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When George’s arms finally wrap themselves around Dream’s torso, it feels like he can finally live.
They see each other across the room and crash in the middle. The embrace is all scrambling limbs and thumping hearts and shaking hands and burying noses into hair just to prove to themselves that this is real.
Dream vaguely notices that their breathing syncs up as they hold each other, coming out strong and wet with tears. The realization causes a weak cry to crawl out of his throat, lost in the idea that George is here and in his arms and exhaling and inhaling and exhaling and inhaling into his shirt.
It makes all the waiting so, so worth it.
But that was six days ago, and they haven’t really touched since.
They pulled away after a minute or two, stared for another ten seconds, and then went around giving George a tour that he didn’t really need. They’d shown him the house already over facetime when they first bought it but it feels like everything's brand new when there are three sets of footsteps heard in the hallways instead of just two.
Dream knows the hug had affected more than he thought it would; he was convinced he wouldn’t cry but it only took the feel of George’s hands on his back for tears to prick at his eyes. Dream knows he’d do anything to feel that way again.
What he doesn’t know is if George feels the same.
He’s not stupid. He saw the look in the brunet’s eyes. They’ve teetered on the edge of something more for months now.
But on the off chance they actually acknowledged something, George had always made it sound like he’d land on Florida soil, jump straight into Dream’s arms, and never leave. This isn’t exactly what he pictured.
So like any sane person, Dream lays awake at night and tries not to overthink about his and George’s relationship. He’s pretty sure everyone's asleep, which leaves him alone with his mind, his worries, and the fact that his skin is itching to be felt against George’s.
And as he lays on his back on top of his duvet, rooted in place ever since he flopped down almost an hour ago, he thinks he might be going insane. He’s stared at this one mark in the ceiling for pretty much the entire time, and the more he blinks the more it’s starting to look like a butterfly.
Butterflies. Butterflies have wings. Wings help you fly. George flew across the ocean. George lives down the hall. George is a few steps away.
George feels so much farther.
Dream wants to stick his head into the washing machine and rinse out every single thought he’s ever had about that stupid brunet with his stupid laugh and stupid smile and stupid hands and stupid soft skin and–
It’s starting to become apparent that the only thing that’ll save him from losing his mind is to actually confront everything.
But that feels a little terrifying, a little scary. What if he asks George that world-shattering, looming question of what are we? and is met with a confused face and dismissal of we’re friends, of course.
Obviously, Dream would take it. He won’t push. He’ll accept it, even if it would feel like George took a chunk of his soul out, engraved his initials, and then tried to stitch it back in as if he never left a permanent mark. He’d take it.
What he’s scared about is whether or not he’ll be able to pretend that George left him with an open wound. Dream knows himself, he knows that he wears his heart on his sleeve. And by some horrifying chance, George also knows him.
The brunet finds joy in being able to see right through Dream to get to the parts inside of him that nobody really sees, the feelings and bones and lungs that thrive under his touch. George will laugh to himself as he reaches in, rearranges his veins to find the passage to the very centre, and holds it in his palm. Dream would watch as he does this; let him do what he wants.
And when George leaves with his heart in his hands, Dream supposes he has no one but himself to blame.
He hasn’t moved in so long it feels like his hands are melding into the fabric under him. He swallows for the first time in a while and cringes at the taste. Dream wants nothing more to sleep right now, but his eyes feel as light as ever. His day feels incomplete.
What does it mean to lie awake in the dead of the night and listen to your shoulders, your palms, your forehead whine about how it yearns to be rubbed, soothed, bruised by the hands, arms, lips of your best friend?
The question is a mouthful. And a brainful. Dream thinks his head lolling to the side is from the weight of it.
Or maybe, Dream stares at the doorknob, his eyes are showing him the answer.
He doesn’t let himself think too hard about it before he’s pushing himself off of the mattress and closing the distance between his bedroom door and George’s.
Dream knocks on the wood and stares at the carpet floor as he waits. Is he even awake?
Thoughts start to catch up to him the longer he spends shifting from foot to foot. His muscles start to pull him down when the hum of the air conditioning starts to become louder than his subconscious. In the back of his mind, he wonders if George hears it too.
