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The sun is soothingly hot today. It massages the knots from Dream’s spine, washing over him in a beckoning haze. Dream’s eyelids flutter closed, half-heartedly giving in; his eyelids are scorched orange with an imitation of the sun, bright spots settling into darkness as he breathes in deeply.
Grass tickles his arms, a slight breeze brushing over the top of the hill he’s laying on. It smells clean and sweet, as refreshing as clean laundry. It’s a perfect day, temperate and quiet except for the distant rush of the trees and the castle noise, almost too perfect. Dream feels calm and lazy under the blue sky as he curls his finger around a daisy stem, delicate. His eyes are still closed. His chest is warm.
“Are you asleep?”
“Almost,” Dream murmurs. He cracks an eye open, turning his face into the weeds to peer at George. Like this, everything is tilted sideways, his head filled with the wild scent of soil and George’s brown eyes, slow and unblinking. His hair has fallen over his face. Dream feels at peace.
“What’re you thinking about?” George mumbles, turning his gaze towards the curve of the sky, which rests above them as clear as a marble.
“Just… things,” Dream hums. His mind is static with sunlight. He reaches over and traces a single finger down the bridge of George’s nose.
“What things?”
“Pushy,” Dream remarks. He pulls his fingers through George’s hair once, twice, exposing his forehead. George is the only one who lets him do this. “I don’t know. Life?”
“Life,” George muses, and his tone sinks into the earth, heavy with unease.
Dream swallows at the implications of life’s mortal partner; Death has been a touchy subject lately. The castle has been cast in a shroud, struck by loss, cold despite the unfiltered midday sunshine.
“Bad choice of words, sorry,” he mutters.
XD has been dead for a week.
Their king, founder, world protector, and even God (to some). XD had created everything that Dream knew, populating the river with fish, the town with people. He was unflinching, and magnificent, and everlasting (or it was thought). He wielded the genre of awesome power that precluded people from ever crossing him, and for the most part the kingdom lived in a time of peace.
Dream had grown up with sharpened sticks, exchanged for a wooden sword when he was eleven, and an iron one when he was seventeen. XD’s kingdom was his home, and the promise of knighthood was his ambition.
It was easy to lean into being a knight, and he felt powerful on the rare occasions he sensed XD’s eyes on him during training, limbs suddenly imbued with a burst of speed. Dream wasn’t close with the king, but for years, he has recognized an almost-reciprocated reverence in their distant interactions. He tries to let himself earn that respect, working to be the best citizen, the best warrior, the best person he can be.
Dream isn’t sad about the king’s death, necessarily. Sure, he mourns with the rest of the kingdom, but he isn’t consumed with personal grief. With XD gone, Dream’s life has been weirdly off-balance, his sword movements rigid and meaningless. Disassociated with his commitment to knighthood, he finds himself leaning more and more into his friendships, into affection, into George.
“—would fit right in with the fish, sleeping with your eyes open, it’s creepy. You’re so pale, too, you look like a sad ghost.”
“What?” Dream blinks.
“Chill out,” George says, flicking his forehead. “You’re all pensive now, just because I said ‘life.’ It’s making me sad.” He pouts in exaggeration, staring at Dream with wide eyes.
“George,” Dream exhales, dampening a shallow smile at George’s antics.
“Dream,” George echoes him haughtily. He props himself up on one elbow, leaning over so that he hovers slightly above Dream. They watch each other for a moment, soaking in the sunlight before George speaks again.
“We got to sleep in, it’s a beautiful day, and you get to hang out with me. There. That’s three good things about today.” He moves a piece of hair behind Dream’s ear, more fondly than he’ll ever admit to. “Your turn.”
Dream huffs, lips curling upward. “What is this, therapy? I’m not actually sad.”
“Just do it, idiot.”
“Fine,” Dream says, “You saved me a pastry from breakfast, I finally did my laundry, and… I get to hang out with you.”
“That’s not fair, you stole one of mine,” George complains, but Dream is smiling so bright he doesn’t think it matters.
“Today is a good day because I get to do this,” Dream teases, reaching out to tickle George’s midsection, “—and this,” he ruffles George’s hair, tangling it between his fingers as George’s chest thrums with laughter under him, “and because we’re alive.”
He feels so alive with George, his blood charged with electricity and his heart open. It doesn’t help that George is beautiful like this, eyes crinkling and hand twisted in Dream’s shirt, sunny under the vast sky. Dream thinks he could exist here forever.
“Dream,” George giggles, still recovering from the tickling. “We’re alive!” he celebrates, tossing Dream an easy grin.
“We are.”
“What do you think is going to happen next?” George asks abruptly. “I mean, like, who’s going to be to the next king, or regent, or whatever?”
“I-I don’t know,” Dream replies, brow furrowing. “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“Imagine if you were king,” George says, nodding at him with a sly smile.
“Please,” Dream scoffs. “I would never.”
“Just imagine!” George presses. “Hypothetically, what would you do as king?”
