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George tried to chalk the nerves he felt on his plane ride to Florida up to excitement. There was something distinct about the nervousness that sat thick and heavy in his throat, about how his head whipped around every time a flight attendant walked by, how he played his downloaded music as quietly as he could hear through only one headphone and turned at every noise he heard. Flying felt more like hurtling through the air and George thought he’d find relief when the pilot announced their descent, until landing felt more like falling into the ground. Signs reading Orlando surrounded him as his eyes anxiously caught every bit of blond hair they could latch onto. George breathed deeply in an attempt to return some feeling to his body after being stationary for so long. The pressure in the cabin wasn’t just something that could be relieved by a stick of gum and more like something that would have crushed his bones- a feat at which he didn’t think was possible until he was wrapped in arms so tight George felt his spine crackle. The golden boy responsible pulled away to look down at him with a surprised laugh, before simply crushing their bodies together again. The pressure inside of him then was something he didn’t believe could be topped until he had his breath stolen with how his ribs squeezed his heart the first time George had bumped into Dream in the early morning. When he couldn’t help but notice the yellow light glinting gold off his hair that had been messed by his headphones. When Dream’s face immediately broke into a smile that looked softer than his worn, patterned pajama pants and he tilted his body to let George brush past him in their newly shared hallway.
That was the first early morning George had walked down to their kitchen to make a cup of tea like he used to at his flat in london. Something he usually did after him and Dream had finally called a long call quits. Well, less like they decided to say goodbye and more like sleep stole Dream from him. He and Dream have had this routine for years now. They’d talk until one or both physically couldn’t anymore, and if it wasn’t him, George would eventually rise from his chair, or his bed, or the carpet, and his feet would lead him down the stairs to the cold hardwood of the kitchen floor. A plane ride couldn’t change that. At 3am, 4am, 5am George still finds himself leaning his back against the counter just left of the stove, just like he would across the ocean, and he’ll lull himself back into trailing thoughts that have long since strayed from being productive. He used to come up with the next Dream team short, the fix for the plugin that plagued him and Dream the day before, the newest merch concept. He closes his eyes and rolls his head defeatedly back against the cabinet door and lets his mind wander. Perhaps George's thoughts always had to do with Dream in one way or another. He tastes a tang like bitter amusement on his tongue and thinks, lately it’s been a lot of another.
A few months before when George was about to receive the most important letter of his life, he can’t help but wonder if his daydreams and Dreams real one’s match. They seem to mirror each other in every other way, why is it impossible to think they’ll dream the same way too? Subconsciously or not? George feels spurred on by something like a glimmer of hope, and when his morning melts into evening and Dream’s dawn to midafternoon, he decides to ask.
“Did you dream?”
Dream’s microphone crackles as he shuts the faucet off. George is placed on his bathroom counter on speakerphone as Dream performs his “morning” routine. George called after seeing Dreams discord status change from invisible to do not disturb, knowing full well those rules didn’t apply to him after years and hours on call. Dream preferred his first few hours of the day undisturbed but that more often than not still included George, even if they both were simply working in silence. They didn’t need to talk, and more specifically knew when not to, a sign of familiarity between them George thought.
“What? What did I do?”
How lovely to bask in the feeling of instant regret, he thinks and sighs, “You are an idiot. Did you have any dreams?”
“Well that’s only the expectation, is it not?” Dream jokes.
“So you did?” George’s prods, eyeing his tea from a few hours before.
Dream turned the faucet on and off again, and George could hear the faint noise of bottles knocking each other as their products were used. He knew Dream had an extensive collection of skincare products from offhand mirror selfies he loved to screenshot, although he didn’t necessarily know if Dream needed them, or if they even worked. Another reminder of what he didn’t have yet.
“I didn’t actually, I don't often. If I do, they're more like nightmares honestly. Why Georgie, wanna know if I'm dreaming about you?” he teases, a facade of honey passing his lips.
George rolls his eyes, spins in his chair, and switches the subject.
A couple weeks before the visa arrives early mornings are starting to mean no sleep at all, and George’s back leans against the cabinets now when he slides down left of the stove, to sit on the wooden floor instead. A floor that in the dark after a particularly long call he can pretend is Dream’s if he squints hard enough. Dream’s floor which he’s familiar with from videos of Patches running around, room tours, and other pieces of domesticity he’s shared with George. Even with the distance it feels so fond. When George is really tired, and his tea is reduced to leaves, he can almost picture Dream standing there as well. It's sickening to him that his daydreams should probably be classified as hallucinations. He doesn't even know what Dream looks like outside of teasing snaps of his neck and jaw, and a terribly Floridian photo from when he was a child. What a twisted joke, he thinks with his chest burning.
Everyone knows Dream and George are well aware of the rumors between them, and they like to fuel the fire, or at least Dream does more than anything. George finds himself constantly dragged into bits that lately seem harder and harder to carry on, and harder and harder to watch when the clips inevitably find their way to his timeline hours later. He doesn’t remember when it all started to feel so personal, or when he started thinking he’d like to hear these things roll off Dream’s tongue when they weren't meant to entertain an audience, when his voice might be meant to genuinely soothe him, instead of the humor sharp enough to poke holes in George’s facade. His vision almost doubles one night listening to the tremble in his own voice in a ten second video being reposted and reposted, and his mind slows down time playing back Dream's low responses over and over. They often laughed at their fans, brushing them off and saying they’re insane for picking out the little discrepancies in what they say and what they do. George would never admit it, but lately they make him think. He’d be a liar to say Dream didn’t speak to him in a voice he gave no one else, he sees it now. They feed into his daydreams. Dream in his socks, sliding around their hardwood floors, talking to him like that. George thinks he could be insane too. So much for a facade.
