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There were a lot of things about the world that were destined to forever remain a mystery — what undiscovered species lay in the deepest parts of the ocean, for one. Some questions would forever go unanswered, some puzzles would never be solved, and some secrets would be kept until the end of time, assured to be forgotten and lost for good.
The idea of the unknown didn’t exactly scare George, it was just something that plagued his mind when nothing else occupied his thoughts. So instead, he tried to focus on what he did know, rather than wasting his time on multitudes of endless hypotheticals, and he usually ended up back at boredom. It was something simple, comprehensible, it was something that came to him easily, and that he had learned to (somewhat) control over the years. He thought about the sheer concept of boredom so much that he’d begun to notice patterns in the pointlessness, details in the despairing cluelessness that someone probably shouldn’t, but he still liked to run them over in his mind whenever he felt it was necessary.
Firstly, being bored was never usually something that he particularly enjoyed. The feeling of emptiness, of having no purpose yet wanting to do something without knowing precisely what it was that he desired was deeply frustrating, and he hadn’t yet found a way to easily rid himself of it.
Secondly, boredom was never usually something that led to good decisions. The vast majority of the time, it would only lead to him sleeping for over 16 hours straight, or making regrettable impulse purchases whilst online shopping — hence why he was now the proud owner of a £70 chicken nugget pillow.
Thirdly, boredom was never usually something that led to him making the spontaneous decision to get on the first bus he saw and get off at the very last stop, but here he was, walking down an unfamiliar street in an area somewhere in the outskirts of London that he hadn’t quite identified. Nothing was particularly catching his interest, ordinary-looking people and row upon row of average-looking shop fronts, but he continued on walking, taking a sharp left as he neared the end of the road.
As he rounded the corner, he was greeted by yet another street, not at all dissimilar to the last one. He sighed, glancing over the bleak stretch of houses, hairdressers and coffee shops, turning on his heel to walk back towards the bus stop. He doesn't know what he was even expecting to find — something to brighten up his dull daily routine, perhaps, but this town looked as though it would be the last place he would find anything that came even remotely close to what he was looking for.
He took his phone out of his pocket, intending to check the time of the next bus home, pressing the power button to see… nothing. Great. Just brilliant. So, he was stuck, in an unknown place, for an indeterminable amount of time, with a phone that had chosen this moment to conveniently run out of battery.
This entire journey had been a waste of time, probably one of his worst boredom urges to date, though it wasn’t as though he couldn’t make the most of it. It was only about 3pm (not that he had any means of checking the exact time at the moment) and he might as well try and at least do something whilst he was here, so the trip wasn’t a complete waste of an afternoon. Though, if he was being entirely honest with himself, he was regretting it already and he’d been here all of five minutes.
A door closed behind him with a thud, and he turned towards it out of instinct, eyes falling upon a small café with dark tinted windows and a faded sign above it patterned with flowers. George hesitated for a second, before giving into his curiosity as he had known he would from the beginning. After all, what else was there to do?
Slowly, he pushed open the door, nearly jumping out of his skin at the gentle ding of the bell that sounded as he entered the café. It was tastefully decorated, furnished in dark, polished wood with blue accented decorations, and lights that cast a soft yellow glow around the shop, illuminating the scene in a burnished gold. Small vases of trimmed blue lilies sat in the centre of each table, and the curtains were drawn despite it still being light outside, creating the illusion of the place being closed off from the world beyond the door that had just shut behind him. A muted, though not unpleasant, chatter hummed in George’s ears as he neared the counter, and he couldn’t help but be fascinated by the mere aura of the place — there was something about it that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it was unlike anywhere he’d visited before.
“Hi, can I help you at all?” the barista asked, bringing George’s train of thought to an abrupt halt, as he scrambled to reorganise his brain enough to be able to come up with an intelligible response. She looked at him closely, a slight frown upon her face as she did so, and George had to restrain himself from shifting uncomfortably — he had the unsettling feeling that she could see directly into his mind.
“Uh, yeah,” George fumbles, eyes darting up to where he’d expect there to be a menu above the counter, but finding nothing other than a blackboard covered in detailed chalk drawings of flowers, and a vague outline of what looked to be some sort of statue. He was beginning to wish he’d thought his order through beforehand. “What do you recommend?”
He cursed himself internally. Couldn’t he have just ordered a latte, or something, anything else? Now he looked like an indecisive idiot who couldn’t even choose his own coffee-
“First time here?” the barista said with an interested smile, before turning around and reaching for a cup on a shelf behind her and beginning to prepare a drink.
