Work Text:
George was beat, beat at his own game. He’s put too much on the line for this. His money, his parents’ approval, his livelihood, and most importantly, his self-worth.
It’s all just been sacrifices for the past five years, but never anything in return.
Reap the benefits they say. Bullshit.
He's talked to countless of publishers, whether in meetings or on the phone, all followed by the hard-hitting bitter rejection of a 'sorry, your work's not good enough for us to produce'. Because of this, he's resorted to posting his stories online, and at most he'd receive a couple hundred likes. It was rewarding at times, but not enough to get himself out there and become a mainstream author.
He was tired of it all. Dealing with the looks of pity from his friends and receiving the scowls of disappointment from his mother and father. He promised them that if he pursued a career in writing that he'd make it big and make them proud, but alas, look at where he was at now.
Most of the time he'd convince himself that him and his stories weren't the problem, it was simply only because he had no one to launch him to success. No publisher wanted to publish his works, and measly Twitter algorithms didn't want to help him gain more traction either.
Your writing isn't bad, it's just that the world hates you.
Recently though, it's been getting harder and harder to convince himself of the thought. Each day that passed by, a drop of madness fills his heart, ready to overflow and drive him delirious. He just wanted people to see him, but no one wanted to. No one ever did. No one ever did because his stories sucked. So maybe it was his writing that was the problem, not the people. Maybe he just wasn't good. Maybe he should just give up.
To make matters worse, George has been stuck in a writer's block for the past five months. Everyday he'd open his laptop and stare at nothing, just a void of his own anxiety and despair presented before him on a blank piece of white paper. So many words running through his mind yet nothing of value to write, just sentiments of doubt and degradation bouncing off the delicate walls of his brain, daring to shatter what little self-respect and sanity he has left.
And there he was again, in the same little coffee shop in front of his vacant, overbearing laptop. The café was located by the London apartment building he had just moved into, so he was there often. The baristas knew him well, but not well enough to ask him personal questions about his life. Him having his laptop open in front of him without him typing a single word whenever he was there would always remain unknown to the staff, and George always liked that screen of mystery between them. Unlike his friends and his parents, no one could judge him for being a failure here, because they would never know he was one.
He looks out into the plaza, the view overlooking the seat where he was usually at. A string of cars were circling a rotunda made up of stone bricks. In the middle there was a statue of some British war hero, its face undistinguishable after decades of tarnish. There were a few people on the sidewalks, a woman with a stroller, another woman using an umbrella as a cane, and a man walking swiftly with a suitcase. It had just recently rained, so the streets were glazed with the shiny sheen of the rainwater. He didn't know what colors they all were, but he thought that maybe he'd try to write about it. But then he realized, maybe he ought not to write at all?
For the first time in his five years of being a writer, quitting seemed really appealing to him. He could just code for a living, and probably make millions working at Google or Microsoft or something. Yeah, he'd just do that instead.
But he hated coding, and he loved writing.
Fine, if I don't churn out something out today, then it's a sign that I'm done with being a writer forever.
He tried all his might to write something, anything, desperate to hold on to whatever dreams of his youth he had left, but nothing became if it, so he decided to pack his things up and leave.
The click of the power button, the slam of a laptop, and the shuffle of a bag. As he was about to stand up, a blond man and a brunette woman enters the shop.
The boy was just mesmerizing. George didn't know why he was so drawn to a stranger, but he was. He was wearing brown gloves with holes at its fingertips, a white sweater vest with yellow details encasing its seams, blue washed out jeans, and a beige leather coat. His hair was clean-shaven on the sides, and a knitted light violet (or at least he thinks that it was violet) headband with cat ears was keeping his hair up. As he walked by him, George noticed that the band was tied behind his head by white-colored strings with pompoms attached at the ends that draped the sides of his neck.
The girl he was with was particularly pretty too. She was petite in size and was wearing black stockings, a miniskirt, and an oversized yellow sweater. It was his girlfriend, George had assumed.
"So, do you like the headband I made for you?" The girl asked curiously.
"Of course I do, Tina. Also it's so cute that we actually matched green today." The boy replied eagerly.
Oh, they're wearing green. George realized. Judging by how the girl had just gifted him something and how the boy had just called them accidentally matching 'cute', confirmed to George that they were girlfriend and boyfriend.
For a while the both of their backs stood in silence in close proximity to George's table. They were figuring out what to order from the menu in front of them.
"Dream I know what I want to get, do you?" The man nods and they both head to the counter further to the front of the café.
