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“It is
your life, which is so close
to my own that I would not know
where to drop the knife of
separation. And what does this have to do
with love, except
everything?”
— ‘Oxygen’, Mary Oliver
George takes a deep breath. “Be my valentine,” he says, and the words rush through him and out into the quiet room.
Weak, morning light falls through the windows as rain hits the glass, and George is tracing absent patterns across Dream’s chest, ear pressed to warm fabric, and listening to the faint echo of Dream’s heart.
“Hm?” Dream says, and he trails his hand up from George’s waist, across his back, and cards it through his hair.
George’s eyes flutter shut, and he sighs. “Be my valentine, please, Dream.”
Dream laughs quietly, and it jostles George. “You’re a whole month early, sweetheart.”
And George turns his nose into Dream’s chest and frowns because he knows this—it’s the whole reason he’s asking now. He wants to lock it in and be sure—even though the answer is obvious—so that he has time to plan something that matters. Because Dream’s constantly going out of his way to show George how much he loves him—that’s just who he is—and George isn’t good with words, but he has to do something. This will be their first Valentine’s day together.
“I wanted to get in quick,” George mumbles.
Dream chuckles. “George,” he says, teasingly, “you really think you’re competing against anyone else?”
“No,” George says, “idiot. I just wanted—it was on my mind, and I wanted to make sure.”
“You’re adorable,” Dream says.
George pinches Dream’s side. “Dream,” he says. “Will you?”
Dream laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Georgie, I will.”
George smiles. “Good.”
The bedroom is almost silent, once again, and George closes his eyes. He syncs his breathing with Dream’s and listens to the hushed sounds of air inside his chest. Patches snores faintly at the end of the bed, far off clanging sounds echo from the kitchen and across tiled floors—Sapnap’s cooking breakfast—and Dream scratches gently at George’s scalp.
They’re almost one like this, breathing together with heartbeats in sync, and George thinks it’s always been this way—even with four thousand miles separating them, they were never not together. The day George arrived in Florida, it meant something significant: closeness forever.
And George traces patterns across warm, fabric-covered skin and feels grateful for these small moments—for these indents of calm inside the chaos of the life they now share.
George has never enjoyed sharing. He doesn’t like Sapnap borrowing his things, has never liked people touching and moving his belongings, and he’s been teased by his friends relentlessly for it—but it’s never been like that with Dream. George just never felt the need to be careful with Dream, or to worry if things were upturned.
Across an ocean George sent Dream endless files, gave him access to his Google Drive, and almost all of his passwords because it made him feel safer. And he never understood why people smiled at that, used a tone so knowing when George offhandedly mentioned that Dream was helping him with a video—and people knew that George was meticulous with his editing, but he trusted Dream.
It wasn’t until they closed the distance that George finally understood: an endless amount of trust comes with falling in love, and he’s never hesitated to place it all in Dream.
And George feels it, as he stands with his shoulder to the bathroom doorway, watching as Dream stands entirely zeroed in on the mess of foam on his chin and cheeks, hairs peeking out in-between, and George’s can of shaving cream sitting on the counter. George takes in Dream’s furrowed brow, that concentrated look that he’s become so used to, and George smiles secretly at how Dream hasn’t even noticed he’s there.
There’s faint music playing from Dream’s phone, toothpaste drying on the side of the sink, and a paper packet of bath bombs laying on the tiles and spilling powder everywhere. George thinks about how he’d usually call Dream out on it—he’d demand their bathroom stay somewhat clean—but right now, he doesn’t care.
Love has changed me, George thinks, and he can’t hold a bitter tone. He’s sure Dream has melted him down and eased his way into George’s heart—has made him weak—but George knows that it’s love, and he welcomes it entirely.
“I’m pretty sure you’re doing it wrong,” George says. He’s watching Sapnap make an absolute mess of their kitchen whilst claiming he’s making a cake.
“Can you shut the fuck up,” Sapnap says. “When was the last time you even cooked?”
George scoffs and drops his eyes back down to his phone. “I cook.”
