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It’d taken George two full days of being unable to speak a full sentence without coughing for him to finally admit to being sick.
In the beginning, Dream had sat in the living room, sipping a glass of ice water and minding his business. George remained at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone. And out of nowhere, the brunet started sniffling every forty seconds.
For almost an hour Dream had observed, waiting for him to do something about his sudden runny nose. But after a while, the sound of constant sniffles begins to get really, really annoying. He practically threw a tissue at the brunet, to which George only looked up in confusion.
”What’s this for?” He’d asked.
Dream’s eyebrows furrowed. ”Your nose.”
This seemed to only confuse him further. ”Why? Is it bleeding?”
”No, you’re sniffling.” Dream pointed out.
George shook his head in dismissal. ”Allergies.” is all he said.
Right. Allergies.
Yet the following day, Dream noticed that George seemed to be carrying a full glass of water and a packet of tissues wherever he went while his voice remained coarse and nasally, even after the sleepiness had left his system.
”Still allergies?” Dream had asked, standing outside of the elder’s room doorway after he’d heard the tell-tale sound of a sickly sneeze come from the inside of those very walls.
He found George lying surrounded by tissues and blankets on top of his comforter, a clear sign of a cold, but the boy refused to relent. ”Mhm.” He had insisted, shoving all tissue evidence into a nearby trash bin.
Later that day, as Dream was streaming on his alt, George crawled out of his room, marched to Dream’s, and promptly sat down on the floor of the entrance.
The blond muted his mic, surprised to see him out of his room, and turned to face him.
”What are you doing here?” He questioned.
George shrugged nonchalantly. ”Here for the stream.” He had responded, scooching slightly more into the room.
Dream squinted his eyes, noticing his hesitancy to sit fully inside. ”So," he continued, "why don’t you come closer?”
The brunet's eye visibly twitched. ”I like it here. Very nice carpeting”.
The younger hummed and nodded in mock consideration. ”Right…,” Dream mused, ”so it’s not because you don’t want any sort of germs to contaminate my room?”
George merely smiled. ”Nope. Just wanted to appreciate the flooring.”
Naturally, Dream didn't buy it.
But after a tense fifteen-second stare-down between the two boys, the blond sighed and turned back to his desk, unmuting and informing the chat of George’s presence.
The stream lasted for another three hours–all of which consisted of George making it his mission to be as talkative and loud as possible, as if to prove his sickness was practically nonexistent. He joked and laughed from his spot on the floor for what seemed to be the entire stream, never giving his voice a rest until he finally retreated back to his room with a grimace and a badly hidden cough.
Subsequently, all of this l them to this very moment, with Dream being woken up by very, very persistent and loud knocking.
Dream sighs, hopping out of bed once the banging sound began to get impossible to ignore, grabbing his phone and opening his messages. He found his inbox to be flooded with many frustrated and angry texts from George.
A smug grin grew across his face upon reading them and he promptly strode to the door, swinging it open.
Predictably, there George stood with a red nose and dry, cracked lips. In the back of his mind, it dawns on him that he’s never actually seen him this way, this un-put together. He doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, Dream watches in amusement as the obviously sick boy furrows his eyebrow in anger. “Good morning.” The blond greets, awfully cheerful for nine a.m.
George crosses in arms in further irritation at Dream's clear delight. It’s nothing but endearing.
Dream’s eyes flicker over his sickly features. “So,” He starts. “A little birdy told me that someone has a cold and lost their voice? Would you happen to know what that's about?” He asks, fully knowing that the boy couldn’t answer.
He watches the brunet narrow his eyes before whipping out his phone from his pocket, aggressively typing.
A buzz is felt coming from Dream’s phone that he still held in his hand. A text notification from George was displayed on the screen.
George 9:24 AM
I hate you
Dream laughs and looks back up at the boy. “Why?”
George only glares back in response. The blond thought he saw murder in his eyes. He enjoys it more than he should.
“Is it because I was right?” Dream suggests. “And you should’ve listened to me from the very beginning?”
