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George tosses and turns in worn-out sheets.
A grimace settles upon his face at the uncomfy feeling of laying still for far too long. A pale hand comes up to brush away the brown hair that blocks his view and itches his eyebrows. A sigh breaks through his lips as he realizes that he's far too awake to be able to rest. Sleep seems to have escaped him. The silence is too loud and distracting.
With a huff, he flings the covers away from his body and sits up, crossing his legs. George takes a second to look at his reflection in the hanging mirror attached to his closet door. A dark green sweater that hangs off-centred on his frame and grey oversized sweatpants stares back at him. George brings the cuff to his hand and sniffs. To his utter delight, it smells like a certain blond.
The brunet brings his hand back down and scratches the area next to his knee, leaning slightly more forward to peer out the open window to his right.
Tonight, it is peaceful. The full moon shines high and illuminates the only road he's ever known to be home. All of the local animals seem to have retired for the night. His parents' soft snores can be heard from down the hall. His world is at rest.
The only one awake in the dead of the dark is him. Save for a cricket or two.
At least, that’s what he thinks before he notices a faint, flickering light directly adjacent to his bedroom window. It’s inviting. It’s tempting. It glows a warm orange and yellow. George places his feet on the carpeted floor and pads over to his white, woven curtains that do little to stop the gleam from streaming in.
A quiet hum can be heard from the open window across from him and it passes through ever-curious ears. It’s soft, much like the moon, and sounds faintly like “Margaritaville” by Jimmy Buffett. George rests his palms on the wooden sill and sticks his head out to investigate the source. A smile creeps, blooms on his face.
He'd know that voice and that familiar glow anywhere in the entire world.
It lives in his bones and ties itself to his veins. It rubs at his temples and whispers sweet nothings. It grasps his hand, lifts him up high, before letting go and watching his fall. And boy, does he fall.
George feels an invisible tug on the edge of his sweater, pulling him towards the warmth. The earth tilts beneath his feet, beckoning him closer. If he were to lean out any further he thinks that he would fall right out and land on patchy green.
A decision is made.
George leaves the window in newfound determination–suddenly much more awake–and runs to his closet where he finds a pair of slippers. Putting them on, one by one, he spares one last glance at the curtains that fly in the wind before opening his door as quietly as he can. George sneaks through the hall, past his parents' bedroom, down the stairs, by the wall that still has a mark from when he had a short-lived passion for art, and out through the back door.
It’s a well-loved route: the steps between his room and the back entrance. The carpeted floor is indented with footprints of summer break and movie nights, coughing fits and blanket forts, hide and seek and blue raspberry slushies. There’s a burn mark on the floor next to a potted floor plant where he once tried to set a leaf on fire. Dream took the blame.
George scurries down the porch steps, cringing at the feeling of the night's dew-covered grass tickling his ankles. His feet carry him to a gap in the shared backyard fence that separates the brunet’s world from Dream’s. Cold hands reach out and push a broken wooden plank out of his path as he slips past with ease.
George has never been one to act incurious. He glances twice when a shiny object catches his eye. He gets as close as possible to observe what’s unfamiliar. He spins it in his hand and turns it over one, two, three times for good measure. He gives it a shake, a sniff, a scratch, and perhaps even a poke. He'll pester it until it reveals its truth. He'll pull apart its layers, and he'll do it with love and care. “Let me inside,” he says.
And who are you to deny him?
George crosses the lawn and heads to a small pile of pebbles that reside just under the window that started his trek, grabbing a handful before backing up so he can just about see the inside of the room. The hum grows louder. Now that he's closer, he can hear the recognizable sound of an acoustic guitar strumming along with it.
Determined, he throws a tiny rock at the glass, watching it ricochet and plummet back to the ground with a “plink” sound. The humming stops. George throws another stone, stronger this time, and it creates an even louder noise. The guitar playing halts. George doesn’t say a word.
A shuffle is heard from the barely lit room. Pale hands are seen gripping the bottom of the window latch and pushing it up. A mop of blond, wavy hair pops out, immediately looking down and around to find out what is disturbing his night. Dream finds him. George watches him find him.
Like magnets, brown below meets green up high. Dream leans on his elbows and shakes his head at the sight of him. “You told me you were going to bed 3 hours ago.”
“You told me you were going to bed 3 hours ago.” George counters, and a small grin breaks out on his face. “And for the record, I did. But then I got up.”
