Work Text:
George likes to ask himself why his life is as miserable as it is. He’s traded comfort for practicality, living in a run-down apartment with more leaks than function perks. Every week is a battle against a budget; he’s spent several weeks refining his meal plan to be able to afford his rent, and he’s sacrificed his favorite hair brands in favor of a shitty American 3-in-1 product.
Realistically, he knows why he’s living the way he is, but he’s found it’s very difficult to convince someone to feel sorry for him when he tells them he abandoned his computer science major two years away from completing it to travel to America and pursue acting. He selected acting for a change of pace, which is why the irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. In London, he was tired of the repetitive assignments, bland streets, and forgettable people. A stable future with a well-paying job wasn’t exciting enough for university-George. He saw America as an escape, a new, fresh start. But now, four years of barely scraping by later, he’s found himself in the same place as before. Tired, drained, and struggling to make it work. Being a starving artist is no joke. His family may find it humorous on the rare occasions he can scrape enough together to buy a ticket home. They have their laughs, asking him if he’s finally found a real job, and then they move on to another topic. It’s all fun and games for them. That’s why George hasn’t given up. Spite is a strong motivator, and he’s nothing if not petty.
That leads him to where he is now, sitting on a crappy chair in the middle of a waiting room, surrounded by competition. His script is clutched tightly in his hands, as if it’s a secret known only to him, and not one of the many copies distributed to the poor, pathetic idiots dumb enough to attempt acting as a career.
George may be motivated, but he’s not stupid. He knows the chances of him landing a role today are low. There’s a window of a couple of hours, and despite arriving early, he’s still waiting for his name to be called. He hopes it happens soon, if only so he can separate himself from the squeaking of chairs and occasional mumbling of the chump next to him practicing his lines out loud. It’s making George go mad. Even if the noise is somewhat of a universal constant from audition to audition, that doesn’t mean George has to enjoy it.
Someone screams from across the room. Like full out, genuinely fucking screams.
Generally this wouldn’t be a problem, given that this is an audition, but the scream seems a bit too real. And George isn’t alone in his discomfort. The occupants of the room are leaping to their feet, scrambling away from the large door that leads to the reading room. George watches, brow wrinkled as several people stumble past him towards the exit. He searches for the cause of the commotion, and finds it almost immediately. To be fair, it’s impossible to miss the man hopping up and down, shaking his leg furiously in an attempt to dislodge the blood-sucking, horrifying creature on him.
George wishes to state for the record that the previously mentioned universal constants do not include an enormous fucking tarantula.
The man is stumbling his way closer to where George is seated. George, having no interest in being close to the fuzzy monster, scrambles to his feet and attempts to get some distance between him and his new nemesis. Unfortunately, he’s not quite the most coordinated in moments of panic, and he ends up slamming right into the man. Their collision knocks them both to the floor, with George landing hard on his back and the man dropping somewhere next to him. George groans, pressing a hand to his head as a sharp pain shoots through him. After a moment, he sits up, mumbling incoherently as his vision clears. He wishes he hadn’t. The spider has migrated from the man onto George’s pant leg, and it’s slowly making its way up his body, where it will no doubt commence the slow and painful process of strangling George with its many legs.
George, like the professional, put-together person he is, bursts into tears. He can’t really be blamed, though. There’s a deadly spider making a beeline straight for his neck so it can rip him apart mercilessly. This is not what he imagined when he decided to try acting. He quite literally did not sign up for this.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that he shouldn’t be reacting this way; he’s probably making things worse by panicking. The spider is surely just as terrified as he is. But, at the same time, George has never been the most logical person (see: switched from safe career to fucking acting) and he’s certainly not going to start now that he’s on the brink of death.
The million-legged, freaky creature has reached his stomach when something large and warm comes to rest on his shoulder. George is at the point of hyperventilating, but he manages to peek through his watery eyes at the source of heat situated against him. Crouching next to him with a goofy grin, one that certainly is not suitable for George’s funeral, is a man with golden-blond hair, faint freckles speckling his face, and burning yellow eyes. He’s dressed in a hoodie, one that’s a similar color to his eyes, and he’s sporting ripped jeans. Overall, he’s giving George attention-whore and needy-bitch vibes, and George definitely does not need that right now. Usually, he would say something snappy when a random dude comes over and rests his unfairly large hands on George’s shoulder– something along the lines of I’m straight. But usually George doesn’t have a fucking bug making the journey up his hoodie and towards his bare, exposed skin. So, ya. George says nothing. He simply stares at the man in front of him while waiting for the inevitable death by the hands- or whatever tarantulas have- of this terrifying creature.
“Hi,” the man says. The tarantula choses this moment to begin the climb up George’s neck, and that- not the man’s soft, warm voice- is what causes George to shudder. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to stop crying. You’re upsetting him.”
George almost, almost snorts; he barely stops himself. If George had snorted, he most certainly would have died. That’s what this unfairly attractive man wants, isn’t it? He’s already choosing the side of the spider over poor George, who is clearly the victim in this situation. Also, he’s a fellow actor– or somewhat involved in the production, given he’s at auditions- which means this is all an elaborate ploy to steal the role for himself! It’s definitely working. George wouldn’t want to hire himself if he had to watch the pathetic ball he’s become for more than a moment.
