Archive of Our Own

“Are you sure you’re still going to leave? It says there’s gonna be a massive thunderstorm later, Sap,” George said, his voice laced with concern.

It had been weeks since Sapnap planned this trip. It would be a shame if he didn’t go, and Karl sounded so excited to see their friend again after months of waiting, cancelled flights, and spontaneous springs of new projects.

They just didn’t expect the weather to match George’s mood for the day.

The sky was gray, and it had already started to drizzle when George looked out the window before turning his head back to Sapnap, who was currently waiting for the Uber he booked that would take him to the airport.

Truthfully, the weather didn’t really bother him so much as the fact that he and Dream would be left alone in this big house for the first time since he moved in a month ago.

And Dream wasn’t talking to him.

In retrospect, Dream had every right to be upset. I would be upset with him, too, he thought, if he had pulled the exact same shit he pulled on me.

Which was why he didn’t want Sapnap to leave. He had been the only living thing, besides Patches, who would talk to him in this freezing cold house. Sapnap doesn’t know what happened, and apparently, he doesn’t care enough to help George out and pull him from his misery.

Maybe if he groveled enough? Or promised to edit his next video?

George was desperate. He wasn’t looking forward to staying a full week alone with an angry Dream. He’d rather come with Sapnap and Karl and be the third wheel for once.

But.

He knew he had to fix whatever mess he made here. He couldn’t leave Dream alone, especially since the last time they spoke to each other was three days ago—not counting the small “can you pass the salt?” from Dream yesterday at lunch.

If he wanted a conflict-free week, George needed to do something about it.

“My ride’s here,” Sapnap announced. He stood up and put his phone in his pocket, “You be good, Georgie.”

George frowned, “Do you think he’ll talk to me? Is this normal behavior for him?”

“Look, I don’t know what you did or why you did it,” Sapnap started, “but all I know is he has never been this way. Not with me, at least. So you must have colossally fucked up if he’s giving you the cold shoulder, buddy.”

George stood up from their sofa and walked behind Sapnap, who was pulling a small suitcase behind him.

“I don’t think it was that bad,” he said defensively and then reconsidered. “Well…,” he trailed. Liar, he thought.

Sapnap stopped walking and faced George. He reached a hand up to ruffle his friend’s already messy (and quite possibly dirty) hair. “Just— don’t burn the house down while I’m gone? I’ll miss you.”

George rolled his eyes and scoffed at Sapnap. “That makes one of us,” he muttered. Pouting, he added, “Bye, Stinknap. Say hi to Karl for me.”

He waited at the front door as Sapnap walked out to the driveway, giving him a little wave bye before he got into his ride.

George didn’t know what to do with himself at that point. It was 5 in the afternoon, the only other person in this house that didn’t want to cut off his head had left him, and he was 90% sure Patches also hated his guts. He didn’t want to go on his computer and pester their other friends, or edit, or watch TV.

He just wanted something to do. Preferably some easy entertainment with minimal physicality needed, and something that wouldn’t require him to talk to the person sleeping upstairs. George felt miserable, not being able to just knock on Dream’s door and annoy him for attention, like what he had envisioned doing before living with him. For the first time since he moved to Florida, George felt alone.

George turned his head to the coffee table, where Patches’ white paws rested, cross legged and looking at him with judgmental eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked the cat, brows furrowed. She meowed at him, licked her paws, and then walked away. So rude, he thought.

George thought about his options (or lack thereof) and had settled on lying down on their sofa to look at his phone and watch TikToks, when the sound of a door opening upstairs made his breath quicken and his pulse skyrocket. Immediately, George felt his hands grow cold, and began to be hyper aware of his surroundings, knowing that Dream was finally awake, and out of his room.

George was nervous.

He stiffened in his place, back hunched and legs bent to his side. Phone closed on his lap, he started to pick at the skin around his fingernails, ducking his head low in the hopes that his friend would ignore his presence, the silence amplifying the deep thud, thud, thud of his heartbeat. He heard the refrigerator door open and a small greeting to Patches, who must have been loitering in the kitchen after sneering at him so rudely.

The truth was, he wasn’t ready for confrontation. The mere thought of fixing this whole mess with Dream left him wanting to crawl into a ball on the floor of his dark room and just wither away, far from people who’d criticize his life choices. Far from judgmental pets. Far from angry friends.

George wondered why they ended up in this situation in the first place. It was no one’s fault, really. (George knew this was a lie. It was more his fault than Dream’s, but he wanted to hate himself less.) Both of them were two consenting adults of sound mind and body. Well, not really of sound mind at the time, he thought to himself. But, the point still stood. While he and Dream hadn’t been exactly sober, they hadn’t been drunk either to excuse their lack of judgment.

If it hadn’t been for the stupid bottle of tequila Punz had bought for them.

A clap of thunder made George jolt up from where he sat, his phone bouncing off his lap and onto the hardwood floor with a loud thud.

“Sapnap?” Dream inquired.

Fuck.

“Nick?” Dream called out again. “I thought you were lea— oh.”

George sat upright and looked up, eyes meeting Dream’s hardened face. He felt his heart stop beating for a second, the look in Dream’s eyes enough to render him mute and thoughtless, his mind a blank canvas—a stark contrast from the barrage of thoughts that flooded it just a few moments ago. He couldn’t keep looking at Dream’s face, opting to pick up his phone and mindlessly checking it for dents or cracks.

