Archive of Our Own

“Merry Christmas, idiot.” 

Dream blinked, bleary-eyed and disorientated. There were arms wrapped loosely around his waist, another body beside his own. If this wasn’t some cruel trick of fate, it seemed that it was Christmas morning, and George was in his bed. 

He was burying his face in Dream’s neck, lashes and lips brushing the skin with such tantalising warmth that Dream thought he might cry. Soft hair tickled the underside of Dream’s jaw, he could feel his heartbeat in his throat, and George was in his bed. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened this time—though he guessed it had something to do with the Christmas movie marathon they’d had the night prior, and their reluctance to move afterwards. Regardless, he definitely wasn’t complaining. 

“G’morning,” Dream murmured back, voice slightly slurred and still hazy with sleep—he hoped it was enough to disguise the way his thoughts were running rampant, working themselves up into a frenzy that could only be calmed by holding the man in his arms tighter. And so he did, much to George's apparent annoyance.

“What are you doing?" he mumbled, attempting to wriggle free from Dream's grasp, and finding he was incapable of moving more than a few inches. He groaned, long, exaggerated, and laced with feigned irritation. "You're squishing me."

"Not my fault you're so squishable."

"What does that even mean?" The words were spoken grumpily, but Dream could feel George's smile against his neck. 

"Y’know when something’s so adorable that you just need to squeeze it? That’s you.”

George scoffed, though made no further attempts to escape Dream’s clutches, instead relaxing against his chest. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the feeling of George curled up beside him, or how their proximity meant that he could feel another heartbeat alongside his own. It may have just been the domesticity that came with being entangled with the person you cherished most, of them being the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes, their gentle breathing the first thing you heard, the faint scent of their cologne the first smell—the very scent that would be preserved on the pillows that you shared, the pillows themselves having borne witness to late-night lovesick giggles and glances that yesterday’s darkness couldn’t quite conceal. 

Whatever the reasoning may have been, Dream was overcome with the inexplicable urge to press his lips to the top of George’s head. And, well, tender mornings like these were certainly not known for providing much impulse control. 

Dream found himself lingering for even longer than he had originally intended, unwilling to create something as unnecessary as distance between the two of them. That was, at least, until he was interrupted. “Are you sniffing my hair?”

“No,” Dream replied defensively, and was met with a disappointed silence. It only took a few seconds for him to cave, “So what if I was?”

“I literally didn’t even shower yesterday, it's probably all gross.”

“It’s not, for the record.” Dream pressed another kiss to the top of George’s head, with the utterly transparent excuse of doing it just to prove his point. There must have been something intoxicating in the smell of George’s mint shampoo, because Dream found his mouth moving before he could stop it, words falling unbidden from his lips in a stream of far-too-obvious infatuation, “Even if it was, I wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re so weird,” George laughed, but he didn’t seem to mind at all. He squeezed Dream’s waist, and they were pressed so close together that his eyelashes tickled Dream’s neck every time he blinked. 

“Go shower then, idiot.”

“Don’t want to go yet,” George mumbled, not needing to explain why.

Moments like these, in which they felt a mere whisper away from more, brought out the most vibrant shades of their shared obsession. Shots of neon devotion raced through their blood, far too bright for either of them to ignore—so bright, in fact, that half the world had apparently noticed too. They hadn’t talked about it, not yet, but they both knew they would eventually. For now, their silent promise of when rather than if was enough, until the time was right.

“What did you get me for Christmas?” George asked, sounding vaguely uninterested in a way that said he knew he wasn’t going to get an answer. It was honestly adorable that despite that, he wanted to continue their conversation, perhaps for no other reason than to hear Dream’s voice again. (This was exactly the type of thing Dream wouldn’t let George know he was aware of, then unwittingly spill to tens of thousands of people in a bathtub Twitter space several weeks later.)

Dream sighed, hesitating in a way that suggested he was carefully choosing his next words, as though he was deliberating spilling a dangerous secret. He tilted his head downwards so that he could speak directly into George’s ear, and George leaned into the contact, eager to catch every last syllable. He paused for a moment longer, simply letting his breath fan over George’s skin, whilst also fighting down the—admittedly very strong—childish part of himself that wanted nothing more than to whisper this dick.

George huffed and kicked Dream’s ankle, “Just tell me what you got me.”

“No.”

The arms around his waist were relinquished almost immediately, as though they had been burned, and the look of betrayal on George’s face—no matter how exaggerated—was near enough to shatter Dream’s resolve. 

“You’ll find out in a couple of hours,” he added quickly, barely able to resist the urge to scoop George back into his arms and promise him every last star in the sky, and then some.

“Then why not just tell me now?” George grumbled, pouting such that he somehow looked like a grumpy cat, yet simultaneously more kissable than anyone else that had ever lived. Dream supposed he might just have that opinion because he loved George more than toddlers on the beach love sandcastles and seashells, though he could never be too sure.

“Because that ruins the surprise, obviously? Did you never have Christmas as a child?” Dream flicked his forehead gently, doing something, anything, to stop himself from pressing his lips to it instead. 

“No, I just spawned on Earth seven years ago, ready-made to mod plugins and play Minecraft with you.”

“Wow, just for me?”

“Yeah,” his voice was tender, breakable, “Just for you.”

One of George’s hands rested beneath his face, a barrier between his skin and the soft pillow beneath it. His other hand had—whether subconsciously or not, Dream was unsure—had moved back to its previous position, resting on the slight dip of Dream’s waist. It radiated warmth and provided indescribable comfort, and he wanted nothing more than to feel those fingertips directly against his skin, rather than through the thin fabric barrier they currently resided over. 

The last remnants of sleep had long since left him, and daylight was beginning to pour through the gap in the curtains. So, there really wasn’t anything he could say that would excuse how he not-so-subtly shifted his shirt upwards so that the hem resided just below the line of his ribs, placing his hand over George’s to ensure it remained in place. Yet, high on the rush of early-morning domesticity, he did it anyway.

George rolled his eyes, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips before his eyebrows lifted suddenly and his lips parted soundlessly. There was a moment's pause, before, “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Dream looked down, more to break their intense eye contact and hide his burning cheeks than to actually confirm the truth of the statement.

“Huh,” Dream said, his hand balling into a fist, squeezing, and stretching out again to avoid awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck like he so wished to. “I mean, you did buy it, like, four sizes too big.”

“Two sizes, actually—”

“Go shower, loser,” Dream laughed, gazing at George with probably embarrassing amounts of fondness as he moved reluctantly away and out of the bed. Dream knew that at some point in the future, he’d be able to follow George into the ensuite without question, and it was times like these that he envied his future self to a ridiculous extent. But, for now, he was more than content to have mornings like this, safe in the knowledge that in a matter of minutes they’d be opening presents and holding each other by the fire. 

George stretched his arms over his head, before retrieving his phone from the nightstand and scooping his hoodie from where it had been previously discarded on the floor. He left the room with a smug smile tossed over his shoulder, and it wasn’t until Dream could hear the water running that he remembered George hadn’t been wearing a hoodie yesterday, and realised that his own favourite sweater was now locked on the other side of the bathroom door. 

 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

The first feeling Dream registered when he opened his eyes was something warm and wet moving across his neck. It took him several moments of sluggish confusion to realise that the something happened to be George’s tongue. A trail of open-mouthed kisses were being made across his skin, and he was torn between opening his eyes to watch it happen, but risking George noticing he was awake, or keeping them firmly closed to bask in the moment a little longer. 

After a second of careful consideration, he settled for keeping them shut. The weight of George lying on his chest, with nothing separating their heartbeats but their own bare skin, was far too precious to give up so soon. Though, his expression must have shifted—perhaps it was just a slight change in his breathing pattern, he wouldn’t put it past George to have been paying attention—because the motion of soft lips on his collarbones came to a sudden halt. 

“Dream?” George asked, voice hushed, hot breath spilling directly over a patch of skin that was dampened by saliva, causing Dream to shiver involuntarily. Despite the game being long since up, he stubbornly continued to feign sleep, the corner of his lip twitching upwards as he felt George poke his cheek. “I know you’re awake.”

When George still gleaned no response, he huffed loudly, before Dream felt the warmth over his torso abruptly disappear. A rustling of sheets, a transfer of weight, and Dream swiftly had the breath stolen from his lungs as something that felt like a semi-truck landed directly on top of him. He groaned, opening his eyes to see a devious smile mere inches from his own. 

“It’s Christmas, Dream,” his boyfriend, who was definitely far too skinny to weigh anything even close to a semi-truck, whispered. He accompanied his words with yet another kiss, this time to the corner of Dream's mouth. 

He wanted nothing more than to chase George's lips, to tangle his hand in dark curls and pull George down into a kiss so passionate that neither of them would dare break it until their lungs were screaming in protest. That was, at least, until a loud crash from downstairs reminded him that they were, in fact, staying at George's parent's house. They also happened to be resting in George’s childhood bedroom, but thinking too deeply about that for more than a few seconds at a time made his heart ache with such unbearable amounts of fondness and nonsensical nostalgia that he thought he might implode.

"George," Dream protested, sounding far weaker than he might have hoped. 