The brunet scoffs and rolls his eyes, turning his head away. However, the scoff seems to scratch at his throat, causing him to burst into a coughing fit. Dream watches as he hacks into the corner of his elbow, his body slightly hunching over at the force of the action. The blond almost reaches out. Almost.
With one last sorrowful clearing of his throat, George wipes his mouth, lips curving down into a pitiful frown, before glancing back at the younger. George's eyebrows crease upwards as he blinks all big and brown, long eyelashes fluttering.
He finds himself getting lost in milky brown irises and his fingers tingle at the thought of tan palms against pale skin. The distance, or lack thereof, taunts him. He thinks the world goes white for a second, and then his vision tunnels.
The ease at which Dream could reach out to grasp his hand and ask George to let him take care of him, wraps around his head. The overwhelming urge to brush back the hair sticking to his feverish forehead and lay a kiss to the sweaty skin surges through his veins. It’s all he can think about.
But a small sniffle that breaks the silence, lures him back to sanity, clearing his mind.
George was sick. Dream hates getting sick. He’d do anything not to be sick.
The last time he’d had a cold, he’d lock himself in his room, in fear of contracting anything else or worsening it. Dream took immense measures to make sure it lasted for as short as possible and that no new germs entered or exited his room.
His days consisted of sleeping, medicine, hot soup, more medicine, and gallons upon gallons of water. The blond always had at least one humidifier at all times right next to his head, and a heating pad permanently attached somewhere to his body.
Dream had forced Sapnap to be his temporary delivery boy for the week, fetching the door-dashed food from the front steps and leaving it just outside of the blond's room. After receiving it, Dream would routinely disinfect it with 3 different kinds of cleansers and sprays.
Again, Dream hates getting sick.
And the way George’s nose was rubbed red from blowing his nose too often reminds him of the connotations if he were to take him in. The possibility of the younger’s own physical turmoil was too unpleasant to even dwell on.
Dream steps slightly back into his room, hands on the door, and sighs. “George, don’t look at me like that.”
The elder made his already big brown eyes even wider, lips pouting. His body language shows that he desperately wants Dream to feel bad for him, arms folding to make him look as small as possible.
Dream had to bite the inside of his cheek so as to not give in.
He rubs a hand over his face in an attempt to force his eyes away from the forlorn boy. “You’re such an idiot. This wouldn’t have happened if you just listened to me, George. Now you’re sick and mute.”
George finally drops his gaze, realizing that the blond wouldn't budge, and let his arms fall back to his sides. He made a soft noise of frustration before pulling out his phone again.
George 9:26 AM
i don't wanna be alone
Dream finds it hard to match his gaze. “You gotta go back to your room until your fever is completely gone. We can’t have you contaminating the house.”
George’s nose scrunches at his instructions, eyes suddenly a lot more downcast than before as he begins to turn back to where he came from.
But as Dream watches him retreat back to his room down the hall, he feels a tug in his heart strings. The sight of George walking away upset stirs something irksome in his stomach.
Weak-mind, the blond calls out for him.
The brunet glances back.
“I’ll uh..” Dream says, intelligently. “I’ll make you soup, alright? I’ll do what I can.” He offers, sheepish grin growing on his face, somewhat regretting his spur of the moment words.
The sincerity in his voice scares him a little bit more than it should.
George stares back for a few seconds, and Dream wonders if he just crossed an unspoken boundary. But then the brunet rewards him with a smile and an amused shake of his head. He walks the rest of the way to his room, one that shares a wall with Dream’s, and disappears from the blond's view.
Dream can’t help but stand for an extra minute or two, and wonder if the flush on George's face was caused by more than just a fever.
It’s a little while after, that Dream leaves George’s tomato soup carefully in front of his door, with a little sticky note that says “Feel better idiot” taped to the bowl.
He left a knock on the door to signify his presence, and promptly walked away soon after. As much as he’d love to talk to the brunet all day, Dream was a little anxious that he’s already spent too much time with him while sick.
However, the soft rap against the wall next to his head, once he had laid back down, did more than enough to ease his sorry heart. Dream responds with a tap of his own, leaving his knuckles on the wall much longer than necessary for a simple, platonic ”no problem”.
