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It’s nearly morning when Dream gets home.
The house is quiet as he stumbles through the door. He’s more tired than he is drunk, alcohol less present in his system since the last drink he had hours ago.
He makes his way into the kitchen, now more aware of the drying feeling in his throat without the noise from the party. Water would help. Lots of water and Advil so he doesn’t hate himself in the morning.
He spares his old self a thought. Wondering what he would’ve thought about his life now, 23 and only starting to live. He never realized just how much he had missed out on in his years of self-inflicted isolation.
The Christmas lights around the house flicker in tandem. It fills him with a warmth he never thought he’d get to experience. Even though they hadn’t been living here for long, it already feels more like home than anywhere else. The stockings hang like a trophy against the years he’s been wishing for this reality.
Dream decides to leave his glass of water and makes his way to the box of leftover decorations his mom brought over for them. He rifles through the box until he finds what he’s been looking for. Mistletoe. His mom texted him a picture of the ornament a week ago, following it up with a winking emoji. He had flushed red and pushed the thought from his mind. He never thought he’d ever put it up around the house but inebriated him thinks it’s too good of an idea to ignore.
Dream gathers the three ornaments in his arms and heads to the hallway that leads to their living room. He grabs a chair and tape, knowing hammering a nail into their wall would wake his friends up. There’s an idiotic grin on his face at the thought of waking up two people instead of the usual one.
The first one hangs easily. It’s pretty against the white of their corridor ceiling, Dream thinks as he gets up on the chair. Even though the change of height disorients him for a second, it doesn’t deter him from hanging up the rest. The next is to go in the kitchen. He realizes he should’ve started there in the first place but he blames his lack of forethought on the fact that it’s almost 4am in the morning.
This one takes more work to get up than the first one. He nearly topples over as the chair wobbled the entire time he stood on it. Maybe the floor was uneven. Or maybe it was the chair itself. Couldn’t be him because he was perfectly fine.
Eventually he gets the tape to stick and pats himself on the back for a job well done.
As he stares at the last mistletoe he realizes he doesn’t know where to hang it. He walks around the house trying to figure out the perfect place for it to hang and finds himself in front of George’s room.
Dream practically chokes trying to keep his laughter, not wanting to wake George.
He thinks a mistletoe hanging on the head of George’s door would be funny. He could stand there and knock and delight on the look on his face when he opens the door. It would be funny.
Dream thinks it’s the best idea he’s ever had.
He’s so distracted by the brilliance of this that he forgets about how much noise he’s making. He drops the roll of tape and bangs his shoulder against the door multiple times. He’s got his arms raised in the air when George comes out of the door, bat in hand
“Dream?” he asks, bleary with sleep. “What are you doing?”
“George,” he whispers back. “It’s a joke.”
“What is?”
And for some reason the question is so funny that he erupts into a fit of giggles. George looks at him with concern. He lowers the bat and tugs on the hem of Dream’s shirt.
“Get down from there, you idiot. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Butterflies burst in his stomach from the way George’s knuckles brush against his skin.
“I’m fine, I just need to finish this.”
“Dream,” George says deadpan. “You’re drunk.”
“Am not,” he refutes. George raises his eyebrows at him and suddenly he feels 2 feet tall. “Okay, maybe just a little. But, George, I swear I’m fine!”
“What are you even doing here?”
“Decorating.”
“Decorating… my door?”
“Okay, George, no. Look, it’s brilliant. Like— listen. I was supposed to hang this up here and knock on your door. It was going to be hilarious, I’m telling you.”
George glances at his hands and Dream knew he was found out.
“Is that mistletoe?”
“Maybe.”
“So the joke was you’d hang mistletoe on my door and get us to stand under it.”
Dream steps down from the chair and slumps against it, feeling defeated. “When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
George laughs at him, sleep-rumpled and lovely all the same. Dream thinks if he were less out of it right now he would’ve made a stupid joke to ignore the way his heart rattled in his chest. But he is out of it and his heart is dancing in his ribcage so he gives in to it and lets himself be honest.