“I thought you were Nick,” his friend muttered quietly. “Guess he already left.”

George all but forced words to come out, “He–he did, you just missed him.”

Dream nodded, “Cool.”

George picked his brain for small talk, if only just to pacify the still air around them. “Drea—,” he stopped, turning his head up to the direction of the tall boy that was already walking away from him.

So much for small talk, George thought.

George wasn’t a big fan of thunderstorms.

A summer vacation when he was 10. Picture young George in khaki shorts and a white shirt, pale skin turned red from the sun, freckles faint but visible in splatters on his nose and cheeks. He’d been allowed to go outside for three hours and play with the kids in his grandparents’ neighborhood for the summer. The air was unusually thick and George was tired from running up and down the dirt road. He was having trouble breathing, since he wasn’t the most agile kid or the strongest. But what he lacked in skill and strength he made up for in grit— even if sometimes he felt like giving up. He was adamant to outlast all the other hiders, running so far that his grandparent’s driveway wasn’t visible in his line of sight anymore. He’d be in trouble, but at least he’d win.

He waited for twenty minutes, looking out from the small shack he was hiding in for signs of his playmates. He didn’t hear anything, which was odd. He was further than usual, but he was sure someone would know where he was.

Thirty minutes in and the sky was getting awfully dark. He checked the watch his mum made him wear and it read 4:26 PM — he had a little over thirty minutes until curfew.

But he wanted to win. So he stayed. He stayed until the sky turned a dark gray, cumulonimbus clouds covering the great expanse of the English countryside, quiet threats of thunder just itching to clap at any second. His sister told him once, when he was younger, that thunder was the resulting effect of when giant rain clouds collide with each other. He wasn’t sure if it was the truth, but since then, he’d wished for the clouds to stop, and sometimes that would be enough for him.

George didn’t budge, though. He stayed where he was, eager to outlast any of the other kids in hiding.

Checking his small watch again, he saw that it was fifteen minutes until his curfew. By now, his mum would call him from the garage and tell him to come home soon. Shortly after that, he would dust off his shoes by the front door and come inside to have a popsicle or a peanut butter sandwich that his nan made him, and take a shower before supper. But today, George was still holed up in the tiny structure, and rain had already started to fall in fat droplets, a few strays bouncing inside from the small rectangular window in front of him. The shack he was in was quite small; enough for two of him, or one adult. There was a leak to his right, and a door to his left, and not much else. His shoelaces were untied, his shirt splattered with mud and soaked with sweat and rain, his khakis damp from the dirt floor. He was tired and cold. George knew he was in deep trouble.

A bright flash of white light broke through the deep color of the sky. George braced himself for the clap that was yet to come; he wrapped his arms around his knees to ground himself on the wet earth, thoughts of winning completely swept under a soaked rug in his mind. George waited for the inevitable clash of clouds above him, the rain now making it impossible to look beyond the lone stop sign just a few steps out the shack. He knew he was in trouble—he stopped looking at his watch when his curfew hit. The feeling of knowing he was bound to get a lecture and his fear of thunderclaps were too much for a ten-year old. While waiting for the jarring sound of the storm, George fell asleep.

He woke up bundled in his bed, head heavy and body sore, his mum asleep in his nan’s old chair next to his twin bed. He never received a lecture, nor a beating. All he knew was when his mum woke up, the sight of her tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes was enough to tell him to never run far away ever again.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep on the sofa for five hours, but that was what George did: wake up at 10 PM to a freezing house (which oddly smelled like peaches), loud rumbles of thunder with flashes of lightning showing up through the windows every now and then. He heard Patches’ small meows elsewhere in the house, possibly scared of the weather. Like me, George thought.

It was pitch black in the living room, except for Sapnap’s lit scented candle (which he assumed to be responsible for the smell) on the coffee table. He didn’t remember sleeping with the knitted blanket on, but it was draped around him when he woke up.

George jumped when he heard someone walk up to him to his left, not expecting the wafting smell of food to remind him that he hadn’t eaten since he woke up hours ago. He peered up to see Dream carrying a plate and a glass of water, carefully dodging Patches, walking at his feet. His heart warmed at the gesture, and George kept staring at Dream’s face. He’s so pretty like this, he thought, marveling at his dimly lit features through the dark: the sharp angle of his nose, and the shadow formed under his lip by the dancing candlelight.

“What are you staring at?” Dream asked, his mouth forming into a small frown.

The brunet averted his eyes to the floor. “Nothing,” he breathed. Looking up again, he asked, “Is that for me?”

Dream’s mouth twisted into a small smile, or at least, George hoped it was. “Do you want it?”

George felt his stomach growl at the smell of food. “Yes.”

He followed the plate as Dream set it atop the coffee table directly in front of him, with the glass of water placed next to it. He felt the silent shuffle of Dream’s feet as he stepped back from the couch, and George could see Dream’s arms crossed while standing idly.

George had seen this before. This was Dream’s I want to say something, listen to me stance. He’d first seen it when he accidentally threw out a piece of paper that was apparently important that Dream had needed a week after he moved in. The second time he’d seen it (and the last), was when he and Sapnap almost posted a video of the front of their house on Twitter. Both times he’d felt really bad, but none of them had come close to the feeling he felt at that exact moment.

The pit in his stomach dropped even lower, his mind still cloudy from waking up. Outside, the strong gusts of wind were making branches dance, leaves blowing up and scattering throughout the front yard, mirroring the flutters George’s heart made in his chest.

