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Florida is bigger than George thought it would be. He doesn’t know what he expected, honestly. Florida is a big state and America even bigger, but now that he’s stepped foot in its soil he can hardly believe it. Florida is massive and George feels like he could live a thousand lives here and still not have enough time to see everything it has to offer.
He tells Dream this in his second week of living in America. They’re in the kitchen at 3 am in the morning, bonding over a messed up sleep schedule and Dream’s special blueberry pancakes. George doesn’t tell him that Sapnap whispered to him on his first morning here that it was actually Dream’s mom’s recipe. He also doesn’t tell him that he knows Dream asked for the recipe a week before he came to Florida.
“Well to be fair, it is like 22 on the list.”
“List of what?”
“Largest states.”
“Why do you even know that?”
“So I can answer all your questions, of course.”
George laughs at how ridiculous that seems. The idea of Dream looking up answers to questions he thinks he might have. Dream staying up late and studying up on topics he thinks George might like. The thought eats away at his heart. It’s ridiculous, It’s even more ridiculous that this isn’t even a far-off idea, that Dream would actually do that for him. In fact, he finds it so ridiculous that he chokes on his own laughter.
“Are you okay?” There’s genuine concern in his honeyed voice. That just makes George laugh even more. Dream is so wonderful.
“I’m fine,” he says around a bout of laughter. His lungs are burning by the end of his laughing fit but between the maple syrup on his tongue and the beautiful boy in front of him, George can’t really find it in himself to care. He lets Dream rub his back and nag on him about properly chewing his food before talking. George lets him fuss about him even though he wasn’t really eating anything because he knows this makes him feel useful against the monsters he can’t fight. Like when Sapnap’s feeling or homesick or when George is choking on his own breaths. It’s his love language, his brain supplies. Stupid brain. Stupid thoughts. He goes back to thinking about Florida.
“We should go to the beach.”
“So suddenly?”
“Yeah, why not?” George tries not to think about the way Dream’s hand is still rubbing on his back. He tries not to think about the way his hand had slowed down and was more of a caress than it was a rub. He tries not to think about the goosebumps rising on his arms or the shudder he was holding back. Get back on track, he thinks to himself. Florida. Road trip. Beaches.
“Okay, yeah. We can definitely do that. Maybe next month? Make it a big vacation thing for all of us?”
“That sounds good to me.” George gets up from his seat to put away their plates. Maybe this is his love language. Making Dream cook him pancakes at 3 in the morning and cleaning up after him. Loving Dream with blueberries in his stomach and thanks in his heart.
Dream follows him to the sink, silently keeping him company. “How does the 12th sound?”
“Don’t you have your monthly meeting thing then?”
“Yeah, but, y’know,” Dream shrugs. Like he isn’t the owner of a multimillionaire company. Like his schedule isn’t packed and his presence in those meetings isn’t important. “I can always move it to before we leave or when we get home.”
Home, he thinks. It rests heavy on his tongue, forcing its way into his body and inside of his heart. This is home.
“Okay. What about Sapnap?”
“What about me?” Sapnap comes into the kitchen right as he says it. “Did you guys make pancakes and not leave me some?”
The timing of his arrival seems funny to George. So perfectly inserted in the lull of silence. If this was a movie, it would be one of those perfect cuts and an easy segway into another scene. Thinking back on the last few weeks, George thinks his life could be a movie.
FADE IN:
INT.GEORGE’S LONDON APARTMENT - DAY
The lights dim in George’s London Apartment. This is the last time we will ever see it. It’s a goodbye George has been waiting forever to make. He is on the phone with DREAM.
DREAM (O.S.)
(over phone)
You have everything ready?
GEORGE
Yeah.
George gathers his things as he exits his Apartment. The lights dim and it’s the last we will ever see of the familiar walls and doors of George’s London home.
CUT TO:
EXT. GEORGE’S LONDON APARTMENT — DAY
George locks the door to his place, hiding away his keys. He keeps his phone in his pocket, listening to Dream’s voice over his Airpods.
GEORGE (CONT’D)
Finally.
DREAM (O.S.)
(through Airpods)
Sure you didn’t forget anything?