“You’re pretty.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Not anymore.”
“Yeah?” George challenges. “Then why do you keep laughing?”
“Maybe you’re jus’ the funniest boy to ever exist, ever think ‘bout that?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not true.”
“Yeah,” Dream says nonsensically, “you are.”
“What?”
“So pretty.”
George says nothing back to him, merely offering a smile as he shakes his head. Dream wants to grab his face and make him look at him so he can see George’s face properly but he has enough sense in him to know not to.
“Let’s get you to bed, you drunken idiot,” George offers before Dream can act on his thoughts.
“But George,” he says, completely serious and blank-faced.
“What, Dream?”
“The mistletoe.”
George rolls his eyes and huffs. Dream giggles at the sight of him. How has he spent years not knowing how good it feels to have him standing in front of him? To feel the warmth from his hands against his skin?
He’s so caught up with the wonder that is George that he’s taken completely by surprise when lips press against his cheek. “Are you happy now?” He asks, cheeks still red from the kiss.
Dream gasps, surprise quickly replacing the alcohol in his system. He feels incredibly awake, cheek burning like George had branded him with his lips.
“Again,” he requests. Breathless and so out of his mind in love with the boy in front of him.
George leans in, it’s slow and he’s smiling down at Dream, like he knows exactly what this does to him. When his lips land on the corner of Dream’s lips, it almost feels like punishment.
“George,” he complains.
“Dream.”
“Kiss me.”
“I did, didn’t I?” There’s a smile dancing around George’s lips. Dream nearly keels over on the floor at the sight of him, so beautiful and teasing him and here.
“Kiss me,” Dream repeats.
“No,” George replies.
Dream grabs his arm and pulls at him and George follows. It’s enough to make him cry, the way he trusts him enough to go where he’s led. George ends up on his lap, facing Dream. His arms hang loosely upon Dream’s shoulders. He can feel his face burn red all the way down to his neck.
“Kiss me,” he repeats.
“You’re drunk,” George reminds him.
“‘M not. I drank water and I left, like, hours ago. Plus, if I was drunk, could I have put up all those mistletoes everywhere?”
George laughs. Dream can tell he tried to hold it in but sleep has taken hold of his body and the laugh escapes his grip. Dream smiles nonetheless. A laugh from George is a win in his book. “You didn’t even get the mistletoe to stick,” he explains.
Dream looks up and notices that he’s right. He finds the forgotten mistletoe on the floor, near his foot. He kicks it enough til he can reach it with his hand. Dream holds it up between the two of them, eyes darting between it and George.
“I’m not kissing you if you’re drunk,” he persists.
“Fine,” Dream sighs. He stands up abruptly, causing George to hold on to him in surprise.
“Dream!”
“Don’t move, George!” Dream is giggling like a madman. He holds onto George tightly, walking quickly to the kitchen. George is laughing in his ear. He’s slipping from Dream’s grip but none of that matters to either of them when they’re this close to each other. Dream nears the counter and, on a whim, spins around with George still hanging off of his neck. He almost falls over but both of them are laughing and spinning with sock-clad feet and Dream has never felt this sober in his life.
He realizes he’s on the floor now when the room stops spinning. Dream is out of breath and dizzy but George is on his chest, hands gripping his shirt, chest shaking with laughter, and it hits him square in the face that this is something that he just gets to have now.
Merry Christmas, he thinks.
Dream winds his arms around George, rubbing his love-laced hands along his back, coming down from the high of just being around his best friend; of getting to touch his skin like this, feel his breath.
George’s breath evens out in his grip and Dream stays still, content to feel the rise and fall of their chests press against each other.
“I’m not drunk,” he admits. “I was gonna take you to the kitchen and drink a shit load of water so I could prove to you that I am most definitely sober– maybe still kinda buzzed but sober enough. The water was gonna help, George.”
