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George’s first impression of the stupid party that Karl dragged him to was that it was loud.
Music blasts from the speakers littered throughout whoever's house this was, entering from his ears and flowing out from the tips of his fingers. It rattles his ribcage, causing him to hold his arms closer to himself. He has to lean in every time his friend tries to speak to him—voice overpowered by the booming bass. It’s almost too much, but in an exhilarating sort of way that makes him want to stay and see how long he can bear it.
Earlier today, Karl had nudged him in the middle of their English class, whispering something about a party that his friend was having later. George had been cautious at first—unsure if he felt like going out—before Karl slipped out a small detail.
“Dream will be there.” He’d said.
George blinked.
“Fine.”
He knows he’d fallen right into his best friend's trap, and that Karl had his own motives too, besides trying to get George a boyfriend. If Dream was going somewhere, that meant that Sapnap was sure to follow. Karl had been giggling over that guy for months at this point, ever since they’d been assigned lockers next to each other at the beginning of the year.
“He always apologizes when his locker door is like– kind of in my way.” Karl would gush. “And he always bumps his baseball cap against it, it’s so cute.”
“Wow,” George would roll his eyes. “I’m weak in the knees.”
He knows how much this party actually means to Karl. So, he agrees. There’s really no harm.
Except there was.
Dream is somewhere within these walls, George thinks as he wanders through the crowd. Dream, with his striking eyes and rough stubble and big shoulders. Dream, who holds himself kindly wherever he goes. Always ready to lend a hand while also managing to keep up that stupid, boyish grin that has George turning red from more than a couple seconds of eye contact.
George isn’t completely senseless around Dream, just a little more flustered than he’d like to admit; it infuriates him as much as it excites him. It’s no secret—to the majority of the people he knows anyway—that he’s held a special flame for Dream for a while. The blond is just the type of guy that people gravitate towards, mesmerizing them with his sharp tongue and even sharper jawline. He’s someone to look up to—both literally and figuratively. (Karl’s very familiar with his ravings about Dream’s height.)
And while this could all be seen as a simple crush to pass the time, there’s just one thing keeping George from moving on.
Dream, in all of his lopsided smiles and pearly whites, gives George the time of day. His gaze lingers whenever they find George’s brown eyes—a brief connection that always has the brunet blushing into his palms when he thinks about it late at night. His hands, large and controlling, manage to find the small of George’s back in simple conversation. But despite his soft touches, it’s his hard attitude that truly has its greatest effect on George. They both come with a bite.
“Saw you staring at me all class, Georgie. Got something you want to tell me?” Dream had approached him at his locker one day.
George scoffed. “It’s almost like you sit in front of the whiteboard, idiot. Everyone is looking in your direction. Maybe you’re the one who's got something to tell me if I’m the only one you noticed.” He'd shut his locker and turned to the blond, only to find Dream looking down at him with his stupid nonchalant stance, a smirk playing on his lips. Dream didn't respond.
The brunet had almost choked at the silent insinuation, eyes widening and having to cover it up with a cough. Dream’s grin somehow grew. George stalked off.
Karl likes to feed into his delusions and say that every conversation between them could only be described as flirting. The possibility settles deep in his chest, flickering and hot and definitely not healthy for his already-hazed mind. He doesn’t exactly rule it out, just keeps it in his back pocket.
So, the two of them have this unspoken thing between them at the moment. Giddiness fills every crack and crevice of George’s body at just the sight of the blond. He daydreams more than he’d like to admit, heartbeat rising to his throat at just the thought of Dream pulling out of the school parking lot in his dumb, vintage white challenger car with his arms stretching out a tight t-shirt and flexing–
You get the point.
Back at the party, George grabs a drink from the fridge—alone after Karl had gone off in search of Sapnap. He can’t be too mad at him. They’d be really cute together, George thinks, with the way that Sapnap is kind of on the shy end and while Karl is loud and always all over the person closest to him. The two would balance each other out.