Dream sighs, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes and letting his head hang–almost concealing the matching smile that grows and grows. George takes that as a sign to ask for more than just his attention. “Can I come in?”
The blond stares at him for one more second before heading back inside.
George knows this routine. He's been here before. And so he leaves the window once he is no longer visible, walking over to the brick patio and sliding glass door that leads into beige throw pillows and pine-scented air fresheners.
George waits, shifting from foot to foot at the slight discomfort that comes from the cold, rough stone under him. George blinks, glancing at the moon as it is the only source of light on this blueish-purple night. George thinks, wondering if the moon is enjoying its day.
A hand presses to his back, smoothing it out and lightly pulling at the back of his sweater. “Good morning.”
George smiles.
“You can’t say that, Dream.” George turns to face him, leaning into the palm that now resides at his waist and crosses his arms. “Tomorrow's barely here yet.”
His eyes trace George’s features. “It’s still past midnight.”
“Doesn’t count.” George dismisses. Dream moves his hand and reaches for his wrist, taking one step back toward the living room. George follows him inside, exhaling at the sudden loss of the summer night air.
“I hope you didn’t come here expecting to have fun. I was half asleep when you started throwing rocks at me.” Dream says, leading him to his bedroom even though he could probably find it with his eyes closed.
“That’s not even true. I heard you playing, don’t lie.” George scoffed loudly, walking a little bit faster to match his steps.
Dream lets out a small laugh, shaking his head and letting go of his lithe wrist to put a finger to his lips. “Be quiet. My parents are gonna hear you.” Dream whispers, wrapping his hand back around his to pull him up the stairs.
“Your parents wouldn’t wake up if a tornado was happening right next to them. Trust me, we’re fine.” George reasons, rolling his eyes.
Dream laughs again, smile never leaving his face. George raises an amused eyebrow, then leans in once they’ve reached the entrance to his room. “You’re so giddy right now.”
It’s Dream’s turn to roll his eyes. “Shut up.” The blond lightly shoves him through the doorway. George stumbles into his bedroom with a huff and a laugh of his own.
His feet carry him to Dream’s bed where he promptly flops onto the dark, navy blue blanket, stretching his limbs out before going limp. The fabric feels like marshmallows, wrapping warmth around him like a hug. If he were to bury his nose into its seams, it would smell just like Dream’s coconut and watermelon shampoo.
It would smell like home.
It’s a place that he's probably spent more time in than his own and never fails to make him feel relaxed. A warm lamp sits in the corner furthest from the entrance. It remains off. A few tiny, overused, strawberries and cream candles burn on top of his bedside table and act as the only source of light–apart from the moon. There’s a cider-coloured bean bag with a knitted blanket laying across its leather material to the far right of the door. Three electric guitars line a spot on the wall across a floor-length mirror; an acoustic remains on his comforter. The bed is rather large, yet somehow tucked away in the far left corner with the open window just to the side of it. Posters of various bands crowd the alabaster walls–adding a pop of colour and a hint of the boy's personality. Two carpets layer the ground, creating a lived-in sense. It’s messy and loud and so very him.
However, as much as it looks, sounds, feels, and smells like the boy; bits and pieces of George are scattered throughout the room.
A small box of chocolates sits on his night table. A box of his favourite peach drink rests on Dream’s mini-fridge. A tube of his preferred toothpaste has a permanent spot in the bathroom down the hall after he found it too tiresome to walk next door to fetch his own. A spare weighted blanket is kept in a drawer because Dream knows he'll only fall asleep if it’s draped around him. And if he were to open Dream’s closet, he’d be guaranteed to find a pile of his comfiest hoodies, sweatpants, and socks.
His old books, new pens, and future cologne bottles all have a rightful place in his room. And so it is clear; as much as George strives for the unknown, he finds comfort in the familiar.
A whiny voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Get the hell out of my room if all you’re gonna do is ponder your existence. You’re so lame.” The blond complains, flopping onto the bed himself and pulling the guitar into his lap. “I thought you’d bring something fun like… cards or meth.”
George lets out a surprised laugh, bouncing slightly at the force of Dream dropping onto the mattress. “Yeah, right. Like you’ve ever done anything remotely close to illegal substances in your entire life. Sorry, Dream, I'll make sure to bring my drug stash next time.”
“Thank you.” Dream nods. “Really, it’s the least you could do for my hospitality.”
