the slip of a memory stood waveringly before him dragged up emotions, painted with rich, deep remorse. It tainted every feeling that flooded through his veins, and every urge to run that sparked fear in his brain. Fear was the killer of men. He chose to swallow thickly, every movement of his slow and laboured. He couldn’t feel fear, he shouldn’t, he hated it.

George stood there, painted to perfection like a cherub from one of Michelangelo’s artworks, or like a hummingbird fluttering downstream, all eager eyes following him. There were so many remarkable things about this boy—from the way his cheeks were paled by the cool temperature outdoors, yet the tip of his nose was dusted with pink; the way his dark eyes were rounded so precisely, pools of clamouring silence; the way the ends of his hair peeked and curled outwards beneath the dark navy beanie he had on his head.

He was remarkably fascinating, and Dream thought that by now, he should be used to them all. But he was far from it—still struck every time their gazes collided.

“You’re here,” was what Dream blurted, so suddenly and out of the blue that it took both himself and seemingly George by surprise.

He watched, feeling an irritating warmth rise up the back of his neck, as George’s dark eyes widened, ever so minutely.

But it had been enough for Dream to pick up on it; George’s expressions were nothing like Sapnap’s, whose were brash and bold, fiery and reckless. George’s expressions were small and almost unnoticeable if you didn’t know what to look for. Yet, Dream knew. He knew it so well that he’d happily look forever, just to pick up on the quirk of his lips, or the minute sprinkle of pink dusted across the bridge of his nose.

“I’m here,” George agreed quietly, his voice far more softer than Dream’s, but it wasn’t calm.

Calmness had been vanquished, it seemed, replaced by a hastiness that didn’t suit him. Well, hastiness wasn’t quite the word to describe it, for it was hardly obvious, but then again, George never was obvious.

There was a pooling of silence, so Dream disrupted it, hating the serenity that fell between them. He hardly wanted them to be peaceful anymore—he’d waited too long to brush over issues in favour of peace.

He asked brusquely, “Why?”

The response took a while. George seemed to stutter, every part of him stumble, like Dream had just strayed off script. He looked like this wasn’t going as he planned it to be, but Dream didn’t really know how he had expected it to be. There was a pause whilst George gathered himself, slipping into the greys between stability and unsteadiness.

“I came to see you,” he spoke, words low and quiet; whispering a proclamation out into the world before him. Only Dream stood before him. “To apologise. And I know that you’ll say I don’t need to apologise, but I feel like I still do. Apologies are the way to mend things, and… and I feel something has been broken between us.”

“You can’t mend something without knowing what you’ve broken, George.”

The words were exuded from his mouth before he could give it much thought. But even once they had, he wasn’t filled with guilt or regret like maybe he usually would have. Instead, it was curiosity that kept him rooted to where he stood.

Like a flame George burned. The pair of them stood there, face to face, strained and tense as they stared at each other.

Like a river Dream flowed. The thoughts frothed and writhed between them, tied and tangled, marred with worry and hesitation.

“Alright,” George accepted, his words drowned in a tiredness Dream felt he knew quite well. Despite the overwhelming tone of emotion in his voice, there were very few betraying signs of emotions upon his face, his features sculpted to stillness. “That’s fair. But… so I have hurt you then?”

“No,” Dream backtracked immediately, allowing himself to frown as he stubbornly shook his head.

The action made George let out a soft sigh from his mouth, his narrow shoulders slipping downwards tiredly.

“Please, just… just think. Because I feel like I know you well. Or, at least I did. And at one point, I could read you like a book. If we were having this conversation years ago then I would’ve scoffed at you. Because then, I would’ve known you were hurt. You seem hurt to me. So… if I’m wrong, tell me that you’re not hurt. Tell me that I don’t know you anymore. Tell me it all.”

That made Dream think of far too much, all at once. And then, in a blur of such obscure, jagged emotions, he found himself struggling to breathe right.

There was a profound fierceness in George’s voice that took Dream by surprise. It was only a sliver, only a tiny proportion of it in comparison to the stretches of hurt in his tone, but it struck Dream so vividly that that was all he could focus on. It made him tense, made him strain, made his mind flutter down into a flatline. Encasing his heart in a low hum, he felt static, like his body was giving up on him, and all his thoughts had been drowned in white noise.

Tell me that I don’t know you anymore.

Truthfully, Dream didn’t think that George knew him at all. Yet at the same time, it felt like, besides Sapnap, George was the person knew him better than anyone else in the world.

“I’m hurt,” Dream whispered, his voice so quiet it was a miracle George picked up on it. Still, though, he did, like he clung to each and every word Dream said. “But not by you, directly. I feel hurt by a lot of things—the world, fate, the future—but not by you.”

George’s eyes gazed deeply into his, unwavering and unrelenting, like he believed if he stared long enough, he’d figure out if Dream was being truthful or not. There was nothing Dream could do to make himself look as honest as he felt, so he just gazed evenly back.

Honesty was hidden in every element of the Earth. Honesty was in every crack and crevice of withered, gnarled oak trees. Honesty was painted upon every artist’s canvas, vibrantly or mutely. Honesty took its form in the salty sea air carried by the strongest winds, or in the sweet rainwater that trickled down giant palm leaves. And in the years that they had been away, Dream found honesty in the tired text messages he used to send George, or in the peeling paint of the wall in his bedroom they used to lean their backs against.