Does the brunet sit in silence long enough to notice the things Dream does? Or is his head actually screwed on right?
The freeing sound of muffled footsteps stops him from finding out.
George opens the door, eyes bleary and squinted as he peers up at blond. A frown takes his face. Dream subconsciously matches it.
“W’ts wrong?”
You’re not holding me. “I don’t know.”
The brunet scrunches his nose. “Ok’y, well. You do.” A step closer. “You wouldn’t have come ‘ere if you didn’t.”
Dream only lowers his head. Can’t you just see what I want? And what I thought you wanted too?
They stand in silence for a beat or two. George reaches out to pick a lint off of the blond's pajama top, flicking his hand to the side when he’s done, giggling when it takes him longer than a couple of seconds.
A smile rises to his face. What gorgeous sound to hear you laugh in the middle of the night.
“Let’s go t’bed.” Pale hands grasp Dream's forearm and he’s pulled into the dark room before he has the chance to freak out over it. A small gasp escapes him however–he can’t keep it all inside.
He’s wordlessly led to the bed, feet shuffling on the new carpet and legs hitting the new mattress. Dream lets his body fall forward and he crawls toward the headboard before flipping himself over. He doesn’t feel embarrassed as he turns his head and takes a deep inhale, smelling the coconut lime shampoo he left in George’s ensuite bathroom. Green eyes lift to see sleepy brown ones staring at him.
With courage he didn’t possess five minutes ago, Dream sticks both hands out in the direction of the brunet. A silent invitation. Come into my space. Breathe my air.
George accepts with an amused grin, lips curving as his knees place themselves beside Dream’s body.
“T’gether?” George asks, one finger coming out to tap his thigh. The blond wonders if he’s a mind reader.
A nod is sent George’s way, and without a second passing his legs are bracketing Dream’s hips, arms are sliding under his back, and his head is burrowing into his chest. It feels like Dream’s skin opens up to accept him, folding and bending to make way for the sleepy boy on top of him.
They cling to each other and their breath evens out, running along that line of consciousness. But Dream still feels like he hasn’t quite got it right.
Tanned palms glide across the back of George’s top, bunching up the fabric and frowning when it gets stuck.
Suddenly, the collar of his own shirt starts to feel suffocating. The hem burns against his stomach.
“George?”
The brunet hums.
A shaky inhale. “Can we try something?”
George lifts his head, resting his chin on Dream’s chest to peer up at him.
“Can–” His mind spins. “Can you take off your shirt?”
Silence.
And then, the feel of George’s palms on his chest as he pushes himself up.
“Okay.” Hands go down to pull his top up and over his head. It snags on his hair and they laugh when it causes his bangs to flop over his forehead. He tosses it to the side, uncaring before facing the blond again.
Curious fingertips immediately reach out to run along the bones of his best friend's shoulders. Unapologetic eyes are too busy roaming George’s bare front to notice the soft blush dripping down the brunet's face.
A minute or two passes of discovery and observation. George lets it all happen.
This time he doesn't feel nearly as nervous asking for what he wants.
"Can you take off my shirt?" His words come out breathy.
George’s gaze locks onto him. “You sure?”
Dream nods. He’s never been more sure about anything in his entire life–aside from the fact that George is the only boy who will ever make his stomach turn and tingle the way it does.
Hands run down the blond's torso, latching onto the hem of his pajama top. Wordlessly, kindly, George doesn’t look away from his eyes when he pulls it up and past his head. Fingers are gentle as they guide his arms through the holes and trace a prominent vein on the inside of his forearm.
When it’s fully removed, Dream doesn’t hesitate to grab at the brunet's shoulders once again, urging him to return to their original position; heartbeat to heartbeat; hot palms on backs.
They listen and focus on the matching rise and fall of their chests pressed against one another. The hour he’d spent overthinking in his room feels like a lifetime away. All he ever wants to know from this point on is George’s hands in his hair and hips and arms. And of course, vice versa.
“Am I sweaty?” George’s voice breaks him out of his wishful thinking.
Dream draws spirals into his shoulder blade. “No. That’s just your natural human perspiration.”
George huffs. “That’s the literal definition of sweat, idiot.”
“No, no like, as in I don’t find it gross.”
