Archive of Our Own

Dream is a little obvious when it comes to George. 

Irrefutably, he has always been clear in his infatuation with the other man, the slight obsession he has when George is involved – it’s in Dream’s innate ability to find a way to mention him, to create jokes specifically catered to him, how he finds himself staring at George’s facecam for far too long and a strange warmth curling around his heart whenever they talk. 

And Dream’s obviousness isn’t a bad thing, really. He has never felt the need to hide it, not when George is easy to become infatuated with, to adore and to fall in love with, and everyone's a little in love with their best friend, after all. 

“I’m breaking up with you.”

But Dream’s obviousness may be a little inconvenient when they’re trying to keep their relationship a secret. 

He inhales sharply at the words, nearly choking on his water as he quickly places down his bottle. The loud clink of the metal on the table is loud, enough to echo into his mic, and he can hear George’s quiet laughter over his own coughing. 

He’s still coughing when he rasps out, “What?” George laughs even louder at the slight crack in his voice, and Dream roughly clears his throat. “What? Why?”

He wishes, just a little, that George hadn’t turned off his camera after his stream, just to know what he looks like right now. By the smile in his voice, he’s finding joy in Dream’s misery, surely. Dream is dating a sadist. 

“We’re breaking up,” George says, and there is subtle clicking from where he types. “I can’t be seen dating an idiot.” 

His voice is a little closer in Dream’s ears, always more notable when it’s later in the night and George brings his microphone closer to lean back in his chair. The atmosphere is quiet, calmer, a contrast to the loud chaos that had occurred a few minutes ago on George’s stream. 

It’s late for the both of them, nearing midnight for Dream, and far past a reasonable time for George to be awake. Nonetheless, both of them are wide awake to spend time with each other, albeit a little drowsy from entertaining a stream. 

Despite having an idea of the answer, Dream asks anyway, “How am I an idiot?” 

He presses his lips together and tries not to giggle when George, in a low, grumbly voice that doesn’t sound like Dream at all, mimics, “‘Chat, did you know today’s National Boyfriend’s Day? George said I love you and today’s National Boyfriend’s Day. George, George, I love you, George, you’re my boyfriend. George, can I possibly get anymore obvious –’” 

Dream rolls his eyes. “Okay, first of all, that doesn’t even sound like me –” 

“It sounds just like you.” 

“– and, second,” he continues, “can’t friends tell each other I love you from time to time? Is it inherently a romantic thing? Can’t I just give the homies a friendly reminder that they’re loved?” 

George scoffs. “Yes, it’s just so friendly and platonic to say I love you, and then immediately mention National Boyfriend’s Day.” 

“It wasn’t even that obvious,” Dream ignores him to say, “everyone probably thinks we were trolling, and it was for the memes, okay, no one actually thinks we’re dating because of a dumb bit I did.” 

“Someone out there definitely thinks so,” George mutters. The sound of typing ceases, and then there is no longer any background noise while they talk. 

Dream leans forward to grab his phone, opening up Twitter when he says, “I’m sure people have already moved on from it, George. They’re probably talking about how much they miss you, right now.” 

He winces as his timeline refreshes and is immediately filled by tweets about Dream’s suspicious behavior during the stream. Still, it’s not entirely a lie; he spots a few I miss George tweets, even if it’s followed by multiple clips of George’s stream. Dream mildly hopes George won’t check his phone for the next few hours. 

George huffs with no response, and Dream can almost picture his expression, the corner of his lips a little down-turned, head tilted. Maybe there is the same familiar curl around his right eye, one he brushes away from time to time, and a frustrated roll of his eyes while he slouches in his chair. 

Dream snaps out of his thoughts when George says, “I’m going to lay down and call from my phone, give me a second.” 

“Okay,” Dream barely finishes in replying, the chime for the call’s disconnection following. He tugs off his headset, rubbing his ears, and it’s a solid four seconds later when George calls him again, his screen lighting up with an alert.

Dream accepts on his phone, and brings it up to his ear.  

“There are, like, eight separate clips of your dumb bit on my timeline,” George groans, and Dream laughs. The sound of him shuffling in his sheets accompanies George’s voice, until it stops. “Now everyone thinks we’re dating.” 

“To be fair, everyone already thinks we’re dating,” Dream corrects, grinning as George groans even louder, drawn out and full of pain, and he’s always been the dramatic type. “And they’d be right.” 

“I wish they weren’t,” George states, deadpan, and it doesn’t hurt like it should, Dream chuckling in return. 

“No, you don’t,” he replies easily, sing-songy. He gets up from his chair, grimacing at the slight ache in his legs for sitting so long, and he trudges over to his bed, collapsing into the sheets. He blindly places George on speaker. 

“You don’t know that.” George’s voice is next to him, and Dream is almost tempted to lift his head and look to his right, just to make sure the man actually isn’t there.

Dream hums and turns onto his back. “I do know that.” 

“You’re so dumb,” George says instead, and Dream tries to bite away his smile. 

It doesn’t work. 

Despite their aloofness when it came to being questionable in front of their audience, it wasn’t often that they slipped up. 

Granted, there were a few moments, often from people in their friend group, who, for a millisecond, forget who they are and blurt out a little too much about their relationship, or infer an odd sense of romance whenever referring to the two of them, even if they knew nothing more than the audience.

Neither of them have minded, really. George couldn’t care less what others spoke of him, and if George didn’t find too much issue with Tommy pointing out their less-than-subtle flirting, or when Quackity calls out Dream’s clinginess a few too many times, Dream didn’t care either. 