He really does live up to the name though. He was definitely a dream to look at. Although he was only looking at his back, he could see the curvature of his muscles by his careful demeanor. Tall, slim, but wide shoulders. George found himself opening up the laptop again, but with his fingers on the keys this time.
The man moves with an august body. He allows for no room for error, with the way he lifts up a dollar to the way he presses his palms on the rough wood of the counter. With the simple flex and relaxation of a muscle it seems to be a carefully thought out and calculated action, as if he dare not anyone see him make a mistake. That was how the boy carried himself, but there is a simple inquiry that I wish to indulge in. Does he also feel the same on the inside, the way he composes himself on the outside?
His jacket was tight-formed on his arms, and the way it stretched around the skin of his muscles can clearly be seen. Even for a person who cannot easily distinguish colors, the hair on his head was a calm yellow, like sand on the beach wet by the fearless waves. As his hands stretch out to reach the coffee being handed to him, his sleeves retract a bit, and his forearms reveal itself to light. His hands seem to carry the heavy plight of his day-to-day work represented by the veins that carve deeply around the thick of his bones.
The man, Dream, had turned around to walk to the table he and the girl were sitting at. Something takes George by surprise and he stops writing. There was a prominent glint in his eyes that George had not noticed when he first walked in. It was the first time he was seeing his full face, really. In the inner corner of each of his eyes were a silver rhinestone, probably attached there by eyelash glue, and definitely a small but staple piece of his outfit. George liked the sheerness of it all, it definitely made his yellow (actually green, George knew they were green but he didn't want to call them green since that wasn't what he was seeing) eyes pop out more. George found himself more lost than he was when the man had first walked in.
For the first time in months, words were starting to flow out naturally, and George continued to write.
His smile looks like it had gone through a thousand years of training just to perfect the art of looking handsome. His skin seems to be infused with the honey and nectar of the gods, fair but tough and impenetrable. His fingernails that are painted with a translucent shade of pink seems to have brushed through countless other women. His hands are calloused with experience and charm.
The most notable thing about the man though are the gems that he had decided to place on the tips of his corneas. Was this something he did everyday, or was it a new thing he was trying out just for today? Has he been contemplating on doing this for a long time, or was it just a last-minute decision he had decided upon before leaving his dresser? It made the man more intriguing. What made him decide to place the stars on the corners of his orbs, and why does he look so god damned good with them on?
Before George could realize it, the words were writing itself with ease. He stayed heavily endued with his work, occasionally lifting his head up to look at the man for more inspiration. He even catches a glimpse of one of the barista's looking at him weirdly, probably confused that he was touching his laptop after all these months of just staring at it.
A few hours pass by and it was already night time. He didn't even notice that the sun had set already, and he also doesn't notice when the pretty man approaches him.
"You've been staring at me the whole day," the boy says, unamused.
"Wha- what? No I'm not," George stammers unconvincingly.
"May I sit here?"
George agrees, I mean it would be awkward to blow him off, considering he has been writing about him. Dream pulls out a dark green wire chair, one of those seats that hurt to lean against, and places it in front of George. He sits, his lanky body occupying most of the leg room as his right leg crosses the other in an L-shape.
"Your girlfriend? She might come back and see you talking to a stranger."
"She's not my girlfriend, and she already left. What are you even doing that you didn't even notice her leaving? I mean you're sitting right next to the door. You must be writing about me to be so pre-occupied." The boy chuckles, obviously joking.
"Well, well I," George didn't believe he was actually considering telling him, but he does. "The thing is, I am writing about you."
Dream looks at him with an indescribable expression. He was probably not planning for his lighthearted joke to actually be true. The awkwardness that was there before amplifies tenfold as George fidgets with the keys of his laptop.
"Well, don't you think I deserve to read it? Since it is about me." Before George could protest, Dream grabs the corner of the keyboard and spins it around to face him. The rubber soles of his laptop make a squeaky sound against the friction of the ceramic table.
The man was already cradling the laptop on his lap, so George had no choice but to just hope that he doesn't get offended somehow by his descriptions of him. It's not like he was about to stand up and grab the laptop from him, that would be rude. And he made a good point, he did have the right to read it.
After a while, it seemed like Dream had already finished reading. He looks up at George who had been drowning in nervousness for the past few minutes. The couch he was sitting on seemed to engulf him more and more as he waited for some form of reaction from the stranger, the smell of caffeine keeping George ecstatic. To his delight, Dream places a grin of excitement on his face.
