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The realization begins in the winter.
Dream hates the cold. The cold and the darkness and the silence of it all. He doesn’t know how to breathe when the sun is always slipping through his fingers, or when the days feel only minutes long.
In the winter, he is left vulnerable to his own stupid heart.
He invites George over most nights. In Dream’s mind, it’s as though this house belongs to him too. He has a pale blue toothbrush in Dream’s bathroom, a pair of his pajamas always tucked somewhere in his closet, and a space in Dream’s bed that is always left empty even when Dream is alone in the house. George doesn’t know it, of course, but Dream considers it George’s side of the bed now. It would feel wrong to take it.
There was a time when Sapnap would come over as often, and keep Dream company throughout the worst of his moods, but he grew busy with college and his own relationships; ever too busy to be there for him, but Sapnap has his own life, and Dream had to accept that, at some point, he could no longer expect Sapnap to be available every time the house felt a little too empty.
George had always been a little distant, enough that Dream had felt that reaching out to him would be an overstep, but there came a point where he disregarded that. He started calling first, inviting George to spend time with just him, casual dinners and movie nights and restaurants.
Though George had been hesitant at first, they grew closer, and that quickly dissipated. Over time Dream found himself relying on George more than he ever thought he might, especially once things begin to feel a little darker.
All Dream needs most often is somebody to be close to, and George is always there for that. He’ll show up at Dream’s house and open the door (with the spare key that he had given him), and wander until he comes across Dream.
Sometimes Dream will acknowledge him with an easy smile, and sometimes he’ll take a moment to find the energy and take a gasping breath from drowning in silence, but no matter how long it takes, George will sit close to him and wait until Dream whispers, “Hi, George,”
“Hi, Dream,” He’ll answer. With one hand he’ll cradle Dream’s face, soothe his skin where it burns, and whisper to him that maybe they should finish that one tv show or get a glass of water or look at the stars for a while.
Dream doesn’t know when George’s touch began to make him feel so loved, or when George’s smile began to make him feel so dizzy, or when nights spent without George against his side became so incredibly lonely.
It occurs to Dream that somewhere along the way, seemingly overnight, he has managed to fall in love.
☾
“You remind me of the moon,” Dream says to George one night when they’re lying beside one another on the floor of Dream’s kitchen. (He isn’t quite sure how they ended up there, and his head feels a little foggy, but George is here and the cold tile is comforting and he doesn’t want to move.)
There’s silence and Dream thinks for a moment that maybe George didn’t hear him or that he had fallen asleep, but then he answers, “What makes you say that?”
In Dream’s head, he replies, You’re soothing. Comforting. A quiet kind of beauty. The stars live for little other than their own tragic endings, and I think that if anything were an exception, it should be you.
Out loud, he says, “You just do,”
“In that case,” George says, “You are the sun to my moon,”
“How so?”
“You just are,” George replies, matter-of-factly.
Dream smiles to himself. Tired fog is replaced by a warmth that has become far too familiar in recent months, and George hesitates before he continues, “You mean a lot to me. I hope you know that.”
Dream feels his skin crawl with the unexpectedness of how genuine it sounds, and he wonders if George feels the same pleasant fogginess that he does. He wonders if he should resist it.
“Do I?” He says to the kitchen ceiling. The fridge hums somewhere nearby.
“I mean it, Dream. I wouldn’t trade the time I’ve spent with you for anything,”
“I wouldn’t either,” Dream answers slowly, feeling as though he might say too much. “You know, you make me feel stupid. But in a good way.” The words have left his mouth before he has time to consider the implications.
“You make me feel stupid too. In a good way. You make me want to do stupid things,” George answers, and the beat of silence that follows is the loudest that Dream has ever heard.
“What?”
What?
“You make me want to do stupid things,” George repeats, quieter than before, but just as clear.
“What does that mean?” Dream’s response is nearly a whisper. He thinks he must be hallucinating this. You can’t do this to me. You can’t say that to me.