Dream glances at his monitor, Sapnap’s stream pulled up as he plays Valorant, while he answers a few texts. A text-to-speech donation reads in a robotic voice, “Sapnap, what is the first thing George is going to do when he gets to Florida?” 

“The first thing George is doing when he gets here,” Sapnap begins, “is cuddle with me. We’re going to cuddle while Dream makes us food and then we’re gonna – we’re going to Universal while Dream stays home alone, because he’s a faceless loser.” 

Dream scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Well, I’m obviously going to face reveal so I can join you guys.” 

“Nuh-uh.” Shooting noises accompany Sapnap’s voice as he plays. “When George gets here, it’s SNF time, baby. DNF is dead.” 

“That’s not true. This isn’t true,” Dream replies, and he’s shaking his head, despite no one seeing him. “DNF is alive. DNF is thriving, DNF is real–ly good,” he stumbles, “DNF is superior in every way.” 

Sapnap laughs as Dream closes his eyes, and facepalms. 

DNF is real, he’d just nearly said, and he almost hadn’t caught himself. It’s more suspicious that he had stopped himself, really, and especially when he’s said it multiple times before, but that was before, before they’d began dating and before Dream could say George is now his and before it was actually true. 

It’s too late to say anything about it now, if he’d actually wanted to, because Sapnap’s explaining his intricate Chipotle order and Dream is too scared to open Twitter and see if anyone has caught on. Out of the current fifty thousand live viewers, there must be someone who noticed, right? 

Even if he could play it off as a joke, it still sets him in a small panic. Dream refrains from checking Twitter, placing his phone down and instead diverting to pay the utmost attention to Sapnap’s stream, which is a little painful when he’s never played Valorant before and he has never had an actual interest in any video game outside of Minecraft. 

The next two hours drag on painfully, his hands itching to open his phone, and it’s only after Sapnap disconnects from the call and his monitor is off that Dream indulges himself. 

And although Dream has never considered himself religious, he decides God must be real and merciful when he finds a single tweet questioning his slip-up, with a grand total of two likes. 

He lets out a deep sigh, and places his phone down. 

George was right. He’s an idiot. 

Contrary to popular belief, it’s fun, hiding a relationship from an audience of millions of people. 

It’s fun, making awfully suspicious jokes and teasing George in a voice that gave away his fondness, and it’s fun, having no line to worry about when Dream implies having many romantic feelings for George in front of thousands of live viewers, and it’s still fun, even when George reprimands him for being so obvious, because it doesn’t really matter, in the end. 

No one thinks they’re actually together – not until one of them confirms it, with no room for doubt. 

Dream, undoubtedly, is happy with the terms of their relationship, because, despite it being secret, he’s always been outwardly affectionate to his friends, even more so George, and not much has changed since they began dating. 

Hiding their relationship is fun. 

It’s easy. 

“Do you think it’ll be difficult?” 

George’s voice breaks him out of the odd haze Dream had been in, blinking away from his monitor full of text as he looks over at their call, where George’s Minecraft avatar stands, unmoving, while he readies for recording. 

Dream runs forward to hit him, the sound effect alarming George as he tabs back into the game, hitting Dream back. “What?” 

“Hiding this, I mean,” George clarifies, barely dodging when he jumps into the ocean and swims away from Dream. “You’re already obvious as is.” 

“I am not,” Dream defends. “I’ve slipped, like, once.” For the sake of his dignity, he ignores the multiple slip-ups from yesterday’s stream. It’s been eight hours. He’s a changed man.  

“Yeah? Which time are you counting? The time you called me your boyfriend, or when you leaked our DMs? Or when you tagged me as your celebrity crush?”

Dream flushes pink. “That tweet doesn’t count.” 

“You’re an idiot,” George says, and Dream can hear the grin in his voice. 

There’s a silence that follows, keyboard clicking between them while George sets up his camera for a face-cam. Dream, in the meanwhile, loads up a new, better world, and they both end up at the edge of a forest. 

He opens Twitter, scrolling through his timeline as he waits patiently for George, but his mind is adrift as he ponders. 

To some degree, their physical distance has surely been to their advantage when it comes to pretending, and being in frame together, where Dream could accidentally lean onto George or press their hands together or do something horrible like hug him, brings along new risks. 

But Dream has self-control. Probably. Possibly. Hopefully. 

“I don’t think it will be.” He answers. “More difficult, I mean. I think we’ll be okay.” 

There’s distant typing, before George hums. “Maybe.”

“What? You don’t think so?” George’s character in game begins walking, and Dream takes it as his cue to return to game as well. He places his phone down, and chases after George.  

He makes an I don’t know sound, and Dream can almost see his shrug. “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll get there and I won’t let go of you. Or maybe I’ll be so used to pretending that it’ll be easy.” 

Dream ignores the odd stutter in his heart, at the idea of George holding on and never letting go. He chews on his lower lip. “Maybe.” He pauses. “Either way, I’ll have to carry us.” 

George makes a protesting noise. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’m just saying, out of the two of us, I’m definitely the better actor here,” Dream shrugs, despite no one else being able to see it. 

There is silence, until George says, “Didn’t you take an Are You In Love With Your Best Friend quiz in front of thousands of people? Twice?” 

Dream chokes on his spit, coughing for a few seconds while George’s laughter echoes into his ears, loud and bright. His cheeks are red as he rasps, “I thought we agreed to not mention that!”

“No, you agreed to it,” George corrects, laughter still evident in his voice. “I’m allowed to make fun of you for it. I don’t know how you thought that was a good idea.” 