“Is it that obvious?"
"People that have been here before know that you don't have to order," She said, pausing briefly before continuing with no further explanation, "besides, I recognise almost every face in this place, and I’ve certainly never seen yours before.”
George merely watched her for a moment, puzzling over his words before saying slowly, “What do you mean by you don’t have to order?”
“You’ll see,” the barista replied unhelpfully, stirring what looked like blue sugar into the drink and sliding it over the counter towards him.
Cautiously, so as not to spill any of the scalding liquid onto his fingers, he picked up the cup and made his way to the nearest table, sitting down and reaching into his pocket to retrieve his phone, only to remember how it had been rendered temporarily useless. Being here had almost helped him forget the reality of his unfortunate situation, what with being in this shop felt like another world entirely. He still hadn’t managed to figure out what exactly it was that made this place feel near magical, but maybe he didn’t need to. As he had grown older, he had found that all ‘magical’ things lost their charm after you discovered the explanation behind them. Although this seemed vastly different from the fairytale-esque stories of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny that he had grown up with, he thought that maybe this secret was one that he would rather never be told, if only to preserve this feeling of awe and enchantment forever.
Still deep in thought, he raised his cup to his lips, taking a small sip before hastily setting it back down again. Fantastic, a burnt tongue, just another thing to add to his mental list of ‘things that have gone wrong today ’, which was beginning to grow concerningly long.
“Mind if I sit down?”
George looked up, meeting the eyes of the barista that had made his drink.
“I don’t see why not, aren’t you supposed to be working though?”
“I own this place, I decide when I work,” She said, sitting down opposite George, giving him that same scrutinising gaze he’d been fixed with when he first approached the counter. George felt just as vulnerable as he had the first time, and shifted his hands nervously in his lap, though he didn’t quite understand why. It wasn’t as though he had anything to hide.
“I’m Tina,” the barista spoke abruptly, breaking her intense stare to offer her hand, which George shook, still confused.
“I’m-”
“George, right?” she interrupted, with a somewhat apologetic smile.
“How did you…?” George trailed off, intrigued even more than he had been before.
She paused for a second, carefully choosing her next words.
“Do you believe in fate, George?”
“Well, I…” he trailed off, deep in thought. He hadn't been expecting a conversation that was anything more than surface level, but he realises now that he was foolish to assume so. If there was any place that he would begin to question the intricacies of the universe, it would be somewhere like here. “I suppose, to an extent. I don’t like the idea that everyone's life is planned out for them, or that everything that happens is destined to happen, because then we have no freedom, you know? But-”
He cut himself off, before he inevitably started rambling, but Tina motioned for him to continue.
“I think- I think that there are some things that will happen, no matter what. Some places you’re bound to go, people that you’ll meet, that’ll stick with you forever.”
Tina smiled at his words, absentmindedly tapping her finger against the side of her teacup, “That’s a nice way of thinking about it.”
George was unsure to reply, so took another sip of his drink, which was — thankfully — cool enough to drink by now. Expecting that this was going to be a normal coffee was just another one of the mistakes he had made today, but forgive him for not anticipating that it would taste like honey, sunshine and… rainbow sprinkles? The combination of almost impossible flavours took him completely off guard, but that wasn’t to say that he didn’t enjoy it. No, it was quite possibly one of the more beautiful yet confusing things he had ever experienced, and it felt like something more than just a drink. It felt like the beginning. The beginning of what exactly, he was unsure, but he hoped that whatever was to come would feel just as glorious as this.
“Good?” Tina asked, with a knowing smile that gave away that she understood a lot more than she was choosing to admit.
“So good.” George took another sip, basking in the pure euphoria that washed over him as he did so. He hadn’t realised how long it had been since he had allowed himself to feel this free. If it weren't for the other people in the café, he would have tilted his head back and laughed — to allow just some of his ecstasy to escape so it didn't consume him entirely — but instead he settled for a quiet giggle muffled by his hoodie sleeve, which would have to do for now.
Tina eyed his reaction with nothing other than curious amusement, as though she had expected something like this — which, George tells himself, she probably had.
“What was that ?” George asked, after his brief fit of giggles had eventually subsided, still slightly dazed by the unexpectedness of it all.
“That was the future. If you want it.”
“I’m sorry?”