“What do you think it means?” George whispers back. Ash scorches at Dream’s throat, and it’s a dangerous spark that George is cupping his palms over, blowing gently, igniting a flame; A fire you don’t know the strength of , he wants to say. Dream is thankful for the darkness, because he doesn’t think he could look at George right now and still say the things that he’s thinking.
The tile is frigid against his skin, and he isn’t sure what’s real anymore.
“Maybe you should stop saying stupid things, George.” His voice is strained.
“Do you really want me to?” George asks.
Every word out of George’s mouth is painful. They plant bitter seeds of hope and he tears at the soil, tears at the thoughts and the warmth and the sick feeling that these words are never going to leave him. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me believe you feel the same way I do .
“ George,” he warns, and for whose sake, he isn’t sure.
“I’m being serious, Dream,” he sits up. Dream can just barely make out his silhouette turning to face him.
“Can we maybe just not talk? Right now?” He asks, finally. He needs to stop hearing things and the world needs to stop spinning and he doesn’t want to believe in things that aren’t real.
“Okay,” George murmurs, and it almost hurts how he pauses before he says, “I’m sorry,”
“Don’t apologize, George,” Dream says, frowning and propping himself up on his arms. He takes a slow breath and lets it out in an attempt to steady his heartbeat. “You have nothing to be sorry about,”
He doesn’t, of course. It’s not his fault that Dream is incapable of regulating his own emotions, though he can’t help but feel a little bitter that George has no idea what he’s doing to him; the intensity with which his every word buries itself in his head on a record player that will torment him for weeks even months after. His heart is wrung dry and he wishes he knew anything for certain.
There is silence for a moment and Dream is afraid of what George might say next, but then George stands, walking to the counter and picking something up.
“What are you doing?”
George doesn’t respond. A button clicks and the phone in his hand lights up, shining a gentle light on his face. He taps it a few times, types something, and then sets it down again.
Dream is about to ask again, when a song starts playing from the phone. A soothing voice and gently plucked guitar strings flood the kitchen.
George offers a hand to Dream.
Dream looks at it, then places an uncertain hand in his, and he is pulled to his feet, stumbling forward a little toward George as he finds his balance.
George breathes a little laugh and as the guitar begins to pick up a slow rhythm and the lyrics follow, with a hand falling to rest on Dream’s shoulder, he takes a step forward, then to the side, leading Dream with the hand that’s still holding his.
It takes a moment for Dream to catch up and follow him, and they’re both a little off-balance, but soon they gain a sense of where their feet are, and Dream starts to smile as they slowdance around the kitchen. George hums along to the melody, laughing against Dream’s chest every time he misses a step, eyes closed against the darkness and heart weak with how soft he feels, as though a gentle breeze is all it would take to whisk him away.
“This song is pretty,” He murmurs.
George rests his chin on Dream’s shoulder, and Dream can feel him nod in response.
The song lyrics are a little sad, but the melody feels like a lullaby, and they dance until they’re too tired (and a little too dizzy) to stand.
Dream thinks about that night often.
He thinks that he would give anything to dance around the kitchen with George again.
☾
George has never been a touchy person.
Dream knows that.
For all the years Dream has been friends with George, he’s always known him to choose his seat with distance between them, to be wary of his physical space, and quick to back down. Dream doesn’t know when that changed, but it did (and he certainly isn’t complaining about it). In sleepless nights over the previous months, he doesn’t take notice until it’s familiar, expected even that George is not shy with Dream’s personal space.
It doesn’t happen all at once, of course. Just one moment that will bring him a little closer, hands pressed to his jaw and brushed through his hair and smoothing frowns from his brow, George leaning a head on his shoulder when they’re sharing the couch.
Each time Dream would hold his breath as though an exhale would frighten George away, and not let it go until the moment passed. He feels everything, too much, in excruciating detail and racing heartbeats.
