Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Okay, that’s it,” Dream determines, sitting up to turn off the TV. The covers fall from his legs and the dim light that coated his face has now turned into static. He reaches over George, and turns on the lamp on the bedside table. “Gonna go shower.”

“Why?” George asks, an eyebrow raised, lips still quirked in amusement. He asks this because Dream is a freak. He doesn’t shower at night, that is—he’s a morning person, for the most part. George wasn’t home this morning, so he doesn’t know if he showered or not, but if he’d been asked, he would’ve confidently said yes. Of course, he’s not asked about Dream’s shower routine very often, so it doesn’t really matter. Still, he can’t be blamed for finding the announcement rather off-putting.

But Dream doesn’t see it that way. “What do you mean why?” he asks, getting up and stretching his back until it pops. George peers at the sound, but he doesn’t comment anymore. He’s been doing it forever, since before George can remember. It’s a lost battle. “‘Cause I’m a clean person. I want to be presentable,” he explains. “And you keep talking about your programming class which, I’m sorry, but— is just not that interesting.”

George’s jaw drops in feigned offense. He agrees, and Dream knows that, which is why he laughs, sitting back down with his head cocked and a funny look in his eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be interesting, it was— small talk,” George defends, sitting up straighter and swatting Dream’s arm. “I’m just pissed because that stupid man—”

“La, la, la,” Dream sings, like an absolute child, covering his ears with his hands. George has always found it a little stupid, one of those things he never grew out of. He remembers the first time he did it to him—they were in middle school, and George was rambling on about Minecraft. He must have been very annoying for Dream, of all people, to not want to hear about Minecraft. George grabs his wrist and yanks it away, and Dream is quick to push him back against the pillows with an amused laugh. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But your programming class isn’t doing it for me today. Try again tomorrow.”

George bites his lower lip but he doesn’t argue again. With an eye roll, he huffs through his smile and grabs the remote again. “Okay, fine! We don’t have to talk about it. But,” he insists, index finger up—like his stupid programming professor does, which is far beyond the point—a pointed look on his face. “You don’t have to go. What if—” George pretends he doesn’t see the way Dream’s smile falters. He always pretends he doesn’t see it, he always pretends he can get his way. “—we watch the new Better Call Saul episode instead?”

A tempting offer, if there’s ever been one. This time, though, George doesn’t even see the contemplation in Dream’s face. He presses his lips into a line, lets one of his hands fall by George’s knee, squeezes softly. It’s choreographed. George knows it all too well. “I can’t,” he says, a usual movement, one that shakes George back to reality. He stopped asking ‘why not’ when he realized the answer was always the same, save the name changing at the very beginning. He stopped keeping count, too. “Chris and I are going out tonight,” he explains needlessly. “I should— I have to get ready.” He has this habit of chasing George’s eyes when they start to drift away, like he knows what they hide. George knows it’s not true. In a gentle tone, Dream adds, “I’m sorry.”

They’re both a part of the choreography—George is next. He’ll dance around it, he always does. He’ll put on a stage smile, shove his heart down, and play the best friend part flawlessly. He’s got years of practice. “It’s okay,” he assures, shaking his knee out of Dream’s grasp. He always finds it way too intimate for this conversation, even if he taught himself how to not find it promising. He’s still learning some things, adding them to his mental list. It’s a work in progress. He chuckles hoping his nerves won’t seep through. “It’s okay, idiot,” he repeats, “that’s— He’s your boyfriend. Of course, it’s fine.”

“You sure?” Dream asks, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s saying it in that tone he uses to order Starbucks and greet old ladies when he opens the door for them. The one he uses to offer his bus seat to a stranger or when tutoring a freshman. George hates it when he uses it on him, like he’s frail, like he doesn’t know him all the way down to his soul. It makes him feel weak. Dream never sees it that way. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, like he needs to make up for it. He always feels like he needs to make up for it. “Tomorrow, we can— We can watch two episodes, how ‘bout that?”