GEORGE
Nope. I’m good to go.
DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. DREAM TEAM HOUSE - NIGHT
George has just arrived from the airport. SAPNAP is still outside, parking his car. Dream is waiting for him inside. After two painful years of waiting he is here, in Florida— finally.
SAPNAP (O.S.)
(SHOUTING)
George, get your suitcases! I’m not carrying this shit inside the house– you brought your entire apartment with you!
But George is not listening. His attention is focused on–
–Dream, who is at the door, looking at him with wide eyes and trembling lips.
DREAM
(softly)
George…
George’s feet are moving at once. He walks towards the door, gradually coming to a jog. Before long he is running into Dream’s arms.
DREAM (CONT’D)
You’re here.
GEORGE
(muffled by Dream’s shoulder)
Dream…
The camera pans to George’s face. The focus is on a single tear falling down his cheek. He is home.
CUT TO:
Sapnap, dragging in George’s suitcase. He is visibly annoyed yet his eyes stray to Dream and George. The camera slowly zooms on his face as he is stopped dead on his tracks. A small smile can be seen on his face as he murmurs to himself.
SAPNAP
Welcome home, you jackass.
He continues dragging along George’s seemingly heavy belongings.
FADE OUT.
THE END.
It would go something like that, he thinks. Maybe a little less dramatic.
Dream looks up from his phone. “George suggested we go on a trip. You down?”
“Hell yeah, man. When are we doing it?”
George can tell he’s just finished streaming because of the way his hair is pressed into the sides of his hair from his headphones. He loves that he knows these things now, like he’s finally carved his place into their lives.
“Next week, and I only made enough pancakes for two. I didn’t know you were awake.”
“What? why? You know I have to go home on Thursday,” he complains. “And fuck both of you, I was streaming.”
“Yeah but we can make it a three day trip,” Dream suggests, completely ignoring his other sentence.
“But you’re busy with merch stuff on Tuesday,” George chimes in.
“I know that, silly,” Dream counters. “I’ll ask to move it.” He’s looking directly at George and he can’t help but feel shy over it. The blond’s gaze settles against him like thick oil over his skin, slippery and impossible to remove even as Dream directs his gaze back to Sapnap.
Sapnap shakes his head only managing to look slightly annoyed. Though, even that is overshadowed by his chatter. He tells George about places he thinks he would like. He lists activities they could do together and places they should take pictures in. And when George asks him about why he knows so much, he pretends he can’t see how bashful Sapnap had become, instead playing along with the boy’s claim of all of this being George’s fault for taking so long to get here.
In the pauses of the argument George pretends to be invested in, he locks eyes with Dream. He knows they’re both thinking the same thing; That Sapnap is their best friend. That the gravity of their gratitude for having him in their lives is unexplainable.
Dream wordlessly grabs the flour and makes another batch of pancakes for Sapnap.
George is having the worst day of his life. He woke up today, clammy and hot, with a mind numbing headache. Each step he took seemed to hammer in his skull.
George wonders how he’s meant to record today if even looking at his screen is hurting his head.
In this video! We coded it so that today sucks. Today is the worst day in the history of all days and nothing can fix it. Our goal is to get through this day without wanting to commit homicide. Will we survive or die trying?
George thinks it could make a good video. Or maybe it won’t. He might really be sick if he thinks that would be a good video.
“Dream.”
“George,” he says, not looking up from his monitor.
George doesn’t say anything. He steps into his room, feeling a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. Weird thought, he thinks to himself. Dream looks at him expectantly and now he feels a little more like Tweedledee. Sapnap could be Tweedledum.
He sits down on Dream’s bed, resting his head against the headboard. “I have a headache,” he complains.
“And what am I meant to do about that?” Dream quips, as if his eyes aren’t immediately on George. He feels even more sick now that his eyes are tracing his skin. He feels the touch of his gaze skitter across his cheekbones and it feels like touching the stars. Dream looks at him like he’s the ruins of Rome. It’s a feeling that floats around in his heart, one he knows he can never tie to words.
“Fix it.” George can’t hide the whine in his voice because he really does believe that Dream can fix him. He can do anything, he’s sure of it. Dream could 100% find a cure for the pounding headache he’s nursing right now because he’s Dream. He could fix him.
