Chapter Text
When Dream was nine years old, he had made a promise. A promise that he was still yet to break. He had sat cross-legged opposite his best friend, joined hands resting atop baby blue bedsheets, and they had sworn to tell each other everything — and that was exactly what they had done.
For the next nine years, they had no secrets. He was sure that he knew George better than he knew himself, and had been reassured on multiple occasions that the sentiment was mutual. They had spent too many days, countless nights, in each other’s company not to know every intricacy, each miniscule detail of one another’s lives and minds. It had gotten to the point where it would be near impossible for something to go unnoticed between them, they knew each other too well to be able to hide anything, to not realise even the smallest of lies.
Perhaps that was why Dream felt like a criminal walking through the school halls that morning. He moved quickly, as though getting it over with as soon as possible would calm the overwhelming storm of guilt brewing within him. They didn’t lie to each other, never had and never would — until today, it seemed. If you thought about it, he’d been lying for years, though today was the first day that he was willing to admit to it.
The mere thought of having to face George later was positively terrifying, because George would know. He’d see right through Dream’s elaborate web of lies that he’d woven over the years, cut through each carefully strung thread of silk like it was nothing, like it hadn’t taken all the strength that Dream possessed to tie them in place. Usually, he wouldn’t mind George knowing him so intimately; communicating through looks and fleeting touches was far more efficient than words, after all. However, this time, what he wished to say was too much to contain with his hands or his voice, so he had picked up a pen and begun to write.
It had taken what felt like an endless number of failed attempts, and a small mountain of balled up pieces of paper — all of which were tossed unceremoniously in the general direction of his bin, he didn’t care to check if they actually went in — but he finally had something that was worth the night that he'd spent sitting alone at his desk. A letter. More specifically, a love letter. A love letter that he'd written for his best friend, that laid plain the truths that he had been concealing for nearly the entirety of their friendship. God, what a fucking mess.
It was three in the morning, he had to wake up for school in a few hours, yet here he was, rereading tender words of handwritten affection for what felt like the thousandth time that night. It was far too late to try and convince himself that this was a bad idea — he’d known that nothing good would come of this since the moment he had begun writing. Despite the obvious drawbacks, he had continued, and the results of his labour were folded neatly before being sealed carefully in an envelope with a red heart-shaped sticker that he’d stolen from his sister.
In reality, the paper in his pocket must have weighed barely anything at all, but it felt as though it was capable of tearing straight through his jeans, crashing to the ground and taking him with it. He was probably being overdramatic — they had known each other for far too long to let even this change what they already had, it wasn’t as if this crush was monumental enough to shatter almost a decade of trust. At most, it might cause a single crack, to be quickly repaired and laughed about at some point in the future. Temporary. Easily moved on from. He didn’t dare to imagine the opposite scenario; getting his hopes up felt like a dangerous game, one that he wasn’t willing to risk partaking in.
Still, his breaths were shaky and uneven as he stopped abruptly at George’s locker, and his fingers visibly trembled as he raised the letter to the slits in the metal. He pushed the paper through, but didn’t let go just yet, holding onto the corner with nothing more than last-minute nerves and a sudden wave of bitter reality.
Should he have bought him a gift too? Flowers? Blue ones, maybe — or would that look like he was trying too hard?
He shook his head, releasing his grip on the letter and letting it fall into George’s locker before he could overthink any longer and tear it to pieces. In hindsight, Dream could have just opened the locker and stuck it to the inside, obviously he knew George’s passcode. He was on the verge of overthinking again — seriously considering retrieving the letter and ripping it to shreds before George ever found it — when he was startled out of his thoughts by cold fingers on the back of his neck.
“Good morning,” George said cheerfully, grinning as Dream wheeled around, staring at George indignantly with his own hand pressed firmly against his neck, shielding himself from further attacks.
“I hate you,” He deadpanned, but was unable to hide the twitch of his lips as he tried to repress a fond smile. He failed miserably, practically beaming as George sidestepped him to get to his locker — Dream didn’t miss the quiet laugh that escaped his best friend’s lips.
For a moment, Dream had forgotten the impending sense of dread that had nearly been consuming him prior to George’s arrival, but as George’s delicate hands spun his passcode with practised ease, the locker door opened and the letter fluttered out onto the floor by his feet.