George’s thoughts must have been conveyed clearly by the death-glare present on his face, because the man flinches and chuckles apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I know you’re probably scared too, but, it’s just-” George lets out a choked whimper as the creature reaches his chin. The man takes pity on him and chooses to forgo trying to convince George that this evil creature is actually a secret saint in disguise, and instead moves his hand from George’s shoulder. “I’m going to- I need to- Can I touch you? Wait, not like- ugh, I meant like- fuck!” George would definitely be enjoying the spluttering mess in front of him if he didn’t have a spider on his face. Although, technically, if he didn’t have the spider on his face, then he wouldn’t be having this conversation. Then again, conversation implies that there’s any sort of verbal exchange between them. The farthest they’ve gotten so far is death glares and stuttered words. “I can get it off,” the man is explaining, which actually doesn't sound any better than his previous requests to touch, but at this point George really can’t give a fuck. “Just, uh, is that good- I mean, okay? Blink, like twice if you agree.” George’s despair has been growing with each moment the spider continues to be on his face, and he blinks rapidly to convey how much he wants this over with. If this man doesn’t hurry up and do something and the spider reaches George’s eyes, he’s absolutely hurling himself out a window. Surely he can still meet a quick and painless death even if he’s only on the first level of the building. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to find out, because the man starts moving.
He places his hand over George’s mouth, radiating warmth into George’s skin now that there’s no longer a clothing barrier between them. George wonders if he’d pull away if George were to open his mouth and lick him, but he suppresses the childish urge out of a need to be at least somewhat professional in his last moments alive.
His vision is splitting as he attempts to look down the bridge of his nose at the spider. He can just barely make out the beginnings of legs crawling onto the man’s hand, and the weight of the creature partially leaving his face only confirms his theory.
Now that the spider is less of a worry, and his life is halfway restored, George is starting to notice the faint humming of his fellow actors. There’s a crowd formed around them, made up of actors and producers alike, and George would be lying if he said he’d been aware of their presence before now. He’d completely blocked out the world outside of him and the man in front of him since the whole debacle started.
“Almost there,” the man is saying softly. And, ugh, why does his voice have to sound like that?
He’s right about the process almost being complete, because the man is able to lift his hand off of George’s mouth less than a minute later, and the spider goes with it. George feels himself sag in relief; the adrenaline in his veins evaporating just like his chances of getting this job. He faintly notices the man passing off the spider to a guy dressed in a hideous Hawaiian shirt, but George’s brain is too done with the situation to care. He wants to go back to his apartment, throw himself onto his thread-bare couch, and listen to the pitter-patter of the rain slowly dripping into his apartment. But he can’t do that because he’s still in this terrible building, surrounded by terrible people, and terribly terrified of dying, so he does the next best thing.
The man lets out a faint huff of surprise as George cuts off whatever he’s saying to Hawaiian-man by throwing himself onto him and wrapping his arms around him. George likes to pretend that he’s a dignified person, but at this moment, latched onto this random man and sobbing into his shoulder, he figures he should get some sort of pass. After all, he almost died. The man seems to share this sentiment, because he’s mumbling soothing reassurance and carding his hand through George’s hair. George melts into the embrace, letting himself forget about trivial things such as his lack of income and painfully high tax payments. Later, as George slowly detaches himself, the man introduces himself as Dream.
“That’s a dumb name,” George mumbles in reply, sulking after forcing himself to part ways with the furnace currently in front of him. He grimaces as he notices a damp spot on Dream’s hoodie, rubbing at it as if that’ll do something. “Sorry about that.”
Dream’s smile should be illegal with the way it blinds George. It’d be a hazard if someone were driving and saw that; they’d for sure crash. “It’s all good,” Dream chirps, standing up and offering George a hand. When George accepts it and allows himself to be pulled up, he does not revel in the size difference between their hands- he fucking doesn’t, that’d be weird. Since he definitely wasn’t doing that, he definitely isn’t surprised when he has to look up to be able to see Dream’s dumb face. Dream is a giant! Okay, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Dream is only a few inches taller than George, but George is allowed to be dramatic because he almost died! Dream reaches over and nudges his shoulder with his fist, grinning. “It’s not every day I get a pretty boy like you crying on my shoulder.” George just so happens to inhale oxygen the wrong way at that moment. This also brings a dull flush to his cheeks. George would like the record to indicate that he’s only blushing because he almost choked, not because of anything else. Dream clearly finds this amusing, if his laughter is any indication. George almost died- again, he might add- and Dream has the audacity to start wheezing over it. It’s not even cute when he does it. In fact, George thinks his laughter is dumb and not adorable.
“You’re so red!” Dream crows, and then he’s laughing again. George, like the gracious man he is, gives him a minute to calm down.
“Are you done now?” he demands after Dream’s wheezing-fit has come to an end.
“Maybe,” Dream says, a dorky smile returning to his face as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “Depends.”
“Depends?” George parrots mockingly.
“Yep. Are you going to tell me your name?”
George quite enjoys being difficult, so he tilts his head and shakes it. “How about I give you my number instead,” he suggests.
“You’ll give me your number but not your name?” Dream asks incredulously.
“I mean, I could just give you neither.”
“No!” Dream says quickly, fumbling to pull out his phone. George bites back a smile as he accepts the device and inputs his number. The smile spills over anyway when their hands brush while he passes back Dream’s phone.
“Simp.”
“Shut up,” Dream replies playfully. “Just for that, I’m putting your contact name as spider-boy!”
“Fine. I’m putting you down as, um-” George racks his brain for a clever word pun, but finds nothing useful. Damn Dream for having such an odd name. “Nightmare,” he decides finally. “It’s because you’re a fucking nightmare to be around.”
Dream coos, completely unaffected. “You’re just saying that because you love me,” he chirps, leaning into George’s space with a grin.
“Fuck off,” George replies coolly, flipping him off.
