Work Text:
“George.”
He doesn’t know what he’s doing really. His left hand has a hold on a pen loosely, gliding over the irritatingly moving material of a napkin. He’d stolen the pen from Sapnap, he thinks, where it’d been stolen from Dream he thinks. He’s not sure really.
He’d gotten lost in the dinner's subtle chatter and warm lighting, two best friends conversing next to him. He blinks up now, dark meeting green, eyebrows raised in his direction, “You good?”
George’s eyes flick down to his mindless doodle, blinking at the forming of the soft curve of a cheek and the slope of a crooked nose, the man formed familiar. He covers it subtly with his hand, rubbing his eye with his other, “Yeah, just tired.”
Dream speaks up now from his listening and restless tapping of his fingers against the table, “Long day?”
“No,” George breathes sarcastically, flattening his eyebrows. It’s only 3am in the fucking morning, on top of that he’s been up since 8am. The slow turning of his mind is to blame for his doodling, he uncovers it again to take in the line of a cupid’s bow.
He begins changing features, taking away from the downward curve of eyes that currently are on him from across the table. Sapnap sighs, “Damn, someone’s grumpy.”
He ignores the comment, in his head he’s running over the inaccuracy of the previous features he’d drawn out. It’d unmistakably been Dream but something had been off, he’s not sure exactly what had stopped it from being perfect. Or at least better.
He glances up, Sapnap back to talking about whatever, taking in the blonde across from the two of him. Lips are pressed together as he listens, eyes are cast onto the table as he focuses, always-moving fingers having stilled in his efforts. His posture is bad, always has been as long as George has known him, hunched and leaning with elbows on the table.
Maybe it’s the hair, he thinks. The hair had to have been wrong, not showing the sun-bleached mess that the other always seems to make work. It’s because he’s from Florida, the sun was formed to compliment him. At least that’s the reasoning George has always used to justify the pang in his heart when it falls over his forehead.
He looks down at the drawing, features becoming muddled from his editing, he leans into it because it’s a dumb drawing anyway. He adds swirls on the cheeks, sharpening the line of the jaw and making the hair messier. Then he’s elbowed, looking up just in time to sweep the napkin out of the way for the waiter to place down his plate.
Dream steals one of his fries, despite having his own, because he’s annoying like that. He asks with an amused quirk of his lips, “Big assignment?”
“Not really,” He scrunches up his face and bats away the hand that moves to grab another, “Just the usual. I’m just not sure what to paint, you know?”
“Is it one with a prompt? Maybe we can help,” Sapnap asks around a mouthful of food, hand covering his mouth as if that’s any less gross.
“The prompt is You.”
“You?”
“Yeah. You,” George tilts his head, “Obviously I can’t do a self-portrait. But a normal drawing of someone randomly would be missing the point probably.”
“Yeah,” Dream hums, eyebrows furrowed as he thinks.
“I dunno, I’ve just got to think on it,” He shrugs, finally beginning to eat, “I’ll think of something.”
They eat in silence after that, all independently thinking about various things. When they get up to go, George pointedly ignores the way the blonde’s eyes linger on his abandoned napkin drawing.
To be fair, none of it’s intentional. He’s flicking through magazines for references, thinking on his favorite movies, going into his camera roll to consider drawing a family member. But when he lays out the underpainting, bringing out dark lines in replication of a smeared vague pencil drawing, he stands back and looks long and hard at it.
He’d been sent something the other day. It’d been a joke, sent to him when he was in class even, a picture of a screen. Dream has too much free time when he’s not working, time he’s supposed to be working on his book but sometimes can’t focus enough to, George knows all this. Still, a picture with some dumb random emoji. A joke.
Still, even as he stands back from his drying underpainting, his messy fingers are absently swiping to open it. He hadn’t saved it, hadn’t given himself the privilege or embarrassment of doing so. But the idea, he can visualize it in the pathetic way his stomach twists when hands bump his accidentally. Just the one line.
And the universe said I love you because you are love.
It’s dumb, really. Again, a joke. A section of a poem at the end of fucking Minecraft of all things. Which, yeah, he likes the game but he's got to defend and explain his finished work after he’s completed it. Isn’t it a bit dumb to recall a Minecraft reference in front of his class? He certainly thinks so.
But still, it’s sticking in his head. And he wants to complain endlessly about the fact that it’s going to inevitably be his end result. It’s not so much that he wants to draw anything from the game or the words or anything that gives much open hint about the inspiration. If you can even call it inspiration, he thinks it’s embarrassing to be inspired by a joke.