“Fix it?” Dream asked. He gets up from his place in front of his computer and feels George’s forehead with the palm of his hand. George feels boneless against the weight of it.
“You’re running a fever, George.”
“No wonder I feel like death.”
“Hmm.”
Dream removes his hand and turns to leave but before he can take a step towards the door, George’s hand is wrapped around his wrist.
“Don’t go.” He thinks he must be crazy, not sick.
“I’ll be back.”
George can’t do anything but groan in misery. Dream looks at him with kind eyes and tells him to lay down. He’s gone to the world right as his head hits the pillow.
When he wakes up the sun is gone from its throne in the sky. He hates that he wakes up alone, in a room that isn’t his. It’s irrational, seeing as he has spent most of his life waking up alone.
There’s a glass of water and a bottle of gatorade on the bedside table. Right beside it is a bottle of pain reliever medicine and a towel. If he wasn’t so sick maybe he would’ve smiled at the gesture but because his stomach feels like it’s turning itself inside out he just groans and shoves his face back into the pillow. Dream’s pillow. Oh, god. George thinks he’s going to be sick.
“George? You awake?” Dream asks from his chair on the corner of the room. Has he been there the whole time? The thought of Dream watching over him as he sleeps in his bed and under his covers is enough to make the room spin.
“I’m going to throw up.” He says as he runs towards the bathroom. George doesn’t know how he made it to the toilet, but as he’s face to face with yesterday’s dinner, he can’t find it in himself to complain. Dream is right beside him as he hurls up the rest of his guts.
“That’s it, George.” he rubs his hand comfortingly along his back. “Let it all out.”
He can’t do anything but groan in pain. Somehow, despite his twisting stomach and the harsh fluorescent lights shining down on him, George feels weirdly at peace. Maybe he’s finally lost it. Maybe he’s dying. But between Dream’s concerned gaze and capable hands, he feels slightly like putty against the tiles.
“All done?” Dream asks. George feels like a child as he nods.
“Okay, you need to take a bath. You got a little something there.” He points down the front of George’s shirt. He hadn’t even noticed that he got throw up all over himself.
Ew , he thinks. Although, with the way Dream chuckles makes him think that maybe he said it out loud. He tries to get out of his shirt but quickly realizes that it would be impossible to do so without smearing the insides of his stomach all over his face.
“Need help?”
George stares helplessly at his expectant face. “Please.”
A hush of silence falls over the bathroom as Dream undresses him. His hands tug at his shirt, careful to keep it away from his face. Dream is gentle with him in a way that hurts. He keeps his eyes trained to his hands as he pulls on George’s sweatpants. “George? You want me to take it off or do you want to do it?”
He feels tears welling in his eyes. He hates how pitiful he must look, with his pale face and sunken eyes with stomach acid coating the inside of his mouth. Dream must notice the tears because he immediately removes his hands from their place around his waist.
“Okay, okay. You don’t have to take it off, I just want to run you a bath.”
“No, I’m– it’s not that. I just don’t feel well,” he sniffles. “I don't know why I’m crying, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey.” Dream cradles his face in his hands, moving George’s gaze to meet his own. “It’s okay, no need to be sorry.”
He’s silent for a long moment before he says, “Dream?”
“Yeah?”
“I feel awful.”
“Fuck, ok. Let’s get you in the bath, I’m sorry honey.”
He can feel his eyes sting at the word. ’Honey,’ he says. His heart beats loudly against the cage of his ribs, each beat echoing in the hollow of his stomach. I love you, it says. George thinks that this might be the end of him.
He lets Dream take off his sweatpants and sit him on the bathtub as closes his eyes. The rush of the water hitting his back is enough to shake him awake. Here he is, sitting in an empty bathtub while Dream points a stream of water at him. His head is aching and he feels hot all over. The taste of his mouth makes him grimace. All of it is a little too much for him.
Dream finishes and plugs the bathtub drain closed and turns on the faucet, filling the tub.
“Wait here,” he says as he leaves the bathroom. In George’s solitude, he lets himself press his knees up against his chest, head hung low.
