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George wakes to emptiness beside him, and cold sheets, and matching silk pillowcases. The white light of the warm morning shivers through the room, hazy wavelengths catching dust particles and cat hair on the rug, a thousand tiny stars hanging in the space between the ceiling and the wooden floor.
Their door is half open, and he can hear the day drifting through it. There’s noise from downstairs, the sound of pacing out from what he can only assume is the kitchen and living room. Dream is talking out there, in that specific type of voice he uses when he’s having conversations with his mom, and George takes a moment longer to bask in the soft morning before pushing himself out of bed.
Patches, at his feet, chirps indignantly at being disturbed. She must’ve gotten in when Dream left the door open. He scoops her into his arms, apologizing quietly for bothering her with his nose pressed against her fur. She smells faintly of their detergent, and George is sure that she must’ve been sleeping in their clean laundry. She rumbles happily as he scratches beneath her chin. George knows that she doesn’t like being held, but he’s learned that sometimes she tolerates it.
There’s Christmas music playing from the living room. He hadn’t heard it before; Dream must’ve turned it down when he’d started talking on the phone. The stairs are cold beneath his feet, and he half-wishes he’d had the mind to grab a shirt before leaving their room. Patches squirms impatiently, and he leans over to drop her from knee-height onto the wood with a soft tap.
“Dream?” he calls.
Dream turns at the sound of his name.
He been standing at the counter facing the window, warm morning light shining down on him. In the crook of his neck, pressed between his cheek and shoulder, his phone rests in precarious balance. A smile breaks out over his face when he sees him.
“Oh, hold on,” he says into the phone, waving George over. “Hang on a sec. One second.” He mutes himself, setting the phone on the counter next to a dirty Clorox wipe. “I didn’t realize you were awake. Did I wake you up?”
George shakes his head, rubbing his eyes in the bright light. “What’s going on?” he asks, and he thinks that he sounds much more tired than he feels. “How long have you been awake?”
Dream shrugs, extending an arm out and beckoning him over once again. “Just cleaning,” he assures. “I woke up, like, fifty minutes ago. I couldn’t go back to sleep.”
George crosses over to him. He slips into his established place beneath Dream’s arm and leans into his warmth. “You could’ve woken me up,” he mumbles “Say hi to your mum for me.”
“I will,” Dream assures him. He kisses the top of his head, not questioning how he’d known who he was calling. He glanced down at his phone which sits momentarily forgotten on the countertop amidst the poor surface-level cleaning they’d done the night before, which had still left the granite countertops stained and sticky. “I should get back to her.”
George nods, closing his eyes. Dream’s hand rubs circles in his arm, keeping him close to his body as he leans to the side to pick up the phone.
“George says hi,” Dream says, voice dipping into that familiar tone. He’s a mama’s boy at heart. George is endlessly fascinated by it. “George, she says ‘hi,’ and that she’s excited to have you over for dinner. Anyways, Mom- are you sure there’s nothing you want us to bring? We can stop by some place later and get, like- I don’t know. Wine, or something.”
George can hear her responding, but can’t quite make out what she’s saying. Whatever it is, it makes Dream laugh and he nestles into the sound until it swallows him.
“Okay,” he says. “Just have her text me so I remember. Tell her ‘hi’ for me. Okay-” he glances sideways at George. “I’m gonna go, I- yeah, he just woke up. Yeah. Love you. Bye.” He sets the phone back down and sighs, pressing his nose into the top of George’s head. “Good morning,” he mumbles into his hair. “Why are you up? It’s early?”
George looks up at him. “We forgot to close the curtains. What’s going on?” he asks. “You could have stayed on the phone.”
Dream shrugs. “I’d rather talk to you. My mom just wanted to confirm that we’d be there tonight, and if we wanted to stay over instead of driving home and then back in the morning.”
“Oh.” George frowns. “What did you say?”
Dream shrugs. “I said we’d see how it goes. It’s up to you though. I don’t want to, like, be stuck with my family. But there’s a room set up for us if we want to stay.”
“I wouldn’t mind either way.” George leans his head against Dream’s chest, gazing down at the flour and sugar covering the counter, sticking on to the glass of the food scale. “It’s so messy,” he observes. “Messy. Messi. Encara Messi.”
“Messy,” Dream echoes, kissing the top of his head. “And it’s your fault.”
George pulls back just enough to look up at him, affronted. “It’s literally Sapnap’s fault.”
“It’s literally yours,” Dream argues, grinning. “You were the one making your house in the place where it’s the grossest.” He points to the dried frosting stuck the countertop, orange-ish icing smeared in streaks over it.
“You were too!” George rebuts. “Maybe you’re responsible for it. Who knows? Make Sapnap clean it.”