"Yeah?" the devil incarnate himself replied, pausing his trail of kisses for the first time to instead begin sucking lightly on Dream's jaw—a specific, sensitive spot, just below his ear. 

Foolishly, Dream allows a soft noise to escape his throat. It was barely audible, quiet enough to be passed off as something else or ignored entirely, but George treated it as though it were a siren, a call to action that could only be fulfilled by kissing that same spot again and again, and allowing his teeth to scrape gently over the skin. 

Still attempting to retain his last vestiges of willpower, Dream reached for his phone to check the time, but was stopped by warm fingers closing around his wrist. George's fingertips could never quite touch when encircling Dream's wrist, though by no means did that hinder his ability to render Dream utterly speechless beneath him. 

He pinned Dream's hand against the mattress beside his head and slid their palms together, watching in delight as Dream's lips parted in surprise. There was a proud grin stretched across George's face as he resumed kissing Dream's chest, smug and prideful in a way that Dream hated to love. 

When George's teeth barely brushed the skin just below his navel, Dream couldn't help but groan, slapping a hand over his mouth when he remembered exactly where they were. George, the bastard, only doubled down on the kisses and bites, licking over the lightly freckled skin of Dream’s abdomen before finally pushing himself back up the bed to reconnect their lips. 

“You’re so easy to distract,” George mumbled against Dream’s lips, pushing his tongue into Dream’s mouth before he had the opportunity to disagree with him. Even if he had the chance, Dream doubts that he would have bothered to say anything anyway; George had a point. 

Dream fell further into the comfort of the pillows, guided by delicate hands and a mouth that felt somehow softer than the silk sheets he rested on—the very same silk sheets and pillowcases he had bought for George last Christmas. George had grown to love them so much that he insisted they were brought with them to England, and on any other trips following this one, Dream guessed. But he was more than willing to oblige to George’s wants regardless, and if complying meant that he got to spend tender mornings doing nothing but basking in the warmth of his boyfriend, then that was just an added bonus. 

They both missed the quiet knock at the door, only having the sense to spring apart from each other when they registered the sound of wood scraping along carpet as the door opened. By the time George’s niece poked her head into the room, George had rolled sideways to lie beside Dream rather than on top of him, and Dream had pulled the duvet up their necks. She would suspect nothing—they hoped.

“Uncle George?” She was shifting from foot to foot, fidgety and radiating the same excited energy that every child did on Christmas morning. The hood of her dinosaur onesie was close to slipping off her head, and she adjusted it absentmindedly as she frowned at the couple in the bed, brow furrowed with the weight of her suspicion. Eight year olds really were too receptive for their own good. 

“Yes, Millie?” George replied, slightly put off by the way he could feel Dream’s hands slowly creeping up his spine.

“Grandma says you both have to come downstairs soon, or there’s going to be no breakfast left and I get to open all your presents!”

George laughed, though it quickly morphed into a shriek when Dream began tickling under his arms, much to Millie’s amusement. 

“Tell everyone we’ll be down in a minute,” Dream said to Millie with a smile, one hand holding George tight around his middle and the other still furiously tickling him. George only just managed to resist the urge to elbow Dream in the crotch.

Millie giggled one last time at their antics before turning around and hurrying back downstairs, leaving the door slightly ajar in her wake. The quiet buzz of conversation reached the room now, creeping up the stairs and infiltrating their bubble of privacy. It was no longer easy to pretend they were alone. 

Dream had mercifully ceased the tickling, instead slowing his movements to a gentle massage across George’s torso, palms gliding over his ribs, taking time to lovingly trace every dip and blemish of the skin, before pausing to rub soothing circles into his hips. 

“One Christmas we’re just not going to get out of bed all day,” George huffed, leaning his head back onto Dream’s shoulder. 

“No, we won’t,” Dream laughed, pressing a kiss to George’s neck, “You’d be begging me to get up and make you food within the first hour.”

“Then we just bring all the snacks to our room on Christmas Eve. Boom. Problem solved.”

“You’re impossible.” Another kiss placed just below George’s jaw. 

“I’m logical,” George argued. Though, his protests were weakened by how he placed his hands over Dream’s—which were still resting on George’s hips—and tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, a not-so-subtle nudge for Dream to continue his ministrations. 

“And needy —”

“I am not—” 

“You’re refusing to go downstairs and talk to your family who you’re seeing again for the first time in years, just because you don’t want me to stop kissing you. How is that not needy?”

George remained silent, fingers idly tapping the back of Dream’s hands as he struggled to come up with a response. Dream grinned, burying his face in the soft curve where George’s neck met his shoulder, not bothering to kiss the skin, just allowing himself to indulge in the man whose mere existence made him happier than sunsets and stars and baby animals and all the other serotonin-inducing things in the universe. George was his serotonin. All of it. 

“Shut up,” George eventually mumbled, and Dream couldn’t do anything else but laugh, brushing his lips over George’s shoulder because the love he felt had long since reached levels that he struggled to contain.  

“I’m needy too, you know. I just think we should probably go downstairs and say hi to your parents before your mom comes up here and drags us down herself.” 

“Five more minutes?” George asked, with well-practised temptation in his tone that he knew Dream struggled to resist. It was a good job that George’s back was pressed to his chest, else he would have already given in to the sight of pink lips pushed together in the slightest of pouts—Dream wasn’t even sure if George knew he was doing it, he just knew that it worked. 

“We both know there’s no way it’ll be just five minutes.” 

He could practically hear George’s eyeroll. 

George huffed and turned his body around to face Dream, leaning forwards to connect them in a short, sweet kiss. Even when they parted, with Dream’s cheek cradled in George’s palm, their lips still brushed with every whispered word that escaped them. “I don’t see the problem.”

“Your whole family is literally downstairs, waiting for us,” Dream pointed out, lightly butting their foreheads together. He couldn’t find it within himself to put much force behind his argument, nor rid the lovestruck smile from his lips as he said it, not when there was such a beautiful man—that he was somehow allowed to call his— nestled in his arms and looking at him with such reverence in his eyes. 

“They can wait a little longer.” George accompanied the words with another chaste kiss, slightly rushed in a way that made it seem instinctual, involuntary, as though he couldn’t do anything but give in to temptation.

“From what Millie said, your mom didn’t seem to think so,” Dream smiled, kissing George back with equal softness, like he was enacting some kind of lovesick revenge. 

“My mum knows we’ll be another ten minutes,” George said, leaving a kiss at the corner of Dream’s lips, then another on the tip of his nose. “At least . Besides, we've got plenty of time whilst they all open their presents.”

Dream hummed in agreement, messing with the curls at the back of George’s neck, winding them around his fingers as George continued to leave intermittent kisses wherever he could reach. 

“Millie seemed so excited, didn’t she?” There was something wistful in Dream’s tone, his eyes glassy, misted over, a tell-tale sign that he was deep in thought. 

“Yeah,” George smiled, hooking Dream’s ankle around his own for no other reason than to bring yet another part of them closer together, “I always wondered how it felt for the parents. Obviously, it’s nice to watch them regardless, but it being your own kid would surely make it so much more special, you know?”

Being nearly a year into their relationship—as well as a seasoned grandmaster in the art of pining—Dream would’ve expected the butterflies in his stomach to have long since gone extinct. But now, as George casually hinted at the idea of their future, he felt his heart falter and his insides lurch just as beautifully as they had done so many times before: the first time George let an I love you slip; the conversations that had taken place after both of the best friend quizzes, so charged with hesitant infatuation it had been near unbearable; hugging George for the first time; kissing George for the first time; and ending up here, in George’s childhood bedroom, one of the two rooms in which they had begun to learn to love each other all those years ago, with George himself settled on his chest. 

“Maybe we’ll find out what it’s like one day,” Dream murmured in reply, his voice only sounding mildly choked up—an achievement, honestly, considering he’d just revisited every single one of his happiest memories in the span of a few seconds.

“I’d like that, I think. I’d like to find out with you.”

There must have been something particular about the way their legs were tangled together, how the scent of George’s shampoo—still mint, he’d pointedly refused to start using Dream’s shampoo even after they begun showering together—lingered throughout their discussion of a future which they would share in its entirety. 

The idea of settling down, of starting a family, had never really taken root in Dream’s mind. He’d considered it, sure, but it had never seemed like a feasible possibility, nor one that he would have really wanted. But now, with George, he could definitely see the appeal. 

Though this was only their second Christmas together, Dream couldn’t help but let his mind wander ahead, to those mornings where they’d get woken up ridiculously early by their own menaces in dinosaur onesies. George would mumble complaints and rub his eyes, but he’d still lean his head on Dream’s shoulder with a grin bright enough to rival Andromeda herself, watching as little hands tore gleefully at the wrapping paper of gifts they’d carefully picked out together. 

It was probably too soon to be thinking that far ahead, years too soon. But, if the glassiness of George’s eyes was anything to go by, Dream was by no means alone in his fantasies.

 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

After more than three years of waking up with George, Dream could say, fairly confidently, that they’d settled into a routine. They weren’t exactly consistent with their sleep schedules—when had they ever been?—but they still made sure to brush their teeth side by side, eat breakfast together and cuddle on the couch for a while, before retiring to their respective offices to at least try and spend some time being productive. 