George rises to his feet, sets down his cup of tea, and chooses to ignore the heat he feels flooding his cheekbones and ears. His bed and sleep seemed like a healthy escape to where his thoughts are trying to lead him. In the end, it is his own fault that he never stopped to consider that Dream wasn’t simply on his mind, he was living and breathing in his subconscious. So personal he’s almost a part of him, naturally he chases George into his dreams.
This isn’t the first time the blond boy has made an appearance in one of George’s dreams. They’ve been friends for so long, it would be a surprise if he had never showed up. George would hear his familiar voice, or simply be aware of his existence in his dreamland the next morning without ever seeing him. Never was Dream really there, evading being seen just as easily as he does in real life. However, this is the first time George truly dreamed of him. It was too simple to misconstrue or write off as something other than a manifestation of what George was trying so hard to seclude to his kitchen in the middle of the night. He felt too real to pretend it didn’t exist or maybe it wasn’t his best friend that George could still feel under his fingertips the next morning. It started with Dream's dark hardwood floors. The ones George likes to pretend he has too, and it turned into white socks with a black logo, creeping up under baggy dark sweats covered by a light grey hoodie brandishing a red OU on the front. Each part of him unveiled itself slowly, the same way that George learned them over time. Socked feet that were always cold and long legs from silly videos of Patches making figure eights around them. Fit checks in a bathroom mirror every Saturday that Dream watches college football to support his team. A frame too broad and too familiar to mistake despite the fact he’s never fully seen it before, and it’s stood far too close. Large hands that led into freckle covered arms George knew all too well from unboxing videos and snaps of Patches being held close to his chest. The curve of a pale neck, and a stubbled jaw, and… nothing. George’s eyes were trained straight ahead, unable to look at the rest of the face hidden just from his view. His eyes stay forward and he is stood with a stillness he rarely has, until he watches arms move forward and feels large hands settle into the curve of his waist. It's as if his ability to move is suddenly returned to him and George watches his own hands act of their own accord, trickling up a clothed chest to broad shoulders, feeling across arms and tracing fingers until George reaches his neck and jaw, and takes hold of him gently on both sides. He is forced to feel. Feel his best friend tangibly under his fingers after all of this time waiting. Feel as if fire covered his fingertips and burned through his veins to settle thickly in his chest and throat, as if this was even real.
George woke up with a sore, dry throat. He checked the time to see 10:52am, an appropriate time to roll out of bed if he didn’t already operate on EST. His brain automatically calculates that to mean 5:52am in Florida, which means he had a few hours. He falls back into his pillows, and closes his eyes to guiltily try and lure grey hoodies and soft curves back into his mind.
He comes to later from a buzzing next to his head, and a little green avatar lights up his face when he rolls over. His dream crawls back to him and the guilt follows quickly. Who the fuck thinks about their best friend like that and who the fuck tries to fall back into the dream again?
George quickly swipes to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“George!”
“Hello?”
“Hey. It’s late as shit and I heard nothing from you and I thought you might be” George closes his eyes, “ignoring me or something” Dream rambles and George can spot the concern in his voice.
George swallows thickly. Little does he fucking know I’ve been chasing his body through dreamland, he thinks.
“Anyways, did you just wake up? You’ve been asleep forever, I uh- missed you. I guess you haven’t been sleeping much lately so this is good but-“ Dream stops short, as if the air caught on his tongue.
George coughs. “What do you mean I haven't been sleeping much?” He thought he was going unnoticed, several nights of slipping off of the call after he could finally hear Dream breathing evenly, with no one there but himself to take note of how long George listens before he goes.
Dream takes his time before responding as if he wishes he never mentioned it, “Well I just… I notice when you’re tired George. I can see when the skin under your eyes is more purple and I hear when your responses are slower than usual. I can see it when I watch you, that sounds weird, but I'm sure you would be the same with me if…”
George breathes quickly, “If I could see you… right.”
He's still in his bed, still feeling sharp prickles on his fingertips as if Dream's jaw was underneath them. He did just see him.. well, most of him and this is hitting too close to home. He sits up quickly and gets dizzy, he needs to get out of here.
“I forgot I'm going to visit Mom today, I want to spend time with her before the visa. I'm actually running late, thank you for waking me up. I have to get ready and leave now.” George spits out the first excuse he can think of, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
“We can stay on while you get ready, I’m not doing anything imp-“
George cuts him off and as usual, tries to speak as casually as possible, “I'll talk to you later, Dream!”
“Oh okay, bye George-“ he’s stopped short once again.
George hangs his head low, breathes out a sigh, and lets his feet lead him into his kitchen. Almost robotically he puts on hot water with a tea bag, leans back on the left side of the stove, and sinks down to the dark hardwood.
Three days George spends like that, either in bed or on the floor of his kitchen. Cups of tea have accumulated on his countertops and bedside tables, and twice as many excuses flood his texts with Dream, who would be a fool to not notice he’s avoiding him. He spends most of his time on youtube, watching clips of his cheeks being burned with rose, and doesn’t know if he’s more bitter that Dream made it happen, or that the fans had noticed. He sees what people say about them both being head over heels, and how he’s gotten even more telling lately without even noticing it himself, and now that he sees it laid all out in front of him he feels sick. George hadn’t known just how blissful ignorance was. He always thought it was Dream pulling him along, but now he sees how his own unconscious reactions do even more to encourage him and their audience to push harder and harder for more and more. He knows what this is. What's worse is that he knows half of them beg the question of what it’s like to love Dream. What is it like to be so close to him, get special privileges and see more of his neck and jaw and hair and life than anyone else has? Everybody wants his attention and right now he’s refusing it. The truth is, loving Dream is the false pretense of hardwood floors, day old cups of tea, and watching the clock on their calls reach impossible numbers. Loving Dream is burning from the inside out, and even worse, avoiding him is making George guiltier than he ever knew possible.