George wished he was still asleep just so he could avoid this happening. But he’s avoided this conversation for so long, and he thought it was time they unearthed the deep roots in his and Dream’s relationship.

Their will they, won’t they arc was coming to an inevitable close, the somber thought sending pinpricks across his skin. George wished he could say he didn’t see this coming—this very moment where he would see Dream wrapped in cellophane, see-through by way of tentative glances, lips slightly apart as if wanting to say something—but that would be lying to himself. He knew it was coming before he knew when his plane ticket to Florida would be booked. That one June day that was still vivid in his mind, him saying you’re not on the edge—knowing full well that that was a big, fat lie—was the catalyst to George’s doubt and turmoil.

The weather outside was no different from where they were inside. There were no strong winds, but there were gusts of tension. There were no thunderbolts or rainwater, but there were booms of heartbeats and droplets threatening to form around his eyes.

George looked up to his friend as he tucked his legs under the blanket and let out a deep sigh before attempting to talk.

“Dream,” he started. “I’m so–”

“You know, I didn’t sleep that night,” Dream sputtered, letting his limbs fall down on the sofa to face George. “I kept racking my brain all night, thinking of, I don’t know, reasons? Excuses for you?”

George involuntarily scooted away. Dream rolled his eyes, “So now you don’t even want to be near me?”

He felt a pinch in his heart. “No, it’s not like that, Dream,” George whispered. A little loudly, he added, “if you would just let me talk.”

Dream slowly shifted his legs up the sofa to face George. The only source of light caused half his face to disappear from view, but George still saw how Dream’s eyes shimmered, dark circles and budding bags underneath. It was only then that George really looked at Dream’s face and saw something else. Not anger, or indifference, but pain.

Dream was hurt. And it was because of him.

George immediately felt the guilt choke him up, his throat closing in on itself. Did I really fuck up that bad? He wasn’t even trying to be distant or flighty with how he acted. Maybe it was an involuntary response that his body was used to doing whenever he was faced with new scenarios, or maybe it was because he already knew where it was headed, but the uncertainty of what could happen to their friendship if they pursued whatever this was; it was too much for George to take lightly.

He felt the weight of Dream’s stare in his shoulders, carefully waiting for what he was about to say, but all his efforts in giving an acceptable explanation went out of the window, when an extremely loud clap of thunder caused him to startle in his place and close his eyes.

He felt something warm through the knitted blanket . When he opened his eyes he could see Dream, one arm holding onto Patches (who had jumped at the sound of the storm), and a hand on his leg, slowly soothing him.

“Are you okay?” Dream asked quietly, green eyes seeking his brown ones. George felt the sincerity in his voice piercing through him.

I don’t deserve this, he thought. How can Dream sit there and comfort him?

“I’m fine, you don’t have to… you know,” George gestured at the gentle back and forth of Dream’s thumb on his leg, “do that.”

The person in front of him sighed, “Oh, okay.”

Dream withdrew his hand from where it rested. George immediately felt the absence of warmth, wishing he never said anything.

Silence enveloped them as they attempted to regain their composure. It wasn’t until after a few minutes when Dream spoke up again, this time, honeyed and louder than his previous whispers, “George, are you mad at me because I kissed you?” he asked. “Because if you are, I totally understand. But I don’t want to run in circles anymore.”

George felt the scratching feeling in his belly again. “No, I’m not mad,” he answered. A breath, “Are you mad? At me?”

He saw the younger man’s shoulders drop with a heavy sigh of relief, his body far from its rigid nature a mere five seconds before. Dream looked away, “A little. I think,” he shrugged, “I think I should be, I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

“You should. Be mad, I mean. What I did was terrible,” George said. “I never should’ve done that, pulled you in, teased you, then pushed you away and left you there. I should have pussied out the second I knew you were going to kiss me.”

“You wouldn’t,” he teased Dream while flashing a mischievous smile, lifting his body up to sit on top of the kitchen counter.

George slowly crept his hand against Dream’s arm, trailing feathered touches, feeling gooseflesh and soft skin until he reached the warmth of Dream’s hand, their fingers slotting together.

He saw Dream’s face tinge with bright pink, both from the feel of alcohol and George’s touch. “What if I did?” he asked.

George tightened his hold on Dream and pulled him closer, tugging on the hem of Dream’s shirt with his free hand. Their faces dangerously close to each other, George slurred, “You won’t. I know you won’t.”

Dream raised a hand to cup George’s cheek, fingertips slightly gripping the wavy dark hair with want. George’s mind went blank, static flowing through his veins as hot air from Dream’s lips grazed his cheek.

George was suddenly too overwhelmed, the alcohol in his system impairing his senses. His ears were filled with the sound of his thumping heartbeat, every inhale polluted with the lingering smell of tequila and the scent of Dream’s skin, making him unconsciously lick his lips and let out a hot breath. He felt a power surge right where his nose was pressed against Dream’s, and he was aware of just how close the blond was to his face. George felt a pool of warmth flood his belly, knowing full well that Dream would in fact kiss him.

“Okay,” Dream exhaled, wasting no time as he planted his lips on George’s open mouth, swallowing the small whimper that came out of it.

Dream averted George’s stare, his head laying low, hands occupied as the blond played with the ends of his blanket.

“Do you regret it?” Dream quietly asked. “Kissing me?”

George’s answer bubbled up to his lips, “No, I don’t,” he answered fast. “Do you?”