But now, dark lines have already been set. Realistically, he could always change the concept. He looks down at the paper he’d drawn the sketch on, smeared from his sweaty hands and his nerves on a late night. Still inaccurate. He glances at the canvas again, reasons in his mind that at least he’d never see it.
Dream will never see the painting, he’ll make sure of it. But he feels the buzz in his fingertips, the desperation to start adding layers and carving out the face of someone he knows so well. He will paint his best friend because he’s the you in question. He sighs, sticking his paper to the side of his easel before he grabs his brush. He’s on a time crunch anyway.
It’s all wrong, all off. He’s starting to get frustrated after so so many fruitless late nights. He’ll stay up painting until he feels the drag behind his eyes and his hand is cramping, but still, it’s just not right. He doesn’t have any good pictures of Dream’s face, why would he? They’re best friends but have no pictures together.
It’s not like he can walk in and say ‘hey, let me take a picture of your face, I’m painting you because I’m desperately in love with you’. That’d be weird and he’s too stubborn to admit he’s ever put any time into drawing either of his best friends. He’d probably be teased until he dies. Plus, he’d have to explain why he’d chosen Dream in particular.
The blonde gets teased enough for his attentiveness, George doesn’t also want to be a victim of being made fun of for being too interested. He has his breaking point eventually, with only so much time to get it done. He practically speedwalks out of his room, closing the door behind him because nobody’s allowed in there, and heading down the hallway.
It’s dark, he probably gets paint on the door from his knuckles when he knocks. It’s much too early in the morning for him to be awake but he knows the other is also subjected to being too restless to have a proper sleep schedule. Sapnap is probably sleeping down the hall like a baby.
The door opens, the lights in the blonde’s room off, he squints down at him with his hair sticking in every direction. George thinks he’s more than a little in love with him, heart beating faster and cheeks blossoming red. When he doesn’t speak, Dream questions with his hand on the doorframe, practically towering over him, “What?”
“I don’t know,” He says, quiet, because he genuinely doesn’t know what his plan even was.
“Come lay down,” The other hums just as quietly, voice low because he’s tired, eyes still kind.
“I’m painting,” He hushes.
“Oh,” Dream furrows his eyebrows, “Thought you looked tired though.”
“I am,” He admits, “I’m struggling.”
“With?”
His hands are covered in paint, he knows this. Dream knows this, knows he’s awful at keeping his paint off himself. Still, he gets no discouragement when his palms rise to find their place on the other’s face. He traces fingers over the slope of his cheek, feels the soft harshness of his jaw, lightly going down the bridge of his nose.
When his thumbs press to the corner of his mouth, he’s finally batted away, gently but fondly annoyed. A large hand finds the spot above his elbow, pulling him into the darkness of the room, leaving to close the door. Dream says, “Come on, let’s go to bed, George.”
“Gonna get paint in your bed,” He says, suddenly feeling raw.
“I know, c’mere,” The hand finds his arm again, taking him to the other’s bathroom. They both squint when the light’s turned on, hands guiding him by the wrists to stick his hands under the water. It’s odd, to let the other wash his hands for him, being cared for after working for hours that make his joints hurt.
His head falls back, onto Dream’s shoulder, eyes tired. It sets in then that he’s utterly exhausted, focusing on laying down colors having kept him going. Lips press into his hair, gentle, and his heart aches for feelings that aren’t there. A hand molds to his waist, as if he can’t be trusted to stay upright on his own.
He doesn’t even remember when he slept last, now that he thinks about it. Dream asks him, allowing them a moment to stand together, “Do you want me to put your stuff away?”
“No,” He says firmly, “It’s okay.”
“Okay,” And he’s glad to not be questioned. Because Dream seeing the messy work of himself would be tragic, he doesn’t think he’d recover. He’s nudged, he sends them back into darkness as they move, mattress greeting his weary bones nicely. He sighs, sinking into the comfort, finding it even more comfortable than his own bed.
It’s because Dream is there, he knows. He feels the warmth of him there, so easily within reach. He turns, tilts his head, admires the way moonlight falls around them. Eyes are already on him, attention always focused so devotedly on him whenever they’re together. George takes him in, the tired lines of his face, and wonders what he did today.
He doesn’t think they even properly saw each other, just in passing. A thumb brushes against his cheek, the blonde as tender with his touch as he always is, “You okay?”
He thinks back to his painting, the soft peaches and greens of his features, the blue he’d put on the curve of his adam’s apple. He thinks perhaps Dream is the sun itself, bright even now, carefully sculpted in a way that can’t be perfected. And George knows him, knows the way his face scrunches when he laughs, and the constellation of his freckles, and the smoothness of his hands.