To be honest, George had no plan of when he would go back to his normal routine of calling Dream into the late hours of the night, until his mail arrived on his doorstep on his fourth morning of silence.
He scrambles for his phone to find a lime green icon, and it only takes two rings for him to answer.
“George! Finally! It’s been forever what’s happening why didn’t you call me on discord-“ his voice sounds closer than usual with his phone pressed up against his cheek.
“Dream. Dream.”
“George? What's wrong, what happened?”
“It’s here.” he whispers into the phone, half laughing from shock and joy and expecting him to know.
And he does. There’s a beat of silence and then, “WHAT? George WHAT?”
A bubbling uncontrollable laughter escapes his lungs as Dream rambles on about all the things they need to do to get him to America, and he can hear his desk slamming and Dream throws himself into his chair, keys clacking in search of a flight.
Two days later George finds himself back in his normal routine with Dream, just with a lot more cardboard boxes. One night when Dream falls asleep on their call he sneaks back into his kitchen and puts on some tea after listening to Dreams even breathing for something close to an hour. His silence gets disturbed by a faint buzzing next to his hip, and George sees his phone light up green.
George can’t help how he feels anymore, he smiles and answers.
“Hi Dream,” he says quietly into the space in front of him.
“George,” and god his voice is so deep.
“How did you know I was awake?” George chews on his lips. This was supposed to be his time to think about Dream in the quiet, to come to terms with his own feelings in the dark. He only ever heard Dream in his head here, but Dream's morning voice now in a place where George pretends to have him suits to kill him.
“I didn't. I- um- I had a bad dream.” he mumbles.
“Oh.” at least pretend to be helpful George, he thinks and says, “Did you want to talk about it?”
Dream sighs into his phone “I just… I don’t really remember I just knew I you were there and then.. something bad happened” he pauses before continuing on carefully, “I had a bad feeling and needed to make sure you were.. okay.”
George squeezes his eyes shut and pushes himself back into the cabinet. He's not sure okay is the right word for him right now, “I'm okay Dream, I'm still here with you.”
All Dream says is “Okay.” and they sink back into a gentle silence. George is appreciative, he needs the quiet to process. Dream came to him for comfort, Dream needed to know he was okay. He didn’t want to displace this, George knew how he felt and his tendency to think what if with every compilation he watches of the two of them, or every time Dream's voice comes off a little too honeyed.
He's not sure if he’s still awake, so mostly for himself he says “I’ll be there soon, you can check on me in real life soon.” and tangles his fingers together.
“George?” Dream whispers, the sound making him flinch.
“Dream?” he calls back, staring at his phone. He can’t explain the knots in his stomach right now, but he senses something in the air, something similar to what he feels before Dream says a joke George knows he will pine over a few hours later in the exact spot he’s in now.
The tension is thick in his throat and Dream falters before whispering “I can't wait to see your pretty face.”
One heartbeat, another, and then George saves himself from choking with a cough.
“Why would you say that?” he forces out hoarsely without thinking.
“I don't know.” Dream's reply crackles, his voice still deep and low.
There’s more silence, and it’s certainly less comfortable. Pretty face, George thinks. Pretty fucking face. What does he do with that? How does he move on from that? There’s no audience, no reason he could’ve possibly had to say that other than just to say it to him. It's like he knew what George secretly wished for, a moment in the dark just the two of them, Dream sickly sweet. His racing heart is interrupted again.
“George?” Dream beckons again.
Oh god what now, George thinks. He’s harrowed.
“Dream?” he calls hesitantly, back to their routine.
“What are you doing still awake?” Dream questions.
He doesn’t consider lying, “I am sitting on my kitchen floor.”
“Why?” he says, genuine and soft as Dream always is, asking as if desperate to drink in more new information about George.
“I like to think here, it’s cold and it’s calming.” he replies simply, he wants to give Dream everything he asks for.
And of course, Dream prods more, “What do you think about?”
Dream was honest, George might as well be too. “You. Always you, Clay.”
They both sit quietly until George decides it’s time, he climbs to his feet, leaves his cup of tea on the counter to be cleaned tomorrow, and whispers into the phone “Goodnight Dream.”
He receives the smallest “Goodbye.” He thinks he’ll ever receive from Dream's mouth, and hangs up the phone.
George and Dream don’t mention it, which is absolutely fine by him, but George has the impulse to fill every silence with a barrage of questions starting with what the fuck does that mean and ending with a simple why. Luckily for him, silences seem few and far between lately, especially with the way Dream chatters nervously on the phone asking George if he has everything. George has double and triple checked his bag and tickets so many times not even Dream can convince him he’s missing something. Passport, visa, every form of identification under the sun. He even had an awful picture taken in sixth form he’d found in an old box in his childhood bedroom that he fully intended to throw away until Dream begged and begged to see it and George decided it had a new purpose.
“Are you sure?” Dream worries again. George can hear him shuffling while they talk, and knows he’s cleaning up the house anxiously, trying to keep himself busy until George arrives.
“Yes Dream, I'm one million percent sure.” George rolls his eyes, “and I can hear you cleaning. It’s a ten hour flight and you need to go to sleep or something, you idiot.”
“Nine hour and fifty five minute flight, George. Twenty five minutes for you to get off the plane and get your bags. Thirty six to thirty nine minutes for you to drive here. I want to make sure you feel at home as soon as you walk in.”