Because… that’s what this was, right?
A couple of platonic friends helping each other out since one platonic friend has got a stuffy nose. There’s nothing floating in the air, no invisible strings tied to pinkies, and no longing glances that are snuck in between words.
George is sick. Dream hates getting sick. Dream would do anything for George because they’re best friends and best friends care for each other, naturally.
The thought seems restless in his mind. It doesn’t sit still. He tries something else.
Dream would do anything for George. Regardless.
That’s the reality that settles upon him.
He brings a hand up to run through his hair, pulling at the knots to make sure this is real. A spark of pain makes his eyes shoot open.
There's a weight that rests over his heart, pressing into it and making it burst at the corners. His breath gets stuck in his throat because his tongue is too big, and he can’t help but rub at white knuckles that feel strained from trying to hold onto reality.
It creates tension throughout his body. It burns.
But then he lets go.
He lets go, and his heart skips a beat before returning to normal, while his breath evens out. He feels his fingers unclench and his eyelids fall close.
The blond waits for the ache in his chest to come back, as this knowledge should be a hard pill to swallow, but that’s not the case. There comes no more pain, no sadness, no heartbreak.
Dream feels almost, relieved. He feels his body give way to all the emotions and thoughts he's supposedly been holding behind, and the flood gates open.
I’m in love.
Holy shit.
A fingernail digs into his skin. He thinks he'd cry if this turns out to be a very lucid dream. He's suddenly got more to lose than he's ever had in his entire life.
A little starstruck, Dream tucks the realization away in a safe spot next to all of his favourite memories of George. Like the times when George’s voice got a little too soft, and a little too free, for a Friday afternoon at the beach. When the brunet's hand fell slightly closer than it usually would while taking a drive down the empty streets of God Knows Where. When George seemed at a loss for words when they first met eyes.
He supposes it’s been a long time coming, his fall into George. It doesn’t feel like new information, more like a discovery. Dream wonders how he’s kept it hidden from himself, much less the boy in question. Although, perhaps it’s a good thing he has only opened his eyes now, when there’s a good distance between them. Lord knows that he wouldn’t have been able to keep his love from spilling out of his heart. It’s always been too big for his own good.
A soft smile grows on his face at the thought of a fluster George, trying to juggle all of it within his pale grasp. He thinks some of it would slip between his fingers, and Dream would have an excuse to hold his hands.
Dream turns over in his bed and draws shapes into white sheets, vaguely pretending it’s the back of George’s shirt as they both lay together.
God.
It’s already this bad.
The blond lifts a hand to cover the blush pooling in his cheeks, worried the heat might be strong enough for George to feel it in the next room over.
Selfishly, he’s kind of glad that the brunet is sick right now. If Dream had to walk out of that door and run into the very person who was making his head spin, he isn’t sure if he’d live another day.
Maybe it’s easier this way, with a wall between them. Less than an ocean apart, but more than a breath away.
He can text the boy about a stream idea he had in mind and know that tomorrow, Dream could say the words to his face because they both know that George forgot by the third hour.
He can send him a goodnight message and find comfort in the fact that George will simply tap on the wall in response because he’s too tired and lazy to type.
He can paint the colours of their future behind his closed eyes, and let them bleed out onto the carpet floor, because George has always been a bit too good at reading people.
Yeah, Dream’s glad George is temporarily sick. He thinks that it would take 3 seconds of being face-to-face for him to blurt out sonnets of his hair, his eyes, his lips, his freckles, his hands, his-
God.
It’s already this bad.
With a sigh, Dream shakes the thoughts out of his head. As sad as it is, he can’t spend all day thinking about George.
A vibration causes him to glance at the phone he placed on the bedside table after returning from the kitchen.
He feels a laugh bubble up to his throat at the sight of the notification on the screen.
George 9:56 AM
Thanks fucko
The text jarrs him out of his subconsciousness and reels him back to real life. The feelings he’d just uncovered wash over him and he watches it run down the drain, swirling pink and yellow. Dream decides that later when the moon is high, he’ll dwell on it a little bit more and find out what this means for him.