“It was for the content,” Dream sniffs, and clears his throat. “Shut up. Anyways, it doesn’t matter. No one actually thinks we’re dating, and –” 

George’s camera turns on at that moment, a visual for his face-cam, and Dream pauses to stare at him for a second, eyes glued to the screen. George’s lips are upturned, a slight smile while he adjusts something off-screen, and his microphone moves away from the frame, and he’s wearing a pink hoodie and he looks good and Dream stares. 

“And?” 

Dream blinks, before remembering to continue his sentence. He clears his throat. 

“And when you get here, it’ll be easy.” 

George tilts his head, and shrugs. 

“Maybe you’re right.” 

Dream was wrong. 

He can tell almost immediately, the second he gets George in his arms, and it’s with a terrible, terrible sinking of realization that he thinks, Oh, no. Oh, no, this is bad. 

Despite the strange want in his heart from the time George had been across the Atlantic, it was easy to ignore the fact that, really, they’d never touched, never actually met in person, and that there was an entire aspect of their relationship that Dream refused to think about. 

But maybe Dream should’ve thought about it, because now, here he was, all too overwhelmed and hands a little shaky as he pulls George close to his chest, close enough to sync their heartbeats. He doesn’t think he can let go. 

“Dream,” George says into his shoulder, “you’re going to have to let go, you know.” 

“Yeah,” he replies faintly, barely loosening his hold, and George smiles into the curve between his shoulder and neck and Dream thinks he can stay here forever. 

The moment, however, is ruined when Sapnap interrupts, “Alright, can we please do something instead of having me watch you two hug for an unnatural amount of time? I’m hungry, George is probably hungry, and I want to show him his room.” 

“I’m kicking you out,” Dream says, but lets go anyway, although George doesn’t stray far until Sapnap tugs him away by his sleeve. 

“No, you aren’t,” Sapnap decides for him, and pulls George up the stairs, who grins bright while Sapnap throws an arm around his shoulders. “You get to carry his bags up, by the way.” After a second, he adds, “Since you’re just so manly and strong.” 

“I don’t know about that last bit,” George mutters, and Dream has no time to argue when the duo disappear into the hallway, laughter following. He sighs, shaking his head, but he’s smiling anyway as he drags a suitcase upright. 

It’s less than a week after George’s arrival in Florida, and Dream vaguely regrets his existence.

It was easier when their audience couldn’t see Dream’s face, the fact that he blushes too easily and mercilessly, how his eyes kept going back to George, that he, visibly, was a little obsessed with George. It was easy when George was miles away, unable to grab onto Dream or poke at him or say things just to watch him blush or how he naturally gravitated close to Dream. 

Unfortunately, hiding a relationship is so much more difficult when they’re physically together. 

“Frogmeister with the twenty! Thank you, thank you, I – ‘why does Dream look like he’s never seen a vegetable before’? It’s because he hasn’t, he’s very sensitive about it,” George answers, yelping when Dream throws a stray piece of lettuce at him. “Stop! This is promoting violence, you’ll get me banned.” 

Dream rolls his eyes from where he sits on the kitchen counter, crossing his arms. “I’m so sure. That piece of lettuce could have done some real harm.” 

“It could’ve,” George defends. “I could be allergic to lettuce, for all you know.” 

“That’s why you ate some a few minutes ago,” Dream nods, and watches attentively as George unwillingly flushes, how it blossoms on his cheeks and travels low to his neck and ears, dipping under his shirt. 

Dream blinks when he remembers the camera, quickly looking away to instead stare at the torn apart head of lettuce instead. He forgets people can see his face. 

He raises a hand to adjust his hair, suddenly self-conscious, before letting it drop and shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s, with George, dressed in the same sort of chef shirt, white and fabric so thin, he had to wear another shirt under it. 

George had tried to convince him to also wear the ridiculous checkered pants, which he had so insistently called chef pants. Dream doesn’t think he has seen a chef wear checkered pants in his life, and he, frankly, would rather die than be caught in them. He does not have the same sort of pretty privilege like George, and would be bullied relentlessly. 

“Anyway,” George continues, “when Sapnap returns with the baking powder, we can continue on with the cake. We can probably make the icing now, then.” He looks over at Dream, who shrugs noncommittedly. George shakes his head. “Pass me the second bowl.” 

Dream hops off the counter and shuffles over to the monitor, out of frame when he passes the bowl. He cringes at the chat, which flies by as they point out his abundant staring. He glances over at George, who, oblivious, brings out a pot, placing it onto the stove. 

He internally curses at Sapnap, who had mistakenly bought baking soda instead of baking powder, and now leaves Dream and George alone while he rushes to the nearest grocery store and retrieves the correct ingredients. With Sapnap gone, Dream is no longer able to keep to the side and advise George that, no, drinking oil by itself is not a good idea, and is instead required to actually be entertaining. 

“Do you think I’ll die if I eat baking soda by itself,” George asks, and Dream blinks out of his thoughts and sees him holding the baking soda container. 

“Do not do that,” Dream warns, reaching out an arm to snatch it out of his grip, and George lets it happen, grinning. “What is wrong with you? First the oil, and now baking soda, are you trying to get sick?” 

“I am trying to hold retention.” George picks up a spatula, and Dream is tempted to take that out of his hand as well.

He blinks. “By threatening your life.” 

“I’m not going to die by baking soda, Dream,” George rolls his eyes, a slight smile on his face while he says so, and Dream wants to kiss him senseless. 