Dream shakes his head. “I wasn’t. I was clean. And he can’t. He’s literally leaving in, like-” he glances at the microwave clock. “He’s leaving in twenty-four minutes. I hope he’s awake. Maybe I should check.”
“Oh yeah.” George looks up toward the top of the stairs. “It would be funny if he missed his flight.”
“He’d have to come to Christmas with us then,” Dream says, grinning. “I’m sure you’d love that.”
George shakes his head decisively. “No.”
Dream scoffs. “No?” he repeats.
“We could just leave him here.” He yawns. “With Patches.”
“Are you tired?” Dream asks, softening. “You could have stayed in bed.”
George hums. “I’m tired,” he confirms, as if it wasn’t obvious. “I wanted to see what you were doing through. Did you eat breakfast?”
Dream shakes his head. “I went straight into cleaning. You hungry?”
“A bit.” George shrugs. “Not really though. I want one of the cookies for breakfast.”
“Cookies aren’t breakfast,” Dream tells him, a soft smile gracing his features. George marvels at how white his teeth are.
George frowns. “Anything’s breakfast,” he argues lightly. “Break-fast. Break-a-fast. Whatever the first thing you eat in a day is technically breaking a fast, therefore technically breakfast.”
“Technically,” Dream agrees. “But language changes. Breakfast, as a- a meal has a different definition.”
George squints at him, pulling himself up onto the countertop. The dried sugar scrapes the back of this thighs uncomfortably, but before he can jump down, Dream comes to stand between his legs. “And what’s that definition?”
“I don’t know off the top of my head,” Dream tells him. His thumbs press into the soft part of his legs, just below the hemline of his boxers. George tries not to focus on the sensation above Dream’s words. “But, like, there are- notions typically associated with breakfast, traditionally. Like, types of foods, and cookies aren’t on that list.”
“Language changes,” George repeats, cocking an eyebrow. “I’ve decided they are.”
Dream laughs. “You’re an idiot,” he says, shaking his head. “Even if it worked like that, that doesn’t make cookies a good breakfast.”
“Oh, are you the-” he stumbles over his words. “-the breakfast police?”
“Yes,” Dream jokes sternly. “I’m making eggs.”
“There’s egg in the cookies,” George points out. “It’s basically an omelet.”
Dream snorts at that, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s basically an omelet,” he says sarcastically. George kicks lightly at him, scoffing. Dream rolls his eyes. “Help me clean. We can eat after.”
“No.” George locks his ankles around Dream’s legs. “Make Sapnap.”
“No,” Dream says firmly. “Help me clean. Please.”
George sighs dramatically, releasing his legs. “Is it not just enough for me to keep your company?”
“For you to sit there are look pretty, you mean?” Dream grins. “Help me clean.”
George makes a face. “Fine.”
—
By the time the kitchen is up to standards, George has done a remarkably minimal amount to assist.
He goes upstairs to put on actual clothes and runs into Sapnap in the hallway, heading out with his suitcase and carry-on. He changes while he and Dream speak quickly and joins them by the door to say goodbye.
There’s something wonderful about seeing him off, knowing that he’ll be back in a few days. It’s a given that they always end up in the same place now. There’s no uncertainty left about when they’ll all be together anymore. He watches as the Uber pulls out of the driveway- Sapnap had left his Tesla as to not leave Dream and George stranded. The early afternoon sun blazes brightly down on him. It’s not very Christmas-y, but it’s still nice.
He actually puts effort into cleaning the living room when they go back inside, because he does feel a bit bad making Dream do all the work in the kitchen. He separates their gifts into bags while Dream crinkles up wrapping paper into colorful balls and tosses them into the trash can, cheering quietly each time one lands. Most of them, however, do not. When George points it out, Dream aims one just above his head, and George shrieks as he dodges it.
There’s glitter on his hand from some discarded piece of wrapping paper. He rubs it on the back of Dream’s shirt just because he can, and Dream leans back into his hands, insisting that he massage his shoulders as payment for making him do the majority of the cleaning. George sighs like he doesn’t want to but gives in without any pushback. Instead, he just kisses the nape of his neck, and looks ahead at the blue and green candy canes hung in the shape of a heart on the tree while he works into the tension. From the Alexa, Christmas music fills the house.
It blows his mind how different this year is from last year.
Last year, he hadn’t decorated; he’d still been clinging onto the asinine belief that he wouldn’t need to, that, somehow, there would be last-minute miracle. Obviously, as all of them have been extremely well aware of, there hadn’t been.
He’d spent the holidays in bed, curled up in the tiresome warmth, phone beside him. It was quiet and tentative hope then, the last dregs before it all faded away. New Year’s had washed it down, then Valentine’s Day, then Easter, and every single moment that followed.