After living for twenty-five fairly uneventful years, George had come to the conclusion that this was what life was likely going to be like until the end. But now, if that was truly a glimpse of his future then everything he had ever felt before would be nothing, nothing compared to what was to come.
“You want the truth, right?” Tina affirmed.
“Of course,” George breathed.
“Then let me tell you a story,” Tina took a deep breath, as though steeling herself for her next words, then began, “Over 2000 years ago, when the Greek and Roman empires were at their peak, a young man was called to join the army. This wasn’t unusual for the time by any means, but what happened after, well, I’ll let you be the judge of that. The journey to his camp was long, and he was tired, hungry, so he stopped to rest by a river. On the riverside was a girl — a wounded, dying girl. She was alone, helpless, he had no obligation to help her, he didn’t know her, yet still he detoured from his journey to help her to the nearest village. He saved her life, and for that, she owed him everything.”
Tina paused, and George took the opportunity to ask, “Who was the girl? Did you know her?”
“I thought I did,” Tina mused, “but I realise now that one can never truly know themselves.”
“Themselves?” George frowned, and Tina only smiled, and continued.
“It was obvious to her that the young man was reluctant to continue with his journey. He had no desire to become a soldier; he was a writer, a poet, he had only left home to fight because he felt that it was the right thing to do. So I offered him a way out. Since he had saved me, I wanted to do the same for him in return. I gave him an escape, and although it was far from ideal, it would allow him to eventually have the freedom he so desired.”
“How did you help him?” George queried, his words still hushed, both physically and metaphorically on the edge of his seat.
“I took him to a safe place, a beautiful place — a field of blue lilies,” she gestured to the vase in the centre of the table, “and I turned him to stone.”
George’s eyes widened, lips parting as he gaped at the woman in front of him.
“He agreed to that?” George said, incredulous and appalled. Tina only raised an eyebrow, obviously surprised that he wasn’t going to question how this twenty-something-looking woman was apparently two thousand years old, or how she possessed medusa-like abilities.
“He did. I think he assumed I was joking when I first asked him, but it didn’t take long to convince him that I was entirely serious, and not long after that for him to realise that this was the only way he could ever get what he wanted. He would be preserved, frozen in time, until…”
“Until what?” George asked, impatient to hear more.
“Until you.”
Even if George had known how to respond, he was sure that no words would have escaped him. He was rendered utterly speechless, unable to do anything but stare at Tina whilst his thoughts ran rampant, crushing every last word under a stampede of confusion and unanswerable questions.
“I know you’ll have a lot of questions for me,” Tina said apologetically, “but now is really not the time that I should answer them. All you need to know is that you’re the only one that can help him, and he’s been waiting so long for you already. Go, don’t make him wait any longer.”
George nodded, muttering a hurried thanks as he rose from his chair and made to leave. It wasn’t until he had reached the door until he turned around, looking back to Tina, who was still seated and watching him with barely concealed elation.
“Where exactly is he?” George inquired, feeling suddenly stupid for forgetting such an important detail.
“Turn left as you leave here and keep walking, through the entrance to the park, you’ll know the place when you see it. He’s by the lake, under the archway, amongst the lilies.”
He opened the door, out onto the busy street of a world he had almost forgotten existed, but was stopped by a final call from behind him.
“George?” He looked over his shoulder, taking a final glimpse of the place and the person that had managed to change his entire perspective of reality in a single afternoon, “Thank you.”
And with a fleeting wave and a final smile, he stepped outside, letting the door swing shut behind him with a quiet thud that was masked by the cacophony of sounds from the bustling street.
At first, he walked, turning left and following the road just as Tina had told him, but couldn't help but break into a run at the sheer prospect of what he was drawing closer to with each step. Before today, the unknown had been close to terrifying, with the inability to prepare for anything that he might be faced with, but now, he didn’t think he could ever want anything more. He was ready to step forward and embrace it with open arms, to readily welcome this — whatever this was — into his life without question, because if what he’d briefly experienced earlier was truly where his future was headed, then the rest of the world would have to wait for him. There was no chance that he would give up something, someone, for the return of his dreary grey routine, not when he knew that they brought the promise of infinite sunny days, laughing rainbows and breathing summertime, their entire being the essence of pure unfiltered sunshine. He would protect them with all that he had until the day that he no longer could.