George rolls his eyes, but the prop-like smile doesn’t leave his lips. It feels comfortable on nights like this—safer than his real one, the one that threatens to spill all of his well-kept secrets. He’s scared of that one, scared of laughing too much around Dream. Scared that he’ll see right through it. “There’s only one new episode, idiot,” he reminds, unsure of whether Dream actually has no idea what they’re talking about, or he simply wants an easy out. George is fine with either. He has to be.

“Okay, then— We’ll watch that,” he insists, because he also has to do things, sometimes. He has to please people, he has to keep everyone content. He bounces his leg—this is proof of it. In his mind, he’s late for his shower. He doesn’t let the anxiety show, not aside from the bouncing leg. He doesn’t address it, he doesn’t stop it, but George knows him, so he sees it. Trying to please him. “And then a movie of your choice,” he says, feeding into George’s silent discussion with himself. Dream, the people pleaser. “C’mon,” he says. “I’ll feel bad.”

George doesn’t want Dream to feel bad. He does enough of it for the both of them, even if Dream has no idea. And George would like to keep it that way. It’s the way things have been since senior year of high school—four years ago, that is—and he’s not about to change them now. “Fine,” he agrees. He has to. Dream arches his brow. It ends like this, more often than not— “But you’re making dinner.”

George can’t say Dream is aware of the way they dance—not in the same way as him, at least. He wonders, sometimes, if he finds the pattern curious, if he finds it familiar. If he realizes they’ve been having the same conversation for years, like a broken record, like resorting to repetition for lack of anything else to fill their script with. He wonders if it ever gets tiring for him, too. “You mean I’m also making dinner?” Dream asks, his polite smile dancing on his lips, the one that’s usually paired with his gentleman tone. It doesn’t feel any better. “On top of the movie?”

It’s hard for George to be upset in front of him. He’s not a people pleaser, he’s just built to please Dream. However the situation calls for. They’ve been in enough of these already for him to know it’s not worth it to be immature. They’re adults in university—the teenage jealousy was left behind, back at home, in Orlando. This is England. George knows how to be English. “I mean I guess I’ll accept your first offer,” he plays, he recites. He gets up from the bed to grab his programming notes from the desk to keep himself busy after his best friend leaves. Dream eyes them swiftly, then pulls a funny face. “If you make dinner tomorrow.”

“Okay, then,” Dream says, pleased with pleasing—in that unique way his brain works. He stands up now and pops his back again. George wonders how it recharges so quickly, but he’s never asked that. It seems like an odd question. He simply smiles up at him, opening his notebook on the page he’d marked before he started rambling on about his professor, calling him names that Dream laughed at. That was before he told him he didn’t find it interesting. He supposes he understands. “I’ll make dinner.”

“Cool,” George answers, because the myriad of thoughts that’s always centrifuging inside his head is rarely let loose. He keeps it at bay, keeps it contained within the confines of his own skull. They annoy him enough—he doesn’t need other people to hear them too. “Have fun tonight.” He assumes Dream always has fun with his boyfriend, or he wouldn’t be with him anymore. He needs it—the excitement, the stimuli, the fun. Chris must be interesting. “Say hi from me.”

Dream grabs a towel from his closet, as well as a change of clothes—a pair of jeans, a black hoodie, a baby pink T-shirt. George likes that one. He’s told him before, the day he bought it. Dream said he was worried it’d look dumb. George reassured him it was not the case, and made up something about it making his eyes or his skin or his smile look better. He’s been wearing it a lot recently. “Will do,” Dream says, but George isn’t sure Chris actually gets his greetings whenever he sends them. They probably have better things to talk about. “Love you,” he adds, right before closing the bedroom door behind him.

With a tired sigh, George sinks deeper into Dream’s sheets. It’s how it goes, more often than not. Dream doesn’t really mind it when George stays in his room, even if he’s not home. George tries to avoid it, when he can, because it’s a dangerous craving to indulge. Dream’s bed smells like him, and his clothes are scattered all across his space because he’s messy and George would be lying if he said he doesn’t find it a little endearing. So he stays here, hears Dream when he starts the shower, and puts up with the sting of his hopeless heart in favor of this vague sense of belonging.