George turns his head at the intercom announcing his plane is boarding, and feels a flip in his stomach, “I've got to go, I'm boarding. I'm going to be happy no matter what Dream, home is where you are.”
He pulls the phone slightly away from his ear and freezes. Dream reply comes faintly, “Oh… have a safe flight George. I'll see you soon.”
George fully drops his hand and stares at his black phone screen. Why would I say that.
Finally, George feels that things are decidedly different. Dream didn’t listen, and instead did everything he possibly could to make George’s space as much alike to his place back in London as he could. George had most things shipped to his new home ahead of time and, of course, Dream knew George’s previous desk setup and managed to put everything in the exact place it was before. It was a little eerie, walking into his new stream room and seeing a carbon copy of his desk from London, but he appreciated it all the same, and Dream was clearly proud of his attention to detail. Despite this, George was still right about what home really was. He didn’t spend most of his time in his stream room like he used to, he found new places he liked to be. The carpet of Dream’s room where he could pretend he was watching his computer screen around his shoulder while he worked instead of just staring at his back, the corner of the couch where the sun hit his lap for a few minutes each day as it was setting, and still, the left side of the stove in the dead of the night waiting for his tea to brew. Apparently old habits die hard, and George still needed his time to think. He's never been a liar if it’s Dream asking, and he still is keeping his word. George always goes back to him, and how he’s so much more than George expected. Everything to do Dream feels multiplied by tenfold of what George saw in his head. His shoulders are broader, hair is blonder, eyes greener. He's louder, kinder, prettier, softer. Dream is so much more himself when completed with hand motions and facial expressions.
George felt each of these things sit in his throat as he perceived them, and Dream made him burn ten times worse than he could’ve imagined.
Most of all, George hadn’t realized just how much space Dream could occupy in the world and in his head. every room with just the two of them was crowded, and every night George spent up was solely at his hand. One thing he had taken for granted before he moved here was that George only ever had to analyze one aspect of their interactions together. Body language was a wholly new concept George had to stomach, and it was dizzying. A new genre of clips have begun to grace George’s timeline, these he fully felt and experienced the first time around, but seeing them from all angles was entirely different. How was he supposed to distinguish between Dream being touchy because he was being himself, and Dream being touchy because he was feeling the same thing he was? How was George supposed to know if Dream shifting on the couch is because he wants to be comfortable, or because he wants to be closer? If Dream puts his hand over George’s, is it an accident, and if George doesn’t feel it move, is he imagining it?
When George first walked into his new home, after getting over the daze of seeing Dream, or learning to function with it, a skill he would use regularly over the coming weeks, he was pulled into another hug. Dream’s body was softer and broader than expected and George slumped right into him, relaxing his head on his large shoulder and closing his eyes to indulge in his best friend for only a moment before pulling away. Each action of his had consequences. Being in Dream’s arms meant his stomach flipping with the smell of sweet watermelon and laundry detergent, while pulling away meant a hand on his waist or shoulders, and being forced to look at blinding teeth and golden curls. He searches desperately around his new home for an escape in the form of Patches, hoping to buy him an out from being so close to her owner. George’s attempt leads him nowhere, and instead he turns to face Dream forcing his hand to fall away and awkwardly tries to fill the silence.
“I like your flooring.” he says looking down at their feet positioned toe to toe.
In comes the thought, familiar as ever, why would I say that?
Dreams head cocks to the side with a puzzled smile, and floppy golden rings follow, “Well it’s yours now too.”
Our wooden floors, George thinks. They were always the basis of his daydreams, the first thing he could make appear in his mind, but now in the Florida daylight, George has no need to piece together the rest of his fixation. He’s stood right in front of him, his hand extended to lead him upstairs.
In the coming days they fell easily into a routine, just as expected. Hours of discord calls were traded for George laying in Dream’s room and Dream inevitably trailing him anytime he left. It was nice to finally be allowed to be attached at the hip, and George indulged in every second Dream gave him, finding excuses to spend more time with him no matter what they were doing. Not that it was hard, Dream seemed to be on the exact same page, offering meals and car rides and movies where they sat with their knees touching on the couch, which of course drove George up a wall.
They took their time announcing George’s arrival to Florida, wanting to bask in it themselves. Dream didn’t seem to mind that either, and he suspected he appreciated not having to address the pressure of face revealing yet. George sat at his desk, a rare occurrence being in the last few days that he only wandered into his room to sleep. He had Twitter pulled up and wasn’t shocked to find that people had begun questioning his whereabouts, as they did with every extended absence he took. Dream was, of course, never too far away, sitting on George’s bed with his back against the wall. He had his phone in his hand, and George turned to type Dream Fanart into the search bar. Sure enough, new tweets appeared in the account’s likes as he refreshed the page.
“That one is good.” He said, breaking their silence. It was a cartoon-like depiction of Dream with Patches in his arms, her big eyes trained up on him and a wide smile covering his face.
Dream looked up at him and caught sight of the art on his computer screen. He smiled, “Yeah, they did Patches really well.”
George sighed and trained his eyes back on the screen, the next post was a drawing of the Dream Team meetup with the caption, guys I might start Florida truthing again. Maybe they should just rip off the bandaid.
“Dream?” He sees his head snap back up towards him, giving him his attention immediately. “What if I just streamed? My setup is here, I could, and I don’t have any other plans for how to tell them I’m here.”
He sees Dream consider for a moment before asking, “Do you want to?”
“I think we should tell them, just so we can ignore them for a little longer.” George smiles at him, hoping to ease his own nerves.