In fact, Dream still remembers the first time that George had stayed the night in his bed.
There was a time that no matter how exhausted, how late they stayed up talking, George would refuse to let himself fall asleep before he crawled out from under the sheets and curled up on the couch, and it would sting, just a little, each time Dream woke up to an empty bed.
One time, in particular, they had stayed up whispering to one another until drowsy light began to spill through the windows and they were far too exhausted to speak coherently. Dream hadn’t remembered half of their conversations the next morning, but he did remember it having gotten oddly serious at times, wistful at others, telling George things about himself that he didn’t think he would in the light of day, and a strangely fond feeling. When he woke up, it was late afternoon, and he realized through the haze of gaining back his senses that George was still there.
Asleep, breathing slowly, pressed to his side and his head leaned into the crook of Dream’s neck. Dream hadn’t moved for nearly half an hour, and he felt a little silly admitting that he couldn’t have been more content to do nothing but lie in the afternoon sunlight and listen to George’s heartbeat.
When George finally woke up, Dream pretended he was just waking up as well, and neither mentioned it.
There was never another night that George didn’t spend by his side.
☾
Dream adores the hours spent buried under blankets beside one another, with a laptop playing hours upon hours of their latest chosen T.V. show to binge propped up against the sheets. They would whisper commentary to one another until the pixels begin to deconstruct themselves, and they would give in to sleep until the sun pried gently at their eyelids.
On one such night, Dream realizes that he is completely fucked.
He wakes up to murmurs coming from his laptop, lying somewhere on crumpled sheets. He's disoriented briefly before the light from the screen clears a little fog from his memory, and he remembers that they had watched a show, leaving the rest to autoplay once they fell asleep, the laptop almost fully out of battery and burning hot to the touch.
The next thing that registers to Dream is the weight on his chest.
The weight, and then, made out through squinting past the darkness, George's head, closed eyelids, exhaling slowly against his collarbone. He looks down with movements slow and subtle, and he can feel his heart fall apart a little bit, a feeling painfully close to endearment filtering through his sleep-muddled mind.
George's lashes flutter slightly, and the thought settles over him slowly in little white petals, in overwhelming adoration and gentle touches and empty spaces in beds: Dream wants to kiss him. He wants to press his lips, gently, lovingly, along his brow, his eyelids, the ridge of his cheekbones, anything George would let him; the thought overwhelms him to a point where he feels sick.
Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
His heart thrums and he can’t breathe, can’t look at George with the certainty that he won’t act on one of the impulses that are thundering through his head and his blood. As slowly as he can manage, Dream slides George's head to rest on the pillow, slipping out from under the covers to stand. He doesn’t wait to see if George has woken up, abandoning the bedroom, stumbling to the kitchen and flicking on a light. He winces, squinting painfully as his eyes adjust to the brightness.
He misses the warmth of George’s body next to him. His skin feels like it’s burning. He throws a cabinet open, grabbing a glass and slamming it against the fridge and watching it fill with water with pained eyes, taking slow breaths.
Idiot. Fucking idiot.
“Dream?”
Dream looks up sharply, to where George is standing in the hallway with drowsy eyes. The confusion in his look is warranted, considering that the oven reveals the time to be the ungodly hour of 4:27 in the morning, and Dream is holding the glass of water as though it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Dream lies, and lets out a breathy laugh. “I’m okay. Just had a bad dream.”
“Oh,” George shuffles forwards to stand beside Dream. A gentle palm is pressed against the expanse of his back, and his teeth scrape over his tongue.
Stop it.
“We should go back to bed,” George murmurs, and his hand slips away. Dream misses it immediately.
“We never finished the show last night. We could watch that, maybe. I don’t think I could go back to sleep anyway.” His tone is light, careful, and Dream feels some tension slip from his shoulders, enough to let him set down the glass and look George in the eye.