"Wow, this is... just astounding."
"You really think so?" George was ecstatic, but still wary. He wasn't sure if the man was being genuine or just trying to be nice.
"I do really think so."
"All my parents and friends just brush me off. They think I'm a joke, no one's ever told me that I'm good."
"Well they're all fucking wrong. Fuck them. This was actually the best thing I've read in a long time."
George was delighted at the comment and also slightly surprised by the sudden use of curse words from him. He did seem to be genuine, and that comforted George a little bit.
"Well, that's all I've got so far."
"Okay. I think I can help, tell me about the story you're planning and I can draw out the scenes then maybe it can help you describe them?"
"Draw?"
"I'm a digital artist," Dream said as he lifts up his Apple pencil from his bag.
"That isn't funny."
"What do you mean?" Dream replies, face scared that he had maybe just offended George.
"I mean are you sure? You're seriously going to help me?"
"Trust me, you'd know when I'm trying to be funny. I am one hundred percent serious and am going to help you."
"Well, okay. Seems like a good idea." George says, reluctantly.
They then spend the rest of the night just talking, talking about the story he has laid out and why certain plot points were this and that, and how it related to his past experiences and trauma. In turn Dream would give his input, maybe share a little bit about himself, throw in some suggestions, and lastly draw the scenario they had just discussed. All George's skepticism about the boy eventually faded away.
Whenever Dream would finish a drawing, he would slide his iPad across the table for George to see, his pink fingernails and brown-glove padded hands rubbing against the table. George would see his hands, and it would catch him off guard. George would see his eyes and the two rhinestones that sparkled them, and it would also catch him off guard. Actually, Dream and the whole affair has been catching George off guard the whole night. He was undeniably very much attracted to this man.
So, whenever Dream would finish a drawing, George looked down and played at the hem of his sweater or the etch of the CD player on the side of his laptop, not daring to look at those beguiling yellow eyes of Dream, for he was scared that he was going to like him much more, if that was even humanely possible. He already liked him a lot.
But actually, he didn't even have to look at Dream himself to fall for him more. The way he translated his every word about his writing perfectly into careful patterns of shapes and colors. It was again, truly mesmerizing. Splashes of ombré and transitions and lines that went above and beyond anything else that George had deemed beautiful before filled the canvas. Just by looking at every drawing presented to him by the stranger, George found himself reeling in wonder at his talents.
George always made sure to compliment each drawing that he finished, noting out his favorite parts about them. In return, Dream smiled with a thank you, cheeks flushing redder and redder with each positive remark from the brunet. George noticed this blush filling his cheeks, but he didn't want to misconstrue and think that Dream was attracted to him, he was probably just cold.
The night went on and on and eventually, George works up the courage to look at him more often during their conversations, delving deeper into their art. George also learns that Dream knew how to code, just like him, and that he was actually developing a drawing app.
They would talk about their futures, what they wanted in life, their sexualities. They both realized that they were both gay, and a small laugh escaped the both of them. George wasn't particularly sure why they laughed, probably just to stifle the awkwardness. But it didn't feel any ounce of awkward at all for George, he was just happy he got to confide with someone about how he liked his relationships.
No matter how cold it felt in the coffee shop, his conversation with the stranger felt like a warm blanket wrapped around him. He would give himself the credit for being able to write this much, but really it was all because of Dream.
Eventually, at around half past one am, one of the staff members had to tell them that they were closing shop soon, and that they would have to leave in thirty minutes.
"So, I think we have time to write one more scene."
"Actually yeah, this would be the last one." George says, a little sad that they would have to part ways soon.
"Really? You've finished it already?"
"Yes. Around 280 pages of words, 15 chapters, all in the span of like twelve hours. But of course there'd need to be much more revisions and detailing after. Also, we've finished it. Not just me, but we did it together."
The blond smiles widely, gem-filled eyes staring intently at his as he takes a sip of coffee from his mug, "I'm proud of you, George."
George squeaks out a shy thank you, unaware of how to handle all the appreciation he's gotten from Dream today. He's never really gotten anything before but the opposite from his peers.
The brunet then notices a small white piece stuck to Dream's hair. It didn't really stand out since his hair was so light, so George stands up slightly over Dream to look at it closer. He also tries to ignore the way Dream lurches forward, as if ready for George to kiss him.
At this point, George's mind is like the cars driving past him on the rotunda. His brain was going in circles of thoughts filled with adrenaline and fluttering butterflies, just like how the vehicles of the streets of London splashed wet rain onto the cement excitedly.