Dream chokes out a laugh at that, and smiles back easily. “Do you mind if I stay here while you’re live?”
“I’ll have my facecam on.” George looks at him cautiously, but he doesn’t seem to flinch at the idea of being seen.
He nods his head, “I know it’s okay, besides I should be tall enough that they can’t even see my shoulders.”
Tall, George’s brain supplies, helpful as ever. He rolls his eyes, half at himself, and says, “Fine, I’ll stream then, but only if you help me set it up.”
George’s cursor hovered the go live button when he looked at Dream one last time. He had helped him set up without any argument, simply smiling at his antics and standing far too close for George to think clearly. Dream nods at him from his place back on the bed, and George hits the button, face cracking open into a grin.
“Is it working guys, is it working?” He lets out a bubbly laugh, “I’m live, I’m live, spread the news!”
He puts on a random song and continues to babble as he watches the viewer count tick up and up. Chat flies by, full of GEORGE and WHERE ARE YOU, he laughs again. He didn't realize how excited he actually was to share the news, but there’s no fun in being outright.
“I don’t know guys, where am I?” He pitches his voice up, “Where am I?” Another giggle leaves his lips, and he hears Dream echo it to his right, he can’t stop himself from turning to look with a grin and finds the same expression mirrored back. Damn it, he thinks. He didn’t want to be so telling so soon, but it's too late now HE'S LOOKING AT DREAM and other variations of it fly through the chat.
George decides to ignore it, naturally. “What do you guys want to do?” he asks, knowing there will be no real answer, everyone is too distracted by his change in location, “I think we’re going to beat the game.” He smiles, booting up Minecraft. George hums to himself and looks back at chat, “What are you guys even talking about, I didn’t look at anyone.” He laughs and looks back at Dream once more, just to add fire to the flame. He simply runs around the new world he created, and absent mindedly tries to parkour through the trees, repeatedly missing a long jump. He hears the bed and blankets shift, but keeps his eyes trained on chat, repeating funny messages he sees and talking aimlessly. Suddenly his chair shifts backwards with a new weight, and arms drape around his neck and shoulders.
He looks up and sure enough, sees Dream leaned over him, then, in a panic he looks to the small box that shows what his camera projects back at him. Dream was right, he was too tall to be seen, even leaning down to put his arms around George. He’s barely given time to think about the expression that crossed his face when he realized their position, and how it was shown to thousands.
Chat flies as Dream laughs at him, “You’re so bad, you can’t even make a 4 block jump, George!” George stands to tilt his camera down further, just in case, and Dream’s hands don’t break from his shoulders as he rises.
He instantly tries to deflect. “Blame chat! I was looking at them, not the game.” George glances back over to chat, and sees it moving faster than he’s seen in ages as the viewer count rises even more. DREAM and HE'S IN FLORIDA and OH MY GODs fly by. Poor mods, he thinks, he could have given them a warning.
“Guys, GUYS, I’m in Florida! Look, it's Dream! He’s here!” He exclaims and grabs one of Dream’s wrists, waving it around wildly, energy taking over him. Dream goes along with it easily, always willing to share his excitement, and grips his shoulders hard, shaking him around in the chair.
“George is in Florida! George is in Florida!” They both fall into wheezes, and carry on the rest of the short stream in the same position they were before, Dream easily thanking subs and gifted for him while George pretends he can focus on the game with his arms around his shoulders.
After they say their goodbyes, George spins around in the chair forcing Dream’s hold to fall away, leaving him standing in front of him and George tilts his chin up, a grin shot his way. Possessed by some ungodly force, George decides he isn't quite ready to bear the absence of Dream’s hands, and stands, leaning forward and wrapping his arms around the blonde boy's torso. Dream engulfs him without question while he presses his face into his shoulder and chest, trying to ignore the flurry in his stomach.
George is muffled when he mumbles into his shirt, “I’m in Florida.”
He feels Dream nod and tighten his grip around his back, never not hugging George as closely to his chest as he can. He echoes back, “You’re in Florida.”
He inhales the scent of his laundry detergent and feels faint, “We did it.”
Like the two of them are a spinning broken record, Dream repeats him again, “We did it.”
Three weeks into his Florida stay George is sat in the passenger seat of Dream’s car on a trip to the beach. Their original idea was to stay the whole day until sunset, until they arrived and George asked for the sunscreen and all Dream could give him was a nervous laugh. They compromised to only stay for an hour and a half, and George spent most of his time in the sand watching Dream through squinted eyes as he waded in until his shoulders were fully submerged. He hadn’t wanted to join him in the water, choosing the safety of the umbrella that protected him from a sunburn. George watched as Dream pulled his shirt in preparation to enter the waves and scoffed when George voiced his worry about any wildlife, simply saying “I could destroy anything in a fight, look at how strong I am.” George rolled his eyes as Dream grinned and flexed, thankful for his sunglasses hiding where his gaze actually landed on his shoulders and chest. Dream waved wildly at him from the ocean and his head sunk beneath the surface only to bob back up a second later.
Lately George sees Dream in things everywhere, like seeing him in real life burned the image of him so vividly into his brain that everything ultimately has to be tainted by the mark he left before it could be processed. Now as George lets the sand slip through his fingers he pictures Dream's hair instead. He imagines it's just as soft and fine, and it’s the same color. He glances up to check on Dream and sees him wading back towards the shore, held by water that’s the same sharp green as his eyes. He makes his way quickly across the sand, running due to how hot it is from the midafternoon sun, and ends up standing in front of George. He notices the moment Dream realizes the sun is burning George’s eyes despite his glasses, and he bends his body over him to give him shade. His movements leave their faces close enough for George to become aware of his breathing, and he catches a glimpse of the point of Dream’s canine when he grins at him.
