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Don't ask George when it first started. Or how it started. But one morning, a few weeks back, he'd woken up, half-delirious, with the realization that he was in love with Dream.
Subsequently, he called Bad.
"You're what?" Bad exclaimed.
"Don't make me repeat it," George groaned, hiding his face in his hands, peeking through his fingers at Bad's discord icon, watching it light up in tandem with reprimanding shouts.
"Well, when you're gonna be a total muffin and mumble your way through important words, of course, I'm going to ask you to repeat it!"
George exhaled.
"Why did I come to you for advice, again?"
"Hey," and Bad sounded offended. "I'm great at advice. But I can't exactly point you in a direction without knowing the destination. You just told me you're in love with Dream. Given everything I know about you, that's certifiably insane. And I still don't fully believe this isn't all some elaborate prank you guys are pulling on me."
"It's not," George said. "I swear, Bad, it's real."
And he must've sounded somewhat convincing because Bad calmed down enough to say, "okay, fine, George. Fine. I believe you. But it's like I was saying, what kind of advice do you need? Dating advice? Or are you planning on confessing?"
"No," George had blurted, panicking at the mere suggestion. "No, not that. Never that. I was just, um, I was just wondering if you'd help me come to terms, I guess. With those feelings. I mean, you're the first person I've told. And will ever tell, most likely."
"Aw, George," Bad practically cooed.
"Shut up," George grumbled.
His voice was all sappy, accompanied by an audible grin, as he said, "thank you for telling me."
George rolled his eyes so hard he was sure they'd fall out of his head, so not in the "sappy" mood.
"Whatever."
Bad went on like he hadn't noticed George's disdain. "So, when you say come to terms, what exactly do you mean?" He asked curiously.
"I just," George swallowed, forcing himself to carry on, "I want to endure it—or like withstand it, I mean. Since it's obviously unrequited. I need you to help me stay grounded. Can you do that for me, Bad?"
"How do you know it's unrequited?"
George scoffed. "Are you serious?"
"I am," Bad said solemnly, "George, I swear, there's a chance it's mutual. I've known Dream for over ten years now and—"
George quickly interrupted, pained at the false hope he was receiving. "Bad, please, don't make this harder. Maybe I should've told Sapnap, he's good at reality checks. You and Karl like to daydream about romance too much. It's upsetting to even consider what you're saying, okay? I don't want to hear it."
Bad said nothing for a few moments.
"Okay, George," he finally said, throat clicking as he continued observantly, "I think I understand now. I'll just be supportive. That's what you really need. Someone to console with, right?"
"Sure," George begrudgingly agreed.
"Well, then, go on," Bad said, his smile audible through George's headset, every word spoken with that certain cadence that only came with upturned lips, "you can vent to me."
The words rang true: you can vent to me.
So, perhaps not unexpected, George did.
He had taken a steadying breath and let it all pour out, "it just seems like he's all I think about lately—"
And now, a deep conversation, a few odd weeks, and an approved visa later, he was on a motherfucking airplane.
Heading straight to America, straight to Florida, straight to Dream. It was staggering in a way. George absentmindedly ate his in-flight meal, staring at the screen in front of him, completely spaced out. Trying not to dwell on anything other than the fact that he was going to be meeting his best friend soon.
It'd been eight hours and he'd already watched half of the available Harry Potter movies. He'd gotten to the Yule Ball in Goblet Of Fire before the attendants brought out the last round of snacks and refreshments: not that he'd consider this rubbery omelet refreshing. But he chewed pensively on it all the same.
When the attendants came back around to get all of the leftovers and trash, George fastened his seat belt and reclined his seat.
He'd gotten lucky and booked a flight where there weren't a lot of people. No one behind him, no one sharing his aisle, practically the whole cabin to himself. Meaning there were no annoying babies, no loudmouth passengers, and really nothing to keep him from getting a good hour-long nap before they landed.
He dug into the front pocket of his knapsack, pushing his airpods into his ears and opening YouTube Music. Scrolling through his library, in a strangely nostalgic mood, he ended up in 2010s hip-hop.
He pressed shuffled.
Unforgettable started playing.
Closing his eyes, he relaxed into the cushion behind him, easily falling asleep to French Montana.
Waking up a while later, his eardrums aching and jaw clenching, a staticky voice sounded over the intercoms.
"Howdy, folks, it's your captain speaking—we're currently descending onto MCO, Orlando International Airport," his voice was hardly understandable over the music still blasting from George's phone, "it's currently seventy-seven degrees and there's not a cloud in the sky. Hope everyone has a great time in sunny Orlando!"
George yawned to pop his ears, working his jaw when they stayed pressurized.
Looking out the window, he was taken back by how close they already were to the tarmac, jolting when the front two wheels unexpectedly touched down.