When he finally reached the entrance to the park, he almost ran straight past it, too caught up in his own head to immediately register the rusted archway that he had nearly missed entirely. In his defence, it wasn’t particularly eye-catching, nearly obscured by the overgrown bushes either side of it, ivy beginning to curl around the metal in some places. However, he paid no further attention to it, instead choosing to squeeze past the group of people standing in front of the gate — uttering a string of muttered apologies as he did so — and emerging onto the main path into the park. It was flat, open and spacious, with a wide stretch of grass littered with the occasional picnicking family or couple, or individual walking their dog. The path curved and continued to the edge of a small lake to his left, and he headed towards it without hesitation.
Perhaps on another day, he may have stopped to admire the beauty of the scene, for it was indeed a sight to behold. The sun was just about to set on the horizon, staining the sky muted shades of cherry and tangerine as the gradually fading rays of light flitted across the glassy surface of the water. Leaves in elegant shades of red, amber and gold drifted from the trees that were slowly moving in the gentle breeze, creating an autumnal carpet over the forest floor. George noticed none of this, his eyes locking onto a structure across the other side of the lake.
It looked almost out of place, even from this distance, ancient architecture that was almost perfectly preserved. Tina had mentioned earlier that the place would be surrounded by blue lilies — not that he needed the extra confirmation, he had known that this was it since he had first laid eyes upon it. He began to notice the flowers as he drew closer, sprinkled around the edges and creeping onto the main platform, their petals pristine and untouched. It was grand, magnificent even, but, oh, if George had thought the structure held splendour before, it was nothing compared to the breathtaking beauty of the statue that stood within it.
George began to wade through the small meadow of lilies surrounding the structure, barely regarding the words painstakingly engraved into the outer edge of the platform — ‘ amor omnia vincit’, a phrase that felt vaguely familiar to him, despite him having no idea what it meant — or the faded, intricate paintings on the inside of the domed roof. Could you really blame him though, when the centrepiece of the whole scene was such a sight to behold?
He was utterly gorgeous, with exquisitely carved features resembling that of a god, wearing only a simple toga and bearing a basket of somehow fresh flowers on his muscled arm. His expression was frozen in a moment of marbled surprise — full lips slightly parted and eyes wider than usual, looking ahead with something one could only describe as longing. None of this did anything to detract from the man's charm, George didn't think such a thing was possible. It took a moment for him to comprehend the fact that the flawless being in front of him was not just the idealistic work of a skilful craftsman, but a real person that he could speak to. Someone that he could touch, hold, kiss- but he was getting ahead of himself.
Before, he had hurried, not wanting to postpone this moment any longer after making the other wait so many fruitless years for it. Now, he stepped slowly, almost cautiously, onto the platform, wanting to savour the moment for as long as he possibly could. With one foot already on the first step, he couldn't help but reach for the hand of the captivating statue before him, and it was when the palm of his hand made contact with cold, solid stone that it began to change beneath his fingers.
Lifeless marble gave way to soft, warm skin, transforming in front of his eyes. George was transfixed, moving his hand up higher and higher, watching utterly entranced as more of the pristine stone gave way to his gentle touch, letting tender affection melt away the harsh edges into something tanned, lightly freckled and nothing short of angelic.
As his touch trailed up over a broad shoulder, cupping neck and jawline beneath elegant fingers, he stepped fully onto the platform, coming face to face with the statue that was steadily becoming human again. Well, it wasn’t exactly face to face, more like face to neck — George now realised that he was at least half a foot shorter than him, and could confidently guess that the other man would be able to easily rest his chin atop George’s head without any difficulty. The thought made his chest constrict, heart beating near violently against the tight confines of his ribcage. It was fortunate that he wasn’t one to blush easily, as it was at that moment that grey irises began to fade into a dazzling myriad of honey gold, delicate eyelashes fluttering against cheeks that were flooding with colour.
George could tell that the other man was not yet fully conscious — the majority of him was still yet to thaw, for lack of a better word — and he knew that it would probably be best for him to move away and give him some space before that was the case, but he couldn’t bring himself to step back. It was only when he felt a breath against his cheek and a pulse beneath where his palm had come to rest at the base of the man’s neck that he had the sense to step back, if only by a few feet.
This man had been stuck in one moment for thousands of years, and he was just now waking up in an entirely new era with nothing but the promise of a future that George was destined to help provide him. He had no family, nor friends, only a stranger that he had no choice but to trust. If the roles had been reversed, there was no doubt in George’s mind that he would be absolutely terrified — perhaps not even accepting Tina’s offer in the first place — yet when the man opened his eyes and saw George properly for the first time, there wasn’t the slightest hesitation in the smile that graced his lips.
