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There’s not an awful lot that Dream wouldn’t do for his best friend, even if it costs him his sanity. He finds this out the hard way on an unsuspecting Wednesday afternoon.
I.
“Dream?” George calls from his spot on the blond’s bed, casually scrolling on his phone.
Dream types away at his desk, not looking away from his screen. “Yeah?”
George stares back at him, eyebrows quirked like he’s got a question on the tip of his tongue. “Do you think if you kissed someone and cracked your neck, they could, like, hear it?”
Dream’s face goes a little red at the thought. “Uh, I don’t know.” The hair on the back of his neck rises.
“Well,” George sits up, tossing his phone to the side. “Can we try it?”
The blond whips around. ”What?”
George remains unfazed. “You know, like, let’s find out.”
There’s no way he’s serious.
“George,” Dream’s voice sounds a little more flustered than he’d like it to. “Are you– do you know what you’re asking for right now?”
The brunet’s eyebrows furrow and his mouth quirks up and– oh my god don’t look at his mouth.
“Yeah.” George laughs a little, like it’s funny. Like Dream’s mind isn’t running a mile a minute. “I’m saying that you–” He points at the blond. “Come over here and we test it.”
A million thoughts bounce around the blond's head but the one thing he knows for sure is that this cannot be good for Dream's poor heart. The stuttering rhythm in his chest will surely burst once their lips touch.
But… it’s so hard to say no when he’s looking at him like that. When all Dream can see is the pure, curious brown of George’s eyes luring him in. He feels entranced, trapped.
It almost feels unreal. The never-ceasing jokes that constantly fall out of their friends' mouths, and sometimes even their own, flash in his mind. The deep, bruising blush he would hide whenever George leaned a bit too close, talked a bit too slowly. God, he’s got him in the palm of his hand.
“Okay.” Dream finds himself relenting, crossing the room to sit criss-cross on the bed in front of George.
George grins, seemingly pleased with Dream’s decision to indulge in his stupid experiment. “When’s the last time you cracked your neck?” he asks.
Dream shrugs, feigning aloofness even as his eyes are straining not to stare at his best friend’s lips. “Yesterday, maybe? I don’t keep track.”
“Okay. You do it then.” The brunet nods, scooting a bit closer. “I cracked my neck already. I’d need to like– recharge. Let it simmer.”
A laugh bubbles from Dream’s throat, the casualty smoothing out the worries in his head. “You’re an idiot.”
“What? How am I an idiot?” George smiles, all teeth and amusement. “That’s how it works.”
“Whatever,” Dream hides his face in his hands with a small smile, the ridiculousness of the situation catching up to him. His blush slowly returns the more he thinks about what he’s about to do with his best friend.
But soft, pale fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling them away from his face and forcing him to make eye contact. They’re so close that he can feel a soft breath on his lips. In the back of his mind, Dream wonders if he could borrow some because lord knows this kiss will kill him.
“C’mon. Let’s do this.” George takes it upon himself to place Dream’s palms on the sides of his face, moving so that their knees are touching. “I have places to be, Dream. Things to do.”
The blond hopes George can’t feel how sweaty his hands are. “What places?”
George narrows his eyes and pulls at the string of Dream’s hoodie. “You’re switching the topic again. Just do it.” Just kiss him.
The words feel mocking. There's no "just" anything about George–at least in Dream's eyes.
“Sorry, sorry.” Dream tries to reign everything in, clearing his throat and blinking away the fuzz in his mind. In front of him is a pretty, special boy asking to be kissed. Who is he to keep him waiting?
Firm hands pull George in as both their eyelids fall, reducing his vision to only a hint of the sunbeams that stream through Dream’s window, and he has half the mind to acknowledge that they’re about to have their first– no, only kiss while sitting on Dream’s bed.
Vanilla fills his nostrils as Dream closes the gap, plush lips meeting his own, a little softer than he was expecting.
The first thing he notices is the light stubble on George’s chin, like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. It gives him something to ground himself on, the cut of his jawline a sharp contrast to the way Dream’s insides are downright melting from the kiss. The second thing that he notices is that this feels really, really, good. His shoulders begin to loosen up at the contact, the anxiety flowing off him in waves as George’s hands pull him in by bunching up the fabric of his hoodie.
The two of them are still for a quiet, mind-numbing moment before George makes a soft noise, signalling for him to start cracking his neck.
Right.
The reminder that this all means nothing settles in his mind much too bittersweetly, but nonetheless, Dream starts to tilt his head. In another world, he thinks, he’s deepening the kiss to hold him even closer. But in this one, he’s simply indulging in George’s curiosity.
Dream’s leaning farther and farther right, trying to remember the feel of George’s mouth against his when–
*POP*
George rears back all too quickly, the sound of their lips disconnecting apparent, and Dream waits with bated breath, grasping his reaction as he tries to will his rising blush to disperse. His body feels floaty, his head feels weightless, and–
“Ew, oh my god.” The brunet rubs a hand over his own neck with a shudder. “I could feel it like– reverberating around my head.” A grimace washes over his face.
Oh.
Okay.
“Wow, thanks.” Dream tries to hide the shake in his voice behind an attempt at humor. “Glad to know your initial reaction to kissing me is ‘ew’.”
George laughs and shoves at his shoulder playfully, as if they weren’t breathing into each other's mouths a few seconds ago. Keep it together.
“‘Ew’ was for the gross, bone-cracking sound.” He wipes his lips with the back of his hand, wipes Dream off of him. “Kissing you was alright. I could taste the apple you had this morning.”
And the blond’s not sure how to respond to that. He’s not really sure how he’s supposed to respond to anything George says ever again, now that he knows what it’s like to kiss his best friend.
Words and feelings fall through his fingers, piling onto the mattress and leaving him to try and sort out his thoughts. What happens now?
The brunet decides for both of them, however, as he suddenly rolls off the bed with a huff and dusts off his pants. “Anyway, I’m gonna go.”
