Work Text:
— The first.
George wakes up to a beeping sound. He looks to his right to check if he had accidentally set his alarm clock for the weekend again. He didn’t, the sound was coming from behind him.
It was usually quiet this part of town, only the occasional lizard cuckoo at night interrupting their silence.
He kneels on his bed to get a view from his window. A few men wearing IDs and uniformed shirts were carrying boxes out of a large truck that was making all the noises. Someone was finally moving into the the house in front of his. It had been empty for almost a year already.
George continues to watch the people through his curtain when another man catches his attention. He was tall, tan, blond, and around his age. He was a beautiful sight to see, especially since he wasn't wearing anything but a white tank top, red flannel pajamas, and a dirty khaki apron filled with splashes of paint. The shadows of the midday light highly emphasized the girth of his arms, contouring his muscles spectacularly.
He didn't realize he had been staring because the blond turns his head towards his direction and makes eye contact with him. George's face suddenly flusters and he looks away hurriedly, a warm feeling overcoming him.
He builds the courage to look out the window again, and the blond man was already looking. He waves, and George does the same.
Nothing particularly happened in his boring, suburban life, so George figured, why not? Why not introduce himself to the new neighbor?
"Hi," was the first word he spoke to him.
"Hi. Um well I guess you'll be seeing me a lot. I'm moving in here," the stranger replies nervously.
"Yeah, and I guess I'll be seeing you a lot too. I live here."
"That's cool."
An awkward silence ensued. George didn't know why, but his new neighbor's presence was weirdly calming. He had a nice star-smitten smile which emphasized his rounded cheeks and his fluffy hair was spread all over his head as if he had just woke up, but in a good way. George could almost imagine himself tiptoeing up to reach for his hair and ruffle it, feeling the strands weave through his fingers.
He couldn't tell what he was feeling, but it was some sort of shy attraction to the man. He doesn’t even know if he still remembered how that felt like. It had been such a long time since he had a crush on someone, the last time being his former girlfriend two or three years ago back during his college days.
George realized he had been staring (again). There really was something about this man that George couldn't help but stare.
"I- I could help you carry these if you need," George says measly, breaking the tension and pointing to the rest of the boxes in the truck.
"Yeah actually, let's do that," the blond smiles.
When George steps foot inside the house, carrying a heavy box that had the word 'fragile' on it, he's taken aback by it's interior. A light green fluffy carpet draped the floor while several plants in clay pots hung by weaved macrame strings were adorning the ceiling. A crystal in the corner of the living room reflected fragments of the rainbow onto any surface it could find. There wasn't particularly any furniture yet, but George could see that the place was coming together splendidly. Just by judging how the living room looked and the man's appearance, George reckoned that he must be some sort of artist. It fueled his curiosity about his new neighbor more.
They work somewhat silently for about thirty minutes, occasionally making small talk here and there. From time to time, George would feel the man steal glances at him. It made George just a tad bit more nervous. He hoped that he looked at least decent or that he didn't smell bad. Maybe the man was secretly judging him.
It was unusual for George to feel this way, he didn't really overthink this much when he met new people. But then again, there was really just something about this guy.
George shoves all his thoughts aside, he was probably just nervous because he hadn't talked to anyone new in a while.
"What are in all these boxes, if you don't mind me asking?"
"A lot of clay, and a lot of pots," the blond says almost blankly. George didn't really understand what he was talking about so he responds with a confused look.
The stranger laughs, "You know those people who make pots and dishes on those spinny disc thingies? I do that for a living."
"Really?" George says, more intrigued now that he was unraveling a little bit more about his handsome new acquaintance. "That explains the apron."
"Yeah, I forgot I was wearing this actually."
"Well, could you show me?"
"Show you what?"
"The spinny thing."
"Oh. Yeah well sure, follow me."
So George does while thinking about the information his neighbor just revealed about himself. Being a clay maker meant that he would be a pretty creative person, meaning the house would probably look really beautiful when finished. George hopes that he could help him decorate the place , so he hurriedly scours his mind, looking for other reasons to hang out with him again after this.
