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Dream sits at the kitchen island, feet dangling around the legs of his stool. It’s late morning, sun streaming through the windows, casting shades of natural light over the room; gold, orange, yellow. He blinks slowly, still waking up, and chews on a piece of toast that he burned for breakfast.
George comes into the kitchen, immediately hooking his chin over Dream’s shoulder. He presses a careless kiss to Dream’s cheek, tossing a package on the marble countertop.
“This came for you,” George murmurs into his skin.
Dream laughs lightly, turning on his stool to wind his arms around George’s waist, tugging him closer, “What, the package, or you?”
“The package, idiot,” George says. He grabs Dream’s toast, taking a sizable bite, “I came for the food.”
“You’re the idiot,” Dream tells him, abandoning his toast in favor of the package, flipping it around to read the return address. It’s a small box, sealed with colored tape, and Dream’s heart speeds up in anticipation as his brain retraces the things he ordered recently. Is this…?
“Chapstick?” George asks through a mouthful of toast, peering over. Dream slides his fingers under the tape, flipping the box open to reveal an array of colorful tubes. “Flavored chapstick?”
“Yeah,” Dream smiles, running his fingertips over the plastic cylinders. He’s more excited than he should be, probably, but he likes the way it feels to glide the chapstick over his lips, a compromise just short of lipstick. Maybe that will come soon, when he feels brave enough—Maybe when he musters up the confidence to walk around with painted lips, George will let him leave red stains down his neck, pretty and possessive.
George. Dream looks over to gauge his reaction cautiously. George is looking at him carefully, too.
“Do you want to try them out?” George asks, breaking the silence.
“Is that okay?” Dream hedges, unreasonably nervous.
George’s face twists, “Of course.” He cups Dream’s face with one hand, thumb chasing the line of his cheekbone. “You don’t need to ask me for anything like that. You can wear anything you want, I’ll always think you’re beautiful.”
“You’re not usually this sappy,” Dream mumbles, heat rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t meet George’s eyes, but his chest feels quieter with the reassurance.
George just giggles, reaching into the box. “Here, put this on. I want to see.”
Dream takes the chapstick. Strawberry lemonade. He uncaps it, getting a whiff of summer sweetness, and brings it to his lips slowly. He keeps his eyes on George as he applies it, watching for the promise of affection — and almost flinching from the love he finds directed at him.
“You’re all pink,” George whispers softly, “pink cheeks, pink lips.”
“Stop,” Dream breathes, eyes fond. George leans closer, smirking.
“You like it.”
“I like you,” Dream retorts, as good a comeback as he can muster with George less than a centimeter from his face. His lips spark with pinpricks as he feels the chapstick move around the words in his mouth. He likes it it feels; he likes how George is looking at him like he wants to devour him.
“Idiot,” George sighs, and tilts Dream’s chin up with a finger, hand coming to rest at the junction of his neck and his jaw. Their noses brush, and then, without anything but a breath for a warning, George is kissing him.
The chapstick tastes sweeter with George’s mouth on his own, hot and sticky sugar passed between them as George presses harder against his lips. He steps between Dream’s legs where he sits on the stool, steadying him with a hand cupped behind his ear and another at his waist, squeezing lightly. Dream sighs, dizzy from the pink chapstick and the charcoal from the burnt toast and George, holding him close with tender fingertips.
“You’re fucking delectable,” George says when they break apart. Dream is breathless, staring at him, mouth open and ruined, but George just grins, kissing the surprise off his face with a sweet smile. “Which flavor are we trying next?”