He, instead, turns pink and clears his throat. “You’ll get sick,” he says, taking out his phone. He distracts himself by opening up Safari, while George dumps sugar into a bowl. It’s quiet for a moment until he reads, “Yeah, see, it says eating too much of it leads to a large amount of gas in the stomach, which causes it to rupture.” He looks up.

George pauses in his stirring. “So you explode.” There is something like intrigue in his eyes.

“Well, I don’t think you explode,” Dream shakes his head, and steps back into frame as he takes a seat back onto the counter. “But you’d get really sick.”

George seems to ignore all of this when he announces, with a raised spatula, “Guys, if we hit the sub goal, I’ll eat an entire spoonful of –” 

“No, don’t say that, you idiot, what is wrong with you?” Dream groans, loud over George, who laughs as he continues stirring. 

George goes on with making the frosting, taking notice to carefully explain the ingredients and the steps to making it, and although Dream should be more cautious with his blatant staring in front of over one hundred thousand viewers, he can’t bring himself to look away.

George, as ridiculous as he looks, still is boyishly charming in his cartoonish chef’s hat, dark hair poking out from under in an array of directions. Dream wants to ruin it a little more, tug on it, and he can’t help it when his gaze drifts from George’s hair to his face.

He has the usual upturned quirk of his lips, chewing on the lower lip while he carefully measures out a tablespoon, and his cheeks are a little flushed while he dumps the remaining ingredients of the cake into the bowl, worrying about the baking powder all the while. He looks effortlessly good. 

“– won’t matter if I add it later, right, Dream?”

Dream is snapped back into reality when he hears his name, dragging his eyes away from trailing down and instead looking up to meet George’s awaiting eyes. 

“What?” He asks, with absolutely no excuse for his obvious staring, and he’s trying to come up with something, anything at all when George raises an eyebrow. 

“I asked –” 

“I’m home!” Sapnap calls loudly and proudly, sparing no gusto when he slides into the kitchen again, socks skating across the kitchen tiles while he carries a container of baking powder in his right hand. “And I bring gifts!” 

“It took you forever,” George complains, swiping the baking powder out of Sapnap’s hand. “Why’d you take so long?” 

And, when Sapnap derails into a story about the heroic battle he had to face for a single container of baking powder, Dream has never been so glad for a distraction. 

“We get two days before and after the convention,” Karl mentions, a day before they’re set out to fly, “so I’m thinking we make like tourists.” 

“I already planned to,” Quackity replies easily. “I am packing nothing but flip-flops.” 

“First of all, that’s horrifying,” Karl begins, horror in his voice, and Dream huffs a laugh, “and second, I meant going places. Sightseeing, guys, don’t be boring.” He draws out the word, long and loud, and Quackity snorts. 

In retrospect, agreeing to spend a week abroad to go to a convention with his friends while also hiding his relationship from virtually everyone maybe wasn’t the smartest idea Dream has ever had, but to his defense, it sounded like fun. 

Sue Dream for wanting to finally pick the fruits of his labor and meet some of his fans at a meet-and-greet, and maybe also spend some time in a different country with George and the rest of his friends, and he’s sure he could get away with some hand-holding and hiding their relationship, as long as they kept the physical affection to a minimum. 

Besides, they’ve been pretty good at keeping their relationship a secret. 

And, if everyone ignores Dream slipping up a few (read: many ) times, hiding their relationship is going fine. Splendid, even. 

Sure, it had gotten a little difficult in the middle, and especially when Dream is still not used to being seen by so many possible, with his every move being broadcasted to thousands of people the second he presses Go Live, and he doesn’t know how George does this, or anyone, for that matter. It almost scares him. 

But, even so, Dream doesn’t mind. He couldn’t mind; he was never one for PDA, and that aspect of his love life hadn’t changed, even if he was prone to staring at George a little more than usual, and going pink much easier than he should. All he needs to do is keep an eye on his own staring problem, and not slip up and somehow end up kissing George in front of thousands of people. 

Dream’s got this in the bag. He’ll be fine. 

They’ll be fine. 

There’s shuffling from Karl’s end of the line, before he asks, “What’s there to even do? Did someone – did anyone check?”

“There’s a beach nearby, but I’m pretty sure they closed it due to maintenance or something,” Dream says, leaning forward, closer to his screen. “Um, let me see.” There’s some clicking and Dream absently takes another sip of water as the page loads. “There’s some monuments, and a carnival that they have every year, but it won’t be there when we are.” A beat, and then he adds, “There’s a cat cafe a few blocks from our hotel.” 

“I want to go,” Sapnap says, interest peaked. “I want to see cats.” There’s a pause, and the noise of movement. “Sorry, Patches,” he soothes, and she is undoubtedly in his room, right now. She’d left Dream’s own room a while ago. 

“We could bring Tina,” Dream mentions, “if she’s up for it.”  

“Sounds nice,” Karl agrees, “what else?” 

Dream’s fingers drum on his desk as he scrolls. “I don’t know. A zoo, but that’s, like, stupid.” A pause. “There’s also a waterfall, apparently, that we can swim in.” 

“We’re absolutely checking that out,” Karl immediately answers, and allows no room for argument. 

“I’ve never seen a waterfall,” George comments, sounding just a little far away, and Dream can imagine him lying on his floor like he does sometimes, ever since they’d bought that white rug for his room, impossibly soft, and Dream has never stepped on him once too many times.