Dream becomes something of a regular in George’s life in the weeks after the missed addition. They seek each other out for drinks, or to rant about missed additions and upcoming rent payments, or simply just to sit in silence and enjoy each other's company. George would be alarmed at the rate that their friendship is growing if he bothered to think about it. But he doesn’t. He’s found that it’s simply better to focus on Dream and ignore any additional feelings that may happen to be attached to the man. He ignores the weird thing his stomach does when Dream says his name for the first time in favor of batting at the man as he starts laughing. He doesn’t spend any time trying to sneak subtle glances over at his companion when they meet up in person. He doesn't clutch his phone to his chest whenever Dream sends a stupid, sappy text. And George certainly doesn’t spend hours wondering why he bothers paying for heating when Dream is right there, arms open and waiting.
It’s safe to say that they’re good friends by the time the casting call comes in. Dream shoots him a panicked look as his finger hovers over the accept button; George takes pity on his struggling associate and leans over to press it for him. Dream had confided in him previously about the fear he gets every time he receives a call. George thinks it’s ridiculous. Dream is young, smart, and gorgeous. Any studio would be blessed to hire him. Besides, as he’d so graciously explained to Dream, studios usually don’t call actors to reject them. In George’s humble opinion, silence is the worst you can get.
Dream is saying something into his phone, and then he’s grinning and thanking whoever is on the other end before he hangs up and faces George with a smile that is unfortunately still blinding. George doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. Not that Dream gives him any time before he’s sweeping him off his feet and engulfing him in a hug, shouting into his shoulder excitedly. George can feel his cheeks burning– because Dream is being an idiot and making a scene, and not because of how close he’s pressed to Dream or the warmth that’s seeping into him.
“You’re so dumb,” George says once he’s finally been released. He’s not being mean to Dream because the other man stopped holding him; that’s an outrageous accusation. “I take it they liked you.”
Dream is beaming so wide that George is afraid him dumb, attractive face might split in half. “I got a callback, George. They said I had potential! I’m going back next week so they can reevaluate my performance, but the guy on the phone pretty much said the part is mine.”
“That’s amazing,” George says, and he means it. In the short time that he’s known Dream, he’s sure that no one else deserves the part as much as the hard-working, kind man in front of him. At the same time, this doesn't stop a small cloud of jealousy from building within him. It must have shown on his face, or Dream just knows him too well, because a hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
“Hey, I’m sorry you didn’t get to audition.”
George almost doesn’t want to say anything, afraid that he may startle Dream. But he doesn't want to dampen the mood, so he shakes his head and plasters a grin on his face. “You’re so lucky that spider was there otherwise I’d have blown you so far out of the water they wouldn’t have even considered you.” Dream chuckles, the hand on George’s shoulder shoving him playfully before detracting fully, much to George’s annoyance. He sobers after a moment. “Seriously,” he says. “As much as I might complain about what happened, I don’t regret it. I’d do it all over again if it meant we still got to meet.”
Dream gets his trademark dumb-surprised-puppy look even as his eyebrows shoot up. “Even the part with the spider on your face?” he asks skeptically, somehow still balancing a healthy dose of cynicism with his dazed expression.
George shudders. “Never mind. You’re not worth it. I hate you.” Just like that, it’s over. The serious conversation fades into playful banter as they verbally push and shove each other. George keeps his real opinions to himself, too afraid to voice them; he thinks everything has been worth it and he’d give up a thousand auditions if it meant meeting Dream.
He discovers at some disgusting time in the morning, when he’s awoken by the shrill ringing of his phone, that he may not have to make that trade. The man on the phone is monotone as he informs George of his callback, in stark contrast to George’s excited inquiry over what he could have possibly done to receive a callback. The first thing he does after hanging up on the man is call Dream. He feels like he’s floating, hopping up and down and spinning in little circles and giggling uncontrollably.
Dream picks up almost immediately, and George has half a mind to scold him for having such a terrible sleep schedule. No one should be awake at this time. The scolding dies immediately as he hears Dream mumbling a greeting. George’s mouth goes dry, words lost at the tip of his tongue as he comes to two realizations. The first being that he’s woken Dream up. Which, yikes. George remembers a hushed confession from his friend about his trouble falling asleep. He feels terrible for ripping away something Dream struggles to achieve. The second, and more pressing concern, is that Dream has a very deep morning voice. It contrasts the soft, warm tone present whenever he speaks to George.
George doesn’t think it’s hot, and he isn’t melting on the spot.
“George?” Dream asks again. George snaps to reality, realizing that he’s been silent for far too long to be socially acceptable; although, to be fair, calling someone at this time definitely isn’t socially acceptable. George also realizes that he likes hearing his name come from Dream’s mouth when his voice sounds like this. That thought isn’t weird; it doesn’t mean anything. Plenty of people probably feel the same way about Dream. It’s not just George.
“I got the callback,” he says finally. He cringes at his own voice, scratchy from misuse, and coughs auspiciously into his hand. He almost misses the sharp inhale from the other end, but he can’t miss the loud cheering that follows after.
“Let’s fucking go!” Dream shouts– well, more like quietly whispers, but it may as well be shouting. “I knew it- I told you- wait, how- congratulations, George! I knew you could do it!”
George could be mistaken for a lottery winner with the size of his smile. “The guy who called me said the director liked my performance so much she decided to give me a shot. He told me that she thinks I could have toned down the crying bit at the end, but everything else was done well.”
Dream’s laughing now, his voice having almost returned to normal, much to George’s disappointment. “I’m sorry– did they use what happened in the waiting room as your audition?”
George joins in the laughter. “Apparently. I think they assumed most of what I was doing was acting. The guy told me that I really played up the part, whatever the fuck that means.”