George buries his face in Dream’s neck, fingers finding their way home to his nape. He sighs and Dream has to hold back from shivering at the way his breath felt against him.
“You didn’t have to carry me with you for that,” George says. Dream feels his words more than he hears it.
“You said you wouldn’t kiss me if I was drunk.”
George lifts his face and smiles down at Dream. He leans forward and Dream’s heart nearly stops. His lips land on his forehead, taking Dream by surprise.
“What was that?” he asks.
“A kiss. For your stupid mistletoe in the corridor.”
Dream looks up and sees that the first one he hung up was taped to the ceiling. It was slightly lopsided and was nearly falling but Dream didn’t care. He still got his kiss.
George helps him up and drags him all the way to the kitchen. Dream sits down on one of the stools, feeling numb. He can feel the spots where George had placed his lips on him burn his skin, heat expanding from his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his mouth, until he’s nothing but the heat.
George places a glass of water in front of him and Dream has to bite his tongue to stop the terms of endearments from slipping out. He can taste it on his tongue, the urge to call him ‘baby,’ to say ‘my love,’ to hold him close and whisper thanks in his ear, ‘angel, gorgeous, honey, my lovely, patient, wonderful boy.’
The urge is eating at him so Dream downs his water to get his mind off of it. George pours him some more, filling his glass again and Dream drinks it all, again, ears burning with the knowledge of what they’re doing here in the kitchen.
“Good?” George asks. He nods in response, not trusting himself to say anything. Dream holds his wrist– not to pull him, just to feel his pulse against his palm.
Dream counts the heartbeats in the silence.
“You ready to go to bed?”
20 beats.
“No,” he replies. George steps closer towards him, eyes kind with all the years of knowing Dream the way that he does.
“Why not?” he asks, playful smile hidden behind his teeth.
“You said.” The sentence is cut off and makes no sense but he knows that George understands.
47 beats.
He’s proven right by his laugh tinkling through the air. “Dream,” he says. “Look up.”
Dream looks up and is met with the sight of his second mistletoe. Maybe he’s losing his mind because it almost looks like it’s taunting him.
“Mistletoe,” he says.
“I wonder who put that up there, hmm?”
24 beats.
Dream doesn’t realize he’s leaning in until their foreheads touch. “George,” he whispers.
“Kiss me,” George whispers.
It takes Dream 15 heartbeats to connect their lips together. Dream lets go of George’s wrist, instead wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him in until their bodies lay flush against each other. George settles between his thighs, hands making their way from Dream’s thighs, to his chest, shoulders, all the way until he wraps them around his neck in an effort to get closer.
Dream tilts his head, deepening the kiss, wanting more, more, more, of George until neither of them can breathe. George pulls away for air but Dream, kiss-drunk and mind empty of everything but the taste of George on his lips, surges forward, connecting their lips once again.
George runs his hands through Dream’s hair, he could swear his entire body erupts in fireworks. He lights up from the inside out, stomach burning hot with the sensation of George’s hands in his hair, lips on his.
George breaks away again, this time placing his hands on Dream’s chest. Dream is so awestruck by the action that he doesn’t fight to capture George in a kiss again. Maybe it’s an unconscious movement or maybe George is truly evil and wants Dream to die, but his hands smooth over his chest and shoulders, touch staying gentle and light, leaving butterflies in its wake.
Dream kind of understands all those jokes about giggling and kicking his feet because what the fuck is George doing? It’s like he wants to rile him up on purpose, with his hands, and swollen lips, and chest heaving against Dream. In the beautiful kitchen of their Florida home.
The idea of that alone is enough to make Dream want to kiss him all over again.
He grabs at George’s hands, entwining their fingers together. “Again,” he requests.
George gives him a peck, short and sweet.
“Again.”
George barely kisses him.
“Properly, please George.” He could kick himself with how whiny he sounds but he can’t muster up enough in him to care about that.