Dream comes back with packs and bottles in his arms.
“I got you soaks and stuff for the bath. It’ll help you relax.”
For the third time in the past hour, George tears up again. “Okay,” is all he says.
Dream smiles at him and sits down on the floor. He lays his chin on the edge of the tub and suddenly George feels a little too naked in nothing but his boxers.
“Get out.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m naked.”
“You’re wearing underwear.”
“Leave, please.”
This makes Dream sigh. “I don’t wanna leave you here alone when you’re sick, George.”
“Please?” he pleads.
Dream draws another sigh from his lungs. “How about I sit here with my back facing you?”
“That’s just dumb.”
“Well, you don’t want me to see you!”
“I don’t want you to see me like this.” His voice is quiet, alone with his shame that he can’t understand.
“It’s just me, George.” Dream whispers. Stupid idiot. He looks dumb with his caring eyes and his downturned lips and the way his cheeks flush from the heat in the room. So dumb.
“Let me wash you,” he says.
“Whatever,” he concedes.
Dream’s hands move against his skin silently, like devotion being pressed into him. He keeps his eyes locked on his knees where they’ve come up against his chest. He can feel worry behind Dream’s actions. George doesn’t know how to tell him that this is all he could ever want so instead he leans ever so slightly into the touch. He can only hope that Dream understands what he wants to say. Maybe he does because soon after his hands are in his hair. The absurdity of the situation makes him smile.
“Feel good?” Dream asks.
George hums and tilts his head back. “It’s nice.”
Dream washes his hair for longer than needed. George lets him.
Once done with the shower, George is ushered back into Dream’s bed. He doesn’t question why he was pushed back into a bed that isn’t his a under sheets that don’t smell like him but he doesn’t complain. He follows Dream’s prompts silently, never complaining even when he can feel his heart beating against his temple. George takes the offered medicine and lets Dream take his temperature. He’s settled back under the covers when Dream is done.
“How do you feel, George?”
George doesn’t want to upset his friend but he also doesn’t want to lie. “Better,” he says. He thinks it’s true enough.
“But still bad?”
George only nods. Dream is back to looking at him with sad eyes. Like George’s sickness is his blame to take. He can’t figure out the words to reassure him that he couldn’t have done anything to prevent this so George simply reaches out and touches him, like a language lost in time, and it takes everything in him not to pull.
“I’ll be okay, Dream. I can go back to my room.”
“My room is colder. And my sheets are nicer.”
George is so tired. He can’t find the strength to disagree with Dream when all he really wants is to close his eyes and drift. “Where will you stay?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
It’s a little funny how he thinks that’s possible in any way. Sometimes George feels like he was made to feel. He grew up struggling against his own emotions, always pushing them down and away from where his heart can see it. But then he met Dream, and suddenly it was like all he could do was hold in emotions for him. Like the joy and the love and fear and the sadness he had bottled up were meant for him. He can’t help but to feel for him.
He must have been quiet for some time because Dream is now holding his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
George gives in to his screaming heart and pulls at him to sit on the bed. “Don’t,” he commands, although it sounds suspiciously more like a request; a plea. “Just stay.”
Dream shuffles under the covers with him. His front pressed all along his back, making George dizzy in the sheets. Dream drapes his arm around his waist and buries his nose in the space between his neck and shoulder.
“Is this okay?” He asks.
George wants to say no. It’s not okay for Dream to hold him in his bed and to breathe down his neck, heart beating against his back. It makes his head hurt even more and his stomach clenches in preparation to expel his insides. It’s unfair, is what it is. He feels cheated out of a chance for this to be real. Like a fever and a stomach bug is what brought him here, not because Dream wants this. It’s not okay. But George is a weak man, and so he closes his eyes and says “Yes. This is fine.”
Sleep comes easy to his fever-addled brain.
When George wakes up, he’s hot all over.
“Dream?” he shakes him awake.
“Hm? I’m up. I’m up, George,” he mumbles even though his eyes are still shut.
“Dream, move.”
“What?” This seems to wake him as he moves to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
“Get off me, It’s hot.”
“Didn’t mean to, Georgie.”