The brunet raises an amused eyebrow and sits back on his elbows. “Hospitality? Since when was inviting me over hospitality?” George questions. “Me being here is a gift.”
Dream rolls his eyes, reaching out to shove him softly. “Oh right yeah, you know what? This isn’t hospitality. It's pity. I’m your friend out of pity.”
“You’re my best friend out of pity.” George clarifies, plopping once again onto his back and putting his hands behind his head in false satisfaction.
The blond shakes his head before scooching back so that he rests against the headboard, guitar still in his lap. George watches him adjust before following Dream’s actions. There’s a soft rustling sound as he pushes himself up the mattress and lies his head on the pillow next to him.
A comfortable silence sits between them.
And then, George’s eyes flit to Dream’s face when the blond starts softly plucking at the metal strings. He finds Dream already staring at him.
George doesn’t recognize the tune until 20 seconds in, but when he does his serene expression drops. “You’re so cringe, holy shit.” The brunet complains, throwing a hand over his face and turning away from him.
The blond feigns ignorance. “What? What did I do?” Dream asks, voice wavering as he very obviously attempts to smother a smile.
“How can you call me lame when you’re literally playing “Little Things” by One Direction? You’re disgusting.”
Dream laughs. “It’s a good song!” He insists, not letting up.
“It’s so… barf.” George groans. “It’s barf and it’s cheesy and don’t fucking look at me when you sing it. I’ll throw up.”
Predictably, he does the opposite, continuing to play the love song and leaning into his face as if to stare at him even harder.
George scrunches his nose in mock disgust, sticking a hand out to push his face away. Dream only leans into the touch before his hands slowly come to a stop on the guitar.
George merely blinks at his sudden cessation, face returning to a blank appearance. The song wasn’t over yet. He vaguely registers a small smile against his palm. Dream’s still staring at him, a sparkle in his eyes.
The hand not already holding Dream’s face reaches up to cup his right cheek. His skin feels hot underneath George’s own, and he vaguely wonders if that is his doing.
The brunet then leans in closer, letting out a quiet whisper meant for Dream’s ears only. “If you even think of singing to me right now, I’m leaving.”
The blond looks on for one more second before groaning, closing his eyes, and dropping his head into his shoulder. “You are the worst.” Dream stated, pushing the instrument off of the mattress to let it lean against the bed frame. “We were having a moment.”
George makes an exaggerated disgusted expression. “Never. Never, ever. You’re forbidden from singing to me, no matter what, for both our sakes.”
Dream digs one of his hands into George’s side, to which he yelps and curls away, facing the wall with the window. His best friend accommodates this action by rolling onto his side and trapping him inside his hold. An arm snakes under his and locks with his other hand, effectively caging him in.
“Let me go, you freak!” he squirms, attempting to wriggle free from his grasp. George tries to fend him off by kicking his feet behind him but instead, manages to wedge his calf in between his legs; stuck. George huffs in frustration while Dream laughs at his efforts. In one last futile go, the brunet begins to twist his body by planting his hands on the mattress and shifting suddenly. His goal was to turn, face him and then use his palms to push the blond away and flee for his life.
However, the plan is foiled when Dream catches onto the idea, seeing what he is attempting to complete. Dream uses the foot trapped by his legs to his advantage, not letting him move and even going further by placing the majority of his weight on him, his chest to George’s back.
George giggles. “This is unfair! You weigh like two semi-trucks!”
George laughs into the white pillow as the blond presses further at his words. In vain, the brunet shuffles around more for a few more seconds before giving up and halting all movements. “I do not!” Dream denies, pushing his head beside his to further squish him.
“Mercy! I plead mercy!” George cries, pulling a hand out from under him, reaching behind to grab his shoulder, and lightly shoving him off of him. “I give up!”
The blond relents with a quiet whoop of victory, moving away to simply rest behind instead of on top of him. Dream leaves his arms wrapped loosely around George and his head remains tucked into where his shoulder meets his neck. Dream’s hand that had been wrapped around George’s neck falls, going to rest at the interlocked fingers that reside by his waist.
Their shared laughter finally dissipates into the candlelit room, a heavy exhale coming from both of them as they catch their breath from the previous activity.
A peaceful silence weighs upon them like a heated blanket. George buries his head further into the soft cotton of the pillow and feels Dream lean closer in response, as if trying to minimize the space between them as much as possible. The arms around him pull him in.
And George thinks about all the times he's had Dream like this.