For George.
For them.
At least, that's what he sets out to do. However, throughout the rest of the day, it becomes increasingly clear that George is bored out of his mind, and Dream is having trouble keeping said boy off of his mind.
When Dream is busy with a new video that plans to release the following week, he faintly hears the sound of a heavy knock coming from the wall next to him. Obviously, he knows it’s George, and from the looks of it, he’d been tapping for a while. He’d somehow managed to make even his knocks sound grumpy and impatient.
Dream sighs as he continues clacking away on his keyboard. Eventually, Dream figures, the brunet will tire himself out.
A good ten minutes pass of the relentless sound of knuckles on wood. It gets to the point where the blond swears he can almost feel it hammering around inside of his head. In defeat, he kicks away from his desk and rolls in his chair to the wall connecting their rooms, leaving one loud knock of his own. A non-verbal plea of “I’m here. Can you shut up now?”
George’s harsh knocking halts for about a second before being replaced with rapid taps. Now that he’s got Dreams' attention, he seems desperate to keep it.
Dream, wanting to rip his ears off to escape the persistent sound of George’s boredom, stares at the wall and pictures George on the other side, all sickly and snotty. The pitiful vision makes him bark out a laugh.
The brunet appears to have heard the noise, as he responds with one large bang to the wooden barrier.
The younger rolls his eyes.
“I’m not laughing at you!” He totally was. “Patches just fell off the bed!” Patches is happily munching on her breakfast in the kitchen. “Can you stop hitting our wall?” He just wants some peace and quiet.
George replies with what seems to be his nails dragging across his light blue wallpaper.
Dream scoffs. “Don’t be rude!”
There’s a beat of silence, and Dream thinks he won, before his phone buzzes on his nightstand.
George 11:04 AM
Entertain me
Dream 11:04 AM
it’s been like an hour
how are you already bored
George 11:04 AM
Entertain me
Dream 11:04 AM
no
George 11:05 AM
I’m dying feel bad for me
Dream 11:05 AM
hi dying feel bad for me
im dad
There’s a small intermission of George typing and stopping and typing and stopping. At first, he thinks he’s simply going to get an earful of complaints and insults, but George’s indecisiveness makes him start to second guess. His phone buzzes.
George 11:06 AM
:(
Oh. Now he feels like an asshole. Dream runs a hand through his hair, wracking his brain for a way to lessen George’s unfortunate situation.
Dream 11:06 AM
do you want more soup
He knows it’s a sad attempt, but there’s only so much he can offer without letting George know the full extent of how much he’d do for him.
George 11:06 AM
:(
Dream 11:06 AM
take a nap
George 11:06 AM
:(
Dream 11:06 AM
take 2 naps
George 11:06 AM
:(
Dream 11:07 AM
how are you protesting to naps
George 11:07 AM
you’re useless
but fine
Dream 11:07 AM
okay
With a smile, Dream drops his phone on his bed and rolls back to his desk. It’s a small victory, but the knowledge that George is resting and getting better despite his stubbornness causes a wave of relief to wash over him.
The next instance occurs around dinnertime when Dream is stepping out of his room after a long day of editing to grab a bite to eat and maybe check on George. He expects to find the sick boy fast asleep in his bed, recovering from his cold.
However, when Dream passes by George’s room, he’s surprised to find the door slightly ajar with the boy sitting just behind it on a pile of pillows and blankets. He’s got a bad (adorable) case of bedhead and a handful of tissues in his left palm, ready for blowing his nose. George merely blinks owlishly at Dream when he catches sight of him.
Dream raises an eyebrow and motions to the mountain he’s sat on, a silent question.
George can only stare back and shrug. The small movement causes some hair to fall in front of his eyes, blocking his view of Dream. George reaches out and pushes the door a little more open, just enough so that all of Dream is visible and a small shine of light enters the otherwise dark room.