“I mean, I would be running the country,” Dream answers. “Like, doing diplomacy and making records of surplus food and—”
“Blah, blah, blah, you’re so boring,” George groans. “What would you do for fun? You’re the king, you can do whatever you want!”
“I don’t have a lot of kingly things I want to do, George.” Dream runs a hand through his hair. “I kind of just want to be with you. And Sapnap, and everyone else.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” George mutters under his breath, and Dream goes red, unsure if he was meant to hear that or not. “I can’t believe I’m best friends with someone this lame.”
It’s bait. Dream takes it.
“I’m—I’m not,” he protests, almost a whine, wracking his brain for something that he could think to do as king. “I would throw a ball. That would be fun.”
“Oh?” George perks up, interested. “I would receive an invitation, obviously.”
“Of course,” Dream answers automatically. “You’d be my dance partner.”
“Dream.” George is fixing him with a look, unimpressed. “You know I can’t dance.”
“Yeah, which is why it would be really funny,” Dream snickers.
George slaps his shoulder. “I hate you.”
“I would teach you,” Dream says more gently. He gets to his feet, offering a hand to George. “Here, c’mon.”
“Right now?” George asks, incredulous, but he lets himself be tugged upright. “You’re going to teach me to dance on the top of a hill? In running shoes?”
“Yes,” Dream replies simply. “Do you want to?”
George nods, sharp and almost imperceptible, but Dream knows him and his reluctant shyness. It’s endearing, the way George steps into his space, crowding close but not meeting his eyes. Dream links his hands over George’s shoulders, repressing a shiver when he finds George’s hands cupping his waist.
“There’s no music,” George murmurs. His face is tucked into Dream’s shoulder.
“That’s okay,” Dream smiles.
They sway together, birdsong and breath as their soundtrack. Dream likes the warmth of George’s hands against his body and the curl of his hair that flips up when the wind kisses his head.
George’s fingers dig into his sides as if he’s holding on for dear life, steadying himself against the spinning two-step that brings them within a hair of each other. It is terribly intimate, terrifying and exciting all at once.
Dream is dancing with George, and they are best friends.
George is a better dancer than he says, perfectly polite as he places his feet opposite Dream’s, and they turn in measured circles on the top of the hill, exposed by broad daylight. Dream tries not to look to closely at George, afraid that he’ll forget his feet and crumble under the galaxies in George’s eyes.
The moment ends too quickly.
George steps away after they’ve completed a full circuit of the dance, hovering just out of Dream’s reach. Their arms fall away from each other, their eyes fall to the ground, both studying the grass they’ve trampled in their movements.
“We should get back,” George says quietly. He looks up at Dream, offering a smile that conceals more than it confesses.
Dream swallows. “Yeah.”
Neither of them move, and Dream’s eyes are drawn back to the ground nervously. He wonders if George liked it too, if he enjoyed the press of Dream’s hands against his and the flow of their bodies through space and time, together. He wonders if he’s overstepping by even imagining a world where they could dance like that again.
“Dream,” George speaks, and before Dream can react, George steps forward again, and takes his hand. Dream blinks, cheeks darkening with a sudden blush at George’s forwardness.
“Thank you for the dance,” George says formally, gazing at him, and then, and then, he brings Dream’s captive hand up to his lips, placing a gentle kiss just above his knuckles. Dream’s mouth parts in surprise, and his skin burns where George had touched him. He doesn’t think he has ever been handled so carefully as when George delicately returns Dream’s hand, stepping out of his personal space.
“You’re welcome,” Dream murmurs, dazed, and George smiles, turning to go back down the hill.
“C’mon, it’s lunchtime!”
“Yeah,” he breathes, and shakes himself upright, banishing any and all thoughts of the pretty pink on George’s face when his friend had kissed his hand with the tenderness of a fairy.
___
The kiss stirs something in him.
Dream wants to slap himself. It was nothing, George kissed him on the hand, which is completely innocuous and a perfectly normal thing to do in the context of a practice dance. It means nothing to Dream, and it certainly didn’t mean anything to George.
Dream still can’t stop thinking about how soft George’s lips are.
I just wasn’t expecting it, Dream rationalizes to himself. He tries kissing his own hand, at night where no one can make fun of him, but it doesn’t feel the same. His stomach doesn’t swoop with nerves, his skin doesn’t tingle with excitement.
He doesn’t know what to do.
He finds himself watching George more, making more excuses than normal to touch him. Not in a creepy way, of course, but Dream has developed a craving for George’s attention — an insatiable desire to be known, to be touched, (to be kissed).
One time after their morning run, George gave him a piggyback ride when Dream complained about the ache in his legs. Now, the memory is nothing but a feverish blur, stuck in-between Dream’s ribs as he tries to figure out what it means. All he can recall is heat and touch, his already-thumping heart ratcheting up at the contact, sweat from the workout pressed between their bodies, and George grunting as he hiked Dream up on his back, muscles flexing under Dream’s fingers. Dream had buried his forehead and his blush in George’s neck the entire time, heart trembling in his throat.