George thinks, and knows that the blond keeps this side of him concealed–not out of embarrassment or of fear, but for the sake of saving it for moments just like this. Moments where the hot rush of blood coursing through his veins can be felt through the fabric of their clothes. A steady heartbeat reverberates right against his spine, grounding him. Hushed whispers that fall on listening, awaiting ears echo all around these alabaster walls. There’s an accidental scratch of Dream's nails against his side and a quick squeeze of his hand to apologize for it.
George thinks about all the times he's had Dream like this.
George thinks, and begins to reminisce on those days. Days of nausea and headaches, sunburns and tired muscles, tissue boxes and hiccups, family gatherings and bouncing newborns on knees. The memories glow in the darkness of his mind, standing on a podium he's crafted so that he'd never forget them. Hopefully, there’s room for one more.
George thinks about all the times he's had Dream like this.
George thinks, and remembers what he always does whenever he gets this way. When he melts. The boy recollects drawing stars into his skin, looping his fingers through his, rubbing at his shoulders, smoothing out his shirt, and brushing wavy hair away from his eyes. It all seemed so natural, like an unplanned conversation.
It was not a reflex to bend to his every will and treat him like a king. It was a reflex to convey “I care that you are by my side” through his hands.
And he would not have it any other way.
Slowly, hesitantly, he feels Dream lift a hand to tuck a strand of his brunet hair behind his ears. It tickles his cheek and George shivers, to which the blond lets out a quiet laugh. The hand doesn’t budge once the action is complete, instead resting at the side of his face.
While George looks out the window and stares at the moon, he can feel Dream’s eyes boring holes into the back of his head. George doesn’t dare glance back in fear of what he may find. The brunet chooses to continue memorizing every dark spot and blemish the moon bears.
And as he looks on, George ponders on the times–just like now–when the roles are reversed.
Instead of gathering Dream in his grasp in times of much-needed comfort, Dream holds him like porcelain and trails hands down the apple of his cheek as if he may break. Dream traces his features with his green eyes as if a single blink would allow him to slip away and disappear. As if the blond must cherish these simple moments even though they both know they could be this way every day.
And there’s the hard part.
They could be like this every day. They could run around barefoot in dewy grass, crash into each other, and roll all over, like it was a ritual. They could fall into a fluffy duvet and wrap silky blankets around themselves, like it was tradition. They could wake up to the sun shining on their faces and nearly knock a mug of hot chocolate off of the bedside table in an attempt to check the time on their phone, like it was a formality.
They could do it all and yet somehow it’s never been that easy. Fleeting crushes, unstable conditions, family issues, and busy schedules always seemed to get in the way.
Never busy for each other, no. Busy for love, maybe. For complete and whole dedication.
But now it’s summer and there are no other people, unhealthy mindsets, disagreements, or occupied days. It’s just them, contentness, peace, and lazy nights.
Is this their chance? It feels like it is.
It feels like it is as Dream wordlessly nudges his leg up to further encompass George’s own all while laying in Dream’s bed in the dead of the night; as the blond intertwines the fingers from the back of George’s left hand with the hand that is still resting underneath them; as Dream finally moves the hand on the brunet’s face to push his curly brown hair and expose the nape of his neck; as Dream presses his lips to the uncovered skin and George feels a puff of hot air against him–
Wait, as he does what?
He's sure he must be imagining things when there’s a light pressure just above the neckline of his shirt, when the pressure remains for what had to be at least ten seconds. George dares not to move–neither tensing at the touch nor pushing back into his hold. George merely breathes in and out and in and out, listening for anything that might reveal his next move.
Dream then shifts his lips, gripping his jaw from behind to press more soft kisses into the juncture of George's neck and shoulder. To this, the brunet finally reacts, tilting his head to the side to allow even more access. The blond takes this as a sign to continue, rubbing with his thumb in a soothing gesture. George feels the pressure become harder and harder with each touch, the bump of teeth becoming evident from behind closed lips.
And it would be wrong to say he hadn’t expected this.
They’ve both known from the very beginning that they were each other's person. Eyes meeting while blowing out birthday candles. Eyes finding the others while attending a family friend's wedding. Eyes drowning in eyes while trying to find constellations (as great as stars are, they were much too distracted by something else).
He'd just never expected it to be quite like this.
“I always kinda thought it would be more dramatic.” George blurts.
Dream pauses his ministrations on George's neck, but continues massaging his jaw. “What would?”