“I think he was saying that most people don’t become a sobbing mess after the spider is removed,” Dream teases. George huffs indignantly and rolls his eyes, despite his companion’s inability to notice the action. “But, seriously, congratulations. This means we get to go together!”
“I know,” George says, feeling breathless. “Uhm, I’m sorry for waking you, by the way. I- I didn’t really think before I called you.” It’s a rather alarming thought to have, and even more so now that he’s said it out loud. Dream, thankfully, doesn’t see it as that much of an issue.
“It’s okay, really. I’m glad you did.” He sounds sincere enough for George’s guilt to wash away. “But, uhm- do you mind- ugh…” Dream trails off, the line going silent. George rolls his eyes.
“Dream,” he says, sighing. “Just say it.” Dream has told George a lot of his odd thoughts; George has pretty much heard it all. How bad can this be?
“Can you sleep with me?” Dream blurts out, immediately answering George’s previous question. When it comes to Dream, George should automatically assume the worst; the man somehow manages to butcher everything he says. George’s silence, in which he’s internally berating himself for growing attached to an idiot like Dream, must have been interpreted negatively by Dream because he immediately begins rambling. “Shit! Wait, I didn’t mean it like- no, not in that way! Uhm, I just meant like could you stay on call- fuck, George, why are you laughing?” George doesn’t answer him; he’s too busy laughing. It wouldn’t be Dream without some sort of accidental innuendo. George thinks it’s hilarious half the time, the way Dream’s mouth moves faster than his brain. George also thinks it could lead to the both of them doing something incredibly stupid, because Dream wouldn’t think about it and George has spent all his time trying not to.
“You- you want me to s-stay on call?” George manages to wheeze out in between fits of laughter. Dream’s mumbled affirmation calms him down until he goes completely silent. “Alright,” he answers softly. It’s only fair for him to keep Dream company until the lights go off, considering he is the one who woke him up in the first place.
This is the only reason George wants to do this- not because he wonders if Dream snores, or talks in his sleep, or does anything equally endearing as his conscious-self does.
George learns a lot more about Dream between the morning of his call and the date of the callback; first and foremost that Dream is clingy. He’s constantly texting George, asking his opinion on some mundane topic that George really couldn’t give a fuck about, or asking if they can go out to get coffee or sit at the park. He’s hesitant with any unestablished venture, but the moment George gives him an inch of leeway, Dream will run an entire mile with it. Case and point: the calls.
What starts as a convenient way for George to repay Dream for disturbing his sleep turns into an addictive habit. Dream falls asleep much faster when they’re speaking over the phone, and George finds his nights lacking when he wakes to complete silence. He much prefers being able to roll over and stare at the horribly high call-time while Dream’s soft snores are filtered into his room. He also learns a few interesting facts about himself via the calls. He’s completely taken off guard when Dream giddily informs him that he talks in his sleep. George had been careful to give his consciousness a nice scolding after that. Not because he had anything to hide related to Dream, but because he didn’t want to let slip any… acting information? Yes, that. He can’t have Dream gaining the upper hand and stealing all his rolls from him, even if Dream assures him that’s not possible.
“They’ll love you,” he keeps insisting, nudging George with his shoulder as they make their way towards the looming building that houses their potential employers. George has also noticed how touchy Dream has become since their first sleep-call. He wonders if it’s been this way the whole time and he’s only just now noticing it. But if that happens to be the case, then what else could he be missing that’s blatantly obvious?
“Shut the fuck up,” George replies, shoving back against Dream. “You’re going to steal my roll and I’m going to be the understudy who has to murder you to get it back. Which is a pity, because I was just starting to like you.”
“Aw, George! I had no idea that you had a crush on me.”
George rolls his eyes and refuses to look at Dream. “Nope. I hate you. Fuck you.” Dream’s persistent smile is still visible in the peripheral of George’s vision, and he sighs. “Literally, fuck off. Stop following me like some lost puppy.”
“We’re going the same way,” Dream protests. He catches George’s hand when he tries to bat at him, and latches their fingers together. George’s stomach dips, churning in conflict, before he calms it with simple logic: this is what best friends do. Best friends hold hands, and sleep on calls together, and spend all of their time with each other. Dream is his best friend.
“Cool,” George says- quite intelligently, if he does say so himself.
How they both manage to land a role is far beyond George’s comprehension. He’s been sitting motionless on Dream’s old, ratty carpet for the past five minutes while Dream himself keeps shaking his shoulders excitedly. Dream’s cat- who George is secretly planning to steal, and has informed her owner of several times- has long since left George’s lap, much to his dismay.
“This is going to be the most amazing experience of our lives,” Dream is crowing. He’s got a smear of sauce from their takeout on the corner of his lips, and if George wasn’t such a coward he’d reach over and wipe it away. He passes Dream a napkin instead and motions to the offending area when Dream sends him a confused look.
“I still don’t completely believe this,” George says in an attempt to distract himself from watching Dream’s lips. Not that he was doing that, or that he ever does that. That’d be weird.
“Me neither. It feels so surreal. Still, I’m really happy. We’re gonna be working together, George. I’ll be the smiling face you see at eight in the morning every day!”
“I don’t think that’s the achievement you think it is,” George replies blandly.
It’s also far beyond his pay grade to think about how he ended up in the role of the deuteragonist, or how Dream is his own personal antagonist, both in the film and off set.
“Oh, come on, George, just say you love me,” Dream chirps. “Besides, I’m not really your antagonist!”
“You spend half our screen time together trying to murder me, but sure you’re not a bad guy. Because that makes so much sense!”