George looks around and notices that most of the people at the party are Dream’s friends. They know him, having seen him around with Dream before. Or, more accurately, Dream being around him. He follows George sometimes, trailing behind him as they float from class to class. He pretends it's annoying. Deep down inside, he's a blushing mess.
A hand lands on his shoulder. “Hey.”
George turns. Punz—one of Dream’s friends—stands behind him. “Hi.”
He shifts kind of oddly. George raises an eyebrow, wondering what he could possibly be nervous about. “We’re uh– starting a round of seven minutes in heaven. Thought you might wanna join.” He gestures to the room behind him.
The brunet's heart skips a beat. Seven minutes in heaven? Would Dream be there? “Would Dream be there?” He can’t hold himself back from asking. Light pink dusts his cheeks at how obvious he is.
Punz nods quickly—quicker than George would call a casual reaction. “Yup. Definitely.” He avoids eye contact.
George holds back a questioning noise and starts walking past Punz. “Okay then…” He doesn’t think too much about the interaction. The prospect of playing the game with the blond overfloods his mind.
It’s cliche, and maybe that’s what’s making it so much more enticing. Dream and him, alone in a dark room for seven whole minutes, locked inside with only the sound of their breathing hitting their ears. Dream and him, fire against fire. A warm flame burns in his stomach at the thought. Maybe they’d finally ‘get it over with’ as Karl likes to put it. Maybe this is it.
He enters the living room and sees about ten people sitting in a circle around an empty bottle. Nerves prickle at his fingertips. He approaches and sits down in the empty spot next to Sapnap. The brunet doesn’t speak, just looks around.
Karl’s in the circle, eyes flitting from the bottle to Sapnap in a way that makes George laugh quietly. His friend looks up, meets his gaze, and laughs as well. They’re both stupid about boys. Karl gestures to where Dream sits with his head. George turns to see.
Dream sits cross-legged across from the brunet, leaning back onto his hands and staring intently at the glass bottle in the middle of the circle. He looks good. He always looks good, but right now, he looks good. His jaw is squared like he’s deep in thought, with his arms tense from holding him up as his fingers drum on the wooden floors. The low lighting of the room does him perfect justice, emphasizing his edges in a way that has George thinking about all the times he’s been close enough to feel them for himself.
Unfortunately, there’s someone else in this picture. A blonde girl that George has never met before talks into his ear. George watches as Dream nods every now and again at whatever she’s saying, but doesn’t really look at the girl. Her hands rest on his shoulders, gripping hard so that the fabric of his tight shirt wrinkles under her fingers. She looks a little drunk, and very familiar with being in Dream’s personal space.
George bites the inside of his cheek. An ugly feeling, something that toes the lines of jealousy rumbles deep within him. He forces himself to look away. There are a lot of people in the group, he realizes. It’s more likely that George will have to watch Dream go off with someone else who perhaps doesn’t have the type of edge that the brunet carries, someone else who speaks to him softly instead of teasingly.
Punz walks in just then, and officially starts the game. “Who’s going first?” He asks to the room.
Immediately, the girl who’d been chatting Dream’s ears off speaks. “Dream wants to go!” She says in a shrill voice.
Dream looks up for the first time in a few minutes. For some reason, his gaze—burning with something unknown—goes straight to George for a mind-numbing second. George blinks back. Dream turns to Punz. “Sure.”
Dream reaches forward, large hands grabbing and spinning the bottle in the center of the group. George digs his fingernails into his palm. It spins and spins. Flashes of infuriatingly taunting grins being pressed against his own appear in his mind like a curse. It spins. Images of hands on his thighs and on his waist and literally anywhere else have his mind running crazy. It spins-
Cold liquid suddenly splashes down his back. George whips around in surprise.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” A random girl rushes out, a now-empty cup in her hand.
George grimaces at the feeling of a wet shirt on his skin, knowing that it’s only a matter of time before it starts to get sticky. “It’s– it’s fine.” It’s not. But he’s not about to make a scene.