Dream regains control of his brain. “Wh– Huh?” Don’t go just yet.
“Karl wants me on a stream,” is all he says, all he gives. “Thanks for the experiment.”
And the door shuts behind him with a click; a small sound, yet it’s loud enough to cause Dream to pull his hands closer to his body.
What the fuck just happened.
II.
So, they don’t mention it.
Dream eventually left his room after a good hour of staring at the wrinkled spot on his bedsheets where George once sat. The next time they saw each other, in the kitchen later that evening, all George did was stick a freezing cold glass bottle against the back of Dream’s neck and run away giggling.
It’s a relief as much as it’s a disappointment.
A relief for the sake of their friendship; Dream doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost George over a stupid stunt like that. Yet, it’s also a disappointment for the sake of Dream’s heart.
Foolishly, he’d let some small part of himself believe that something would come out of it. Maybe George would see him differently, treat him differently. Maybe George would finally learn what it felt like to get tongue-tied and scatterbrained because his best friend is staring at him with stars in his eyes and mischief on his lips.
The brunet always had a spot on Dream’s mind, vibrant blue and purple painting marble and staining his eyes with visions of George. There hasn’t been a day where he doesn’t wake up and fall asleep wondering if sleep would be easier if there was a certain boy by his side.
But he never acts on it, not ready to take that step forward, even after they’ve kissed because George is still his pretty best friend and Dream is still hopeless. They are stationary statements, unmoving and unrelenting.
The sun is a star, George always smells like brown sugar, Dream is still hopeless.
Wishful thinking never gets you anywhere.
That’s what Dream repeats to himself for the next couple of days after the kiss. It’s a reminder that he’s got too much at stake to get lost in his head about things that’ll never be.
And so, he pushes past it. Like it never even happened.
Or, at least he tries.
But almost a week after the experiment, Dream finds himself in a shockingly similar situation when George walks into his room holding two tubes of chapstick.
“I wanna try something.” The brunet states, going to stand in front of where Dream sits at his office chair.
He blinks as George drops the objects into Dream’s palm. He turns the chapstick tubes over, reading the label. One strawberry and the other is chocolate. Confusion floods his mind.
“Is this your way of telling me my lips are dry?” Dream asks, eyebrow raising skeptically.
George rolls his eyes. “You're an idiot.” He takes the strawberry tube back. “I want another experiment.”
The blond’s breath halts. “Again?” He thought it was over. He thought he’d never get another chance.
George scoffs. “Fine, nevermind. I’ll just ask someone else.” He reaches out to grab the other chapstick.
“No! No, no.” Dream holds the chocolate tube to his chest and he can see the amusement flickering in George’s eyes at his sudden outburst. “I just– I thought–” He scrambles for words, but they're all out of his reach. Dream melts under George’s gaze.
“Yeah, yeah.” The brunet smiles. “I get it. You’re so easy Dream. Now, come on. Put it on.” He opens the tube and starts to smear it on his lips, smacking them loudly when he’s done just to be annoying. Dream just thinks it’s cute.
God, maybe he is easy.
He follows, applying the chocolate chapstick. It’s strong, the scent flooding all of his senses. “What’s this for?”
“We’re gonna mix the flavours. Wanna see if it tastes like chocolate strawberries.” George pushes the tubes to the side and shuffles forward, slotting himself between Dream’s legs. The blond’s hands go to George’s waist instinctively. And for once, he has to tilt his head up to make eye contact from where George looms over him.
“Okay.” He swallows, sugar and cocoa already exploding on his tongue at the thought.
George smiles at his compliance. “Told you, Dreamie. You’re easy.”
Only for you, only ever for you.
Dream merely nods and pretends like the nickname doesn’t knock the breath out of him.
And the last thing he sees before he’s pulled in by the back of his neck is the faintest hint of pink on the brunet’s cheeks.
When their lips connect for the second time, it sends warmth all over his body, swirling into his skin and reaching down to his toes. The sweetness of the kiss has Dream tightening his grip, just enough so that George leans closer but can’t quite feel the yearning underneath his fingertips.
Unlike the first time, however, George presses harder, brushing over his lips with a purpose. He’s actually kissing back. Dream reciprocates as much as he can without displaying how much he truly wants, taking it all with a small sigh. George is kind and plays with the hair at the back of his head as an apology for being a little rough.
The blond tries to focus on savouring the flavours but, the feeling of George’s lips themselves are far more consuming. Pink and brown drips from their attached lips. Dream hopes it stains so he can remember this forever.
But once again, the brunet is pulling away all too soon, exhaling after their mouths part and leaning back. George doesn’t waste a second, poking his tongue out to taste the messy wax, nose scrunching as he tries to decide whether or not he likes it.
The blond watches, mouth searing and branded by George’s touch.
“Hmm.” George tilts his head in thought. “I think the chocolate is too strong.”
“We can try again,” Dream wants to say. He licks his lips to stop himself, tasting the remnants of George on his tongue, his chest exploding at every hint of strawberry.
The brunet’s eyes flit to his face again, laughing when something seems to catch his gaze. “You have chapstick all over your face.” George grins.
And Dream’s heart almost stops beating when he reaches out to rub the excess balm that’s apparently on his chin, holding his jaw. Vines catch in his throat, growing from the imprint of George’s lips on his.
Silently, the blond commits his features to memory. To have him so close–just a breath away–is a luxury, a gift that he wants to cherish forever. Wants to hold the curve of George’s cheek in his palm and smooth the wrinkles next to his eyes and brush back the wisps of hair covering his forehead.
But then, George’s touch is gone and Dream cannot help but mourn.
He’s just so fucking pretty.
“Your lips aren’t dry by the way.” The brunet's voice cuts through his thoughts like a ribbon, smooth yet sharp.
“Huh?” I could stare at you all day, could look at you until the sun grows old.
George takes a few steps back, leaving the space between Dream’s knees. “Your lips.” He clarifies. “They’re um, soft… I guess.”
Dream blinks. “You guess?”