He steps closer. It feels dangerous, where it shouldn’t
“I would like that,” he says quietly. George nods and his eyes squint with a pleased hidden smile before he turns and walks down the hallway.
I’m so fucked , Dream thinks.
☾
They don’t end up finishing the show. They fill every pause with quiet dialogue that drops to murmurs, and if George notices that Dream’s hand tangles through his hair while he speaks, he doesn’t say anything. The time stretches, and eventually, Dream glances from the screen, pausing his inner monologue to look at George's closed eyes.
“Are you asleep?” Dream whispers, setting the laptop on the nightstand and sliding down to lie fully flat on the bed beside George.
“Not anymore,” George sighs beside him, and Dream laughs a little, prodding gently at his arm.
“Wake up, idiot. Talk to me.” He shuffles closer to George, and when he doesn’t get a response, he buries his face into George's shoulder, repeating, “Wake. Up .”
“I’m awake,” George exhales and shoves him away, flipping to face him. Breath tickles Dream’s cheek.
“Hi,” Dream says.
“Hi,” George echoes quietly.
There are many things he could say, and he doesn’t feel safe with his thoughts around George right now when his heart still thunders and his lips still murmur wistfully and George’s gaze still overwhelms him, so he just settles on whispering, “I’m glad you’re here.”
George's eyes flicker up to meet his, and he is incredibly aware of the darkness and the lack of space between them. His breath catches slightly. George blinks slowly.
Moonlight glints off the window, gently illuminating the curve of George's jaw. It's pretty. Dream wants to trace it, and so he does, reaching out a hand slowly, cradling George's face, and brushing a thumb along his cheekbone. George takes in a sharp breath, and he waits, until George leans into the touch
Mist pools and overflows in Dream’s head. He feels drunk. The space between them seems to cave in, and Dream is flooded with the desire to intoxicate himself further.
His hand slips, tracing along George's neck, and he shivers slightly. Dream tips his head forward, pressing his lips to George's forehead.
“Dream,” he whispers.
Softer still, his thumb brushes feather-light touches along George's lips.
“ Dream ,” George repeats. His eyes flutter closed.
He leans back far enough to see George's flushed cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, barely visible in the darkness. George grips his arm, and he is overwhelmed again with a desire to be close to George in every way possible, to kiss sighs from his lips and make him feel the way Dream does right now, dazed and stupid and so, incredibly dizzy.
Dream wants to say every stupid thought that’s ever crossed his mind. They brim at his lips, and things he wouldn’t have dreamed of saying out loud seem so easy. You’re beautiful , he thinks, and then says it aloud. “You’re beautiful,”
George's eyes widen, looking up at Dream, and his lips part but he doesn’t reply.
His hand trembles when he lifts it to cup George’s jaw. His breathing grows shallow, and his heart is racing, and he’s leaning forward, and suddenly he’s being shoved away.
He sits up, panic tightening his throat. “George-”
“I should go,” George says quickly, backing out of the room, fingers grabbing at the door behind him before they find the doorknob.
“George, I’m sorry. please, just wait,” he says louder, sitting up. “George, please, don’t leave.”
He’s pleading now, and it sounds pathetic, but George is walking away and he doesn’t know what to do, so he looks at him with fear written plain in his eyes and wills him to stay or at least say something. Silence screams in his ears, and he thinks he might cry.
George looks at him once, and walks out of the room.
☾
A week goes by before George answers his calls.
At first, Dream holds onto the belief that it will all somehow resolve itself and George will return to him in the late evening, climb into bed beside him, run a hand through his hair and say soft things. He wants it to be that easy, so badly.
In reality, of course, that doesn’t happen.
Dream calls him around six times the first night, staring at his phone through blurry vision and praying silently for an answer. He gets nothing. The rest of the week, he goes back and forth between mourning their friendship as if it’s already dead and buried, and resisting the urge to call George while staring at the past hours of one-sided texts, left on delivered.