George smiles and presses their lips together. Dream wants to complain again because George isn’t kissing him, he’s just smiling into his mouth, but instead he cups his face, leaning in to deepen the kiss. He can feel George soften in his hold.
Soon, the kiss turns into a long-winded make-out session. Both of them don’t want to and don’t care enough to stop. George finds a spot on Dream’s neck that makes him bite his lips to stay quiet and Dream figures out that George likes it messy. He likes it when Dream grabs his face and kisses him like he’s running out of time. He likes it when he tilts his head just right and kisses him until George needs to open his mouth to breathe. He likes it when Dream just keeps kissing him, panting and heady with George on his tongue.
George figures out that Dream likes it when he’s soft and slow. It makes him smile, how sentimental and overly sappy he is. Dream likes it when George is tracing patterns on his arms while they kiss. He likes it when George threads his fingers in his hair and slows down their kiss until it’s no longer crazed. He likes when George nips at his lips, licking over where he had just bitten and doing it all over again.
It feels like years when they separate again. Dream rests his forehead on George’s, trying to catch his breath.
“Again?” he asks, still winded.
George laughs and pushes him away. He’s beautiful like this, lips kiss-bitten, eyes glazed over, hair messed up, heart Florida-bound. “No more,” he says, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Dream hugs him close, laughing into the crook of his neck.
“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, actually.” George still hasn’t let go of Dream.
“I still have some of the baked rice cakes I made with Sapnap’s mom.”
“When did you make that?”
“Literally the other day when we went over to visit? It’s called Bibingka.”
“Why didn’t I make Bibingka with you?” Dream can practically hear the pout in his voice. He chuckles, giving him a peck on the cheek to curb the desire to make out with him for hours and hours again. George derails his plans by climbing on his lap and surging forward to kiss him. They’re never gonna get anything done at this point.
“George,” he mumbles into his mouth. George ignores him, pressing even deeper, kissing him like his life depends on it.
Dream pulls away. “George, you saidmmmph”
They don’t stop kissing until the sun is high in the sky
Later, when Dream has heated both of them a piece of the Bibingka, George eats it with a smile on his face. Their legs tangle from where they touch underneath the table and Dream has to focus very hard on his food to avoid choking.
Sapnap comes down, patches accompanying him.
“What are you guys doing up so early?” he asks.
Dream feels himself go beet red. Luckily George is unphased and turns the question back at Sapnap
“I slept, like, most of yesterday. I had the craziest dream, though, holy shit.” Sapnap sits down on the seat from across the two. “So it was, like, the end of the world, or whatever the fuck, right? And George was–” he stops, distracted by George’s plate.
“Is that Bibingka?”
George looks up at him in confusion. “Yeah? Dream gave me some.” Dream nearly throws up in his panic. He prays that Sapnap doesn’t say anything about it.
“Dream gave it to you, huh?”
“Yeah? Are you stupid Stinknap? I literally just said that.
“Whatever, George. You don’t even know what that means.”
“Sapnap.” Dream warns.
“What, Dream? What does it mean when you give someone Bibingka?”
“Yeah, Dream?” George joins in. “What does it mean?”
“Nothing, finish your food, George.”
Dream glares at Sapnap from across the table and he ignores him by connecting his phone to their speakers and blasts the song they listened to over at the Christmas party at Sapnap’s house.
George listens to the song, nodding along, not knowing what the words mean.
Later, when it’s just the two of them, in the quiet of Dream’s room, George asks him again.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow, George,” he answers, knowing that he can practically feel his heart leap out of his chest.
“Fine,” George relents. “Can we kiss now?”
“Yeah, we can.”
They kiss until they’re tired.
Maybe tomorrow they’ll talk about what this means for them, what this changes between them. Maybe they’ll be here again, side by side, and they’ll spill their hearts out. Maybe then, Dream would tell George what it means to give someone Bibingka– what it means that Dream gave it to George– but for now, they’ll kiss, and kiss and kiss until they run out of breath.