The sleep in his voice does nothing to quiet the beating of George’s heart. He thinks about how soft Dream is with sleep clinging to his clothes. His hair is rumpled and his eyes are drooping and he’s calling George ’Georgie.’
“Well, you did, Idiot. Now get up and go back to your side of the bed or else.”
“Or else what.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Dream laughs at that, now sitting up and looking at George. He wonders how many times they’ve ended up like this. With Dream laughing and George loving him. George thinks it might be enough to last him forever.
“Come to the kitchen with me.”
“You don’t want to go back to bed?”
“No, you need to make me breakfast.”
Dream hums in agreement and he can feel it against his skin. He grits his teeth and wills away the shivers waiting at the bottom of his spine. He’s getting tired of choking on his love.
“Does your head hurt?” He asks, noticing the grimace on George’s face.
“A little,” he says into the pillow, voice small and delicate. The moment stretches from now into forever. Them, in bed. Them, under the covers. Them, beside each other draped in sunlight. If he could bottle the dawn on Dream’s face he would. If he could frame this scene and hang it above the clouds he would. Them, now into forever.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, as if afraid of shattering the moment.
George can do nothing against the heaviness of his lids and the fingers trailing against his back. He drifts back to sleep.
The next time he wakes up, he’s alone.
His feet are clouds as he pads into the kitchen. George is met with Dream at the stove.
He’s cooking.
“What are you making?”
“George,” he looks up. “I’m making soup.”
Dream looks nice like this. George can’t understand why but he does. Maybe it’s the principle of it all, soup and sickness. Dream making him food, not because he asked for it, simply because it would make him feel better.
“You didn’t wake me?”
“I was just waiting for you to get up.”
Waiting. George hates it. He’s made Dream wait for long enough with an ocean in between them and two years under their belt. They don’t deserve to wait for each other anymore, they’ve done their time. Somehow, Dream recognizes it on his face and smiles at him in that syrupy way that he does.
“You didn’t make me wait long. Soup doesn't take that long to make.”
Maybe it’s the way Dream is looking at him, in his sleep shirt and barefoot in the kitchen they call theirs. Maybe it’s the way he said it, quiet, steady, sure. George will never pinpoint a single reason for his actions but forever will he thank the stars that he finally moves. In the quiet of their kitchen, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you,” George says, honest and open.
Dream stares at him, ladle dripping soup all over the floor, mouth hanging agape. He flushes red. His cheeks are glowing in the color, his ears burn. The smile on Dream’s face grows, slowly then it’s all George can see. Dream laughs, as if making up for all the ways his smile can’t fully express his joy. He puts down the soup ladle and replaces it with George’s hands. His heart is beating so fast and he can’t tell if it’s because of Dream or the fever he was currently nursing.
Dream pulls him into his arms and holds him there. It’s the most secure he has ever felt in his entire life. Dream just keeps him there as the soup boils. George can feel his lips on his forehead, Dream’s saying something he can’t hear.
“The soup’s going to boil over.”
“No it won’t.”
“Dream, the soup.”
“Just let me hold you, George.”
George can feel himself blush over his voice, the way it settles in the crevices of his skin. “Don’t talk to me like that, I’m sick.”
“Oh, poor George,” Dream teases. “You feel bad?”
“I do.”
“Now, we can’t have that can we?” Dream lets go of George despite begging to hold him close just moments ago. “Go sit on the sofa, I’ll bring you your soup.”
“Okay.” His actions are robotic, as if he had no other choice than to listen to what Dream had told him. Somehow he drifts off, head lolling to the side. He’s woken up by Dream’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him.
“George, sit up, please.”
He can feel how heavy his body is with every movement. He’s sluggish from sleep and he can feel the way sweat trickles down his nape. He somehow feels worse even after the nap and the medicine he took earlier.
“Oh, baby, you look feverish.” Dream looks at him with furrowed brows and concern in his gaze. His hand finds its way to the back of his head, holding him and pulling him in. Dream presses his lips against his forehead. The cool of his lips makes George sigh in relief. The action feels loving yet stiff, like the primary reason for lips on skin wasn’t the mere urge to feel.
