Work Text:
When Dream opens his closet he is greeted by nothing but hangers. He touches them, shoving them along the railing as though a good enough rattle will make the clothes materialise. He gives up after a minute and, without closing the closet doors, he turns instead to the chest of drawers beneath the TV on the opposite wall. He pulls out all three drawers in succession, digging through the clothes that had been neatly folded by his mother on her last visit but had since blended together again in messy piles with how little care he gave to them every time he looked for a particular t-shirt or pair of underwear. At any rate, he knows it is pointless even as he further mixes the different fabrics together – he just wants to avoid the only other option, which involves an ugly confrontation with the man currently in his living room. Still, the getting-chillier-by-the-day house they both share is making him desperate to hunt down his eight – yes, eight – missing hoodies.
“George,” he yells before reaching the bottom of the stairs, before even seeing what the suspect sitting on his couch has on. His investigation into the case of the missing hoodies won’t even require interrogation, considering George is currently wearing the evidence.
“Yes?” George answers without looking up, too focused on his phone as he sits practically drowning in green fabric.
Dream crosses his arms over his chest and waits for George to notice his expression. When the culprit in question fails to look up for another two minutes, even after Dream loudly clears his throat – several times – Dream groans, “You’re wearing my hoodie.”
“I was cold.”
“Oh yeah?” Dream rapidly loses patience with his guest’s nonchalance, “And what happened to the other seven?”
George – little shit he is – actually has the audacity to sigh, like he’s tired of this non-conversation, like Dream is somehow interrupting his very time-consuming Twitter scrolling, like Dream should apologise for asking about his stolen property, should just offer up all his worldly possessions as an act of devotion, or better yet, leave the room entirely. So he does.
Dream turns without a word and bounces back up the staircase, knowing George won’t care or even notice. He rushes past his own bedroom, instead letting himself through the closed door at the end of the hallway. It doesn’t take long for him to find George’s still half-unpacked suitcase and begin rifling through it with even less care than he gave to his own clothes.
When he finally returns downstairs a few minutes later, he doesn’t bother to make his presence known to George. Instead he walks right past him to the other side of the couch and settles himself comfortably, reaching for the TV remote. It’s only the sounds of Netflix previews on shuffle that finally catch George’s attention and he looks up from his phone, first at the TV and then to the man on his left and… oh.
Dream is wearing a bright blue hoodie – if you can even call it that anymore. The sleeves, oversized as they are, just barely fall below his wrists, but the torso comes up so high it might as well be a crop top. The hood surely wouldn’t fit so Dream leaves it bunched up around his neck.
“Dream?” George asks, unsure how else to respond to the sight of his friend in his hoodie.
Dream doesn’t bother looking away from the TV, only sighs and says, “I was cold.”