The memories are blurry now, distant enough that each day runs into the next. He doesn’t remember what he’d done on Christmas last year. He doesn’t remember if he’d gone to his mum’s, or if he’d wasted away in bed. It doesn’t matter anymore, he figures. He’s finally where he wants to be.
For whatever reason, the thought closes around his throat like a fist. His heart feels like a ball of crinkled wrapping paper. Dream is humming quietly along to It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas, and it feels like he’s choking on the sound.
Somewhere down the hall, Patches meows, a tiny and soft sound. Dream’s head shoots up from where he’d been looking down in his lap at his phone. He turns. George’s hands pause on his shoulders.
“Did you feed her?” George asks.
Dream shakes his head. “Not yet. I’ll go do that now.”
George lets him go, watching him duck into the tiny door of the cat room under the stairs. Patches sits expectantly at the doorway, tail swishing back and forth. He looks down at his glitter-stained hands, and his hoodie. It’ll take weeks to wash out, he knows, but it’s sort of nice. It’ll be like a lingering piece of the holidays, or maybe he’s just sentimental.
When Dream returns, hands damp from washing off cat food in the kitchen sink, he sits beside George and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” George says. “What time does your mum want us over?”
Dream thinks for a moment, tilting his head back to the ceiling. “Five, I’m pretty sure. I can double check, but I’m pretty sure she wants us there by five.”
“You should double check.” George leans into him. “I don’t think we should be late.”
A beat. Dream glances sideways at him, eyes widening. “Are you nervous?”
George shrugs. There’s are nerves gnawing at his stomach lining with thin, needle-sharp teeth, but the discomfort is faint enough that he doesn’t feel it unless he focuses on it. He considers how to word it, or if he should even try.
“Not really,” he settles on. “I mean, I guess a bit. Not really right now though.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Dream tells him softly. It does nothing to assure him, but it’s nice to hear. “My mom likes you. She’s liked you for years, just from me talking about you.”
George hums. “Yeah, but it was different for years. It wasn’t- we weren’t, like, dating.” The word- dating- still makes his stomach flip. It makes him feel like he’s been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, like he’s not allowed to use the terminology even after months.
“Yeah.” Dream shrugs. “I mean, she liked you after she met you too. She told me that she thinks you’re very polite.”
George nods, pleased with himself. “I am polite.”
“Sometimes,” Dream corrects, eyes sparkling. “If you were really polite, you would have helped me clean the kitchen.”
George frowns, affronted. “I helped!”
“Barely!” Dream laughs at the look on his face. “You’re such an idiot, you know I’m right.” He pokes him gently in the side.
“I did all of the work,” George insists, and it’s a boldfaced lie but it makes Dream’s smile grow even wider. “And I’m hungry. Dream, make me food.”
Dream narrows his eyes. “Say ‘please.’”
George makes a face. Dream pokes him again, just slightly harder. “Make me food,” he repeats. “Since apparently cookies aren’t a reasonable breakfast, you should bring a reasonable one.”
“I will,” Dream says simply, poking him once more. “But only if you say please.”
George stares unblinkingly at him, fighting his smile. He’s sure the effort of it is turning his face red.
“Say ‘please!’” Dream insists, laughing. He pulls him towards him, poking him repeatedly in the sides until it turns in to something akin to tickles and George bursts out laughing, burying his face in Dream’s chest to stifle it. “Say ‘please,’ idiot!”
George kicks at him, trying desperately to squirm out of his grip but Dream flops forward on top of him, pinning him into the sofa and continuing to poke at his sides. He’s laughing so hard that he’s sure he’s crying by now, lightheaded, and out of breath. Dream is choking on his laughter behind him, breathlessly gasping for oxygen.
George coughs out a desperate please into his shirt when he regains the ability to stop laughing momentarily. His vision is blurry with tears clinging to his lashes, and he presses his face into Dream’s shirt to dry them. When he looks up, Dream’s eyes are red-rimmed and he’s wonderfully flushed, the apples of his cheeks dark from exertion. When he meets George’s eyes, he drops his face into his elbows to muffle the re-emerging laugh. After a moment, he looks back up.
“Do you want eggs?” he asks, and his voice is raspy.
George, for absolutely no reason, bursts out laughing again.
—
The anxiety only picks up about an hour-and-a-half half before they’re meant to leave.
The majority of Dream’s relatives and family friends will be there. Dream gives him a brief overview of who will be there and what they’re like, and George tries as hard as he can to remember each name. He’s starting to feel a bit like he may be sick from the nerves of it all. It’s not even that he necessarily cares about what they think of him, but rather he cares about what Dream thinks of what they think of him.