He moves to stand up, ready to try and dry himself off when, suddenly, Sapnap’s hand wraps around his shoulder. “George, wait.”
The brunet faces him, confused. “What?”
He points to somewhere behind George. “You gotta go.”
George’s stomach flips. “Huh?” He turns back to the group and sees, by some miracle, the bottle pointed straight at him. Holy shit.
He stares at it for a second or two, making sure that his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, before looking up to see Dream peering at him from under the doorway that probably leads to wherever they're supposed to go. Dream’s eyelids are hooded and his mouth is quirked in a smile that tells George he’s about to be in trouble.
He feels Sapnap nudge him forward a little, and he regains control over his legs. Karl gives him a small thumbs-up on his way out of the room.
George approaches Dream, hiding his anxiety by meeting his enticing gaze with a challenging one of his own. The blond smiles. George moves past him in mock indifference. He hears Dream laugh at that as the brunet leaves the living area, and feels much too pleased with himself than he'd like to admit.
Dream’s presence follows him; tall and big. He sees a walk-in closet at the end of the hall, each step like a stride closer to his doom. George glances back. Dream nods towards the small room. George sheds the last of his nerves as he enters.
Darkness overwhelms them once Dream shuts the door. The click of the lock is heard from the outside, and George knows there’s no turning back. The sounds of the party disappear into a puff of smoke. A faint glow from the bottom and top of the doorway illuminates their faces. From the minimal light, George can just make out the blond’s face and frame. He doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.
“Hi.” Dream says into the shadows. It sounds smiley, but with a playful kind of lilt to it.
George looks up to where he can see the still-blazing green of Dream’s eyes. “Hi.”
“Sorry about your shirt.” He says, reaching out to tug at the hem of it.
The brunet lets him move closer. “Not like it’s your fault.” He whispers, delicately. He’s careful, at the core of it all. George doesn’t entirely know what Dream plans to do in here. He needs to be ready for anything.
Dream makes an odd face at that, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah.” He nods, before quickly moving on. “But you know… if you want, you can have mine.”
George’s breath catches in his throat. “What?”
“I can give you my shirt, if you need it.” Dream offers, letting go of the edge of the fabric. George immediately misses his touch. “Well. That and I also thought you might want to see me shirtless, so.” He tacks on with an impish tilt of his head.
“Oh, please.” George rolls his eyes, gaining his footing as they fall back into their normal back-and-forth teasing. “You’re so full of yourself.” He leans forward and shoves Dream in the chest.
Dream grabs the hand. “You like it.” He says, easily, as he uses George’s wrist to pull him closer. “But, seriously. That can’t be comfortable.”
“I mean,” George is using all of his brain power just to stay standing. “If I take your shirt, what are you gonna wear?” He asks, already dreading the answer.
“Nothing.” Dream smiles, starting to pull at the hem of George’s shirt once more. It’s simple in the blond’s eyes—crazed brown like a storm compared to calm green’s sunshower.
“Nothing.” George echoes, thinking of bare expanses of skin, skin, skin. He is starting to feel a little gross. The way the fabric clings to his back grows more apparent as time passes.
Dream nods, reassuring and easy.
George falls under.
He looks down at his clothing and inhales once before pulling it over his head. The blond remains silent, moving to take his own shirt off as well. The sound of fabric rustles—so loud in such a small space. George can hear the delicate sounds of Dream’s hands brushing through his hair as they both stand still—shirts now fully removed. And then suddenly, they’re just two shirtless boys in a dark room with a timer in the back of their minds, ticking down the seconds until the closet door opens and everything or nothing will have changed.
George has never felt this way before. He’s only seventeen. He’s never played a game like seven minutes in heaven in his entire life. He’s never even had a boyfriend for fucks sake. But he knows that he will never feel the way he does right now for the rest of his life.