He knows his writing, his thoughts, his singing. He knows he’s not worried about his own exhaustion because he always puts others first, because he’s considerate like that. And it’s suddenly painful now, to be laying next to him. He aches, somewhere deep inside him. Oblivious, his friend questions, “George?”
He swallows dryly, blinks rapidly, “Yeah, I’m alright.”
Improvement at last, in the careful smile lines and the singular dimple. But still, he’s not sure what’s off, it’s still not right. So he swallows his pride finally one day, gripping onto his sketchbook and heading nervously to the blonde’s room. He’d been careful that he wouldn’t run into Sapnap, that would be embarrassing to reveal to both of them.
He knocks, because he always does, despite Dream always insisting that he doesn’t have to. He steps into the room after he’s answered, closing the door behind him. The blonde has his headphones around his neck, music loud enough it can still be heard, monitors full of notes and emails and the rough draft he’s been working on forever.
Still, Dream turns his chair, raising his eyebrows. George clutches his sketchbook and pencil closer to himself, getting the words out after a moment, “I need a break from my assignment,” He has a lump in his throat when he says, “I want to draw you.”
Eyebrows raise impossibly more, “Me? Why?”
“I don’t know,” He lies, trying to get in practice for the painting with a closer reference, “I’m bored.”
“Really?” Dream grins widely, “You sure you want to draw me?” He nods, expecting teasing. The other just turns his chair more, apparently invested now, and asks, “How do you want me?”
At an eyebrow raise they both laugh. Then George finally steps forward from where he’d been nervously lingering, settling down on the edge of the other’s bed. But then he rises, adjusting the other’s chair. He places his hand under the other’s chin, tilting his head just right to match the angle of his painting, “There. I just want to get your face mostly.”
“Oh, so you like my face, huh?” An eyebrow raise and cocky smile but he still is sure to stay as George adjusted him.
“Eh,” He sits back down, observing. He squints, lifts his pencil to measure out his features, taking in how the sun from the window hits one side of his face. He’s marking it down, writing little notes to the side to use later. Dream’s fingers are tapping on the armrest of his chair already, always needing to move.
For once, George feels like he’s getting the curve of his nose right. The shading of his cheekbones is softer than he thought, the dips of the corners of his lips deeper. His hair is hanging over his forehead currently, eyelashes blonde in the sun. A slow blink, “George.”
“Dream,” He hums back, gaze down to shade out the slight darkness under his eye. He nearly jumps out of his skin when hands touch his knees, head snapping up in time for lips to press to his cheek. A hand on his jaw, lips pressing again under his eye, he gasps, “What-“
“Sorry, you just looked so serious,” A press to his temple, “It’s just a drawing, Georgie.”
“Get off me,” He presses a hand to his chest, pushing weakly because he honestly doesn’t want him to go, “You’re such an idiot.”
A stubbled face in the crook of his neck, lips pressing there, fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s breathed against his skin, “I’m bored, I can’t sit there like that.”
“Idiot,” George mutters, dragging a gentle hand down his back, “Lay with me then.”
“‘Kay,” A hum before Dream shifts, flopping onto his stomach.
George knocks his knuckles into his hip, “Not like that.”
“Sorry,” Dream turns onto his back and raises his eyebrows at him, “Didn’t know there were rules.”
“I just,” George sighs, moving to lay on his side next to him, “Still wanna draw.”
Dream simply blinks at him, light hitting him differently now. The brunette lifts his pencil again, slowly filling in little sections he’d marked off for shading. He glances up and the blonde’s watching him with parted lips. He wishes he’d brought something to color now, something to replicate the soft pink.
Yeah, he’s definitely lingering too much on his mouth then. He glances over his drawing before turning it around, revealing his work. Dream lights up, taking it gently between his large hands, squinting as he takes in the detail. A finger touches a freckle and then rises to touch the same one on his own cheek. George reaches and requests, “Another.”
“I only have so much patience,” Dream reminds him, handing it over carefully. Then he says softer, “And that’s gorgeous, George, you’re amazing.”
He scoffs as a way to brush off the compliments, proposing instead, “How about another one but after you get to draw me?”
“How is that fair?” Fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, tugging even if the touch remains kind, “I’m awful at drawing.”
“You’re not,” George pokes at him, “I’ve seen you draw before.”
Dream frowns dramatically at him for a long moment, one where George doesn’t break, before he sighs and rolls his eyes, “Fine, gimme a paper.”
“After,” He chimes.
“Now,” His friend argues, “I can’t sit still for any more, let’s do them at the same time.”