“Microwaving soup and shoving chicken nuggets in the oven doesn’t count, bro,” Sapnap says.
George looks up and scowls at him but he isn’t even paying attention—measuring out something into a cup that’s attached to smaller, almost identical ones that George is assuming are brightly coloured. “Shut up,” he says. “You don’t cook either. It’s a miracle you’re even—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sapnap says, pointing a wooden spoon at George, “but I’m trying.”
George slumps down in the bar stool and grumbles under his breath. He hears Sapnap laugh but lets his eyes stay locked on his phone, and it’s not much longer after clanging and mixing and an admittedly enticing chocolate smell wafting from the oven, that the front door opens and slams shut.
Warmth unfurls in George’s chest and he sits up slightly. “Dream?”
“It’s me!” Dream calls back. George hears him place his keys in the bowl on their table—metal on delicate china—and then Dream’s peeking his head around the archway and into the kitchen, hand gripping the white plaster. “Oh, good, you’re both here. I need to show you something—Sapnap this involves you too, but it’s mostly for George.”
“Huh?” Sapnap says, and he shoots George a confused look and pulls off his oven mitts. George stands up slowly and frowns—he can hear rustling and low murmuring coming from the entryway, and he can’t think of anything Dream could be doing.
“Stay there!” Dream says. “Gimme a second.” And after a moment, he walks back into the room wearing a soft smile and bright eyes, and he’s holding an open cardboard box.
George can’t help but smile back: the excitement in Dream’s eyes is contagious, and his happiness never fails to ease its way into George’s heart. “Dream …” George says, walking closer and looking up at him. “What are you doing?”
“You should sit down,” Dream says, very clearly trying to hide a grin, “on the floor, maybe—here’s fine.”
George begins to say something but stops. He catches Sapnap’s eye—he’s resting against the kitchen island and watching intently—and he only shrugs at George and raises his brows. “Okay,” George says, and he sits down cross legged on the marble tiles.
“All right,” Dream says. “Ready?” And he readjusts his grip on the box and a small squeak comes from inside.
George’s mouth drops instantly, because he thinks he knows—he has to know, because it’s something that he and Dream were talking about the other week as they lay slouched together on the sofa, with Patches half asleep on George’s lap and rumbling like a small motor. “Oh my god,” he whispers, and Dream’s eyes shine.
Dream slowly lowers himself to the floor with a tight grip on the box, and George’s heart begins to pound. “This was meant to be a Valentine’s day present but—well—” Dream shrugs, catching George’s gaze and smiling. “I couldn’t wait.”
The box is placed down on the tiles and George leans over until he can see the inside, and he gasps. Curled up in a little ball—so tiny it makes George’s heart ache—sits a kitten, a blend of white and black fur, and they’re looking up at George with wide eyes. George covers his mouth. “Dream.”
“Happy Valentine’s day, honey,” Dream murmurs.
George looks up at Dream, disbelief sinking into his bones, and the look of love written across Dream’s face is almost too much. The kitten is pottering around inside the box now, small paws padding across a blue blanket, and George reaches out to pick him up, but he halts. “Can I—”
“Course,” Dream says, softly. “He’s all yours now. Well, ours—”
“He’s ours,” George whispers, and his gaze drops back down to the kitten. “All of ours.” Mine and yours and Sapnap’s. And Patches’, too.
Footsteps pass through the kitchen, and George distantly hears Sapnap say, No way, oh my god, but he’s too focussed on handling the kitten and drawing him out of the box. George’s fingers wrap delicately around soft fur, and the kitten meows—a high pitched squeak that reminds George of when his cats back in England had been kittens—and he holds him close to his chest and wants to cry.
“He’s so small,” George whispers.
“I know,” Dream says. He pushes the box to the side and crawls over to sit beside George, stretching his legs out, and presses a kiss to George’s cheek. “He’s a baby.”
“Does he have a name yet?” Sapnap asks, settling onto the other side of George and reaching out to pet the kitten.
George looks to Dream, wondering that himself, and Dream smiles and scratches the kitten’s back with one, large finger. “Not yet,” Dream says. “I wanted that to be George’s decision.”
