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Spring doesn’t go particularly well, for them.
On the first Sunday in June, George finds himself in a half-made bed, melded to the mattress like soil. He scrolls his phone, ignites blue flames, and thinks that if he fell asleep now he’d wake covered in ivy, skin too thick to infect with poison. He’d just become one with it, buried in a sea of green, helpless to watch everything disappear.
He swipes his thumb lazily and laughs to himself about the dramatic imagery. He reads, feels himself rot.
It’s past the time of night he usually sneaks into Dream’s room, so he forgoes it, severs patterns like string.
His body itches in protest and his head begs him to do something else — turn it off, get up, move around, seek Sapnap out, something, anything — but he can't. All he can do is scroll.
It's late, dark and hot, and nothing feels good. There's a threat of a headache behind his eyes and— George freezes, straining his ears.
There’s a knock on the door, a light tug from his spiral. George groans as he turns, neck sore and body coated in a thin layer of sweat.
“Yeah?” he croaks.
An answer doesn’t come, and the string doesn’t break. If it were a tangible thing, it’d be golden, wrapped around his ring finger and traveling around the corner of the bed and underneath the door.
It used to be longer, though it was weaker then, stretched thin.
Dream doesn’t meet George’s eyes when the door is pulled open — gaze down, cheeks flushed. His hair is large and free, curling around his forehead and ruffled with humidity, and his hands are hidden in his pockets.
“Hey—”
He looks up, and he’s ruined, waterline rimmed red and lip trembling. In one clumsy movement, he collapses in a desperate hug around George.
George steadies him the best he can, wrapping quick arms around his boyfriend’s torso. He cuddles into his chest as Dream drops his weight around him, and rubs helplessly along his back when he starts to sob. He smells fresh, skin soft to the touch.
“It’s okay,” George says with uncertainty. Dream gets heavier, cries louder. Hiccups shake them.
For a moment, George feels that they’ve lost. His stomach drops, and they cling tighter to each other. They would love to see this, wouldn't they?
“Breathe,” George begs, smiling sadly when Dream chokes against him in his attempts. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“‘M sorry,” Dream starts to pull away once he gets sufficient air in his lungs, wiping snot off his face with the back of his hand. He makes a broken sound like laughing, “I’m sorry. I— I—”
George keeps him close by the wrist, panicked and protective. This scene feels familiar, if he closes his eyes and listens. Instead, he watches Dream stumble over his words, committing the blood vessels in his face to memory.
Some things never change. Dream needs me, sometimes.
For lack of better reach, George pulls his hand close, kissing along the bone. It quiets Dream, subdues and melts him, then George presses Dream’s palm to his beating heart.
“It doesn’t matter,” he promises with newfound wisdom, sparing a glance at his phone, discarded on the bed behind them. “They don’t matter.”
George feels like a hypocrite. Sometimes he truly believes he isn't cut out for this, but he’ll take it, for Dream — who is, despite this.
He would take it all if he could, the daggers and pitchforks.
“They’re not here,” he continues to comfort nonsensically. “It’s just me and you.”
It always has been.
“Okay,” Dream nods slowly. “Okay.”
It always will be, however it ends.
“Can I—” Dream tilts his head, puppy-dog eyes. George cringes, then grins. “Can I kiss you?”
He cranes his neck eagerly in response, desperation in his movements despite his monotone tease. “Can I ‘fill the void,’ you mean?”
“George—”
“You are so stupid,” he groans. “Congrats, you win, like, biggest idiot award. Don’t make me wait.”
He doesn’t miss the way Dream’s eyes light up at the words, something warm tugging at his stomach.
“You didn’t say yes.”
“Always yes,” George mumbles, guiding Dream by the chin. “Always yes. Well— maybe not always, like, not in public, right? ‘Don’t need nobody knowing,’ and all tha—”
“Shut—” There’s nothing of importance in the world. Nothing, except Dream’s hands on his waist. “—up, George.”
George smiles into the kiss, following Dream’s soft lead. He scratches lightly at his facial hair, humming his content. Dream starts to cry again, but it’s quiet and gentle and they don’t stop or comment on it.
“Dream,” George breathes when lips start to move along his jaw, then down his neck. He doesn’t bite or tug, just soft kisses everywhere. “I need to shower,” He turns his head to kiss Dream’s temple, giggling as they push and stumble. “Baby.”
“Let’s shower, then.”
George giggles again, and Dream grins and pulls him closer.
“You already showered," George complains matter-of-factly. "You smell good. I’m sweaty.”
“S’good,” Dream mumbles, distracted. “You smell good.”
“You’re a freak.”
Dream pulls back to focus on George’s face. For a moment, he just stares, then he gives him another long, sweet kiss. “I just wanna be with you tonight.”
The words between the lines are quick to turn George bitter. He must scowl, or something, because Dream kisses him again, sugary. “Okay, okay.”