“Hi,” George spoke tentatively, unsure how he should go about this conversation. It wasn’t as though he had prior experience with speaking to a statue turned his apparent soulmate, but he wasn’t nearly as nervous as he anticipated.
He didn’t get an immediate reply, as the man — George really needed to find out his name — brought his hands up in front of wondrous eyes, watching almost unbelievingly as the last traces of grey were swallowed by sun-kissed skin. It was only then that he looked up once more, before closing the distance between them in one long stride without a second's delay, bracing his large palms against George’s shoulders and gazing into his eyes with a look that conveyed nothing short of amazement.
"You're here," he mumbled, just simply taking him in, allowing starving eyes to wander, to feast, on the sight of the one that had freed him from his self-imposed prison of marble.
"Sorry it took me so long," George whispered in reply, scared that speaking any louder would shatter the sanctity of the moment, yet not able to help the smile forming on his lips, mirroring that of the man in front of him. His happiness was infectious, and it spread through him like the warmth of a hot drink on an icy winter’s day, though it was so much better than the coffee from earlier — not that he’d ever admit that to Tina. Earlier had been brief, it had been the beginning, but this held the tangible promise of forever. This joy might be eternal, and George thought, though he might be considered selfish for doing so, that there was nothing stopping him from sharing it with this man, and this man alone. So far, they knew nothing about each other, apart from their willingness to give one another the world.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” he whispered back, bringing George closer still, cradling his face beneath large yet overly careful palms — as though he still couldn’t quite believe it, as though if he grasped too tightly George would dissipate into nothing beneath his fingers. But he didn’t. For the first time in two millennia, he had someone constant. Someone he could trust.
George didn’t reply, only laughing softly when the hands against his shoulder moved around him to clasp against his back, engulfing him in a tight embrace. They both simply breathed, slowly, deeply, as they held each other for the first time of many, slightly unsure of themselves, but that was only to be expected. They had years to learn everything there was to know about the other — from their favourite colour to their McDonald’s order to the precise timbre of their morning voice — and now was as good a time as any to start.
After an indiscernible amount of time, and a moment that felt like aeons whilst probably only being a minute or so, George felt the man tilt his head downwards slightly, so that when he spoke, his surprisingly soft lips brushed against his cheek.
“I feel like I should know your name,” He spoke, and George thought that he could listen to that voice forever. It sounded like an ocean of calming warmth, endless tides of golden ambrosia, and he wanted to drown in it.
“George.” He replied, unable to keep that stupid smile off his face, burying his nose deeper into the man’s neck, hiding his face and effectively muffling his next words, “And yours?”
“Clay,” He said simply, still gazing down at the boy in his arms as though he had just given him the key to the universe — which, in a way, he had. George only scoffed, tilting his head where it rested on Clay’s shoulder to look up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of deceit, as though he thought he was being lied to. “What?”
“It’s a dumb name,” George muttered, unable to conjure any malice through the fondness still lurking in his tone, “A little ironic too, don’t you think?”
It was Clay’s turn to scoff a little at this, loosening his grip on George and allowing him to slip from his hold as he asked, “Would you prefer to call me something else?”
George considered for a moment, before wordlessly offering his hand out at his side, a clear invitation for Clay to take it. As Clay carefully took George’s hand in his, grinning like a primary schooler who had finally got their crush to talk to them as their palms pressed together, fingers interlocked in innocent devotion as they began to retreat back down the marble stairs of the structure.
“Dream,” George said abruptly, as they walked slowly through the patches of blue lilies at the foot of the steps, “I’m going to call you Dream.”
Dream.
He smiled, absentmindedly tracing light, tender circles with his thumb across the side of their joined hands. Although he would have gone along with whatever name George chose — not that he was willing to divulge that to George himself — he liked this one. Maybe it was the way that it fell from George’s tongue, how the syllables sounded when they tumbled gracefully from his lips. Maybe it was just that George had been the one to choose it.
“So can I call you nicknames too?” Dream asked.
“Like what?”
“Well, it would be up to you, but I do have a few in mind,” George nudged him with his shoulder, prompting him to continue, “Angel, honey, sweetheart-”
“Dream-” George objected, quickly cutting him off as he felt his face begin to heat up, outright refusing to blush at such simple (but so overwhelmingly endearing) words, yet somehow managing to do so anyway. He’d blame it on the cold.