Emotion wells up in George’s throat, spreads through his chest, right to his aching heart. “Oh,” he says, and Dream squeezes his knee. “Thank you.”
George’s eyes begin to well up, because he has lists in his phone—hidden notes tucked away in his notes app that he adds to with intention—of cat names and dog names, and he even has children’s names, too. They stand for milestones, small dreams that George has always had, and gathering a lengthy list of names that might one day mean so much to him has been something he secretly loved. And he admitted this to Dream that night on the couch, as they stroked Patches and talked about the future. Dream asked to see the names, and George showed him, reluctant and embarrassed, and watched as Dream smiled and pointed out the ones he loved.
So when Dream whispers Which name will you choose? and George looks down at the small kitten in his lap and he feels the crushing weight of being home and comfortable, with Dream and Sapnap beside him, George realises that he’s finally in a place where he can make these decisions—he’s somewhere he can settle and let his life grow.
“Um—” George sniffles and he wipes his eyes, and he thinks of the first few names on his Cat Names list that he has almost memorised. “I like—I like Ziggy.”
“Ziggy?” Sapnap says. “That’s cute.”
“Yeah,” George says, and feels Dream press a kiss to the crown of his head. George lets his eyes fall shut and leans his head on Dream’s shoulder, and when he feels Ziggy’s small, scratchy tongue licking at his fingers he thinks he’s fallen in love all over again.
After Dream came home with Ziggy, it only emphasised further that George needs to do something important for Valentine’s day—not something huge, but something impactful that he knows Dream will like, and that something George has decided to do is to write Dream a letter.
George isn’t good with his words, he knows that and he’s always felt it as a sort of setback, but Dream is endlessly understanding and is always there—he rubs George’s back when he’s stumbling over his words, encouraging George to think and explain when he’s cringing over the thoughts that are making him sob into Dream’s shoulder. And it’s hard, but George is working on it, and Dream makes it okay.
So, for George to give Dream lined pages filled with love, and words, and a scrawl that he’ll try to make neat, he thinks it’ll mean a lot. And those words have been coming to him in moments, and he writes them in his phone under a note titled Love Letter to Dream. He’s written sentences like, Waking up with you each day makes me happy, and, Thank you for cooking for me when I can hardly get out of bed, and, I’m going to marry you someday, I promise. And these admittances are sappy and make him feel vulnerable, and George would struggle to say them aloud, but he knows he has to tell Dream.
And George is thinking of these sentences as he leans against the kitchen counter at seven in the morning, watching Dream stumble around the kitchen. George’s sneakers are untied, his shirt is half tucked into his shorts, and his hair is messy to a point that he gave up running his fingers through it ten minutes ago. He’s drowsy and bound to fall asleep in the car, and Dream’s tired too—seeing as they both slept in half an hour too long and should’ve left the house twenty minutes ago. Dream’s hair is a mess of curls, one sock is pulled only halfway up his foot, and he’s trying to keep an eye on the whirring blender while having to nudge Ziggy away from Patches’ food bowl.
This morning is chaotic, and it’s inconvenient, but it brings a sleepy smile to George’s face because it’s just another moment of him and Dream fitting together—Puzzle pieces, he’d once heard Dream call them and Sapnap. And they’re about to head to the merch company’s warehouse for a meeting because George wants to go, and he’s trying to learn more about how it all works.
He wants to yell to the sky above about how happy he is, and when Dream looks up from where he’s shuffling their cat’s food bowls around, he sees the look George is wearing and smiles back—and another sentence forms in George’s head: You’ve made me understand that love means two lives intertwining, and I’ve never been happier.
Their party seems to be coming to a close now; the Dream Team house is quieter, having had the volume of the music halved not long ago, and some of their friends have already headed home. George prefers parties like these, where he’s with his friends and in a house he’s familiar with—he prefers comfort and places where he feels he can be himself.