At first, neither of them said anything at all. The halls had been gradually filling with students, hundreds of voices overlapping into a steady crescendo until it was nearly deafening — yet in this moment Dream heard none of it.
He couldn't tear his eyes away from the envelope on the ground, following its movement as George stooped to pick it up. He handled it carefully, turning it over in his fingers and examining it with a look of curious scrutiny.
Dream watched each small movement with apprehensive eyes and baited breath — there was no doubt that George had picked up on his obvious nervousness by now. But watching George come so close to unfolding the very thing that held every secret he’d ever kept from him made the whole situation suddenly seem so overwhelmingly real.
Instead of going straight to open the letter as Dream presumed that he would, George paused for a second before carefully folding it in half and slipping it into his pocket.
“You’re not going to read it?” Dream asked without thinking, barely keeping the surprise — and though he wouldn’t admit it, disappointment — out of his tone. But, from the curious side glance George gave him, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Now that the potential catalyst to their relationship was in George’s possession, it was almost impossible to prevent a verbal confession tumbling from his lips. He was unsure how he'd managed to hold his tongue for so many years prior.
“I will, later,” George replied casually, taking a textbook from his locker before closing it, appearing oblivious to Dream’s inner turmoil. Though Dream could tell that George knew something was up. There was a slight questioning arch to his eyebrow, a quirk to his lips that wasn’t usually present — only noticeable to someone that had spent so much time with him that they couldn’t help but notice the tiny differences in his demeanour.
He was aware that before the day was over, George would have read every word of his confession, spilled elegantly across creased paper in shiny black ink that had long since dried. Ink that would last forever, as a permanent, irreversible reminder of his own vulnerabilities. He began to wonder if this was a bad idea after all.
They turned wordlessly and began to walk towards their first class, talking and teasing like they always did, both boys tactfully choosing to avoid the topic of the envelope in George’s pocket. It felt almost normal. Normal when they sat next to each other in class and George rested his head on Dream’s shoulder. Normal when they ate lunch together and Dream let George steal food from his plate — despite having plenty of his own — simply because he knew that it was his favourite. Normal when they walked back to George’s house together holding pinkies because it was what they always did .
Dream had become so accustomed to the fond moments he shared with George, small things they did together that had steadily become routine, that it had taken him far too long to see that their ‘normal’ was quite unique. Most friends didn’t essentially share wardrobes, they ordered their own milkshakes instead of asking for an extra straw, they shared a bed at sleepovers but had a mutual agreement to stay on their own side of the mattress. But they had decided that they both preferred things the way they were — George looked good in his hoodies, cuddles were always preferable to awkward distance, and neither of them could finish a whole milkshake on their own anyway, they didn’t have enough of a sweet tooth for it. They made it work. Maybe it wasn’t traditional but it was for them, no one else, and it felt right.
It hadn’t taken them long to get back to George’s place, toeing off their shoes and slipping up to his room as they had done hundreds of times before. Dream had spent so much time here, visiting almost every day since his early childhood, that it felt like a second home, being as familiar with George’s room as he was with his own.
George shut the door behind them before sitting down on the edge of his bed, and Dream immediately flopped down beside him, resting his head in George’s lap. It wasn’t weird, it was natural at this point, and George laughed quietly as he carded his fingers through already-messy blonde hair. Dream’s eyes slipped shut instinctively at the sensation, and he thought that he wouldn’t mind being stuck in this moment forever if he had the choice.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” George murmured, and the smile present on his lips made the words sound almost adoring, “As cute as you look when you’re sleeping, it’s boring without someone to talk to. Plus we’ve still got that envelope from this morning to open.”
At this, Dream opened his eyes — if only a fraction — meeting George’s smile with one of his own, and said sleepily, “For the record, you also look adorable when you’re sleeping.”
“Was that seriously all you got from that?” George sighed, halting the motion of his hand through Dream’s hair to reach into his pocket and retrieve the letter. Dream froze where he lay, his heart rate picking up by what must have been a noticeable margin, silently willing George to toss the flimsy paper aside and forget that it ever existed. But if Dream was that lucky, then he wouldn’t have had to write that letter in the first place. He and George would already be together, would be able to hold each other without telling themselves that they were just friends.
Dream wasn’t lucky, and he wasn’t brave enough to confess properly, so he only watched as pale fingertips nudged the edge of the scarlet sticker, before peeling it off entirely to gain access to what was inside. Before George went any further, he took the heart-shaped sticker between his thumb and forefinger and pressed it gently against Dream’s cheek, with just enough pressure to ensure that it stuck there.