The younger frowns at the lack of light. “You want a candle or something? I have one that smells like candy apples.” Dream offers, completely forgetting what he left his room for after glancing around George’s own space. The air feels stuffy after being enclosed all day.
With a nod of his head, George accepts.
There’s a faint smile that flashes across his face, and his eyebags look a little darker than usual. The blond feels his heart squeeze and his hand is tugged towards the boy. Before Dream leaves to fetch his candle, it’s as if he is compelled to take a step closer to George and brushes back his front fringe. The action seems to take both of them by surprise; George’s breath hitching and Dream’s fingers pausing once the act is done.
Let me take care of you, his mind screams. And just like that, he gets lost in the milky brown that stares back. He’s struck with a thought that itches its way into his brain.
Dream, in this moment, cannot help but wonder what the brunet would say if he had the ability to talk. Realistically, he supposes that George would furrow his eyebrows and laugh it off, dismissing it as an odd impulse, and proceed to call him an idiot. Secretly, Dream wishes that he would lean into it ever so slightly and ask why he felt the need to be closer, be near.
With a spur of confidence and something close to naiveness, hypothetical Dream would respond that he didn’t know, but keep his hand in place, as if even the thought of pulling away would burn him. In this false reality, hypothetical George would continue to dig into the wound, inquiring why the blond didn’t know, as if Dream would even have a proper answer. Dream would stutter out an unsure reply, as he’d never been one for thinking straight when it came to George.
Heh. Thinking “straight”.
A warm hand suddenly curls around his wrist, and he’s pulled back to the carpeted hallway and the entrance to his sick best friend's room. (The specification of George’s role in his life leaves a nasty feeling in his mind, and Dream shakes his head to rid the thought.)
Green eyes refocus to find a confused, but somewhat amused brunet in front of him.
Regaining control of his body, he withdraws his hand with a rather sheepish look on his face, pulling it free from George’s grasp. Dream can feel his face heating up as more seconds of silence flood the space between them. “I’ll uh get the thing- the candle thing now.” He rushes out and books it down the hall.
And as he steps back into his room, a flush rises to his cheeks at the memory of the brunet's mirthful half-smile. There’s no way he would brush that off as an odd impulse now.
At least he didn’t seem upset, the younger reassures himself. Dream doesn’t think he could take it if George were to shy away or avoid his touch.
He’s not usually one to brag (there’s a small, fleeting voice in his mind begging to differ. It sounds a little like Sapnap), but he’s been told on multiple occasions that his hugs could heal anything. After George arrived in Florida and Dream had face revealed, people had taken one look at him and decided that he just had The Arms for hugs. Obviously, he’d taken this new feedback in stride and was often physically affectionate with whoever was around.
Up until this point, light pats on the back or ruffling of hair had barely meant anything between Dream and George. But now, as Dream grabs his candle from the shelf for the boy who’d made a home in his heart, he is faced with the reality that these touches are more than what they used to be, at least to Dream.
Once again Dream thinks, albeit guiltily, that he’s almost happy that these realizations are happening when George is placed just out of reach. If this is how he’s acting when George can’t even respond, god knows what it’ll be like when they try and have an actual conversation.
With a shake of his head, he mutely walks back to George, who hasn’t moved an inch, and places the candle in front of him, pointedly avoiding any sort of contact.
He tries not to notice that George doesn’t even spare a glance at his gift, observant eyes much more focused on the fleeting green ones before him. Dream vaguely wonders if he’s peering into his thoughts. Do you know what you do to me? Dream silently questions.
Of course, it remains unanswered.
Although, the blond doesn’t miss how George’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly, like he can hear all of his internal gay panic, before completely dropping his gaze, grabbing his new candle, and disappearing back into his room.
Dream tries not to let that get to his head. He lets out a breath, and finally descends down the stairs in search of long-forgotten food.
The third and final time that George finds himself in the care of Dream, it’s the dead of the night. The entire neighbourhood has long since gone to bed, including the only other person living in their home. Dream should be one of the many people under Sandman's spell, but ever since he first laid down around midnight, he’s done nothing but toss and turn.
Every position he’s tried to fall asleep in results in nothing but a sore neck and pins and needles.