It’s not that George isn’t happy for Dream. He is, he’s glad he found someone nice. Chris is nice—George has met him. They’ve been dating for a couple of months, he can’t remember how many. He never remembers how many. Dream dates a lot, so it’s a miracle that George even remembers Chris has been happening for longer than a few weeks. George wonders if this is finally it—the keeper, the one he’ll have to be on good terms with, the one he’ll need longer scripts to keep appeased.

He’s not jealous. He hasn’t had the time, the energy, to be jealous in a very, very long time. Jealousy requires anger, and George isn’t angry. George is defeated. Everything he feels regarding Dream is pure, bright, honest—except for the sorrow. But the sorrow doesn’t make him jealous. It only makes him ache. It makes him crave, and feel a little empty, at times. And sorrow never tastes good, but George has come to realize it’s especially bitter when he pairs it with a love like his.

He can’t remember when he fell in love with Dream. Not the exact date at least, just like he can’t remember the onset of other habits and traditions and unquestionable statements regarding himself. He knows he’s English, he moved to America when he was a kid, and he met Dream in elementary school. He likes chess and yellow characters, like the Minions and SpongeBob and Jake from Adventure Time. He likes yellow in general, but not as much as blue. He’s colorblind, so pretty much everything is either blue or yellow. He kind of likes that, too. And he likes Dream, more than anything else. Even if he’s not yellow.

They both came out in high school. George wanted to tell Dream he was his gay awakening or something corny like that, but Dream was talking about footballers so he didn’t really get the chance to. He said something about an actor, he thinks. He can’t remember who. He’s forgetful with some of his lies, especially years after telling them. It’s not like Dream will ask about that actor anyway, not like he will even remember the conversation himself, so George is safe deleting it from his hard drive, too.

Which reminds him—he should focus on his programming notes. Thinking about Dream feels a lot like a rabbit hole. He treads lightly, because his memory is very good at holding onto other things—the real things, the ones that aren’t lies. Like he remembers Dream’s shower routine and other useless facts that normal people don’t know about their best friends. Things that push the line of platonic, but not enough that they’ll blare alarms in Dream’s head, or his partner’s. Things he can grip tightly to pretend he has what he wants.

He knows he doesn’t, though, which is why he keeps them quiet. He only asks ‘why?’, and not ‘why? You never shower at night’. That part is for himself. Even though he and Dream live together, and it has been that way since they came back to England. Well, George came back to England. Dream just came to England. He followed him, and George is thankful for that. He can’t really ask for anything else, and so he doesn’t. He’s okay with what he gets. Even if it hurts like hell, sometimes.

Dream says ‘I love you’ again before he leaves, and George smiles in return. He doesn’t really say it back, not often. He doesn’t know how to say it without meaning it, and he doesn’t know how to mean it without Dream noticing. So he doesn’t say it.

He showers too before Dream gets back. Because he’s a night person, and because Dream always notices when he’s been crying. He doesn’t have a script for that just yet.

Chris isn’t it.

George got to the apartment around ten at night. He’d been at the library all day, revising his Web Development notes. Dream hadn’t called or texted, so George had assumed he was at Chris’, given that he’d slept there the night before. It didn’t end well, apparently. He isn’t sure what happened yet. He’s trying to gather information as he stirs the soup on the stove, all the while Dream takes deep breaths to keep himself from crying.

George isn’t proud to say there’s a script for this, too. He’s not sure how many times it’s happened already, but once again, he’ll play his part. He always does. He needs to be especially careful tonight, because Dream and Chris broke up after more than half a year together. That’s longer than George has ever seen it go, harder than he’s ever seen it hit. So the soup has to be perfect, and the hugs have to be tighter, and the movie has to be a really, really good one.

The bowl burns in his palms when he takes it to the living room, but Dream is still shedding tears, so he can’t focus on the sting. Not the one on his hands, at least. He gives it to his best friend, who’s curled up under their thickest blanket—eyes puffy, nose red. George sits by his side and puts an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in and rubbing his back soothingly, like friends do. With his free hand, he plays with the dirty blond hair showering his forehead, lets Dream relax into the feeling. It’s proven very effective in the past.