Some days, when one of them was feeling particularly clingy, Dream would drag in another chair to sit beside George and rest his head on his shoulder, offering suggestions for George’s latest videos until he might as well have been doing the editing himself. Or rather, George would get tired of their separation after an hour or two and make himself at home in Dream’s office bed, just quietly watching him work and offering small smiles every time Dream turned around to catch a glimpse of George with his face smushed against the pillows. 

Regardless of the small changes they made each day, one thing had remained the same throughout: George always woke up first. Dream had gotten used to starting his day with gentle fingers moving through his hair, softly whispered words of endearment that he wasn’t really supposed to hear, or hands and lips caressing every part of his body that they could reach. Dream had never had more perfect mornings than those he shared with George, and yet sometimes he couldn’t help but wish for change.

He desperately wanted to be able to return the aurora affection, wished to be the first cause of George’s smile and the reason his heart beat just that little bit faster as dawn was breaking. So, you can imagine his delight when he awoke with George’s face pressed against his neck, his breathing slow and even, lashes fluttering ever so slightly with each gentle rise and fall of his chest. 

The universe had handed him a box of ancient jewels, priceless gems in more colours than he could see and worth more than any man should ever be allowed to hold between his hands. For the first time in his life, he had total ownership of something priceless, and he was at a complete loss for what to do with it.  His mind scrambled for a starting point, for something, anything, to latch on to, and so his hand ghosted along the length of George's spine.

Since arriving in Florida, George had always slept shirtless—initially because he was unused to the heat, though he had later confessed that the feeling of Dream’s hands on his bare skin was what had really stopped him from returning to old habits—and it did absolutely nothing to detract from his beauty, only increasing it tenfold. Waking up like this, being able to have George like this, as cheesy as it sounded, was perhaps the best Christmas present he could ever ask for. 

It was when he let his fingers brush through dark curls, carefully sweeping them to the side of George’s forehead and planting a kiss there in their place, that his thoughts began to stray across the room to the small box hidden in their bedroom drawers. Nestled in the pocket of one of the few hoodies George was yet to claim was a box small enough to fit easily in the palm of his hand, containing a piece of jewellery that he’d never admit the price of.  

He was planning to wait until the New Year, to propose under the fireworks and kiss him beneath the stars whilst the whole world was awake to celebrate. But, this opportunity, bathed in winter sun and kept between himself, George and the pillows they rested on, seemed truly too precious to waste. 

“Are you watching me sleep?” George asked, causing Dream's hand to jerk and tug George's hair in the surprise of being caught. "Ow." 

Dream kissed the top of George's head in apology. "You're acting like you don't watch me every morning." 

"That's different."

"Different how?" Dream asked, exasperated yet still somehow managing to sound embarrassingly fond. 

George didn't answer, clearly not yet lucid enough to think up a witty comeback. He instead decided to make use of his favourite tactical strategy, the one for when Dream wouldn't shut the fuck up and George was definitely too tired to bother arguing with him. 

The kiss they shared was sweet at first, though George was soon nipping at Dream's bottom lip and Dream was letting him lick into his mouth and trail his tongue over his teeth, because he would honestly rather do anything else than deny George of something he wanted. Love was a strange phenomenon. But, with his drowsy boyfriend kissing him as though he tasted like expensive chocolate and immortality, he knew that he had to be love's favourite. 

"You have horrible morning breath," George said when they parted, though lacked much conviction with how he kept his lips hovering mere millimetres from Dream's own. 

"Merry Christmas to you too," Dream said indignantly, scrunching his nose such that George laughed and dipped down to kiss him again, seemingly forgetting his accusations from just moments ago.

He let George have his way for several minutes before he attempted sitting up, only to be met by arms around his upper chest, anchoring him back to the mattress. 

“Where are you going?” George whined, shifting his body to lie completely over Dream’s and prevent his escape. They both ignored the fact that Dream could have easily moved George off of him if he so wished to, but he had to admit that having his own personal weighted blanket was pretty nice, even if it sometimes poked his cheeks and spouted complaints whenever he moved.

"I have teeth to be brushed and breakfast to make," Dream said, and titled his face to press their foreheads together. Dream laughed at George when he went cross-eyed in his determination not to break their eye contact, despite knowing he looked exactly the same himself. 

“You also have a boyfriend to be cuddled, dickhead.”

“You were complaining about my breath literally five minutes ago.”

“I can deal with your stinky breath, I guess,” George sighed, his eyes slipping shut as Dream’s hand slid across his back, drawing invisible lines with the pads of his fingers, “Just don’t leave.”

Dream was going to protest, he really was, but George’s hand met his cheek, turning his face just enough to press his lips to that spot on Dream’s jaw. As well as sending a pleasurable tingle down his spine, the new angle caused Dream’s eyes to fall upon the pile of snacks stacked on their bedside table, and the small heap of gifts placed conveniently in the corner of their room. 

“You little shit.”

“What?” George asked, with the kind of mischievous innocence that gave away how he knew exactly what Dream was talking about. 

“This was your plan all along.”

“Maybe,” George laughed, kissing Dream’s neck again just because he could. “Want a candy cane?”

“You’re the worst,” Dream mumbled, though his cheeks were aglow with a blush dark enough that he was sure even George would be able to make it out. It had been over a decade since they’d first met, and Dream was still yet to learn how to stop himself from turning into a flustered mess at the smallest of George’s actions. His boyfriend had gone out of his way to prepare everything to ensure they had a perfect morning, and Dream couldn’t love him any more for it if he tried. 

He shuffled upwards to lean against the headboard, placing a pillow behind his lower back as he watched George grab a candy cane from beside their bed. George picked at the wrapping for a moment, his bitten fingernails only worsening his struggles, until he gave in and tore at it with his teeth, looking up to meet Dream’s eyes as he did so. 

“Was that supposed to be hot?” Dream grinned.

“Yes. I’m seducing you with sugar and my inability to rip cellophane,” George quipped, with a tilt of his head that made his hair fall into his eyes, in that way that made him seem effortlessly beautiful and adorable and ever so unbearably attractive. He clambered back onto Dream, straddling his thighs and throwing his arms around Dream’s shoulders with the candy cane secured between his teeth.

“I haven’t even brushed my teeth,” Dream complained, but parted his lips regardless. 

George fed the sweet from his own mouth to Dream’s, pressing forwards in an attempt to join them in a kiss, though quickly realising he couldn’t without impaling at least one of their tonsils with peppermint candy. He attempted to take a bite off the end, failed miserably, and regretfully surrendered the candy cane before leaning back on his hands to properly look at Dream—he’d missed his usual morning opportunity to do so, after all. 

In the past, perhaps he would’ve covered his face with his hands, too self-conscious to let himself treasure the moment as it deserved. But now, with George sitting atop his thighs, leaning back so that the whole length of his torso was stretched bare and ripe for Dream to reach out and touch, he couldn’t imagine letting such precious seconds be wasted. 

He reached out with both hands, palms meeting the skin of George’s chest, fingers dipping into the divots of his ribs. George remained still, allowing Dream’s hands to explore as they had done so many times before—his eyes were shut and his breath came slightly faster than usual, and Dream wondered what kind of miracles he’d achieved in his past life to deserve being so extremely lucky in this one. 

A loud crunching noise was enough to break the tranquillity of the moment, caused by a thoughtless bite of a candy cane that Dream had forgotten was still in his mouth. 

George's eyes opened, squinting at Dream with a smirk on his lips that only grew at the sight of Dream's wide eyes and guilty expression. Their eyes met for just a fraction of a second before they burst out laughing. 

It shouldn't have been that funny, it really wasn't that funny, but it made Dream wheeze in a way that he hadn't done in years. George's arms shook so badly that they gave out beneath him, causing him to fall backwards onto Dream's legs in a giggling heap—something that only made them both laugh harder. 

Tears welled in Dream’s eyes, from both laughter and the fact that he was now half-choking on small pieces of candy cane. George managed to pull himself together enough to sit up and wipe below Dream’s eyes with his thumb, collecting the moisture that had gathered there. He was still sporting a bright grin as he did so, eyes shimmering with tears of his own. 

He leaned forwards, hooked his chin over Dream’s shoulder and whispered, with his voice still shaky from repressed giggles, “You stink.”

A turn of his head, and a kiss placed just below Dream's ear. 

“What? George, that’s— that’s so rich coming from someone who I know for a fact hasn’t showered in three days.”

George butted his head against Dream’s chin. “You still smell worse.”

“Well,” Dream said slowly, thoughtfully, as though they both didn’t know exactly where this conversation was going to lead them, as though it hadn’t been George’s plan all along, “I think I have the perfect solution for that.”

It only took a few moments of half-hearted complaining before George was scooped up and carried to the bathroom, then promptly deposited onto the counter whilst Dream turned on the shower. There was no need for him to spend time adjusting the temperature; they had long since discovered a point which worked for them both, through many days of careful experimentation and countless scalding kisses shared beneath water that felt a few degrees from perfect. Even now, when they'd had the right temperature for years, George would often complain it was too cold—a completely transparent excuse for him to cling to Dream like a koala. 

“Are you just going to keep standing there smiling at me?” George asked teasingly, fiddling with the waistband of his sweatpants in that terribly distracting way he’d managed to perfect over the years. 