And there’s that urge to whisk George away and have him experience is one of many never ’s, just to steal away one of his first’s, because Dream is weirdly selfish like that, but it can’t be helped. He wants to show George everything. 

George would call him stupid. Dream kind of wants to kiss him, right now, but he’s all the way in his room across the house, and Dream is lazy and also in the middle of a call with all their friends. 

“I’ll put that on the list,” Dream confirms instead, and continues scrolling. 

The first three days go without a hitch. 

Granted, the trip begins with them all bone-tired and arriving at three a.m. Eastern, and Dream has never hated being over six-foot so bad, with his legs tangled together for the past many hours, and George had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and, as a consequence, Dream had to stay very, very still so as to not wake him up. 

Reasonably, he knows he could have nudged George back to his side and let himself relax, but that would be cruel and maybe he wants to keep George on his shoulder, alright, and if that makes him a fool with a crick in their neck, then so be it. 

Nonetheless, the flight is torture, and they fall asleep the second they stumble into their respective hotel rooms, and if the two of them had resorted to sharing a singular room, no one comments on it. He pulls George into the bed, and George huffs out a breath when he lands on the sheets, but he shoves his face into the pillow, and they fall asleep together. 

The first day passes easily, with them wandering the town and sightseeing, and summer is in full swing, the sun bright and the grass green. It makes Dream feel light inside, and he’s always loved winter most, but summer makes him happy in a way he can’t explain. 

Maybe it’s because George is close this time, in physical proximity because this is their first summer spent together in person, and maybe in figurative proximity, because he kisses George high on the cheek right before they leave, and George’s face is just a little pink for the next five minutes. 

They stick close together, anyway, much closer than the rest of the group, but no one comments on it, because maybe they’ve always been this way. 

Summer feels different this time around, and perhaps it is in account of their hands knocking together, and neither of them moving away, or because Dream wraps a careful arm around George’s shoulders, or maybe for the shared slushie that dyes both their tongues blue, or for them visiting shops and any outlets that pique their interest in even the slightest. 

It’s even better like this, with Quackity attempting to win a giraffe plushie from a claw machine that is undoubtedly rigged, in an arcade they’d stumbled upon, and George is demolishing Karl in a zombie shooting game, and Sapnap had been playing the same racing game, and had trailed off elsewhere. 

No fans come across them just yet, and it’s a sort of relief that he almost feels bad about, but he knows the next few days will be relentless, so he allows himself to relax, just a little, about the gratefulness he feels when he realizes no one recognizes them. 

“Give,” George says, wandering back to Dream, Karl just a few steps still behind, and plucks the bag of chips from Dream’s hand, and Dream, like the fool he is, lets him. 

“You’re welcome,” he replies dryly, and George offers him a grin. It’s a fair exchange, he thinks, the loss of a chip bag for a sweet smile from someone like George.

He steps closer, and George lets it happen, when he slots their hands together, and Dream has never been one for PDA, but this isn’t too much. Friends hold hands all the time, he’s sure. Karl has spent the entire trip so far holding onto someone. 

Even so, George glances at their hands, and raises an eyebrow. It gives him more butterflies than it should, such a simple act. Dream smiles at him, a little smug, and George nudges at him. 

“Idiot,” he says, a secret between them. Their fingers stay interlocked. 

Saturday and Sunday are spent attending to parts of their job that Dream had never really dreamed of doing. 

Conventions have never been Dream’s thing, and this is only amplified by the two days that Dream spends in front of crowds of people who wave their hands at him excitedly and ask for pictures and hug him tight. Dream is more than sure his face is permanently stretched into a smile. 

He shouldn’t complain, though. It’s a nice experience, one that he’ll be sure to remember for years to come, and he wears four new bracelets that fans had given him, and a smiley-face necklace, and a plastic green lei someone had thrown around him, and he might look ridiculous, but he refuses to take any of it off. 

And, through it all, he can’t help but miss George, just a little, which is dumb, because the other man is just across the room, but this is a very big room and there’s, like, hundreds of people between them, and they hadn’t spoke since nine a.m. this morning. 

It’s different, though from yesterday, when it had just been their group of friends. Their actions are more micro-analyzed now, and there’s undoubtedly someone recording their movements at all times, and he doesn’t want to risk anything irreparable. 

Dream doesn’t even want to try and look at him, though, just in case there’s something too revealing when he looks at George, as if he’d somehow grow heart-eyes and turn into some cartoonish caricature of love.

He knows nothing big would come out of him simply looking over at George, but still. He’s overthinking his actions, he knows, and yet, he can’t help it. It has him paranoid, just a little. 

Still, maybe he glances just a few times, to see George gesturing wildly or giggling with a fan. It makes him grin, and he quickly looks away. 

It’s at the end of each day that Dream feels entirely spent, collapsing onto the hotel bed, and he can’t even find it in him to care about getting outside germs or whatever the fuck on the bed, because his cheeks hurt from smiling and he thinks he’s never spoken so much in his life, and he didn’t get to be next to George at all. 

“Get up,” George complains, poking him by the side. “I want to sit.” 

Dream rolls over, just barely, sheets crumpling underneath him, and George sits next to him, phone in hand as he swipes through TikTok, and some pop song sings out while Dream rolls back into place, head just barely tucked into George’s side. 

George’s body stutters, for just a second, before a hand finds itself in Dream’s hair, and it’s an unspoken thing when he silently, slowly, combs through it. His fingers brush against his scalp, and it’s nice and calming and makes Dream involuntarily shiver. 

He throws an arm around George’s waist in appreciation, and slips into slumber. 