He could only hope against all hopes that George could seek out honesty in his gaze now.

To his sweet relief, it seemed he had. George’s shoulders slowly but surely drifted back downwards, deflating as he eased air past his lips, and tension was vanquished from the terrain of his upper back.

“Alright,” he whispered sweetly, his voice so shadowed by the twinkling of his eyes that Dream nearly missed it. “I believe you. Thank—thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?” Dream asked him, through the static hum of joy that encased his mind, upon hearing the words of acceptance fall from George’s lips. He asked him, not because he really cared, but because if he said nothing, the silence would be never ending, and he didn’t think he could cope with that.

Hints of a bittersweet smile dawned upon George’s lips as he nimbly rearranged his scarf around the junction of his neck. He settled into it like a bird settling into its nest. “Because it’s the only words I wished I had said to you before I left. Thank you, Dream.”

“For what?”

“For everything, of course.”

He spoke it like a hymn he’d recited before, like a song lyric he knew like the back of his hand. Dream felt his heart curling towards it, moulding itself around the words he treasured so much.

Then he dared to ask, blindly and hesitantly, “Those were the only words?”

The question clearly caught George by surprise, the words dragging a pink hue to the surface of skin, erupting across his cheeks. It was the pink of enamour, and Dream felt himself wilt at the sight of it, as George’s lip got caught by his teeth, and he gazed at Dream. The gaze was silent and solemn, George clearly thinking hard about what he was about to say.

After a dip of silence, George finally let his intensity descend, giving way to a lighthearted huff that fell past his lips. His eyes crinkled only slightly as he tilted his head, studying Dream closely.

“There were more,” he admitted honestly, his voice quiet and gentle. “Three more, in particular.”

Three more. Three golden words.

Dream felt like he knew the three words George was admitting to, but he refused to play them over in his mind; he refused to imagine them falling from George’s lips. It was too soon for that, too soon after ascending into… well, whatever they were now. He just needed some time, and he was sure George would understand that.

//

Over the next few days, the pair of them slipped into the relationship they had lost in the time they spent apart.

The transition back into that familiarity wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t done smoothly—there were moments where Dream felt he couldn’t look at George without parts of him hurting in ways he couldn’t even decipher, or when George would say something that would make Dream curl back in on himself, and close himself off. Whenever that happened, it was like George would pick up on it right away, and he’d step back too, until later, when he’d whisper a gentle apology to Dream when nobody else was around.

The apologies would never make things perfect again, but they made it better. They made the differences between them not feel so far apart anymore; they made things bearable.

One thing that made things feel more normal was English class—the one lesson they shared. Hesitantly, George moved to sit next to Dream one day, and they stayed like that. They would sit comfortably beside each other, and there would be no awkward silences, because they’d have books to talk about, and jokes to make, and smiles to share.

One person who made the whole thing feel unsteady was Sapnap. It wasn’t done out of malice, but it seemed like the boy was just genuinely confused as to why they were becoming something like friends again.

“I just don’t understand,” Sapnap insisted one morning, as they walked down the halls together. Dream’s skin crawled at the torn sound of Sapnap’s voice as he continued, “You were so… last week all you wanted to do was avoid him.”

Dream bit back a sigh as he looked down at his shoes. “I know.”

“Then what the fuck changed?” Sapnap pressed, his tone somewhere between desperate and frustrated now. The voices around them clamoured and rhapsodised with the drilling thuds of Dream’s heart. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Too much, Dream wanted to say, but he didn’t.

Instead, he bit down on the inside of his cheek, ducking into his Chemistry class, leaving Sapnap stood in the doorway, like a shadowed silhouette. The boy’s gaze was fierce and hurt as he tracked Dream’s unsteady movements; Dream felt it tracing the side of his cheek as he looked resolutely onwards. Yet when he summoned the courage to glance back at the door, Sapnap was nowhere to be seen, and Dream’s heart clenched.

There was so much misunderstanding that loitered between them, things that Dream was afraid to broach.

Next period was English, and Dream spent it sat beside George, head in the clouds, eyes flickering absently to the door, like he was waiting for Sapnap to appear. He never did, of course, so at lunch, he went looking for him.

It didn’t take long for Dream to find him; he was sat at the table in the cafeteria that they always sat at, next to Quackity, Punz and Karl. Yet, when Sapnap’s eyes rose upwards, in a fell swoop, and they met Dream’s gaze, something unmissable flickered there, and within seconds, he was on his feet. Words lost in his mouth, Dream watched dumbly on as Sapnap hauled his bag over his shoulder and turned on his heel. He ignored his friends’ confused calls as he strode away, shoulders hunched, back turned to all of them.

For a few seconds, Dream stood there, stunned and feeling incredibly stupid. It was only when Quackity’s dark eyes found his, unspoken questions flooding his gaze, that he jolted himself into action.

Before he could think any more about it, he found his legs carrying him after the fleeing boy, heart pounding.

He didn’t know what he was doing, or what he was meant to do, but he followed his heart devotedly.