It’s a never-ending cycle, it appears. Dream will date and it will go on for a few months or a few weeks or a few days. He will either end it before George has time to learn their name, or he will get attached and then they will end it and this will happen. Dream’s heart is frail. He cares too much, and sometimes, it backfires. George would know all about that. But the bright side is that he knows how to heal it, too. In his case, for example, he knows that his best friend is very good at mending the heart he himself broke, albeit unintentionally. And while George isn’t the culprit in this scenario, he hopes he can extend the same courtesy in return.

“Give me a reason,” George asks softly, watching Dream as he moves the loaded spoon up to his mouth with a shaky hand. He closes his eyes to savor it, to sink in it. George has perfected the recipe over the years. He doesn’t ask for help anymore, he’s an expert. It’s part of his urge to please Dream—and Dream only. “What happened?” he insists when Dream doesn’t reply, because it always takes a while. The hand on his best friend’s shoulder turns limp, and he presses a kiss to his temple. “I thought you guys—”

“I dunno,” Dream confesses, his voice wrecked, drenched in sorrow. Sorrow. George’s other best friend. It doesn’t get as much attention as Dream, but it’s always present in this apartment. It’s always lurking. It’s clinged onto Dream now, leeching off his blood. “He just— He ended things, he didn’t—” Dream chokes on his own words, a broken sob cutting through. George tightens his grip around him again, keeps playing with his hair. It’s trial and error. “—explain much, he just said it was over.” George has heard many reasons over the years, but this is undoubtedly the most common one. A frown takes over his lips when he realizes. You need to be stupid enough to dump someone like Dream, but not even telling him— “He said he doesn’t think— I’m all in.” Oh. Well, that’s a new one. “He said I don’t love him as much—” Dream opens his eyes, shifts in place, eats more soup. George’s frown deepens. “Jus’— not enough.”

George hums, taking the information in. Dream is a good boyfriend. He doesn’t know it firsthand—which would be a lot more efficient, scientifically speaking—but he knows it, regardless. He’s very attentive, very kind. He likes quality time and gift-giving and he’s extremely clingy. He’s also a good kisser. To that, he can attest. “And d’you—” George clears his throat. Dream’s kissing skills are not a priority, not something he should be thinking about. Not now, not ever. Not ever again. Tentatively, genuinely curious, he asks, “what do you think about that?”

“I don’t— I have no idea.” He nuzzles further into George’s side, and keeps eating his soup even in this extremely inconvenient position. He does so slowly, and he’s not crying anymore. George turns to him and sees the dry tears under his eyes. “I thought— I was doing my best.” He sniffles, even though George knows he isn’t crying. Like it’s reflex—like it’s scripted. There’s a crease on his forehead, right between his eyebrows. George wants to thumb at it until it leaves, but he refrains. “But maybe I wasn’t— I didn’t— try hard enough, or—”

“This might—” George cuts him off, eager to take his attention away from the wrinkled skin before doing something stupid with it. Dream eats another spoonful of soup and turns to look at him. They’re close like this, too much for George’s liking, but he’s gotten used to it by now. “—not mean anything to you right now, but— You’re not supposed to try hard to love someone,” he mumbles between gritted teeth, gaze flicking back and forth from one of Dream’s eyes to the other. Dream listens, engaged. “It kinda just— happens.” It happened to George. It’s happening to him right now, which is really dangerous. Really dangerous. His tone drops another note. “You just— You look into their eyes and you… know. Y’know?”

Dream nods slowly, then returns to his previous position. His arm moves again—up and down—and his throat makes a sound when he swallows the soup. “I’m not— I know I loved him, I just—” He matches George’s voice—hushed, careful, like he’s worried he’ll break something. George isn’t sure what, though. He knows what he could break, but Dream? Dream has no reason to hide from him. “It just— seems out of the blue, I dunno.” George hums noncommittally. “Did I— Did I not love him?”

It’s like talking to a kid, George thinks. Or a scared puppy—seems more fitting. He pulls his legs up to the couch, turning to face Dream better. It’s serious conversation time. “Well, I can’t answer that for you. It’s not like I know a lot about love, anyway,” he simpers, his elbow moving to rest on the back of the couch. Dream turns a little bit, too, curiosity in his eyes. George isn’t sure why he expects so many answers from him, but he really can’t do much here. He’s lacking a lot of experience in comparison. “You should— You should know better than me. I’ve only dated one person and he screwed me over so— Maybe I got it all wrong.”