“This is the worst idea you've ever had, by the way.” 

Dream makes a protesting noise. “It was your idea to come here!” 

“Don’t remember, don’t care,” Karl waves off, and Dream rolls his eyes. “It’s all your fault.” 

“Wrong,” Quackity says, wearing an obnoxiously large sunhat. “Everything is always George’s fault.”

“What the fuck,” George sputters, and Dream pats his arm in sympathy. Sapnap laughs at him, and George chucks a pebble in his direction. 

Maybe it was a bad idea to go on a hike to a waterfall in the middle of the woods, because it was apparently entirely unreachable by car, which they had rented and left behind approximately thirty-eight minutes ago, and Dream doesn’t even want to think about the walk back, and only hopes to high heaven that they’re going in the right direction. 

It’s an even worse idea when the entire time is spent with Quackity and George bickering like children, like they often do, and George threatens to rip Quackity’s ridiculous sunhat in half, and Quackity is entirely too offended and chases after him with a large rock. 

Dream is pretty sure they didn’t pack enough sunscreen, and Sapnap leans onto him, half his weight being placed on his right. Karl trails right next to him, having spent the last twenty minutes complaining about the heat. 

Dream can’t even blame him – the sun beats down at them mercilessly, the runt of summer hitting them hard, and they should’ve expected this, taking a hike in the high afternoon, but their cold water bottles and thin t-shirts offer some solace. 

Dream is trying to be an optimist. It’s somewhat working. 

A finger pokes at his left arm, and he turns his head. 

George raises an arm. “Okay?” 

Dream nods, and it’s something unnatural, how he still feels a little worn out, just somewhat sweaty all over, but George gives him a small smile, and he feels a little lighter, sighing as he straightens his posture. 

It’s not so bad, after all. At least now he won’t feel so guilty about skipping out on working out, because he’s undoubtedly stretched his legs properly after walking for so long, and Sapnap is blasting music from his phone, and Karl joins in to sing along, and it’s even nice. It’s summer, and the sun is warm on his skin. A cool breeze brushes against them, and he breathes it in. 

The patchy path they’ve been following comes to a halt, and the sound of rushing water is loud. Dream exhales, and lets himself slouch in relief. 

“Fucking finally,” Quackity exclaims, and drops his things near the edge of the water to pull along Karl. 

Sapnap leans away from his side, music still blasting, and it’s undoubtedly worth it, the cool air wafting from the water, the prettiness of a waterfall, and it was good to come here during high afternoon, with the sun shining brightly and bouncing off the water. 

Karl tugs Quackity into the water, and there is a splash, followed by a loud shriek. Dream cracks a smile, and turns to George, who grins. 

“Worth it?” He asks, just to make sure, and George nods, settling to sit on the ground, close enough to the water. Dream joins him, the grass cool under his hands. He tugs at it. 

“Yeah,” George replies, and looks away. His cheeks are pink from the heat, and Dream wants to feel it against his fingers, just to see if it’d turn a deeper shade. He bites his cheek, and waves away the thought. Maybe not now. 

“Good,” Dream says, and lets himself settle. 

There’s a moment before George shuffles closer, just barely, but enough that their shoulders bump. Dream’s heart, almost childishly, skips a beat, and he pushes back, and then they stay like that, close and shoulders pressed together. His insides feel scrambled. 

Unfortunately, neither of them have ever known peace, because Quackity then decides to call, “Hey, lovebirds, are you gonna join us or what?” 

“Shut up,” George shouts back, but he’s getting up and hurtling towards the water, and Karl yelps when the splash hits him in the face. 

Dream laughs, feeling like sunshine, and hurries to follow. 

“This is,” George begins, “a little ironic.” 

Dream lets out an involuntary laugh, and both of them wince when it comes out a little loud. 

It’s a compromising position, with less than three inches between them and stuffed together in a closet, and he knows the irony of it, okay, it’s funny, he knows, but he’s not allowed to laugh right now. 

Maybe some other time, when there weren’t a gaggle of fans hovering just a few feet away, and he’s a little terrified some employee is going to swing open the door and order them to leave, and he isn’t even sure how to explain the fact that he and George were hiding in a closet together. 

It’s only by luck that he’d looked up at that moment, where there’d been a group of fans, only one of which wore a familiar blue hoodie with a pair of goggles plastered on the front, and it’d been a quick reaction to hurriedly slip out of the booth and duck for cover. 

The cover, of course, being a closet, because life was cruel like that, and the bathrooms were across the diner. Dream can hear the universe, faintly, laughing at him. He lets out a small sigh, and George tilts his head. His eyes shine in the slight darkness. It’s pretty. 

It’s not too big of a deal, but it does put a damper on his mood, just a little. He’d hoped for an easy afternoon, one to share a shake with two straws like the movies, maybe hold hands under the table and pretend like they hadn’t been opening panels and doing meet-and-greets just a few days ago and were just a little paranoid about being seen together. 

Still. It’s not too bad. At least he gets to stick through it with George. 

“You’re staring.” 

Dream blinks back to the moment, where he finds himself with a steady gaze directed to George, staring into oblivion while his eyes stay focused on George. He clears his throat and looks away. “Sorry.” 

George raises a hand to flick at him. “You don’t have to apologize, dumbass.” Dream shrugs, and leans back into the shelf behind him, the wood cutting into his back. There is a pause, before George, almost sheepishly, admits, “I stare at you all the time.” 