“Sapnap—!” Dream called, voice lost in the thrumming of other voices that flooded the air in the busy hallway. Sapnap didn’t turn or show any sign that he had heard, not even when Dream called again, voice stroked by such fragile desperation. “Sapnap, please—!”

It was like his prayers fell unheard, plummeting without grace, and Sapnap was deaf to them. If anything, he walked faster, the louder Dream called, and before he knew it, Dream found himself following Sapnap outside the building, the Winter air engulfing him whole. Ice flooded his bloodstream, curdling the warmth of his flesh and bones until he was nothing but a creature of bitter cold and torn senses.

December’s touch was scattered across the Earth, remains of snow dusting the ground, fallen leaves serenading Dream’s foosteps as he followed Sapnap across the school parking lot. They were headed to Sapnap’s car, and a stabbing feeling ensnared the remaining warmth of Dream’s heart when he saw how close they were to it now. It was panic, he realised.

And it was this taunting panic that ripped out the final, bloodied yell from the back of his throat, “Sapnap!”

Dream didn’t know what it was about that particular yell that finally made the boy stop in his tracks. Maybe it was the coldness of the wind, getting to his head. Maybe it was the burst of such gripping emotion that scarred the air. Maybe it was just him giving up, exhaustion overpowering much else. Either way, he came to an unsteady halt, limbs wavering, one hand resting on the roof of his car, just lying there.

It was enough to give Dream time to catch up, stumbling to an unsteady stop, lungs heaving, feeling a flush crawl over his skin like a coating of humiliation. Even though Sapnap wasn’t looking at him still, he felt ridiculed and examined by the sky, bearing down upon him. Dream shrivelled and wilted, every part of him buzzing and thrumming.

Words died on the tip of his tongue when Sapnap finally spoke.

“Dream,” he sighed, in a small voice, one that was tired and hurt. It didn’t suit the boy at all; and it made Dream blink, a lump forming in the back of his throat as Sapnap sighed and tried again, still refusing to turn around. “Dream, just… just leave. Please.”

Shock felt like a slap to his cheek; it was like having his head dunked beneath the surface of glassy, bitterly cold water.

Dream struggled in the depths of his mind, reeling at the way Sapnap sounded; at the way he wasn’t turning around; at the way his words etched their syllables into the mouldable parts of his heart, forevermore. Water in his lungs, clogging up his ears, muffling the gusts of wintry breezes—Dream felt completely out of his element, and he hated it.

“I’m not leaving you,” Dream found himself saying, stumbling over his own words. His voice sounded alien to his own ears.

At that, Sapnap’s body caved in on itself. He steadied himself by throwing his second hand forward, letting it land on the roof of his car. Then, he let himself slump forwards slightly, so he was supporting himself on his hands, his other limbs rendered helpless as he stood there. Dream could hear him breathing heavily, and his own mind was scrambling for a type of certainty he could not get.

“Dream,” Sapnap finally said, his voice low and rough. “Just leave, please. Please. I can’t do this right now. I can’t do this with you.”

“Do what?”

Dream’s voice came out hoarse and pathetically desperate, exiting the sanctuary of his mouth like it had a permanent mission to embarrass him.

But at the single question Dream uttered, Sapnap seemed to have been thrown into a loop. It seemed to have struck him by surprise, because the next thing Dream knew, Sapnap had straightened his back tensely, and after a split second, he had spun wildly around. And then Dream found himself being pinned down under the most confusing stare he’d felt looked upon in a long time.

It was curious and incredulous. Like Sapnap couldn’t quite believe that Dream didn’t see the answer set out before him. He gazed at Dream like it was unbelievable that he hadn’t understood already; like the answer was written into the earth by their feet, or whispered into the wintry breeze that swept the baby hairs out of his eyes, or pressed into the material of his jacket like an emblem. Dream longed to hear Sapnap’s voice again, to earn the reassurance that he’d done nothing wrong as an answer—but he felt like he may not gain that.

“You have no fucking clue, do you?” Sapnap eventually spoke, and even though it was uttered as a question, it felt rhetorical.

Dream’s mind was torn between the callings of dignity and humiliation. He fought back the urge to grab Sapnap by the wrists, to get into his car and drive them somewhere secluded and lonely, or to turn on his heel and walk away so he wouldn’t have to face any of this.

Instead, he was honest. Slowly and quietly, he shook his head.

At that answer, Sapnap’s gaze felt torn into parts of his heart. Dream felt like he was seconds away from reaching out and being able to touch them; to turn them around and around in his palms like ancient artefacts, examining each one. He saw the derelicts of yearning, of fierce devotion, of undying frustration, and of riddled hurt. They shone into Dream’s mind like forbidden slivers of light, and for a second, neither of them moved.

It seemed like neither of them could bring themselves to break the stalemate, so instead they both stood there, waveringly, completely stuck. Sapnap’s gaze was torn, until the next second, it wasn’t. It was like he’d sewn the pieces back together again, with bruised, trembling fingertips, and Dream didn’t know what to do; all he did was watch as Sapnap seemed to make up his mind.

Sapnap took a sudden step forwards, brave and determined, and for a wild second, Dream thought he was about to get punched.