“Alright,” He rolls his eyes, rising to crawl over him and retrieve a piece of paper from the other’s desk. He grabs a book for him to use to draw as well, pressing them to his chest with both hands as he crawls back over him.
But Dream grasps him right above his hips, halting him, “No, from this angle. Wanna capture you above me.”
A wink accompanies the joke and George’s cheeks color pink against his will. He stares him down and says, “I will leave.”
“Why, does my creative vision offend you?” A sharp smile, smug now at his blush.
“Dream,” He deadpans, already ready to leave for the sake of his sanity.
“Fine,” An eye roll, smile softening anyway, hands shifting up to his waist instead. George continues his shuffle back to his place, sitting with his legs crossed as he grasps his sketchbook again. He’s turned and trying to find his pencil lost in the blankets when lips meet a place low on his neck where his shirt has fallen down. Dream murmurs, “George.”
“Dream,” He mimics back instinctually, ignoring the action. Teeth scrape under the curve of his jaw in response and he nearly jumps out of his skin, immediately jolting away. He turns, flattens his eyebrows, “Did you just bite me?”
“No, did you want me to?” Raised eyebrows, as if that’s a genuine proposal.
George’s mind goes blank, he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he asks, “What has gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Dream frowns, “I’ve just missed you, you’ve been busy.”
“Missed me?” He tilts his head, “I’m like next door.”
Dream flops down and says exasperatedly, “Yeah but I’m not allowed in your room.”
“Yeah,” George hums back, sending them into a few seconds of simply looking at each other. Then he smoothes down blonde hair and makes his words more genuine, “I’m sorry. I swear it’s just so I can get this assignment done, then I’ll be free more.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” He offers a little smile.
The painting is finished in all its glory, accurate with the help of his sketches. He tapes Dream’s drawing up on his wall, the sloppiness of his own face done by the other’s shaky line work. His smile looks wobbly in it and his eyes look a little in love and he glances at it sometimes to remind himself how his friend sees him.
The Dream he’d portrayed is colorful, splashes of so many colors laid down, eyes vibrant green. He’s just in time, carefully hiding it as he takes it out the door, not wanting to reveal his end result. After he’s been graded on it, he’ll probably destroy it or give it away, just so it can never be found out.
He looks around at other classmates’ work, they’d been given freedom of whatever medium, resulting in a variety of styles. There are the obvious choices, tons of self-portraits. There are ones of pets, of grandparents, of children. There are a few that make no sense, probably attempts to get too abstract with the prompt.
He tries not to get too shaky when he gets up to explain. His confessions spill from his lips, pouring over and coating the floor in his devotion. He doesn’t mention the complexity of his feelings, doesn’t explain that they’re best friends. He explains it as he painted him because he is love, tries to swallow down the actual reference.
Criticism is the same as always, always comments on his style or his choice to paint. He brushes them off in his head, latching onto more helpful ones. He’s relieved when they move on to the next person, taking soft breaths. They leave their works in the room after, to be graded more thoroughly.
That’s perfect because Dream is waiting for him when he leaves, hooking their arms together and dragging him along. The blonde is already rambling about getting coffee, as if any of this was planned beforehand. George avoids the looks of his classmates and swallows down the lump in his throat.
He’s been fucked over. The next assignment should’ve let him off free from his decision to paint his friend, right? Wrong, it’s an end of semester project to make a series of work based on the same prompt. And to top it off, the best is going to be shown in a gallery. He can’t even do awful on purpose because he’d fuck himself over in terms of grades.
This also means he can’t destroy or get rid of the first one, forced to take it home again. He wants to tear his hair out, simply sitting and staring at it when he’d placed it back safely into his room. He decides the other two can’t ever know about the showing, the embarrassment would actually make him pass away on the spot.
He crawls into Dream’s bed that night after thinking too hard about it, simply entering and crawling under the covers. The blonde shifts at the feeling of the bed dipping, already lost in sleep. He doesn’t wake, George presses his face between his shoulder blades, just to steal his warmth.
He starts working the next day, after a while of staring with dread in his stomach. He figures he’s already in the deep end and might as well paint Sapnap too, starting to doodle and figure out exactly how to do that. He’s filling out careful blotches of color to start shaping a side profile when his door is knocked on. He hums, “Yeah?”
“George,” Dream sounds scattered, “What’s another way to say love?”
“Desire? Want?” He answers, used to being questioned for synonyms.
“I desire you,” A pause, words being tried out on the other’s tongue, “I want you. I desire you.”
George imagines him standing at the door with furrowed eyebrows thinking, lips pulling up at the thought, “Good to know, Dream.”
A pause, probably in surprise. Then the tap of knuckles against the door, lighter now, “George. Can I come in?”