The head in front of him shot up quickly. “No, I don’t either.” A pause. “I should’ve done it sooner.”

George wanted to explode like fine china shattering into tiny little shards of porcelain. He felt Dream’s heavy stare boring holes through him, anxiously waiting for a reaction.

“I would’ve let you, you know, if the circumstances were different.” He dropped his hands to his side, “I thought about it, too. Kissing you.”

Dream perked up at his confession, “Really?”

George gave him a little nod. “After we first talked about it— us, I mean. It got me thinking. About my feelings for you. And what we’d do once I got here.”

George paused for a bit, finally gathering the courage to speak his mind. “I know we haven’t really talked about it in detail, even if you said we would, but in my mind, we’ve already discussed it. Us, in detail. Sometimes I would imagine it so clearly, but most of the time it was this big blur that I couldn’t see through, and honestly? It scared me.”

He waited for a reaction from the boy in front of him but was met with attentive eyes.

“Tell me about it,” Dream said, “what you thought of.”

George raised his hands to his face. I can’t tell you, he thought. It’d be too embarrassing. But he had to, and he knew it.

“Well, I certainly didn’t think it’d be more than a month,” he started. “I was expecting you’d want me enough—,” he paused, giving his body a few moments to calm down, “for us to talk about it as soon as I arrived.”

Dream shifted slightly in his seat, twiddled with his thumbs and, with the tiniest voice, said, “I do, you idiot.”

“You what?” George turned sideways to look at the blond.

A slight hesitation. “Want you enough.”

George rested his back on the sofa, a million thoughts now running through his head. “God,” he exhaled. “I don’t know what to do with you, Dream.” He lifted a hand to grip the mop of hair on his head, feeling his frustrations come out one by one.

George hated this, not being able to hide behind a computer screen—vulnerable and open, his emotions and feelings laid out, ready to be feasted upon, broken apart, and inspected piece by piece. Before, he would hide and tell Dream he was busy, or his mum needed him, or he was asleep. Before, Dream wouldn’t be able to pick up on the slight quiver of his voice when he got emotional, or the sight of glistening tears forming when he got upset.

But now? George felt like he was in a glass box: a pretty fish in a tank, and Dream was tapping on the glass, waiting on how he would react.

“George,” Dream called, a little louder than before. “What makes you think I don’t?” he asked, voice laced with disbelief.

“You’re distant.” A breath. “A–and you’re like, too quiet around me,” he answered.

Dream looked at him with questioning eyes, his mouth scrunched into a tight line, “What are you even talking about? I’m not distant. I talk to you all the time,” he scoffed.

“Yeah, but not the way we used to. It’s like you hate me, or something,” he blurted out.

George looked at Dream’s puzzled face and continued, “Ever since I moved in, it’s like you’re this brand new person. It’s like we’re in this constant push and pull, and it’s wearing me out. It’s been a month, Dream. And you’re treating me like I’m this fragile thing and you don’t know what to do with me. It’s like you don’t even want me here.”

Dream didn’t talk, but his face softened and his posture relaxed even further.

George took a deep breath and continued, “I know I’m not the person who should demand this, I know I’m fucking– the last person who should be telling you this, but you’re the one who told me to be more open and I’m trying,” he stopped and caught himself raising his voice. Softly, he spoke again, “I was just counting on you to be the one to start talking about it and I didn’t want to bring it up ‘cause I don’t know if you even felt the same way I felt and–,” George paused at the feel of a warm hand covering his.

“George. George, are you there?” Dream spoke into his mic, voice gravelly from filming videos all day.

George dropped the bottle of iced tea on his desk before he answered, “Yes, you idiot. You’re so annoying. Did you miss me that much?”

Dream let out a shaky breath, “No, I just wanna talk to you about something.”

“Well, what is it?” George asked.

“Your room. For when you move, obviously. I know a month is still long, but—,” Dream paused.

“But?”

“But I just got the notification and your stuff is arriving in a week, and I’m not sure if we can,” he stopped briefly, before continuing, “you know, open it and unpack your stuff.”

George chuckled at Dream’s dilemma. “Why do you wanna unpack my stuff for me? I can do it when I arrive,” he said.

“No, cause, Sapnap and–Nick and I worked really hard to fix your room, and it’s gonna be all cluttered if we don’t unpack it, and I don’t want the first thing to welcome you in your room to be boxes that probably smell like ass and–,” Dream blabbered, but George cut him off, amused at what he’d heard.

“Dream. Dream, calm down. Relax. Don’t worry about it,” he reassured with a delighted laugh. “If you want to, go ahead, I won’t mind. Honestly. It's more than fine, even. It’d be like having you two as my bitches, and I won’t even have to lift a finger. It’s perfect.”

George heard Dream squeak, “You are such an idiot, George,” he said fondly.

George let out a light giggle, “Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like how?”

“Like, you’re in love with me or something, I dunno, it’s weird,” he joked, a sheepish grin forming, although he knew Dream couldn’t see his face.

“The quiz did say I was a little in love, remember?” Dream jabbed back, forcing a small chuckle to offset the instant awkwardness.

“You’re so weird,” George huffed, “stop that.”

“Stop what?” Dream asked innocently, then: “I bet you’re blushing,” he said, matter-of-factly.

George didn’t answer.

“I bet you’re wishing that you could see me, then you’d know if I was blushing, too,” Dream said through a tight and strained voice.