George heads into the kitchen, walking past Sylvee and Hannah and saying a quick hello, and he grabs a water bottle from the fridge. From here he can see the entire living room—Foolish and Tina are by the speakers and messing around with the music, Sapnap’s practically sitting in Karl’s lap on the bench by the door, and on the sofa furthest away sits Dream.
Dream looks sleepy, eyes drooping to a close every few seconds, as too many drinks from earlier and the late hour catch up to him. Patches is curled up on the cushion next to him, Ziggy sits on his lap as he’s brushing the kitten with their cat brush, and the entire picture makes George smile. He finds it funny to watch Dream like this—a man turning twenty-four this year, only just now being introduced into the life of partying with his friends. Dream tends to draw into himself at parties, he gravitates toward his friends or seems kind of silent unless he’s with them, and George gets it—Dream’s nervous, and he’d been locked in his house for the past few years, and George was the same way back when he was a dorky teenager who finally hit the age where he could go clubbing.
George screws the lid back on the water bottle and wanders over to Dream. From closer up George can see the faint bags underneath Dream’s eyes and the way his cat beanie is slipping off the side of his head.
“Hi, sleepy,” George says. He picks up Patches and flops down to squish himself into Dream’s side. Patches wriggles for a moment, but then she settles, and Dream reaches over to pet her. “Tired?” George asks.
Dream drops his head to rest on George’s shoulder. “Mhm.”
“You look like you’re halfway to falling asleep,” George says, and he hands Dream the water bottle. “Here.”
Dream shakes his head. “Don’t want it,” he mumbles.
“Come on,” George says. “Please? You drank quite a lot, earlier.” Dream sighs and sits back up, and he takes the water bottle. The cat brush is now discarded to the sofa arm and Ziggy has jumped off and wandered out of the room. Dream unscrews the lid and gulps half the bottle down. “There we go,” George murmurs, “my little lightweight.”
Dream frowns and the bridge of his nose crinkles. “Little?” he says, screwing the lid back on and placing the bottle on the floor.
George laughs. “Okay, fine,” he says. “Not little—you are a giant.” He touches the pad of his thumb to Dream’s nose and smooths out the crease, and Dream smiles. “You just seem small sometimes, when you’re being cute.” Dream closes his eyes and leans into the touch as George brings his palm to cradle Dream’s cheek. “You can have a nap, you know,” George murmurs. “Nobody will mind.”
Dream frowns and opens his eyes. “That’s being a bad host.”
George shakes his head and tugs Dream’s beanie back down over his curls. “You’re fine,” he says. “Two out of the three hosts are wide awake, anyway. Five, if you wanna count Patches and Ziggy.”
Dreams chuckles and rubs his eyes. “Fine,” he mumbles. “I’ll nap on you.”
George sighs and rolls his eyes, but there’s truly nothing he’d rather do more. “Fine,” he says, “whatever.” And George scoots down the couch, lifting his legs up and making room, and Patches jumps off his lap as Dream levels himself between George’s legs and into his arms. “You scared our daughter off,” George says.
“‘S’fine,” Dream says, eyes already closed and snuggling into George’s chest. “She still loves me.”
George feels warm like this, so close to Dream, and he smiles and runs his hands softly over Dream’s back. “I love you,” he whispers.
And Dream hums and presses a kiss to George’s chest. “Love you, too.”
Life isn’t perfect, and nothing ever is, but George finds that hard to remember when he’s climbing out of the driver's seat of Dream’s Tesla and rushing across their front lawn.
George bites back tears as he slams the front door shut, and the words that he and Dream had thrown at each other during what was supposed to be a driving lesson runs through George’s head—and he hates it because he and Dream hardly ever have serious fights. They’ll argue, sure, but it lasts for an hour at most and then they’re back to normal. And George feels even worse this time because he knows it was his fault, and he’d said things he didn’t mean and then shut down when vulnerability became too much.
Sapnap’s walking out of the kitchen when George heads toward the stairs, and he ignores the questioning glance Sapnap gives him and is grateful that he seems to have the sense to not ask. And when George reaches the top of the stairs and heads toward his—old—bedroom door, he hears Dream enter the house and then muttered voices start up.