The brunet is still walking back to his bedroom door. “I’m not saying it again, Dream.” George rolls his eyes with that stupid, blinding smile. He takes the last few steps out to the hallway and adds, “Quit fishing for compliments.”
And with that, George is gone, taking Dream’s mind and heart along with him. The blond doesn’t even know if he wants them back.
III.
Just like before, they don’t mention it. But by now, Dream doesn’t mind.
It's a game, a push and pull. A glance into George’s eyes, trying to see the curiosity swirling and wondering if it’s got anything to do with him.
He knows not to push though; never one to initiate the kisses. He just waits until something sparks in the brunet’s head, when he turns to Dream to find out the results. And Dream’s definitely not complaining.
He’d been convinced something like this would never happen, that he’d be cursed to watch from the side, never truly knowing what it felt like to swoon under George’s touch and bend to his will. Dream has never let himself think too far ahead but, lately, he can see it all whenever George pulls the blond apart with just his eyes. These tests, these chances are more than Dream ever thought he would get. He’s not going to waste a single one.
The next test happens in the middle of watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
The two of them are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Sapnap having gone to bed already. The movie plays on the TV, a result of pure boredom and unwillingness to rewatch the same shows for the 4th time.
“Do you think it feels better?” George asks suddenly, as Flint and Sam sit in the jello mansion on screen.
“What does?”
“That.” George points to the way the main characters are about to kiss, cheeks puffed up with air.
Dream scrutinizes it. “I mean, I think it’s cute. It’s weird, but cute.”
“Yeah, but I asked if it’s better.” The brunet tilts his head, sending Dream a questioning look, and that deep, searching gaze he’s come to know is back.
And the blond doesn’t even have to say anything, just reciprocates the stare with an open one of his own, and George is scrambling over to his side of the couch, tucking himself into his arm. He knows.
“Hi.” His best friend smiles, much too pleased and smug than Dream would like it to be. It feels like George has already got him all figured out.
“Hi.” Just kiss me.
George tilts his chin up, peering at him. "I'm waiting."
Of course, he's gonna make him do it. "You're so lazy, George."
The brunet narrows his eyes. "Just do it."
"I'll feel stupid." Dream whines, even though they both know that's never stopped him before.
"Just do it." George pokes his face. "Do it, Dream."
With an exaggerated sigh, the blond gives up, lovesickness coursing through his veins. "Fine, whatever. Come here."
Today, he feels braver. He's stopped losing sleep over what this means. Dream thinks it's time he had some fun.
George's response is immediate, shifting to sit with his legs thrown over Dream's and then just looks at him, patient.
“Close your eyes.” The blond instructs. As much as he wants to peer into the brunet’s eyes for as long as he’ll let him, all charming and kind, he really doesn’t think he could do it without laughing.
The boy in his lap complies, long eyelashes dusting the tops of his cheek. What Dream wouldn’t give to kiss the skin there, to rub his nose into the freckles that were so carefully placed by whatever deity made him. But he knows not to ask for more than he’s given.
Tucking his brown hair behind his ear, Dream puffs up his cheeks, mentally rolls his eyes at the ridiculous things he does for George, and leans in to close the gap.
The third time their lips connect feels just as sparkling as the others. Soft pink brushes against his, smooth and deep. With a shiver that runs down Dream’s neck and into his desiring, seeking hands, he can taste the faintest hint of the strawberry chapstick from the other day. He must be using it every day.
The blond feels George’s hands glide up his arms and shoulders to grasp at his jaw, pressing into the stupid air in his cheeks.
And nothing in the entire world could’ve prepared him for the feeling of George’s grin being pressed against his lips. He can feel the slow rise of the corner of George’s mouth against his own, and a soft puff of air as he lets out a small laugh.
“You’re right. This is stupid.” the brunet says into his mouth and god, he couldn’t disagree more.
This is everything, Dream thinks as he allows himself a few more seconds of their matching smiles being connected. It’s barely even a kiss anymore, more like teeth touching and noses nudging as they giggle.
“Maybe it feels dumb ‘cause we aren’t in a jello house.” Dream says after they pull away.
George hums, eyes still closed. “Yeah. You should buy me one, probably.”
“Buy you a jello house?”
He nods. “Mhm. We can have two houses; like a summer home, that’s also edible. We’ll never starve.”
Dream laughs, knocking his forehead with George’s shoulder. “You can’t eat our summer home.” His heart flips at how natural it felt to say ‘our’ and he prays the brunet doesn’t comment on it. “I’d have to keep buying them if you did.”
George is unrelenting. “You’re rich, Dream. You could buy jello houses for all of us, even Patches.”
“What would we even do in them? You’d get bored after, like, a day.” The blond pokes him in the stomach, yellow and gold rolling out of his mouth along with the playful banter.
He’ll never get tired of the way George lights up whenever he sees the opportunity to pester. His eyes get big and he moves constantly as he talks, like the tilt of his head is enough to get him anything he wants.
And maybe it is. Or maybe Dream’s just a little too head over heels.
“Well,” George's tone curls, innocence on his tongue. “For starters, we’d kiss.” Colour explodes behind Dream’s eyes. “That was the whole point. And then we’ll see if you can actually make a scrunchie out of jello because I just don’t think that’s true. Sounds so sticky.” George says, turning back to the movie that still plays on screen. “Your hair’s probably long enough to test.”
And there’s that word again.
Oh, you just love messing with me, don’t you?
Dream’s eyes return to the movie as well. The TV light barely registers in his eyes–overshadowed by the bright, glowing boy beside him. “Sure, George. Whatever you want.”
The brunet stays in his lap for the rest of the movie and then some, only moving when he complains his leg fell asleep. And of course, George makes Dream massage it awake or else “he’ll die”.
Dream really doesn’t know how to say no to this boy. He thinks it’ll be the death of him.
IV.