Dream ignores the sarcasm as he leans against George, their shoulders pressing together. George doesn’t remember when this started, but he can’t say he minds. It’s saving space, them being so close together. “We’re in love,” Dream whispers loudly into George’s ear. George’s brain short circuits. It’s one-hundred percent because Dream has a lack of understanding for personal space, and not at all because he’s saying something that rings a little too true to the thoughts George has carefully been packing away. “Besides, my dude is brainwashed. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing.”
George swallows hard before schooling his expression and turning to glare at Dream. “So? There are like a billion scenes where you almost chop my head off! Brainwashed or not- that’s not attractive.”
“But you still end up loving me,” Dream points out, and George is having a hard time distinguishing between himself and his character. “You save me, even if you do, like, fracture my ribs in the process.”
“I didn’t even know you knew that word,” George mutters. He can’t have this conversation. Not until he knows that Dream is talking about his character and not him. He isn’t willing to speak until Dream’s burning eyes turn away from him and focus on some other pitiful prey.
Dream takes the bait, demanding to know which word George is talking about, and George can finally breathe in peace.
Dream happily introduces George to the man who plays the protagonist. George can’t say he’s really impressed. The man has curly dark hair, dark eyes, is a couple inches shorter than George, and keeps insisting that he is Dream’s best friend. George stubbornly refuses to consider him as such since he’s never heard of this Sapnap-guy before this very day. Sapnap spends the next five minutes demanding to know why Dream never told George anything about him, and then an additional two informing George that Dream never shuts up about him. He’s cut short by Dream practically leaping on him to keep him quiet. Despite their odd introduction, George likes Sapnap. Not as much as he likes Dream, of course, but he’s not quite sure that’s possible. Sapnap drags George over to meet a man named Karl- unintimidating, kind, physically affectionate- and George likes him too. George finds out that Karl plays a love-interest of sorts to Sapnap’s character, and he starts to wonder if this is an action movie or a romance film.
He becomes good friends with the person in charge of his wardrobe, the kindest young woman named Tina. They bond over their shared love for kittens, and he shows her every single photo he has of Patches on his phone. Sometimes he lingers a little too long on the ones with Dream pictured too, but thankfully Tina never comments on it.
While he makes several friends, he finds himself in a deadly match against Dream’s costume designer. The man, Bad, works wonders with the majority of Dream’s outfit- George has never found leather more appealing- but he fails in the most fundamental aspect, in George’s humble opinion.
“It covers his face,” George points out, frowning at Dream as he stands in front of the large dressing room mirror. Bad looks up from where he’s crouched by Dream’s feet, taking measurements for his boots, and over to where George is sitting snugly on one of the vanities.
“That’s the point,” he says slowly. “It’s a focal part of the character-” George waves his hand dismissively.
“Ya, ya. I get that,” he says. “But couldn’t you do that without covering his face? Like do it some other way.”
This is only the first instance of their disagreements- ranging from the face mask to the particular type of leather that highlights Dream’s features most. George has an opinion on it all.
“I hate it,” he says, staring down at his phone screen and swiping to the next tiktok. He has to stifle a giggle as he watches it play out, and saves it to show Dream later.
“Which part do you not like?” Bad asks, a frown present on his face.
“All of it,” George supplies, gesturing to the whole thing. He can almost see Dream raising an eyebrow through the stupid mask, which by the way is dumb and George hates it. “You should take it off,” he suggests helpfully, because he’s awesome like that.
Bad lets out an undignified screeching noise as he gapes at George incredulously. He then turns to Dream for help, only to find Dream already setting to work removing the suit.
“What?” Dream asks as he tips the mask up to rest on top of his hair, revealing his shit-eating grin. “You heard the man. He hates it.”
Maybe, George thinks, this is how the rumor first starts. It’s dumb, and ridiculous, and George doesn’t think there’s any real evidence for it, but half the cast is under the impression that George and Dream are dating. That’s stupid.
Sure, they share an apartment together, but that is only because they’re both broke and sharing one shitty apartment is better than paying the rent for two. And sure, they share a bed, as Sapnap had discovered one night when he burst into their apartment unannounced. But that’s easily explained with the fact that George is too lazy to buy a bed for himself and Dream is too much of a simp to make him sleep on the couch, so they just cut costs and sleep together. It’s also completely normal for him to insist on being present whenever Dream has a meeting scheduled with Bad. This is only because he’s very invested in Dream’s character, and he wants him to look the best that he can. He happens to know Dream really well, so he’s able to make choices for him. And Dream knows how much George hates pins and needles, so he makes sure to stick around for George’s dressings too. But this is just normal best friend stuff. And Dream and George are best friends.
Quackity constantly pesters George about how he’s supposedly hiding a secret relationship with Dream. He doubles down particularly on nights when the main cast gathers in Karl and Sapnap’s shared apartment to watch anime together. George thinks Quackity is being ridiculous and has no qualms against voicing his opinion. He wonders if his adamancy against the idea is undersold by the man halfway in question, who is usually passed out against him with his head resting in George’s lap.
When even Tina asks him if they’re dating, George gets a little fed up.
“Why does everyone think we’re dating?” he asks her, throwing his phone onto a nearby dresser and burying his head into his hands. He’s not even sure why she’s bringing it up now; he’d just been showing her pictures of Patches.
“Well, I can’t exactly speak for everyone else,” Tina says carefully, as if she’s speaking to a spooked animal. It isn’t entirely inaccurate. “You showed me pictures of Patches, and you said she was your cat.” George vaguely remembers boasting about how amazing and loving Patches is. And sure, he does refer to Patches as his cat, but that’s normal. Patches basically does belong to him, anyway. It’s not weird. “And then Dream was showing me pictures of his cat, and I realized she was the same cat. I guess I assumed you two were dating and she was your joint cat.”