Dream smiled in spite of himself, bringing a hand up to brush over the thin red plastic affixed to his skin. Before, he had been nervous, borderline terrified of how George would react to the letter, but that simple gesture had numbed the feeling so that the swarm inside of him resembled only a single butterfly fluttering around his insides. The flapping of its delicate wings was fuelled by nothing but hope.
“What’s it say?” Dream asked, tone flooded with feigned ignorance. George’s gaze shifted between the boy in his lap and the letter in his hand, as though trying to fit together two pieces of an impossible jigsaw puzzle. At first, he didn’t reply, but held the letter in one hand and resumed the motion of combing through Dream’s hair with the other.
“Want me to read it to you?” George said at last, and Dream hummed in assent. He had no desire to hear George read his own loving words of adoring devotion back to him, but in this moment, he was comfortable. If preserving this feeling of safety and warmth for only a minute more came at the simple cost of his own embarrassment, then he’d listen to George read the letter a thousand times over.
George cleared his throat, then began, “My George, you’ve always told me that I’m far better with words than you are, but writing this makes me doubt myself. You make me speechless, and I adore it. I adore everything about you. Your laugh, how I’ll never hear anything prettier. All the dumb little catchphrases you use, and how I’ve caught myself starting to say them too. I love the way you’ve become my world. I’m beginning to think I love you, too.
One day, if you’ll let me, I’m going to take you stargazing. We would drive somewhere away from the city and I’d hold you as we gaze into the body of the universe. I could teach you the names of the constellations, if you wanted, and when you ask my favourite, I’d look at you. I know you’d look gorgeous in the moonlight.
I know I sound stupid right now, you’re probably laughing at the idiot who thought it would be a good idea to write you a love letter, but I can promise that I’m being honest — I’m yours, if you’ll have me.
“Wow, sounds like they really like you,” Dream mused, meeting George’s eyes. Almost absentmindedly, Dream peeled the sticker off his cheek, and reached up to press it to George’s nose. George giggled quietly, and reached to skim his fingers over it just as Dream had.
“Yeah,” George laughed, “It sounds like they do. Pity they didn’t sign their name.”
“They didn’t- what?” Dream breathed, brows creasing in a frown. He was sure he had signed his name, he was supposed to sign his name. How else would George know that everything in that letter was truthful, meaningful, and not just the exaggerated emotions of someone else trying to win him over? After spending hours to ensure its perfection, pouring all the love he had within him into a single, unassuming envelope, he had lost ownership of it all. Every word was anonymous.
It would be so easy to confess, to reclaim what was his, he was merely a few words away from it, yet his tongue remained unmoving. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. Not with those eyes on him, that hand in his hair, that voice ringing in his ears. It was too much, but Dream still wanted for so much more.
Instead, he let himself fall back into habit, not daring to alter their routine just yet, and so decided to play into it, leaning into the soft touch of George’s palm and saying, “Well whoever it is better watch their back, ‘My George.’” He scoffed, and George’s smile grew wider.
“You’re acting like I’m getting stolen away from you.”
“Maybe you are.”
George only sighed softly in response, setting the letter down on the bed next to them and cupping Dream’s face between both his hands.
“You’re worth more to me than a love letter, okay?”
“I know,” Dream whispered, and George tucked a strand of golden hair behind Dream’s ear. Usually, George was beautiful. However right now, he looked like an angel. From where Dream lay, George’s head blocked out the majority of the light, but what remained framed his head like a halo. His features were sharpened by shadow, lips parted ever so slightly in a way that made Dream want to sit up and kiss him until they couldn’t think. Until they couldn’t breathe. Until they both forgot that there was a world outside of each other and their lips and their wandering hands.
“Want to watch a movie?” George asked abruptly. Dream had to race to clear his thoughts in order to come up with a sufficiently coherent response, but George waited patiently. He always did.
“It’s comfy here.”
“We're watching a movie," George stated, beginning to detangle his hand from Dream's hair, but was stopped by Dream placing both of his own hands on top of it, trapping it in place.
"You asked if I wanted-" Dream protested, but George was already moving away from him, retrieving his laptop from his desk and sitting back down against the headboard. Dream sighed, before begrudgingly moving to sit next to him. There was no point even trying to contradict him; Dream was bound to give in embarrassingly quickly, and George was far too stubborn for his own good.