Call it wishful thinking, but he’d seen once on a dumb article he’d accidentally stumbled upon and clicked on out of pure boredom that if you have trouble sleeping, it means someone's thinking about you.
Now, Dream isn’t usually one to be a hopeless romantic, more so favouring on being realistic. But as he huffs and readjusts his pillow for the nth time that night, Dream wonders if it’s because of George.
But the mere thought of the brunet shaking his head to rid himself of images of the blond, just like Dream had been doing all day, causes a flush to run over his face. He smacks a hand over his eyes, as if that might block out the feelings and the high Dream has been running on ever since first George knocked on his bedroom door.
He feels ridiculous for losing himself like this, losing sleep over this supposed “crush”. (The childish word makes his nose scrunch). He feels like he’s back in high school, with stuttering sentences, stolen glances in between classes, and screaming into his pillow because They™ looked his way.
But at the same time, he feels nothing like ever before. Never has he ever been taken over by something, someone this quickly. One little cold, and suddenly Dream's world is flipped upside down.
Twenty-four hours ago, George was his friend. His friend with the inability to control his sneezing. Now, George was still his friend. His friend with the softest hair he’d ever seen and the most captivating eyes that Dream could spend hours staring into, memorizing every spiral and swirl.
Twenty-four hours ago, Dream thinks bitterly, my thoughts didn't feel like they were fighting against each other, screaming bloody murder to be louder than the rest.
George has ruined him, Dream decides.
He can feel his mind growing weary and tiresome from the strain of constantly thinking about the brunet. George has truly ruined him.
With a final sigh, Dream’s eyes close for what would hopefully be the last time.
But then his phone buzzes. And Dream thinks that a little ruining never hurt anybody.
George 3:56 AM
Dream
Dream 3:56 AM
George
George 3:56 AM
I’m bored and I slept all day and I can’t sleep now and I’m bored
The blond wonders how George ever lived without Dream in his life if this is how he acts when deprived of his presence for just over a day.
Dream 3:56 AM
count sheep
George 3:56 AM
all the sheep are asleep
you're the only one awake pls
Dream 3:56 AM
pls?
Pls what
Also that rhymed lowkey
George 3:56 AM
.............
Are you trying to make me beg .
He lets out an indescribable noise. The room feels hot.
Dream 3:56 AM
omfg no you're such an idiot
I meant liek what do you want me to do
George 3:57 AM
help me
idk
He’s always been a fool for this boy, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dream 3:57 AM
okay
Go to your window
Give me 8 minutes
Dream has an idea. It’s dumb, and George might laugh in his face, but it’s all he’s got.
George 3:57 AM
what
Dream what
He shuts off the device, immediately going to search his closet for a hoodie to slip it on and pockets his phone. Wordlessly, and thoughtlessly, Dream rummages through his desk drawers in search of the main part of his plan, two dry erase markers. (if he grabs green and blue on purpose, that’s only for him to know.)
Vaguely, he can hear the sound of George’s window screen opening in the room beside his. He tries to smother the smile as he walks out of his room and through the front door.
To a passerby, this might seem a little sketchy. A guy in a suspicious hoodie, carrying suspicious objects in one hand, and sitting suspiciously on top of a giant rock just outside someone’s bedroom window.
But to Dream, he sees it as the perfect opportunity to spend a little time with his favourite boy. He wants to think of it as his own little Romeo and Juliet moment, standing outside his lover’s balcony ready to profess undying love, except George lives on the first floor, and he isn’t his lover, and there will be no talking.
Instead, when he firmly sits on top of the conveniently placed stone, he taps on the window and looks into George’s dark room to find him staring right back upon another pile of pillows with his new candle, lit in his grasp, and a severely confused expression on his face.
Dream merely smiles and motions for George to open his window, just a smidge. Puzzled, but albeit willingly, George lifts the latch and Dream sees him shiver at the night’s crisp, cold air.
As quick as he can, so that the warmth of George’s room is preserved, he shoves a blue dry erase marker into the gap and shuts the window for him.