“What can I say?” Dream stepped closer to George, his hands coming to rest on George’s hips, “It’s nice to just stare at you sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” 

“I mean, if I stared at you all the time, I’d have no time to do this." He ducked his head to press the softest of kisses to George’s lips, lingering for no more than a few seconds but still letting a lifetime’s worth of love spill from his throat. 

“Stop,” George mumbled, sounding the furthest anyone could possibly get from convincing. “The water’s probably getting cold.”

Dream smiled to himself, hooking his thumbs into George’s waistband and letting them sweep over the soft skin beneath it. He chose not to mention how their shower was connected to the boiler rather than a water tank—so the water physically couldn’t run cold—or how painfully obvious George’s blush was, even when he turned his head to hide it. 

George reluctantly got down from the counter to let Dream undress him properly, instantly going to tug at Dream’s boxers once he had stepped out of his own. More often than not, this particular kind of closeness led to something more, and usually ended with at least one of them panting and scrabbling for purchase against the shower wall. Today, however, felt honey-soaked and innocent, sweet and delicate in a way that reminded Dream of the very beginning of their relationship. 

He wanted to hold George lovingly enough that he felt safer nestled in Dream's arms than anywhere else, and knew instinctively that the way their skin and heartbeats and souls melted into one would only feel this perfect with each other. He wanted to feed George gold-dipped strawberries in the Garden of Eden and kiss him for eternity with the shared taste of paradise on their tongues. He wanted to give George far more than what was possible, but he was more than happy to settle for this— the intimacy of washing each others’ hair and bodies with such amounts of tenderness that it would’ve been embarrassing if it was with anyone else.

It wasn’t, though. It was with George. 

"You're doing your idiot smile a lot today,” George commented, his hair wet, dark and messy in all the right ways to make Dream go absolutely insane. 

“Your fault,” Dream said, smiling even wider. 

George rolled his eyes as Dream poured shampoo onto his palm for a third time, though made no complaint as he began massaging it through George’s hair—a welcome excuse to run his fingers through it yet again. Unintentionally, he'd grabbed his own shampoo rather than George's mint-scented one, but George didn't stop him, and willingly let the familiar smell of apple and cinnamon wash over him. They stood pressed together within the glass walls of their shower, wrapped in steam and each other's skin and the scent of shared shampoo, and it felt like home. 

Time spent together had always offered comfort greater than they could ever find with anyone else. The sun had always felt kinder, the air was always fresher, but there was still something special about today. The apples tasted sweeter, the cinnamon was stronger and George's skin was like velvet beneath his fingertips. 

"Do you remember our first Christmas together?" Dream asked, smoothing down a curl behind George's ear, and smiling to himself as he watched it slowly start to spring back upwards again. 

“Obviously, how could I not?” George scoffed, and then added, so quietly that it was barely heard over the noise of falling water. “It was one of the happiest days of my life.”

A rush of giddiness rose in Dream’s chest, and he couldn’t help but wrap George tighter in his arms. He had to try extremely hard to resist the impulse to squeeze as hard as he possibly could, or do something equally as stupid, like pin George against the wall and bite and lick and kiss all over his body like some kind of over-excitable puppy. Instead, he let the energy spill from his lips, taking the shape of something that he’d said more times than anyone could ever recall, though held a deeper meaning each time it was spoken, “I love you.” 

“I love you too, I guess,” George said, the last two words mumbled and in that stupid joking tone he used—often with raised eyebrows and a, dare he say, adorable little shake of his head—whenever he couldn’t take himself seriously. Being his boyfriend, Dream couldn’t help but find everything George did to be exponentially endearing. But this one in particular must have made him smile, or hold him just that little bit tighter, because George butted his head against Dream’s shoulder and huffed, embarrassed. His cheeks were flushed far too dark to blame purely on the steam.

“What?” Dream asked, though it came out more like a laugh.

“I’d love you more if you didn’t look like you wanted to eat me, weirdo.”

“You like it, weirdo.” Dream leaned down to nip playfully at George’s jaw, who laughed before pushing his face away with his palm.

“Maybe later,” George grinned, temporarily detaching himself from Dream in order to pick up a bottle of conditioner, “Let me wash your hair again first.”

Dream’s hair was already clean enough for him to model for a shampoo advert, but he made no objection when George stood up on his tiptoes to tangle his fingers in it for the second time that morning. Instead, he gripped George’s waist harder, keeping him steady and ensuring that he didn’t slip. 

“I remember being so jealous of my future self,” Dream mumbled, through a smile that only grew wider as George wound one of Dream’s curls around and around his finger.

“How come?” George asked.

“I knew he’d get to have you like this, he’d get to hold you close and wash your hair and kiss you in the shower whenever he wanted.” His eyes had fallen shut, but he opened them now to see George staring back at him with a level of fondness he’d believed to be impossible before today. 

“Is it living up to your expectations?” George’s lip was quirked at the corner, in the way it always was whenever he was trying to repress a smile, but his features were shining with such earnestness that Dream could swear he felt his heart melt a little. That was, at least, until he felt the hand squeezing his ass.

“ George!”

“What?” George grinned lazily, with attempted innocence that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I'm gonna get you back for that," Dream grumbled, dropping his head onto George's shoulder and smiling when he felt it shake with George's quiet laughter. 

"Oh no, what a shame," George drawled, with sarcasm seeping from his every syllable. "Punishment? For me? I could never imagine anything so terrible."

Dream stood to his full height, fighting to keep a straight face as he gazed down at the confused face of his boyfriend. Looking George dead in the eyes, he reached behind him and turned the shower off, revelling in how George’s eyes widened suddenly at the shock of the abrupt cold.  

“You—” George started, though was never given the chance to finish his sentence—Dream scooped him up before he could do so. He shrieked as he was tossed over Dream’s shoulder, both of them still dripping wet as they re-entered their bedroom. “Put me down! Dream! Put me down!”

“No,” Dream said simply, smiling smugly as he retrieved clean towels from their shared wardrobe. 

With one hand, he laid one of the towels across the end of their bed—his other arm was still occupied with keeping George secured over his shoulder. George had stopped thrashing around after Dream had threatened to drop him, which made it easy for him to be carefully placed down on the towel and subsequently bundled up in it. 

Dream took great joy in ‘drying’ George’s hair, messing it up far more than necessary and marvelling at how the damp curls flopped over his forehead. Glimmering water droplets fell from the ends of them, creating shining tracks in their wake, which Dream found himself subconsciously tracing with a featherlight touch of his thumb—until George batted his hand away and complained how ticklish it was. 

George made small disgruntled noises as Dream resumed fiddling with his hair, but they both knew they were disguised noises of satisfaction. It was clear to anyone paying close attention—which wasn’t exactly asking much, Dream hadn’t been able to take his eyes off George in over three years—that he not-so-secretly adored receiving this kind of treatment, almost as much as his boyfriend enjoyed providing it. 

Sometimes, in the nonsensical hours of the night, where they drifted in and out of consciousness, George would whisper to him. Words far softer than those he let slip during the daytime, that revealed just how much he loved Dream’s mannerisms and his smile and how he looked at him like he was forged from stardust. Dream always kissed George as though he was a deity to be worshipped, whether with passionate ferocity or incomparable gentleness, though on the nights where George's tongue was a little looser than usual, he let himself remember how mortal they both truly were. 

When George sat up and wrapped his arms around Dream's neck, beads of water still gliding down his chest, Dream let himself fall far too easily. He was pulled on top of his lover, into a searing embrace that immortalised all the words they'd said before and all the others they'd never needed to. He knew that none of this would last forever, that one day death would do them part, but they had years upon years to enjoy together first. All Dream needed to do was ask for them.  

They laid together for a few more precious minutes, until George began to shiver and the feeling of damp skin sticking together became too uncomfortable to ignore. 

"Wait," Dream said, when they were both finally in their boxers and George was moments from pulling a hoodie over his head, "I have something for you." 

George raised his eyebrows, though eagerly accepted the package Dream handed to him. It was clear that Dream had wrapped it himself, with a little too much sellotape and four bows stuck on top for good measure. It looked ridiculous. George looked at it with stars in his eyes. 

"I love you," George whispered, his voice quivering slightly. If he had spoken any quieter, he might not have been heard at all. But Dream smiled, all teeth and triumph, and George knew that he was listening, "I love you and your stupid present wrapping skills."

"Pretty generous of you to call them skills," Dream whispered back to him, and pressed their lips together—short, sweet and soft. 

When they parted, there was a bright smile plastered across George's face—the type that looked like he wouldn't have been able to get rid of it if he tried. He squished the present instead of immediately opening it, lips twisting slightly in confusion when he found it was soft to the touch. 

"What are you doing?" Dream asked, ornate twines of endearment adorning his tone, weaving in and out of every word until he sounded nearly as infatuated as he actually felt. He gently took hold of George's wrist when the latter held the present up to his ear and shook it, "Just open it, idiot. It's like you don't want to find out what it is."

"You're so impatient," George said, rolling his eyes, but began to tear at the first of many layers of wrapping paper. 

Finally, after several minutes of increasing frustration as George discovered more and more intricate arrangements of Sellotape, two sets of fluffy pyjamas tumbled out of the wrapping paper and into George's lap. 