Sunlight tingles at Dream’s body, carefully laying more freckles on his skin as he lounges beside their backyard pool. His eyes are squinting from the blazing, afternoon sun but he refuses to wear sunglasses in case it leaves him with a stupid tan line, and his blond hair is pulled away from his face because, apparently, George was serious about wanting to tie it up.
He’s got his swimsuit and shirt still on, yet to climb into the water, simply happy to sit and read a book. Although, Dream has to admit that he’s barely read anything–eyes too busy drifting to a certain brunet that swims around the pool.
All in all, it’s the most at-ease he’s been in weeks.
That is until he hears a loud swishing noise and feels water being splashed onto his legs.
“Hey, watch it!” he complains.
“Dream!” a british voice calls from the pool.
The blond grabs his towel to wipe it off. “What?”
“Get in.” George says, leaning over the edge, arms crossed and a grin on his face.
He avoids looking him in the eyes. It’s almost as bright as the sun. “George, I’m reading.”
The brunet raises an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you turn the page like, a maximum three times.” Something in his gaze flashes. “I think you’re a little distracted, Dreamie.”
Dream seizes up, eyes darting to look at his book that’s only opened to the dedication page. “I’m not distracted. How could I be distracted?” He closes the book and shoves it behind him. “You’re an idiot.”
“I’m not an idiot.” George scrunches his nose. “I’m bored. Hang out with me.”
“Why would I do that?” He sits up on the lounge chair, head resting in his hand.
He thrives in this type of conversation flow with George; one of them speaking with purpose, with a request and the other is poking them, instigating them just to keep them talking. They both push and push until the other breaks–albeit with a smile on their face. Dream both loves and hates that it’s usually himself who relents.
George seems to consider his question for a second, staring blankly, before something seems to click. The corners of his mouth quirk up and he rests his chin on his arms, still holding on to the edge of the pool. “Well,” A slow smile growing on his face and oh, Dream knows where this is going. “I was kind of hoping to try something.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
The brunet’s watching him, waiting, as Dream tries not to combust from the sheer amount want that he’s attempting to conceal.
“Something? What’s something?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer.
George blinks. “Dream.”
The blond leans forward. “George.”
“Dream.”
They stare at each other for a moment or two, a challenge in their gazes and perseverance nipping at their noses. However, Dream’s always been weak for this boy.
And so with a roll of his eyes, he gets up to pull his shirt off and join him in the water. He thinks he hears a small choked noise coming from the brunet, but it’s probably just his wishful thinking.
The blond climbs down the ladder and into the pool, coolness surrounds his body, and his sweaty skin thanks him for a break from the sun. Dream swims to where George is; both of them tall enough to stand with the water at their shoulders.
The brunet grins at him, all toothy like he always does whenever Dream gives him what he wants (meaning he sees it quite often.)
“I wanna kiss underwater.” George says, unknowing to the awful things it does to Dream’s heart.
“Yeah?” He already feels out of breath, and he’s not even treading water.
“Yeah.” is all George says. Not even a justification this time, just a statement.
But he doesn’t let himself dwell on it for too long. Instead, he merely nods.
The boy in front of him sends him one last cheeky smile, and then he’s gone, taking a deep breath in and disappearing underneath the pool water.
Dream follows, inhaling and plunging himself down. Bubbles flood his ears, roaring around his head. His hands keep him down, swishing and pushing against the water.
And it’s then that he realizes it’s kind of hard to find someone else's lips when both of your eyes are closed and you’re submerged in water.
Dream blindly reaches out–eyes too sensitive and stinging in the icy chlorine. His palm hits something that he thinks is George’s shoulder, until his fingers brush against a nose.
He just smacked the boy he’s in love with in the face. Fuck.
He kicks off the pool floor, breaking the surface and wiping the liquid from his eyes. He’s quick to pull the brunet up as well.
George coughs and sputters, shaking the water out of his face and hair. He presses a hand to his nose. “You– you just fucking hit me!” He says, loud and shocked like he really can’t believe it.
“It was an accident!” Dream defends. “I couldn’t see!” His hands rush to pull at George’s wrists and inspect the skin for himself. It’s a little red but otherwise perfectly fine. Nonetheless, Dream finds himself leaning down to press his lips against the bridge of his nose, gently ghosting over. He doesn’t even think twice about it, or its consequences.
“I’m sorry.” He says, kissing it once more before pulling away, remorse in his tone even though a smile plays at his mouth. They’re both fucking stupid.
George’s cheeks look a little redder than they did a few seconds ago. “You should be.” He scrunches his nose and then hisses when it hurts slightly. Cute. “That was dumb. I can’t believe you let that happen, Dream.” The brunet splashes water on Dream’s face.
“What?” He laughs. “You just disappeared! I couldn’t do anything.”
“So you punch me!?” He splashes again.
“No!” He grabs his wrists to stop him from doing it anymore, holding them to his chest. “What did you even want me to do?” Dream laughs again, leaning in with what he knows are hearts in his eyes. He can’t help it.
George makes a face, like he’s gonna curse him out. His gaze is hot red and lively ember. “This.”
The next thing Dream knows, the brunet’s hands break free from his grasp and pull his face in, smashing their lips together in a searing kiss.
Dream’s eyes go wide, taken aback, before he falls under George’s spell, giving in and wrapping his arms around George’s waist. Their skin cools against one another, chest to chest and lips to lips. The contact all over his body feels heavenly, more refreshing than the sun itself. Warmth follows the placing of George’s hands, leaving burn marks wherever they go.
George speaks against him, breath heavy and not even bothering to pull away. “Down.”
They move in sync, lowering and submerging themselves underwater. The bubbles that were once thrumming passed his head feel like mere whispers in the wind compared to the loud, consuming feeling of their mouths pressed together. Dream thinks he’d be more likely to drown from George’s lips than the water surrounding them.
And he’d die a happy man.
Because this kiss feels different; more than an experiment. It feels more in the way the brunet’s arms fully encompass him rather than simply holding his jaw. It feels more in the way the Dream might pass out from how much pressure George is using, like the air he needs could be pulled from the blond’s lungs. It feels more in the way Dream’s chest starts to tighten at the lack of breath, but the tug on his floating, flowing hair will surely kill him first.