So out of nervousness, George hurriedly picks out the piece of dirt from his hair and pretends Dream wasn't just thinking about kissing him.
Honestly though, his inhibitions wished the kiss had happened.
"Sorry, there was a piece of debris," George says as he flicks it away, ignoring Dream's now almost romantic gaze.
"Uh-um. It's alright. So, about this last scene?"
"Well, I'd like for the characters to kiss you know? I think it'd really tie up the-"
And then it happens. Dream stands up fully, lower abdomen against the table, both hands tightly digging into the ceramic, and lips on contact with George's. They stay like this for a split second before Dream shifts his right hand to graze George's cheek. George then moves both his arms to grab the v-neck of Dream's sweater, pulling him closer to him. They also stay like this for a split second before Dream pulls away, but was it really for a split second? The kiss happened so quick but felt so magnificent, like it had actually lasted a lifetime.
They both exchange the same air, faces in close range of each other. George opens his eyes and looks at rhinestones on the boy that still continue to awe him. George was in disbelief, he did not expect for his day to end in the arms of a stranger and a new friend.
Dream walks out of his seat, hand still on George's cheek, and kneels down beside him, consuming him once again with a kiss. This time it was more fierce. George presses his body closer against him and Dream allows him to, until there was no longer any more space between them left. They both get comfortable, and Dream's head tilts to the side while George's goes in a downward stance. They were a merged unit, working together to give each other the satisfaction of the love that was beginning to form between them.
A tongue dances around George's and he lets out a tiny gasp, a desperate attempt for air, though he's never wanted anything more in his life but for Dream to take his breath away.
Dream, now letting go of his grip on his cheek, squeezes the ruffles of his hair. George follows suit. His fingers trace around Dream's forehead, which find the lilac headband adorning his hair. He takes it off, arm landing on his shoulder with the knitted piece dangling by his hand. His left hand was now on Dream's shoulder, squeezing it tighter and tighter as they get deeper into the kiss. Dream's mouth tasted of heavy roasted beans and whipped cream.
Dream was now towering over him, leg in between George, and George now had his head rested on the armrest of the couch. Both of George's hands were wrapped around his neck when he pulls away. He could feel the stares of the café's staff on them since they were the only people left, but George didn't really care. He was too elevated to care.
"So I wouldn't have to draw it, I kissed you. You now have first-hand experience how a kiss from me feels like, especially since that character of yours is based on me" Dream says proudly. A gentle laugh comes from George as he rubs the nape of his neck, hairs prickling the tips of his fingers.
"There, that was funny right? I told you you would know."
"No it wasn't. Try again, idiot." George says lightheartedly.
"I would really like to try again actually, if you'd let me. Let's get out of here. You could get to know me more and write more about that character in your book, and I could get to know you more and draw us as cute little silly people in love and also be cute little silly people in love in real life. And I could help you out with your book and draw the characters your wonderful mind has created. I am just so- wow I am just so amazed to have met and be talking to someone as brilliant and creative as you are. Then we can both be successful authors slash artists slash app developers together like you and I want and-"
"Yes," for the first time during this whole day (and his whole life really), without any hesitation, any doubt, and any nervousness, George replies with an eager heart. "Let's get out of here. I've seen all the stars through your eyes, Dream. Let's reach for all the planets next."
Dream smiles, "It's such a good thing you pulled back from us kissing. I really wouldn't have been able to stop ourselves if we went further." A light chuckle comes from him which makes George do the same as well.
"See, do you think I'm funny yet?"
"Shut up and take my hand." George stands up, bag on his shoulder and hand out in front of Dream.
Their fingers are tightly laced together.
They both had entered the café for a cup of coffee, they instead leave with their lives intertwined forever.
As they tread the sidewalk of the rotunda beside the coffee shop, Dream asks a question. "Just out of curiosity, what do you plan on naming the book?"
George already had a sure answer, one inspired by Dream's mesmerizing yellow eyes and the gray glint of the two rhinestones next to them.
The Boy Whose Eyes Shimmer Silver and Gold.
So maybe his writing wasn't the problem, and maybe it wasn't the world's fault either for being so inconsiderate. The problem was that George didn't have a reason to write his stories, but now, he's found someone that can help him find meaning in his life.
As he walks beside Dream on the uneven pavement of the rotunda stone bricks, George realizes something: that someone could finally love him for the way he is, and that he was going to write every story out of his love for him in return, just as he did today under the warm lights and the smell of caffeine in their quaint little London café.