George can’t help himself, “You look like the beach.”
He curses whatever it is about Dream that manages to make him loose lipped.
Dream smiles and shifts his feet, still creating shade for George, “What does that mean?”
He chews on his cheek knowing there’s no avoiding flat out telling Dream he was thinking about his appearance, and knowing full well the way his chest is going to swell with pride. He sighs, “Well, your hair is the same color as the sand, and- uh- I can only kind of tell but the water looks more green than blue to me, really it’s the same color as your eyes. You’re all golden like the sun.”
George watches those same eyes widen for a second around his words and he silently saves the image of them for recollection with a cup of tea later.
He watches as Dream's lips silently form the word golden before he, as expected, sees an opportunity for a compliment and goes fishing, “The beach is pretty, don’t you think George?”
“It's a good view,” he replies slowly.
Dream’s eyes don’t move from his, and George can practically see the thoughts running wild behind them. devious. “Do you think I'm pretty, George?”
George’s throat might close up. “Those aren’t necessarily the words I'd use.” George blinks up at Dream and tries to keep his cool, it's just banter to him after all.
Dreams smile widens, “Well, I think you’re pretty.”
George freezes. He sees the gleam in Dream's eye, the same one he’s learned he gives when there’s a camera around. So George follows suit, pretending there’s more than just two green eyes on him, and puts on a show, “Oh, I remember.”
Dream is incredibly expressive, despite considering he was someone not used to being aware of what his face is saying. Particularly when it came to George, he knew Dream was used to having the freedom of being behind a screen when George was laid out in front of him. After years of only having his voice, George was learning all he could about his face, and could see Dream retreat back into himself clearly. He can’t help the blossom of panic in his chest at the idea that maybe he made a mistake in bringing up their old conversation, one that hadn’t been mentioned by either of them in the month and a half since it took place.
Dream persistent as ever, fights to keep up, “Would you get in the water if I was the beach?”
George stares at him, and lets a beat pass before, “So you want me inside of you?” slips past his lips before he can think about what he's saying.
Dream’s eyes blow open and George curses his delivery. The sentence left his tongue before he could phrase it like a joke, and his stomach flips in the aftermath.
Dream wheezes out a characteristic “What.” and they both descend into bubbling laughter that leaves them leaning towards each other, close enough that George feels the heat the sun has left on Dream’s skin.
George finds his way down the stairs and around the corner into the kitchen that night. Their time in the sun was just enough to lull him to sleep on their car ride home, one of Dream’s playlists playing low through the speakers. He had put it very tentatively on after George said he didn’t have a music preference. Dream was looking over at him as the first song played. It was soft. George didn’t think it was bad, although he didn’t know if that was because he liked it himself or he liked that Dream was sharing it with him.
Twinkling city lights treated him the same as white noise, and he only later awoke to his seatbelt being undone and a hand wrapped around his bicep. Dream’s face had been leaned close to his and he kept his voice low as he beckoned him inside the house. He had simply nodded, but sleep made him slow and careless and he found himself brushing into Dream without really meaning to, standing close enough that Dream simply wrapped his arm around George’s waist just as lazily. What was the saying? Loose lips sink ships? George had been overwhelmed with the freedom at which he was letting himself speak, and in the fog of sleepiness he thought guiltily, sinking into Dream doesn’t sound too bad and leaned into the embrace. They slipped into the house without George’s head leaving Dream’s shoulder, and only parted as George took the lead up the stairs. Part of him selfishly missed Dream’s touch, until he felt fingers engulf his wrist. They stayed there fully wrapped around his wrist the entire way to George’s bedroom door, where he turned around and looked up at Dream, who lingered to stare back at him for a second before he simply whispered, “Goodnight.” and continued down the hall.
George had no expectation of sleep after that, and his cup of tea kept him company as he rested against the kitchen cabinets once again. Sleep had certainly clouded his judgment earlier, but George couldn’t let himself regret indulging in Dream. He adored the hand on his waist, and the warmth that settled underneath his ribs with the heat of Dream’s palm and torso. He takes a sip from his mug and rests his head on his tucked knees, only to see socked feet round the corner into the kitchen. The figure stops short just in front of him and George peers up, he's so tall.
“What are you doing still up?” Dream asks.
George is sure he looks tiny from Dream’s perspective, curled up with his knees to his chest on the floor.
“Couldn’t sleep.” George simply mumbles.
“You seemed pretty tired when we got back home, I thought you might just go straight to bed. Is something keeping you up?” he prods.
George turns his head away, “Something.”
“Something?” Dream wants more from him, but George isn’t interested in breaking quite yet, and he knows Dream will respect that.
“Something. Why are you down here, you seemed tired too?”
Dream shuffles past George to get to the refrigerator, and shifts a glass bottle in his hand, “I forgot to refill my bottles, needed some water, and anyways I'm probably going to go edit. I was just being quiet when we got home to be mindful of you. I thought you were going to drop on me at any moment, you seemed dead on your feet.”
George had been chalking up Dream’s hands on him to tired comfort seeking. Knowing Dream did it in sound mind made his head spin enough that he couldn’t continue looking up at him anymore and instead lowered his head to find a place on his bent legs.
Dream sank down to the wooden floor across from him, back against the kitchen island, and stretched his legs out so his feet bumped George’s shins until he made room for his ankle to be trapped between Dream’s. They sat like that in silence for a while, Dream keeping George’s leg in place, until he spoke up.
“How is your tea?”