They continued back down the path, basking in the serenity that came with the fading daylight, and it was only as they neared the entrance of the park that George noticed the problem. A very pressing problem, in the shape of cream fabric and worn beige sandals. He’d been far too distracted to notice the plethora of strange looks directed at them whilst they had been walking together, Dream’s strange attire catching the eyes of almost every passerby, and he couldn’t really blame them — Dream was wearing nothing other than a toga, with an ornate gold leaf headpiece balanced atop perfect blond curls, it would have been more surprising if people didn’t question him. But here Dream was, looking like he’d just walked off the set of some Hollywood movie set in Ancient Greece, without a clue as to what was going on.
George was debating what the best possible way out of this situation was, and had just about decided on sprinting for the gate and possibly going back to the café when Dream raised a hand and waved at a gawking group of teenagers.
“Dream!” George hissed in his ear, grabbing his wrist and making another attempt to tug him towards the exit.
“What? I’m just being friendly-” Dream objected, flashing a smile to the group as he fought to free his arm from George’s grasp.
“I know you are, but they aren’t. We need to leave quickly or they’ll start taking photos of us,” George explained, finally getting a firm grip on his hand once more and beginning to pull him away from the crowd of people beginning to amass beside them.
“Taking photos?”
“Yes Dream, taking photos,” George replied, focusing more on how to get them out of there than Dream’s seemingly pointless confusion, until he suddenly remembered. “Do you know what a phone is? A camera?”
Dream shook his head, evidently more intrigued by each new item he listed, an innocent sort of wonder in his eyes. It hadn’t occurred to George how little Dream would know about the modern world, but it wasn’t as though his lack of knowledge was completely detrimental; there would be plenty of time for him to learn. They had years upon years in which he could teach Dream about the new universe he was yet to experience, millions of minutes in which they could rediscover everything together, and every second was to be looked forward to. Right now though, there was still the very pressing matter of how they were going to get home.
It was when they reached the main road that George realised he hadn’t really thought this through at all. If they’d been turning the heads of the few people in the park, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t considered that it would only increase in intensity when they entered a place ten times as populated. At least Dream seemed unbothered by it — he was far more interested in the passing cars, fascinated by the power lines, peering through every shop front at all the things he’d never seen before.
Surprisingly, George managed to successfully navigate them back to the bus stop without any help from Google Maps, not that his dead phone would have been much help even if he had needed it.
It wasn’t until they were standing, waiting for the bus, that he actually heard someone make a snarky comment about Dream’s clothing, their poor attempt at a whisper just loud enough for George to hear. It wasn’t as though Dream didn’t look good, because he absolutely did — he looked great, stunning even — people just needed to mind their own business. The old woman that had made the first criticism muttered yet another thing to her friend, beady eyes still trained on him and Dream, lips partially hidden behind a wrinkled hand as though it did anything to conceal her malicious intent. He had had enough.
“Look, just…” George trailed off, before abruptly pulling his hoodie over his head, taking it off and leaving him in a plain white shirt. He shivered slightly as he held it out to Dream, who was looking at him in utter disbelief. “Here, put this on.”
“You expect me to wear that?” Dream asked, evidently appalled, looking between the offending garment and George’s exasperated face.
“Yes, now quit being a baby and put it on before the bus gets here,” George pushed the hoodie into Dream’s hands, who held it gingerly as though it was a ferocious animal that would attack at any moment. “Dream, it’s not going to bite you.”
“George-” Dream pleaded, with puppy dog eyes that a weaker man than George would have given in to. But George wasn’t weak, and no matter how adorable that pout looked, he wasn’t planning on giving in.
“Dream.”
“Do I have to?”
“Unless you want people staring at us the whole way home.”
“It’ll be too small,” Dream complained, but began to slowly pull the hoodie on anyway, still grumbling something about ‘looking like a commoner’ under his breath whilst George watched him with an amused smile. After a few seconds of struggling, in which an arm got pushed through the hole meant for his head, Dream had successfully managed to pull the hoodie on, much to his own apparent distaste.
He was right, it was indeed a size or two too small for him, the pastel blue fabric barely reaching his waist even when it was stretched as far as it would go. He looked at least marginally less conspicuous than before — the flowing material of his toga that fell as far as his knees now just looked like a long skirt.
“Comfy?” George asked, and he couldn’t deny that the sight of Dream in his hoodie was one of the most adorable things he’d ever seen. That was until the idiot brought the neckline up to his nose and had the audacity to sniff it, “What the fuck are you-”
“Warm. Smells nice,” He answered, words muffled by the thick fabric he was currently burying his face in.