“Wow,” Dream says, ignoring the fluttering feeling in his stomach, “what a creep.” George makes an indignant noise, and moves to flick at him once more, but Dream meets him halfway, catching him by the wrist and interlocking their hands. He grins, and George huffs, mock exasperation on his face. “Good.” 

George scoffs. “What, good that I stare at you?” 

“Yeah,” Dream shrugs. “Then I don’t look weird for staring at you all the time.” 

“Then we both look weird,” George points out. It’s a glaringly obvious thing, and especially when they’re both still hiding in a quite literal closet, inches apart, because they’ve probably never looked weirder, staring or not. Dream would laugh again, if not for the threat of being seen. 

“That’s fine by me,” he grins, and it’s all incredibly stupid and maybe the sappiest thing to say, but George always makes him a little bit of a sucker for cliches. He wants the fairy tales and Hallmark movies with George. 

George shakes his head, but he’s smiling, small and wonderful. Dream wants to kiss him. “You’re so stupid.” 

Dream leans close, because he can. He doubts anyone would see. “You like me.” 

He can see George’s blush from this close up, even despite the darkness. “I have never said that in my life.” 

“Well,” Dream begins, but can’t find it in him to say much else when he keeps leaning in, and he lets his stare drop lower, at the inching decrease in space, and George is less than a breath away when Dream tilts his head just barely to the right, and he raises a careful hand to George’s cheek, it warming under his touch, and –

It’s at that timely moment that his phone goes off. 

They freeze in place, and Dream sighs, deflating as he pulls out his phone. He spares no glance at the contact name before answering. 

“What,” he greets, and can’t help the irritation that bleeds into his voice. George raises an eyebrow, and he involuntarily blushes. He pokes at the other man, who merely dodges, nearly ramming into a broom. 

He stifles a laugh, and Karl says, “Dude, where are you guys?”

“What?” Dream asks, lost, and George facepalms. 

“We tried looking for you at the diner, but we couldn’t find you.” There’s chatter in the background, sounding vaguely like Sapnap and someone else. “Where’d you guys go?” 

“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “Um. We left a little bit ago, where are you guys? Are you still there?” The call is just loud enough for Karl’s tinny voice to ring out into the closet, and George leans close to hear. 

There’s shuffling on the other side of the line. “Near the fountain, we stopped for a break. Where are you?” 

“We, uh, we’re still near the diner,” Dream doesn’t exactly lie. 

“Okay, we’re on our way,” Karl replies, and Dream quickly shakes his head, despite the use. 

“No, no, it’s – we’ll come to you,” he assures, almost sounding panicked. “It’s just the two of us, so it makes sense. Um. You guys wait there.” 

“Are you –” 

Dream ends the call with no time to waste, and George gives him an unimpressed look. “Smooth.” 

“Shut up,” he says with no bite, and opens up the door a bit more, light filtering in. “Are they gone?” 

It’s a difficult feat, looking around for a gaggle of fans while also trying to hide in a literal closet and also not give their position away, and it’s only after them staring around and getting a singular odd look from a customer that they decide it’s safe enough to leave. 

It’s another three minutes of cautious navigating and hurrying out of the diner, sneaking through the back and running through amongst a crowd of mingling customers to finally escape, and Dream is more than sure that they were probably spotted, but George drags him along with a pull of his hand and they make it out with a swing of doors behind them and stepping out behind the building. 

The air is warm and the sky is still bright with daylight and they’re alone when the doors shut behind them, and George’s hand stays in his while they hurry out, and they stumble close to each other, catching their breath. 

“Oh my God,” he huffs, and they lean against the brick of the building. “Never again.”

George leans against him, just slightly, and he turns to look at him. George tilts his head, and Dream spares no time to pull him into a quick kiss. 

It’s short and sweet and barely there; a firm press of lips, and the lingering taste of their shared vanilla shake is still on George’s lips, and Dream’s fingers curl around his jaw, and his insides set ablaze like they always do, and he doesn’t think he could ever get sick of it. 

It’s more of a reassurance than anything, but Dream cherishes it sincerely. He’ll hold onto the kiss until he can keep George close again, but neither of them have that sort of luxury, right now. 

He leans away, and George squints against the sun when he looks at Dream. 

“Okay,” he says, voice soft, hand still in Dream’s, “let’s go.” 

The birds are chirping too cheerily for so early in the morning, and Dream shuffles into the kitchen with two hours of sleep on his shoulders. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

Dream jumps from where he stands, and lets out an incredibly manly yelp, raising a hand to clutch at his chest. “Jesus fucking – what the hell?” 

George laughs, bowl of cereal in front of him and head tilting back, and the sunlight hits him nicely, bathed in a warm tan. He shrugs, still grinning. “You’re so easy, I didn’t even have to try.” 

“Idiot,” Dream complains, and walks closer to the cupboards, rummaging around for a plate. He’s too tired to make a proper breakfast. Toast and jam should do. “Why’re you still up?” 

“Jet lag,” George answers, shoveling a spoon full of cereal into his mouth. Dream nods. He was in the same case, and he doesn’t know how Sapnap is still asleep, having fallen asleep right as they’d reached home. 

He taps his fingers on the counter as he waits for the bread to pop up, and a comfortable silence falls over them. He takes out the jam from the fridge, and unscrews the lid. If he’s going to be entirely honest, his mind is a little occupied. 

It’s only just the fact that, in the past week, it had hit him suddenly, how much of a strain it was, to emphasize the secret part of their secret relationship. 

He usually hadn’t thought about it much, and maybe that’s because it’s an easier thing to hide behind a screen, but with George right next to him, and them being in person with so many other people, it was hard to monitor his every move without wearing him down. 