George sat in the call in silence, fully blindsided by how forward Dream was being. Something about this was unfamiliar territory, an unexplored place in the years they’ve known each other. It was new, and new things meant fear for George. New things meant uncertainty; new things meant he’d have to be honest—open, something George wasn’t.

But it was something he had to be, if he wanted his move next month to be pain-free.

“We can talk about this, you know,” George muttered. “Do you want to?”

George was met with silence, spare for the low hum of Dream’s fan in the background.

“Dream,” he called out, “come on.”

“Just—just give me a minute to think it through, okay, George?” Dream asked, then, a bit gentler: “Please?”

George fell silent at the request, which gave him ample time to ground himself for a few minutes.

“Dream? You still there?” George called out, thinking that Dream might have changed his mind about what they were talking about just a few minutes ago.

“I’m thinking,” Dream finally said, “if what I’m about to say should wait until you arrive next month,” he continued, a hint of uncertainty painting his voice. George heard Dream take a deep breath after he spoke, almost as if he were drowning and he needed that one big gulp of air.

Dream continued, “And if we do end up talking about it, I need you to be more–more honest and, I don’t know,” he hesitated. “Fuck, I don’t know what I’m saying.” George heard Dream take a step back from his mic, his voice wavering as he spoke.

George tapped lightly on his desk, thinking of what to say. “Are we finally talking about this?” he inquired, hands slowly turning numb from nerves. George heard Dream hum in approval. “You know you can tell me anything, right? Like, literally anything,” he said reassuringly.

The brunet heard continuous clinks of a coin hitting Dream’s desk over and over. There were hums of contemplation from the other side of the call, and George knew Dream was just thinking of the right words to say to him.

“Fuck, this is so dumb,” he heard Dream chuckle, his laugh mellow and slow. “I always knew this would happen,” he breathed. “And I don’t know if I should, like, do this right now. We’re both tired, and I might say something weird.”

George didn’t care. “Go on.”

There were more coin clinks from Dream’s end. That’s how he knew his friend was deep in thought and contemplation. He was familiar with this, something that occurred more than once whenever they would get into discussions. But not like this one.

“You’re gonna be here in a month.” Dream finally said. “I call timeout on this. Let’s talk then,” before hanging up.

George looked away, staring out the window to see that the storm had calmed down, but the wind was still rushing through tree branches and leaves. Inside, in between blankets and throw pillows on the gray sectional in their living room, Dream’s thumb drew small circles across George’s hand, and he started to speak. “George,” he said in a whisper, “baby, I’m sorry.”

George turned back to catch a glimpse of Dream’s face illuminated by candlelight, fazed at the nickname (he’d called him baby before, but not like this), before looking down on their hands clasped together. “I know, Dream,” he reassured. I know.

Dream had stood up a few minutes afterward to check on the house to see if there were any damages, or to call the power company if the electricity had finally come back, leaving George on his lonesome again, nimble fingers fidgeting with the frayed edges of the blanket he was using, the knit slowly unraveling between his fingertips. He felt the hunger that he’d forgotten about, head feeling light, hands a bit shaky, lips chapped.

George remembered the plate of food that Dream had brought him—it was a cheese omelet that would’ve tasted better if it wasn’t left on the plate for half an hour. He didn’t expect the small, thoughtful gesture, but George was still thankful for it and was reminded of the many times Dream had thought of him.

The smell of fryer oil and burgers wafted inside Sapnap’s white Tesla. The speakers were blasting a rap song that Sapnap had picked, knowing George knew it and would hum along. George cradled the bag of food on his lap while trying to look inside it to see where he could reach in for a fry.

“George, give me one,” Dream said quickly, his head slowly tilting to the passenger seat to ask George for a fry.

“What? No, you’re driving. Isn’t that, like, illegal or something?” George answered, his face crumpled in confusion.

Dream clicked his tongue, “No, it’s totally fine, come on,” he opened his mouth quickly, “give me one, I’m hungry.”

“It’s fine George,” Sapnap reassured in between lyrics, “Dream didn’t eat this morning.”

George reached in the bag to get some fries while looking even more confused. “Wait, why?” he asked, turning his head from Sapnap to Dream, whose mouth was still open despite the obvious fact that he was driving. George carefully brought his grease-covered hand to feed Dream.

“Well,” Dream started while happily chewing on his fries, “I wanted your first meal in Florida to be with us.” He paused to swallow, then turned into the exit lane. “But Sapnap’s a weak pussy who complained about how hungry he was before leaving, so he ate a sandwich on our way to pick you up.”

“Shut up, dude,” Sapnap retaliated. “Just because I don’t have a fucking George-sized boner in my pants—,” he said before Dream cut him off.

“Wah, wah, shut up, idiot,” he bickered. “Geor–George, feed me more fries,” Dream looked back at George and had his mouth open again, ready for more fries to enter his mouth.

“More?” George asked innocently while popping a fry into his mouth, then looked back at Sapnap, who just winked at him, fully knowing what he was planning to do.

“Yeah, just–please, I’m hungry,” Dream pleaded, quickly looking at George before returning his eyes back on the road.

George let out a small sound of glee, “Okay, the fries are coming, Dream, you better open up!” He took a handful from the bag and offered the fries in front of Dream’s face, before throwing it directly at his friend’s waiting mouth.

Upon impact, Sapnap exploded into a laughing fit, with George just sitting there laughing silently at what he had done. He saw Dream’s face puff up, salt and oil visible around his mouth and chin. He was trying to be mad, but Dream ended up laughing along with them, while trying to pick up the few pieces of food stuck on his lap. The car filled up with varying melodic tones of their unique laughs, and all George could think of was how happy he was with these two idiots.