George merely shook his head fondly, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Dream with what some would describe as an enamoured smile. When Dream finally looked up and noticed George’s staring, he had the decency to look at least slightly embarrassed, a shy pink flush staining the bridge of his nose, accenting his freckles.
“You’re cute,” George murmured, and Dream’s lips parted in surprise, his blush noticeably deepening. Dream opened his mouth, but was quick to close it again — there wasn't much that he could do with a tongue that remained limp and unmoving, refusing to form any of the words that he wished to speak.
The bus arrived shortly after, and the journey was fairly quiet. Dream spent the majority of it staring out of the window, marvelling at each aspect of the world from behind smudged glass, pointing things out every so often and asking what they were. George was patient, explaining the intricacies of objects as mundane as street lamps whilst Dream listened attentively, hanging off his every word.
The journey back to George’s flat was short, but it felt like everything. By the time they reached their stop, the city was already shrouded in darkness, though the first stars had not yet begun to appear — not that they’d be able to see them very clearly anyway. As they walked along the moonlit streets hand in hand, George wondered what it would be like to stargaze properly. Somewhere far from the city, where the sky shone as bright as the sun in the daytime, and they could be with no other purpose than to look . To take in the subtleties of the universe and share them with someone beside him, resting their head on his chest as they laid together in the grass, trading constellations through whispers and weighted glances. It was terrifying how quickly that someone in his mind was starting to take the shape of Dream.
George had unconsciously denied himself of physical affection with anybody else for so long that he had forgotten how utterly electrifying it could be, and it felt so good to finally give in. Their steps synced as they walked, and he treasured the warm press of their palms that swung between them with each step they took. Each point of contact, each moment, was to be cherished. All the tiny details were to be stored carefully, in a box made from gold and encrusted in diamonds, and even that didn't seem a special enough place to keep them. Dream deserved every precious thing there was in the world, and George might not be able to collect all of them, but he would try. He’d try anything — go to the end of the world and two steps further if only to keep him smiling — and by the way Dream met his gaze, eyes sparkling with something that was too new to call love yet so far past simple adoration, he knew that the sentiment was mutual.
They made their way up the stairs to George’s flat in comfortable silence, stealing glances at each other as George fumbled with his key before eventually managing to unlock the door. If it had been anyone else, he may have felt at least slightly self conscious over the state of his living space, but there were much more important things to be worrying about right now. Like how cold he was, and how the hell he had managed to run out of teabags.
“Have you ever had hot chocolate?” George asked, as they made their way into his cramped kitchen.
“Hot… chocolate?”
“I’ll take that as a no. You’ll like it, I promise.”
He sat on the counter and watched George make his way around the kitchen with practised ease, biting his tongue to prevent a multitude of questions spilling from his lips. Today had been a long day, and he was sure there would be another to ask what the tall shiny cold box was and why George kept the milk in there. George had only laughed when he caught Dream staring at the fridge in bewilderment, before handing him a steaming mug of a sweet-smelling substance that Dream was yet to identify. He held it similarly to how he had the hoodie earlier, as though he was suspicious of it being dangerous or poisoned.
“I’m beginning to think that you don’t trust me,” George said with a smile, bringing his own mug to his lips. He took a small sip, before setting it down on the counter next to Dream, “See? It’s fine.”
“If I die-” Dream started, picking up his own mug slowly, as though he still thought that it was going to explode. George only laughed again.
“Just drink the hot chocolate, idiot.”
Dream paused for a moment, considering, “What do I get out of it?”
“Dream,” George started, bringing a hand to Dream’s face and turning it so they were looking directly at one another, “I’m asking you to try a drink I made, not help me eradicate the human race.”
Dream huffed, but let the smallest amount of the drink pass his lips, trying to conceal his reaction as George watched him with knowing eyes. It was good, he’d admit that to himself, though definitely not to George. He didn’t go through all that just to accept that he was wrong, no, he was far too stubborn for that. So using the last remaining vestiges of willpower that he possessed, he resisted the urge to take another sip and instead set his mug down beside him.
“So?” George inquired, grinning as though he somehow knew exactly what had just gone through Dream’s head.
“It was okay,” He conceded, avoiding George’s gaze. Dream could almost sense George’s smile widening.