Before they leave, he changes three times. Dream kisses him and helps him with the buttons of his shirt, before telling him to hurry and that they don’t want to be late. In the car, he leans over and runs his hands through George’s hair because, apparently, it looks better messier- but it’s not, like, messy messy; it’s good. George doesn’t attempt to fix it, instead nurses the fluttery feeling in his chest until it dampens the nerves.
They pull into the driveway half-an-hour later, and George has a headache. Dream turns to him after they park, eyes bright in the evening light. He reaches out and fixes the collar of George’s shirt, grinning at him. “You nervous?”
George shrugs, running his forehead. “A little.”
Dream tilts his head. “They like you,” he assures, smoothing out the front of his shirt. “You look great.”
What if they don’t? he wants to ask. Would you be upset?
It’s a dumb question, so he doesn’t say it. Instead, he leans over and kisses him, hand coming up to cup his cheek as he does. Dream makes a surprised little noise, and then sinks into it. After a moment, he pulls back just enough that their foreheads are resting against each other.
“It’ll be fine,” Dream whispers, and he sounds so breathtakingly earnest that George almost believes it. “You’re amazing.”
“I know,” George whispers back, leaning in to kiss him again. “I’m amazing.”
Dream laughs, pulling back. He checks himself in the mirror quickly, and then opens the car door. “Come on,” he says, beaming. Hesitantly, George follows.
Dream holds his hand as they approach the door, eyes darting through the open window as if to ensure that nobody is looking at them. When he knocks, he replaces the gesture with a hand on the small of George’s back, thumb rubbing up and down soothingly through the fabric. Inside, there’s Christmas music playing.
As footsteps approach, Dream looks sideways at him and nods reassuringly. George musters a smile that he hopes doesn’t betray his anxiety. His heart is pounding through his chest with a force that he’s certain is making his whole body shake in a rhythmic pattern.
The door swings open, and Dream beams, stepping forward to embrace his mum while George waits awkwardly outside the door. Then, before George knows what’s happening, he’s being hugged as well. Over her shoulder, Dream widens his eyes as if to say told you so. His face is flushed and happy.
And maybe, George decides then, allowing himself to be examined at arm’s length, some passing comment about how skinny he is lost to the sound of people coming down the hallway. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
—
After a few glasses of wine, they decide it’s safer not to drive home.
There’s a guest room set up for them, with fresh sheets that Dream’s mum had changed that morning. It was brought up in a pair- that there were two rooms set up for them. Dream had brushed it off with a quick thanks, mumbled under his breath and a probably extremely unsubtle side glance at George.
They’d kept boyfriend out of the conversation. When a relative had asked if George had a girl back in England, Dream had coughed around a forkful of green beans, and Drista had stared dead-eyed at him across the table. George had sat up a little straighter in his chair, knocking his knee lightly against Dream’s as he’d said something about not seeing a point in pursuing anyone when he knew he’d be moving. Dream held his hand under the table, left in right, and only released it when he’d gestured for a something to be passed to him.
He hadn’t quite known how open they were going to be before arriving. Every conversation they’d had had ended inconclusively, but he’d always known he was going to follow Dream’s lead. He’s okay with it.
Now, out in the hall, he hears Dream saying his goodnights and briefly wonders if he should join them, but the shirt he’d changed into a shirt that would be easily recognizable as Dream’s, and he doesn’t know if Dream would want people to know they’re sharing a room. He plays it safe and waits for him to come to bed. He flops backwards down onto the king-sized bed and throws an arm over his eyes.
It’s a weird feeling to have one foot out the door and the other firmly planted inside. The balancing act is a but nonsensical to him, but if it makes Dream comfortable then it’s worth it. He thinks there’s not much that can bother him anymore anyways. Everything has always been on Dream’s time, and he’s content with it being like that forever, so long as it gets them forever.
Five minutes pass. Drista laughs from somewhere down the hall, and he can’t help but think how much she sounds like Dream sometimes. Both of them have denied it when he’d commented on it, Dream pulling a face of mock-disgust and Drista rolling her eyes. Still, across the table, Dream’s mum had nodded along to his observation. That had felt good. He likes being liked by her, but even if she’d hated him to his bones, it wouldn’t have changed anything.
The door creaks open. Padded footsteps enter the room. He hears Dream pause for a moment, feeling him looking him over as if trying to gage whether or not he’s asleep. The door clicks shut. George raises a hand and waves blindly in the general direction of then noise. Dream flops down beside him- bed frame creaking loudly- and curls into him, resting facedown against his stomach. Without opening his eyes, George drops his hand heavily atop Dream’s hair.
“Can you turn off the light?” George asks softly.
Dream shakes his head. He wraps an arm around his waist.