"You didn't." 

"I did," Dream grinned. 

"I hate them," George said bluntly, holding the smaller of the shirts up in front of him for inspection. "Couple's pyjamas? Really?" 

The corner of George's lips twitched with a poorly repressed smile, and he held the clothing far too carefully for someone who supposedly loathed it. 

"I just thought they were cute." Dream watched George's expression carefully, his own smile only widening at the hints of joy and amusement that slipped through his boyfriend's crumbling façade. 

"Yeah. Cute." George choked on a laugh, rereading the words that were proudly printed across the dark fabric. 

The larger shirt bore a picture of a plate of cookies and milk, along with the misleadingly innocent text 'I put out for Santa!' The second shirt was far simpler, decorated with only a single, five-letter word, 'Santa'. 

They were horrible, ugly and unbelievably cringe, and George hated himself for how funny he found them. Not only had Dream willingly spent actual money on these, but—whether intentionally or not—in his choice of sizing, he'd placed himself on the receiving end of the joke. That was unless he decided he'd rather wear shirts that were two sizes too small for him. 

"Will you put them on?" Dream asked, barely able to get the words out as another unbidden bout of giggles tumbled from his lips. "I've always wanted to see you in flannel pants." 

"This is stupid. You're stupid," George mumbled, pulling the pyjamas over his legs. He refused to meet Dream's gaze—Dream's laughter was already infectious enough, a glimpse of his eyes sparkling with tears of mirth and an accompanying gorgeous smile would have simply been too much for George to handle, especially this early on a Saturday morning. 

(It was well past midday by this point, but that was irrelevant.)

It was only with the red plaid pyjamas secured around his hips, and Santa emblazoned across his chest, that he finally looked up at Dream again. His lover—who, really, was nothing more than the personification of a dorky, 6’2 teddy bear—hadn’t moved an inch whilst George was dressing himself. 

“Why aren’t you wearing your dumb pyjamas?” George asked, shuffling back up the bed to sit more comfortably, and rolled his eyes when Dream immediately followed him, crawling across the mattress to close the space between them, like an oversized puppy that couldn’t go more than a few seconds without attention. George felt like he should probably find it way more annoying. He was very glad that he didn’t. 

“I was watching you.” 

Hands so large that they all but encompassed the hips they caressed, and a head tilt that made golden-brown curls tickle skin they didn’t belong to. 

“Don’t you see enough of me already?”

“Never.” Dream kissed George’s neck, open-mouthed and purposefully sloppy, so that a wet smack could be heard when he pulled his lips away. He repeated it a second time, a third, until George was a giggling mess beneath him. When he next spoke, he punctuated it with more attacks to George’s jaw. “Could never get enough of you.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I get it! You’re disgusting, like actually— Dream!” George was laughing as he grabbed the first thing he could reach—which happened to be Dream's shirt, that he was still yet to put on—holding it by the hem and whacking Dream around the head with it. The garment was much too light to do any real damage, but it was successful in stopping the barrage of kisses.

“Fine, whatever. I won’t shower you in love and affection, see if I care,” Dream grumbled, the smitten smile on his lips meaning that his feigned irritation fooled no one, especially George—the one who knew him best.

“Put on the pyjamas, then we can talk.”

“Oh, so now you like them?”

“They’d look good on you,” George shrugged.

Dream narrowed his eyes, deeply suspicious of George’s casual demeanour. His voice had a certain lilt to it and he was biting the corner of his lip, both of which were sure signs that he was planning on being a menace. 

“You usually do anything you can to stop me from wearing a shirt.”

“Maybe I just really like this one,” George smirked, placing a hand on Dream’s shoulder and rubbing there lazily for a few seconds, before trailing it slowly down his chest. 

Dream scoffed and rolled his eyes—an attempt to draw attention away from how a blush was creeping up his neck. Not for the first time, he wondered how people being able to act this arrogant and still seem insanely attractive wasn’t outlawed in at least twenty different states.

“So you want to take a picture and publicly humiliate me on Twitter?”

“Well—” George starts, but was cut off by a lick just under his ear. “Dream!”

“What?” Dream asked, with the kind of natural innocence that one might find in a fluffy baby animal. George saw right through it, of course, but he had been an easy victim to Dream’s charms for over a decade now, and some habits were just too deep-rooted to break. 

“This was your idea in the first place, idiot," George argued, though his defence was weak when he sounded so undeniably fond, and crumbled entirely after one fleeting kiss to his cheek. 

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Dismissal had never sounded so sickly sweet. 

Dream finally sat upright, putting on the pyjamas quickly before flopping down onto the bed beside George. He turned his head to the side, planning to count George's freckles for the hundredth time and perhaps steal another kiss or two, but George was already three steps ahead of him. A warm weight clambered on top of Dream, settling with his head on Dream's chest and his arms secured around his boyfriend's middle. It was obvious he wasn't planning on letting go any time soon. 

George hummed in contentment as Dream began to trail his hand along the curve or George's back, following a well-loved path upwards to his shoulders, and as far down as his mid thigh. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes kissing Dream's torso as he was lulled into the safety of drowsiness by gentle fingers. 

The winter sun fell through the blinds and across his face, highlighting his features with pale gold. The combination of shining skin contrasted with the dark, messy hair that fell over it made him look positively radiant—even if he was dressed neck to ankle in possibly the worst clothing humanity had ever had the misfortune to waste resources on making. But he was beautiful. The most beautiful man Dream had ever seen, who was choosing to spend his time, lie in bed with, wear ridiculous matching pyjamas with him. And with that kind of knowledge, it was so easy to fall in love with George over and over again. 

George shifted beneath Dream’s touch, nudging his head against Dream’s chin and pressing a barely-there kiss to his shoulder. It felt like falling stardust, priceless, yet it was somehow still worth less than the words that accompanied it. “Merry Christmas, fiancé.”

“What?” Dream croaked, honestly surprised he was able to say anything at all. He was stunned beyond speechless, into some kind of partway heaven where he was unsure if the wonders he saw were even real, let alone solid enough to touch.

A soft laugh, and another kiss to his shoulder, slightly to the left of the first. George still hadn’t bothered to open his eyes. “Marry me, or whatever.”

A breath. The world broke into a million glittering pieces and a constellation fell out of the sky, right into Dream's palms—palms that were always spread, welcoming and ready to catch everything George offered to him. People had always said he looked at George as though he had given him the moon, the sky and all the stars within it. In this moment, it felt as though he had done exactly that, and more.

“George. I have been planning a proposal for years. Years. And you just— You just ruin my plans with an ‘or whatever?’ Really?” 

“Not really the reaction I was expecting,” George said, stifling a small yawn with his fist. 

“I mean, yes— Obviously yes, I just— You can’t— George. George.” 

"That was more how I thought you'd respond," George smiled, eyes still closed as he drew swirls with his pointer finger over Dream's heart. "My little stuttering idiot. My idiot fiancé."  

"I had a whole plan," Dream started, his phrasing indignant, but with a voice so joyous he was surprised that sunshine and daffodils didn’t bloom on his tongue, petals and light falling from his lips with all the beauty of seaside sunsets and an eternal spring. How could he ever be truly annoyed when George had uttered the words he'd been daydreaming about since he was a teenager? "I bought you a ring George. I was going to propose to you on New Year's with flowers and fireworks and that fancy champagne you like—"

"Lame," George beamed. When he finally opened his eyes, they were crinkled at the corners, giddy and scrunched up in their euphoria. "My proposal was way better." 

"No, what? Mine was, like, objectively better, you can’t even deny it.”

“I definitely can,” George smiled, finally leaning up to peck Dream on the lips, “at least mine actually happened.”

Dream rolled them over and kissed George hard, with more force and tongue than he’d dared to use all morning, effectively shutting George up and covering for his lack of a comeback. There was also the fact that he just wanted to kiss his fiancé stupid, for no reason at all. Fiancé. He had a fiancé now. God, George was his fiancé. 

He used his position over George to hold him down whilst he blindly reached into their bedside drawer, fishing for the small velvet box that he’d hidden in there last December. He’d actually bought it even earlier than that—two summers ago, at the mall where he’d been on an impromptu shopping trip with Tina. She’d been staying with Punz at the time, but thought a trip to Florida would be a trip wasted without taking Dream shopping at least once. 

They had gone into a jewellery store, searching for a pair of earrings to match Tina’s new dress, and that was when Dream had seen it. 

A delicate gold band, inlaid with a single gemstone at the centre, pale enough to be mistaken for a pure diamond at first glance, though truly tinted a shade of light blue when it caught the light just right. It was simple, yet elegant. Perfect, even. Just like a certain someone, who he already knew would suit delicate riches wrapped around his ring finger better than anyone else ever could.

Tina had noticed his staring, and encouraged his probably-terrible decision making with a mischievous smile, a request to be invited when they went suit shopping, and to be a flower girl at the wedding. Dream agreed to both, of course, though was hesitant about her suggestion of a visit to the florists next door. Although he and George had been together for around a year by this point, it still felt much too early to bring marriage into the equation. The time it took a bouquet to wither would be nowhere near enough days for him to organise the perfect proposal. If he had it his way, he’d be marrying George the next morning, but he knew it would be stupid of him to rush into it—George deserved the best, and that was exactly what Dream planned to give to him. 