They’re best friends. They’re best friends who are caring and familiar and affectionate.
It’s fine.
___
Dream knows his face hangs somewhere between a pout and a scowl as he throws open George’s door. He doesn’t care though. He stalks over to the bed, where George is lazily reclined, reading a book that he looks distinctly uninterested in, and sprawls over the edge of the bed at George’s feet.
“Sapnap kissed Punz,” he whines, settling his head against George’s legs.
“Oh?” George raises an eyebrow with bland curiosity, still pretending to read his book. “Good for him.”
“George,” Dream says, pawing at his knee. He wants George to look at him, instead of ignoring him in favor of a stupid book, and maybe that’s selfish, but Dream is used to George’s attention; his piercing eye contact, his sarcastic drawl, his fingers on Dream’s back. “They’re dating now.”
“Well obviously,” George replies, setting his book down. “They’ve liked each other for ages.”
“I know!” Dream flops back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. “They’re really cute together, to be fair, I’m not—I’m happy for them, I just can’t believe Sapnap of all people had his first kiss before me.”
“You’ve never kissed anyone?” George sounds genuinely curious, and Dream covers his face with his palms out of embarrassment. His ears are red, he can tell, and he feels George peering down at him, his gaze like a sunburn.
“No,” Dream admits in a small voice.
“I bet Sapnap teased you about that,” George remarks, amused, but his voice is gentler than before. Dream peels his hands away from his face, scratching the underside of his jaw.
“He did,” Dream sighs. “He… yeah.”
“Is that why you’re upset?” George asks bluntly. “You don’t have to be all weird about being… inexperienced.”
“I’m not upset,” Dream protests, bit petulant. They fall into silence for a minute, nothing more to say. The afternoon sun filters through George’s open window, a slight breeze bringing the bright sounds of the castle from below; muted conversations, the distant clanging of the armory, the snap of the kingdom’s flags in the wind. George hums something under his breath, a tune going nowhere. It’s familiar, peaceful. Dream closes his eyes.
“Have you ever kissed someone, George?”
“Yes.” George is straightforward. Dream likes that about him. “Why?”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s nice,” George says shortly. “Kind of wet, I guess. Your mouth gets tingly, I don’t know.”
And because Dream is insatiable and a little bit obsessed with George, obsessed with George kissing someone, (kissing him), he asks, “Who was your first kiss?”
“Doesn’t matter.” George isn’t looking at him.
Dream’s heart picks up, nervous as he forms his next question in his head. He might be overstepping, crossing some unknown boundary that the two of them have set. We can hold hands but only when you’re pretending to adjust my sword grip. We can hug but not cuddle. We can share food and conversation and fond laughter everyday but god forbid we call it a date.
It’s too late to overthink. The words are already on his lips, quiet and delicate and ragged. “Would you kiss me?”
George takes a sharp breath. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” Dream insists, heart racing as he sits up to face George properly, one hand scratching anxiously at his wrist. He feels intensely vulnerable, eyes wide and heart open as he drowns under the weight of George’s hesitation. “W-Would you?”
“If you asked me, I would kiss you,” George says, words slow and careful. His eyes are dark, and all Dream can think about is how beautiful he is. “You’re my best friend.”
“But, do you want to?” Dream whispers, like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Yes,” George answers, just as soft. There’s a blush forming on his cheeks that’s lovelier than the sunset, and Dream has forgotten how to breathe. “I always want to.”
His heart kicks in his chest at George’s admission, blooming with affection. He thinks of every time George leaned over his shoulder in the library, their faces terribly close, cheeks almost touching; he thinks of when George ended up on top of Dream’s chest in sparring practice, leaving him breathless and flustered from being disarmed so easily. I always want to.
Holy shit. Dream swallows, and his ribs ache from the pressure, hands trembling at the possibilities, and he wants so much.
“Me too,” he manages, and stares at George. “You’re—really pretty.”
George huffs, but his blush blinks stronger, and Dream’s chest blooms with warmth. “Idiot. Are we going to kiss or not?”
“Kiss, please,” Dream answers quickly, offering a shaky smile. His heart-rate spikes, nerves hitting him all at once as George shifts closer. “Um, what do I—”
“You can hold my waist for now,” George says gently, guiding Dream’s hands over his own body. “Just go with the flow, Dream, it’s okay,” he laughs, and Dream shivers, feeling George’s breath fan against his face. “Calm down, I can feel you shaking. It’s just a kiss.”
“But it’s my first kiss,” Dream says emphatically, relaxing minutely as George rubs comforting circles over his arm. “And it’s you.”
George shakes his head. “Not me,” he replies, his hands splayed over Dream’s face, palms pulling them closer until Dream’s vision is swallowed by the stars in George’s deep brown eyes. “Not me. Us.”
And George kisses him.
It’s softer than Dream expected, god, it’s almost unbearably tender. Dream doesn’t think he was prepared for the gentleness George affords him, swiping his thumbs over Dream’s cheeks and moving slowly, letting Dream adjust to the quiet push and pull of his lips. He feels a bit dizzy, mouth tingling with pleasure as he surges into George, unable to fathom anything in the world.