In his room, George cries. He lets his emotions spill out, and he overthinks, and then he wets his face and waits for the swelling around his eyes to go down. He streams after, to distract himself, and leaves his office door open a crack for Patches since she knows to slip her paw through the gap and push it open.
At the end of the four hours George is tired and has calmed down somewhat. He isn’t sure if Dream’s messaged him while he was streaming, since he left his phone in his bedroom, and he’s debating whether he should talk to Dream or just go to sleep when he walks into his room and sees Dream fast asleep on the bed.
As George watches Dream, all emotions from earlier well up in his throat and he wants to hold Dream close and forget everything they’d both said. George walks forward and kneels by the bed, and then he brushes the hair off of Dream’s face with careful fingers. “Hey,” George whispers, “baby.” He earns a grunt. “Dream?”
Dream stirs, and he blinks sleep away, and then he’s looking up at George with vulnerability and worry spilling across his features. “George …”
“I’m sorry,” George says, and his voice cracks. “I’m just—sometimes, I can’t—I’m sorry, Dream—”
Dream sighs, and his eyes look damp, and George hates it. “Come here, sweetheart,” Dream says, and he holds his arms out. George falls into Dream’s embrace, laying on his chest and holding him back just as tightly. “I’m sorry too,” Dream murmurs.
George closes his eyes and tries to focus on the warmth of Dream’s body, and his large hands on George’s back. “I hate when we fight,” George says.
“Me too,” Dream says, and he brushes his fingers along George’s back.
“Can we talk, later?” George asks. He’s already feeling drowsy under the weight of Dream’s arms, melting into his chest and feeling sleep tug down on his eyelids. “‘M tired.”
“‘Course,” Dream says, and he cradles the back of George’s head with one hand. “We’re alright, baby,” Dream whispers. “We’ll be okay.”
And George hums, and the rise and fall of Dream’s chest lulls him into a state of peace.
George wakes up slowly on the morning of the fourteenth; Dream presses kisses to his cheeks and he whispers in his ears, and George is tugged out of sleep and into the crook of Dream’s neck where he presses a bright smile.
George tangles his fingers in Dream’s curls. “What’re you doing?”
“Lovin’ you,” Dream mumbles, trailing kisses down George’s neck and across his collarbones. “Don’t you remember what day it is?”
George laughs, feeling giddy. “Hm,” he says, “I dunno. Remind me?”
“I am reminding you,” Dream says, and George can hear the smile in his voice.
Dream eases his hands up underneath George’s shirt, slowly drawing the fabric up, and then his fingers begin prodding at the soft skin of George’s stomach and George squeals.
“Dream!” George says, pushing at Dream’s arms. “What the—stop!” And Dream grins and his fingers begin to dance across George’s skin, lighting up all of George’s nerves until he bursts into laughter. “Dream, stop—that tickles!”
Dream laughs, smiling down at George, and he slows his hands to rub softly along George’s waist. “You are literal sunshine, you know that?”
Dream’s words break George open and make him cover his face with his hands. “Oh my god,” George says, feeling a warm blush cover his cheeks, “says you.”
Dream laughs and lays back down. He tugs George’s hands away from his face and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Idiot,” he says.
George scrunches up his nose, and he feels so full of love it warms his cheeks further. “Happy Valentine’s day, idiot.”
Dream beams at George, curly hair flopping in a mess over his forehead and a lack of sleep tinting the skin beneath his eyes, and he doesn’t seem the least bit tired. “Happy Valentine’s day, baby,” Dream murmurs, and then he brings a palm to George’s cheek and kisses him softly. “Mm,” he says, “let me get your present.”
George blinks. “What?” he says. Because they’ve already done presents—Dream brought home Ziggy, and in turn George ordered Dream the enormous vase of red roses that is now sitting on their kitchen counter, alongside a hoodie with Patches fanart that he’d secretly bought from a fan. The only gift George has left to give is his letter.
Dream rolls out of bed, and he laughs when George misses trying to grab the back of his shirt to drag him back into the mess of blankets. “It’s just something little, don’t worry—”
“Dream,” George says, and he watches as Dream opens their bedroom door and Ziggy darts between his ankles and jumps up onto the bed. “You already got me a fucking cat!”
