Chapter Text
Dream likes Paris.
He likes the people, the attention. He likes the way the buildings look when the sun is setting, the shadows dusk casts on the ground and the way the street lights come to life one by one, as if dancing in canon.
The Eiffel tower is visible from their hotel room, he made sure of it. Even if it meant he had to pay extra money or be very, very persuasive. He wanted George’s eyes to glimmer when he saw it from across the city, he wanted the smile that flashed on his face when he realized. It was absolutely worth it.
They have a balcony, too. It’s not too big, not too small. Dream likes it there, not only because it’s Paris, but because it feels intimate. It feels taken straight out of a movie—with the lively plants and the spindles painted a bright black, the little table between chairs and the lantern hanging from the wall.
It gives Dream a public sense of privacy, the fact that they can be out in the open—in the technical sense of the word—but no one will know they’re here, not really. The cool breeze cards through their hair and the night falls on them, stars swimming in their eyes and whispering sweet nothings about their futures for them to hold onto.
There’s something almost magical about Paris. They don’t call it ‘the City of Love’ for no reason, Dream thinks, no matter how cheesy he found the phrase until he stepped foot on Parisian soil for the first time. It might be a placebo effect, it might be the normal course of things, of falling deeper and deeper with each day that goes by, but George’s hand is warmer here, and his kisses taste just a little bit sweeter. He could get used to it.
George gets up from his chair and tugs at his arm, nodding at the door that leads them back inside. He has bedroom eyes—half-lidded and wonderful, deep and enthralling, sinking deep into Dream’s soul. Dream follows him, because it doesn’t feel like he has a choice. And it’s not like he would choose not to, even if he could.
Their lips meet as soon as they’re back in the confines of the bedroom. Dream’s hands are quick to find George’s waist, his curls tangling easy in lithe fingers, letting themselves be pulled. They always kiss the same way, and it’s perfect every time. Dream feels it all the way down to his chest, settling around his heart like a comforting flame.
He sits on the edge of the bed and George sits on his lap, legs on either side of his hips. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t have to. Dream knows this is all he wants. He wraps his arms tight around his waist and maneuvers them until his back is against the headboard, with George still securely against him.
George digs his nose in the crook of his neck, leaves sweet kisses on his skin. Dream rubs his hands up and down his spine, riding his shirt up just barely, craving the feel of his skin against his. It’s one of those nights—one of those lazy nights. It’s been a long day, and now they only need this. The silence, the boost of energy, the selfless company.
Dream closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of George’s hair after the shower he took this morning. He likes the way George smells—of something citric, something fresh, almost addictive. He basks in the way it envelops him, sweeping him off his feet, bringing the butterflies in his stomach back to life. He lets it fill his lungs, drowns in it, in George, in his warmth, his all-encompassing presence.
George’s legs wrap around his hips and he squeezes, because he needs to be closer, he needs to recharge. He’s told Dream this before, how much it helps him to simply sit in comfort, in silence, using his body to let out every word his tongue doesn’t dare utter. Dream loves him like this—it’s when he’s the most honest.
One of Dream’s hands trails down, long fingers sprawled out across his boyfriend’s thigh. He lets it rest there, barely giving it any weight, ever so grounding. George gives him a pleased hum before breaking apart and meeting their lips again. It’s how it always goes, one of many little routines. When it feels like they’ve done enough talking for a lifetime in the years they’ve been apart, and now the contact has to catch up with it. Dream likes to think that, someday, it will.
Their eyes meet, crash, melt. George traces the lines of his face for the millionth time since he saw them for the first time. He taps fingers on his freckles and draws love confessions on the bridge of his nose. He leans in, every so often, to press a kiss to a spot he finds particularly soft. He starts with his forehead, follows with the bags under his eyes, then the dimples on his cheeks.
George loves everything Dream doesn’t always like about himself. He loves his hair when it’s messy and his eyes when they’re tired and his legs and his tummy and his arms. He loves his lips and his chest and his hands and even his ears, when he’s feeling like it. After nine months of being together, Dream doesn’t think there’s an inch of his skin George hasn’t kissed, touched or admired. There’s not an inch he hasn’t loved.
Dream likes the privacy, the secrecy. Most of the time, at least. It can get annoying, sure, but the idea of having George all to himself is always more appealing. He likes that no one else gets this side of him, just like George is the only one who can see Dream like this—in a foreign hotel room, starlight breaking through the windows, the inherent quietness that comes with it. He finds it addictive, almost freeing, however ironic it may sound.
“Missed you,” George whispers into his chubby cheek, biting at it softly, like a kitten with a toy. Dream lets his eyes fall shut, lets his fingers dig into the soft flesh of George’s stomach. “Y’look pretty today.”
Dream steals a kiss from George’s lips, another one from his neck. “You look pretty every day,” he says, and the low rumble of George’s chest tells him that he’s being purposely meticulous. George also thinks he looks pretty every day, of course, but he wanted to point out how pretty he looked today, specifically. Dream chuckles into his skin, and bites back, just as gently. “Are you tired?”
George nods, clinging tighter onto him. He’s a little shaky, Dream notices. He’s not sure what it is. “‘M sleepy,” he mumbles, the drag of his lips grazing Dream’s cheekbone, making him tingle. His warm breath coats his skin, tells him he’s real. He needs to remind himself of it, every once in a while. It’ll never cease to amaze him. “Can we sleep?”
Dream moves them until they’re laying side by side, still clad in today’s clothes, but too tired, too comfortable to do something about it. They can share a shower in the morning and it won’t be a problem anymore. They nuzzle into each other’s embrace, let themselves be taken away.
One last kiss is pressed to George’s lips, with the Eiffel tower still peeking through the window.
Dream lets her in. He knows she won’t tell.