They break apart when Dream lets out a tiny gasp. His head spins, breathless as he stares at George in open awe, skin prickling with heat. George’s eyes are kind, and Dream relishes the fondness of his gaze as George strokes the curl of hair at the nape of his neck soothingly.
“Can we do that again?”
“Dream!” George laughs brightly, and it is the best sound in the world.
“I just had my first kiss!” Dream exclaims, grinning. He feels like he’s just downed a whole stockroom of wine, giddy and heart happy. “Oh my god, I just kissed you! You were my first kiss!”
“I was.” George smiles, sincere. The sun cradles him in ribbons of afternoon gold. “How do feel?”
“Incredible,” he rushes, embarrassed at his own scattered adrenaline, terrified that he already wants more, wants everything George is willing to give him. “That was—that was really good, yeah. Thank you.”
George snorts, letting his hand fall from Dream’s cheek to squeeze his thigh. “You don’t have to thank me, idiot. I wanted to.”
“I want you,” Dream blurts without thinking. He can’t imagine kissing anyone else; George is magnetic, enthralling, irresponsibly beautiful. Dream feels insane. “I—I mean—”
George grins lazily and grazes his lips tenderly over Dream’s. “It was never about Sapnap, was it.”
“Only a little bit,” Dream mumbles, dazed.
“I’ll allow it,” George declares, and kisses him again and again and again until Dream’s lips are numb with new affection and George is whispering pretty praises into his mouth and the sun has become a faint orange sliver wavering above the horizon, finally tugging them into darkness with heads tipped together and hands linked over George’s rumpled bedsheets.
___
The kissing becomes a daily thing.
It’s thrilling in the best way — Dream didn’t expect a barely-conscious George to lean over in the young dawn and kiss him good morning, but it felt so natural when Dream sputtered a frantic “hello” into George’s laugh that he didn’t even think to question it. All that existed was warmth: George’s mouth, Dream’s blush, and liquid-smooth sunshine.
Dream often feels like he’s on a tour of his own romance; letting George’s fingers linger at his waist when they walk to class, brushing lips in the shadow of colonnade, stealing glimpses of each other during weapons exercises. How is it real that his best friend flops onto Dream’s shoulder after a run, chest heaving with exertion as he plays with Dream’s fingers, delicately tracing Dream’s knuckles with hands dipped in moonlight? George had kissed him then, and Dream felt like royalty when George looked at him, eyes kissing the crown of his head and sliding down Dream’s body as if he was adorned in silver and gold instead of the sweaty undershirt that George tore from his chest afterward.
God, Dream can’t believe he gets to have this.
They kiss in the stables, under the big oak tree, in the library. They kiss in the kitchen pantry, in the armory, under George’s blankets. They kiss in the clock tower, in the bakery, on the stairs, anywhere, everywhere, and Dream wonders why they haven’t been doing this for years.
They kiss in an empty corridor after breakfast and George tastes like marmalade and warm bread. Dream kisses him open-mouthed, greedy, linking their fingers and pulling George close - George lets him, sighing into his mouth and pushing back against his clumsy movements.
“Are you trying to eat me?” George laughs lightly when they pause to catch their breaths. “Breakfast hour just ended.”
Dream grins, giddy with the rise of the day and the pleased blush on George’s face. “It’s not my fault you're so delectable,” he says, punctuating each word with a peck until he’s kissed every inch of George’s face.
“I hate you,” George shakes his head, cheeks pink. His eyes betray him, soft at the corners, unable to tear his gaze away from Dream. “I never would have kissed you if I had known you’d be this clingy.”
“Only for you,” Dream teases, playing with the edge of George’s sleeve. “You’re my, my—” he stutters, searching for a word to describe the fragile balance of their relationship. Best friends feels unnatural on his tongue when he thinks of the delicate way George’s lips fit against his or the match that burns in his stomach when they stare into each other’s eyes with unwavering intimacy. His heart picks up, realizing George is still waiting for an answer. “Um—you’re a good kisser.”
George stares at him, and Dream shrinks in his arms, skin prickling uncomfortably. They need to talk about it, probably, about what it means to be best friends who link pinkies under the table and smile at each other with blinding affection and also kiss sometimes. It’s confusingly similar to the way Sapnap and Punz brush shoulders and hold hands and adjust each other’s collars at dinner - and they’re boyfriends.
Dream swallows, suddenly unsure in his inability to name the thing between himself and the boy next to him. He doesn’t like labels. He just likes George.
“Well I would hope I’m a good kisser,” George says, half-indignant, startling Dream out of his thoughts. He tips upward on his toes to press a kiss to Dream’s lips; it’s more chaste than before, and Dream melts into the tenderness, automatically soothed by his careful touch. George tastes like bread and marmalade and concern that he delivers as comfort, slowing Dream’s nervous pulse down to something soft and steady.
“You okay?” George asks, tucking a piece of hair behind Dream’s ear. “You got quiet.”