Now, after nearly eighteen months of waiting for the right moment, George had beaten him to it. Honestly, he should’ve seen it coming, but he’d been so absorbed in the approaching date of his own plan that he hadn’t even considered George would have one at all. There was no one to blame but himself, really—knowing George for as long as he had, he should’ve expected it. It made complete sense for him to make such a huge occasion so sweetly casual, and Dream felt his eyes begin to gloss over in spite of himself. 

Dream sat upright and George followed—well, he followed the best that he could with Dream now sitting on his thighs—throwing one arm over Dream's shoulder and using his other hand to encase his cheek in a tender caress. From his position on George's lap, Dream practically towered over his fiancé, but god, that touch made him feel like melting. 

Being engaged, Dream was coming to realise, did not make the feeling of George's fingertips on his skin feel any less electric. With a single swipe of his thumb, he was able to reduce each and every one of Dream's brain cells to ashes, leaving him with nothing but parted lips and an innate desire to kiss George until they were both lightheaded and gasping for air. 

Wordlessly, Dream gently removed the hand from his face, before placing the ring box into George’s palm. 

"Dream," George blushed, partially covering his mouth with spread fingers, as if it could do anything to mask his delight when his entire face was flushed a deep pink, "how long have you had this?"

"Uh—” Dream stuttered. He was still reeling from everything that had happened in the past five minutes, but the small amount of sanity he had left was enough to remind him that if he were to admit to having that ring for over a year, George would never let him hear the end of it. “A while.”

George raised an eyebrow, and seemed to pause for a moment before reaching for the opposite bedside drawer. When he withdrew a similarly-sized black box from amongst the mess of unpaired socks, Dream felt like he was short circuiting for the second time that morning.

“How were we both the idiot in the relationship who hides the ring in the sock drawer?” Dream asked, and the exasperation in his voice was enough to make George laugh and shake his head. 

His hair was partly dry by now, sticking up everywhere—yet, remarkably, in all the right places—and it fell into his eyes as laughter fell from his lips. He had been complaining about the length for weeks now, but Dream’s continued insistence that it looked better longer (which he was undoubtedly right about) meant that George had avoided making  a haircut appointment for as long as possible. This meant that he had to deal with the annoyance of constantly having to brush it out of his eyes, but it was worth it. Dream could usually be persuaded into whatever George asked of him, but something about George’s hair being just that bit longer and fluffier made him utterly impossible to say no to. 

“Tell me when you bought yours, and I’ll tell you when I got mine,” George offered, holding the box just out of Dream’s reach. Dream groaned in embarrassment, and leaned forwards to rest his forehead on George’s shoulder. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to assume it was before I even got to Florida.”

“That’d be ridiculous.”

“You gave me one of your favourite chains literally days after I started living with you.” 

The very chain he spoke of still hung around his neck, as it had done for years now, only taken off to shower and on the rare occasions he was persuaded into the pool. Their fans had noticed instantly, but George hadn’t cared. ‘They don’t know’, he’d said to Dream, and they didn’t. They guessed—and sometimes they were scarily right—but none of them knew for certain that the gold around George’s neck was as good as a flashing neon sign, constantly advertising his commitment in colourful bold lettering. Dream knew though. He knew, and he loved it.  

Dream sighed, “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?”

“No.” George smiled, finding Dream’s hand—the one which he wasn’t holding the ring box in—and twined their fingers together. 

“Fine, whatever,” Dream said, entirely distracted by the thumb tracing gentle half circles across the back of his hand. “It was like a year ago, July 2024.”

Dream couldn’t see George’s face to gauge his reaction that way, but the change in his breathing would have been difficult to miss—his next inhale was far sharper, and his hand briefly tensed within Dream’s hold. He was extremely tempted to look up to check whether George was blushing again. 

“Two days,” George mumbled. 

“Two— George,” Dream breathed, and when he laughed it was with the joy of a thousand suns, and the grace of every moon they’d been paired with for eternity. Though, somehow, ten hundred couples of celestial lovers paled in comparison to the man in his arms. “And you still beat me to proposing?” 

Dream lifted his head from George’s shoulder, and George took it as an opportunity to rest their foreheads together, keeping his eyes closed but basking in their closeness. 

“It seems so,” George smiled, and Dream could feel an impression of his words as they passed by his lips, a breath passed from one lung to another, in a moment too idyllic to even seem real. But, the reality of it was perhaps the most beautiful part of all.

A couple of idiots—best friends for ten years and lovers for three—making circular promises of forever from within the sanctity of each other’s arms. 

“I,” Dream stated, “am marrying an idiot.” 

George tried to connect them in another kiss, but he was laughing so much it was merely a shaky press of mouths, teeth clashing with every hiccup of happiness that shook their shoulders.

“Yeah, you are,” George eventually got out, settling for holding Dream’s face between his hands, close enough to delight in details as mundane as an eyebrow hair sticking out in the wrong direction. If he hadn’t been so content with Dream’s nose against his, he thinks he might have kissed it. “You’re marrying me.” 

In all their giddiness from the adrenaline rush, the rings themselves had somehow been forgotten about, and remained so until Dream positively jumped out of his skin after accidentally touching one of the boxes with his foot. 

George made fun of Dream’s expression of shock, teasing him for his wide eyes and open mouth, but he quietened down considerably when he realised what Dream now had in his hands. They looked at each other in the moment before it was opened, a wordless confirmation, before the lid was flipped open and George’s secret of barely forty-eight hours was shared. Perhaps there was a more romantic way of doing this, rather than sitting cross-legged on their bed across from one another, but he couldn’t bring himself to care—he was close enough to admire each and every crinkle at the corner of Dream’s eyes when he smiled, and his hand was caressing Dream’s thigh as the initial gasp of surprise escaped his lips. 

Another golden band, extremely similar to the one Dream had picked out all those months ago, so similar that they were essentially matching. This one was far bigger, of course, as it was intended to be worn by much larger hands, but still retained the same simplistic elegance. Again, the gemstone at the centre didn’t appear to have any colour at first, but upon closer inspection, Dream realised it was a pale pink. 

“I wanted to get you a green one, because, well, you know,” George said, stilted and hesitant, as though after all this time he was still afraid of not being enough. “The shop lady said this one was pink though, like, the colour of love or whatever, and I thought it would look good on you regardless of the colour honestly, so—”

“I love it." Dream had to fight to keep his voice steady, his eyes welling with tears as George took the ring from the box with shaky hands, and (with only slight difficulty) slid it onto Dream’s finger. "I love you." 

"Stop, idiot, you're going to make me cry too," George smiled, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his stupid pyjamas. He didn’t let go of Dream’s hand. 

Dream laughed—a wonderfully emotional, choked up laugh—and a single tear spilled down his cheek as he mumbled, "'M not crying." 

“My fiancé is a liar.”

“My fiancé is mean,” Dream pouted, until George opened his arms and he fell into them instantly. He nosed at George’s neck, losing himself in the feeling of being enveloped in George’s arms, and having George secured in his. It was comfort, safety, home.

“My fiancé is prettier than yours,” George whispered into Dream’s hair, following his words with a kiss pressed into bronze curls. 

“That's crazy, actually, because my fiancé is the prettiest.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I am not.”

“You are. You’re the most wrong anyone has ever been in this house, ever, and we live with Sapnap.”

Dream snorted, any response he might have had dying on the tip of his tongue, making up for his lack of retort by leaving a gentle kiss over George’s Adam’s apple. George saw right through Dream’s attempted distraction, of course, and took Dream’s chin in his fingertips, applying just enough pressure to tilt his face upwards. 

“I’m right though,” Dream murmured, his eyes already slipping shut. “My fiancé is the prettiest.”

“Shut up,” George laughed, and kissed him until they both forgot what they were arguing about in the first place. 

The rest of the day followed much the same, feeding each other expensive chocolates and kissing with the excuse of tasting it for themselves, despite there being many more in the box, and them never having needed an excuse anyway—especially not now, with golden promises of a future together wrapped snugly around their ring fingers. 

Patches eventually poked her head through the crack in the door in search of food and attention, both of which she received without question. George unwrapped her presents—which he and Dream had willingly spent a collective fortune on, as they did every year—whilst Dream sorted her breakfast, although she seemed far more interested in the shiny wrapping paper than any of the new toys. 

Shredded faces of cartoon reindeers littered the carpet, festive music played softly over the speakers, and George hummed along to it as Dream pressed a mug of hot chocolate into his hands and a kiss to his cheek. Their near-identical rings glinted beneath the fairy lights, and clinked against their mugs when they snuggled into each other’s sides to watch a rerun of an old Christmas movie. 

It was funny, Dream thought, how they’d unknowingly bought matching rings. Though, he supposed this was how they’d always been, even if they ended up being the very last ones to realise it—despite buying the rings nearly eighteen months apart, the love carried within them was identical. They still loved the same way and they always would, and now there was no more catching up for either of them to do. Their hands were entwined and George’s head rested on his shoulder, and Dream knew that the two of them could never have ended up anywhere else.

 ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

Norway was far colder than Florida in December. It wasn’t their first Christmas spent in a foreign bed, nor was it Dream’s first time seeing snow fall, though neither seemed to have lost their novelty. The only thing stopping Dream from running outside to catch flakes on his tongue were the many layers of blankets he was cocooned in, and his husband tucked close beside him. George was far too adorable to be abandoned and left alone in bed; they’d have plenty of time to hold hands and catch snowflakes together later. 

They’d had their wedding in mid-September, on the 14th, the BadBoyHalo number, at George’s repeated insistence. Both of them had cried when Dream’s dad escorted him down the aisle, and their vows had been fumbled with giggles and interrupted by small, reassuring touches. Neither man could quite believe it was really happening, until a second set of rings joined the ones from their engagement, and they shared a kiss before all their guests, with petals falling into their hair from the floral archway above. 

Tina had been the best flower girl they could’ve asked for, along with Sylvee, Hannah and Dream’s youngest sister. Karl managed to persuade them into giving him a pouch of confetti too, only to pour all of it down the back of Foolish’s suit during dinner. 

George’s speech had been beautiful, managing to bring Dream to tears, until he had mentioned Skephalo and Sapnap pushed him face-first into a bowl of chocolate mousse. This had backfired slightly when Dream ended up licking some of the dessert off of George’s nose, much to the disgust of their friends—though they were quickly forgiven, it was their wedding day, after all. 

After that day, they had taken a break from videos, streaming, and the internet completely to travel together. Both of them had been far too indecisive to decide on a single honeymoon destination, so they had ended up going to Japan first, then Greece, Italy and Norway. Dream wanted to see the aurora borealis on Christmas Eve, and George had made it his mission to ensure his wish was granted. 

Last night, they had held hands beneath the glowing sky, delighting in how the lights looked when reflected so prettily in each other’s eyes. Upon returning to their accommodation—a luxury cabin, complete with its own deck and hot tub—they’d uncorked a bottle of expensive wine, sipping it languidly as they laughed and flirted by the fireplace. It felt like they were teenagers again, they were still just as stupidly infatuated with each other and in that way nothing had changed, aside from their matching titles of husband and the confidence that their love would be returned, tenfold and without question. 

They made love that night, wrapped in blankets and each other and the starlight that poured in through the window. Embers danced in the hearth, casting shadows and bright amber over their bodies—George shone in the splendour of the flames, and Dream knew that danger had never looked so divine. It was a sight worthy of capture by the most renowned of painters, the most famed sculptors and every piece of film in Dream’s polaroid camera. But, he would be happy to let the greatest artists' talents be wasted if it meant that he was the only one who got to see George like this. The only one to ever have him like this—out of breath and gorgeous and with two rings on his finger that sang his name. 

"Merry Christmas, idiot." 

Somehow, five years later, the very same words he had woken up to before they were even dating still sounded just as stupidly fond. 

Dream's reply was unintelligible, a sleepy mumble lost into the skin of George's shoulder. George laughed and Dream held him tighter, trying to get as close to the sound as possible. He’d inhale it, if he could, clasp it in his hands and press it against his chest until there was an imprint over his heart. He already knew that George’s laughter felt like flowers blossoming inside his stomach, it was what had fed the butterflies within it for so long, so well that they still lived to this day. He was sure that it would taste just as beautiful, like love, frozen mangos and stolen broccoli soup.

“I had a dream last night,” George said, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Dream. “You’re so stupid, an actual dream.”

“What was it about?” Dream asked, voice still thick with sleep. 

“I—” He hesitated, and Dream didn’t need to look up to be able to picture the precise way George had taken his lip between his teeth. “You’re gonna make fun of me.”

“I won’t,” Dream promised, nosing at George’s neck as he did so, breathing him in. They hadn’t showered last night; Dream was unsurprised to find that he didn’t mind in the slightest. 

George leaned further back into the pillows, his hands splayed over Dream’s upper back. “That tickles.” 

“You want me to stop?” Dream asked, already confident in the answer he’d receive, but asking anyway for the sake of hearing George’s exasperated huff, and to feel how his fingers squeezed his shoulder blades just that little bit tighter.

“No.”

“Then tell me what the dream was about.”

“I, ugh—” George sighed. Dream finally opened his eyes, shuffling up the bed slightly so that they were face to face. He was met with the—admittedly unsurprising—sight of George flushed pink, pointedly avoiding eye contact. “I don’t even want to tell you anymore.”

“You do,” Dream smiled, and dipped his head to kiss him softly, just once. “You want to tell me so bad.”

“We had— There was a kid,” George said, his blush reaching as far as the tips of his ears. Dream was overcome with the sudden urge to bite them, but held himself back. Later, he told himself, they had so much time ahead of them, especially now that they were married. He could bite George’s ear in thirty years time if he wanted to—the thought made him unreasonably giddy, in the way that made him want to squeal and kick his legs and freak out over all the little things, like the tiny freckles decorating George’s hips.

They’d somehow managed to remain in the ‘honeymoon phase’ of their relationship all the way until their actual honeymoon, and at this rate it seemed like they were never going to leave it. The passage of four years meant that their friends expected them to hold hands under the dinner table, they anticipated how Dream would feed George mouthfuls from his own fork. It also meant that their casual affection became ordinary, though never taken for granted—each kiss still felt like a supernova, every touch was the resultant stardust falling from the sky, and even then it was all incomparable to their child, an idea that formed so beautifully on George’s lips, and would be infinitely more precious in reality. 

"Oh?" Dream asked, gently butting their foreheads together. "It just spawned in?"

"No, idiot, it— He was ours." 

It felt as though sunshine had been poured down his throat, making the flowers in his stomach stand taller, petals fluttering in the gentle spring breeze. Everything seemed fresher, brighter, more alive. The butterflies were flourishing and there were new patterns on their wings, slopes and shapes and swirls that had become increasingly intricate as the years went by. 

“What,” Dream started, but his mind was tripping over itself in its excitement and so he ended up interrupting himself, kissing George before he could finish his sentence. 

"Yes?" George prompted, with that love-drunk smile which had long since persuaded Dream that sobriety, for them, was a thing of the past. 

"What was he like?" His words were soft, and his voice had never sounded more fragile. George held him with careful hands, and ensured that he didn’t break. 

"Well, it was one of those weird dreams, I couldn’t really see his face.”

“But?” Dream prompted, knowing from George’s voice alone that there was something he wasn’t telling him. 

“He had your laugh,” George said, and it sounded like their first confessions all over again. “Your laugh, my hair, and he was wearing this little dinosaur onesie. You were there too, and I don't know, it was just nice.” 

Dream was sure that his heart stopped for a moment—entirely overwhelmed by possibility and how it felt like he’d die if he and George weren’t making out within the next ten seconds. Passionately. With lots and lots of tongue.

“Is now a good time to mention I bought you baby shoes for your Christmas present?” Dream said, words slightly muffled by the drag of his lips over George’s jaw. 

“Yes, what the fuck?” 

Less than a minute later, George was sitting in his lap, sobbing, with the tiniest pair of shoes clutched in one hand against his chest. 

“I know we’re, like, married and everything,” George sniffled, a steady stream of tears still dampening the collar of Dream’s shirt, “But I hope you know I— I really do love you.”

“I know.” Dream smiled, finding George’s state of emotional distress slightly funnier than he perhaps should have. He was not going to mention how he had also had a minor breakdown in front of Sapnap and Karl—as well as everyone else who had been in the baby aisle of Walmart—when he had held the shoes for the first time. 

“Prick.” George wiped his nose on Dream’s sleeve, “That’s the part where you’re supposed to say ‘George, my husband, the light of my life, the one I adore and cherish—’”

“I really love you too, but you already know that.” 

Dream took George’s hand in his, trailing his thumb over the ridge of the wedding rings. Unfortunately, this made George look down at their joined hands, spot the toe of an adorable, miniature blue boot poking out of his fist, and promptly start crying again. 

“Stop looking at me, this is so embarrassing,” George complained, and Dream only smiled, running his hands through soft, dark hair, kissing George’s forehead. It was more forceful than gentle, though intentionally so—each kiss they shared meant something, and this one was no different. It was reassurance, the promise of togetherness, unity in the softness of his lips and love in the warmth of his breath.

George ducked his head to hide his reddened eyes and splotchy cheeks, but was still smiling when he turned away from Dream. He managed to get one foot out of bed before Dream’s arms were around his middle, hauling him back up the bed and to his chest. 

A kiss beneath George’s ear, and a whisper to follow it, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“The bathroom, idiot,” George sighed, as though this was all a massive inconvenience to him. The way he made no move to escape—relaxing in Dream’s arms, leaning his head back to rest on his shoulder and turning to kiss Dream’s neck—said otherwise. “I’m sweaty and gross and you’ve been mocking me.”

“I’d never mock you.” A pause. George’s eyebrow raise was somehow audible. “Well, not unless you tried to tell me celsius is better than fahrenheit, or said your stupid crepes were pancakes, or looked really dumb—”

“We’re getting a divorce.”

“Okay, fine,” Dream said, kissing the nape of George’s neck and making him shiver, “guess I’ll just have to raise our kid all by myself. You get to see him once a week if you ask really, really nicely.”