Dream holds his palm out. George thinks the blond is staring into his eyes, but he can’t tell for sure. In a daze, he hands the wet fabric to the blond’s outstretched hand and takes the new, warm shirt from his other. George tries not to look at Dream too much, knowing that he’ll have the time to ogle later and that right now, all he needs to worry about is being coherent enough to put Dream’s shirt on. But he does take the time to hold the clothing against him for one quick moment, immortalizing this moment of the two of them, casually changing in front of one another, in his mind. When he finally begins to pull the clean shirt on, he sees Dream toss the dirty shirt behind him.
And Dream makes no move to cover himself, despite, you know. Being in a closet full of clothes.
The shirt settles on his frame. Like a taunt, the overwhelming scent of Dream immediately clouds his senses—a soft citrus and sweet smell. He feels addicted already. George glances at Dream to see if he noticed him taking it in, and is met with a look so knowing that the brunet almost feels transparent. It lights a fire on his bones, dancing along his arms and his back the more he stares and stares and stares.
“Looks good.” Dream says, so smug and satisfied at his compliance that George can’t help but want to bite back.
“Yeah, I bet you’d like this.” He folds his arms, ignoring the way the sleeves of the shirt hang so loosely when on Dream, they were tight. “You’re so obsessed with me.”
Dream shrugs, and it’s somehow worse than if he were to actually agree. “Just said it looks good. You should wear my stuff more often.” He steps forward, into George’s space. At this distance, it’s annoyingly obvious how much taller the blond is, with his shoulders blocking most of George’s view.
“Why?” George walks back in retaliation. His body hits the closet wall. “So you can feel like I’m– that I’m–” The word yours burns on the tip of his tongue. He holds it back.
Dream hums, as if he heard it anyway. He comes even closer, until almost all the light is shielded by his body. It’s a little overwhelming. George’s breath becomes thinner in his lungs, becomes harder to catch. Dream must hear the way the air is getting stolen from him, because he smiles—pleased and proud.
George lifts his chin higher, trying to appear stronger than he really feels. It’s a little easier when the blond wears a look more familiar to him, a look that only comes out after Dream once again succeeds at flustering him. It’s a game almost: pull more and more at the seams until eventually, one of them bursts. George is used to this, used to Dream’s irritatingly hot ability to make his muscles weak. He’s subject to it almost every day.
But there’s something different about the way Dream is looking at him right now. Without harsh lights or the eyes of onlookers, George can see something new in his gaze. The grin that’s found itself onto the blond’s mouth looks real and almost– curious? White teeth bite at his lip and his green eyes never stay in the same place for too long. There’s an anticipating manner to it all. Like he’s truly waiting for something.
George swallows thickly. He knows.
Dream has to know by this point. He knows I like him. Like, genuinely like him.
The blond has his head tilted down and most of his body completely relaxed, shoulders soft and malleable-looking. His smooth skin—defined by years of being on the football team—practically glows within the scarce light of the closet. He’s the epitome of calm. He knows.
George imagines what he must look like to the blond, being forced to peer up due to their height difference while being backed against the closet wall. He wonders how much of his face he can even make out in the dark, wonders what emotions must be bleeding out, wonders if he was wanting this too.
Maybe that’s what Dream was thinking about when that girl was talking to him. Maybe that’s why he looked so spaced out. A glimmer of hope bubbles in George’s stomach.
A hand, big against his frame, comes to rest on the brunet’s waist. George looks down at it, and then back up to Dream. The blond is still smiling, but it’s smaller now. Smaller and shyer. God, George isn’t going to make it out of this closet sane. He knows.
He tries to imagine that this is the same boy that pesters him both in and outside of class. This is the same boy that drew stupid stars all over his arms and hands in sharpie after George accidentally fell asleep in English. This is the same boy that always ruffles and messes up his hair in the hallway when they pass each other. The boy from then, with a permanent scar on his knee after he ran into a light post trying to show off his football skills in front of George, is also the boy from now, with a deep, searching gaze that looks much too intense to be coming from a teenager. They are the same.