“I’m good,” Dream assures, and offers a smile for sincerity. “You just leave me speechless, that’s all.”
George snorts, breaking the momentary uncertainty between them. He tugs on Dream’s hand, silently leading them out of the hastily-sought corridor and back to the main hall, solid and reassuring. Dream immediately relaxes in his bones. George seems to have that effect on him, often, making him feel lighter than air, brighter than the stars. That feeling lies somewhere deep in Dream’s chest when he thinks about the familiar way George touches him and looks at him and kisses him with a fond reverence.
Dream has noticed it more often, recently. His chest has started to bubble with butterflies when he steals glances at George during their daily exercises, which is… concerning. Did he used to feel dizzy pinpricks in his stomach when George laughed over his words, stumbling over giggly hiccups? Dream has always known George to be pretty, but it feels so much bigger than before when he catches himself gazing at George, half-asleep on top of his books. Cute. Did he always find George cute? Maybe it’s just a side-effect of remembering the way George’s soft lisp comes out after they’ve kissed each other silly. That’s cute, objectively.
This is fine, Dream argues with himself. This is perfectly normal for friends who kiss sometimes.
He can safely admire when George hits all his targets during javelin throwing, or when George sprints past him during training exercises. George is just an attractive person; Dream can’t be blamed for wanting to touch his biceps. Or his shoulders. Or his thighs.
Dream’s lips are still buzzing when George tugs him through the castle after their breakfast kisses, and distantly, as he dizzily touches his mouth to make sure he’s still real, he worries that he might be in way deeper than he thought.
___
“Dream! Get back here!” George shouts from behind him, chest heaving. He stumbles a couple steps forward, narrowly missing a protruding tree root. “How are you so fast.”
“I’m just better!” Dream laughs, bounding ahead through the trees. He darts through a maze of branches, outstripping George, who slows down and curses as he tries to follow Dream’s path.
It’s a free day, and with no responsibilities on the schedule, they decided to play a game fondly named ‘combat tag,’ racing through the dense forest on the outskirts of the town. It’s a game they’ve been playing for years, where Dream runs and runs and runs with George in pursuit, both of them carrying wooden swords—glorified blunted sticks—in case they encounter each other.
It feeds both of their competitive spirits and athleticism, and its fun, Dream thinks, his heart pounding with adrenaline as he tracks George’s footsteps crashing through a patch of leaves.
This time brings a new kind of anticipation, and Dream actually kind of wants George to catch him, wants him to claim Dream as his prize and triumphantly drag him back home with a kiss sealed against his neck.
He slows to a walk, looking around. “Oh, George,” he drawls, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Did you give up already?”
Dream scans the area, suspicious at the quiet. He’s good at picking up George’s cues, too good, perhaps. He knows all of George’s habits, supernaturally attuned to everything George does, from how he laces his boots with two loops like bunny ears to the way he always separates his vegetables from his grains. Dream knows other things too, like how George always kisses him with a hand at his waist or bites down gently on his bottom lip.
Now, though, the only thing he can hear is distant birdsong and the rush of a nearby creek, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up nervously. Where…
A twig crunches and everything blurs— Dream’s head snaps to the side and he sees blue, George’s shirt is blue, and he yells and he turns and he falls, off-balance as George tackles him, upsetting Dream’s center of gravity. They collide in a heap of limbs that starts with Dream’s back hitting the ground ungracefully and ends with George landing squarely on top of him, haphazardly pinning him down.
“George,” Dream rasps, his breath punched out of him by the fall. It doesn’t help that George is laying on his chest, peering up at him with the prettiest eyes known to man. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Sorry,” George says, not sounding very sorry. He rubs Dream’s chest as they catch their breath together. Dream tips his head back, blinking up at the trees, their leaves glimmering with dappled light.
“I wasn’t expecting you to tackle me like a madman, though. Where’s your honor?”
George scoffs. “Oh come on, you were playing dirty too.”
“How?!” Dream demands, shocked, picking his head up to stare at George in disbelief.
“You were being distracting, I don’t know. It was sabotage,” George replies, but he’s blushing slightly, and Dream grins in a heartbeat of understanding.
“Aw, were you distracted by my big, manly, muscles?” he teases, watching as George’s blush creeps up his ears.
“You’re such an idiot.”
“Mhm,” Dream agrees blindly, tucking a piece of hair behind George’s ear and gazing at him fondly. In the late afternoon, George looks soft between the greens of the forest, comfortingly heavy on Dream’s chest.
“Were you going easy on me?” George accuses him.
“No,” Dream kisses the corner of his mouth. “Just—when you win, I win too.”
“You’re such an idiot,” George says again, and Dream can tell he’s flustered by the way he’s looking shyly down at Dream’s collarbones. “I refuse to accept this victory.”
“Kiss me, Georgie,” Dream begs, tugging at George’s shirt with a smile.
“Is this my prize?” George taunts him, but Dream is already leaning up to swallow his words in a kiss, and George yields easily, as if he expected it, sliding his hands through Dream’s hair.