“What?” George gasped, playfully affronted. “We get equal custody, it’s only fair.”

“You know, it’d make things so much easier if we just shared.”

“You want to share a kid with me?” George’s voice was hopeful, tinted with emotions far more authentic than their prior teasing. Joy bubbled in Dream’s heart, golden and free, and he squeezed his husband tighter in his arms.

“Why not? We already share everything else.”

George paused, deep in thought for a moment.

“Do I get to name him?”

“Anything you want,” Dream smiled, and suddenly he was the one who was tearing up over nothing—nothing but raw promises and affection he still, after years of having it,  couldn’t get enough of. 

“Thank you,” George whispered, the loudest he could dare speak without his voice cracking again. The rest of his sentence remained unspoken; they both knew George was thanking him for far more than just the privilege of the name, which he was inevitably going to ask for Dream’s input on anyway. He was thanking him for the kisses, and for the years they’d already shared, for all the ones promised to be spent together in the future. For every conversation they’d had, and all that were to come.

It was a thank you for the way Dream carried him to the shower, for washing his hair and giving nothing but compliments when George stole his favourite hoodie afterwards. It was endless gratitude for the time spent in the snow together that afternoon, tackling each other down and kissing with snowflakes melting between their lips, and the hot chocolate that they warmed them with afterwards—the drink almost as sugary sweet as the way they were curled up next to one another. 

“Thank you for being in my life,” Dream whispered, when they were lying in bed together again that evening, “Thank you for spending yours with me.”

“I can’t believe I’ve fallen for such a stupid, stupid man,” George laughed, and his hair tickled Dream’s chin, “So stupid he thinks I’d rather spend my time with someone else.”

They didn’t need to close the curtains. Beyond the window, the night sky was alight with pink, purple and green, the northern lights bathing them in beauty even as they slept. Soulmates weren’t real, it was a fact, but even the universe could make exceptions sometimes. 

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ 

At some point in the long-forgotten past, Dream had been somewhat of a deep sleeper. Though, that was the kind of thing that becoming a parent tended to change. Adopting Lucas had not been an easy process, and the sleepless nights that followed hadn’t exactly been stress-free either, but there wasn’t a single thing that Dream would choose to change. Becoming a parent, alongside George no less, had undoubtedly been the best decision he’d ever made, but being awoken by the sound of their door creaking open at four in the morning was perhaps one of the rare downsides. 

There was a brief, gentle thumping of tiny feet hurrying into the room, followed by a small hand poking his cheek, and an equally small voice whispering, “Dad?”

When he opened his eyes, his eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the darkness of the room, but even then it was impossible to miss the ecstatic smile just inches from his face. He mirrored it instinctively, and reached out to hoist his son up onto the bed. 

“You’re up early,” Dream commented, pressing a kiss to the top of Lucas’s head.

“It’s Christmas,” Lucas explained, with the exasperated air of someone who knew his opinions were objectively better than everyone else’s, “No sleeping on Christmas.”

Beside them, George stirred, mumbling something unintelligible and looking all sleepy and adorable. With Dream’s efforts focused on admiring his husband instead of stopping his child from jumping all over their bed, Lucas had taken the opportunity to dive on top of George, shrieking with laughter and wriggling with inhuman levels of excited energy. It was the tiniest bit annoying, yet simultaneously the cutest thing Dream had ever seen, in the way only fluffy-haired four-year-olds (and George) seemed to be able to get away with. And, he supposed it was Christmas—kids were allowed to get away with everything on Christmas, it was a rule.

When George sat up, it was with Lucas bundled up in his arms, and an unusually fond smile for someone who had just been awoken via body slamming. He pressed a kiss to Lucas’s forehead, causing him to giggle and try to hide his face in George’s stomach. 

“Merry Christmas, Nugget,” George yawned, looking over at Dream as he did so, causing him to yawn too. “Woah, no way, that means you love me.”

Dream only rolled his eyes and smiled, scooting closer to the other two until his and George’s hips were pressed together, hands seeking each other out and tangling together beneath the bed covers. One day, he’d surely learn how to control his blush over something so simple as the connection of their palms. Though, seven years into their relationship and no closer to that knowledge, it was seeming extremely unlikely. 

“I’m not nugget!” Lucas complained, and looked up at Dream imploringly, “Tell daddy I’m not.”

“Well I could tell him that, but…" Dream sighed theatrically, "I'm pretty sure Santa left a big pile of presents downstairs for Nugget." 

Lucas's eyes went wide, and he put his left thumb in his mouth, smiling wide around it like he always did when he was so excited about things he didn't know what else to do with himself. His little chubby cheeks had never looked more squishable. 

"We go open presents now, dad?" 

At these words, George, who usually swore by his Saturday morning lie-ins, looked nearly as bright-eyed and excitable as Lucas. Dream was well aware that his body wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep as soon as possible, to get more than the measly three hours he’d managed so far. But, these were the two most important people in the world , both pouting at him with criminal cuteness. He could never say no to them—not today, not ever. 

Seconds later, Lucas was wriggling out from between them, nearly toppling off the edge of the bed in his haste. He was saved by George, who caught him under his arms before he could fall. 

"Careful," George warned, tucking Lucas close to his chest and keeping him cradled there as he stood up and made his way towards the door, "the presents aren't going anywhere." 

Lucas sighed unhappily at the fact that he was being made to waste more of the precious seconds that he could be spending playing with his new toys, but he was enjoying being carried too much to complain about anything else. It was easy to see who he’d gotten that trait from—Dream had been persuaded into giving George far too many piggybacks in the past. 

George shot Dream a panicked look as Lucas squirmed slightly in his grasp, unable to cope with the weight but not wanting to ruin their son's fun so soon. Dream stepped closer to them and took Lucas into his own arms, pressing a quick kiss to George's cheek. 

Patches and Teddy—an orange-brown kitten they’d gotten for Lucas’s birthday in October, which he had been delighted to pick out and name himself—greeted them at the bottom of the stairs, brushing against Dream’s ankles as they followed George into the living room. 

Fairy lights covered every surface that they were able to stick to, bathing the room in shades of blue, red, green, gold. Glossy wrapping paper shone in the reflected glow, and six stockings hung from the mantelpiece—one for each member of the household, including the cats, and another with a faded S that George still insisted on putting up every year, even after Sapnap had moved to North Carolina. 

They watched Lucas unwrap his presents, George helping him whenever there was a particularly stubborn piece of sellotape, and Dream kneeling beside them with his phone out, ensuring his camera roll was filled with snapshots of his favourite people from one of the happiest mornings of his life. George eventually took the camera from his hands, tossing it onto the sofa and beckoning him closer so Lucas could show him his new dinosaur plushies. There was an adoring smile on Dream’s lips that he was certain had been there all morning. 

The day continued as it had started: a series of moments that Dream would have been happy to remain in for the rest of his life. Each was somehow just as perfect as the last, and he realised that the passage of time was no longer the nuisance it had been in the past. Before, he’d always been wishing for a glimpse of the future, and once he had what he wanted, he’d wish to go back and experience it again. Now, though, the steady ticking of a clock felt like safety—he knew for certain that this was his life, that no matter how many minutes went by he’d always have the people that mattered within arm’s reach. How he’d gotten so lucky he was still unsure, but he was going to cherish every single second he got to spend with Lucas and George. His son and his sunshine, the ones he would always love more than anything else. 

As dusk fell that evening, they found themselves back in the living room, sleepy and full of Christmas dinner due to the day spent at Dream’s parents’ house. George was sitting on the sofa with Dream’s head resting in his lap, running his fingers through bronze curls and over the barely-there smile lines that had begun to form in recent years. Lucas was fast asleep on Dream’s chest, his small fist clutching his new purple triceratops.

“Dream?” George asked softly, not wanting to disturb Lucas whilst he was sleeping so peacefully, looking cuter than should have been possible, with his long eyelashes and his thumb in his mouth.

“Yeah?” Dream whispered back, his voice thick with sleep. And love, always love. 

“I’m so glad we got to have this. That I got to share this with you.”

“Would only ever have done this with you.” Dream smiled, wide and utterly unburdened, and George dipped down to kiss his forehead, then his nose, then his lips. He was still in George’s lap, so the kiss was upside down— like Spiderman. The thought made Dream giggle, and George’s eyes sparkled with that special kind of fondness that had always been just for him. “You’re the best thing that’ll ever happen to me.”

“Marry me,” George mumbled, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. His wedding rings glinted under the fairy lights as he brushed the hair out of Dream’s eyes. 

“Once wasn’t enough?” Dream teased, but his heart still flipped in his ribcage.

“No,” George said, smiling like he was joking, but sounding far too soft to be anything but sincere, “I love you too much for that.”

Once, a very long time ago, Dream would have been content to replay those words for eternity. Admittedly, the idea was still tempting, but no longer held the irresistible appeal it once had—why should he be satisfied with settling for repeated expressions of affection, when he received a new ‘I love you’ every day? It had taken him nearly thirty years to realise the rarity that was each and every day that passed, and even longer to learn to treasure them as they so deserved. But now, everything he cared about was cuddling him on his couch, and he intended to keep them wrapped in his arms for as long as the universe let him.