George looked up at him through his lashes, chin resting on his knees. He could mostly just see the outline of him. They were illuminated by a warm yellow panda night light that was sent to the P.O. box. It didn’t work particularly well, but Dream kept it plugged in in the kitchen anyways. It had been useful in keeping George from tripping over his feet the last few weeks of being here with his kitchen dwellings.
“It's good. It’s the one your mum suggested for me, I meant to ask you to tell her I said thank you.” He replies.
“Of course.” Dream whispered back. His head was tilted back against the wood of the island, jaw up and his eyes half closed as he looked at George in a way that had him recalling the times he thought about Dream on a kitchen floor in London. The same overwhelming twist hits George’s gut and fogs his brain, and he just stares back at him unabashedly. He thought back to Dream calling him pretty at the beach. It wasn’t something he was not used to hearing, he’d seen all about his “pretty privilege” online, especially when it came to Dream bending to whatever George wanted. Dream and George were not the same and what George had said to him had not been a lie. Pretty wasn’t the word he’d use for Dream. His eyes raked over Dream’s face in the dim light, still resting back against the wall, eyelids now fully shut. The loose curls that fell over his forehead were closer to brown in this light, a stark contrast from the sparkling gold they held in the sun.
“Beautiful.” The word slipped past his lips unintentionally, just barely loud enough for Dream to hear.
His eyes lifted open, “Did you say something?” he asked quietly. George felt his cheeks turn hot.
He shook his head no, and Dream simply regarded him curiously.
Dream hummed in reply and George took another shaky sip from his near empty cup in an attempt to block his face, hoping between the mug and the nightlight Dream wouldn’t notice the pink tinting his cheekbones.
George rested his cheek on his knees again, looking to the side, finding it too hard to hold Dream's gaze any longer. He could still feel the weight of it after the fact.
After a moment, Dream interrupted their quiet again, “What are you thinking?”
George’s gaze flit back up to Dream, who was leaned towards him now. Wide brown eyes met a deep green, and his throat felt thick again. “Nothing.” Something had changed in the air, and made it feel illegal to speak above a whisper. Dream kept searching his face and opened and closed his mouth like he wanted to speak but didn’t quite know what to say. His eyebrows were furrowed, and a small crease sat between them. George had the urge to reach over and smooth it out with his thumb. He continued to stare at Dream, waiting for the next words to come out of his mouth.
“You know I- I wasn’t too surprised to find you down here. The water was a bit of an excuse.” He said.
George didn’t stop looking, “How did you know?”
Dream smiled softly and George’s eyes followed the motion, “I know you, and you told me once. Do you remember?”
“You checked on me. You had a bad dream.” George can't help the way his voice comes out strained and his stomach flips, “You called me pretty then too.” He adds.
Dream inhales, “I did. You told me you were in the kitchen.” Two pairs of eyes flicking up in sync, meeting each other in the dark, “You’re a creature of habit George, of course you do it here too. I asked you what you think about, remember.”
George feels caught by the eye contact, and can’t fathom how he forces himself to nod.
His eyes grant him some sort of sick reprieve as they catch a glimpse of the movement of Dream’s throat when he swallows before whispering, “You said me. You said it was always me.”
George can’t ignore the ball of burning anxiety that’s settled itself a home in his ribcage but he hears it then, he hears the plea in Dream’s raw whisper, and when he looks up he finds it laid out in front of him like an offering. Dream’s face cracked and blown open, waiting.
“And you called me Clay.” His green eyes look just as wide as George's, and he can only imagine how they look on this floor, mirroring each other in the dark. George breathes deep and nods in response. “You only call me Clay when you mean it. When you really want me to listen.”
Dream detaches from the island, pulling himself closer to George with their hooked ankles so their knees now touched. George takes in the shadows cast on his face as he breathes out, “I meant it.”
Dream’s silence is deafening as he takes the cup of tea George had been gripping with both hands so hard he’d unrealistically thought it might shatter, and sets it beside their curled figures. He reaches back towards George’s lap and encircles one thin wrist just like he had when they followed each other up the stairs, then brings it up to rest between both of their knees. George can’t hide the way his fingers tremble, and Dream can’t hide the relief in his eyes when he realizes how George is shaking. “It’s you.” George repeats, his gaze unmoving on their linked hands and knees.
George can really see it now, so close, the way Dream’s expression is completely broken and unguarded. He sees when Dream is about to speak again, and closes his eyes in anticipation for his response. It comes quietly, like he’s scared to ask, something so rare for someone who’s never been known for speaking carefully, let alone thinking before he does.
“I listened, George. I looked for you.” George’s eyes snap open. “I saw you when you were on camera and how your face flashed before you could catch it, Ii heard when you let something genuine slip off your tongue and I thought-“
Dream breaks eye contact and bends his neck to connect his forehead with the top of George’s knee, “I thought it was so familiar because it looks and sounds the same as what I feel.”
George can see the tension in his shoulders now. He’s hyper aware of how the palm pressed flat against his wrist has become warm and clammy and he turns his fingers over to encircle Dream's wrist as well, and he realizes with a start, he’s just as scared as I am. He’s burning holes into the top of Dream’s golden head when he speaks again, “You came down here to think about me.” It’s delivered as a statement, but George hears the desperation of, please, please say I got it right, in his words.
George finds himself bending his head as well, always chasing Dream, and his exhale disturbs some curls, “I told you. It’s you, it’s always you.”
Dreams head tilts back to look up at him again through long eyelashes and George could swear from then onward he’d been burnt alive with the intensity of it.