He pulls away. “Your fever’s up again,” Dream states.
George can’t say anything other than, “oh.”
Dream guides him to lean against the sofa. “I’m going to feed you the soup.”
George laughs at him, all serious and bothered, offering to spoon feed him sick soup. “Okay, feed me the soup, Doctor Dream.”
“Doctor? Wha— you are so weird. You’re bizarre.”
“Woah there. Big word.”
“Bizarre?”
“Yeah, spell it, why don’t you.”
“George, be quiet,” Dream chastises as he tries to get him to sit still but George already has his phone in hand.
“I looked it up, apparently the word bizarre had a huge increase in usage in the year 2016. With a small letter b. With a capital b not so much.”
“That’s because I met you that year.”
“Ohh, did you?” He asks, tone bright and teasing.
“George, please eat your soup.”
George figures he can allow Dream this for how nice he’s been all day. He eats the soup in silence, not even needing Dream to feed it to him by hand. Dream just sits beside him. By the end of it George is tired enough to want to go back to sleep.
Dream notices and makes him walk all the way back into Dream’s room. It’s the third time in 24 hours that George allows this to happen. Maybe he should get sick more often.
Dream lays down beside him and plays a sitcom they’ve both seen before on his laptop. It’s nice, the way the voices melt into the background of their night. George can barely keep his eyes open with how harsh the light is hurting them.
“You need to take your medicine again,” Dream reminds him. He places his hand against his forehead and feels. “I don’t think your temperature has risen but let me get the thermometer just to be sure.”
George doesn’t realize he’s crying until Dream is wiping away his tears.
“What hurts, George?”
“Nothing, these are happy tears. Disbelief tears. OMG tears, y’know the kind.”
“OMG tears, yeah. Why are you crying then?”
George chases the hand on his cheek, grasping it. He tries to let him know exactly what he’s thinking but when the way Dream leaves him feeling clueless he doubts he can even begin to explain it to Dream. “Nothing,” he says. Simple and true. “You’re just good to me.”
“Good?”
“Yeah, you’re being nice and making me soup and letting me sleep in your bed.”
“Yeah, well. You’re sick.”
“And you’re good.”
Dream ducks his head flushing red. “You keep calling me that.”
“You called me honey. And baby.”
“You kissed me.” Dream’s gaze traces around the rim of his eyes. He can feel it glide overtop his cheeks and all the way down to his collarbone. The feeling engulfs him whole and he thinks that this is what he’d been missing all the way back in London.
“I didn’t kiss you,” George laughs a little.
Dream starts rubbing the pad of his thumb against George’s eyebrow. The one with the scar. It’s surprisingly soothing. “You did,” he counters
“I didn’t. Are you rubbing my eyebrow?”
“Yeah,” he replies, continuing to do it. “I read somewhere that it can help babies to fall asleep.”
“Why are you trying to get me to sleep? I’m not a baby, this isn’t going to work, idiot.”
“It’s going to work, George.”
“Idiot. You’re obsessed. You’re just obsessed with me, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, George.”
“Minecraft but my friend is obsessed with me.” To his annoyance, Dream’s trick is actually working. “I hate you.”
“You’re falling asleep aren’t you?”
“This should, like, be studied. What is in the eyebrow that makes you sleepy?”
“I guess it just feels nice to babies.”
“It feels nice to me.”
“Yeah, like I said. Babies.”
“Woah. Why would you say that to me? I’m not a baby.”
“You are, though.”
“Fine. Only if I can be the baby in Megamind.”
“The superhero? Meteorman or something.”
“No, Megamind. And it’s Metroman. You’re an idiot, we need to watch that again.”
“When you’re better, we can add it to the list.”
The promise makes George smile. He’s tired enough to not question why he’s sleeping in Dream’s bed, wearing Dream’s shirt, with his shampoo and soap clinging to his skin. It takes him back to that morning, when he cried in front of Dream in the bathroom. How patient he was with him, weak with an illness. Dream is good for him. He doesn’t question why. Not the pet names, not the kiss he placed on the corner of his mouth, not the unconditional love.
He falls asleep knowing he’ll wake up tomorrow hating himself for blurring the line between them again.