“She’s not,” George whines. “She loves me more, anyway. Neither of us likes Dream. We just put up with him ‘cause he pays for everything.”
Tina has a small smile on her face. “See, that’s another reason I thought you two were dating.”
“Because I hate him?” George asks, frankly confused.
“You definitely don’t hate him. It’s pretty obvious you two care about each other. Everyone can tell.”
George huffs and switches the subject so her slanderous words can’t hurt him. But no matter how hard he tries, they refuse to leave his mind, continuing to haunt him even as he curls himself under a pile of blankets and sinks further into the couch. He’s not even safe in his own home.
“Are you okay?” Dream asks, offering him a steaming bowl of something that smells heavenly. George greedily accepts, ignoring the no-food on the couch rule that had been discarded the moment he’d entered the premises. He simply hums in response, waiting for Dream to give him his full attention. Only once Dream has practically fallen against him, sides melting together and legs tangling, does George feel comfortable confiding in him.
“Everyone thinks we’re dating,” George explains. Dream raises an eyebrow, as if waiting for him to elaborate, but George has nothing else to say. He’s not going to admit the actual problem, not when he can’t (read: won’t) even fully put a name to it.
“And?” Dream prompts. George stays silent, staring at Dream’s unfairly gorgeous hair. He wants to reach over and ruffle his hands through the soft strands; he’s allowed to do that and he takes advantage of it whenever he wants, but he’s afraid it may distract Dream right now. The other man usually gets a dopey grin and leans into the touch, which is not what George wants at this very moment. He needs Dream to put his big brain to use and figure out what’s going on with their castmates. George is desperate to understand why everyone besides him is such an idiot. “Is it a problem?” Dream tries again.
George shrugs. “I don’t know.” It is a problem. “I just don’t understand why.” Doesn’t he? Isn’t it obvious?
“I mean, where do I even start?” Dream slings his arm around George and presses his face against his neck, yawning loudly. George looks between the bowl of food in his lap and the golden locks peeking into his vision, conflicted. He huffs and shrugs Dream off before setting the bowl onto the coffee table.
“Maybe it’s because you’re an idiot,” George suggests as he loops his arms around Dream’s waist and falls rather ungracefully onto his lap.
“Sure, sure, I’m the idiot in this relationship,” Dream says, snorting.
“Friendship,” George corrects.
“That’s what I said.”
“I still don’t like the mask,” George says, scrutinizing the outfit. Dream looks like a hunter: cargo pants, knives strapped to his leather jacket, and a bow strung across his chest. It’s a good look, with the exception of the mask. “It’s dumb. No one thinks a smiley face is scary.” Dream is still holding the mask, contemplating his reflection without the dumb piece of plastic covering up who he is. At George’s words, he turns with a challenging look. George knows he shouldn’t push- his idiot gets competitive, more so than even George himself- but he can’t help himself. He’s frustrated that no one will listen to him. The mask is ugly.
“I think I can be scary,” Dream says, clearly not listening to George. And George snorts, because this is Dream they’re talking about. He cried at the ending of Marley and Me. He also cried at the beginning, but that was completely unrelated, which makes it all the more embarrassing. This is the man who dances with his cat in the kitchen at ridiculous times in the morning, and makes George breakfast and helps his friends stay motivated. There’s nothing scary about Dream. He’s a big, lovable idiot, and George thinks kittens are more intimidating than him. He lifts his eyes away from his phone to tell Dream as much when he’s met with a masked face directly in front of him. He flinches.
It shouldn’t be as unsettling as it is. It’s just a mask, George tells himself. Yet, there’s something so inherently wrong with Dream wearing this mask. He’s using a fabricated smile, a fake front to shield himself from George’s gaze. It’s not real, the smile, and the more George looks at it, the more warped it appears. It’s no longer the smile of a friendly man looking for companionship; it’s the smile of a predator in search of its prey. George is that prey.
“Take it off,” George says, his voice clipped. Dream takes a step back, visibly surprised, but he obeys immediately, the mask sliding off to reveal his concerned face. George says nothing, trying to erase all of his thoughts from the past minute.
“Are you okay?” Dream asks, the mask being discarded onto another table as he moves towards George. George is frowning, he can feel it etching into his expression, but he can’t help it. He’s not supposed to be affected by a silly mask. He has no words for Dream, so he simply stares at the man. Dream, in his unfairly attractive getup, opens his arms in invitation. George isn’t one to deny a hug.
Dream knows that he hates the mask, even if George never will admit it. He makes that fact very clear every time he extends his arms for George after their filming of a scene together. It becomes something of a ritual. George dreads the mask scenes, but he’s able to channel his fear into his character. And once they’ve finished, after the cut has been called, George clambers over to Dream and falls into his arms. No one says anything about it. Dream never asks.
Maybe that’s one of the problems. Dream never challenges George when it comes to things like this. He lets George climb into his bed, run his hands through his hair, and he even encourages it. He’ll sneak up on George and embrace him from behind, he’ll propose that they shower together to lower their water bill. Dream will wordlessly give George whatever he needs when he feels down, and sometimes all he needs is a hug.
George is starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with their friendship. Now that he has a few other friendships to compare and contrast with, he can see how they just don’t fit into the friendship category.
Karl and Tina are best friends. They get lunch together, they talk all the time, and they’re always happy to see each other. That’s pretty similar to George and Dream.
Karl and Sapnap are dating- which was a real fucking surprise to absolutely no one. They’re always hugging, giggling and whispering together, and it’s rare to ever see the pair separated. The two of them are amazing on their own, but they practically glow when they are with each other. George and Dream are like that too, aren’t they?
