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If you asked Dream when he decided George was ‘the one’, he would be able to tell you the exact date, the exact time.
Like the tempo of a song, Dream fell in love with George—easily, slowly, and then suddenly, all at once. No specific memory comes to mind, no defining moment, no lightbulb above his head either. Just one day, he woke up and decided yeah, he’s staying for a long time.
Dream considers a lot of memories with George when people ask. He has an endless surplus of them, ones filled with phone calls that would begin when the sky was pitch black and the only sound outside would be the occasional car driving by and would only come to an end when the birds began to sing and the sun was rising in the sky. Dream could pick any of them and easily say, “This guy sat on voice call with me for ten hours once, and that’s how I knew.”
Still, he wishes he had some extravagant story to tell when people ask, wishes it was some ridiculous grand gesture in the middle of Disney so he could brag to anybody that would listen to a thing he says.
But, when he thinks hard enough, the real answer is simple and not exciting in the slightest. Though, whenever Dream thinks of that night, that moment, he swears his heart is going to explode, and that might just be enough.
In November, the air temperature is finally beginning to drop, the humidity is becoming less, and less of an issue every day. George, who’s spent his entire life living in England, has done nothing but complain whenever the weather gets a tad too hot, even now after a year of living in Florida.
Dream hasn’t minded though. It’s become a part of his ritual, to wake up and feed Patches, to walk through the house and make sure the curtains that face the south of the house are closed to keep the warm air outside and the cool air inside.
Even though he knows Sapnap will complain about the temperature of the house constantly, he likes having the house cool, likes being able to exist and do stuff without his brain fixating on how gross and sticky he feels when the humidity seeps in through the windows.
He thinks George likes it too. Hopes, actually. In his first few weeks last year, all he did was complain about the weather, how anything over 70 degrees was ‘disgusting’ in his eyes to the point Dream consciously made an effort to keep the house cool.
He acclimatised to it quickly, enjoying just how cold he has the house sitting at. He finds himself imagining going to England one day, walking around the streets of London as George shows him all his favourite places, much like Dream did when George first got to Florida. It makes his heart quicken, his palms sweaty at the thought of a future like that, the future with George.
It’s a random day later that month when everything happens.
“The weather is ludicrous today,” Sapnap complains that morning when he walks into the kitchen. Dream’s making breakfast, unphased by Sapnap’s sudden appearance and focused solely on his bagel. “It’s already so fucking cold, and you have the AC on. What is wrong with you.”
Dream looks up then, and notices Sapnap’s wearing a sweater and tracksuit pants while Dream’s in shorts and a t-shirt. He hadn’t thought it was that cold, truly. But then he looks outside, and the trees are swaying slightly, and the shadows on the patio are darker than usual thanks to the already darkened sky.
“I like the house cool,” he replies innocently because he does. He’s been running the house cooler for longer than he can remember, but he feels Sapnap’s eyes boring into him, eyebrows cocked and a smirk on his face to match.
“Sure you do,” he says slyly, pulling the sleeves down over his hands as he walks towards the fridge. “It totally doesn’t have anything to do with the fact George used to constantly complain about the heat?”
Dream splutters and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “t’s just a coincidence George likes it cooler.”
And then, “I like what?” comes George’s voice echoing off the walls.
Dream tries to keep his cool and it takes everything in him to not gut Sapnap like a fish with the butter knife he’s holding. “The house,” he says through gritted teeth, hoping to whatever being is above that George didn’t catch Sapnap’s snicker as he walked into the conversation.
George shrugs, “It’s fine,” he says, “Much better than being hot. Right, Sapnap?”
Sapnap groans, loud and deep in his chest, so dramatic that Dream can’t help but roll his eyes. “It’s too cold! C’mon George, you’re from London, tell Dream the house doesn’t have to be the temperature of Antarctica.”
There’s a glint of mischief in George’s eyes, Dream notices it quickly. “We’ve been to Antarctica,” George says, matter-of-factly, and Dream knows where this is going before the words even leave George’s mouth. “It’s not this cold.”
Sapnap huffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re the worst. It’s cold as fucking balls in here, man.” And then he’s storming out of the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about going to find warm solace at Punz’s house.
Dream doesn’t flinch though, he continues to make his breakfast. “It is a bit cold,” George comments when Dream doesn’t say anything, “The weather’s cooling down, the AC probably doesn’t need to be on this low.”
He hums in agreement, moving from the counter to where the thermostat is. It is a bit lower than usual, Dream thinks, before flicking it around slightly. 71 should be fine. “You’re right,” Dream says, noticing a significant shift in how the house feels when it warms up slightly.
George doesn’t say anything else, just hovers around the kitchen while Dream finishes up. “Do you want a bagel?” he asks eventually, and George nods enthusiastically. “Here.” And he motions towards the bagel he just finished.