Deboarding took longer than expected, especially since he was in first class. The attendants had to do a full inventory sweep of the cabin, checking out his aisle three times before deeming everything safe or whatever. And then, when it was finally time for him to get off the godforsaken plane, he had to march right past all of the agitated passengers in the economy classes.
That was awkward on a whole different level.
He still descended the stairs first, self-conscious be damned.
Fuck, it was freezing.
Orlando was supposed to be hot, wasn't it? Nearly eighty degrees according to their pilot. A strong gust of wind, cold and biting, hit him directly in the face, drying out his eyes and turning his ears into ice cubes.
He crossed his arms tighter around his body, shoulders slouching, giving himself sweater paws to keep his hands warm.
Stepping into the terminal, body shaking with chills, he walked towards immigration. It all went fairly smooth—they checked his passport and his visa, deeming him legitimate enough to be allowed in the USA. Then he was directed toward baggage claims.
He waited for his duffle to appear on the oval conveyor belt, slouching into his oversized hoodie when he unintentionally spotted a SootHouse logo on a random piece of luggage.
Shit.
He quickly yanked his hood over his head, praying it and his mask would be enough of a makeshift disguise to keep him from getting recognized.
Because they were all extensions of each other, every single SMP member, and there was enough overlap in their audience, nearly an encompassing Venn diagram, for George to worry about being recognized.
But also, not every Wilbur Soot fan was a Georgenotfound fan—they weren't a monolith.
Still, better safe than sorry.
He quickly walked out of there, duffle swung over his shoulder, his phone buzzing incessantly against his leg. It was going off non-stop. Slipping it out of his pocket, he thumbed over to his texts. And holy shit. Sapnap had sent him a fucking novel.
4:30 waiting @ front
4:36 hurry tf up
4:40 ur plane landed 10 minutes ago where r u
4:43 did u get lost or smth?
4:48 did u go piss and fall into the toilet
4:50 short ass
4:51 geeeeeeoooooorge
4:51 geeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooorge
4:52 ugh i hate u
He rolled his eyes, exasperated.
Sapnap was such a drama queen.
He pocketed his phone, not even bothering to respond, making his way through customs towards the exit.
George caught sight of him quickly. He was the only guy wearing a Tokyo Ghoul mask with a Balenciaga hat, completely absorbed into his phone. Hiking the bag more securely onto his shoulder, George made his way over, calling out a harsh, "Hey, idiot," to get Sapnap's attention.
Sapnap glanced up, the visible part of his expression brightening as they made eye contact. And then George was being pulled into a warm hug, his upper back slapped several times before Sapnap pulled back to stare at him with crinkled eyes.
"Dude," Sapnap's voice was muffled through the mask, but his sentimental tone remained, "you're in America."
"I know," George couldn't help but smile back.
Sapnap pulled him back in, hugging him twice as hard. "Dude, seriously, this is so cool. I can't believe it, like, I don't know," Sapnap whisper-shouted, excitement contagious. "It's like I can just walk down the hall and you're gonna be there, just existing."
"Existing," George mocked in a whiny American accent, only grinning harder.
Sapnap leaned back, wiggling his eyebrows.
"I'll be able to annoy you anytime I want."
"I'll just have to get Dream to install some kid safety locks, baby gates, or whatever to keep you from entering my room."
"I'm not a child."
"No, but you're short like one."
"That's so fucked, bro."
George shook with laughter. "Are we going home or are you planning on hugging me all day?"
Reluctantly, Sapnap let him go. "Yeah, come on, man. Finally, you'll get to ride in my baby." He cocked his head to look at the massive parking deck visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Your baby?" George raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Sapnap started walking, bubbling with excitement, "yeah, bro, come on!"
George trailed after him, reinforcing his grip on his duffel bag's strap. With the knapsack packed to the brim with all of his devices, it was beginning to feel impossible to carry everything. He continued anyway, wincing only once when he was reminded of trying to carry those sixty-five pounds of Skittles.
Again, it was chilly outside, with the worst wind he'd ever felt. So freezing, blistering like a horsewhip, stinging every inch of exposed flesh.
"What's up with this wind?" George asked, teeth chattering.
Sapnap answered, "Dude, it's hurricane season. It gets over one hundred degrees during the day, making it feel like an oven. Then a storm brews and the wind blows in. It's fucking ludicrous. Took me some time to adjust when I first moved here. Texas has dry heat, right? At least, my city did. The Gulf is a different story."
"Huh." George could only shiver.
They walked for several more minutes before finally reaching Sapnap's Tesla.
He ran his hand across the hood, saying, "meet my little lady, George. Isn't she pretty?"
George scoffed. "You are so dumb." He flung the door open, tossing his duffel and backpack in the back seat haphazardly, climbing into the passenger side without looking at Sapnap once.
"Fine, then, don't appreciate my luxury car." Sapnap said as he sat in the driver's seat, "but you never heard me complaining when you showed off your Supreme."
"Because my Supreme had resale value, the price of this car dropped by half when you drove it off the lot."