George gasps at the abruptness, placing his candle and only source of light on the windowsill to pick up the marker. He twirls it in his hand in curiosity before flitting his eyes back up to the blond. An eyebrow lifts. Dream takes that as a sign to continue.
Uncapping his green marker, he draws two vertical lines and two horizontal lines intersecting each other on the window. (He’s praying this doesn’t fuck up the glass). George looks on.
And that’s when he makes the first move. Literally.
Dream mutely draws an X in the bottom right corner of the grid, and he watches George’s eyes light in recognition. And then deadpan.
If “are you serious” was a person, they would look exactly like George at this moment.
His phone vibrates in his sweater pocket.
George 4:07 AM
are we really playing fucknig tic tac toe at four in the morning
Dream looks back up and answers with a laugh and a nod.
George 4:07 AM
this is the dumbest idea you’ve ever come up with
Dream nods again, because it’s true. But he also likes to think it’s a little cute. This is cute, right? He feels a twinge of embarrassment and foolishness pass over his body.
The look on George’s face momentarily shifts into something softer, before it’s gone. A mockingly careless appearance takes its place. George scoffs in what seems to be defeat, before taking his marker and drawing an O right in the middle.
And all of Dream’s worries fly away.
He continues the game, the both of them going back and forth and playing round after round, wiping away match after match. The majority of them end in a tie because they both know the best strategy to win after a random ten-hour call had them searching up whatever came to their mind.
And although it’s repetitive and the scoreboard they made deems useless, there’s something refreshing with the way George shakes his head with a slight smile every time neither of them wins, without fail.
As he looks on, the more selfish he gets. Dream wants more George smiles and more little George chuckles. So he starts losing on purpose, placing all of his X’s in random spots, just to see just how toothy he can get George’s grin to be.
There’s not a doubt in his mind that George doesn’t know what he’s doing with the way Dream refuses to blink whenever he loses, so that he never misses a second. After a few rounds of this, instead of drawing them a new grid, George shuffles a smidge to the left and starts creating something entirely new.
Dream follows his movements, moving on the cold rock he’s still perched on. When he looks back up to see what the brunet had drawn, he lets out a surprised laugh.
George, with a proud smile on his face, had drawn big blue cat ears right above where his own head could be seen through the window and whiskers over his cheeks.
A flurry of happiness and butterflies run through Dream’s body, it travels up to his brain and then down to his feet. This right here, with George indulging in Dream’s stupid idea, has him feeling on top of the world. He thinks he could die any second, and be content with the fact that his last moment was spent with George messing around with him.
Once he controls his laughter, Dream motions for George to wipe away his drawing and close his eyes. George listens to the instructions with a curious but amused look.
As nicely as he can with Dream’s limited artistic skills, he follows the outline of the shadow of his own face and draws two dog ears and a snout on where he thinks his nose is. He taps on the window when he’s done, placing his face almost against the glass and trying not to grin like an idiot.
A broken wheezy sound comes from inside George’s room, the laugh being ripped out of him and sending him into a coughing fit. Dream’s heart swoons at the reaction, as painful as it sounds.
When George finally calms down and sips from his nearby glass of water, he turns back to Dream and, just as he did before, motions for the blond to erase his drawing. Dream does so with a slight pout on his face, sad to wipe away such a masterpiece. George only shakes his head in amusement and curls a finger towards himself, a silent plea for Dream to move even closer to the glass.
Dream obeys, leaning his elbows against the outer windowsill and taking it upon himself to close his eyes as he sees George raise his marker to the window. He silently wonders what George could be drawing this time. Knowing him, it’s probably something inappropriate as usual.
But tonight doesn’t feel like any other night, so he shouldn't expect the usual George. Tonight feels like they’re in their own private bubble and breaching new terrority, which is ironic because they’ve done less talking than ever before.
Perhaps that’s what makes it so revealing though, Dream muses.
This feels raw and real. The amount of power that these stupid markers hold makes his hand feel heavy with the weight, as they are all they’ve got to speak.
Dream’s voice works perfectly fine, but he never wants George to feel like the blond is above him, so he's getting down to his level.