Despite the cool, sparkling blue encasing them all Dream can feel is fire. The flame first ignites on the small of his back, where one of George’s hands digs in. It travels up his spine, following the gasoline trail of the brunet’s fingertips. He thinks a noise escapes him, but the rushing sound of water suffocates it.
Unfortunately, oxygen becomes a necessity. They break apart and resurface, arms still wound tight around the other. Deep inhales and exhales fill the minimal space between them and holy shit.
Heat pools in his gut, hotter than the sunbeams washing over the both of them. There’s no way that was just an experiment. His lips tingle still, bruised and pink. There’s no way George can still call that just a test.
Dream opens his mouth to speak, to ask George what this meant when a new voice interrupts them.
“Are you guys good?”
The two spring apart in surprise, eyes wide from being caught. They launch themselves away as much as they can pool water.
Sapnap blinks.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Dream coughs. “I– I smacked him by accident. Was just checking it out.” He half-lies, the untruthful words sour on his tongue.
George still doesn’t say anything. He only nods and rubs at his nose that can’t possibly still hurt.
The youngest, watching them from the patio door, just shrugs in response. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything. Like a bandaid or whatever.” He walks back inside without another word.
Silence.
The confidence to ask for what Dream truly wants is gone now, replaced with jittery, lingering nerves. His body starts to feel cold despite the blazing sun shining down on them, fingers running through his messed up hair. He tries not to think about whose fault that is.
“Um,” George’s voice cuts through the air, cuts through Dream. “I think I’m gonna go dry off.” He starts to swim to the pool ladder.
Dream says nothing as he watches him get out of the water and wrap a towel around his shoulders.
The brunet must feel his gaze on him, however, as he turns back around one last time.
“Thanks.” Is all that he says. Dream wants the water to swallow him whole, and never let him resurface until he’s forgotten what it felt like to have George’s mouth breathing into his.
Thanks.
Thanks for what? the blond wants to ask, the question burning on the tip of his tongue. But something stops him. It sounds an awful lot like a voice of reason, a voice he should be listening to.
Don’t push. It says.
Tar builds on his lips, sticking them together and refraining Dream from answering. He can only give a slight smile. George deserves a smile.
George deserves a lot more. But it’s becoming increasingly clear, with how little their kissing seems to affect the brunet, that he doesn’t want it from Dream.
He guesses he’ll just have to learn to live with that.
V.
A full two weeks have passed since they last kissed when Dream truly realizes how fucked he is.
See, the questions have stopped.
George doesn’t really touch him unless it’s necessary, keeping his hands to himself and never sitting next to him. He no longer barges into Dream’s room in the morning to make him breakfast. And most importantly, he’s stopped asking for kisses.
But Dream knows there are times when he wants to.
Days ago, they were sitting in the living room on their phones when a Tiktok playing from George’s caught his attention. It was a challenge, a trend where couples were supposed to eat skittles and then kiss to feel the flavours explode. Dream’s chest expanded in hope, fingers restless in anticipation.
George was quick to scroll past it, pink dusting on his cheeks as he shuffled uncomfortably. Dream watched him, waiting for the inevitable question that he just knew was on the tip of his tongue. But it never came.
The brunet stayed for a few more minutes before suddenly getting up and almost running up the stairs into his room. Something ugly had stirred in Dream’s stomach.
Why are you pulling away? Dream wants to ask every time he sees George, eyes open and pleading and hoping that George would just understand.
He feels like he did something wrong. And when he thinks back to the last time they kissed, when George had been the one to pull him in so needy, so wanting, he’s left with even more questions. Is it his fault? Is he too much? Is it all in his head?
God, he’s ruined.
He’s ruined for anyone else and he knows it because he’d be the subject of George’s imagination a thousand times over, even if it leaves him in the dark.
And so, Dream decides to stream just to get his mind off of things.
It’s normal for at least an hour. He messes around on a couple of games and his friends hop in and out. It feels like before everything happened, before Dream knew what George’s lips tasted like.
But it’s as if the universe hates him, never giving him a break from turmoil, as he hears the familiar sound of his office door opening and soft footsteps slowly padding closer for the first time in days.
He doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is. Dream just takes off his headphones, switching the audio to his speakers.
“I didn’t know you were still awake.” George’s voice comes out gravely, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.
Dream watches chat, not bothering to mute or turn his camera off. “Couldn’t sleep.” You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? The blond bites his tongue to refrain from saying too much.
George hums. The blond can feel his presence right behind him, leaning over his desk chair. He sits up a little further, shifting and adjusting so that he leans over the side more. George takes that as an invitation to place his chin on the top of his head.
Pale arms wrap around Dream’s shoulders from behind. He feels his breath grow thinner, his chest constricting and he resists the urge to press his lips against the inside of George’s wrists. His head spins at the thought of all of this being on stream.
“What have you been doing?” George asks, picking at a piece of lint at the collar of the blond’s shirt.
“I was just, um.” He can’t even remember. The only thing on his mind is the brunet’s fingers brushing against his throat. “I was uh–”
“So eloquently spoken, Dream.” George laughs. “Why are you so flustered?”
What a fucking tease.
Dream wants to turn around and kiss him senseless but their audience and the fact that he knows George doesn’t want him holds him back. He merely looks up at him from below, the view upside down but so, so pretty nonetheless and god, he should really get a hold of himself.
“I’m not flustered.” He attempts to defend himself. “I told you, I’m tired.”
George hums again. Look at what you do to me.
“Are you talking to anyone?”
“Just chat.” Dream answers, realizing that George might not even know he was live.
But the brunet offers no reaction. Smoke curls in Dream’s mouth the longer George’s arms stay around him. His mind is loud, warning him to tread lightly. Two weeks of barely anything, and now George is winding himself around Dream like it’s nothing.