"Actually, it drove itself," Sapnap shot back as he guided them out of the parking deck and onto the highway, swerving through traffic.
It was 5 AM, so there was relatively little traffic. But they were still in the heart of Orlando, and light traffic was still traffic. George finally pulled his mask off his face, watching Sapnap do the same as he shifted the car into self-driving mode.
"Music?" George asked.
"Yeah, here, lemme go to my Spotify," Sapnap said.
George stared incomprehensibly at the huge touchscreen where the radio usually sat.
It was already weird sitting on the right side, but the unfamiliar technology was another notch on the post of George's uneasiness. His hand tightened around his seatbelt, knuckles turning white. But fuck, he needed a distraction. He was only fifteen minutes out from finally meeting Dream. He needed something. Anything.
Using it like a regular cellphone, Sapnap scrolled through his playlists. "What did you listen to on the plane?"
"French Montana, Kodak Black, Kayne," George listed, trying to remember what played while he dozed off, "oh, and some Carti..."
"Carti it is," Sapnap said, clicking Magnolia.
They rode in silence for a while, just the sounds of music, of thrumming bass, taking up the space between them.
Eventually, it became unbearable.
"Hey, what's, um, what's..." George tried.
Sapnap turned the music down. "Yeah?"
George gritted his teeth.
"What's Dream like? IRL, I mean."
Sapnap immediately said, "tall."
"Sure," George slouched in his seat, not entirely sure what he'd wanted to hear. "Okay."
They pulled onto a familiar street several minutes later.
George had been pretty involved in the process of picking a neighborhood and building the new house. They'd made a whole pros and cons list: HOAs, gated communities, and what was really considered recluse behavior.
And then, when everything was in construction, he got to choose which story he wanted his room on. He'd picked the first level with Dream. Sapnap was on the second floor with a few guestrooms. It made the most sense since Karl would be a frequent visitor.
But anyway, seeing the place over the internet would never compare with face-to-face.
Like seeing Dream face-to-face...
His stomach lurched.
Up until this moment, everything felt glacial, creeping by at a snail's pace. It took them six years to meet up. It took him a year and a half to get his visa. It took him nine hours to fly here. But suddenly, everything was happening so fast.
When Sapnap parked the Tesla, the streetlight combined with headlights cast enough light to get a semi-solid view of the place. But George would only get a real sense of the house when the sun rose. He stepped out onto the street, reaching into the back for his duffel and knapsack, swinging them carelessly over his shoulders.
He was going to be so sore tomorrow.
Following behind Sapnap, who unlocked the front door with a touch code, he held his breath as he stepped over the threshold.
George wondered if Dream would be offended if he vomited all over his foyer. Their foyer, technically. He could puke as much as he wanted, he owned thirty-three percent of it. Of this foyer. Foyer. It didn't even seem like a real word anymore. Foyer.
"Dream?" Sapnap called. "We're home."
There were loud footsteps, like an elephant, huge feet bouncing along the hardwood floor, and then, without any further warning, there he was.
His hair was longer than George was expecting, thick and waved, curled around his ears, and swooped over his forehead. His shoulders were broader, too. Mouth wider. His nose was sharp, turned up at the end, and situated perfectly on his face. There were freckles, of course. And high cheekbones, a nice jaw, and long eyelashes.
Truly, Dream was everything he described and more.
More handsome. Broader. Taller.
And he was holding up his green iPhone, the flash on, recording their first meeting like they'd discussed multiple times. But all George could think about was how fucking stupid he knew he looked, how he'd never want this footage posted anywhere because he could feel the dumbstruck expression on his face.
His mouth hanging open, eyes wide, tongue-tied.
George swallowed, managing to get out, "you are tall."
Sapnap snorted beside him.
Dream's face broke out into a breathtaking grin.
"Here, let me get those," Dream lowered his phone, reaching out to grab the straps of both his bags, lifting them easily over his shoulders, "c'mon, you must be exhausted—let me show you where your room is."
Sapnap clapped his shoulder, "see you in the morning, dude."
"It is the morning," George muttered, hearing the delayed pounding of Sapnap's feet as he ran up the stairs.
"You think you're gonna be jetlagged?"
George blinked, refocusing on the man in front of him. He felt spacey and dizzy. He'd been left alone with Dream. Or really, he'd been left alone with this guy, who he knew on a basic level was Dream, but his brain just wasn't fully letting it click. Because it was Dream's timbre, Dream's inflections, and Dream's voice. But still, George couldn't process how everything that made up Dream, all of his cringy humor, his passion, his know-it-all ideas, all of that was attached to the man that was in front of him.
It felt surreal. Unfamiliar.
"Um, I slept for like an hour on the plane. So, maybe," George said, shifting on his feet, "but timezones aside, I think we're already synced."
And Dream didn't waste a second. "In sync?" He teased.
"Shut up, idiot."