The warm water lowers George’s adrenaline, and he sinks his heavy body into Dream’s chest in the bath, falling slightly in love with the way the resulting laugh rumbles against his bare back.
“Wash me,” he prompts quietly.
“Lazy ass,” Dream says, but reaches for the soap anyway. There’s two loofahs in this bathroom — ridiculous — in respective shades of blue and green, but Dream doesn’t reach for either. Instead, he rubs his hands together until the soap is foamy and overflowing, so he can massage George’s skin directly. “What were you doing when I came to your room?”
George doesn’t answer, for a while. He lets Dream rub the tension from his shoulders and the grime from his arms.
“Well?”
“Nothing,” he tries to dismiss, but the gentle splash of water against his back lulls him into a sense of safety. The dimly lit marble, a single candle on the edge of the bath. “I was on Twitter.”
Dream’s turn for silence, then. George feels him tense, then untense just as quickly. He feels him kiss the top of his spine.
“Me too.”
“I know,” George says. He takes Dream’s arm and puts it in his mouth like he’s going to bite the skin.
“The fuck…?” Dream frees himself easily. “Let me wash your hair.”
“No,” George fights, and at first he’s just saying it to be argumentative but then he thrashes a little, turning his body to make himself small, and Dream takes his curled up figure into his arms, even as water splashes over the edge of the tub. It's just them, and bubbles, and golden string.
“Keep it dry,” he mumbles, sleepy. “Don’t wanna sleep with it wet.”
“I can blow dry it for you,” Dream offers, because of course he does, punctuated with a wet kiss to the top of his head.
“No, just shut up.”
And he does.
They sit like that until the water gets cold, and then some. It isn’t until George starts to actually shiver that Dream takes initiative, pushing him away to step out of the tub.
They’re silent for this. George leans against the tile wall and battles a valiant fight against sleep while Dream wraps a towel around his waist and smiles fondly at him. George is, once again, overcome with the urge to bite him, but he’s out of reach now.
He disappears to retrieve the second towel, and when George stumbles out of the cool bath and steps into it, it’s dry and warm and Dream closes it around him in another hug. This time, he sways them gently, and George intertwines their wet legs and cries.
“What’s wrong?” Dream asks when George cowers into him, though his tone suggests he already knows. “Georgie, angel, baby,”
“Stop,” he mumbles, voice snotty. Damn this man. “You put my towel in the dryer. When did you even do that, you absolute— you—”
“—amazing, considerate, caring lover? You’re welcome, George.”
“I’m so warm,” George sobs in lieu of banter (...Lover...? Idiot). He sobs hard, and Dream holds and sways him. This is far from what they usually sneak around to do, but it’s what they both need tonight, and it’s not embarrassing somehow. That’s how George knows he’s helplessly in love. “Dream, people are so mean.”
They both know Dream knows that better than anyone.
“I’m so sorry, George,” he whispers, hot breath over George’s neck making him want to crawl under his skin. “I’m sorry. I love you so much, I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” is George's final verdict, so he repeats it for both of them to hear and digest. “They don’t matter.”
“It’s just noise,” Dream agrees, as hard as it is for either of them to fully believe right now, in the heat of it. George doesn’t even realize he’s moving him until they step over the ensuite threshold together. “It’s— It’s inevitable, but it’ll get better.”
George nods, finding Dream’s bed through blurred vision and flopping down over the covers. He sniffles and finds that it smells clean. It feels safe, and full, and homey, and he’s already halfway to sleep when Dream chuckles and pulls the towel off him, guiding his dead weight into underwear and a large t-shirt.
“Dream?” George asks to the darkness some time later, as he’s trying to get them both under the comforter.
“Hm…?”
“I don’t blame you.”
Like before, Dream freezes. His sigh is shaky and sad before he continues his movements, tucking fabric around George’s legs. So low it's almost indecipherable, he says, “You should.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“You’re tired, George, just—”
“Yeah,” George grunts, reaching blindly for Dream’s hand with his eyes closed. “I am tired, but this is important to me, so hurry up and hear it so we can go to sleep.”
He finds it eventually, and intertwines their fingers, gross and wrinkly from too much time in the water.
“Okay,” Dream relents. It’s not a complete win, George knows, but it’ll do for tonight. “I hear you.”
With his free hand, George smacks around again. He feels himself hit Dream’s chest and he groans. “Where’s your face?”
Dream takes the hand and guides it to his cheek. “Here.”
His fingers roam for merely a second before George finds what he’s looking for, thumb dragging Dream’s bottom lip.
“Kiss me?” I love you.
The bed shuffles as he does, a first chaste press to his forehead, then his nose which elicits more sleepy laughter. Lips, then one cheek, then the other, then lips again, and it’s all so soft.
“Always yes.”
They fall asleep to the melody of their synchronized breathing, muscles heavy with exhaustion and need. Phones discarded, quiet and secluded and hazy — untouchable, if only for tonight.