It was exhausting, even, in some degree, to second guess everything he did, to hesitate and wonder if this is something that could come across as romantic, if what they did was small enough to be seen as just friends, and then there was the subtle want to not be seen as just friends at all. Maybe he wants everyone to know. 

He looks up from slathering his toast with jam and meets George’s eye. “What?” 

“What’re you thinking about?” George questions, not too pressing, but just enough, because he knows how Dream gets. 

He shrugs noncommittedly. “Just – stuff. The past week, I guess.”

George furrows his eyebrows. “Okay,” he encourages, the slightest questioning tone to his voice. “What about it?” 

Dream averts his eyes to look at his toast. “It was kind of exhausting, I think.” He takes a bite, his mouth feeling strangely dry, and he chews on it, stalling on saying anything else. 

There is a moment, where it is silent, and George chews on his lower lip in thought, and he then shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” he echoes, and sighs. “Do you ever get – tired of it, I guess?” 

It makes George frown. “Tired of what?” 

“Of, you know,” he gestures, vague and not exactly an answer, and George’s frown deepens, until he specifies, a mutter, “hiding.” 

George’s face smooths out, and he scoops up another spoonful. He looks thoughtful as he chews. “I guess.” His spoon clinks against the side of the bowl. “I never really cared.” 

Dream looks up. “What?” 

George shrugs. “I didn’t care if anyone knew. I just,” he gestures, falling silent, and turns back to his cereal, and the words wanted you go unspoken. “Did – did you want people to know?” 

“Not before,” Dream answers, honest, and George nods. “Now, yeah. I do. Kind of.” 

It’s not a big confession, but a smile splinters onto George’s lips anyway, an eyebrow raised and eyes shining. “Yeah?” 

Dream bites back a smile. “Yeah.” 

He feels strangely warm, suddenly, and there’s a weight off his chest, something that had been building that he had never realized. It was never a problem, until he had to convince himself it wasn’t. 

There’s still the lingering worry, with the question of how in the world they would reveal such a thing without making it too big of a deal, because neither of them have ever wandered such territory, but Dream doesn’t want to think about that now. 

They’ll figure it out. Later. Together. 

He’s glad George understands him like this, those sparse times when he doesn’t really want to explain himself. It comes in handy, because he feels a little embarrassed for wanting everyone to have ever existed to know that he and George weren’t just friends, but George plays it off like no big deal at all, like he’s okay for such a thing. 

That is, until he gets up to place his bowl in the sink, and says, “You get to tell Sapnap.” 

He’s grinning while he says it, with a touch of seriousness, because they both know George wouldn’t be able to say it without making a joke out of it, but neither of them have been the type to be too serious with these sorts of things, and it’d be best for Dream to say it, anyway. 

Even so, Dream is dramatic, and groans in despair. 

“Why me,” Dream complains, slouching against the counter. 

George gives him an unamused look. “Because you pay his rent. And I don’t want to.”

“But I don’t want to,” Dream says, like a petulant child, and he drags his words out and George rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he tells him, and Dream brings a hand to his heart. “Dumbass,” he adds, but pulls Dream in for a kiss. 

They both smile into it, and it’s easy. 

In the end, Dream doesn’t need to fret too much, because their “secret” gets out without their help. 

“In this video, we have Disneyland to ourselves!”

The video cuts to various clips of them experiencing the wonders of Disneyland, and Dream lets the video play for four seconds before abruptly pausing it. The screen freezes on a frame of Quackity holding an ice-cream cone with chocolate smeared on his face, dazing off into the distance. 

Dream sighs and looks at Sapnap, who sits at the table where he stands. “Sapnap.” 

“Yeah?” Sapnap croaks, wincing when his voice cracks. He clears his throat, “I mean, yeah, yes. Yeah.” He brings his voice unnaturally deeper. “Yes.” 

“Do you, by chance,” he begins, pushing the laptop closer to Sapnap, “see anything a little strange about the frame?” 

“Not – not particularly?” Sapnap tries, looking away when Dream gives him a flat look. “I mean. I did catch Karl at a bad angle?” 

Dream stares. “So you see absolutely nothing out of the ordinary,” he states. 

“No?” Sapnap answers, but it sounds more like a question, and it would’ve been just a little more believable if he wasn’t staring directly at the incriminating part of the screen. 

Which is to say that, there, a substantial distance away from the main point of Quackity’s chocolate-smeared face, was a pair of pixelated bodies, so clearly leaned close together, and it’s no doubt who they are and what they’re up to. 

It’s barely anything, yet it’s more than enough. Dream had woken up to some variation of dnf, KISSING, and Confirmed floating on the top of the trending page. The damage is already done. 

One week. They had gotten one week of telling their friends before someone had slipped up. 

Dream wishes he were surprised. 

But, alongside it, he can’t quite find it in him to be any degree of mad; Sapnap looks more apologetic than Dream really cares for, because it’s not as though Dream nor George particularly care for anyone finding out. 

Maybe it’d be better this way. Now, Dream has an excuse for all his staring, and he wouldn’t have to reprimand himself any time he catches himself – not that he wouldn’t have to still watch himself, not when George would leap at the chance to tease Dream over it. 

Then again, George is merciless when it comes to making fun of Dream, and it’s not as though Dream ever cares. Not when George is his. 

Besides, Dream thinks, sliding his laptop away from an apologetic Sapnap. It’s not like it matters too much. 

He’s always been obvious when it comes to George, anyway.