The chat is moving a mile a minute, everyone freaking out at the older’s sudden appearance. The blond sticks his hands under his legs so that he doesn’t give in to the urge to hold him any closer. Is this how it feels to be tempted by the devil?
“Turn off the camera.”
Dream’s heart stutters. But he can’t stop himself from doing as he says, his hands moving on their own.
George continues, but this time his lips are right next to his ear. Only he can hear his words. “Tell chat you're gonna be right back.”
The instruction wraps itself around his head and he has to blink a couple of times to clear the fog in his mind. He turns, rips his eyes away from the boy behind him to address the stream. “Um, one sec chat. I’ll be right back.”
Shaky fingers go to mute the mic but a pale hand stops him. He looks back up at George.
The brown-eyed, all-too-consuming gaze peers down at him. He whispers again. “Don’t.”
George’s arms slowly retreat and Dream holds his breath. The brunet moves to stand next to him and spins his desk chair until he’s facing him; a hazy mirror of their second kiss. Except this time, George doesn’t hesitate to straddle his hips, sitting on his lap and gripping onto his shoulders for balance.
“Is this okay?” He says so, so gently and quietly.
Dream nods under him; a dead man. His body feels disconnected from his mind, like he’s watching from across the room with bated breath. He doesn’t even feel the fabric of George’s shirt where it lays under his palms. He can’t taste anything other than his restraint as it flows out of his lips–never to return.
You’re the only one that I’d let see me like this.
Something flashes in George’s gaze. Recognition, maybe.
Maybe he can hear his thoughts, read his mind. Dream wouldn’t put it past him. He also wouldn’t stop him.
“Let’s try something.” The whispered words engrave themselves into his chest.
“Anything.” He bleeds out.
George’s hands tighten. “I want to kiss you, and see if you can keep composure. See if you can keep it a secret.”
I want to kiss you, I want to kiss you, I want to kiss you.
He swears he forgets how to breathe for a solid eight seconds.
Dream swallows around the lump in his throat, nodding once more. He’ll never not blush at how the brunet manages to render him speechless every time they touch.
And then George is leaning in, pressing their bodies together as close as possible. Their lips meet soft in the middle, taking Dream by surprise. He was ready for George to rip into him, to tear him apart piece by piece. This is so much worse.
He knows he’s doomed when the brunet is so careful against him. His pink lips are quiet and giving but his hands are rogue and pulling, running along the skin of his exposed collar bones.
Dream moves his palms to the dip of George’s waist, gripping hard as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. George seems to feel the same way, as he kisses him like he’s holding him down, as the brunet runs his hands through his blond hair. He grasps like if he pulls away for a single second Dream will slip through his fingers.
And Dream takes it, eyes stinging with almost-tears because George is such an asshole for not letting him mute the mic, for making him hold every single word and noise hostage. It builds inside of him, along with the kiss itself, clawing at his lips to just let it all out.
George must sense this. He knows him too well.
Because the next thing Dream knows, the brunet is deepening the kiss and giving him everything he’s wanted for the past month, the past two fucking years. George breathes in the sound that escapes him and that alone sets his face ablaze. Dream's grip wavers for a second and he feels the faintest hint of a smile against him.
George is having fun. He’s messing with Dream because he knows he can.
“Keep composure,” the brunet had said.
That’s what loops in his mind as Dream decides to take control.
The blond pulls at the boy’s shirt and does something he knows he’ll regret but, in the heat of the moment, it feels so, so worth it.
Dream opens his mouth and runs his tongue along George’s lips, a line none of them have dared to cross until now. The brunet responds almost immediately, a sharp intake of breath and the hands in Dream’s hair falter. He goes lax under his touch, and so he does it again.
A single noise breaks from George’s lips and he’s pulling away from Dream. Both of their eyes are blown wide, flitting from each other’s gaze to their mouths and back up again. His insides feel like lava but Dream still has half the mind to not pant as hard as he wants to, still trying to remain quiet.
George seems to remember the stream as well, glancing at the monitors with his lip caught between his teeth.
Dream doesn’t know what to do anymore. His hands feel lost, never wanting to leave the brunet’s frame but also not knowing if they're welcome.
George turns back to him again, heavy blush still evident.
“I’m–” His voice sounds quieter than ever. “I’m sorry.”
Before he can even process the words, George is pulling himself away, moving off of Dream, and running out the door.
The blond is left shocked and a little heartbroken, almost standing up to chase after him but stopping himself at the last second. First, he’s still live. Second, he doesn’t even know what he’d say.
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his chest holds a weight that threatens to break him, and most significantly: Dream thinks he’ll cry before he gets another word out to George. He can’t see him like that.
And so he stays.
He tries to return to the stream but it’s clear something is off so Dream ends after only five minutes. The silence is jarring, both in a physical and mental sense.
George took everything he knew with him the second he left. For the first time in a while, Dream’s mind is quiet.
+ I.
He doesn’t go after him.
As much as it hurts to be apart, the pain of seeing pure regret in George’s eyes stings him far worse. It lingers, red and angry and leaving a trail of blood behind him wherever he goes.
Dream doesn’t know what to think anymore.
They were nothing more than best friends a month ago, but one little itch that George just couldn’t ignore sends them down this route. Suddenly, he’s familiar with how the brunets hands feel in his hair while their lips slide together on the couch, in the pool, in his own fucking room.
He finds him everywhere. Little pieces of his best friend in the corner of his eye and he’s stuck, staring and transfixed. Every inch of this house seems to just reek of George’s presence, even though he hasn’t physically seen him in almost twenty-four hours.
An empty cup on the kitchen counter, the tube of chocolate chapstick that remains on his desk, the crescent-moon-shaped marks on his palms from the mere thought of George. He can’t stop seeing him.
Dream’s never been clingy. Sure, he’ll get bored and whine and sigh whenever he seems to be getting ignored, but that was because he knew he’d never really get left behind. He could survive a couple of days without interactions–he’d just think about George all day regardless–but that was before everything started becoming real.