This must be the hundredth time they’ve kissed, and still there are butterflies swirling in Dream’s stomach. George is strawberry sweet and delightfully warm, hands roaming as he presses down upon Dream’s lips, and Dream feels beautiful with George on top of him, guiding the kiss with two hands cupping his jaw.
He feels like he’s touching a star when he touches George, heat and wonder and fairy dust at his fingers. His head is a rush of white noise and George’s tiny laughs, eyes closed, and Dream is floating, suspended in adoration. He forgets where he is, he forgets their game of combat tag, he forgets everything but George, George, George, his nose brushing Dream’s cheek as he tilts his head harder into the kiss.
He forgets that they’re on the outskirts of town, he forgets that they’re basically unarmed, he forgets the instincts that he’s trained since he was six.
George makes him crazy. George makes him stupid.
“Which one are we looking for?”
George bolts up, eyes snapping open at the sudden, unfamiliar voice. Dream is slower to react, still hazy as he reaches for George, fingertips trailing at his jaw and a whine in his throat.
“Who are you?” George’s voice is tight and stern. “What do you want?”
“We’re here for the king,” a gruff voice answers. It sounds closer than before, and George climbs off of Dream, getting to his feet and roughly pulling Dream upright. Dully, Dream notes that George has retrieved the toy wooden sword that has been tossed aside earlier in their tussle, holding it with a white-knuckled grip.
Quickly running a hand through his mussed hair, Dream takes a closer look at the newcomers. There’s three of them, dressed in light iron armor that glints in the low sunlight. Among them, he counts three swords, five daggers, and the careful face of animosity. Dream tenses, suddenly taking inventory of his and George’s loose clothes and dirt-streaked faces, George’s wooden sword the only weapon between them. His heart thumps in his chest, and he moves imperceptibly closer to George.
George scoffs. “The king? XD died a month ago, you’re a bit late if you wanted an audience with him.”
“Not XD,” the man in the middle responds, mouth curving up in a nasty smile. His hand rests on his sword. “An heir has been named in XD’s will. A new king.”
“And who might that be?” Dream spits, trying to appear intimidating.
The man makes direct eye contact with him, eyes slipping down Dream’s figure in an unimpressed appraisal.
“The heir to the throne is Dream, a knight of the kingdom of XD,” he drawls, dripping in arrogance, and draws his sword with a sweep of metal. “Unlucky for you, kid.”
Dream is reeling—these men can’t be serious. Him, the king? They’re absolutely delusional, and yet they’re standing in front of him, iron-faced, threatening his life.
George immediately steps in front of him, brandishing his wooden sword. “Don’t touch him,” he threatens, and the anger in his voice is raw and bloody. Danger hangs heavily over all of them, and Dream becomes terribly aware that someone (George) could get hurt—or worse.
“Don’t,” he whispers to George softly, voice strained. The air is soupy with tension. “We’re outmatched.”
“Cute,” the man to the left jeers, gesturing at George’s sword. He’s shorter, with a stubby beard and a wicked glint in his eye. “But that little thing won’t save your boyfriend.”
“Won’t it?” George growls. Dream has never seen him like this, bristling with pure venom and spitfire, and it scares him a little. Is George really willing to risk dying over this—over him?
“Feisty, this one,” the first speaker remarks, taking a step forward, and Dream’s heart rate picks up. The tension has been broken by momentum, each of the intruders drawing their swords, George coiled up next to him, ready to strike. Dream is at a loss, faltering where he stands.
“Time to see how well the knights of XD really fight.”
What comes next is instinctive, reactive. George pushes forward, jabbing at the main attacker with his sword. Dream loses sight of him as the other two men advance towards him with hungry grins and deadly iron, and he steels himself, gathering his courage.
He kicks the first man’s legs out from under him, ducking under the other’s sword. Even weaponless, Dream knows how to fight, and he steps dangerously close to his nearest assailant, slamming into his chest and redirecting the angle of his weapon. The man falls, snarling, and curls his hand in Dream’s shirt, but Dream rips out of his grip and jumps out the range of his swing, panting.
“You’re dead, boy,” the other attacker threatens, lurching to his feet. He rushes at Dream, narrowly missing his side.
Dream’s limbs kick into overdrive, pure speed driving him as he darts around the man in a strange kind of dance, whipping his elbow back to slam it into the attacker’s head. With a sharp hit to his temple, the man collapses, dazed, and Dream roughly kicks the sword out of his hand, stamping down on his wrist for good measure.
Too caught up in the moment, Dream had neglected to track his other attacker, and he pays for it now — when his shoulder blooms red at the edge of the other’s sword. Dream cries out with pain, rolling away and backing up against the treeline of the small clearing.
The man advances quickly, and Dream can sense the rage in his movements as he strikes at him. Dream thanks the heavens for his training and for all the practice sparring he’s down with George and Sapnap as he weaves between the trees, using the terrain to his advantage. His attacker stumbles after him, cursing, and Dream runs—and it keeps him alive.