George doesn’t ask again. Instead, he turns his face into his arm to block the brightness and absentmindedly rubs Dream’s head until, after a minute, he shifts into a more comfortable position and George accepts that they’re going to stay like this for a while.
“You alright?” George asks after a moment.
Dream sighs. His breath sinks, warm, through the fabric and onto George’s stomach. “I’m tired.”
“Go to sleep,” George tells him softly.
“The lights are on,” Dream complains, muffled. “And I still need to change.”
George laughs, raising his head a bit. He can feel Dream grin against him. “Go change,” he says. “And turn off the lights while you’re at it. After.”
Dream grumbles something like disapproval of the suggestion into his shirt and doesn’t make to move. George relaxes back into the bed and closes his eyes, content with their situation.
He must’ve dozed off briefly, because when he next blinks, the room is dark, and Dream is trying to wiggle his back under the covers. He raises a hand to his face, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, and Dream pauses.
“Sorry,” he whispers, smiling guiltily. His voice is hoarse with the lingering grasp of sleep. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
George shrugs, not bothering to speak. He pulls Dream’s arm over him the moment he lays down, tucking himself in against his chest. Dream kisses the side of his head. He smells like toothpaste.
“I stole your socks by the way,” Dream mumbles. “My feet were cold, and I didn’t bring any.”
George yawns. “What time is it?” His words run together.
“It’s, like-” the white light of his screen leaves George blind of a moment. The blue stain on his retinas lingers, even with the quiet apology. “It’s four in the morning. On the dot too. I fell asleep a little after you did and woke up and felt gross.”
“When did I fall asleep?” George asks, rubbing his eyes.
Dream tucks his face into the back of his head, warm breath ghosting down his neck. “Three hours ago, I think. Go back to sleep.”
George shakes his head. “I’m awake now.”
“Go back to sleep,” Dream repeats. “We have to be up sort of early, remember? I do, I guess. My mom wants me to help with breakfast and preparing dinner.”
George sighs. “I don’t want to take up early. I’m, like, tired but awake. You know? Today was tiring.”
Dream hums understandingly. “How was tonight?” he asks, an edge of concern to his voice. “A lot?”
George shrugs. “It was good,” he assures. “It was nice seeing everyone- and meeting people. I still think Drista hates me a bit.”
Dream scoffs. “She likes you. She’s just a teenager and you’re easy to pick on.”
“I’m just easy to pick on?” George repeats incredulously. “What does that even mean?”
Dream laughs. It’s warm against George’s ear. “You want her to like you too much. So, you’re easy to poke at because you don’t poke back. Not much anyways.”
“Huh.” George ponders his words for a moment. “So, you’re saying I should be meaner to her.”
A beat. “Well-”
“You’re saying that I should be meaner to her,” George repeats, rolling over to face him. “That’s messed up. Dream! That’s actually messed up. I’m going to tell her.”
“No,” Dream sighs, keeping his eyes shut. “Don’t tell her that.”
“I’m going to.”
Dream just sighs again, even louder. George is certain that it’s with the intent of blowing hot air into his face. “Go to sleep,” he says.
“I’m not tired,” he says again. Strangely, he isn’t. It’s like his battery has recharged in the couple hours he’d been passed out.
“Go to sleep,” Dream repeats, adjusting his loose grip around George’s waist. George rolls back over so his back is pressed to Dream’s chest again.
George sticks his feet against Dream’s bare legs. “You took my socks,” he says. “My feet are cold.”
“I can feel them,” Dream says, smiling against him. His stubble scratches against his neck. “Go to sleep. Do you want your socks back?”
George shakes his head. “No. Just wanted to let you know.”
Dream laughs quietly, turning his face into George’s shoulder. “Just wanted to let me know?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” George sighs, running his hand over Dream’s knuckles. “Fine. You know what? Fine, I’ll go to sleep.”
“Fine,” Dream echoes fondly. “Goodnight, George.” He kisses the back of his neck.
George squeezes his hand. “Goodnight,” he murmurs.
—
He spends all of five minutes trying to fall asleep before he gives up. It’s not purposeful, but he keeps replaying every interaction he’d had that evening in full detail, like he’s viewing his own life in 1080p. With it, overthinking sets in. He should have offered to help clear the table, he should have offered to help set the table, he should have laughed harder at one joke and less at the next. Is he really supposed to be mean to Dream’s little sister?
And he’s sort of thirsty now, but he’s trapped beneath Dream’s arm. By the familiar sound of his breathing, however, he isn’t asleep yet. He takes quiet joy in being able to know the intricacies of him, down the pattern of his breath, before deciding to bother him.
“Dream,” George whispers, nudging him. He rolls over in his lax grip.
Dream cracks his eyes open. “What?” The word is slurred and sleepy.