“You made that for yourself?” George states the obvious, but Dream shrugs anyway, pushing the plate closer towards George. He hesitates for a moment like he’s considering if Dream is playing a joke on him or not before taking the plate. “Thanks.”
Dream’s getting another bagel out of the bag when he says, “You were hovering.” It’s half a lie, of course. He noticed how George was eyeing the bagel, how his eyes flicked from the plate to Dream, and he finds it a little sick that he can’t even let himself deny George a bagel.
“I wasn’t hovering,” he mumbles, but he gratefully takes the bagel anyway. “I’ll be in my office if you need me, by the way.” Dream almost wants to follow after him, ask him to stay while he makes another bagel, and then beg him to no, come work in my office with me.
But he doesn’t, because he knows neither of them will get any of the work done that they need to if that’s the case, so Dream spends his day alone; editing a video, answering emails, planning the final details of trips that the three of them are going on, working out his schedule for the foreseeable future. The day flies away from him, before he knows it, it’s getting late.
The house is even colder than it was at midday, the cool air from outside creeping in through the windows and walls, but Dream still doesn’t touch the thermostat. Humid, sticky nights are one of the things he remembers George complaining about the most, and Dream eventually climbs into bed and gets warm under the covers.
Later, there’s a tap at the door.
It’s so soft that Dream almost doesn’t hear it, Patches’s head tilting in the direction of the door is the only indication that anything even happened. “Come in,” Dream says, still fiddling with his phone as the door creaks open.
George enters his room quickly, shutting the door behind him before clambering onto the bed. Dream doesn’t even have time to react before George is getting under the covers and pulling Patches to his chest.
“Can I help you?” Dream asks, but there’s not a single sliver of malice in his voice. It’s breathy, a laugh sneaking out as he speaks. George has made a habit over the year of coming and hanging out in Dream’s room, but he’s never done this before.
He looks soft, Dream thinks, with his hoodie pulled up against his neck and his dark hair against the pillows. He almost wants to reach out and brush the strands of hair out of his eyes but he’s endeared by how quickly he blinks because some strands of hair are irritating his eyes.
“I’m cold,” he says, “Your room is warm.”
Dream doesn’t say anything, just lets him lay in silence beside him. He continues with what he’s doing—replying to DMs about upcoming plans, checking the last of his emails before bed—but he can’t help but hang onto George’s words. Your room is warm.
Eventually, tiredness creeps up on Dream as the clock on his phone clicks over to 1 am. George stays put as Dream plugs his phone in, does his usual business getting ready for bed and then scooches down into the bed and pulls the covers up to his chin too and faces George.
Patches is long gone, sleeping at the foot of the bed while Dream watches George for a while, wonders if he’s still awake. His eyes have been closed for some time, he hasn’t said a word for even longer. Dream’s about to roll over and go to sleep himself when George says, “I can feel you staring.”
So Dream asks, “Is my room really that much warmer than yours?” with genuine concern lacing his words. He didn’t think there was much of a temperature difference between rooms in the house, especially the bedrooms. He’ll have to look into it, he thinks, check the thermostat—
“The whole house is cold, Dream,” he says, bluntly. “I don’t know how you exist like this.”
Dream stares at George, cocks his head to one side as he thinks, truly thinks about what George is saying. I don’t know how you exist like this. The words dance around in Dream’s head, everything he’s known for the past year seems to be cracking at the edges the longer he thinks about it.
“I thought–” he starts, baffled by the situation, “I thought you liked the cold?”
The look on George’s face changes when he processes Dream’s words—no longer is their annoyance for the cold etched onto his face, but a sort of softness only Dream sees at times like this, late at night when it’s only the two of them awake.
“No,” George says softly, “I struggle with the heat, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I’m just getting used to it still.”
Dream nods, kind of understanding. “But you always defend me with having the house cold?” he asks, and he notices, once again, George’s demeanour change. This time he looks shy, and he can’t meet Dream’s eye despite being so close to him.
“Because you like the house cold?” His voice wavers as he says it but there’s a hint of defence in it too. “Obviously, I take your side in an argument against Sapnap.” George tries his best to cross his arms over his chest under the covers, but it just makes him look more rugged up, more cute, Dream thinks.
It makes Dream laugh, honestly, at how roundabout this situation is. Dream had the house cold because he thought George liked it, George defended the coldness of the house because he likes to be a contrarian when it comes to Sapnap. “That’s the only reason you took my side?” he prods, and he watches George sink deeper into the pillows.
“Well,” George says, “It’s also because you like the cold. So I deal with it, because you like it.”