George shifted closer towards him, pressing their thighs together so he could easily balance the laptop between them. Dream instinctively leaned into the contact, reaching an arm around George’s shoulders and pulling them closer together, under the pretence of getting a better look at the screen.
It's after nearly an hour of comfortable silence later, save for the movie playing quietly in front of them, that Dream finally works up the courage to speak again.
“Are you going to send one back?”
“Hm?” George questions, turning his head so as to look directly at Dream. A mistake. They were still pressed together from shoulder to ankle, and Dream thinks he can feel George’s breath on his lips.
“A- a letter,” Dream stutters, unsure whether he wanted to pull away and clear his head, or lean forward a few millimetres so that their lips brushed when he next spoke. “Are you going to write a letter back?”
George considered for a second, and if Dream’s gaze hadn’t already been absentmindedly fixed on George’s lips, he might have caught the way that George’s eyes dipped momentarily to glance at his own.
“Maybe,” George said at last, turning his head back to the movie, “If they tell me who they are, at least.”
Dream pressed his lips together, barely stopping himself from closing his eyes too. He knew that this was only making him appear stranger, more suspicious, but how else was he supposed to prevent himself from coming clean right then? They didn’t do secrets, they never had, and this was already destroying him.
George knew something was up, he could probably even feel the erratic thumping of Dream’s heart from where they were pressed together, yet he said nothing. He took the hand that wasn’t around his shoulders and slotted the fingers between his own, rubbing his thumb in slow circles over the back of Dream’s hand. It was soothing, a wordless ‘we’re okay’, but every point of contact scalded Dream’s skin, setting his nerves alight and smiling softly as they burned. Touching George felt like being thrown into the fiery blaze of heaven, and Dream wanted to be burnt alive.
He allowed himself to get lost in the sensation, if only temporarily, allowing his eyes to slip shut and his head to loll onto George’s shoulder.
“You’re so sleepy today,” George commented, looking down at the boy resting on his shoulder in fond bemusement.
“Was up late,” Dream mumbled into George’s shoulder.
George said nothing, but Dream could tell that he knew more than he should. The silence rang of unspoken confessions, impossible secrets, and they didn’t talk about it. George didn’t ask the reason behind Dream’s tiredness, and Dream didn’t offer it, instead pretending to pay attention to the rest of the movie whilst George fiddled with their joined hands.
When the credits began to roll, neither of them moved to stand up, George only yawning and wrapping both his arms around Dream, hugging him as close as he could without sending the laptop — that was still balanced precariously between them — crashing to the floor.
“You were right,” George whispered, almost too quiet for Dream to hear.
“I usually am.”
“Idiot,” George replied, but Dream could tell from his tone that he was smiling, “I meant about what you said earlier, about it being comfy here.”
Never had Dream been so glad for the darkness in the room — his blush would have been painfully obvious without it.
“Promise me we can keep doing this, even if you find out which loser wrote you the letter?” Dream blurted out.
“Don’t call them a loser, it was cute,” George said indignantly, punching Dream's shoulder.
“If we ever find out which person-”
“You’re the most important person in my life, you know that right?” George looked up from where he rested on Dream’s chest, and their eyes met.
“And you’re mine.”
The words sounded far too possessive, far too loving , when they fell upon Dream’s ears, but luckily George didn’t seem to notice nor care. He shifted where he sat, raising his head so his face was level with Dream’s, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, where he had placed the sticker just hours earlier — the same sticker that still remained stuck to George’s nose, brushing against Dream’s skin as George leaned close. The sensation was strange, though not unwelcome, thin plastic against freckled skin, but that wasn’t what commanded Dream’s focus. George had kissed him. He had kissed him.
“George, I-” Think I love you , he so badly wanted to say, but he couldn’t. His voice was strangled, breathless, and George looked almost proud at how flustered he had made him. Dream was brave, but for George he was a coward, struck dumb and made graceless by his mere presence.
“It’s late,” George interrupted, sitting up and moving off the bed, away from Dream, “You should probably get home before your mum freaks out again.”
They parted as they always did, with sweetened goodbyes and a promise of tomorrow, although Dream left with slightly more than usual: the lingering sensation of George’s lips against his skin, and the overwhelming desire to write a second letter.