Chapter Text
Baseball’s always been his thing.
He loved it, adored it even. The bat's weight in his hands, the cheers that erupted from the crowd after a perfect swing, even the dirt that would stain his jersey after he slid his way back to home base at the last second. More often than not, that dirt stain would leave a reminder for a next few days of that perfect slide that helped push his team towards the win.
Ever since George was a kid, that warmth and satisfaction he felt when he played the ball game was something that stood out in him. Sure, he tried other sports, but none gave him the same satisfaction as baseball.
Football (or soccer, as he’s been told to say recently,) was too much running, American football was too aggressive (he has always been a bit on the scrawnier side anyway), and basketball just made him feel short.
George’s mom's concern for his social awkwardness convinced her to sign him up for a bunch of after-school activities. Art clubs, instrument lessons, theater, book clubs; you name it, George has probably tried it.
He even enjoyed most of them, actually. Thanks to those classes, George was now pretty decent with a ukulele.
He dropped most after the first week, however. Fun, sure, they got boring pretty quickly.
This specific Sunday morning, George was signed up for a baseball game his primary school set up.
He remembers his tiny, seven year-old clammy hands making the cheap yellow plastic harder to grasp, which he was probably holding incorrectly anyway. The jersey was too big, and the cheap fabric left him with a stinging rash on his shoulder. The whole game was probably made up of equipment that was found at a dollar store, honestly.
His mom was still cheering wildly for George, besides the poor quality of the game itself. His father screamed at him to keep his eyes on the ball as if it was a championship, and his sister couldn’t stop giggling after seeing how fucking huge the helmet was on him.
Still, the pitcher tossed the ball at him.
A swing and a miss.
His family let out the same sigh George had heard more than enough times at that age.
George was the kind of kid that gave up if he wasn’t immediately good at it. Hell, his drawing career ended quickly due to the fact he couldn’t figure out how to draw a hand on his first try. Track and field had the same fate, as well as piano.
George still doesn’t understand how or why, but for some reason baseball didn’t give him that same loss of motivation any other hobby usually gave him.
Instead, he just wanted to prove them wrong for once.
He remembers staring at the ball, so intensely he started to feel a headache coming along and swinging with all the might his skinny little body could muster.
The ball went flying across the small field.
It was like a spark had ignited inside George, impossible to extinguish and only ever growing brighter. He joined as many after-school baseball teams as he could. Endless amounts of time was spent perfecting his swing and fixing little tweaks in his throws.
Most of his life was spent on those fields, reveling in the cheers and excitement from people in the stands.
George’s childhood became nothing but baseball. He put up posters of different MLB teams all over his walls. His closest friends were his teammates. He watched any game he could with his impossible time zone difference, he even collected cards of his favorite players.
His teachers constantly reminded him that he shouldn’t solely depend on baseball, however. So, George took up coding. He always had that passion for video games anyway, so why not make some of his own?
He spent his time off the field making his own games for his teammates to enjoy. The excitement they got whenever George sent over the game file the closest thing to that warm glow he got whenever he got a stunning hit.
In the back of his mind, he put a pin in the idea of making video game development his backup plan if baseball fails.
(if it fails. George was careful to always use “if” in that context. This one time in secondary school, his sister smacked the back of his head after he said “when baseball fails,” so he has never used it. She just got a manicure too, which forever engraved that memory in his mind.)
Right after finishing his last year of secondary school, George decided to move to America in hopes of joining the MLB. He applied to multiple colleges, but ultimately decided on transferring to Florida.
Florida treated him well, surprisingly. It was a drastic change from London's cold and dreary weather, but he got used to it. Slowly but surely, it began to feel like home.
It helped to have Dream by his side, anyway.
_____
George met Dream in his English 101 class. George was brilliant, obviously, but mathematically. Essays and book analysis was his kryptonite.
Dream, however, was majoring in English Literature.
And god awful at anything mathematical, as George would soon learn.
The first time they met, Dream arrived at their class late. He remembers a tall blond figure slamming the door with too much force and completely out of breath. He leaned against the doorframe for a second, catching his breath.
God, that was probably the first time George started to understand what “love at first sight” meant. That man was drop dead gorgeous.
Tall, broad, light brown, nearly blonde curls flopped down against his face, making his bright yellow-brown eyes stand out. (Which are actually green, apparently. Funny story, Dream almost lost his shit when he learned that George associated him with piss yellow instead of green.) And he had a decent style. Brown and beige clothes, gold jewelry, it was going to kill him.
After an awkward moment passed, Dream looked up and sheepishly waved at the professor with a shy, crooked smile. A stern glare and gesture to the desks made Dream shrink into himself and look around.
The two made eye contact, and Dream nearly blinded him with his relieved smile as he started to stride over to the empty chair next to a red-faced George.
At first, he’ll admit, he was just horrified as a bright-eyed personification of a golden retriever speed walked over to where he sat. His height only added to the fear. Six three, he said when George first asked; however it shrunk down to six one when they stood up and George reached his chin instead of his shoulder. The close seating only gave George more time to admire the boy.
His hair was nice. At first, George couldn’t place what color it was, or even the texture. Some days, Dream would walk into class with pretty, light brown waves falling into his eyes. Others, it was lighter and straighter. And others, tightly curled and dark brown.