But really, he was so relieved. That familiarity felt like a missing puzzle piece slotting into place. He was in America, in Florida, and this was his Dream.
This was his Dream, he reiterated to himself.
They ambled down the hallway, stopping at the last door on the left.
It was across from the bathroom, that'd been one of George's only requests when asked where he wanted his bedroom to be—the first floor and close to a bathroom. The only reason he took showers most days was that in his flat all he had to do was roll out of bed and take five steps to the bathroom. He knew if he added any extra steps, he'd never have the motivation to shower again.
But from what he knew, Dream took that one step further and requested an en suite for his bedroom, flush with clawfoot tub and heated tiles. That was fine with George, it just meant he didn't have to share the first-floor bathroom with anyone but himself.
Dream pushed open the door with his socked foot, stepping inside, flipping on the light switch, and setting the bags down beside a large bureau.
"What do you think?"
George bit his lip, looking around the room. Of course, there was dark wood furniture. A huge desk on the longest wall, all of his YouTube plaques he'd already shipped here hanging above it. Some boxes tapped up in the back corner. But most notably, the walls were blue, the bedspread was blue, the rug was blue, and the pictures on the wall had blue accents in them.
"It's blue," he said, an understatement of the century.
Dream smiled sheepishly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, my mom decorated it. When she asked me what you liked, I told her blue was your favorite color. Sorry, it's kind of overwhelming, right? You can change whatever you want."
"No, it's fine," George said, slowly walking over to the bed, hesitating before touching the comforter with two fingers. "Just, um, everything feels so surreal."
Dream asked gently, "What do you mean?"
George grappled for the right words.
"It's just, I'm here. Like, finally. And I'm seeing you for the first time. Speaking to you in person for the first time. It doesn't feel real. Like I could blink and be back in my small flat, be back in London where it's probably raining right now. It's so strange and everything feels unknown. But that's just it. I do know you, better than anyone in the world. But here you are, standing right in front of me and I hardly recognize you..."
"Oh." Dream glanced away to stare at the floor.
"And we haven't hugged yet. Sapnap pulled me in right when I saw him in the airport, but we haven't even touched," George added tirelessly.
Dream opened his arms without saying a word.
And George, incapable of denying himself any further, fell to them.
Dream placed his arms around George's middle, and George hooked his elbows behind Dream's shoulders, drawing them even closer. He had to stand on tiptoes to perfectly line them, resting his head on Dream's muscular yet cozy chest. George could only hold on, eyes wet. Because after years apart, of an ocean separating them, where they could only communicate over screens and VC—finally, fucking finally, they were here. They were in each other's arms. And they fit together perfectly.
"George," Dream murmured against the crown of his head.
"Dream," George whispered back, face pressed into his clavicle, hot air puffing onto his skin causing chill bumps to flare up.
"I missed you."
"Me too." George's chest ached.
When Dream pulled back, he kept his hands on George's waist, staring down at him with fond eyes. "There's gonna be an adjustment period, I think. Hearing your voice and getting to touch you—it'll take me a while to get used to that."
George nodded, looking up at Dream, trying to commit everything about him to memory, "and me with hearing your voice and seeing your face... I'll have to adjust, too."
Dream breathed out, tipping his head down and pressing his face into George's shoulder, voice dampened when he asked, "what do you think of it?"
"Of what?"
"My face."
George didn't know how to answer. Or well, he knew what he wanted to say. Undoubtedly Dream was so gorgeous in real life like an oil painting stepped off of its canvas, vibrant and full of life, wonderous in a made-up sort of way.
Dream was handsome, with his cute, upturned nose, floppy blonde hair that fell nicely over his forehead, and pretty lips that stretched wide when he smiled. If Dream was a model, if he was only accessible through an oil painting, forever a muse lovingly pressed against the canvas with brush and lacquer to please audiences with his beauty, George would buy and display every single masterpiece he could get his hands on. He'd pay whatever the cost. Would fill up his home with them. Would keep them forever. Would keep Dream forever.
Fuck.
It was painful how deeply, personally, and tragically he loved Dream—was in love with him.
But those were inner feelings, things that he never wanted to be aired out, ironclad and locked behind multiple vaults in his mind. Unless telling Bad literally everything counted.
In the end, he replied, "It's nice."
"Yeah?" Dream pulled his head back, initiating eye contact.
"Yes, I, um," and because they were the only thing he could see, he said, "I like your eyes."
Dream flashed a bright smile. "Thank you."
George tried to move away, instantly noticing they were still holding on to each other, Dream's hands on the small of his back, his fingers tensed around Dream's shoulders. He relaxed each finger, one at a time, before letting them slide down Dream's biceps, squeezing their hands together before slowly releasing them. He felt dizzy from it all, as though he'd just done a ten-minute headstand, his knees unsteady and weak.
Dream noticed, his eyebrows knitted. "You tired?"
George took a deep breath. "A little bit, yeah."