A tap on the glass breaks him out of his thoughts. As his eyes flutter open without his head moving an inch, Dream realizes just what George had drawn. His signature smile, the one found on all his merch, has been placed directly on top of his face.
Although, calling it a perfect replica would be an outright lie. This one has its eyes too lopsided and its smile less curved than the real one. But as crooked as it looks, Dream thinks back to how he wanted a little smile tattoo on his left wrist, and decides he wants it to look exactly like this. Because it means so much more.
Dream lets a small laugh when he realizes George is waiting for a reaction, brown eyes all wide and lip stuck between his teeth in anticipation. The brunet smiles in return before a yawn escapes him.
The blond watches as George stretches and leans down just like Dream is, laying his head in his arms on top of the wooden sill. Dream blushes at the closeness. They’re face-to-face, only separated by a window and a shitty drawing of a smiley face.
It’s quiet as they stare at each other, not necessarily into their eyes (Dream might melt on the spot), but more just flitting over their features. He feels like he’s taking George apart, finding a new beauty mark every passing minute, while the brunet does the same to him.
He should be embarrassed, Dream thinks. He should feel self-conscious and want to bury his face in his hands to hide the red that’s slowly overtaking his entire face. He discretely glances at the red candy apple candle that’s still lit, and sympathizes with it, for he knows exactly what it feels like to be burning from George’s touch.
But here, when George is sitting open for Dream to peer freely at, he is nothing but content.
Slowly, Dream brings his green eyes back up to George’s only to find him staring right back. He feels his lips part in surprise. Scratch everything he just said. Right now, as the love of his life is gazing at him like he can read his mind, he feels like he’s about to shit himself.
And then George does the unthinkable.
In one quick movement, George is leaning forward and pressing his lips right on the mouth of the smile drawing. (A.K.A. right on top of where Dream’s own lips rest behind the glass.)
The breath gets knocked out of his lungs before he can even process what happened. His body feels stuck in place and his eyes refuse to look away from the now-smudged line that used to be the mouth of the smile.
And it’s smudged because George kissed it. George kissed the glass. The glass in which Dream’s mouth is right in front. George kissed Dream’s mouth through the glass. George kissed Dream.
Or, at least he wants to.
His mind is jump-started, an electrical shock thrums through his veins and suddenly Dream’s mind works again. He quickly realizes he’s done nothing but stare at the stupid drawing when George just indirectly kissed him and is staring at him in what can only be described as pure anxiety and fear.
Oh god. Dream has yet to react and George is probably having a million thoughts running around his head while Dream is sitting here and trying not to explode.
Just as he can see George start to push away from the window and raise a hand to wipe away what Dream hopes to god isn’t tears, he finally gains the brain cells to show George what he really feels.
With the risk of looking stupid, as soft as he can, he presses his own lips to where George’s were previously, except on the other side of the glass barrier. And as he pulls back he sees George’s eyes practically light up in realization, before both of his hands come up to cover his face.
Dream’s worry spikes for a second, and then he notices the impossibly wide grin that peaks from behind the brunets fingers. He feels giddy for being responsible for it.
The blond cannot help but start to laugh at the ridiculousness of this entire night. Who knew a cold, a stupid tic tac toe game, and a dry erase drawing would lead to this?
But as he watches George uncover his face and lean against the window sill once again, he thinks it’s kind of fitting. Relying on their faces and eyes alone as opposed to the years of mainly communicating through voices is like digging up buried feelings and laying them bare on a table. They were bound to confront what had been there all along.
And as they both press forward to lean their foreheads on the glass at the same time, as cliche as it seems, it feels like everything has fallen into place.
However, when George wakes up in the morning and finds that while his health has been restored, he’s much more concerned about his idiot boyfriend(?) who’d fallen asleep in the cold, sitting on the rock outside the brunet's room.
It only makes sense for the roles to switch when Dream gets rushed back inside and cannot get through a single conversation without having to pause and sneeze. They take care of each other, with and without conditions.
And they wouldn’t have it any other way.