“No, but—” Dream frowns too, just barely. He’s almost done with the soup—he’s focusing on the remaining vegetables now, playing with them with the spoon. He’ll do that for about five more minutes before finishing it. He always drags it out. “I think loving should be— easier. Simple,” he says, the words barely falling out of his lips. He speaks them into the air, like they’re aimed at the bowl in his hands rather than the boy next to him. He leaves the spoon and turns to catch George’s eyes again, innocence coating his own. “What’s that about— about looking at someone?”

George loves Dream more than he hates this question, so he answers. “I think you should— You should be able to see an entire Universe around the person you love,” he explains first, his head resting on his own hand. Dream nods, urging him to continue, and George lowers his voice like he did in middle school, when they would talk about their idiot classmates and their stupid crushes on girls—something he never understood. “You should look at them and see all the things you know about them. You should see their past and their present and— your future, and— And then you just feel it.” George’s heart races under his skin. His future is blurry around Dream, but he likes to think that it’s there. He likes to pretend. “Like, burning inside of you. And you should want to stay there forever. In the little things.” The little things—like cold vegetables and messy curls, like bitten cuticles and heavy blankets on the couch. George likes the little things. He likes how big Dream makes them seem. “But— yeah. What do I know?”

Dream’s gaze jumps back and forth between George’s eyes. His breath is heavy, his lips are parted. George strives to not focus on his lips. A siren blares inside his head this time—he can’t listen to it, but he can’t ignore it either. He remains still, hoping it will figure itself out. “I think— you know more than you give yourself credit for,” Dream mumbles, then clears his throat. He eats one of the vegetables. He’s not dragging it out anymore. George wonders why. “Sounds like you really—” A beat. “You really loved Michael.”

George wants to die. Not literally, but— He does. He clenches his jaw as a reflex and hopes Dream won’t notice. It hurts even more when it’s like this—Dream’s blindness. It’s starting to strike George for something else, like he knows what he’s thinking and he’s purposely being thick as a way to shut him down. But Dream wouldn’t do that. They know each other too well for him to do that. So George takes a deep breath and puts on his stage smile. He pretends the lump in his throat is built from nostalgia and not yearning. He pretends this was about Michael all along. “Yeah,” he says, putting a noose around his heart. He pulls, and leaves it to suffocate. “I guess— I really did.”

Dream nods slowly, and two more vegetables disappear. There’s only one left. George follows its trail closely, desperate for something else to focus on—something that’s not Dream’s pink cheeks and the way his hands curl around the spoon. “I don’t think I felt all of that for— for Chris,” Dream says, acting like it’s something George didn’t know. Because George does know, he always knows. Dream has never been in love the way he is—the way that makes him see the Universe and the future and the little things. He would’ve known. It would’ve killed him already. “Maybe he was right. Maybe I just— wasn’t the right fit for him.”

“Hope he finds it, then,” George says earnestly. “He’s a good guy.” He took good care of Dream. He never gave George reason to think he was an asshole, and he appreciates that. Dream seemed happy while he was with him, and that’s all that matters to George. He wants Dream to be happy, even if it’s not with him. He loves him way too much to be selfish about it. “So are you. You deserve that.” It’s easy to tell him he deserves love like that. It’s easy when he’s been crushed by it for so long. “To feel that and to— to have someone feel that way about you. Preferably— y’know, at the same time.”

The bitter undertone goes completely over Dream’s head, just as planned. He wallows in the idea, though. George sees him spin it around in his head, pressing his lips into a line like he does when they’re about to go out and he feels he’s forgetting something. It’s usually the car keys. It’s funnier when they get downstairs and George makes him wait in the cold to go look for them. Even better when he tosses them to his chest and laughs as Dream opens the door for him. It’s one of those things George remembers randomly, one of those recurrent moments that almost feel like a routine, ephemeral glimpses of their domestic life.