"Well, I'll let you get some sleep, " Dream said as he took another step back.
"Okay," George said instead of don't go.
And then Dream was walking over to the doorway, pausing with his hand on the knob, "just so you know, I think your face is nice, too. Really nice. And I'm so glad I finally get to see it in person."
George felt speechless. Eyes wide, heart cartwheeling, dizziness intensifying. He fell back onto his bed as his knees gave out, trying to pass it off as just aggressively sitting down, blinking erratically up at Dream.
Dream was shutting the door behind him when George finally regained the ability to speak, "wait, Dream."
He peaked his head back in. "Yeah?"
"Do you want to..." George struggled, swallowing around the lump in his throat. "Do you want to, like, lay in here with me until I fall asleep?"
Dream sent him a funny look. "You want to sleep together?"
George turned beet red. "You're an idiot."
"C'mon," Dream laughed all big-winded and spectacular, the very same laugh George was hopelessly in love with. Making his way back inside, Dream went on to tease, "you want to sleep with me, don't try and deny it, George."
"No," George closed his eyes, exasperated, "it's like, I don't know if I can fall asleep here. Without effort, I mean. So, I figured since staying on VC with you is the best way to get me tired, you could just stay in here or whatever."
"IRL sleep call?" Dream simplified.
"Yes."
"We can do that, then."
Jump cut to them lying as stiff as corpses on George's new bed, looking up at the ceiling. Dream had turned off the lights before climbing in, the only light coming from the hallway through the crack under the door. The fan whirled above them, making enough noise to keep the silence from suffocating them.
George twitched, the only perceptible feeling was Dream's body heat. He leaned closer, but not too close, not bothering to breathe in case it spooked Dream. Because he'd already asked too much of him, with both of them sprawled out in this bed.
His eyes fluttered open and closed as he fought the drowsiness. He wanted to fall asleep, don't get him wrong. He wanted this little sleepover to be over as soon as possible. It felt like he'd pressured Dream into this. And it was a little awkward.
At the same time, he never wanted it to end. If this was all he got, simply existing in this bed, drawing breath parallel to Dream, their chests rising and falling in chorus, their hands inches apart, then he would be happy.
But when he asked for this, he'd wanted to pretend that they were still in a VC, that this was just another sleep call, and he'd expected them to exchange at least a few words.
"Dream," George whispered into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Could you, um," George fidgeted, "could you talk to me? Like we usually do?"
Dream exhaled, rolling over onto his side, facing him.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't know."
He stayed still, refusing to look over, to see Dream, delicate and dimly lit, lying just next to him: That might be too much.
"How about..." Dream paused, thinking. "Oh, yeah, we should make plans to go do shit. Like, the beach, Disney, Universal, Gatorland—"
"Gatorland," George repeated, nonplussed.
"Fuck yeah, Gatorland," and Dream was laughing again.
George made an unimpressed sound.
"Wait, wait, hear me out," Dream went on, still laughing, breathy and deep, "you can't have the real Florida experience without visiting Gatorland, that's like sacrilegious or something."
"Your mother's sacrilegious."
Dream gasped theatrically, "you can't make those jokes anymore, man."
George scrunched his nose, not following. "What?"
"Dude, you're going to be meeting my mom later today. Making jokes about banging her is off the table now. I mean, even Sapnap had to stop, he couldn't look her in the eye anymore."
"I didn't say I was going to bang her," George said incredulously.
"Your mom jokes are a slippery slope."
"How come I asked you to talk again?" George sighed, unable to resist smiling, not so secretly loving the back-and-forth. "It's like I forgot how annoying you are."
"You got lured into false security by my pretty face."
"What a humble king," George scoffed.
"You didn't deny it, though."
"Deny what?"
"That you think my face is pretty."
"Do you ever just like, shut up?"
Dream chuckled, "I thought you knew, my life goal is to talk you to death. But, I mean, to be fair, you asked for it. I'm just giving you what you wanted," and he reached over to place a hand on George's hip, squeezing it.
George froze, his brain short-circuited, unsure how to respond.
Apparently, Dream could feel him tense up because he slowly removed his hand. "Are you okay?" And he leaned back further, propped up on his elbow, "George? What's wrong? What happened? Is it because I touched you? I'm sorry—"
"No," George interrupted. "I just..."
"I should've asked first," Dream said then, contrite, "sorry, I forget that not everyone's as tactile as me. Sapnap has gotten used to it by now, he puts up with my cuddles. And my family is like, super touchy. But you're different, right? You don't like physical contact?"
"I don't mind, I just," he tried again, a little disappointed Dream had only wanted to platonically cuddle. "I just didn't expect it, that's all. You can, um," he cleared his throat, "we can cuddle, yeah."
"You sure?"
"Cuddle me, idiot."
Dream moved closer, again, wrapping his arm around George's stomach. He tried to get comfortable, pulled tight against the firm shape of Dream's body. Slowly, he lifted his hand and reached over to connect it with the back of Dream's, lacing them from behind.