But no punch came; instead, one of Sapnap’s hands came to clutch at the front of Dream’s top, and then, they were stood so close together that Dream could feel Sapnap’s breath brushing the skin of his cheek. His heart was fucking pounding in his chest, and there was a pleasant tugging of something in the depths of his stomach, and then Sapnap leaned forwards. And then—

Sapnap’s soft lips were pressed against his.

It took a moment for Dream’s mind to stop flatlining and burst into life again, and then he was aware that Sapnap was kissing him—and he found himself kissing back.

Together, they plunged. They sunk deeper and deeper into each other’s souls, until they were interwoven; intertwined. There was no going back—they took the great leap of faith together, wings ripping through tendons and muscle, and together they soared. Glorious and gilded, they soared.

Sapnap tasted like cigarettes and sunburn. The hand he held clutched around Dream’s top was held directly over his heart, and Dream was sure the other boy would be able to hear the way it was beating, so wildly, so quickly it felt  like drumbeats hammering against his ribcage. In Dream’s fragile mind, everything was clamouring; everything was crying out, like larks at dawn, or mankind at birth. There was so much noise, rhapsodising into words in his head.

All he could hear was Sapnap, Sapnap, Sapnap— over and over, forevermore.

The pair of lips pressed against Dream’s were so soft; like pillows cradling his fragile mind after a long, long day. It was odd, almost, because everything about Sapnap seemed so roughened, so jagged, so sharpened at the edges—the leather jackets, the rugged hair, the sharp, crooked grin that always twisted something gentle in Dream’s stomach.

Before Dream knew what he was doing, before he could think it over, one of his hands was twisting upwards, clutching desperately to the front of Sapnap’s jacket. His fingers scrambled to catch onto the material, as he tried to pull the shorter boy closer, closer, closer—and that was when Sapnap pulled away.

For a second, they just stared at each other. Silently and feeling stunned.

They both just stared at each other.

Dream’s mind clutched at words gushing through his head. Fuck. Because he just kissed Sapnap—Sapnap, his friend since fucking forever—and the worst thing was, was that he’d enjoyed it.

Sapnap’s cheekbones were dusted in a derp red, vermillion rising up from his bloodstream like an admittance of something secret. His eyes were wide and so, so gentle—he looked vulnerable. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, bruised and battered by the thoughts they were both fretting over, cascading through the air. Dusted light from above encased them in the sky’s gracious halo, and everything else was so abnormally unimportant in that moment. Everything was suddenly so achingly silent, and Dream wished then that Sapnap would say something. Anything.

Dream wished Sapnap would scream, or yell at him, or shove him, or whisper something that would bring a warm fuzzy feeling to his stomach. Or maybe, Sapnap would kiss him again.

“Dream,” Sapnap whispered, voice hoarse, his scared, wide eyes flickering over Dream’s face. His grip didn’t loosen. “Dream, what’re we doing?”

“Whatever you want to do,” Dream whispered back, straight away.

Something dark flickered in the depths of Sapnap’s eyes, and his gaze felt different now, stroked with plumes of attraction that made Dream want to press kisses all over him. It drove something within Dream to the brink of insanity. Genuine beauty was always something so distinctly terrifying. And in that moment, Dream was fucking terrified, his eyes tracing over Sapnap’s carved features, wanting to press worshipping kisses to every part of him.

Before he could hesitate to ponder over it any longer, greediness took over, and one of Dream’s hands settled on the nape of Sapnap’s neck, and he pulled him closer again. Their lips collided once again.

This time, the kiss was rougher. It was faster and more desperate, Sapnap dragging his other hand to Dream’s waist, tugging him closer and closer, because nothing was enough. In that moment, as they held each other so heatedly, and clutched each other so hungrily, they were nothing but creatures of blood and flesh. Of flesh and bone. Desire was so hauntingly human that it made Dream feel sinful; they didn’t care who saw them, or who would find out. It was just them now, and all they cared about was one another.

When they needed air, they drew away gasping, and Sapnap took the opportunity to sink his lips to Dream’s jaw, two of his calloused, rough fingers tilting Dream’s jaw upwards, to the heavens.

Of course, Dream allowed him, giving him more skin to act as his canvas. Sapnap lovingly pressed kisses along the line of Dream’s jaw, and down the junction of his stiffened neck. Dream just gazed up at the heavens, breathing heavily, trying to control the way his heart betrayed him by beating so pathetically fast. He was so sure Sapnap could hear it, but his attempts were futile.

Between kisses, Sapnap let out breathy words, some intelligible, some clear.

“Fuck—you’re so—” he cursed as he breathed, breath brushing against Dream’s skin, before he pressed another kiss there. “You know how long—” another kiss, “—I’ve wanted to tell you how I feel?” Another kiss. Something within Dream was burning. “You’re perfect, you’re perfect, Dream, Dream—”

Listening to the sacred words that replayed in his mind like a hymn, Dream let his eyes flutter shut, like broken wings of a butterfly.