“Okay.” The brunet rubs his nose closer to his collarbone. “You’re not sweaty either.”
A full blush runs down his body in that moment, pink rising to the skin from his cheeks to his stomach. The way that George pokes at his ribs and laughs tells him he can feel it too.
George’s hands don’t leave his chest though, fingers digging in to try and feel and count every one of Dream’s ribs. He hears him keep track under his breath. One, two, three… Dream’s arms wind around him tighter in response.
It’s then that he’s reminded of what he walked in here for.
Clarification.
Hooking his chin over his best friend's exposed shoulders while said best friend's hands roam his open torso is not clarifying anything. It might even be making it worse. The George-sized cave in his chest grows larger, even though he has him right here, in his arms, in his lungs.
“George?”
“I’m counting.”
“It's twenty four.” He needs his full attention. “Humans have twenty four ribs.”
George grumbles in response. “Spoiler.”
“Doesn’t this scare you?”
George falls silent.
Dream fears he just ruined everything.
“No.” A hand climbs up and fingers press into the blond's pulse. “You seem scared though.”
“I am.” The truth falls out of his lips like sand, uncontrollable and piling.
“Is that why you’re here?”
Dream brushes the hair out of George’s eyes in response. Is that enough of an answer?
The heavy gaze that locks onto him tells him it is, and it always will be. “W‘ts on your mind, Dreamie?”
Dream shuffles a little, letting the word settle into his bones. “How can you call me that?”
The brunet's eyebrows furrow. “Do you not like it?”
“You know I do.” The blond frowns. “I just– why don’t you ever acknowledge the fact that you know I do? It’s been days since you got here and– and maybe I misunderstood some things but–”
“What did you misunderstand?” A hand cards through his hair, a soothing gesture.
“I–” Dream looks into his eyes and pleads for mercy. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything right now.”
George holds sympathy for him in his gaze, brown softening. He lifts a finger to brush away a stray eyelash on Dream’s cheek. “I’ll tell you what I‘m sure of.”
Dream is selfish as he watches George take the eyelash and blow it to the side. He steals the wish for himself. Let this night and the morning, and all the nights and mornings after that start and finish with you in my arms.
George rubs his jaw, clears his throat, and begins.
“I met this beautiful, beautiful boy who lives across the ocean. And then years later, I met him again when I’m officially a U.S. citizen. I flew to Florida and couldn't sleep because the thought of him is– it’s so, so loud. And I met him again when he held me for the first time, and when he woke me up with chocolate pancakes, and when he knocked on my door in the middle of the night because he’s scared of what he doesn’t know.”
The blond’s mind starts to untwist. His muscles loosen. “And?”
“And I think he worries too much.” White teeth and pink lips blind Dream. “Why do you think I’m here, Dream?”
“For content.” Dream stupidly says, blurting out the first thing that comes to his head.
Luckily, George merely laughs. “Other than leeching off your clout. Why am I here?”
“Because–” It’s hard to think when the love of your life is just beaming at you. “Because–” Is it egotistical to say that he’s the reason? “Because I’m here.” Maybe it is, but he’s a Leo and in love. He has an excuse.
“Because you’re here.” George agrees, and the confirmation pushes the air out his lungs. The crevice in his chest that had been dug out just for the brunet now allows itself to be filled with everything he’s been keeping out; the reality and truth that George does notice the way that they’ve always just been different with each other.
It feels like meeting George all over again. And that’s when it clicks.
He understands George. He feels and sees and hears it all now. There’s nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing to be unsure of when he can have this for the rest of time. Dream can wake up tomorrow, take one look at the boy laying on his chest and meet him all over again. They’ve got forever to be each other’s in every possible way.
“George, I love you.”
Pink stains creep their way onto the brunet’s cheeks. “Okay.”
“George, I love you, like, as big as this house.” Dream’s arms wind around his neck and pull him impossibly closer.
“Okay.”
“George, I’m gonna marry you.”
“Stop lying.”
“George, let’s get matching gravestones.”
“You’re an idiot.” George responds with a jab to his side. His heart soaring too high to care.
Dream plants a quick, all-too-natural kiss on his lips. “I can’t wait to hear that for the rest of my life.”