"Yeah, you can touch me, too," Dream said under his breath.
George considered that, taking his free hand and lying it conspicuously on top of Dream's shoulder, just resting it there, trembling and nervous.
"Is that okay?" George asked, timid.
"You can touch me however you want."
Heat sizzled throughout his entire body, hands clenching into fists, as he let those words, the blanket permission, marinade. He could touch however he wanted—that shook him to his core, sparks shooting throughout every part of him.
Still, he had to ask, "you know how that sounds right?"
He could feel Dream's shrug. "Yeah, George, I meant it."
Scooting further up the bed, arranging himself more conveniently, he shifted them into a better position. "Fine, I will, I don't care," he tried to sound more confident than he actually was.
And after some steadying breaths, he let his fingers tickle over Dream's Adam's apple, thumb gently caressing the sunken divot above his collarbone, and then dipping below the neckline of his shirt to feel the hairless expanse of his chest and pecs.
Right, so, Dream shaved his chest.
That was interesting. George was never into men with hairy chests and backs, always preferring the nicely groomed look. He kept himself clean-shaven as well, everywhere. Having hairless skin made him feel like an entirely different person—more powerful and capable. He absent-mindedly wondered how Dream would react if he ever found out.
His hand continued to stroke over the taut muscle beneath Dream's shirt, admiring how athletic and strong everything felt, with the broad length of his shoulders tapering down to the slim curve of his waist.
He couldn't help but notice the way Dream's arms were toned, his thighs were so muscular, and his pecs seemed so big and strong.
Sapnap had mentioned a few months back that ever since Dream started using the home gym, he'd turned into a total beefcake. It'd been an offhand comment, said totally jokingly. But it'd stuck with George, something that'd prickled at the back of his mind.
Before now, he'd never really gotten the chance to see how all of Dream's hard work had paid off. The exercise, the dieting, the pampered skincare routine—Dream did all of that, and this was the first time George was fully experiencing it.
He felt kind of inadequate in comparison.
"You're buff," George said.
"And you're delicate," Dream said in response.
"Is that a good thing?"
"I think so," and Dream picked up his wrist, showing how he could easily wrap his whole hand around it, squeezing it and then flattened their palms against one another. "Look how much bigger my hand is than yours."
"It's not my fault your freakishly large."
Dream huffed out a laugh. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Not like that, idiot," George heaved, exasperated.
"Sure."
"I'm serious."
"George, you called me freakishly large," Dream reminded him, clearly finding the whole argument entertaining. "No matter how you spin it, it sounds bad."
"You have giant hands and clown feet, that's how I meant it."
"And objectively, you're just small."
"I'm average size, idiot."
"Yeah? You're the same height as Sapnap–"
"An inch taller," he interjected, he'd die on that hill.
"Fine, an inch taller than Sapnap," Dream allowed, continuing, "but your hand is probably smaller than his. Your feet are tiny, too. And your waist," he squeezed George's waist to emphasize, making butterflies explode in his stomach, "it's so tiny, look I can probably fit my hands around you, you're so petite."
"Yeah, okay, Dream."
"If I'm freakishly big, you're freakishly small."
George didn't agree with that. "You're an idiot."
"I'm right," Dream said, pleased with himself.
"No."
"Yes."
"Nope."
Dream tugged him closer, muttering hotly against the side of his face, "you got owned, c'mon, admit it."
George shuttered involuntarily. "Shut up."
"You can't handle the truth," Dream teased.
"Oh, yeah?"
Without wasting another second, he reached his free hand around, snaking it under Dream's shirt and tickled him, right against his ribs. Dream jumped back like he got bit as George crowed triumphantly, snickering and pressing his face against the pillow beneath him to stifle most of his laughter.
"No," Dream whined dramatically. "No tickling."
"Talk smack, get smacked." George could barely contain his giggles.
"Well, those are the laws of the land," Dream sighed, just as over dramatic, "you're so lucky I'm too tired to retaliate. You couldn't handle wrestling with me. I'd have you pinned in seconds."
He'd have him pinned in seconds? That was such a perfect setup. He ignored it, though, readily agreeing because no shit, Dream could kick his ass any day of the week.
"That's true."
Dream yawned. "It's like 6 AM. I can't believe we're still awake. Weren't you meant to be going to sleep? I thought you needed some R&R."
Yeah, George was exhausted, especially after that laughing fit. "I do, I'm tired," he yawned back. "Truce?"
"Truce."
"Alright," and George was truly running on empty, tired to the point of irrationality, because for some reason it seemed like a good idea to say, "come back here, then."
He braced himself for the relentless teasing, but all Dream did was smile gently, reaching around him and hauling him close, practically lying George on top of his chest. Rubbing his nose against George's neck, Dream exhaled an uneven breath, holding him tight. And in the kindest, most adorable voice ever, he said, "I'm so glad I'll get to wake up to you."