Immediately after wolfing down the cold omelet, George saw Dream walk back to the sofa, after checking the breaker in the garage to see if the lights were back.

“How was it? The food?” Dream asked, settling down next to him. George placed the plate gently on the table, silverware clanking against the porcelain as it landed.

George licked his lips, “Could have been better,” he joked, a wry smile forming.

Dream glanced at him and started laughing, “Better than Sapn–,“ he started before George finished the sentence,

“Sapnap’s frittata? Or whatever that shit was, yeah. It was better than that.” He joked, “I’m pretty sure anything would be better than whatever the fuck that was, do you remember what it tasted like?”

Dream let out a hearty laugh, his eyes disappearing, “It was terrible. Horrible. I’m never letting him cook again.”

They both laughed until their bellies ached, until the familiar feeling of silence and comfort cushioned the tension between them. This is nice, George thought, even if he knew that it wouldn’t last.

Outside, the skies seemed to have calmed down, save for the light brush of wind that he would have overlooked if it weren’t for the tiny plant swaying outside the living room window.

George looked at Dream through tired eyes, “It was nice,” George mumbled. “It was a nice gesture. Thank you, you didn’t have to.”

Dream just nodded, his mouth curving slightly to give a smile, “You’re welcome, Georgie.”

George involuntarily wrinkled his nose at the nickname, “Ew. Why’d you call me that?”

“Why? Would you prefer if I called you baby instead?” Dream quipped.

Yes. “What’s wrong with you?” George feigned ignorance.

Dream sighed, “Just answer the question, George.”

George froze like a deer in headlights. “I–, I don’t know,” he admitted. “Honestly. I don’t know.”

George felt the uneasy silence yet again, sharp and popping the small bubble of peace they’d built in the past half hour. George expected that it would be difficult, especially since Dream was involved. Nothing could have prepared George for this, and the frustration that had him in a vice grip wasn’t helping, either.

The whole situation felt like removing a band-aid, yet instead of it being a one-and-done, quick rip type of thing, he felt every single follicle being pulled away from his skin, especially when the wound wasn’t even healed to begin with.

“George,” Dream spoke, his voice faint, “I know…it’s not easy for you to open up, and I understand. I appreciate you opening up earlier, I really do,” he trailed off.

George bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m sensing there’s a but,” he said, throat scratchy.

“But… I don’t think we should delay this any longer,” he continued. “Us, or whatever this is. It’s not fair for either of us if we’re going to ignore the giant elephant in the room.”

George sighed deeply, a sharp pang stabbing deep inside of him. “And that is?”

A breath. “I love you, George.”

Through faint wisps of light, George looked up and took in the face of the man in front of him, hair mussed and wavy, a slight dip beneath cheekbones, the small sparkle in his eyes, hopeful and vulnerable. George traced the slope of Dream’s nose with his eyes, the slight dusting of stubble on his jaw, thinking of how it felt against his face just three nights ago, the soft curve of Dream’s lower lip, and the confession that just came out of it.

George’s breath fluttered out, “Y–you’re so dumb.”

Dream sighed, “I guess… the reason why I didn’t want to say it was because I was scared? Or–confused, maybe? I mean, I planned to, you know, talk to you about it. Like, I don’t know, a week after you arrived?” He stopped for a while.

“But then the days went by so fast, so I got scared. But you were also so receptive, and I didn’t expect that from you. So I thought you’d be the one to, you know…” he trailed off.

George bit his lip and nodded, fully understanding what Dream meant.

“I didn’t know what to do with myself, George. It was, like, all new to me. Everything was unexplored territory, even you, and I didn’t want to break you, or something. And then suddenly it had been a month since you came, and we were celebrating, and you pulled me in, and I just– I had to,” Dream stopped. “At the moment, it felt like the right thing to do.”

George shuffled in his seat, “So you’re not mad at me for jumping you?”

Dream shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into a coy smile. “No, you idiot,” he said. “I was just confused for a while. Maybe I got a little bit frustrated. I didn’t–you initiating it was, I don’t know. I didn’t expect it. I thought you’d be the flighty one,” he paused, “but surprise! It was me. But you pushed me off, and ran away, and I just thought, ‘did I do something wrong? Read things wrong?’ Did I?”

George shook his head. “I thought I did something wrong. You didn’t talk to me for days. Three days, Dream,” he whined. “I almost went along with Sapnap earlier.”

“Thank you for not leaving me, then. That would have sucked,” Dream sighed in relief.

Neither spoke after that—or at least, they attempted not to. The air was heavy with need; to speak, to touch, to understand. They both marinated in silence, George drinking in the atmosphere between them, the two of them letting their words settle like dust on unused furniture.

George remained sat next to Dream, shocked at the things he’s heard, things that were kept from him. George decided that he didn’t like to be kept in the dark like that. He also decided that the both of them being too stubborn hadn’t done them any favors, other than hurt each other. George felt selfish. He felt guilty.

But he also felt that he deserved answers, as much as Dream did, too.

“Since when?” he asked timidly, both of them knowing exactly what was asked without saying anything.

Dream gave him a small, helpless smile, and all George could think of was how handsome Dream was. “When I knew or when I felt it?”

George turned pink at the question. “You’re so dumb.”