Dream does what could only be described as soften around the edges. “We’re so stupid,” he mutters under his breath, and he watches George look at him in confusion. “Surely you knew I only keep the house cold because I thought you wanted it cold.”
But George’s eyebrows furrow, and he says, “No, I thought you were just a freak.” It’s breathy, it makes Dream’s heart clench in his chest. “You seriously did that for me?”
Dream shrugs. It hadn’t felt like a big deal a few months ago—summer in Orlando is gross, hot and sticky, humid beyond belief, and a cold house is always wanted and welcomed—but those days are long gone, and Dream is still making the house cold for reasons he knows how to explain.
“Yeah,” he eventually says, “Why wouldn’t I?”
George shrugs, eyes still not able to meet Dream’s. “Cute.”
Dream feels his face warm up, his cheeks getting red and the palms of his hands getting sweaty. He shifts his body closer to George, there are millimetres between them at this point, but he waits patiently for George now. The ball is in his court.
George, of course, shifts closer, but he still doesn’t say anything. Though, the air in the room feels different, something’s changed. Dream knows how particular George is, how he doesn’t say something he doesn’t mean. He’s hanging onto that four-letter word like his life depends on it.
“Cute?” he asks, and George nods.
“Cute.” Dream stares at him, biting at the skin of his lip until the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, and then George speaks again, saying, “That you’d do that for me.”
“It’s nothing.”
But George doesn’t agree, a soft smile on his face, one Dream only ever sees when George is looking at him. “It’s not nothing,” he says, “I’d do the same for you. And that’s a big thing to me.”
It feels like a turning point, George admitting that. It proves the point—one Dream has always been curious about whether he’s imagining it—that the way George treats him is different to the way he treats other people. That there’s something different between them, even off-camera.
He’s so overwhelmed with feeling that he feels as if he might explode, burst at the seams and George would be forced to stitch him back together. There’s something he so badly wants to say, he can feel them stuck in his throat like razor blades as he swallows.
“I like you so much,” he whispers, so softly he wonders if George even heard him at first, but he doesn’t even have to worry after a beat because the smile that breaks out on George’s face can only be described as one thing:
Happy.
He shifts closer, closes the distance that’s between the pair of them like it’s nothing. Dream’s heart speeds up as he does it, and then George is moving closer, propping his head against Dream’s pillow, too.
“I like you too,” George replies, in the same tone he asked for the bagel in earlier, like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever said to Dream. “I thought it was obvious.”
And then, without even thinking, Dream leans forward and kisses George.
It’s soft, gentle, it feels like the pinnacle moment of Dream’s life. Lightning has filled his bloodstream, he feels like he might be on fire, maybe, the cells and nerves in his body are vibrating the longer they kiss.
There’s no hesitation, no questioning movements—they kiss like they’ve been doing this for years like this is what they were made to do for the rest of their lives. George shifts slightly, pulls Dream closer with cold hands that sneak under his shirt, and a shiver runs down Dream’s spine.
George laughs, breathy and against his lips. “Jesus Christ,” Dream says, and George snickers as he chases Dream’s lips, desperately. Dream decides then, as he reconnects their lips and gives George exactly what he wants, that this is the easiest thing he’s ever done.
It’s a while before they stop, the pair of them both so addicted to the taste of each other that they don’t want to, but Dream’s lungs are starting to burn and he’s beginning to feel dizzy the longer they go on. They stay pressed up against each other though, their bodies so intertwined it’s difficult to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.
Dream’s pressing his forehead against George’s shoulder now, catching his breath and hoping to God his heart slows down. It feels surreal, being like this with George, it almost makes him feel like he’s going crazy.
“So…” he says, once his breath has slowed down and his thoughts have come back to his, treading the line. He knows it’s obvious they’re on the same page, he can’t imagine it not being the case but he has to ask. “Where does this lead us?”
It’s a bit of a mood killer, Dream knows this, but he doesn’t want there to be a single piece of uncertainty hanging in the air, he doesn’t know what he would do if this is the only time he kisses George, doesn’t think he would be able to live knowing that he only got to do it once.
But George says, “Boyfriends?” It’s the shyest Dream has ever seen him, cheeks dusted with pink and a small smile on his face. “I hope.”
“Boyfriends,” Dream parrots, the word foreign but comfortable in his mouth, “I like the sound of that.”
George’s face breaks out in a smile so wide Dream’s shocked it hurts, and he feels his heart quicken at just how beautiful he looks. Nothing could ruin this moment, he thinks, as he pulls George closer again, against his chest and wraps his arms around him.
It’s warm, under the covers and pressed up against George. It’ll probably be the best sleep he gets in months.
“But seriously,” George says after a beat of silence, when the dust has settled and he’s pressed up against Dream’s chest, “Can you turn the thermostat down so we don’t freeze to death?”