Sapnap was stumbling over his words; babbling lines Dream could barely decipher in his delicate state. Dream knew he did that when he was anxious, when things were getting too much. The burning in Dream’s body was thrumming low tunes through his mind, and the flames were soaring through his bloodstream like wildfire, igniting parts of him he never thought he’d feel around Sapnap. When he opened his eyes, the sky was grey, and his heart whimpered.

Without thinking much, Dream tugged Sapnap away from his neck, flushing as he gazed down at the boy in front of him, whose eyes were glistening fiercely, and whose lips were swollen and rosy. And gently, ever so gently, Dream tilted Sapnap’s chin upwards, and he leaned forwards.

He pressed a tender kiss to Sapnap’s forehead, just below the hairline. He felt Sapnap stiffen beneath his fingertips, like he hadn’t been expecting it, so he held his lips there, closing his eyes ever so briefly. They stayed in that position until Dream felt Sapnap’s muscles relax beneath him, and give way to whatever gateway of emotions he allowed.

“Car,” Dream mumbled against Sapnap’s skin eventually, when the silence had reached breaking point. He drew away silently, and repeated, gazing into Sapnap’s eyes. “Car.”

Despite the lack of explanation he offered, Sapnap seemed to understand, drawing away to get his keys out his pocket.

The next thing Dream knew, they were clambering into the front and passenger seats of Sapnap’s car.

They did so in silence, one that was rippling like the surface of a troubled water, rippling with the unspoken thoughts they both held. Dream curled up slightly in the passenger seat, running fingers through his hair, and running the palm of his hand over the front of his top, in an attempt to smooth it over. Yet still, he knew there was nothing he could do that would shake away the silhouette of Sapnap’s gentle hand that had slotted into the dip of his waist, or the indent Sapnap’s clutch had left behind on the front of his top.

Even when they had both settled in, it was like neither of them knew what to say anymore. Dream just focused on breathing, lungs aching, breaths trembling with the effort of it.

Eventually, he glanced over at Sapnap, and was surprised to see the boy already gazing at him. He wore a gentle smile, one that was nothing more than the tilting of his lips, and a glint in his eyes, but it was enough.

“You’re lovely,” he said, so bluntly and so suddenly that it almost made Dream choke on air. He was glad he didn’t, but he still felt himself blushing furiously, and he had to look away from Sapnap when the boy grinned at his blush. His attention was caught again, however, when Sapnap asked him, “Fancy a cig?”

The pair of them sat there for a little while, cigarettes cradled in their hands, sat in a peaceful silence.

There were so many things to think about, and Dream didn’t even know which one to consider first. Sapnap had kissed him, he’d kissed back, Sapnap probably liked him, and not in a friendly kind of way, and Dream—well, Dream was pretty fucking positive that he liked him back. Hence the pathetic blushing and giddy twisting in his stomach. Fuck.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Sapnap finally broke the silence again.

Dream paused, cigarette half way to his mouth, allowing his hand to rest in the air, and part of him wondered dumbly where Sapnap had even heard that saying. Probably a movie. The rest of him was wondering what to say; trying to pick out the important thoughts in his mind from the ones he’d think about later, when he was alone. There was always time to overthink, after all.

Eventually, Dream spoke, after swallowing thickly. “It was about George, wasn’t it?” Silence. He added on, “Back there, when you ran. It was about George and me, right?”

Another hollow, empty silence.

“Right,” Sapnap agreed, sounding somewhere near embarrassed as he admitted to it out loud. In the corner of his vision, Dream saw a curl of smoke linger in the air as Sapnap exhaled. Then, he continued, and Dream clutched onto every single word. “I don’t have a problem with George. I really don’t. But… seeing the two of you… I know the way you feel about him, Dream.”

That made Dream startle slightly. That kind of accusation was what made his heart clench in his chest like a battered fist, bloodied and bruised. He glanced over at Sapnap, feeling his features slip into an easy frown. His eyes met Sapnap’s and they stared at each other for a little while.

“How would you know?” Dream finally asked, more curious than biting.

Sapnap smiled a sad little smile, that made him look far too old to be stuck in a seventeen year old’s body. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, but just before he sucked on it, he said something that made Dream’s breath catch clumsily in his throat. “Because it’s the same way I feel about you.”

“Oh,” Dream said dumbly.

“Yeah,” Sapnap smiled crookedly, voice warm as he mimicked him. “Oh.”

They sat in silence for even longer after that. It had never struck him that the way he felt about George was felt by Sapnap too. Though, about him. He thought about the sleepless nights, spent wondering where he’d fucked up, spent trying to force his mind not to think of George’s smile, spent swallowing back forbidden yearning. He thought about the little things—reaching for George’s hand even though he shouldn’t; gazing at him when he was looking the other way; picturing the most pitiful of lives ahead if George wasn’t there too.

They were on the cusp of something here, something like the dawn’s sweet kiss, but like nightfall’s dark embrace too.

“You know,” Sapnap started, breaking the silence that had flooded the car. Dream glanced over at him, tongue fuzzy from the cigarette. “I thought about writing you a letter. The way George did. But, telling you everything. The way I felt, the way I do still.”

The admittance caught Dream by surprise. All he could do was blink, and part his lips dryly to ask, “But you didn’t?”