A visible gasp escapes George's mouth when they enter the new room. There were four metal shelves decorated with clay crafts, all unique from one another. Plates, pots, vases; dipped in a multitude of colors and finished sheen with a transparent glaze. To the left of the room there was a metal disc, the 'spinny thing' the man had been talking about, he assumed.
George was so busy studying the room that he didn't even notice the blond already walking over to the pottery wheel to plug it in. He then grabs a bucket of water and a reddish-brown powdery bag of what looked like clay. Afterwards, he pulls out a stool and motions for George to sit on it.
"Me?"
"Well, this might be a little impromptu since we just met, but want me to teach you how to make a ceramic?"
George sits on the stool, shaky and awkward, while the blond explains to him the how-tos for making a small cup. George follows. He first wets his hands completely in the bucket, grabs a handful of clay from the bag by cutting a slice with a string, and then smooths it over the metal disc. His foot was pressing generously on the pedal under the pottery wheel, controlling its speed carefully.
"Alright, so the first thing you have to know is that you should never, ever sit on the pottery wheel. It's fragile, so sitting on it might break it."
After a while, George got the hang of it. They continued making different items, the next being more difficult than the last. With each clay craft the man taught him George noticed that his heart started to patter harder and harder. Eventually, he noticed that his heart rate was almost as fast as the spinning plate. But unlike it, he was unable to control how fast it was going.
Whenever George needed help, the neighbor would guide his hands and step in, almost a little too close to him to be called friendly.
"Here, you have to do it like-"
"You seem to be having a hard time showing me, want to sit here?" George interrupts while pointing to the small space left behind him on the stool, silently cursing himself for bringing up the suggestion. The two of them were now looking at each other dumbfounded, tension filling up the room. George wasn't sure if it was awkward tension or... or the other type of tension (you know what I mean).
"A-are you sure?"
"Yeah it's alright. I mean, is it okay with you?"
"Yeah? I don't really mind," the man walks over and sits, his legs enveloping George's. His arms then proceed to hug his body, finding it's way on George's hands. He had already been touching his hands for the past hour, but this time it was different. This time he wasn't just altering a few of his fingers or delicately adjusting the positions of his palms. This time it was the whole entire being of the stranger's hands holding his . He had a strong grip, and the inside of his palms felt rough, an indicator to George that he probably worked out a lot.
This causes George's mind to wander accidentally to how he would think his neighbor would look like, all hot and sweaty, lifting a weight with his arm, biceps contracting and constricting and contracting.
The sound of the pottery wheel snaps him out of his gaze, and he continues his lesson with the stranger.
George had absolutely no idea what was going on anymore. He couldn't concentrate on his hands and the wet clay as much as before because all one hundred percent of his five senses were overridden by this exhilarating energy between them both, a feeling that he forgot he missed.
"So you do this..." the man whispers in his ear. George hadn't realized how close he actually was until he spoke. His breath was crackling embers against his skin, like oil on a hot pan excitedly bouncing up and down. It was only then that George fully broke down what was going on, the man's meaty shoulders against his bony ones, the man's upper torso gliding against the fabric of his black shirt. With each second that passed by it got hotter and hotter, and George was well about to-
A sensation around his lower back stops George in his tracks. Under normal circumstances, George would feel embarrassed for him, but there was nothing normal about their situation right now. He releases his foot from the pedal of the metal disc slowly, not making any abrupt movements in fear of ruining the moment. George's hands then turn outwards to hold the stranger's.
The heat in George's body thickens as the man starts to rub his legs against his. George brings his head backwards, nape resting on the blond's right shoulder. He gasps in a burst of pleasure while moving his head from left to right, the man still continuing to thrust against him.
The blond stands up, hands still intertwined with George's, and sits atop the metal plate. He hurls George toward him, rather roughly, to sit on his left leg. George, almost moving in autopilot, hurriedly undresses himself and the man.
"I thought you said not to sit on top of the pottery wheel," they were now both making out, skin against skin, exhaling every few seconds to catch their breath.
"Just forget everything I just told you."
The man's lips start to pepper down George's stomach. George squeezes his shoulder and back tighter, almost digging his fingernails in in satisfaction. His hand then finds itself trailing around the man's bulge, pulling his pants down further first. They keep at this motion while mainly keeping their tongues in each others' mouths. George feels the man's hairy legs stroke his, flexing his feet in enjoyment.