He stops, looking at his canvas. It’s not very obvious it’s going to be Sapnap, at least he thinks so. But then he sees the other painting out of the corner of his eye, “One second,” He presses his paintbrush between his teeth and reaches with his cleaner hand, flipping the painting to face the wall and hide his shame. He turns, breathes, “Yeah, come in.”
The door clicks open instantly, the blonde in a worn shirt and baggy sweatpants. His hair is a mess as usual and George loves him too much for it, watching as he hesitates in the doorway. Then he walks through, settling lightly onto his messy bedsheets, crossing his long legs. Dream’s eyes flick to his painting, “You’re busy again.”
“Oh,” He blanks, having forgotten his previous promise, guilty, “Yeah, I am.”
“New assignment?”
“Yeah,” He says blandly, looking to it as well.
“George,” A complaint, “You never spend time with me anymore.”
“I know, I don’t do it on purpose,” He squares his shoulders, reaching his brush out to fix a spot, “I swear.”
Then he sets his stuff down, moving to instead join him on the bed. Dream’s fingers brush over his exposed knee, alerting him to the fact that he’s wearing shorts he’d be embarrassed to be seen in around anyone else. A murmur, “Why do you lock yourself in here? Can’t even see you.”
“Helps me work,” He answers, watching smooth fingertips rise up his thigh to touch soft skin. Of course he allows it, accepting the head that falls to press a forehead to his temple.
Just above a whisper, “What are you working on now?”
“Well, there’s this annoying guy in my room right now so-”
“Shut up,” Dream laughs breathlessly, poking him in the side, “Seriously.”
“Uh,” He looks over, his friend moves to push his face into the crook of his neck, making his fingers instinctually sink into blonde hair, “I’m just doing a portrait right now.”
“How about..” Fingers press high on his thigh, warm, “We go take a nap instead?”
“Thought you were writing?”
His attention is caught by movement out of the corner of his eye, gaze rising to catch Sapnap standing just outside his doorway. His face is all screwed up, he can’t tell if it’s disgust or not, the younger asking, “What the fuck are you two doing?”
Dream’s head rises and he straightens up, fingers instantly retracting, “Talking.”
“Yeah, sure you are,” His eyes flick to George’s thigh knowingly, he wrinkles his nose and adds, “Freaks.”
George’s lips part in surprise and then he protests, “We were.”
“Okay,” A click of a tongue and a roll of eyes before Sapnap is walking away down the hall. He calls as he goes, “Use protection, lovebirds.”
Dream chases after him to argue while George simply falls back onto his bed, stunned by the implication.
“Do you have something to tell me?”
Sapnap sits with his fingers crossed like a school kid, across from them in their regular diner booth. Dream is slouched, their knees bumping under the table when he shifts, popping a fry into his mouth and humming, “Nope.”
“Absolutely nothing?” Sapnap tilts his head, turning on George now, “And you?”
“Yeah, actually,” He answers, having been sat there peacefully watching Dream be interrogated and dodge each question. He leans forward as if he really does, lowering his voice, the blonde looks to him too, “Don’t tell anyone but I like men.”
“No way,” Sapnap rolls his eyes, falling back where he’d been intrigued and leaning in, “I can’t believe it.”
Dream crosses his arms, adds, “George, we can’t be friends anymore.”
“That’s homophobic,” He chimes, glad that at least they’re talking about anything other than the love affair Sapnap’s convinced they’re having.
“I know, I hate gay people,” Dream jokes, lips curving up now, “I hate both of you and myself.”
“Yet somehow you managed to bag George,” Sapnap cuts in, steering it back to his theory, “When did it even start?”
“When’d I start being gay?” Dream avoids easily, “Well, it all started when I was born-”
“I hate you,” Sapnap leans back, slumping down defeatedly, “Why do you even care about me knowing about your relationship?”
“There’s no relationship,” George insists, “That’s the thing. You’re so weird, why are you so convinced?”
“You sleep together all the time, first of all,” He extends one finger then raises more as he lists, “You’re all over each other all the time, you kiss each other, and Dream looks like a kicked puppy whenever you’re too busy for him to cling to you.”
“I don’t kiss anyone,” He hums, looking to the blonde, “Especially not this idiot.”
“Plus you say it like it’s actual kissing,” Dream joins him in countering, “We don’t kiss on the mouth, that’s weird.”
“Yeah,” George twists his fingers together in his lap, bumping his foot into the youngest’s under the table, “Sorry we’re better friends with each other.”
It’s a lie and all three of them know it, they all know it’s just different dynamics between each duo. Dream brings up, “I don’t look like a kicked puppy when George is busy, that’s so dumb.”