“You were wrong, you know?” Dream let out a faint laugh, “I was on the edge. That’s when I knew. But I think I’ve loved you ever since I met you.”

“You don’t honestly mean that,” George huffed. “That’s too much. You don’t mean that.”

Dream looked where he sat, his head turning to reveal a somber expression. “Why do you find it so hard to believe, George?”

“I think it’s time we do a serious stream, guys,” Dream told them as soon as all three of them were awake and in the TeamSpeak. George had already felt that a serious talk with their fans —he still could not wrap his head around the “fame” the three of them were experiencing; it seemed surreal— was long overdue, especially with what they all woke up to. They didn’t know how people would react to this. Would people take them seriously or would they treat it as a joke and ignore what they were going to talk about?

“What else are we missing? George? Sapnap? Do you have anything else to add?” George heard Dream release a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know, Dream. Other than the stuff we listed, I think there’s nothing else. That’s already a long list, too,” Sapnap chimed in, voice still crackly from waking up less than an hour ago.

“George? Anything you want to add?” Dream asked.

“I don’t know,” he started. “Well, there’s this thing that bothers me—well, not really bother,” he hesitated, not knowing if he should even mention it to the both of them.

“What is it, George?” Dream prodded.

George took a labored breath, “The shipping stuff. I don’t know, I’m not really used to stuff like that,” he stalled. “And with the Maia thing, people were being mean and, I just—it’s dumb. I just don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, s’all.”

George heard the loud clacks of Dream typing as he talked, “Okay, so is it all of the shipping stuff? Sapnap?”

“I mean, I’m fine with it. You two, however, are just, like, I don’t know. People seem to think you two are dating, especially with how much you guys fucking flirt with each other,” Sapnap said. “Which, by the way, is also annoying to me, especially,” he added.

George released a nervous laugh, “What? How? They don’t seriously think that? Surely not,” he countered.

Dream let out a high pitched laugh. “Yes they do, George. I’ve seen it, there’s, like, artwork and stuff. Fanfiction? I don’t know,” he said.

George cupped his face, feeling it grow hot and pink, “So? What are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m fine with it. I don’t really care. Plus I don’t think George and I have any plans to date or anything. Unless—George, you’re not planning on asking me out anytime soon, right?” Dream joked.

George rolled his eyes, “I don’t mind the shipping. I also, like, don’t care. And I don’t have plans to ask you out, you idiot. You stink,” George paused, “a-and, you’re an idiot.”

“Ouch, George. You don’t wanna date me? I thought we loved each other?”

George clicked his tongue, and a small ‘ugh’, “No, you idiot. Shut up.”

“How about me, George? Will you date me?” Sapnap interrupted.

George let out a twinkling laugh, “I’ll think about it,” he said. Sapnap only laughed as an answer.

A few hours later, Dream started the stream and quickly breezed through the topics they’d talked about earlier. George spaced out for most of it, opting to react quietly every once in a while.

“…me and George are not, like, dating or anything, and have no plans to. It’s not, like—,” he heard Dream say as George was pulled back to reality.

He chimed in without thinking, “Unless…,”

“…if any girl,” he heard Dream let out a wheezy laugh at what he said, “Unless—,” he repeated with another laugh, as George let out small giggles, laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

“There’s no, uh, if any girl ever, I–I don’t know, George—George is a free man. I don’t–I don’t know how to say that, I guess,” Dream paused. “We’re just, um–we’re just bros, we’re just homies, and, um,” Sapnap laughed in the background, “that’s that. I guess…,” Dream said, but George didn’t listen long after that, feeling confused as to why Dream’s little speech left a sinking pit in his stomach.

George tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling where tiny dots of light reflected upon the small crystals on their baby chandelier—before looking Dream in the eyes. “I don’t know,” he breathed. “Maybe it’s because you’ve always said it, but I didn’t know which ones you meant?” George said, doubt painting his voice.

A beat. “I meant it every time,” was all Dream said.

George knew Dream was telling the truth. He could feel the guilt from even doubting it scrape his insides, his throat choking him up, racking his brain for something—anything—not remotely snarky and sarcastic to reply with.

George came up blank.

Dream scooted over a little bit to close the distance between them, subtly coaxing a reaction from George. George felt the warmth emanating from Dream’s body, and could inhale the soft scent of Dream’s citrus shampoo and the familiar smell of the laundry detergent they used.

George contemplated if he would do the same. If George moved a little bit more, their arms would touch. He’d get to feel the slight tickle of Dream’s forearm against his, and tiny zaps of electricity would bite his skin at contact. If George decided to move closer, he would be able to grab ahold of Dream’s hand, intertwine his tiny fingers against large ones, and Dream would feel how cold they were, and he would sandwich them between his to warm them up. If George moved even closer, he wouldn't have the strength to move away—he wouldn’t want to move away, because he had wanted this for so long, but he never expected it to happen like this.

So he moved, and moved, and moved.

George let their arms touch, let their hands lock, and faced Dream. With a steady hand over the blond’s chest, and a painful chokehold on his gut, George moved, and moved, until soft lips were meshed in between his.

It was as if a balloon string had been cut, the only thing holding it down severed, and someone had let it wander away. George had been washed with an immediate wave of calm, something inside him freed and he felt an odd sense of serenity. Unfamiliar, but still welcome.

