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Desire is a captivatingly terrible thing, Dream realises, when George rests his head in the crook of his neck. He barely catches George whispering, “is this okay?” because he’s too distracted by the new weight on his clavicle; breathless when he mouths “yes,” because it’s near impossible for him to ever say no. He’s soft, only for George. But only a tiny bit.
Dream fights the urge to lean back into the touch, or to kiss him on the forehead, or to lace his fingers around George’s wrist—because that would be taking more than what he’s given, and he should be grateful and suck it up and act normal. Because George is off limits. George is off limits, and he has never shown any sort of interest in being more than this, and he’s known George ever since they could tie their shoelaces on their own. Because if George wanted him in the way he desires, Dream would have noticed by now. Or he would have said something. Dream is stupid and horrible and awfully obvious in love, and he's almost positive that George knows.
Dream can’t mess this up. Not for George. For anybody else, sure. He enjoys the thrills of reckless romance, dating without fear of a casualty or a care in the world. There’s nothing to lose if you dip your fingers in the water for people whose bodies you know better than their lives. But George is his best friend, and he’s been around and stuck around for longer than almost anybody he can ever remember, and he can’t take a chance at losing any of this.
Never. He’s taken far too many chances too close to the shore already. He has to remain in control of himself and his stupid selfish romantic wants and stupid selfish romantic dreams.
Because this is enough, isn’t it?
“Why the fuck’re you so stiff?” George grumbles from his side. He opens a wary eye. "Are you like, not used to being touched or something?”
The question hangs in the air as Dream fumbles for words, anything, some excuse to grasp onto, while George surveys his face for some tangible explanation. And then the muscles in his face clench, the confusion in his eyes swirling into red-hot shame as he draws his eyes away.
“Did I, uhm…make you uncomfortable?”
“No!” Dream exclams, a bit too loudly, and he winces when other passengers inevitably turn their heads. Even George looks slightly shaken. "Sorry. It's like what you said—I'm not used to it, and I'm not really sure how to do it. I don't want to do something wrong and make you uncomfortable."
That’s all it takes for the tension to subside. Soon enough, George is pressed up against his side again, head against his shoulder, huffing out giggles and something dumb about Dream being a big gentle hunk of an idiot that means too well for his own good. Dream can’t deny that, so he just sighs and admires George’s smile lines from this angle, digging crescents into the insides of his palms as he tries to stop himself from reaching out to caress the other’s cheeks.
It’s all routine for him. Sit, stare, pine—do nothing more, because, really—is it all worth the potential consequences? Losing George?
The answer comes in a heartbeat. No, of course not. Dream will sit here and rot in all his love and want even if it makes him sick. He'd rather twist the knife in his chest than ruin it all for something so selfish. He rolls it around in his mind until he gets tired of the thought. Until the awful stretch of his heart trying to reach for what he can't have subsides. He'll be content for a while, and desire will wash over him soon enough, but for that short time, at least it's enough.
It’s enough.
“Relax. We went over this, right? You can hold me if you want. I can’t even tell if you’re breathing.”
Tempting. Dream’s almost afraid of looking at him, out of fear he’ll accidentally say “I love you,” and sound like he means it too much, or something.
(It's happened before)
But this is…fine. Dream hums, hesitant as he lets himself at ease, trying to steady his breathing. George is looking at him. He can feel George’s eyelids flutter against the edge of his jaw and he can feel when he shifts his head slightly, gazing up at Dream.
He makes the mistake of looking down, and right into the core of great brown eyes, and Dream is thrust into a moment of weakness—desire is a captivatingly terrible thing, a sinful byproduct of admiration—and he’s sucking in air as if he’s about to kiss him, breathless as if he’s been kissed by him, and George almost looks like he wants to kiss him, too. He looks like he’s going to.
God. He should. Dream wishes.
His breath curls around Dream’s chin, lips parted slightly as if he’s spotted something pleasant, but unexpected. And on his bottom lip is a mark; it’s stained in the centre, bitten and cracked—and Dream is so, so very whipped, and he feels like he’s about to fucking melt because the dim lighting in the night train makes George look positively irresistble, but he can’t.
He cannot and will not allow himself to have this. That tiny, tinny voice has prodded itself into the moment, reminding him of what he can’t have, and Dream falters.
“I-”
You’re my best friend.
George squeezes his hand, and all of a sudden, looking at him is too much.
And I would never betray you.
“You should get some rest,” Dream mutters, pulling his hand away. He pretends he doesn’t feel how George’s frame goes rigid when he turns away, brushing off the weight of George’s gaze on his back when he reaches forward into his duffel bag for a blanket. “We should…both rest. We arrive early tomorrow.”
They share the blanket. George's voice is so tender when he says goodnight. It echoes inside Dream's brain and soothes him to sleep.