“You kind of do,” George grins, sharing a look with Sapnap that screams the word simp.
“Fine,” The blonde hums, the word already playing on the stubborn attitude he’s going to adopt now.
“Okay,” Sapnap looks between them, squinting his eyes as he does so before he looks away with a smile.
“Sapnap?”
He’s dumb, all the lights in the apartment off, standing in the doorway of his room. Thank god the younger is on his phone, awake despite the lights being off. He answers, “George.”
He opens his mouth, closes it, then turns and shuts the door behind him. He climbs onto the bed with him, sitting down, watching a phone being clicked off and set down. The feelings had gotten too much, eyelashes had been tainted with his tears for a short while before he realized he had to get them out. Instead he blurts, “I painted Dream.”
“Yeah?” Despite his gaze on his knees, he can hear the smile, “For your new assignment?”
“No. Well, yes, we have to do a series for the same prompt,” He clarifies, “But he was the first.”
“Why?” It’s all just an invitation for him to get out what he needs to, it’s rare that he goes to Sapnap to talk things out, they don’t get vulnerable with each other often.
“You were right,” He mumbles, picking at a piece of lint on his comforter.
Sapnap says, “What was that?”
“Don’t be insufferable,” George flattens his eyebrows at him, “You heard me.”
“Right how? You’re together?” Sapnap says gently.
“No, we’re not,” He sighs, slumping down, “I’m dumb, you know?”
“Dumb how?” The other doesn’t even take the opportunity to tease him.
“Sap, I’m like,” He struggles and then just says it outright, “In love with him.”
The word never falls easily from his mouth, four letters that feel so crushing on his chest. Sapnap shifts, “You’re not messing with me right now?”
“No, why would I-”
“George.” He’s grabbed by the shoulders, being shaken, “George. You’re a fucking idiot.”
“I know,” He grabs onto his forearms for support, “I’m fucking everything up-”
“No, how are you this stupid?” He can’t see but he can feel Sapnap’s eyes burn into his through the dark, “Listen to me. That fucking dumbass down the hall has been in love with you since the beginning of time, are you kidding me? You better not be lying to me.”
“What are you talking about?” He frowns at those words.
“Oh my god, George,” And then he’s crushed into a hug, “This is amazing.”
“You’re so weird,” He shoves him away, “What do you mean he’s been in love with me?”
“I mean exactly that, did you think he kisses and sleeps with anyone?”
George pauses, thinks this over, wrinkles his nose, “I mean, he might.”
“You’re fucking stupid,” And Sapnap hugs him again tightly.
He just lets him, arms trapped between them, simply laying his head down on his shoulder. It’s still dark except for the small amount of light the window allows in, he blinks at the nothingness of it. Then he mumbles, “Sap. It all might be put in a gallery, the series.”
“So?” A quick squeeze tighter, “Then we’ll go see it.”
George closes his eyes, quiet, “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He shows Sapnap the painting the next day, explains his plan for the rest, including the one in progress of him. The other looks at the recreation of Dream in bright colors for a long while before he clicks his tongue and inputs that it’s freaky that he can create something that realistic.
There seem to be no signs that his confessions that night have reached the blonde at all, it seems like for once Sapnap didn’t go spilling his business to the other. At least he thinks so, nothing between them seems to have really changed. Dream is on a kick of stubbornly not seeking him out as much since the whole hurt puppy comparison but still.
At least that’s what he thinks about as he spends countless hours working relentlessly on the dumb assignment. There’s the debate of he knows and he doesn’t in the forefront of his brain at all times, like he’s being haunted. He’s surviving off coffee at this point, shadows under his eyes ever-darkening.
He sees the other two in passing mostly, for three long days, he’s practically in total isolation. Until he’s dead on his feet, practically sleeping upright in the kitchen as his food warms up, eyelids drooping. His balance is wavering and he practically melts into the hands that brush over his back. Dream secures a grip on his hips and his head falls back onto his chest easily, “Hm.”
“Tired?” Fingers smooth over his skin, thumbs venturing up under his shirt, voice in his ear.
He nods, voice rough from not talking for so long, “Haven’t slept in forever.”
“That busy?” A soft brush just above his waistband, fond.
“Well,” He finally grabs his food from the microwave that’s insistently beeping at him, separating them. He grabs a fork and says, “Usually you keep me from overworking myself. But I get it.”
“Get what?” Dream watches him go.
He says from down the hall, “You don’t love me anymore.”