It was slow, at first. George felt the thump of Dream’s heartbeat against his palm, rushed and restless. He felt Dream’s lips move against his slightly chapped ones—tentative and seeking permission. George felt a squeeze on his hand, and he squeezed back, heart growing three sizes too big at the gesture. His cheek welcomed a warm palm against it, fingers curling through overgrown brown hair, a thumb gliding up and down to caress him.

George carefully moved against Dream’s lips, trying to find a rhythm he liked, and he found it after Dream kissed him harder, and with more enthusiasm. He let his hand wander off to grip on blond waves, feeling the subtle shift of momentum as he uncrossed his legs off the sofa and across Dream’s lap, letting go of the hand holding his and wrapping it around Dream’s back. George felt a calloused palm settle on exposed skin on the small of his back, Dream helping him get settled comfortably across his lap. George let himself open up, his body sensitive where deft fingers traced, reactive where exploring palms glided.

George felt hot—his fingers were clawing at Dream’s hair and shoulders, a hand exploring his torso, pulling them closer against each other. I could die like this, George thought, as he felt an immense burst of emotion hit him. Dream’s lips tasted sweet and familiar, and he could hear soft mewls from under him as he pulled on silken hair. George felt a small nip on his lower lip, closely followed by the sweep of a tongue asking to enter his mouth, to which he gladly obliged. Trapped between tangled limbs and messed up hair, George thought of this moment as an impossibility; a freak of nature, something that would only happen once in a blue moon.

Dream pulled back after a moment, his breath hot against George’s mouth, “Too fast?”

George shook his head and dove back in. How is he so good at this? George thought, feeling the flashes of heat in between their kisses, short and breathy moans muted between mashed lips and persistent tongues. Neither of them wanted to pull away, only choosing to pause in an attempt to catch their breath before pulling the other back again, curious gasps echoing inside the house as a lip was trapped in between teeth—George silently hoped Dream wouldn’t bleed. (He didn’t.)

George didn’t know how long he sat on Dream’s lap—after mustering the strength to pull away, he hid his blushing face underneath the sharp curve of Dream’s jaw, and while his arms were draped around broad shoulders, he planted a tender kiss on the small spot underneath Dream’s ear. He heard the both of them panting, the exhaustion catching up to them from their extracurricular activities. George licked his lips and felt the slight swell, the taste of Dream still on them.

He heard Dream hum and clear his throat, “So, does that mean you like me back?” he croaked, fighting the urge to crack a hearty chuckle.

George hid himself even deeper inside Dream’s neck, “You’re such a huge idiot,” he snickered. Embarrassed, he lifted his head slightly to nuzzle his cheek onto the blond scruff above it, “but yes. Yes, it does.”

Strong arms wrapped around his middle, pulling him closer and tighter, “Does this mean…?” Dream whispered.

George hummed, “It does,” he answered. Smiling, he added, “you’re sure about this?”

Dream planted a chaste kiss on his temple, “Yes, I’m plenty sure.”

George pulled away and lifted his hand to Dream’s face, sweeping stray hairs that framed his face, “That makes one of us,” he lingered.

Dream grunted, trying to mask the amusement in his voice, “Ugh, you’re such an idiot, George,” he exclaimed, the grip on George’s waist loosening.

George’s arms flew back and clung tighter around Dream’s nape. “I’m joking,” he quipped. “I’m at least, like, 50% sure,” he said a little quieter.

Dream let out an exaggerated huff and tried to hide his amusement. George let his limbs fall back to his lap, and Dream plucked a hand and held it between his own.

The two of them stewed in easy peace, savoring the moment, until Dream let go of George’s hand and pinched his side, “You don’t actually mean that, right?” he asked in a tiny voice.

George took Dream’s hand and played with it, “But…what if it doesn’t work out? Will I lose you?“ George let out a nervous laugh, “Cause I don’t think I can manage that.”

“That won’t happen,” Dream reassured. “I promise.”

“If you say so,” George answered, trying to rid his voice of any trace of doubt.

The candle in front of them hissed as it went out, leaving them tangled around each other in the dark, a mess of arms and legs and blankets atop the big gray sofa. George looked outside from Dream’s shoulder to see that the storm had calmed down, leaving only wet earth and scattered leaves in its wake.

“Hey, Dream?” George whispered, “do I have to say it back?”

George felt Dream squeeze his thigh, “Only if you want to.”

He nodded in reply. Dream laughed, “I feel like you’re planning on not saying it at all.”

His plan exposed, George hid his face in fake shame. “I hate you,” he whispered, lightly hitting Dream’s chest.

George could feel a hand on his thigh, big and warm, slowly moving up and down. Dream let out an amused sigh, “Nah, you don’t,” he confidently answered.

“I don’t,” George agreed, then, in silence: “I love you, too.”

Dream pretended not to hear. “What was that?”

“Nothing, I said nothing,” he said through a bitten lip, sinking deeper into Dream’s neck, letting warm breaths tickle sensitive skin.

“Sure, I believe you,” Dream said sarcastically as he lifted his feet from the carpeted floor and put them on top of the coffee table, embracing George to make their position comfier. George felt Dream’s quickened pulse under his cheek, vibrant, distinct, and similar to his own—a constant reminder that it was real, and they were alive. Together.

And George would say it. He would say it a million times, in a heartbeat, but in his own way. A cup of tea, a back massage, a meal. He would say it plainly with words, or an exchange of smiles, with a touch of a hand, or a chaste kiss. He would say it in between comfortable silences and bouts of laughter, and every single time Dream would know, and somehow, it would be enough.

It was.