George melted.
"And every day from here on out," Dream laughed lightly. "I'm so thankful you took a chance on me all those years ago. For believing in me. And now we get to experience all of our wildest dreams together, starting with me waking up to your sleepy face, like... I'm just so incredibly grateful, you know?
George definitely knew, his eyes wet from unshed tears, too sentimental for him to handle, "me too, Dream."
"I'm so grateful for you," Dream added.
George's eyes were stinging so he tried to lighten the mood with sarcasm. "Of course, you are, I'm epic."
"You are," Dream said, too seriously.
Heat blossomed on his cheeks.
Closing his eyes, sniffling, and pressing his face closer to Dream's, George could feel each exhale from his nose cascade over him. This close, their face only inches from each other, he was perfectly in the vicinity to smell Dream's hair. He pressed his nose into the softness, inhaling deeply, trying to sear every smell and intricacy into his memory.
George murmured, "goodnight, Dream."
"Goodnight, George," Dream said back, even more tender.
And on the brink of sleep, he was barely even conscious when he whispered into Dream's ear, "I don't like your shampoo," before fully falling asleep.
He woke up disorientated.
Someone was running fingers through his hair, pausing every third pass to scratch absentmindedly at his scalp, and then brush fallen fringe from his forehead.
It felt divine.
"Dr'm?" He was still half asleep, so Dream's name came out garbled. "Are you," he winced at his dry mouth, eyes all blurry from the sleep, "are you playing with my hair?"
"Good morning, sleepy head."
"What time is it?" He croaked.
Dream answered affectionately, "almost 2 PM—you slept for seven hours."
"God," George grumbled, sitting up and extending his arms above his head, the stretch both excruciating and alleviating, "fucking Hell, I feel like shit. I bought first-class tickets and those cramped plane seats still fucked me up. Plus, those heavy bags Sapnap refused to help me carry..."
Dream reached out, rubbing his back calmly.
"Need some Tylenol?"
"I don't know, maybe," George sighed, leaning over to rest his head on Dream's shoulder. He didn't even realize what he'd done until Dream was wrapping his arms around him, pulling him practically onto his lap, hugging him tightly.
"You know," Dream started, exhaling a sharp gust of air out of his nose, "like, seconds before you finally fell asleep last night, you told me you hated my shampoo."
George frowned in disbelief, "huh?" He literally had no memory of that.
Dream's eyes crinkled at the edges as he watched George's face morph into confusion. "Yeah, like, it's pear and coconut, how bad can it be?"
George hid his face in Dream's chest. "I was so out of it last night, I was ready to pass out. So, I'm not sure what I said, and you know how I talk in my sleep." George really wanted to reassure, "I mean, coconut is awesome, I think I have some deodorant—"
"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," Dream laughed, lips grazing his temple.
George snuggled closer. "I'm sorry, though."
"No need to apologize. I actually think it's hilarious," Dream pulled his head back, bending his neck, some long strands of blonde hair now hanging directly in front of George's face, "here, smell it again, lemme know if it's just as horrible in the morning."
George didn't bother resisting, too far away, too nonplussed to argue. His nostrils flared as he took a deep intake, the intense aroma of pear and coconut overwhelming his senses.
"That bad?" Dream asked when George didn't automatically say anything, laughing, "damn, man. Maybe my mom was trying to sabotage me or something. She's the one that bought it."
"It's not my favorite," George confirmed.
"You hate it so much," Dream guffawed, "oh my God."
"It's not the worst."
"Compared to what? Dog shit? Cat piss?"
"No, just," George bit the inside of his cheek, mulling it over, "the earthy scent of the pear just doesn't match with the nutty, too sweet coconut. Together they smell really wrong. Like vinegary."
"My mom totally muffin-ed me," Dream said, petulant.
George huffed, shaking his head. "Just so you know, your shampoo is the only thing I don't like about you." He made a point of saying carefully, "I love everything else."
"You love me, huh?" Dream grinned wildly. "Let's go."
George hesitated, before saying, "I do, you know."
"Yeah? I love you, too," Dream said, as easy as breathing, all warm and quiet. "I mean, we've slept together now, we better love each other."
George blushed. "You're so cringe—we didn't sleep together."
"Technically, we did."
"Well, technically, you're an idiot."
Dream pulled back completely, looking down at him with knowing eyes, "I'm an idiot? You're the one that was cuddled up on me like a little koala all night long. I think you drooled on me, too."
"Little koala," George echoed, straight-faced.
"New nickname just dropped," Dream said playfully.
George simply stared up at Dream, looking over every inch of his face, trying to figure out how someone could be so perfect, so loving, caring, genuine, and kind, whilst also being the most annoying motherfucker on the planet.
"I hate you."
"No, I seem to remember you saying you loved me," Dream said, the most adorably, devilish smirk ever taking residence on his face. "No takebacks."