They also feel like daggers, at times. They sting as much as everything else, especially on nights like this. George buries them deep down his chest, and simply smiles as Dream eats the last vegetable, leaving the bowl empty. “Thanks, George,” Dream says then, when he’s finally done playing for the night—with his thoughts, with his food, with George’s heart. He wipes away his dry tears with the sleeve of his hoodie, but his eyes are still a little empty, a little soulless. He’s tired. He didn’t count on having such a heartfelt conversation after ending his longest relationship in years. It’s been a long day for him.

It’s been a long day for George, too. He gets up from the couch, his brain yelling at him to run away from this situation before it’s too late. He decides to indulge it. “Here, lemme— I’ll go wash that,” he tells Dream, taking the empty bowl from his hands. Dream looks at it, but doesn’t comment on the unusual gesture, on how George would normally leave it until the next day to give Dream an excuse to get up from his bed and not sulk in his own post-breakup hardship. He needs it more today. “You should probably— get some rest and then we can do something tomorrow, if you feel like it. Y’know, if you’re not miserable.”

“Yeah,” Dream says, lips tugged upwards just barely. A polite smile. That’s all George gets for the night. Dream moves until he’s lying fully on the couch, pulling the blanket so that it’s covering almost his entire body. George quirks his mouth and pulls at the end so that his feet are under it, too. He shouldn’t have cold feet on a night like this. He’d get sick. When George looks at Dream’s face again, his smile has melted into something a little more genuine. “Thank you,” he repeats.

George clicks his tongue, cocking his head. “You’ve already thanked me,” he says. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, feeling a little observed. Normally, he’d wait for Dream to be asleep to do something like that. He’d sink his nails in his palms and make a mental note to bring him a second blanket if it gets too cold—because Dream has this habit of not sleeping in his own bed when his mind is too full of thoughts he needs to go through. It’s like he thinks they’ll spill all across his pillow and hide under the covers, and the couch isn’t as inviting for them to do so. He’s weird like that.

Dream turns to face the couch, burying his face in one of the fluffy cushions. His eyes fall shut, and George doesn’t feel bad looking at him—at the curve of his nose, his curls sprawled across the fabric. He breathes evenly and he puts his hands under his face. He’ll have a ring mark on his cheek tomorrow and George will make fun of him for it. He will tell him he looks stupid and laugh at the frown that will grow on his lips. And then they’ll watch that movie, cuddling under the very same blanket he’s buried under right now.

A hint of a smile takes over Dream’s mouth almost a minute later, maybe two. George peers at it, straightening his back. Dream giggles then, ever so obnoxious. He doesn’t move, though, and he doesn’t open his eyes. “I know you haven’t left,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, calling George out. Then, lower, fonder, “creep.”

George smiles too, because there’s no point in denying it. He presses down on his eyes with his free hand, groaning in complaint, earning himself another giggle. “‘M keepin’ an eye on you. Making sure you don’t die or something,” he funs, feeling the heat that’s taking over his face in the form of a blush. It’s not the first time Dream catches him staring, and it definitely won’t be the last. It’s not like Dream doesn’t do it, too. “You need supervision sometimes.”

“Gee, thanks,” he answers, humming as he relaxes further into the couch. It’s not a great place to sleep, George knows. He tried it once. It was awful. It must be even worse for Dream, given that he’s bigger than him in every sense of the word. To each their own, he supposes. “‘M fine, though. You’re free to go. Thank you for your services.”

George rolls his eyes, shaking his head in disappointment. He’s not sure how Dream hears that, but he laughs in response. Maybe he’s too predictable. Either way, he makes sure to swat his leg and call him an idiot before leaving the room.

He serves himself a bowl of soup and takes his time doing the dishes when he’s done. Dream is sound asleep by that time, so George tucks him in a little tighter, just in case, and leaves a featherlight kiss on his creased forehead. He smiles when the wrinkle disappears and goes to bed with the gesture still dancing on his lips, keeping him safe until the next morning.

George remembers that night like it was yesterday.