“You’re weak, little king,” the man spits behind him. “Running from a fight? Pathetic.”
“You’re crazy,” Dream gasps to himself, speeding up as he sprints behind an array of boulders, trying to lose his assailant. His lungs ache, and his shoulder burns from the strike that the man landed, but George. He needs to get back to George.
The forest is familiar, and Dream bursts through the trees where the fight first begun, hastily skidding into the clearing where he sees movement. He looks over to George, armed with his wooden sword and now a small dagger.
He almost jumps in to help, but quickly stops as he sees the fight. George’s movements are fluid and powerful, clearly the more well-versed warrior of the two, and Dream’s chest heats with a burst of pride. He watches as George brings the glorified stick down on the man’s head, and sticks the dagger to his opponent’s stomach with no hesitation.
The man’s mouth opens in a horrified gasp as he stumbles back, hand flying to the knife in his body, eyes fluttering in shock. His legs give out, and George steps back as he collapses on the ground.
“George,” Dream manages.
“Dream!” George spins around. His voice is filled with overwhelming relief, mirroring the release in Dream’s chest, though his eyebrows immediately knit together when he sees Dream’s injured shoulder. “What happened, where’s the last guy?”
“Lost him, I think,” Dream rasps. “He might be close, I don’t know.”
George comes over to him, cupping Dream’s face with a slender hand, and Dream lets him, leaning into the touch. George’s palms are cool and comforting, and Dream sags within his own frame at the fragile promise of safety.
“Your heartbeat is going so fast,” George mutters softly, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Do you think you’re able to run back to the castle? I think we should just get out of here, I don’t want to risk anything else.”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Dream exhales. He presses a gentle kiss to George's forehead in reassurance, lips skimming over his temple.
“Let’s go home.”
___
George stays with Dream as he gets his shoulder bandaged.
The cut is shallow, barely more than a graze. Dream isn’t too worried about it, but it still helps that George sits next to him, pressing their thighs together and rubbing circles over Dream’s knee when he shivers, shirtless, under the medic’s cold hands.
George seems to know that he’s feeling drained by the way that Dream leans into him more than normal, and it is George that explains their experience to a member of the royal court when Dream pulls on a shirt over his new bandages.
“They were after Dream,” George explains, careful and distinct. “They said that he was the new king, and they tried to kill him. And me, I guess,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Do you know who they were?” the court official asks him urgently.
George shakes his head. “No, but they were well armed. I don’t know who told them Dream was the king, though, but they were really convinced.”
“Right,” the court official says, looking vaguely uncomfortable. She turns to Dream, face schooled into something more formal as she addresses him. “There’s something we need to speak to you about.”
Dream blinks slowly, linking his hand with George. He’s tired, exhausted down to his bones. “Whatever it is, you can say it in front of George, he was there too.”
The woman sighs. “The court opened XD’s will a couple days ago. In it, he adopted you as his heir, which makes you the new king. We were waiting to tell you until the court had convened as a whole, but in that time, information must have fallen into the wrong hands. I apologize that we did not communicate with you earlier.”
Dream stares at the wall over her shoulder. “Okay,” he responds blandly.
There’s nothing else to say. He feels numb. He is not surprised, he thinks. It makes sense. Does it? Dream tries to remember XD. King?
“Do you need anything? I know it’s a lot to process. We’ll have a lot more to discuss in the following weeks,” she says. Her voice is soft, like she’s trying to soften a blow that she’s already delivered.
“I’d just like to go to bed now, please,” Dream says. George squeezes his hand, eyes gentle and imploring. You okay?
“Sure. We’ve prepared the royal quarters for you tonight.”
“Can I just sleep in my own room?” Dream asks, trying to mask how haggard he feels. All he needs right now is the familiar dark shapes of his bedroom, with George’s arms encircling his waist and a blanket of nightfall and nothingness.
“I’m sorry, but for your own safety, the court thinks it best for you to sleep in the tower,” she answers, apologetic.
Dream nods, because what else is there to do? He stands, pulling George up with him. “Can you show us to the room?”
She blanches slightly, “It’s not proper for—”
“Please, just—” Dream sighs, out of energy to fight. He feels George’s hand flatten comfortingly against his back. “Please.”
After a moment of hesitation, eyes flicking over the line of their bodies, pressed together, and the circles under their eyes, she nods sharply, beckoning them down the long hallway to the royal wing of the castle.
“You didn’t have to do that,” George whispers to him as they walk, continually bumping into each other from how close they are.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Dream murmurs. His voice is full of splinters that he knows George can hear.
“I’m staying,” George replies fervently, and his words soothe the exposed sunburn in Dream’s chest. “I’ll always stay, for you.”
“I’m so tired,” Dream says as they scale the stairs to the king’s chambers. He has never been here before. It’s colder than the lower levels, drafts cycling up the tower and between the bricks.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers again as they’re led into the room. There’s only one large bed, and the guards outside spare them a few curious glances as they enter. Dream doesn’t care about anything but the security of George’s hand in his own.