And George, so fiercely in love, so blinded by it, couldn't stop the next words from coming out of his mouth even if he wanted to. They were scorching and quick, dripping from his lips, "I want to kiss you so bad."
He didn't even get a chance to take them back before a mouth was being pressed against his.
They fell back onto the bed, George's head crashing onto the pillow. His hands wrenching out to clutch at broad shoulders. Breathing heavily through his nose, Dream cradled his neck.
He could only gasp when one of Dream's hands wandered down to his waist, touching where his shirt had ridden up, a flat palm pressing down on his lower stomach. And with his mouth open, vulnerable, ripe for the taking, a tongue pressed firmly into his mouth, licking over his teeth and tasting everything.
George whimpered, low in his throat, knotting his fists in Dream's shirt, wanting him closer, wanting more.
Because Dream's lips were so soft, so hot, with his inquiring tongue and huge hands, trailing up and down George's ribcage. The air around them felt simmering, feverish. His skin was like pins and needles, red-hot with every press of Dream's fingertips, back arching off the bed as Dream disconnected their mouths and started kissing lower and lower and lower.
George's lashes fluttered as Dream used his teeth, biting and scraping, along his collarbone.
"Dream," he pleaded, ruined, "kiss me, please, keep kissing me."
And Dream obliged, wrenching back up to reconnect their mouths, featherlight and teasing, voice fevered and throaty when he spoke against parted lips, "I love you, George."
"I love you, too," George said breathlessly. "I'm in love with you."
Dream pulled back, eyes smoldering, appraising him.
"Did you say in love?"
George nodded, his voice quiet, "yes, in love. I'm in love with you."
And Dream was kissing him again, this time less hot, with long presses of adoration, heartfelt tenderness, sensuality, and unspoken words.
"I'm in love with you, too," Dream murmured, beaming from ear to ear, kissing him again and again, these deep presses on his lips, cheeks, nose, chin, jaw, nose again—
George couldn't help but laugh.
"Dream, that tickles," he exclaimed.
"Didn't I say I'd get my payback?" Dream grinned ferociously, "you deserve punishment for jabbing me in the ribs like that last night."
"Punishment?" George scoffed, unable to stop smiling.
"You're so dumb, that's not what I meant."
George giggled, getting more and more excited as he went on, "I'm going to fucking expose you. Going to go on Twitter and tell everyone how badly you want to punish me. I'm going to expose you in 4K, idiot. Oh my God, it's going to be so funny. And you won't even be able to say anything back because the context is us sleeping in bed together. I'm a genius. I'm hilarious. Oh my God..."
Dream looked down at him, indulgent and fond.
"Who said I wouldn't expose you back?"
"You wouldn't," George shook his head.
"Says who? Maybe I want our stans to know how cuddly you are," Dream said, wiggling his eyebrows. "How you're my little, cuddly koala—"
But before they could squabble further, his stomach gurgled loudly, resounding in the otherwise quiet room.
They blinked at each other.
"Okay, wow, I'm like, starving," George said calmly, leaning back, just now noticing how empty his stomach felt.
Dream snorted, running his hands over George's body soothingly, tone sarcastic, "really? Who would've guessed? That sounded like you were totally full."
"Shush."
"When's the last time you ate?"
"I had an omelet yesterday."
"When?"
"On the plane," George admitted.
"George," Dream scolded, already sitting up, eyebrows furrowed. "I thought I told Sapnap to get some fast food on the ride home. What happened?"
"He forgot," George shrugged, moving to stand up alongside Dream. "We were both hyped to get home—food was the last thing on our minds."
Dream sighed, like he was really disappointed in George's negligence, shaking his head. "C'mon, let's go to the kitchen. I'll cook you some pancakes or something. American pancakes, by the way. None of those British bullshit crapes." But before he could get too far away, George reached out and caught his hand, stopping him from putting any more distance between them.
Avoiding eye contact, he whispered, "Dream, I love you so much. I'm so in love with you. Just, fuck, I really need you to know that. Know much I love you before we leave this room. While it's still just us. I'm so in love with you, and you know it's not as easy for me to just come out with it all like this, but it's how I feel. And I couldn't move on without assuring you, leaving you without any shadow of a doubt, that I'm so in love with you."
"George," Dream breathed out.
And then he was pulled back into Dream's embrace. There was a kiss on his forehead, on his cheekbone, and then a final peck against his lips.
"I'm so in love with you, too," he continued, reverent and attentive, "so, so, so, in love. And I have been for years. I've actually imagined this conversation over and over in my head. How it'd all go down, how I'd be all romantic and charming. And even though I wasn't as smooth as I'd wanted to be, I'm still over the fucking moon to be able to do this any time I want," and Dream ended with another press of his lips against George's.
George groaned into it, "you're so unfair."
Dream put some space between them, "c'mon, food first, you need to get some protein in you, and then later..."
"Later?"
"I'll show you just how unfair I can really be."