“Yeah, and he wants a cuddle!” Dream says, and he disappears out into the hallway.
George frowns, but it begins to fade as he watches Ziggy pad across the blankets and stumble around—still a tiny and excitable kitten. “Your dad’s an idiot,” George says, scratching behind Ziggy’s ears and watching his little eyes close in bliss. “Not me, of course. Your other one—”
“You talking shit about me, Georgie?” Dream says, walking back into the bedroom.
“Always,” George says. And then he notices the ridiculous present Dream’s holding: it’s a bouquet of Galaxy chocolate bars and tissue paper covered in hearts, all sitting in a red box, and George just knows that Dream would’ve had to have figured out a ridiculous way to ship that over. “Oh my god—what the hell?”
Dream settles onto the bed by George’s feet, and Patches wanders into the room and brushes up against his calves. Dream smiles, and he looks shy now, and George recognises it instantly as the same smile he wore when they did their Christmas presents stream. “Here,” Dream says, offering George the bouquet. “I couldn’t stand not having anything to give you this morning. Sorry.”
George’s heart softens and he pushes the blankets aside and inches closer to Dream. “Oh, baby,” George murmurs. He takes the chocolates and smiles, always in adoration of the amount of thought that Dream puts into everything he does for others. He places the bouquet on the bed—Patches jumps up to join Ziggy in sniffing it—and leans in to place a kiss on Dream’s lip, his folded knee knocking Dream’s hip. “Okay,” George says, closing his eyes. “I have something for you, too.”
Dream blinks. “What?” he says. “After all that fucking carry on—”
“Oh, be quiet,” George says, hitting Dream lightly on the arm. “I didn’t buy it—it’s nothing.”
“Huh?” Dream says, peering at George curiously. “What did you do?”
George smiles, and then he reaches over to open their bedside table drawer and pulls out a red envelope. Please let him like it, George thinks. I need him to like it. He sits back up, and Dream lays a hand on his waist, and then George hands him the envelope. “I—um,” George says, “just open it.” And he doesn’t think he’s ever heard himself sound more vulnerable in his life.
Dream eyes soften. “Thank you.”
George watches as Dream digs a finger between the slips of red paper and tears open the envelope. George’s heart starts beating faster, and every word he can remember writing down on those twin sheets of lined paper begin orbiting his mind and he worries that it’s too much or not enough, or if he’s just going to completely embarrass himself. And all the while Dream has unfolded the letter and his eyes are scanning across the neat print of words that George pulled directly from his heart.
George waits, and he’s patient, and his attention drifts as he lays his head against Dream’s shoulder and runs his fingers across Patches and Ziggy’s fur—both curled up together and purring. And then he hears a sniffle.
George turns to look at Dream, and he sees him with his head lowered and the letter in his lap, and his eyes are now ringed red and glistening. “Dreamie,” George murmurs, and he smiles because of course—anything soft and loving always tends to make Dream weepy. “You alright?”
Dream nods, and then he’s wrapping his arms around George and pulling him into his lap, and George feels his own shirt collar dampen as Dream buries his face against it. “I love you,” Dream says, all broken and mumbled and teary. “I love you so, so much, George—”
George squeezes his eyes shut, and he cards his fingers through Dream’s curls. “I know,” he whispers, eyes beginning to sting. “I love you.”
Dream’s back shudders. “You’re my everything, too,” he says. “Thank you.”
And George begins to cry. He rests his cheek on Dream’s shoulder and sniffles, and he gazes over at the letter laying open on the bed sheets. Printed right at the bottom of the page—beneath endless black scrawl and Love, George, and P.S—are three identical words to what Dream had written at the bottom of his Christmas card to George: You’re my everything.
And as George hugs Dream, and they hold each other, chests pressed together and breathing as one, George feels how each one of his heart strings are intertwined with the corresponding ones that Dream holds inside his chest, and George loves him in the most achingly, wonderful way.