George loves Sapnap, and he considers them best friends, despite their many arguments and disagreements. But he can’t imagine sleeping in the same bed as Sapnap, or living with him, or heaven forbid taking a shower in a small, confined space with the man. George loves Tina and Karl, but it’s so different from the way he feels for Dream. If he loves his friends, then he doesn’t love Dream, but he knows that he does. If he loves Dream, then he doesn’t love his friends, but that can’t be. It has to be different types of love. Perhaps his love for Sapnap is a brotherly sort; they bicker like a couple of siblings. Maybe he simply loves Tina and Karl as friends, and there’s nothing deeper than that. But what type of love can he possibly tie to Dream that encapsulates everything he feels for the man?
He does not feel good about this. He should not have signed the contract for this movie. Who came up with the idea to star in this horrible, horrible film?
“It’s just a kissing scene, hermano,” Quackity says. “Cool it.”
George thinks that he’s oversimplifying the problem by quite a bit. It’s not just a kissing scene. It’s a kissing scene with Dream!
Karl is resting his hands on George’s shoulders while he tries to subtly shoot Quackity a glare. It doesn’t go unnoticed by George but he says nothing, grateful for the support during his troubling times. “It’s okay to be nervous about this. This is a big scene and there’s a lot riding on it, but I’m sure you’re going to do great.”
It’s really not as big of a deal as George is making it seem. The scene barely lasts a minute. All his character has to do is sit next to Dream’s character, lean over, and kiss him on the lips. Then he’ll pull away and say some line that George can’t remember because he’d stopped reading after he’d spotted the part about kissing.
He hasn’t been able to see how Dream feels about it. They’ve been separated the whole day with various meetings and last-minute changes to the script, and that really has been affecting George’s mood.
“I still don’t see what the problemo is,” Quackity mumbles. “You’ve already got enough practice mooching up to Dream.”
George ignores the comment in favor of falling back into Karl and sighing loudly.
He’s mostly calmed down by the time filming resumes. Seeing Dream helps a little, too. He doesn’t want to think about that.
The scene starts off relatively well. The director gives them a run down of what she’s expecting from them, explaining that they can do as many takes as they need to get this down. It’s a vital scene, she points out, and they need to get it just right. Dream is standing across from him, arms crossed and nodding thoughtfully. He looks stunning. George tells himself he shouldn’t be thinking that; he thinks of it anyway.
The setup and direction all goes by too fast, and suddenly George is all alone with Dream in a room full of people. He feels stiff and unsure as he moves towards where Dream is pacing. Dream is saying something- his character is apologizing for the attempted murder, or whatever- but the words go completely over George’s head. Dream looks beautiful. The terrible mask is absent for once, set aside in favor of revealing Dream’s captivating features. Dark light highlights his golden locks and his eyes shine brightly, like a watchtower trying to warn George of the treacherous rocks ahead. Only, George wouldn’t mind meeting a painful death if it meant he could have Dream, even if only for this fleeting moment.
George finds that only half of his movement is out of a sense of duty towards the scene; he’s naturally being compelled towards Dream. He comes to a stop a foot off his mark, far closer to Dream than he should be. There’s a setup to the kiss written somewhere in the script, something about building tension or whatever. George doesn’t care. He simply does not give a fuck when this thing between Dream and him has been building since day one. If he has to wait another minute to relieve it, he may explode. He closes the distance between them and pulls a startled Dream into a kiss. Dream’s so much closer than before; they’ve shared proximity before, but never like this. They’re kissing, sweet and pleasing, and George cannot get enough. He thinks it might be impossible to satisfy his needs, to get as much of Dream as he wants, but Dream seems to understand this, and he’s always up for a challenge. He clasps his hands around George’s thighs, elevating him and giving George a better angle to kiss him. They’ve stumbled back in the commotion, Dream trapped between the wall and George. George doesn’t mind, trying to shove as much of himself inside Dream as humanly possible.
“Cut!” a shrill voice calls. George pauses, feeling Dream freeze beneath him, and then he’s detaching himself from his co-star, grimacing as a trail of saliva tries to bind their mouths together. Dream swipes his thumb across George’s lips, removing the offending strand. His eyes don't stray from George’s. George, feeling his face heat up, ducks away from Dream, only to be met with the shocked faces of the cast and crew gathered around them. He gets a feeling of deja vu as he glues his gaze to the floor. Somehow he and Dream always manage to attract a crowd.
“That really was something,” the director says. George can’t tell if she’s being genuine or sarcastic, but he’s grateful that she’s not scolding him for his performance. “I liked what you did with the improvisation, George, but maybe next time let’s just stick to the script.”
“I thought it went pretty well,” Dream says, his voice tinted in honey and full of bliss. George turns to him, eyebrows raised, finding an insufferable smirk directed at him.
“Shut up,” George grumbles, a smile spreading across his face against his will.
“So we can all agree that you were freaking out for nothing, right?” Karl asks casually. They’re standing near the set, waiting for their respective roommates to come meet them. Sapnap and Dream both had something dumb to do- dumb in the sense that the task kept George from seeing them- and George is starting to think that they’re never coming back.
“I say we just leave,” he says, ignoring whatever conversation Karl is not-so-subtly attempting to prompt. The boy has been all over him for the whole day about what went down while filming between Dream and him. George isn’t exactly jumping with excitement to tell. First and foremost because he isn’t sure what went down. Sure, maybe he’s interpreting the first kiss- and the subsequent equally-passionate kisses- as a miniature declaration that they aren’t just friends and there’s something more going on. But how is George supposed to know that? Maybe Dream kisses all his friends like that. He’s not going to say anything until he’s one-hundred percent sure.