Shaking his head in a bittersweet little action, Sapnap gazed out the windscreen, at the row of trees that lay ahead of them. They were stroked in the bitter wind, waving jubilantly at the pair of them. Sapnap took a drag from his cigarette, and Dream did too.

“I didn’t,” Sapnap said. “I realised that ain’t me—writing sappy, old-fashioned letters. That’s George, and I’m not changing myself to be more like him, even for you, Dream.”

Gently, Dream told him, “I would never ask you to change for me, Sapnap.”

The other boy turned his head to look back at him, a sweet smile blooming on his lips as he nodded. Softly, he said, “I know that.”

Matters of the heart were confusing, confusing things. They required care and time and patience, and sometimes, Dream doubted he could provide himself with all three things. Sometimes bitterness overcame everything else, and in those moments, matters of the heart were fucking annoying, and he loathed himself for getting tangled up and stuck in the nets of them. They were not simple matters, and they were forever changing. Never were they concrete; love was a fucking wildcard, and Dream had found that out the hard way.

But one thing that he didn’t loathe himself for was the people he had fallen for. Sapnap and George were lovely like that; loving from the centres of their chest, dug deep and permanently into their bones. Before even light, before even darkness, they were lovely. Fuck, Dream cursed to himself, because he was getting all choked up now and it was decidedly not the time to get choked up.

He noticed after too long that the car had fallen into silence again, but now it felt like it was his turn to speak. There were words hidden away in the depths of his throat that wanted out, and for once, he felt willing to let them.

“I don’t feel that I could ever love you both the same way. But I feel loved by you both… and I want to be loved by the both of you. The same kind of love.”

There was a deafening silence.

“Alright,” Sapnap breathed heavily, like Dream’s words had stolen the air from his lungs, and he was heaving trying to keep up. He exhaled lowly. “Alright. Listen, we can make this work. Us three. I promise, we can make this work.”

And in that moment, as Sapnap smiled across at him, leaning forwards so he could rest his smaller hand upon Dream’s, Dream wholeheartedly believed him.

//

When Dream had been younger, he’d always been terrified of change. Change had never been a good thing for him; change was what had left him fatherless; change was what had sent George away; change was what left parts of him empty and deserted. As he was growing up, he was starting to realise that change wasn’t always such a horrible thing. And although it took him too long to accept that, Sapnap and George definitely helped him understand it.

As much as it hurt for him to come to terms with it now, if George hadn’t gone away, things would’ve been very different.

George staying would’ve meant that Dream never would’ve been as close to Sapnap as he was. And Dream knew that he wouldn’t trade what he had with that boy for the world. He treasured the both of them, in ways younger him didn’t think he’d come to accept. They soon became his constants, in similar yet simultaneously different ways—they were always by his side throughout the mess of his seventeenth year.

Two nights after Dream and Sapnap’s kiss, Dream called Sapnap to come pick him up for a late night drive. True to his word, Sapnap did—Dream watched through the gaps in his blinds as the yellowing lights of the headlights signalled the boy’s arrival. Grabbing a jacket to battle the cold, he slipped out the house as quietly as he could. He doubted anyone would even care about his absence anyway.

“Hey,” Dream greeted him as he clambered hastily into the backseat, trying his hardest to evade the cold by shutting the door hastily behind him.

He didn’t get a response back right away, instead met with an unprecedented silence. When he glanced up from fumbling with his seatbelt in the dark, he almost jumped when he found Sapnap staring at him intensely. His gaze was slightly narrowed, his lips pursed, eyeing Dream up and down. It was a look so comedic it almost made Dream want to laugh.

“What’s wrong with the front seat, hm, loverboy?” Sapnap raised an eyebrow at him, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “Scared of me or something?”

This time, Dream did snort amusedly. “No, idiot. But I’m saving that seat for someone else.”

At this, Sapnap’s eyes somehow narrowed even further, and he tilted his head, like a confused puppy. Even in the darkness of the car, Dream could make out every sharp feature upon the boy’s face, and it made him smile.

“For someone else?”

“Yeah,” Dream nodded, reaching into his jeans pocket for a slip of crumpled paper. Fumbling still, he unfolded the scrappy little thing, leaning forwards to hold it by Sapnap, where the light of the dashboard would illuminate the lighting. “Here’s George’s address.”

From the position he’d craned his neck into in order to squint down at the piece of paper, Sapnap’s head snapped round to stare at Dream. He moved so fast that it shocked Dream he didn’t get whiplash, and his expression now was incredulous, his eyes wide, comedically so. He was looking at Dream like he’d grown three heads, and to avoid the boy’s questions, Dream buckled himself in properly, and shrugged.

“C’mon, loser, get driving.”

“You want me to pick up… George?” Sapnap questioned him, still incredulous, like he’d completely ignored Dream’s jibe. “Like… George George?”

“Yeah, idiot,” Dream deadpanned. “George George. Now c’mon, drive.”

Still, he was met with what felt like an unimpressed silence, stroked with uncertainty.

Taking a slightly shaky breath, Dream met Sapnap’s gaze as evenly as he could. The boy was staring at him still. “Listen, you said that we’d make this thing work. With the three of us. This is me trying to make it work. George has agreed to come with us, so… you’ve got to pull your weight too. Help me make this work.”