“I want water.”
He can barely make out his expression in the dark but, by the sound of his voice, he knows that it’s a frown. “Go get water.”
“I don’t want to go alone,” George whines softly. “I don’t know your parents’ house. What if I mess something up?”
Dream yawns, dropping his face back against the pillow with a soft thud. “How would you mess something up?”
“I don’t know.” George sighs, flopping back and staring up at the ceiling. “What if your parents have, like, a cabinet full of secrets and I open it. Like Pandora’s Box.”
“What?” He suddenly sounds much more awake, and incredulous
“Come with me,” George pleads quietly, softening his voice into a practiced cocktail of desperation and flirtation. “Dream.” He draws out the middle part, stretching it into something honeyed.
Dream sighs. It vibrates through George’s chest, and he knows without a doubt that he’s won. “Okay, fine.” He rubs his eyes. “Let’s go.”
The room is cold once he’s shed his cocoon of body-heated blankets. It prickles against his skin, and he wishes he’d brought a sweatshirt. Dream holds his hand as they navigate out to the hallway and down the stairs. George feels bad for disturbing him, but his sudden burst of anxious energy would have driven him crazy without some way to get his mind off it. And he does want water.
The house is dead silent, apart from them. George winces each time the floorboards creak or he steps too loudly. Dream trails behind him, apparently obvious to George’s worry as he slaps the cushion of the couch with a thwack when they pass it.
The Christmas tree shines a rainbow of colors onto the wood floors. George kicks through them and imagines them splattering like multi-colored rain onto the wall behind it. He pauses to look at it a moment longer.
There are childish ornaments- hand painted gingerbread men that he can only assume are salt dough or some type of clay (Clay, he thinks, smiling to himself), various baby shoes hung from their laces, a batman with a broken arm. Something tightens in his throat, and he marvels at the tiny pieces of Dream’s life that he’s never had the chance to see before. He reaches out and touches the jagged edges of the batman. He hears Dream laugh softly behind him.
“I dropped it was I was, like, ten,” he says quietly, coming to stand beside George. He rests his hand on top of George’s, turning the small figure to the side as if to examine it. “They threw it away, but I took it out of the trash. I’m surprised we still have it.”
George nods wordlessly, swallowing. Sometimes, he thinks, he forgets that Dream has lived a life before he knew him. Sometimes, he forgets that he lived a life before he knew Dream.
“I think this is mine.” Dream points to a glass lizard ornament hanging from one of the top branches. “I don’t remember how old I was when I got it, but we’d get one ornament every year until we turned eighteen. I was probably young. And this-” his fingertips brush over a small brown cat. “I bought this the first Christmas I had Patches.”
“Why didn’t you bring any to our house?” George asks, looking up at him. He looks like he’s made of stained glass in the lighting, like he should be hung in cathedrals to be worshipped somewhere.
Dream shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe we should start our own yearly tradition.” He glances down at George with a curious half-smile. “Would that be okay?”
George nods. He feels like he’s choking on something that he doesn’t know how to describe, and it’s sweet and sharp all at once. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” Dream says simply.
Wordlessly, George walks over to the large window. He looks out over the street before them, at the house across and the ones down the road glimmering with colorful lights. Somewhere, a way down, he hears a car start, and a garage door close. Behind him, Dream wraps his arms around his waist.
“The lights are so pretty,” he says, voice soft and sugared. “We should go drive around tomorrow night. Before they start getting taken down.”
“We should leave ours up,” George tells him, leaning back against his chest. “That way we don’t have to put them up again next year.”
“It’s not as special then,” Dream counters. “Part of the season is decorating.”
George narrows his eyes. “So? We can just add to it every year. Or take it down in Halloween so we won’t have it year-round.”
“In Halloween?” Dream teases. “During Halloween, you mean?”
George rolls his eyes, even though Dream can’t see the movement. “During October,” he amends. “Idiot.”
“That’s what I meant.” Dream laughs quietly. “We’ll have to change them out for every holiday. Fuck it; let’s decorate for New Year’s.”
“And for Valentine’s Day,” George says. His heart flip-flops at the realization that he’ll get to spend Valentine’s Day with Dream this year. Last year, it was just a dull hope, like a candle left out in a rainstorm. It had drowned in the merciless downpour of exhaustion eventually.
“And Easter,” Dream adds. His thumb strokes over George’s side, pressing in through the thin cotton of the shirt. “And- what else?”
George shrugs. “Halloween? We already did that one though.”
“True,” Dream agrees, swaying them slowly side-to-side as they gaze out the window. Their reflections are backlit in the glass and George can’t focus on anything but the entwined shape. “This is my favorite holiday,” he says softly, dropping his chin onto George’s shoulder.