George feels him say the words on his skin. “This.” Is all he says, as if that would clear everything up.
The blond hums in thought, because it is enough for him to understand. Because George knows deep inside that Dream was thinking the exact same thing.
Dream leans forward ever so slightly, not to leave more presses, but to rest his forehead just under the crown of his head. George squeezes the hand that’s still under him.
“Am I doing it wrong then?” Dream whispers, not exactly insulted, more so eager to make this picture perfect, just for him.
“No,” George answers, truthfully. “I just– I thought there would be a little less quietness, and a little more shouting, maybe even some rain and lightning.”
Dream laughs, and it sounds like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. “You wanted a weather phenomenon just for us to get our shit together?”
George smiles for the first time in a while; his brain too preoccupied to think of much else than Dream's lips and the blond hair that brushes his ear.
“Yeah,” the brunet giggles through the words. “But only once we don’t speak for, like, fifteen years because of an undisclosed tragedy that tore us apart. And then we’d find each other again in the middle of Times Square because, um…” George looks up at the popcorn ceiling to think. “Because I spent the past decade and a half travelling the world in search of something to fill the void in my heart.”
Dream reaches down to poke at the area of skin where George's shirt rides up. “And where am I while you circle the globe?”
“Sulking in your mom's basement.”
Dream lets out a surprised laugh, dropping his head further. George waits for the blond to scold him; to make a quick comeback at his jab. Instead, Dream surprises him.
“I don’t know…” Dream murmurs into his neck. “As much as that would’ve been a great story, I think… I think I like this better.”
George stays silent, letting him elaborate.
“I don’t think I would’ve survived fifteen years without you, especially if we left on bad terms.” Dream lifts a hand to scratch his head. “And… and I–”
“I'll take it back.”
Dream lifts his head in confusion at his interruption. “Huh?” Dream questions, quietly.
George clears his throat. “I don’t.. really care about rain or lightning or spending fifteen years apart. I.. I don’t even know why I said that.” The brunet admits.
Dream remains silent and George takes that as an opportunity to continue.
“I just… I think I had this idea in my head that you.. you were so, um.” George struggles to find the words.
“Breathtaking?” Dream unhelpfully supplies.
“No, shut up.” George elbows him in the stomach. “You were so.. attainable? I think that’s what I’m trying to say.” Dream nods in understanding before he resumes. “And– and even though that’s good or– or great even, to know that you were always gonna be there. I was almost, like, kinda waiting for something or someone to– to get in front of me and stop it from happening. And I think I got used to feeling that–” A nervous glance to the milky sky. “That one day, I’d have to choose between staying put or following you or completely leaving. Either way, I didn’t let myself think that I’d have you.”
George lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The brunet had been keeping that in for god knows how long. The thought was too big to make it past his lips but apparently, today he is free.
Dream's grasp on him tightens, shuffling impossibly closer and moving slightly down to be able to hook his chin over his shoulder.
The blond is quiet for around a minute or two, letting the words sink in before speaking. “I’m here and I’ll still be here. I promise.”
And it’s exactly what he wants, needs to hear.
George needed reassurance, not sympathy or pity. He needed reassurance that despite everything he thought–no matter how outlandish or dramatic–Dream would be there.
And Dream had given it to him. Right now, with open hands and open eyes, the blond whispers into the scarcely lit room that he’s never leaving.
“George, look at me.” Dream says.
George turns in his arms, dropping his hand so that they both encompass him, twisting his legs so that they can interlock with Dream’s own, laying his head to rest on the same pillow as him, and reaching out to place his left hand over his heart.
And he looks.
Hesitant, nervous eyes meet calm, twinkling ones, exchanging glances that say a thousand conversations yet none are spoken.
If he dared to open his mouth, he felt as though he would not be able to stop the words that would stumble out. All that runs through his mind as he follows the curves of Dream's face is what would it be like to press his lips there, there, and there.
The temptation becomes too much. His skin aches to be against Dream's; to know what it would feel like to have his eyelashes brush his cheek; to be close enough to see the finest details.
In the faint candlelight, the brunet is able to see a warm undertone of a blush spreading across Dream's face the longer George's gaze stays on him. The blond seems to feel it coming on as well, as he scrunches his nose and glances once, twice to the open window. George relishes in his obviously flustered state, and the knowledge that he is the cause of Dream's undoing makes it a thousand times sweeter.