His words lingered in the air, like some ancient proclamation, dipped in such dreadfully human yearning, traced with desperation. All that he had said was honest, coming from the rawest parts of his heart. And although he tried his hardest to word it as a general command, he felt they both saw it as it was—a prayer. A prayer that only Sapnap, in this moment, could answer. Dream wanted to make this work, between the three of them, but it wasn’t something he could do on his own.

For a moment—one horrible moment—Dream almost thought Sapnap was about to say no. There was a silence that went on for too long, and in his chest, Dream’s heart stumbled.

Then, Sapnap simply gave a curt nod, and was turning back round in his seat.

“Alright then,” he declared, matter-of-factly, reaching out with one hand to turn one of the buttons on the dashboard. Music flooded the car, serenading them like some funky marching band. Dream could hear Sapnap’s teasing grin in his voice as he called out into the night, “Let’s go pick up Loverboy Number Two.”

It didn’t take them long to get to George’s house—it was a different one to the one the Davidsons had lived in years ago, when Dream’s family and them had practically been neighbours. This house was different, and it was larger, more modern than the other, stroked by dulled greys and off-whites.

The porch lights illuminated a slim figure that was undeniably George; the boy jogged down the driveway to get to them, opening the back car door, probably expecting the seat to be empty. Instead, Dream made a big show of grinning cheerily up at him, and he watched in amusement as George’s features twisted into a look of surprise, eyes widening. Then, there was confusion, that took form in a small frown, and then there was suspicion.

“Nuh-uh,” Dream shook his head, still grinning, and he figured that he was probably enjoying this too much. “You get the front seat, you lucky thing.”

To George’s credit, there was only a flicker of trepidation in his eyes as his gaze flickered to the front seat, and he saw who he was going to be sitting next to. The next second it was gone, and to those who didn’t know him well, it would’ve seemed like his gaze was perfectly blank. But Dream knew him better than that—he could see the glimmers of suspicion still in his dark irises, and the slight twitch of his lips.

“You’re a menace,” he said finally, voice low but loud enough for Dream to hear.

Sharply, Dream grinned. “And you’re an asshole. Go on, we haven’t got all night.”

Arguably, they had—it was a Friday night and it wasn’t like any of them had anything better to do on a Saturday morning other than lie in bed. They weren’t exactly booked up, and Dream knew George was thinking this as he narrowed his eyes playfully, swinging the door shut, and disappearing.

There was a split-second in the car where the silence felt suddenly very noticeable, and Dream realised that Sapnap had been unnaturally silent throughout that exchange. So, he leaned forwards in his seat, clapping a hand onto Sapnap’s shoulder, and meeting the boy’s lingering gaze in the rear view mirror.

“You alright with this?”

Sapnap’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and although Dream couldn’t see his smile, he could hear it in his voice as he responded firmly, “Yeah.”

Then Dream was drawing his hand away, leaving nothing but an imprint on the boy’s jacket, as the passenger side door clicked open, and George was clambering hastily in. His movements were hurried and brash, like if he thought too much about them, they wouldn’t happen. And when the door clicked again, shutting behind him, there was a beat of silence.

It wasn’t necessarily awkward, but in a perfect world, it wouldn’t have been there. In a perfect world, one of them would’ve known exactly what to say, and there wouldn’t have been those few seconds where nothing united the three of them apart from the rapid beating of their hearts. Instead of talking, Dream met Sapnap’s gaze once again in the rear view mirror, and there was a silent conversation. No words were exchanged, but the next thing Dream knew, Sapnap was adorning his smile again like it was a second skin, and he was starting up the car engine once more.

“Alright then. The whole gang’s together, now where are we off to, Dream?”

He smiled as he answered, watching the other two boys for a reaction. “Sanders Point.”

Dream saw Sapnap’s hand flex on the steering wheel, and in the light shining from the dashboard, he saw the way the apples of his cheek rose, as he smiled. It was George’s reaction that caught his attention the most though—George spun wildly in his seat, still unbuckled although clutching the seat belt in one hand. George’s eyes found Dream’s, even though both of their faces were shadowed.

“That’s still here?” George asked gleefully, sounding breathless with excitement in a way that made Dream tilt his head back and laugh.

It was Sapnap who answered though, threads of amusement winding into his voice, “It’s a hill, of course it’s still here. And besides, this town never changes. Now c’mon, buckle yourself in, or if you don’t, you can’t blame me if you go flying out of your seat.”

Obediently, George did so, fumbling slightly in the dark but managing it. As he did so, Dream didn’t miss the curious little glances he sent Sapnap’s way, like the boy actually talking to him had surprised him. Now, there seemed to be something reconsidering in his gaze, like he was constructing a new painting in his mind of who Sapnap was. Dream could only hope it was a nice one, as Sapnap finally started to drive, the car swinging out onto the road, starting its trek to Sanders Point.

The hill, as Sapnap called it, was a place on the very outskirts of town, where the land got lumpier and rougher, and it was within the clutches of Mother Nature.

Sanders Point was where wildflowers grew freely, and where memories were carved into the earth beneath them. It was the place where Dream and George used to take their bikes to, and lie on the grass, staring at the clouds and imagining they were dragons. It was the place where Dream and Sapnap used to hide themselves when things got too much at home, and they’d listen to the lost madrigals of birds hidden away in the tree branches.