“You didn’t celebrate last year,” George recalls, rubbing up and down Dream’s arms where he can feel slight goosebumps. “Sapnap was complaining about not having a tree.”
Dream hums quietly. “Yeah. Didn’t feel very festive.”
“It didn’t,” George agrees quietly. There’s a creak from upstairs. He’s sure it’s just the house settling but Dream tenses, as if preparing to step back. George tries not to take it to heart. Instead, he focuses on how Dream settles back into him after a moment passes, kissing his shoulder.
“I’m glad we’re celebrating this year,” Dream murmurs. “We get to celebrate everything.”
“Everything,” George repeats. “I’m like your Christmas present.”
Dream snorts.
“What?” George prompts, craning his neck to look at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Dream,” he says again.
Dream grins widely, resolve breaking. “I just imagined you with one of those, like, presents-” he laughs softly. “Like- that you put your dick in. That would be- that would be kinda hot.”
“Would it?” George raises an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dream giggles at that and kisses him again. “You wouldn’t even be a Christmas present,” he argues. “You’d be, like, an early- what? I’d be your early birthday present if anything.”
“So, you’d have to wear the box,” George says, turning to look at him. He drapes his arms over his shoulder. Dream’s hand drops to rest just below his hips. He rolls his eyes at the smug look on Dream’s face and shakes his head. “I want water,” he announces.
Dream grins, mumbling something so quietly that George can’t hear. He squints at him.
“What did you say?”
Dream blinks, wide-eyed and innocent. “Nothing.”
“What did you say?” George repeats, trying his hardest to keep a straight face.
Dream grins. “Nothing.”
George swats lightly at his shoulder. “What did you say?” he pries. “Tell me!”
Dream covers his mouth to stifle his laughter. Still, it floats wonderfully through the empty space. The lights on the tree seem to shine brighter. He leans forward, until his lips brush George’s ear.
“Thirsty,” he whispers.
George scoffs, pulling back to look indignantly at him. “And?” he asks, raising his eyebrow. “What are you going to do about it?”
Dream shakes his head. “Nothing. Not with my parents and little sister three doors down. And, like, other people.”
George huffs, playing up disappointment just for the hell of it. “Fine," he sighs, intentionally dramatic. “I guess that’s reasonable. Be less reasonable.”
Dream grins. “I’ll be less reasonable tomorrow. There. That’s your Christmas present.” He steps back, grabbing George’s hand as he does, and pulls him gently towards the dark kitchen.
The cabinet creaks open as Dream opens it, taking down a glass and handing it to George. It closes with a soft click.
He looks over at Dream briefly before going to the fridge to fill the cup, as if unsure if he’s allowed to. Dream makes a face, as if the answer is obvious.
George waits at the fridge while the cup fills, white light of the dispenser washing over his hand and painting it even paler. When it’s filled, he opens the door and silver cascades out onto the tile floor like a waterfall. He squints against the abrasive light, peering in at the variety of containers, some leftovers and some being prepared for Christmas Day.
Dream’s hand grazes his waist. “What are you looking for?” he asks softly.
George shrugs. “Just curious.” A beat. “I’m being nosy.”
“A little,” Dream agrees. “You hungry? There’s a bowl of candy around here somewhere.”
George looks around. “Where?” he asks. “I kinda want candy.”
“It should be-” Dream looks around, frowning. “Hang on. Oh!” He opens a cabinet and rummages around for a moment, before pulling out a small porcelain bowl and passing it to George.
George pauses before taking it. “Your mum won’t mind if we eat any, right?”
Dream shakes his head. “That’s what they’re there for.” He leans over and grabs a red and white peppermint. George grabs a chocolate and pops it in his mouth. He balls up the wrapper and throws it at Dream, who catches it, shaking his head fondly.
The refrigerator is still open, still washing the room out in surprisingly strong light. George looks around the kitchen curiously. In front of him, Dream crunches the mint loudly, and then makes a face.
“That’s bad for your teeth, I’m pretty sure,” he says, still chewing. “I shouldn’t do that.”
George takes another sip of the water and sets his empty cup in the sink. “Should I put this in the dishwasher?”
Dream shakes his head, waving offhandedly. “It’s fine if you leave it in there.”
“You sure?” George checks. “I don’t want to make your mum clean up after me.”
Dream shakes his head again. “The dishwasher needs to be unloaded, I’m pretty sure.”
“Oh.” The glass clinks loudly against the metal interior of the sink. George winces at the sound. “Should we go back upstairs?”
Dream ignores him, opening another cabinet and peering inside. “I think they reorganized,” he comments, frowning. “What? They reorganized! Look!”