Now, he’s not sure if the closing of George’s door is permanent. Every few hours, he’ll pass by but the blond can’t allow himself to linger and try to hear if the boy on the other side is awake. It hasn’t even been a day. He can’t let him know he’s that desperate to see his face.
There’s that, and the fact that he doesn’t even know what he’s done to deserve getting shut out.
Surely, he missed something; became blinded by soft kisses and fingertips to see what was unfolding. He is so easily bent to the brunet’s will, letting him do anything he wants in exchange for just a little bit of his time. George seemed to know, though. George seemed to find something, dirty yet clear, in Dream’s eyes to make him run away.
And for the first time since the brunet ran out of his office, Dream thinks of him bitterly.
It feels like a knife to the heart, deep and burning. Every kiss had felt like fireworks, igniting something inside him and bursting in a flurry of colour every time their lips met. But then the sparks would fizzle out, George would pull away, and he’s left in the smoke.
And on those nights–while Dream would be awake replaying every second and blushing into his pillow–the brunet would be completely fine. Indifferent, like it never meant a thing.
The one time he thought he felt something new in George’s eyes, something deeper in the way he kissed, the brunet was gone. He’d pulled away and left Dream with a sputtered out I’m sorry.
The blond feels his mind running down a path he knows will only hurt him more, but it doesn’t take much to fill in the blanks.
I’m sorry. He’d said. I’m sorry for kissing you like you are the only thing I ever want to hold. I’m sorry I let it get this far. I’m sorry I don’t like you back.
Dream wants to rip out the part of his brain that seems to be stuck on George.
Dream would do anything to see him smile. Even if it means he’ll never feel it pressed against his own anymore.
He’s a mess, and his head is convinced that the brunet has the gift of sorting it out.
So he gives in.
Some things never change. Dream curses himself as he leaves his room to confront his best friend, mud trailing behind him, slowing him down because he would really rather do anything else than initiate his own rejection. But waiting will only hurt them both.
It’s better to get it out of the way and move on from whatever this month has been. (It’s been the best month of Dream’s life but he chooses to ignore that.)
His feet stop in front of George’s door, growing roots into the carpet. And even though it was less than a thirty–second walk from Dream’s bedroom to the brunet’s, he feels out of breath. Green eyes stare holes into the wood in front of him.
What if George hates me?
Hands pause on their way to knock on the door.
The question sends pins and needles up his back. What if Dream’s been pushing and pushing to the point where George felt like the only way to stop was to pull away completely? What if Dream’s the asshole who can’t take a hint? What if–
A quiet sniffle on the other side of the door cuts through his downward spiral.
Oh god, please don’t let that be George crying.
The blond leans closer and hears another sound; soft like he’s trying to hide it. Dream’s heart aches worse than it has all day.
“George?” He knocks on the door.
He hears a gasp and some shuffling.
“George, are you okay?” Dream tries again, reaching for the handle.
A muffled voice passes through the barrier between them and into his ears. “Mhm.” His voice comes out rough.
“Can–” George needs help. “Is it okay if I come in?”
Seconds tick by, Dream waits with furrowed eyebrows and the taste of rain on his tongue.
“Come in.”
The blond doesn’t waste a second, opening the door and finding his best friend laying on his bed, rubbing his eyes, and clearing his throat as if that’ll make the pearl tear tracks on his cheeks disappear. Dream’s lungs constrict at the sight.
He walks over to the brunet but doesn’t sit down, merely standing there with his hands yearning to reach out and brush the hair out of his reddened eyes.
“Do you want water?” He offers, drowning in the need to make him feel better.
George is silent as he nods, not looking at him directly.
Dream leaves–albeit hesitantly–to fetch a glass, head filled with clouds and smoke.
But when he returns from the kitchen, the blond finds George sitting up on his bed and on his phone. He looks up when Dream enters the room, a smile on his face but it lacks any of that signature sparkle. It looks painted on.
“Thanks, Dream.” George grasps the cup, taking a sip. “Wow, this water is really… crisp.”
He frowns. “Hey, c’mon don’t do that.” He sits next to him.
The brunet pretends to look confused but Dream can see the truth in the downturn of his eyebrows. “Do what?”
“George.” He deadpans. “Your eyes are still red.”
His best friend turns away, face falling. “It doesn’t matter that much. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Dream feels waves of grey coming from the boy beside him. “Look at me.”
George doesn’t move.
“George, look at me.” The blond reaches out and–against his better judgment–grabs his jaw, forcing George to face him.
Their eyes lock for a moment, time stopping and all Dream can hear is white noise. There’s something heavy in his gaze and Dream feels exposed, like he’s seeing right through him. The brunet’s mouth, the one he’s grown so achingly familiar with, is pulled between his teeth as if that’ll keep all of his feelings from spilling out.
“Talk to me.” Dream pleads, dropping his hand to hold onto both of George’s wrists in between them.
And his best friend, his love, breaks.
George falls forward, leans into his chest, and cries. He cries and cries, shoulders shaking and hiccuping. Dream holds him all the while, and finds it only a little ironic that he’s comforting the brunet mere minutes before he’s about to be rejected. But he takes care of him anyway, pulling him into his lap and rubbing his back, because he deserves it.
The blond only speaks when George sniffles reduce to once every few minutes, his hold never relenting.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
George’s face screws up, grimacing at the words. “I told you. It’s nothing.”
“George.” Baby, he almost says.
The brunet rubs at his nose, refusing to answer.
Dream doesn’t know what else to do. “Did– did I–” He already knows he’s the problem. There’s no point in beating around the bush. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” George pulls back, shock written all over his face, and the blond can feel his heart in his throat. “No, no. Wh– Dream no, why would you think that?”
I’m not sacred enough for his pity.
“It’s okay, George.” He rubs his back once more, savouring the feeling before he’s inevitably pushed away. “You don’t have to act like– like we both don’t know why you’re upset. I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t– I should’ve stopped way sooner.”