Heartbreak leaves a scar—one that George hides, one that Dream has been writing over, virtually to no avail. George was pulled apart once, and he’s refrained from dating ever since. His love life is stagnant, save the very intense and very evident pining for his best friend, but that’s his own problem, and no one else’s. Dream doesn’t know about that, so George can keep pretending it doesn’t exist, that it doesn’t twist itself like a knife inside his stomach every time he remembers it.

Like that night, three years ago. George and Michael had just ended things. Well, George had just ended things with Michael after his surprise visit didn’t turn out the way he expected. George is also a good boyfriend, you see, but it’s hard to nurture long-distance relationships. It can be done, sure, but he wasn’t built for it. Michael wasn’t built for it. He needed the contact; he needed the passion and the heat and the presence. Unfortunately, he’d left all of that in Florida when he and his family moved to New York, so he had no choice but to go find it somewhere else.

George would’ve loved a heads-up, though. He’s not going to sit here and pretend things with Michael were going great, because he knows it was quite the opposite, but it’s already been established that George is hopeful; George likes to imagine. He always did. He liked it back then—when he bought a plane ticket without Michael knowing, when he didn’t book a hotel, thinking it wouldn’t be necessary, and when he knocked on his fancy door across the street from Central Park, a three-day suitcase in hand.

His hope was shattered, along with everything else, when the door swung open and he wasn’t met with Michael’s loving gaze, but rather his ‘just a friend’ in an old hoodie of his, red bruises scattered across her neck. He couldn’t say anything at the time. He even felt like a coward for running. Emotionless faces and designer clothes blurred past him until he had no choice but to stop to catch his breath, to wipe the tears away from his hazy eyes. His chest hurt and his stomach made a backflip and his heart—his poor heart, which had been agonizing for so long—finally caught up with something his brain already knew.

It was over. Just like that.

The hotel he found on one day’s notice wasn’t great, but it sure had alcohol, and didn’t really care to ask for IDs. It was good enough for George. He was already drunk by the time Dream landed in New York—also on one day’s notice—and found him by the bar with an empty glass in his hand. George doesn’t remember much aside from falling into his chest, tears streaming from his eyes, gentle fingers in his hair. He remembers the sound the empty glass made when it slipped from his grasp and shattered all across the floor, breaking into a billion unrecognizable pieces, like those that were left of George’s heart for someone else to pick up.

Michael meant a lot to him. Michael was his first boyfriend, the first person he ever fell in love with. Things shifted somewhere along the way, and he held onto Michael when he realized, because he had new, selfish reasons to stay. Michael was safe; he was routine. He was stable and his high school sweetheart and he took good care of him, at first. Michael had to work, because if it didn’t, then George would have to address the bundle of feelings rising inside his stomach, the chaotic butterflies that bolted awake whenever he so much as looked his best friend’s way.

George knows now that he wasn’t trying to drown the sorrow with cheap whiskey and gifted shots. The sorrow came later. He was only trying to prevent it. He was trying to kill the butterflies. He also knows now that nothing could’ve done the trick, nothing could’ve helped him. Not when all he had to do was call Dream crying for him to hop on a two-and-a-half-hour flight to go get him. Not when his best friend was so quick to take him into his arms and whisper sweet nothings into his ear and offer a shoulder for him to cry on. Not when he got him a glass of water and walked with him to his hotel room to make sure he was okay.

Dream sat next to him on the bed, back against the headboard. He let George rest on his stomach, rubbed his back, played with his hair. They stayed like that—in silence, keeping each other company—for what felt like hours. George closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep. He was too aware of Dream’s presence, too scared to give in to that wish and risk outing his secrets in his slumber. So he simply laid there, arms draped around Dream’s middle, and tried to find a pattern in the way his heart was beating. It was calm, almost relaxing. It was everything he needed at the time.

He sobered up, eventually. Almost. His head was spinning and he could still feel the bubbles sizzling behind his eyes, but he was able to stop paying attention to them. Dream was still wide awake by then, and he let George explain everything with detail. Had it not been for the way his fingers tensed, George would’ve thought he wasn’t even listening. He didn’t utter a word. He didn’t move a muscle. He simply sat there and took it all in. George really appreciated that.