“Dream.” The brunet says, because he can.
“George.” The blond responds, looking like he’d do just about anything for more physical contact.
“You look excited.” George comments, seeing the way Dream’s other hand floats at his side—eager to know the shape of his body too.
“I am.” Dream admits, voice getting huskier the quieter he talks. He finally gives in, landing a palm on the other side of George’s waist and using it to move in even closer.
George leans into the touch—hyper-aware of everything and anything around him. A random coat brushes his shoulder. The carpet under his feet is a little rough. Dream’s body is near enough that the brunet can feel heat radiating off of him.
He bites down on his tongue to resist smiling like an idiot. “You hoping for something in here?” George can’t help but ask, unable to step away from this tempting cliff. He’s delirious almost—head feeling fuzzy as he gets treated so delicately by his stupid, hot crush.
Dream trails one hand lower, searching for the exposed skin from where his oversized shirt hangs loosely. “Kind of.” Green irises drop to George’s neck, and then back to his eyes, taking longer on the trip up as if there’s something there that he likes.
George licks his lips. He wonders, through a purple haze, what the blond’s words mean. He’s hoping, he says. Hoping for more than what they already do, more than teasing glances and taunting touches. Hoping for something tangible. Something to look back on.
Does that mean he likes me too?
His heartbeat grows shakily, pumping against his rib cage so hard that George thinks it may break. Yearning builds in his body, reaching the ends of his fingertips and causing him to finally lay his hands on Dream’s chest—his first intentional touch. He slides them up, going to rest on his shoulders. Everything is warm: his breath, his heart, his palms. Everything is floating.
They’re so close that it hurts.
Dream uses the hand not slightly under his shirt to cup the back of his head, fully taking hold of George’s whole body until the brunet has no choice but to mold to the touch. Dream smiles. It’s all so light. He looks so happy and satisfied that George just has to wonder what’s truly on his mind.
Was he really waiting for this for a while? George asks himself. There’s really no other explanation, unless–
Oh.
Well, there is something else.
A dark thought—darker than the walk-in closet—strikes him. Dream definitely knows that George likes him, there’s no denying that. He’s been obvious for months now, even before this party. Always blushing at simple brushes of skin, always eager to bite the bait that Dream dangles in front of him, always falling victim to his challenging stares that get the brunet so riled up. There’s no way Dream doesn’t know.
So maybe he’s only this excited because he knows he’s guaranteed at least something from George. He must be thinking he’s easy, he’s willing. George, with his crystal clear crush, wouldn’t say no to some time alone with Dream.
“We don’t have to do anything.” Dream says, probably taking George’s hesitance for nerves. He tucks a piece of hair behind his ear.
George resists the urge to lean away. He’s not exactly sure of his intentions right now—reciprocating could be dangerous, for both his head and his heart.
“You want to, though.” He replies, testing the waters and playing with his own fingers that still circle the blond’s neck. He tries to hold eye contact, looking to see clarity in his gaze.
Dream flushes, glancing away for a moment. “Well, yeah. But no pressure.”
Confusion rumbles in George’s mind and somewhere deep in his stomach, where he used to hold his secret affection. “But… you’re hoping for something.” He doesn’t get why Dream’s trying to minimize the desire they both know is present. It’s too late to take most of it back.
“I mean,” Dream shifts from foot to foot, hand becoming looser on George’s hip. “Kind of, but it doesn’t have to be now.” He’s growing redder by the second, cheeks rosy and cute and this is not what he needs to be focusing on.
He’s expecting something, George gathers, because he thinks I’ll fall without a fight. Memories of all the times Dream has created an emphasis on the brunet’s apparent ‘obsession’ with him, all the times that he's insisted that George’s flustered reactions were because he just ‘affected him that much’ flash in his mind. What was once still waters is now a rippled mess as George realizes that all that impish teasing could’ve just been Dream playing the long game, getting him to lower his guard until he got them alone together.