He sleeps late, or not at all, and wonders how he never noticed how lonely nights are without George. He plays music too loud to drown out the silence. The house feels more empty than he thought possible.
Exactly seven days pass. (Not that Dream is keeping track.)
On Saturday, at 7 PM, Dream sits on his couch with his phone on the arm beside him. He looks at the ceiling, and then the phone, and once again resists the urge to text George, gripping the empty cup of coffee that’s held in one hand. He really hates coffee. The taste is nauseating, but he decides that he deserves it.
At 7:04, he gets a notification.
From George.
It says, Can I come in?
Dream’s heart crashes against his rib cage and he picks up the phone with shaky hands, trying to still them enough to type out a reply. Yes. His eyes flick up to the front door down the hall and then back to his hands, cursing them for refusing to stop trembling.
A moment later, the front door clicks and rattles a little bit, and slides open. George stands in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob, the key hanging in his other hand. Dream can’t move.
“Hi,” He says.
“Hello,” George answers. He hesitates, and then walks down the hall to the living room.
Every step constricts Dream’s lungs a little more, impossibly so when George sits down on the couch, a few feet from where he’s still seated.
His eyes look tired but he doesn’t look angry, or like he’s about to swear at Dream for being such an idiot, which is already better than Dream had been preparing himself for, so he accepts that as a sliver of hope. He also hates his brain a little bit for reminding him that George looks pretty in the evening light.
George exhales, and then looks at him.
“George,” He stumbles, hopes, apologies tumbling from his tongue before George gets the chance to even begin speaking. “George, I’m so sorry, that was stupid, I know it was stupid-”
“Please stop talking,” He says.
“Okay,” Dream breathes. His heartbeat hasn’t slowed in the slightest, but he stops, and he listens.
George looks down at his hands, before looking up at Dream with a strange expression. Dream doesn’t know how afraid he should be.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about that night a lot- because maybe we were too tired to think straight, and it didn’t feel real, what we were doing. You, touching me,” His eyes flicker away briefly.
“Is that a bad thing?” Dream’s voice has dropped to a near whisper.
“No,” George says. “It’s not a bad thing, and that’s the problem,”
Dream finds himself moving closer to George; a little relieved when he doesn’t protest.
“That’s the problem?” He repeats quietly.
George looks at him now, more intensely than he’s ever been looked at before, and says, “Can I say something? Honestly?”
“Wait. George, before you say anything, there’s something you should know.” He says quickly, panicked, because he has every reason to believe that the next words out of George’s mouth will be the last that he ever speaks to him, and he can’t let that be the way this ends.
George opens his mouth to protest, but Dream shakes his head and says, “I love you,”
George’s eyes widen. He doesn’t respond right away, and Dream can’t take the silence.
He keeps going.
“I love you, and I want you. I want to kiss you, and I want to spend every second with you, and I think we could do this- I think you could love me too and we could love each other and I just need you to know that because I mean it. I mean every word of it, George, and if you want to never speak to me again that’s okay-”
Dream has barely a moment to pause for breath before George leans forward and kisses the words from his lips.
Oh.
He gasps a little, and his eyes flutter closed, one hand pulling George closer.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Teeth scrape his, and he sighs against George’s lips. Warmth blooms in his chest and reaches his cheeks.
He doesn’t want to pull away and he thinks he never will until he has to pause for air, eyes still closed and forehead resting against George’s, a hand twisting into his shirt.
“I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner,” George whispers.
Dream chooses to gently lift his chin and kiss him again in response, softer than before, a smile tugging at his lips. Fire dissipates in his chest, giving way to something new, gentle and sweet and golden, and he’s never been more grateful for how easily George is able to melt his heart.
Golden hour is quickly dissipating and the house is becoming cast with shadow, but warmth has found a home in his chest, and it doesn’t leave with the sun like it usually does, flickering anew every time his eyes wander over to George.
Dream considers that maybe it’s here to stay.
☼