An invisible force tugs him closer, closer, closer.
Dream seems to understand. Perhaps the desire is clear on his face. The blond lets out a shaky breath and his eyelids fall closed. George curls his fingers around Dream's chin and tilts his head down, leaning forward and pressing a barely-there kiss just below Dream's right eye. And as if returning the favour, he purposefully remains for longer than necessary.
As George moves away to kiss the spot right between his eyebrows, Dream opens his mouth and speaks.
“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”
George's eyes widen as he smiles against his skin and slides his left hand further up to the blond's shoulder. “What makes you say that?”
Dream inhales and exhales through his nose. “I... I know what colour you’d paint a guest bathroom.”
George adjusts to kiss under his left eye. “What would I paint it?”
“You’d paint it yellow,” Dream breathes. “Because it’s the opposite of blue and you want to shit on all the families that have a beach-themed bathroom.”
George laughs, a quiet sound, before kissing the skin beside his eyes.
Dream continues. “And I know that you want to have a giant picture collage in our house, beside the fireplace.”
The brunet feels butterflies enter his stomach at the way Dream says “our”, even though when George spoke of these things, he used no such word.
Maybe it was implied in his voice. Maybe he heard the underlying message of “I'm telling you this so that you remember when the time comes.”
Dream nudges his cheek with the side of his face, asking for more touch. George giggles and obliges, pressing a kiss to the centre of his cheek. Dream's hand travels up his back and then down again, massaging the area.
“And I know you want to have wall hooks in every room because–” George cuts him off.
“Because they’re the most useful thing ever!” the brunet whisper-shouts. “Anything, Dream. Anything at all can be placed on a hook! I’ll die on this hill.”
Dream laughs at his enthusiasm. He’s heard it all before.
“What about me?” Dream inquires after they’ve both calmed down. “What do you know about me?”
Dream picks up his previous actions, going to kiss the tip of George's nose while he thinks of an answer.
“Well,” George begins. “You want to have a tire swing in the backyard because your parents always said you couldn’t get one.” A long kiss to his closed eyelid.
“You want to have at least one wall in the- in our house to be made out of brick, and you want to build it yourself.” A kiss to his other eyelid and then a scoff falls from Dream's lips.
“Scratch that one, I’m too lazy.”
George laughs. “We’ll do it together. You made me want one.”
Dream nods and then tilts his head to press a kiss to the sensitive spot just under his ear. “Go on.”
The world spins and George's head feels dizzy, but he continues. “You want a room for books and pillow forts.”
“Why?” A kiss to his jaw.
“Because…” It’s hard to think at this moment. There’s another kiss to his chin, getting closer. “Because I want one.” A press just next to the one spot that’s been left untouched by the other the entire night. Lips pink and waiting.
Dream exhales slowly, deeply before opening his eyes. “And I want to do all that with you.”
George stares at his mouth and tries to remember if he brushed his teeth for two whole minutes before bed. “And I want to do all that with you.”
The brunet's gaze trails lower and lower until it finds what it craves. When’s the last time he used chapstick? George licks his lips at the thought.
Dream catches the action. “Are you nervous?”
George nods his head. “N–no.”
Dream raises an eyebrow. “I’m getting mixed signals here.”
The brunet takes a deep breath. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”
“Yeah, you.”
George lifts his eyes back up to look into his. “That was when we were five. It wasn’t real, stupid.”
Dream gasps, pulls back slightly, and puts a hand to his chest, feigning offence. “Of course it was real. It was real to me.”
And as George laughs, he feels the tension leave his body. Dream leans in again, moving his hand that’s been wrapped around his own all night to rest on the dip of his waist.
“Are you nervous?” George asks.
Dream shakes his head. “Yes.”
“Oh my god, I hate you.” George removes the hand from his shoulder to slap over his face.
Dream laughs and shakes his head once more. “No, no you don’t.”
George's eyes twinkle. “No, I don’t.” A slow smile grows on his face and he drops the palm to move to the back of the blond's neck.
Dream returns the grin, teeth barely showing. They stare at each other.
George doesn’t think he's ever felt this way before.
Behind his eyes, he pictures a memory that he'd long forgotten, stashed away and only to be uncovered while reminiscing on the more embarrassing memories of his younger years.