The eagerness in his voice to switch shirts. The satisfaction on his mouth as he slowly began to ease into the touches. It was all calculated.
“Later, though, right?” George’s eyebrows furrow.
Because his mind hates him, visions of Dream kissing and ruining George appear in his head, drowning and choking him, only to leave and never speak to him the same again because he got what he wanted.
Dream’s mouth slowly drops into an unsure frown. “I’d… hope so? I thought this was going somewhere.”
George feels stupid. Stupid for stumbling into this situation and stupid for thinking his fantasy would actually come true. He lucked out when the bottle landed on him. Of course, the guy he likes just wants him because he’s easy.
Anger starts to bubble up in his chest. “Well, it’s not.” He lets his hands fall to his side as his hands ball into fists. “I’m not doing anything with you.” George makes his voice sound stronger than he truly feels.
Dream looks… a little crestfallen, to be honest. The blond sputters, letting his hands fall completely from the brunet’s body as if he can feel the defensive spikes that have begun to grow. “Did– did I do something? I don’t–” He sounds utterly confused, to George’s irritation. “I thought you liked me?”
George crosses his arms, blocking his heart from the blond before he can do any more damage. “So?” He spits, knowing that that’s exactly the reason Dream feels so possessive over him. He thinks he’s already got him in his reach.
Somehow, Dream looks even sadder, as if the single word hit him square in the chest and used his ribs to break its fall. “I thought–” He runs a hand through his hair, taking one small step back. “I thought that would mean you wanted this, I tried–” His voice trails off in a confusing combination of disbelief and heartache.
The brunet doesn’t understand why he’s the one acting like he just got his heart stomped on. “Want this? You’re so vain, oh my god. I would never want this, what the fuck.” He steps away from the wall, feeling worse the more he’s cornered in. “Just because you thought I liked you doesn’t mean you try and– and see what you can get out of it by getting me alone with you.”
Dream’s face scrunches up like he’s wincing. “Look. I’m sorry, I– maybe–” He scrambles for words like he doesn’t know what to do. George stares hard into his eyes and god is Dream starting to cry? “I really thought you liked me but maybe it was just me, like– maybe it was just what I wanted to see, I don’t know. Maybe I was fucking– projecting, whatever. It doesn't matter.” He rubs at his eyes and starts rummaging through his pockets for his phone. “I’ll– I’ll text Sapnap to let us out. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Dream mumbles out.
And George stops.
Stops thinking, stops moving, stops spiraling.
“Projecting?” He rushes to grab Dream’s phone, preventing him from texting his friend.
Dream looks up—confusion and hurt written all over his face. “What?” For the first time, the blond seems small.
Realization hits George like a ten-foot wave, flooding his veins and turning his world upside down. “What do you mean projecting?” He asks, desperate.
“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Dream tries to take the phone back, weak hands reaching for it as he starts to turn away. “Forget it, please.” His shoulders have drooped, heavy with embarrassment and pain.
George doesn’t let him leave. “No, it does. It does, just tell me.” He goes to hold the side of his face in one hand, wiping the wetness from his cheeks.
Dream squirms in his grasp, ashamed to have been crying. He meets his gaze with sad eyes, seemingly searching for something. George looks back with what he hopes to be a kind, sheepish expression.
“I, um.” Dream swallows. “Well, I’ve liked you for a while and I thought it was, like, mutual but clearly, it’s not and I got it wrong and I… I set all this up when you never even liked me. So, yeah. I just. Can I have the phone back so we can leave and like, never talk about this again?” He rushes out, head hanging lower and lower the more he talks.
The brunet gapes at him like a fish. Holy shit, I’m so stupid.
“I like you.” George blurts.
Dream freezes. “Huh?”
“I like you.” He repeats, a thick blush rising to his cheeks at both the admittance and the fact that he totally just jumped to conclusions.