Not long later George finds himself with a blanket draped over his shoulders, knees tucked against his chest as he’s sat perched on a barstool that had been moved to the same place they’d previously sat huddled together on the floor. Dream stood at the stove, pushing eggs absentmindedly in a circle, his spare hand being used to drag a dull nail slowly up and down George’s leg from his knee to his ankle. He was paid more attention than the task at hand, and Dream seemed to care about looking at George and smiling a lot more than he cared about if their eggs burnt or not. Their physical touch hadn’t halted since they sat on the floor with their legs and arms tangled and their eyes locked. At some point Dream had tired of just looking and his grip tightened around George’s wrist until the smaller boy's body was between his knees and he had his arms around him like a vise. George’s breath was squeezed out of him in a hug reminiscent of the one he first received outside the Orlando airport, and he pauses before shaking apart in Dream’s arms in a way he wouldn’t have dared to then. When Dream pulls away and finds George’s cheeks wet, George is endlessly grateful for the way he simply smiles and brushes his fingertips across his cheekbones, then through his hair, before directing his face back home to the curve of his neck. They'd eventually pulled themselves up and found George a chair and a blanket after he insisted if he didn’t have Dream's arms around him he at least needed something. George simply watched contentedly as the blonde made his way around the kitchen, never missing an opportunity to touch him, or whisper something to do with baby into his ear. George found his fingers dancing up Dream's arms and chest, landing home in his curls when he’s hit so hard by the dazed look in Dream's eyes that he wants to say is him being lovestruck that he decides to tell the truth again.
“I dreamed of this, you know.”
All he receives is a hum in response as Dream's eyelids slip halfway down and he pushes into George’s hands on his scalp like a cat. “You were in the kitchen with me and you had your dumb OU hoodie on and you just stood there and held my waist and you let me touch you.”
Dream looks at him more steadily now, “How did it feel?”
“Not like it does now.” He answers easily and slides his hands over Dream's shoulders, “I couldn't see your face then, and I just woke up feeling worse. It gave me a whole new part of you to miss that I'd never had to before.” George finds a new fascination with the scruff of his jaw, and leans forward to brush his nose against it.
Dream tilts up towards him immediately, so easily in their push and pull, “You’re here now George, I’ll give you anything you want, any sort of touch, and fuck it. You can have the Oklahoma hoodie. I'm yours, however and whenever you want me.”
Dream smiles and George hides his face in his shoulder. It's all so loving.
None of that changed as they stumbled their way up the stairs together, giggling and tripping over each other's feet in an attempt to stay pressed together. Dream led them into George’s bedroom almost casually, as if he’d thought the whole thing through already. George didn’t particularly mind, his bed was smaller, which meant Dream was forced to stay close to him no matter what. Dream pushed him back onto the bed with his own body following suit, landing sprawled on top of him. He props himself up with elbows on either side of George’s head, and George looks up at Dream with eyes that surely give him away even more. He digs his teeth into his lip to restrain his smile while Dream brushes his fingertips over his cheeks.
“Give me that.” Dream scolds and he places the pad of his thumb against George’s lower lip, pulling it from his bite, “You should be nicer to your lips.”
George thinks that the light slowly creeping in through the curtains surely has some effect on his levelheadedness, considering he doesn’t hesitate when he stares up at Dream and whispers, “Then you should show me how.”
Fingertips freeze on his cheekbones, and George reaches up to catch Dream’s wrist in fear of them disappearing. Dream’s mouth parts and George watches carefully as his gaze flicks down his face with something he wants to call disbelief, almost as if Dream didn’t consider the possibility of kissing him before. His wrist turns under George’s palm and his fingers disconnect from his face, only to tangle between George’s own and be pressed down on the pillow next to his head, Dream's other hand curving to cup George’s jaw.
Their lips just barely brush together, and then George is falling.
Dream gives up all hope of remaining hovered above him, and instead covers George’s body entirely with his own. Not that he minds. It makes it easier for him to secure his fingers through blonde curls at the nape of Dreams neck and push him down with a vague sense of closer. Their hands are still clasped together in a grip that almost hurts and George is lost in it all until Dream tilts his jaw up with his palm and he nips at his bottom lip.
Their lips break apart with George’s gasp and he looks up at Dream with eyes he’s sure are completely clouded over. “I thought,” he started breathlessly, “There was no biting.”
Their chests meet each other with every inhale and Dream sags his head down next to George’s with a wheeze that shakes his whole body. He feels lips pepper kisses along his neck and George lets his hands trail down to where the hem of Dream’s shirt has lifted to expose a sliver of skin to the cold air. Dream shivers at the contact and his nose burns a trail across George’s clothed shoulder when he whispers, “Clay.. Clay, come back.” George thinks his green eyes are impossibly bright when they fall back into each other over and over again, until they succumb to sleep, still nose to nose, before the morning light can invade the entire room.
George awakes later to find Dream had managed to bury his face into his chest, and curls tickled George’s chin when he moved his head even a little bit. Dream has one arm pinned between his chest and George’s stomach, the other curled around George’s waist, fingers sneakily finding their way underneath t-shirt fabric to his spine. He glances down at their bodies tangled together and is pleased to find there are points where in the dark you can’t quite tell where Dream ends and George begins. Even unconsciously they’ve both pushed themselves as close as possible, like two could melt into one. He sighs at the idea of melting into Dream, knowing he would get to be closer to him than anyone or anything else could ever physically be. Despite how little time they’ve been together, George knows Dream will always be his favorite thing to hold in his hands and pretend he can feel in his bones. He also knows, however, they have so much longer together, so he dips his nose into Dream’s golden crown and lets his smell of soap and watermelon relax him once again, reveling in the feeling of the two of them laying inside each other's arms.