"I don't even know your name," George pauses, the blond’s teeth biting his lips. They were now looking each other eye-to-eye. George noted how green his irises were.
"It's Dream."
"I'm George."
The blond's lips travel down the side of his neck. A painful delight of teeth sinking in and sucking his skin upwards follows next. George screams, hands grabbing tight onto Dream's hair, not daring to let go of him as they continue their messy dance of attraction on the pottery wheel, fervent bodies melting the cold of the metal disc.
— The second.
George hadn't been particularly feeling well. The alarm clock he had set for the weekday failed to wake him up, so he had to call out sick for work. But even though his body was racked with chills and his head felt like a balloon about to pop from the pressure, he still continued to work. The piles of book manuscripts he had to finish reading seemed to taunt him, lulling him to go to sleep instead and rest.
Ding dong.
Bored and suffering out of his mind, George was thankful for the distraction.
He groggily walks to the door, noting the rush of white static that overwhelmed his vision. He opens the door to his new neighbor standing in front of him, then the cracking sound of red ceramic against cement. He hadn't seen him since the other day when they had slept together.
"Oh, shit," the blond says.
Pieces of hardened clay and specks of soil littered the walkway to his house. George had toppled down a potted plant placed by his door that Dream seemed to be gifting to him. He and the man quickly squat down to clean the mess up. George briefly processes that Dream was being thoughtful enough to give him something, and his feelings for the man heighten.
"I'm sorry, my door swings outwards, not inwards," George says apologetically, gathering the pieces to the side while trying hard to keep his balance.
The man laughs, "Yeah, I was just about to say." George sniffs a little to relieve himself, but the congestion in his nose did not want to leave. By this point, George could sense that the blond felt that something was off about him.
"I was going to get it fixed and then I got too busy."
George was about to apologize again when Dream exclaims in anguish.
"Oh my god," the brunet says. He quickly jumps to his side to squeeze the newly formed cut on his hand with his shirt, blood oozing out from all its corners.
He and Dream were now both inches away from each other, George's hand gripping the blond's tight. He looks up from the wound and gets a closer look at his neighbor, noticing a few other things he wasn't able to make out due to the sheer intensity of things the last time they met. His hair looked much darker in person, or maybe it was just because of the dimming setting sun. His smile was slightly crooked to the left and his eyebrows were mismatched, one being a little bit longer than the other.
George hadn't even realized it but Dream's eyes were heavily studying his face as well. They both look away and stand up from their awkward position on the ground.
"Again I am so so sorry. I am really going to get that door fixed I swear."
"You can stop saying sorry, really it's alright. I get cuts like this all the time."
"You do?"
"Yeah, making pots."
"Oh."
Again, silence. The brunet exhales through his mouth and continues.
"Well should I- let go of your hand? What if it keeps bleeding. There's a first aid kit in my house. Would you like to come in?"
"Alright."
They both walk inside within close range of each other, George dragging behind the stranger and hand clasped tightly onto his. A sudden sneeze fit riddles George and it urges him to jerk away from Dream.
"You don't seem alright."
"I'm a little sick."
"Oh shoot, you probably got that from me. I was sick last week. I'm sorry."
It was unfortunate that George had caught a bug from hooking up with Dream, but it was the best sex of his life, so he wasn't even going to complain one bit.
"I broke your pot, you made me sick. We're even." George looks Dream straight in the eye as he says this, mustering a smile through his faltering feeble body. The blond smiles back and George scurries to a drawer to pull out a medical kit. He wraps Dream's hand in a bandage.
"Thanks," they were both still huddled closely together, sitting on his cluttered working desk. To George, it had only sunk in now that this was actually happening. Him and a stranger, his hand fondling his, his body heat sharing the warmth of his. Not much went on in his quiet suburban life, so this was definitely something.
"You seem to like the color blue," Dream notes, looking around at his surroundings.
"Seem to," George says sarcastically and laughs. His whole house was an escapade of light and dark blue hues.
"Well yeah, you really like it."
When George finishes, he takes a deep breath and stretches his arms behind him, pressing his palms on the table. To his surprise, he feels Dream's hands find their way onto his shoulders, rubbing them in careful beats, almost synchronous to the pounding of his own heart. It was nice to have company while he was sick.