“Are–” Dream raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
George almost laughs. “Yes, yeah I– oh my god.” His emotions run rampant, trying to collect themselves after the turmoil he just experienced and the ease he feels now. “I’ve liked you for like, months at this point and I was pretty sure you liked me too but tonight– I don’t know there was something– tonight was so like weird that I just started second guessing everything and I convinced myself you were just flirting with me for– for fun or something.” He explains. It all sounds ridiculous saying it out loud, he realizes.
Dream’s body relaxes the more George speaks, happiness returning to his eyes. “That’s–” He runs a hand over his face. “That’s– I’m so fucking relieved, thank god. I– Okay. I might actually be able to explain why the party seemed… off. It’s– it’s actually. Kind of. Because of me.” He admits, sheepishly.
The brunet’s head tilts.
“I might have– or, no. I did plan this whole party so that I could play seven minutes in heaven with you and confess my– uh, my feelings for you and stuff.” Dream slowly starts turning pink. Normally, George would find it adorable. But right now, the only thing going through his mind is what the fuck.
Dream continues. “It was kind of last minute, I guess. I was waiting for like– the right time to ask you out but I kept getting distracted because. Well. You know you’re pretty, okay, everyone knows that. So I just never got around to it and then one day I had this idea that I figured might work because I was pretty sure you liked me back. I mean, you blush really often around me. Like, really often so–”
George burns. “Keep going, Dream.”
The blond laughs—a little flustered himself. “Anyway, I got Karl to invite you over for a party and then asked Punz to ask you to join the game and then Sylvee—that’s the girl I was sitting next to—she would volunteer me so that it wouldn’t be like, obvious or whatever. And then while the bottle was spinning, Tina spilled her drink on you—sorry about that, by the way—so that you’d hopefully look away and then I could make it land on you and we’d go to the closet and– and yeah. Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” Dream sums up, fidgeting with his hands. “If that’s like– really weird and you don’t like me anymore we can just–”
George shuts him up with his lips.
He kisses him hard, wanting to rid any thoughts of George not liking him back from the blond’s mind. Dream makes a small noise—body stiff for a couple seconds before he falls into the kiss with a sigh. George smiles against his mouth, placing his hands into his hair where they rightfully belong. It’s a little rushed, a little uncoordinated, but George has never loved anything more than the feeling of their lips pressed together.
The heat from their bodies clouds over them and has them losing all caution, easily returning to the giddiness that coursed through their blood just a few minutes ago. Dream seems desperate to make up for all the confusion, wrapping his arms back around the brunet’s waist and pushing him against the wall so that he can’t think of anything other than red lips, warm hands, bare collarbones, and soft hair. George meets him with the same vigour, kissing and kissing for all their wasted time being stupid and chasing each other’s tails.
“You’re an idiot,” George speaks into his mouth, despite having his own fair share of dumb actions.
Dream laughs and starts kissing the corner of his mouth. “My bad.”
George tilts his head for easier access, arching into the touch. “Keep going.” He doesn’t know if he means the kissing or the idiocy. He doesn’t think too hard about it.
Dream follows suit, laying kisses on his neck as his hand travels beneath his shirt and up and up and–
The doors swing open.
“Did it work?”
The two spring apart, blinking as light suddenly crashes over them.
“Oh, gross.”
George recognizes the annoyed voice as Sapnaps. He squints at him, knowing just how red-faced and ruined they must appear. A small group of their friends are standing in the doorway, waiting in anticipation to see if the plan worked.
“Dude,” Sapnap looks at Dream, seeing the leftover tears in his eyes from their brief miscommunication. “Did you seriously cry because you got a boyfriend? That’s so cringe.”
Karl laughs, hiding it behind his hands.
George glares at all of them. “Excuse me. A little privacy please.” He reaches for the handle and shuts the door in their faces. He turns back to Dream.
They don’t leave the closet for a while.