“I’m so tired,” he croaks as they climb into the bed, finally alone, and he curls into George’s chest automatically. He closes his eyes, feeling long-repressed tears burn his irises when George’s arms come to rest gingerly around his shoulder, his waist, pulling him close until their bodies align in a single seal of warmth.
“I know,” George murmurs, kissing his forehead. He brushes hair out of Dream’s eyes, and Dream thinks he hears George’s breath hitch when he sees the tear tracks decorating Dream’s cheeks. “I know, baby.”
“Thank you for being here,” Dream says quietly. His fingers clench and unclench in the back of George’s shirt, grasping for purchase, for something solid and real.
George hums in response, gathering Dream’s head to his chest. They lay there in silence, and Dream closes his eyes to listen to George’s steady heartbeat, calmed by the slow kisses George presses to his forehead.
He is completely encompassed by George, all of his edges defined by the places George touches him, worshipshim. Dream feels himself tremble inwardly as George’s lips travel from his forehead to his cheeks, his nose, his jaw. His skin tingles under George’s mouth, hot and knowing and beautiful as he makes his way over every piece of Dream.
George kisses the bones of his knuckles, the curve of his bicep, the dip of his collarbones. He takes his time, as slow and rich as molasses as he leaves Dream trembling and vulnerable.
“George, please, please,” Dream reaches for his hand, and George gives it to him easily, pressing his thumb to Dream’s pulse-point as a reminder of life and blood and love, which pours from him like a river unending.
He gives it to Dream, all of it, and Dream is drowning, gasping as George makes his way up his neck. Every touch feels overwhelming, overwhelmingly good, and Dream yearns to give it all back as he lets George love him open.
“Dream,” George murmurs, hovering a hair above him. Their lips brush together, unable to stop themselves as George speaks over Dream’s mouth. “You’re so good, you’re so good to me. I can’t— You’re the best kind of person, the best kind of friend.”
“George,” Dream breathes.
“You’re going to be a great king.”
Dream laughs, a little broken as he looks up at George. “Are you—Are you friend-zoning me right now?”
“I hope not,” George answers, voice equally rough as he gazes at Dream, amused. “Do you really think I would do all this if I just wanted to be friends?”
“What do you want to be?” Dream asks, anxious for the clarification. It’s a topic they’ve been dancing around for a while now, unnamed but trained in secret, bound by lips on lips and falling asleep together and the terror of undisclosed longing.
“I think we’ve been more than friends for a long time,” George says softly, leaning down to place a chaste kiss on Dream’s lips. He smiles. “Like that. It’s special. I like doing that, kissing you. I like what we have.”
“Me too,” Dream sighs, gathering relief and courage in one exchange of air. “Would—would you be mine, then?” he asks shyly, breathless.
George looks at him, eyes crinkling with fondness, and the soft curve of his mouth makes Dream’s insides feel liquid. “Yes,” he responds simply.
“Yes?”
“Of course, Dream, you absolute idiot,” George laughs lightly. “I always was, ever since you first asked me to kiss you.”
“Oh,” Dream says, dumbstruck. “That’s—that was a good day.”
“Mm,” George hums, carding a hand through Dream’s hair, and this is familiar, the way they unwind in stages, holding each other gently and talking in shades of unfiltered adoration. “You’ll be mine, too. My king.”
“Yeah,” Dream feels heavy at the phrase. “God, that’ll take some getting used to.”
“Are you okay with it?” George asks, his gaze more intent. This is important, they both know it. If Dream listens hard enough, he can hear the shuffle of the guards’ boots outside his door, or the whipping of the royal flag posted to the outside of the tower. It’s different than before. It’s bigger than just the two of them. “You don’t have to be. You don’t even have to know how you feel yet.”
“Yeah,” Dream repeats slowly, and he blinks up at George. “I’ll get there,” he decides, patting George’s hand clumsily, “It’ll be okay.”
“I won’t call you that, if it makes you uncomfortable,” George presses.
“I don’t mind,” Dream answers easily, and he finds that he means it. He smiles. “I’ll be your king, and you can be my knight.”
George groans dramatically, hiding his face in Dream’s uninjured shoulder. “God, what kind of tragic love story is that.”
“It’s not tragic, it’s beautiful,” Dream argues. His head feels fuzzy with sleep. “You’re beautiful.”
“You’re such a sap.”
“I think I need you,” Dream admits, his tongue loose with truth. “Is that bad?”
“I don’t think so,” George muses. “You can’t get rid of me anyways, so it’s probably for the best.”
“Good,” Dream draws closer to George, tucking his head under his chin and tugging the blankets over them. “Stay.”
George giggles, and kisses his forehead again, because he can, because he is Dream’s and Dream is his, and everything is warm and calm and dark as Dream’s eyes are kissed closed.
Dream thinks he might already be asleep when he hears three soft words whispered against his hair, swept up in the dream of a magnificent ball, with George in his arms, swaying together, their hands linked by trust and love and a brilliant silver promise.