“It’s been like three hours,” George continues whining. He shuffles his feet. “I wanna go home. Patches is probably dying of hunger.”
“Give them a couple of minutes. Sapnap just texted that they’re finished.”
Sure enough, five minutes later, a mopey brunette and a shining blond find them. George considers grabbing Dream and whisking him away with no regard to Sapnap, but he waits the polite amount of time- going through the usual small talk steps- before he allows himself to kidnap his roommate.
They don’t speak about the kissing until they reach the apartment. George fills the empty space with mindless chatter. He asks about Dream’s meeting, brings up Tina’s new wardrobe choices, and debates about how long before someone snaps and murders Quackity. Dream humors him until the door to their small space slides to a shut and the lock clicks in place.
“Are we going to talk about it?” Dream asks. His expression is open, his heart on his sleeve like this is any other conversation and not something that could leave them both torn apart.
“Yes,” George decides. He steps behind the kitchen counter, separating himself from Dream. He’s not sure why he’s making this so dramatic- the man in question is Dream, and he’d kissed him back with just as much passion as George had put it- but he’s nothing if not dramatic. “You kissed me,” he accuses.
Dream snorts. “You kissed me first, idiot,” he says lightly, a comfortable smile slipping onto his face. George wonders why they’re treating something as serious as this in the same way they debate who's week it is to clean out Patches’ litter box. Surely this calls for a more serious tone. But now that they’ve started, George can’t help but lean into it.
“That was scripted, so it doesn’t count,” he argues back, just as teasingly.
“I don’t think you were directed to stick your tongue in my mouth. That was all you.”
Dream is edging around the counter, coming closer. George lets him. He’s not going to run from this. “I took inspiration from that movie you showed me last week. The one with the- the guy. The one with the hair.” Dream snorts, stopping right in front of George.
“That doesn’t narrow it down.”
“Yes it does,” George replies stubbornly.
“George,” Dream says patiently- more so whispers, because he’s close enough to do that.
“Dream.”
“You kissed me.”
“I did.”
Dream’s smile grows wider at the admission. “Why?” he asks. When George says nothing, the other huffs. “Please, Georgie, share with the class.” Softer, he adds, “I promise I won’t make fun of you, if you’re worried about that.”
George is shaking his head before he consciously knows it. “Not that,” he mumbles. “I’m not scared or anything…” He trails off, not sure where to go from there. Logically, there’s nothing stopping him. He could just say it.
“Okay. So?” Dream gives his waist a reassuring squeeze, and George wonders how long Dream’s hands have been resting there. He’s not sure when he started leaning against Dream, either. Maybe he should pay more attention.
“I kissed you.. ‘Cause you’re hot. That’s why.”
“Aw, is that all?” Dream prods petulantly. “I already knew that.”
George rolls his eyes. “Well then I guess you don’t need me.”
“Noo,” Dream says, his grip tightening around George. “Don’t leave me George. I love you.”
“Me too,” George admits, too soft to be passed off as anything but completely genuine. The grin that spreads over Dream’s face is worth every minute of teasing he’s going to have to endure because of this. “Kiss me?” he whispers. His request is met with eager lips and shining eyes.
No one on set is surprised when they announce that they’re together. Tina congratulates them with a quizzical smile on her face, Bad mumbles something about a couple of oblivious muffins, and Quackity demands to know who George’s best man is and why it’s going to be him. There’s a bit of a scuffle between Punz and Sapnap over who owes who money, revolving around an apparent bet they made about when Dream and George would get their shit together and get it on. George berates the duo for betting on his love life while Dream watches on with his stupid smile. George wonders if he and Dream were truly the last to know that they were in love when even one of the set designers- a woman he’s never spoken to before in his life- sends her regards on his current relationship. Dream tells him he’s being stupid, to which George replies that he could never. There’s only room for one stupid person in their relationship and that would be Dream.
George discovers that Dream is a very stupid boyfriend early on in their relationship. Dream does stupid things like get George flowers, or buy him tea, or wake up early to make him pancakes. He showers George with hugs and kisses and affection. He’ll make sure George is comfortable and content, and it’s all very stupid. It’s everything he did before and more, because now George can be certain that every single action is done out of love.
Even still, Dream should know that he doesn’t have to go out of his way to keep George with him. George loves him, and not just for the little gifts and loving affection- even if those are a very nice addition to an already amazing package. George tells him this one afternoon while they’re curled on the couch together, a movie playing in the background with the volume turned low. George doesn’t remember what it is, and he can’t be asked to look away from his boyfriend to check. Not when Dream is hallowed in the sun and shining the way he is.
“It’s not stupid,” Dream tells him, reaching over to push George’s hair out of his eyes. George knows he needs to get it cut, but he doesn’t want to go through the hassle of booking an appointment and going to the hairdresser. He can probably convince Dream to cut it for him. He knows if he asked, Dream would research the subject and then come back as a five-star hairdresser. “I just love you a lot,” Dream is saying, “and I like to express that.”
“Mhm,” George replies absently, already imagining Dream’s soft hands curling into his hair. “I love you too. Probably more than you love me.”
Dream makes an offended noise. “No,” is all he says, like it leaves no room for argument.
“Yes,” George says. “I bet you don’t even love me enough to cut my hair.”
Dream squints at him suspiciously. “You just want me to cut your hair for you,” he accuses, eyes widening in realization. George giggles, ducking his head. “I can’t believe this,” Dream bemoans in an overly dramatic tone. “Betrayed by my one true love. How can I go on?”
George pokes him in the side. “Seriously,” he says softly. “I do love you. And not just because you’re going to cut my hair.”
“I know,” Dream whispers.