As they drove, Sapnap cleared his throat and gestured to the car stereo. “What music d’you like?”

Dream knew that the question wasn’t directed at him. After all, Sapnap knew his music taste well enough already—if he wanted to cater to Dream’s taste specifically, he would’ve wordlessly done so already. The question was therefore directed at George, who didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he blinked across at Sapnap, looking puzzled and surprised that he was being asked that. “Who, me?”

Sapnap grinned toothily. “Who else?”

“Dream is literally right behind us—”

“Ignore Dream,” Sapnap interrupted cheekily, not acknowledging the small noise of offence that Dream squeaked out. “I’m asking you, what type of music d’you like?”

There was a moment of hesitation before George answered, and even when he did, his voice was unnaturally quiet as they turned down a narrow woodland lane.

“I’ll listen to whatever.”

Sapnap let out a loud noise, like a buzzer in a game show, “Nuh-uh, wrong answer. There’s gotta be something you love. I’m asking because I wanna listen, I won’t judge you for it.”

“Uh,” George seemed to be struggling with an answer, even though Dream knew there was a single, clear-cut winner sitting right on the tip of his tongue. They both knew what band the boy had obsessed over all throughout his teenage years—there was no question. But even so, George’s answer was still unnaturally shy and hesitant. “Uh, I like The Cure.”

Letting out a warm chuckle, Sapnap grinned, voice stroked with approval, “Atta boy, Georgie.”

The nickname was unprecedented and sudden, catching them all by surprise, but it clearly didn’t upset George. Instead, the boy let out a huff, of something akin to amusement, as Sapnap leaned forwards and switched his own trashy music off. There was a beat of silence, before the achingly familiar tune of Boys Don’t Cry flooded the car’s interior.

Dream looked up from the stereo, and George was hiding a smile behind his hands.

He looked away again, and felt warm.

The drive to Sanders Point wasn’t a long one. It was shorter than Dream recalled it being, actually, but then again, he hadn’t been there in forever. Memories had sometimes drowned everything else, but now, one of the boys who encapsulated all his forbidden memories was beside them. They twisted down even narrower lanes, surrounded by dark woodlands, the headlights of the car beaming out in front of them.

Boys Don’t Cry was loud and glorious, vibrating through every part of the car, and Dream saw the way Sapnap’s hands beat rhythms onto the steering wheel as he navigated the car down the tracks.

Eventually, they finally reached the clearing that was Sanders Point—where the tree line broke away to a round, grassy area, encased by trees, like a halo. Sapnap parked the car as close to the centre of it as he could get, and from where they were, they could see the stretch of the town before them. The lights of windows and streetlights flickered before them like fireflies.

“It’s too cold to get out,” Dream commented when Sapnap asked if they wanted to or not. “I think I’d freeze.”

“Should’ve wrapped up warmer,” Sapnap told him with a taunting grin, though he obeyed that, only cracking the window next to him open.

Dream knew what that meant—and sure enough, within seconds, he’d retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Silently, Sapnap offered one to Dream, as he brought his legs up onto the seat, so he was sat in a huddle of limbs. Dream shook his head, and then Sapnap offered the pack to George.

Maybe he’d doubted George would actually take one, and maybe he was just being polite by offering, but the way Sapnap’s eye widened to the size of golf balls when George actually nodded made Dream laugh. There was caution in George’s movements as he paused, arm lingering mid-air, eyes flicking between Dream’s laughing grin and Sapnap’s wide-eyed shock.

“No, no, take one,” Sapnap finally said after gathering himself, and he thrust the packet towards George. “Just… was not expecting that.”

Now George too was grinning—a sharp, tilted grin that made his eyes glimmer like opals in the gloom of the car. Nimbly, he extracted a cigarette from the box, and snatched the lighter from Sapnap’s other, outstretched hand.

Lighting it, George balanced it between his lips as he said, voice slightly muffled, “I’m full of surprises.”

“I can tell,” Sapnap laughed, recovering from his shock and had the decency to look sheepish.

As the music tumbled into another song—Friday I’m In Love—Dream leaned back in his seat, shrugging his buckle off and bringing one knee up to his chest. He allowed his head to lazily fall so that his chin was propped up by his knee. He could feel the pattering of his heart against his ribcage, sending vibrations through his flesh, through his skin, through his clothes so that he could feel it against his thigh. It beat warmly.

As he listened to the music and tasted cigarette smoke lingering in the air, Dream hoped that this was the brink of something.

He hoped that this—the three of them sat comfortably amongst one another, despite their differences, despite their unravelled feelings—meant something. It was either the beginning of something beautiful, or the descend into perfect madness. Either way, Dream knew he wouldn’t forget this, and he hoped neither of them would either. They didn’t need anyone else to remember this moment. No other soul should look back at this and decide, as a stranger, what their fates were from that moment forwards.

History was littered with millions of names. And none of them would be theirs. Dream was perfectly alright with that, though. He didn’t want to be remembered as anything other than the person he was in that moment; peaceful, happy, and not lonely at all.