"Mmmm."
"You like that?"
"Mhhmmm."
A sudden dizzy agitation fills George's head; he had probably been moving too much over the past ten minutes. A need to move to the couch and lie down overcomes him so he stands up, a little too quickly, and almost trips over his own steps. If Dream hadn't caught him he would have probably been reeling on the floor already. George's arm secures itself over Dream's wrist, and he helps him walk to the living room.
The Florida weather was no help at all, even though it was scorchingly hot George could still feel cold sweats sticking to his skin like glue. Every few seconds his eyebrows would crease up and down in discomfort because of his migraine, the light coming from the window also causing his eyes to squint open and close in pain. This continued on for a few minutes, and George realized that Dream had left him there.
He probably walked out the front door, and George just didn't hear him.
The brunet was a little disappointed by this, almost sad, but he was too tired to focus on that right now. He falls asleep along with the setting sun.
— The third.
George wakes up later in the night, not to his alarm clock, but to Dream sitting on the couch opposite his. His legs were folded comfortably under him, and he was reading one of the manuscripts he had piled onto his desk.
"I hope you don't mind, I stole one of your books."
"Yeah, it’s fine."
George’s throat had improved over his deep slumber. He looks around to take in what was happening and realizes that the blanket from his bedroom was draped over him and a glass of water and ibuprofen was also on the coffee table in front of him. Another thing that caught his attention was a little clay pot with a plant in it, one like the one he broke earlier, but this time a white one with little specs of blue in them. The fragments of blue seemed to be made from a translucent glass, and the shine that covered the clay made its colors glow more. It was beautiful, even in the dark. It looked untouchable, as if no one other than the gods were allowed to handle its beauty.
"I made you soup but when I came back here you were fast asleep. So I went ahead to make you another pot, this time a get well soon one."
A light chuckle from Dream echoes throughout the room. It was the first time George could study him under the darkness. He definitely looked more of a dirty blonde now, and the light of the moon accentuated his cheekbones and jawline more. It was crazy how he could look so round-faced under the sun, and look so sharp and defined under the moonlight. The two images of day and night Dream flood George’s mind; he really was a dashingly handsome sight to see.
The blond walks over to George and towers over him. The cold backside of his bandaged hand touches George's forehead lightly, eyebrows knitting slightly in concern. "Are you feeling better now?"
"Yes, I guess your get well soon plant worked." Dream's face perks up in delight, and it made George happy to see him do so.
"How's your hand?"
"It's better too."
"You have a lot of books here."
"I work at a publishing firm. It's my job to read."
"You approve and reject books?"
"Yeah."
"Interesting, a clay potter and a book reader, together."
"Together."
George sits up and smiles sheepishly, adjusting the blanket to only cover his legs, warmth filling in his cheeks but not from his fever, from his attraction to the blond. Dream turns on the lights of his house, holds out the cup of water and medicine for him to drink, and sits on the coffee table.
"Well, read to me your favorite quote."
"From where?"
"Anywhere."
George didn't have to think hard about the question, his favorite quote came from this poem by Maya Angelou. He's even had it memorized.
He clears his throat. "Your body never forgets how a person made your nervous system feel. I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." George says with a rather stuffy throat. He runs his blanket through his fingers, nervous to see Dream's reaction. Though a feeling of curiosity overrides his inhibitions, and he gets lost in Dream's green loving eyes.
Dream looks as if he had been struck by lightning, smitten with passion and awe. His fingers lace around George's.
"I'd like to fall in love with you."
"You do?" George was lost for air, it felt like the stars were finally falling into place.
"I mean, I don't know you well yet. But I'd like to get to know you more so that I could fall in love with you. You're the type of person everyone falls in love with within first glance, but I want to be the one to actually take the chance to be with you." Dream smiles, but it wasn't one of those soft smiles he had been giving George all week, it was a smile of promise, of commitment, of sincerity. A smile of tomorrow and of forever.
"Dream..." George whispers. No one but the both of them were in the room, but he wanted to make sure only they could hear. He wanted just this moment to be theirs, so not even the prying sun or the looming moon could watch them fall in love.
"Shut up and kiss me George."
The two fiery souls merge into one.