“Wh- George,” His friend calls after him, making him close his door hurriedly behind himself. He grins to himself, standing at the door still, waiting for the knock. Sure enough, it’s there a few seconds later, the other saying, “You can’t just say that and walk away.”
“Say what?” He starts eating, taking a seat on his bed, with his entertainment now as he eats.
“Can I come in?” Another knock, a gentler request. He doesn’t answer, wanting to see the response. All that it is after a pause is, “George.”
He sighs, slumps, and relents, “Yeah, come in.”
Dream enters, closing the door behind him, and sits next to him with his legs crossed. He watches him eat for a few seconds and then says quietly, “Are you upset with me?”
“What?” George furrows his eyebrows, “Why would I be?”
“I dunno,” A shrug, “We haven’t really been hanging out that much.”
“It’s been like three days, Dream,” He squints at him, smiling a little, “We don’t have to spend time together every day.”
“Yeah but,” Furrowed eyebrows now, “You haven’t even been sleeping. Is it what Sapnap said? Because he’s making it out to be something else, there’s nothing wrong with-”
“Dream,” He shushes, “I’ve just been busy. It’s alright, everything’s fine.”
“You sure?” It’s meek.
“Yes, idiot,” He rolls his eyes before getting up, “Actually though, I need you for something.”
He grabs onto Dream’s wrist, tugging him up. He lingers in front of the canvas currently set on his easel, picking out a deep yellow color from his bin and a large paintbrush. His friend says, “George, you know I can’t-”
He shushes him, silencing his protest effectively. There’s a beach scene beginning to be formed on the canvas, nothing much done except for color blocking and the sky’s gradient. It’s really an early phase work but that’s fine. He grabs Dream’s hand, turning it palm up, “I need your hand for the sun.”
There’s no comment on the idea, simply compliance by straightening out fingers and keeping his hand there when he lets go. Fingers twitch at the coldness of the paint when he leaves one big stroke across his palm. Hurriedly he covers his entire hand before it dries too much, moving it towards the upper right corner with palm toward the canvas. Dream lets him press it firmly to the canvas without a word, focused on not messing up.
He drags it away after a second, looking over the messy imprint left behind. It reveals grooves of a palm, lines dividing the color. Fitting, he thinks, considering Dream happens to be the sun. His fingers are squeezed by a paint-covered hand and he remembers where he is, grabbing the towel he uses to wipe excess off his brushes.
He cleans his hand half-assedly, grabbing for greys and blues. As he’s hurriedly brushing out an ombre from blue to a light grey on the outside edge of Dream’s palm, he’s questioned, “Why do you need me, couldn’t you have done this yourself?”
“You have bigger hands,” He lies, grateful anyway for the way his friend is just going along with what he wants. He guides him, pressing the colors onto the sky over and over, tilting his hand as he does to lay down all of them. It begins to look like messy clouds, ones he can manage to fix up at a later time. He looks it over and Dream waits patiently for him to say, “Okay, go wash your hand off, that’s all I need.”
The blonde nods and his hair falls nearly in his eyes, turning with his hand held up as if paint is watery enough to drip. But he pauses in the doorway, turning just as George is sitting back down to keep eating, “George?”
“Yeah?” He asks through the forkful of pasta he’d just shoved in his mouth.
“After you're done with that, will you come to bed?” Dream asks with a tilt of his head, voice small and eyes big.
In all honesty, he planned to drink another cup of coffee after and then start working again. Still, the request catches him off guard, he takes his time chewing his food. Finally, his own voice has quieted in response to the delicate forbidden question, “Yeah.”
Dream leaves without another word, closing the door behind him with a too-loud click.
George could, in all honesty, throw up. He got the worst possible outcome of a good grade, the one time a good grade is devastating, and a spot in the show for his work. Sapnap wants to come, he said he would, but that means he’s going to tell Dream.
And Dream will want to come and there’s no way George can just tell him not to show up. So he’s going to come along with Sapnap and find George’s name on the wall. And then the secret will be out, the awful embarrassing secret that he’s dedicated practically a whole series of work to him.
Love is painted out in each piece, devotion spilling brightly into his colors, forbidden feelings for all to see. For Dream to see. How could he possibly look upon any of it and not see it? And George could possibly get over the teasing about spending his time dwelling over his best friend in his art, but he could never get over an indirect love confession.
Sapnap claims Dream is equally lost for him but Dream doesn’t write him into his work. He’s not possibly obsessive enough to do such a thing. So George is damned, panicking as he approves the display. He’s not ready for things to change, not so eager to risk any of Dream for all of him.
Is it possible to not show up to an event you’re a part of? He feels like he’s being held hostage, strolling through with oblivious onlookers and viewing his classmates’ works. There are some good things, some works with similar colors to create harmony while others have a different you for every piece.