George walks over to stand beside him, and then frowns. “Wait.” He taps Dream’s arm. “I don’t know what it looked like before.”
Dream glances over at him, brow furrowed. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
With that, he crosses over the other side of the kitchen like a whirlwind and pulls open a drawer. He holds up a stapler and clicks it once. The bent metal falls to the floor and he kicks it under the open refrigerator. George rolls his eyes as he goes back to sifting through the contents of the drawer.
“What are you doing?” George asks, pulling at his arm.
Dream shrugs. “Looking around.” He sticks an orange sticky note to George’s forehead, smiling widely.
“Dream.” George giggles, tugging at him again. “Dream, I feel bad. We’re just, like, snooping around your parents’ stuff.”
Dream raises his eyebrows. “It’s my house,” he reminds him. “I’m allowed to snoop.”
“Well, I’m not,” George points out. “Dream!”
Dream rolls his eyes. “We’re looking around the kitchen, George. It’s not like you’re looking through their documents or, like, stealing things.”
George sighs, leaning back against the counter and releasing his arm. “That’s true,” he concedes. “I stole a chocolate though.”
“And I stole a mint,” Dream says, unconcerned. “Who cares? I used to take handfuls when I was younger and smuggle them to Drista when she was, like, pretty little. She wasn’t supposed to have a ton of sugar because she was so young, but I didn’t know that. And then she’d get all hyper and wouldn’t sleep, and she’d cry a lot.” He shakes his head, grinning fondly at the memory. “Just don’t get hyper and we’re fine.”
“No promises.” George freezes as footsteps sound from down the hall. A door shuts loudly. He glances up at Dream, alarmed.
Dream holds a finger to his lips. A moment later, the toilet flushes and he grins. “It’s fine,” he whispers, but there’s a nervous tremor that runs through his voice. His eyes dart right, towards the refrigerator which is still hanging open and bathing the room in cold light. “You should close that. Conserve energy.”
For a moment, George just looks at him, drenched in the glow. For whatever reason, his heart is racing. Maybe it’s the thrill of feeling like they’re breaking rules, or maybe Dream just had the uncanny ability to undo him. It always surprises him how easily Dream is able to fluster him, even after close to three months of being beside him. Maybe he should be used to this by now, but he’s starting to think that the amazement will never go away. The largest part of him hopes that it never will, that he’ll always see Dream the way he did the first time they’d met- unbelievable, untouchable, and everything he’s been waiting for his whole life.
Then, his gaze flickers sideways to the brightness spilling out through the silver door. He kicks it shut. The soft collision brings the house down around them. The subsequent blackness swallows the wreckage.
“Closed it.”
“Closed it,” Dream repeats quietly. He steps closer.
“It’s dark now,” George points out dumbly. The words feel clunky in his mouth.
“It is,” Dream agrees. His eyes flicker over George’s head, down towards the dark hallway.
A pause.
“Can you still see me?” George asks, stepping backwards towards the doorway, where the light from the Christmas tree casts multicolored waves over the floor. “I can hardly see you.”
Dream steps closer. “Barely.”
“Oh.” In the shape of faint moonlight, George reaches out. His hand brushes over Dream’s arm and latches on. “Found you.”
“You found me?” Dream says, laughing softly. “Let’s go back to bed, idiot. We need to sleep.”
George sighs, allowing himself to be tugged back towards the living room when, all at once, Dream stops, a look of surprise and then joy spreading over his face.
“George.” He’s grinning, eyes fixed above his head at the doorway. “Look.”
George looks up. A clipping of a plant with dark red berries hangs over him. He’d noticed it early- he’s sure Dream had as well- but the kitchen had been filled with people. He can’t fight the smile now, meeting Dream’s bright eyes. “Mistletoe,” he says.
“Mistletoe,” Dream confirms. “You have to kiss me now.”
“Do I?” George asks, arching an eyebrow. He takes a small step sideways so he’s directly under the arch. Dream follows him, hand in hand.
“You do,” Dream tells him. Something in his smile shines like he knows he’s already won- and he has. George is just trying to be a nuisance a moment longer. “It’s tradition.”
“Oh.” George widens his eyes. “Well, I guess if it’s tradition.” He leans back against the doorframe, gazing up at Dream.
Dream brings their hands to his waist, pulling him towards his body. “Merry Christmas,” he whispers, when he’s close enough for George to feel the warmth of his breath on his face.
“Merry Christmas,” George murmurs, tilting his head up to look Dream squarely in the face. He’s washed in the colorful lights, half his face shadowed by the dark kitchen and the other illuminated from the tree. George makes a small noise in the back of his throat, quiet impatience at being kept waiting, and a smile breaks out over both of their faces.
Dream leans down and kisses him.
He tastes of peppermint.