They sat for a while longer, idly talking about everything and nothing, movements steadily growing more languid as the night drew in. Eventually, George yawned, sliding off the counter and turning to face Dream as he did so.
"Aren’t you coming to bed?" George said casually, stretching his arms above his head as he did so like this was the most normal thing in the world, as though Dream’s heart didn’t feel like it was on the verge of collapsing at the sight.
"I've been sleeping for two thousand years, I can stay awake a little longer."
"Come and lie with me at least." George offered his hand, and who would Dream be to deny such a beautiful boy of such a tempting offer? He took the hand in his own, though not without pressing a gentle kiss to the palm first, and the flustered smile he received in return made him want to do it again and again until his lips were numb.
He followed George to his room wordlessly, allowing himself to be led without question — guided to lay atop baby blue bedsheets, wrapped in blankets and- oh. George climbed into the bed next to him, on his side facing Dream, hand resting between his face and the pillow beneath it.
“Hi,” George breathed, smiling stupidly as a blush spread over Dream’s face at their proximity.
“Hello,” Dream whispered back, resisting the urge to bury his face in the pillows, or better yet, George’s neck.
They stayed, maintaining eye contact for a long moment before George tentatively raised his hand to hover centimetres above the dip of Dream’s waist and asked, even quieter, “Can I?”
“Of course,” Came Dream’s near breathless reply, the innocent contact punching the air from his lungs. George’s hand trailed over his hips, moving slowly up his torso until it came to rest on his shoulder. Just as cautiously, Dream shifted into the touch, bringing them almost impossibly closer, lifting his arms up hesitantly to rest around George’s waist.
It was unusual, George thought, to have someone to care so deeply for and be cared for in return. Strange, yes, but never in his life had he wanted anything more. Dream’s head resting on his shoulder, his hair tickling the underside of George’s jaw whenever he breathed, bodies pressed against each other from ankle to neck. It was nice. Warm. Wrapped up together under the same blankets in the middle of George’s bed, two half empty mugs of hot chocolate left forgotten in the kitchen as they held each other and talked. Just simply talked. Talked in hushed voices and quiet giggles, occasionally reaching out to touch — when they found adequate excuses to.
George yawned, and Dream only laughed softly, reaching over to brush away a stray strand of dark hair that had fallen into darker eyes.
"Tired?" Dream asked, his hand lingering where it cupped George’s cheek, not yet wanting to let go but unsure whether he was allowed to remain. All he got in response was a mumble of assent, George's voice muffled slightly from where he had turned his face towards Dream's palm. "You can sleep, I'll still be here in the morning."
"Promise?" George asked sleepily, looking up at Dream through heavy eyelids that were already fluttering under the strenuous effort of trying to stay open. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want this day to end. He wanted to stay here — wrapped in blankets and the warmth of Dream’s arms — forever. But, he supposed, there was always tomorrow, the day after and the one after that. They had the rest of their lives; tonight was only the beginning.
"I promise," Dream murmured, and that was enough for George, enough for him to let his eyes slip shut, arms wrapping around Dream’s middle as he rapidly began to lose consciousness.
“G’night,” George mumbled into Dream’s chest. It wasn't long before his breathing began to even out into long, deep breaths that tickled the skin over Dream’s collarbones with every exhale. It should have been scary how easily he could see himself getting used to this.
“Goodnight, angel,” Dream whispered, pressing a featherlight kiss to George's forehead. If his lips lingered for a few seconds longer than they should've done, it wasn't as though there was anyone there to notice. And if George couldn't help but smile at the contact, it wasn't as though Dream would know he was awake. It was midnight, it was dark, it wasn't like they'd bring this up in the morning. Though, as George drifted off to sleep — for real this time — he thought that maybe talking wouldn't be so bad after all, not if it meant that every night could be like this.
He was woken up the next morning by the sunshine, despite his curtains being closed. It shifted in his arms, pulling them closer together and enveloped George in its golden warmth. For years, his sky had been bleak, filled with nothing but an endless monotony of grey nothingness. Now there was light. His sun, who had big hands and pretty eyes and a gorgeous smile. His sun, who came with the promise of domestic mornings and endless summer days. His sun, who he had named Dream. Dream, who was wishing him a 'good morning, princess' and kissing the tip of his nose, attempting to help him make pancakes and nearly burning himself as he tried to use the stove. Dream, who was perfect. Dream, who was his.
He knew that there were some secrets that would be kept for all eternity, shared between no-one but the two of them, and he wanted this to be theirs.