He wishes he could’ve thought of some of the things his peers did in their pieces, seeing how ideas formed around the original art he saw. He congratulates them, gives out compliments, and receives the same in return. Some stick around to pick apart their concepts with him, willing to hear out his own interpretations. Others simply thank him and wander elsewhere.
He’d had to arrive early so as to make sure everything was in order, conversing for a while with some of the friendly people he’s happened to meet. This all means that Sapnap and Dream had arrived at a separate time to him, meaning he has zero idea exactly when they even arrive. He doesn’t look, trying to save his dignity at least until tomorrow.
Still, when he makes the rounds and ends back at his own display, the duo are there. Sapnap is talking, one hand in his pocket and one waving wildly, about god knows what. Dream is simply staring, lips parted, as if he’s never seen George’s artwork in his life. The youngest lays eyes on him first, eyes flicking to his and then away.
He leaves while George approaches, backing away with some excuse he hardly hears. His heart is painfully in his throat, mind blank, palms sweaty. The blonde only startles out of his trance once he’s at his side, as if nobody else in the world matters. Gentle eyes, widening before flicking to the painting of himself, “You never told me you painted me.”
“Didn’t see a reason to,” He shrugs, just to cover himself up a little.
“George, all of this is amazing,” Lips parted again, taking it in, “I can’t believe you made all of these.”
“Thank you,” He murmurs, because of all the compliments of the night, this one matters the most.
He’d painted himself as well, specifically in blues, Dream points to it as if wishing to touch but knowing better, “You painted yourself, you never do that. Look, you captured your freckles and-“
“It’s you,” George tells him, looking over the composition as well.
“Yeah, that’s the theme, You.” Dream nods.
“No, Dream, it’s you,” He frowns now, gesturing, “The whole series is you, it’s all you. I’m just there because I like to believe I’m at least a little part of you.”
“It’s about me?” He can practically feel the gaze burning into the side of his face.
He looks to him, eyes jumping all over his face, and shrugs. All he can offer is an insufficient, “Yeah.”
“How did I not know?” Squinted eyes, like he doesn’t believe that to be a possibility, “You spent all that time on me?”
George digs his fingers into the stupid collared shirt he wore to look nicer, yanking him down due to his freakish tallness, and he loves him endlessly with all of himself. Their lips meet awkwardly, practically shy, before Dream’s slow brain catches up to what the fuck is happening. He leans to make the reach easier, tilting his head, large hands falling to either side of George’s face. He shoves him away by his grip on his collar, saying, “I’m in love with you, dumbass.”
“That’s-” Dream is cut off by another press of his lips, words falling off into a hum. It’s less awful this time, at least he has the security of being kissed back. They part before it becomes too long of a kiss in a public space and arms twist around his waist. A face in the crook of his neck, “George.”
“Your stubble feels gross, stop,” He protests, not really meaning it, overwhelmed by it all.
Still, Dream cups his face in his hands again, smiles in that way that wrinkles his nose, and says, “You’re in love with me.”
“A little,” He smiles back, a thumb pressing to the corner of his mouth in response.
“And you painted me. Painted about me.”
“Just a little,” He jokes easily.
“You were just- What, up for hours thinking about me?” A tilt of his head and his eyes shine with amusement, “That’s kind of romantic, George.”
“Yeah, exactly, I thought you were supposed to be the romantic one? Where’s my love poem?” He tilts his head in return.
Dream shakes his head, the laugh he lets out is breathless, “Oh, there’s plenty of those, trust me.”
“Why didn’t you give me them?” He smoothes out his shirt that he’d wrinkled a little, “You made me do all the work.”
“I was thinking about it but then Sapnap jumped in and made the timing feel off,” He admits and finally takes his hands off his face, stuffing them in his pockets instead, “You kept insisting there was nothing there.”
“Because that’s what you insisted.”
“I think.. We’re kind of idiots,” Dream shrugs and reaches to twist their fingers together with one hand instead, looking over the paintings again, “These are really good though, George, you’re so talented.”
“Thank you,” He hums again, squeezing his hand just once.
“And I’m in love with you too,” A bump of their intertwined hands against his hip playfully, “So you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” He squeezes a second time just to be sure he really does.
They stand there for a long while until Sapnap has made his way back to them, glancing at their held hands and then smiling to himself. Dream eventually leans down and asks him quietly, “Do you really want a love poem?”
“No, definitely not.”
“Why?” Not disappointed, just tender.
George smiles as he replies, “I’d probably cry.”
For that sentiment, Dream is the one that squeezes his hand.