In this memory, there's this boy who wears a green beanie to school every day and always has at least one of his shoelaces untied. He’s always got muddy knees and bandaids on his fingers but somehow, despite his sloppy appearance and short attention span, has the best marks in all of eighth grade. Dream doesn’t wear glasses even though he needs them, because they fog up in the summer heat. Dream likes olives and is allergic to crab. And George knows all this because he was told this while sitting on the rough, wooden floor of the blond's treehouse.
But there’s another person in this picture, and she’s standing right in front of George with a pink card and candied lemon, asking him to see a movie.
He's never been too fond of lemon-flavoured things.
That first boy watches from the arts and crafts table, holding a pencil that he just sharpened for George. Dream thinks it doesn’t show, but his eyebrows are downturned and his bottom lip is stuck between his teeth. There’s disappointment in his eyes, and in the girls lies hope.
George hates what he's about to do, but somehow it’s worth it when he walks back to the table and that boy hides a smile behind his hand as George takes back his pencil; it’s worth it when that boy shows up the next day at school with watermelon-flavoured lollipops: George's favourite.
Another memory stirs, one much more recent and still brings him sadness on rainy Wednesdays and clear-skied Thursdays. At this moment, his boy is not here.
All that exists is him and another boy that practically lives in old, barely functioning headphones and mismatched socks. Here, he stands before him, on George's front doorstep, with a dried daisy from the first time they met in a flower shop downtown. Here, he stands with his ring-clad hand outstretched, wondering if George would be so kind as to ever consider the possibility of more; more flower shops and more blasting music while driving down more empty backroads.
But just like before, George's mind drifts back to the blond that waits for him back inside, rifling through the brunet's wide expanse of Hallmark movies, trying to find one they haven't watched a million times together. George thinks about Dream and the mug of warm hot chocolate that is getting colder and colder the longer he stands out here, weighing the options on a decision he'd already been sure of since he was five years old.
George hates what he's about to do, but somehow it’s worth it when Dream flashes him that brilliant smile and lifts his arm on the couch, creating a spot just for George to practically melt into. Dream ruffles his hair at the top of his head and asks who was at the door.
He decides to tell him tomorrow and savour this moment.
But then the roles are reversed.
At this moment, George watches from behind the football field bleachers, with paint-covered hands and dirty fingernails after he'd spent the past week creating a banner for Dream's football team's final game of the year. There’s a swipe of yellow across George's forehead from wiping away sweat and he looks like he'd gotten into a fight with a paint roller. In summary, the brunet looks like an utter, complete mess.
Fittingly so, however, as what plays inside his mind is just as chaotic while he watches a girl with dark blue overalls, big-rimmed glasses, and neat blonde hair waltz up to Dream with a medal in each hand. Dream turns to a call of his name, ripping off his helmet and combing a hand through his hair as he searches for the voice. George desperately hopes the heat on his cheeks is from the exhilaration of winning the game, and not the view of the blonde girl walking toward him. There’s a subtle stabbing pain in his chest at the way Dream's face practically lights up at his arrival.
But as the girl hands him his golden medallion by leaning in close and placing it around his neck, George stares from the sidelines as Dream stuffs his hands into his pockets, takes a few steps back, and gives a sheepish smile at the obvious advancement. The girl looks at him in confusion and an embarrassed flush rises onto her cheeks. A frown settles on the brunet's face as he wonders what happened.
Dream’s eyes, wide and nervous, scan the area but George doesn’t know what he’s searching for. George steps a little further out from behind the metal bleachers and that green gaze suddenly locks on him.
The brunet can see the tension drain out of his body, shoulders loosening and eyebrows unfurrowing. Dream smiles unbelievably bright, turns back to the blonde, says a few words that George cannot make out, jabs a thumb in his direction, and takes off running toward him.
And with absolute certainty, George can say that in all of his 18 years of living, there’s never been a better feeling than Dream crashing into him and lifting him in a spin with their arms wound tight. The euphoria of his victory cries and his bountiful laughs still ring through his ears. George knows all the hard and messy work is worth it when Dream's eyes outright glow after George's banner is brought out to the crowd.
George wonders why he'd ever thought Dream would prefer to celebrate with someone other than him, while the blond buries his head into his hair and grips his hands in joy despite the grimy, dried paint.
(And if George squealed into his pillow that night after he'd watched Dream toss the medal into the back of his closet before setting a picture they'd taken of the two of them, all covered in dirt and muck and unfiltered happiness, as his lock screen—that's only for him to know.)