George settled on calling it coffee hair, since it was always different in color and textures.
Short, bright smiles and waves turned into small talk before class, which turned into tutoring whenever George wasn’t at practice.
It became a weekly thing, and, much to George’s dismay, he started feeling the anxious butterflies whenever Dream did the smallest things, like when he flashed his stupidly bright smile at him, or hugged him after a good grade on his calculus quizzes or after George had an outstanding game. Or, what he thought was a good game. Dream still has a lot to learn about what the fuck baseball is, so he heavily based his reaction on George’s and the crowds.
He went to every game by the way, making sure he got a seat right in George’s vision and cheering the loudest. Once, he took George’s “away” jersey and threw it over his shoulder. George blames his immediate strike out on seeing Dream show off George’s jersey as his so proudly. Granted, George got absolutely berated in the locker room about his “secret boyfriend”. Ponk was probably the most offended, screaming at George about how “untrustworthy” he now was and fake crying. A good shove and an embarrassing explanation later, Ponk gave him a friendly slap on the back and a “good luck”.
Having a crush on his best friend isn’t a bad thing, he rationalized. Who wouldn’t fall in love with a man who brings you coffee every morning, listens intently to your baseball rants, and goes to every one of your games wearing your number with pride?
George never brought it up with Dream, deciding that his best bet would be to ignore his feelings and hopefully, the feelings will pass and everything will go back to normal. He can go back to casual glances at Dream’s hands and not wonder what it would be like to hold them, or see him ruffle his hair and wish that he could do that.
Of course, Dream had to go and immediately ruin his plans.
“Do you wanna go out with me tonight?” Dream asked one morning, holding out a cup of coffee to George, who was completely entranced by his notes and paying half-attention to the boy. Coffee became a new thing for them; whoever was up earlier would get the other a drink from the café down the street.
George’s opened his coffee lid and began to blow on it to cool it down. He barely looked at the coffee, at this point he trusted that Dream knew the way he preferred his coffee anyway.
Still, his brow raised at Dream’s question.
“I thought your class was canceled for the week?” Dream only nodded, rubbing the back of his neck and looking down shyly.
“It is.” George finally turned to looked at Dream, confusion clearly etched onto his face. Dream only stared, doing what could only be described as a puppylike stare. After a confused up-down look, George turned his attention back to his notes, mentally reciting random grammar rules that had way too many exceptions, and took a sip of his coffee.
Dream started fidgeting immediately, face red, his knees bouncing more aggressively than usual. It made the table begin to shake and George’s coffee to spill over the sides. George scowled as hot coffee burned his fingers and began to trickle to his laptop.
“Dream! You-“
“George, I’m literally asking you out!” Dream said, exasperated.
George froze, staring down at the coffee mess with a pink face and a racing heart. Dream just asked him out. He liked him. Surely, right? Was this a prank? No, that’d just been cruel, Dream wouldn’t do that. Right? Was he serious? Holy shit, does he get to kiss him now?
George sat there for a moment, debating all things he’d get to do if they started dating. He must’ve been quiet for too long, though, because Dream began to curl into himself and scooted away, looking down like a kicked puppy.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Dream apologized, his voice wavering with anxiety, “I mean, I’m not even sure if you’re into me, I just thought maybe you did like me the same way I liked you, because I really like you, but I can leave if you want! I’ll get over it eventually, I just-“
Dream rambled on, meanwhile George was still processing the fact that his best friend, a pretty boy he’d been crushing on since the first class, only to fall harder once he went to his games, had just asked him out.
“Dream. Shut up.” Dream stopped speaking, staring at George in annoyance and offense.
“What? I just asked you out and confessed that I like you and you tell me to shut up?! George!” Dream’s hands started flailing around and his eyes hardened in hurt.
“Do you mean it?” George asked, still not looking at Dream in the eyes.
“I- yeah?” Dream said, voice straining. “George, can you just reject me or something? I can’t-“
“You actually like me?” George said, finally looking Dream in the eyes and poorly holding back a lovesick smile. Dream scanned George for a moment to find any malice. Only finding guarded up hope, Dream finally softened since the first time he arrived, visibly melting into his chair.
“Yes, George, I like you. A lot. Quit making me say it, I sound like a middle schooler.” He said, most words getting cut off by a laugh. George finally let the smile he was holding back go and rubbed his face to lose some of the red.
“Oh my god, are you blushing?!” Dream teased, grabbing George’s wrist to pull it away. George fought against it, losing one hand but shoving his face into the other.
“Shut up, oh my god. You’re such an idiot.” George’s laugh was muffled from his hand, much to Dream’s dismay. Dream pulled George’s hand away, staring at his pink face with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes, which only made George’s pink face even pinker.
“So, dinner tonight?” George nodded, forever grateful that Dream knew his practice schedule and asked him on his one free day, which only made Dream smile impossibly wider.
To be honest, neither George nor Dream can remember what happened in English that day. George checked out the moment Dream took his hand and rubbed his knuckles gently, and he only got more distracted when halfway through class, a red-faced, hesitant Dream placed a kiss on the palms of rough hands.