That, however, does not seem to ease the brunet. Instead, he seems even more on edge than before. Tears begin to well up in the corner of his eyes again, shining for all the wrong reasons.
“What do you mean?” George brings his own hands closer to himself.
Dream inhales and exhales, preparing himself to voice everything that’s been lingering in his mind. “I should have said something after the first time. I thought that I could be normal and– and act like I wasn’t feeling anything but every kiss was just so much.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the knots. “And then, it just kept happening, and I kept saying yes and going along with it, but now we’re here and things are fucked between us and I’m– I’m just really sorry. I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I’d–” The words he hates to say get caught in his throat. “I’d take it back if I could.” Liar.
He finally looks George in the eyes, but the sight sends a pang into his heart.
The brunet is staring at him, crestfallen, with crystal droplets streaming down his cheeks. Anguish is the only thing written on his face.
“George?” He reaches out, frantic. “What– what’s wrong?” How did I just mess this up even more?
A sob breaks out from his lips when Dream’s hands hold his jaw, wiping away the tears. “Stop being nice to me.”
“What?” Dream brushes the hair from his forehead. “George, what do you mean?”
He shakes his head, turning away. “Just stop. Stop being nice to me. How can you say all that and still want to be around me? You should hate me.” He pulls his knees to his chest, curling into himself but still somewhat in Dream’s lap.
The blond just blinks in confusion. “I like being nice to you.” I like you.
“That’s the problem!” George cries. “Do you have any idea what that does to me? Do you know how hard it’ll be to move on from you when you keep treating me like this?”
Everything halts.
Blood roars in his ears and he must be dreaming because what?
“Move on?” He breathes, soft as the words process.
George glares at him, scowling, and it would hurt if Dream wasn’t so fucking confused. “Yes, move on.” He spits. “I know it’s pretty obvious that I’m a little more than– than crushed by this but I’d have to move on eventually. I might be stupid enough to start whatever the fuck this was, but I’m not an idiot. I know when to give up.”
Dream’s whole body is still while his brain catches up. Murky water rinses off of him in waves, clearing his mind as it finally starts to sink in. “George, wait. Give up on what?”
The brunet balls his fists up at his sides like he’s about to punch something. “Fuck you. I’m not saying it again.”
The words he’d heard once before, moments after their second kiss, ring through his ears. But the juxtaposition of their intentions opens his eyes to how stupid they’ve both been.
“George, look at me.”
The boy shakes his head again, pain across his features.
“Please?”
And he can see the war of his emotions, grimacing before eyelids shut in a defeated look. The brunet turns to him but refuses to meet his gaze.
Dream doesn’t waste a second. He’d be damned if he missed his only chance to set things right.
The blond leans down, fingers grazing his chin again. He hears a sharp intake of breath and thinks George is going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He stays.
“Can I?” Dream asks, heart on his sleeve, open for George to take or break.
Fear flashes in the air between them; a shared vulnerability.
“What would this mean to you?” George’s eyes are tired, sunken, yet the faintest glint of hope shines through.
Dream takes it and runs.
“Everything.” The blond tries to convey the pure desire in his tone, in the pressure of his fingertips, in the furrow of his eyebrows. “I promise.” Believe me, please.
A moment of silence. Dream’s breathing almost fails him as he sits there like an open casket, waiting to be saved from eternal damnation. Except in this life, the merciful nature of God takes the appearance of George’s hands, lips, and tongue.
And then they’re colliding, George rising up and pulling him in by the collar of his shirt.
Dream could almost cry in relief at the feeling of the brunet’s lips on his again, pressing harder than ever before as if it’ll bring them impossibly closer. He wants to dig into his skin, make a home inside his ribcage and never leave. His desperation barely even surprises him anymore, too used to the craving of filling all of his senses, every inch of his mind, with George.
They pull at each other, breath escaping them at every shift until George is seated in his lap. Red runs down his body like he’s been doused in gasoline, fire licking at his hands as he tightens his grip. Something pools in his stomach, urging Dream to dare.
He opens his mouth, sighing when George takes the invitation immediately. They kiss for whoever knows how long–too wrapped up in each other's touch to care.
He’s never kissed like this. He’s never been kissed like this. It consumes him from head to toe.
And then, ever-so-slowly, it disperses.
Hot, burning passion melts into soft, soothing contentment just to have the other close. The pressure lightens to little kisses every now and again, foreheads resting against one another as they catch their breath. The hands in his hair drift down, laying over his heart. Dream knows it’s beating a mile a minute but he couldn’t care less. George deserves to know how whipped he is.
His skin thrives under George’s touch, sparks lighting at every brush. He feels new. They feel new. Every kiss breaks him down just to rebuild with a warm, caring hold.
Eventually, a finger presses to Dream’s mouth, stopping him from placing another kiss against the side of his lips.
“You–” George tries to speak, voice so weak and Dream has to fight the urge to swoon at the idea of the brunet losing his composure because of him. “This means you like me, right?” He asks.
“Mhm.” The blond tugs him down once more, holding their chests together so he can plant a final kiss on his collarbone. “So much.”
“And– and this whole time–”
“This whole time I was letting you kiss me because I thought that’s all I would ever get.” Dream interrupts. “And you?”
George squirms a little. “I guess I thought I could have you for a little bit if I made it, like, fun or something. But after a while, I just felt guilty. That’s what today was, I think.” He admits.
The blond hums, looking to see where the tears once stained his face. They’re bare now; the only thing dressing them is a fair blush across the tops of his cheeks. Dream cannot help but nose it at, relishing in the fact that he’s allowed to indulge in his desires.
“I would’ve let you do your stupid experiments on me forever, y’know?” Dream whispers into the skin, unashamed.
Flowers bloom on Dream where George’s eyes wander, taking it all in. “You really are wrapped around my finger, aren’t you?” He grins, running his palms along the inside of the blond’s arms. “This’ll be fun.”
And although the rolling of his green eyes tells a different story, Dream knows he’ll enjoy every second of it.