All of that seems irrelevant now, as current-George lies tucked into his side, leaning in further and further without a care in the world. In this moment, it is only them and the cloud of young love that follows their every step.
Dream gathers a lock of his hair and pushes it behind his ear, ever so delicate. “Are you done overthinking so we can kiss?”
George laughs and their faces are so close that Dream can definitely feel the breath on his lips.
“Yes, I’m done.” George nods. “And yes we can.”
The brunet is almost certain that Dream's smile could contest the sun.
Dream's eyes flicker all over George's face, as if trying to memorize everything before he must close them to get what he truly wants. The blond's tongue peeks out to swipe at his bottom lip and Dream looks like he has words on the tip of his tongue.
But before he even gets the chance to take a breath, George leans forward and captures his lips.
Now, he'd love to go on and on about how something possessed him, took over him, or urged him to grab a fistful of Dream's ratty old pajama shirt that’s been washed and dried too many times without being ironed–but that would be an outright lie.
He'd love to describe the feeling of being struck by a cupid's arrow from where the god supposedly watches, perched on a tree branch, while the shocked boy finally regains the ability to function–but George feels the same way for this boy as he did five minutes ago; five days ago; five years ago.
He'd love to recite poems that tell tales of the overwhelming passion that coursed through his veins as soon as their lips met, while a callused hand becomes threaded into George's knotted and wavy hair—but it would be pure fiction.
Because in reality, the brunet would admit he likes to think he did it all by himself, while teeth clack under too much pressure and not enough experience.
Simply put, George saw a glint of something that an eighteen-year-old kid had no business holding and decided he should get a closer look.
Simply put, George couldn’t bear one more second without knowing what it felt like to have his lips pressed against Dream's.
However, kissing is completely new to both of them.
Their hands feel awkward and don’t know where to sit. Their lips are cracked and dry and wet at the same time. There’s too much teeth and he has to pull away for one second to catch his breath because he forgot about oxygen.
“Breathe through your nose.” Is what Dream tells him.
“Learn with me so we may never part.” Is what he hears.
Kissing is completely new to both of them.
But when George returns to the feeling of his mouth against Dream's, it feels like he's been doing it for a thousand years. His hands naturally reach for the back of his neck. George's lips slide with his softly, slowly.
Dream's head cranes to the right and George almost laughs, remembering the time the blond showed him a video on kissing advice that instructed to always tilt to the right.
George remembers Dream telling him: “Don’t forget this. You deserve a perfect first kiss.” The brunet feels his mouth curve into a smile at how right Dream turned out to be.
Dream must sense his amusement; the curl of his lips much more obvious when pressed against his own. Dream's fingers cradle George's face as he moves to trail kisses across his jaw. “What’s so funny?” Dream whispers into his skin.
George lets his eyes flutter open at the new sensation but he dares not look at him and ruin this moment.
George lets out a trembling exhale and glances at the flickering candle that still burns pink and red wax. The brunet thinks it looks just like him; crimson blush spilling across his face at the blond's actions.
"Nothing." George breathes.
"That's cute." Dream replies after a beat. His hands undo knots in his brunet hair as he comes back up and leaves one last kiss on the edge of George's lips.
Their eyes meet, brown and green mixing to make warm longing. George hopes Dream can translate the message he's trying to convey in the relaxation of his eyebrows and sleepy squint of his eyelids. Fortunately, the crinkle of Dream's skin and the blush on the ends of his ears tell him he knows. Dream knows he's in love with him too.
Satisfied, George's gaze falls as he drops his head onto the pillow and snakes an arm fully around Dream's shoulders. Dream's arms entrap him, like they'd been doing the entire night, and pull him to lay further onto his chest.
George draws a heart into the dip of his shoulder and presses a final kiss to the skin.
Dream buries his face in his hair and presses a final kiss to his head.
Eventually, their breath will even out and their grips will loosen. Eventually, they'll sleep and dream of each other. Eventually, they'll wake up and smile first thing in the morning.
There's a heavy conversation that floats in the air; one that consists of "I've loved you for 13 years" and "I'll love you for forever more."
And there's a light conversation that passes through their fingertips, one that consists of "It's us now. It has been and will be."
But it's summer and the moon's taking a midnight stroll. The clocks freeze and the candle's flame burns out. It's that period between yesterday and today where time stands still and allows for moments of slow dripping honey and smooth foaming coffee.
And suddenly George is more content than ever to waste his days in bed, now that Dream's right here.