The silence went on for longer. George’s head was still spinning, for different reasons. He was hot. He was burning so fiercely it was unbearable. He felt the sweat dripping down his neck and the clothes sticking to his skin and everything around him suddenly became ten times more real. All at once. It was happening all at once. He wanted to cry again. He wanted to press his eyes shut, still damp from all the tears he’d spilled earlier, and let them pour until he could drown in them, too. So, that’s exactly what he did.

It was one of the longest nights of his life, and one of the most confusing ones. He didn’t know a single person could feel so many things at the same time; he didn’t know he’d be able to handle it. At one point, he propped himself up on one arm, and arranged himself until he was sitting criss-cross by Dream’s side. He looked at him in a way he never did before, in a way he never did since—too scared to even consider it. He tilted his head to the side and let one of his hands rest on his best friend’s sternum. He barely gave it any weight, but he knows Dream felt it. He knows it felt heavier than it seemed.

He doesn’t remember the exact words he used, but he remembers the way Dream’s face shifted when he heard them. “George,” he said, like a parent who’s about to tell their kid that their pet fish died. His voice strained from misuse and his cheeks were coated with sweet pink. He wrapped his fingers around George’s wrist, but he didn’t move it. He never moved it. “I can’t do that,” he said then. George felt another sour tear roll down his cheek, make a home of his jaw. He shook his head, and moved closer, eyes pleading, but— Dream wouldn’t cave, not yet. “George, don’t— Don’t do this to me.”

“Why not?” George asked, and it was the most vulnerable he’s ever sounded. The dry tears were sticking his lashes together, pulling his skin taut under his eyes. He wanted to scream but the shards in his throat wouldn’t let him. Wherever Dream looked, he’d find shattered pieces of who he was, ghosts of the chains that used to keep him together. He’d find emotional wounds and damp clothes and shaky limbs, and he’d want to help but he wouldn’t find the way. George was trying desperately to show him. “Why not? Just— Give me a reason.”

“You’re drunk,” is the first thing Dream said, because he’s always been a gentleman, even at nineteen. His free hand moved up, wiped away some stray tears. George couldn’t help but give into the touch, letting his eyes fall shut, nuzzling into his palm. Dream cleared his throat. “And you’re— sad, George.” George had been sad for a long time. He wasn’t taking it. He moved a little bit closer, seeing that Dream’s hand refused to fall from his cheek. He was thumbing at his skin, and deep down, George already knew he’d give in. He’d give in. “I don’t wanna— take advantage of that.”

George shook his head, wrapping his hand around Dream’s wrist. He could feel his pulse under his fingers; the way his heart raced and his skin burned, but not as much as George’s. Dream’s eyes couldn’t stop jumping all around his face—one eye to the other, his flushed red cheeks, his tear-soaked jaw, his bitten lips. George wanted him, then. He wanted him so bad he could barely breathe—choking on the need to say it out loud, on the painful fact that he couldn’t. Still, he tried. “I’m giving you the advantage.”

George hadn’t asked for sex. He hadn’t. But Dream gasped like he did. He gasped, but he didn’t say anything. He sat up straighter, leaned in closer, and George thought he was going to die. Dream shook his head again, less convincing. His gaze was almost fixated on his lips now. One second, two, ten. “George, I—”

“Dream, do you—” George cut him off, pressing his eyes closed. He opened them almost immediately, sinking his teeth in his bottom lip as tears began to well up again. They weighed on him, they made him miserable. Dream had seen him cry before, but not like that. Never like that. “D’you know how I feel?” he choked out, and his best friend shook his head. “I feel— pathetic. I feel used and stupid and I don’t like feeling stupid, Dream.” Dream moved his hand to the back of George’s neck, playing with the baby hairs showering his skin. George wasn’t breathing anymore by then. He had only one goal, only one thing he needed to say. “I wanna feel loved. Please, just— Just one kiss,” he pleaded, baring his soul like never before. His eyes hurt from crying so much; his throat closed up around everything he was trying to swallow down. The craving still filtered through. “Just one.”

George had never been one to beg. Dream knew this. Dream knew that he really needed it, he knew it was the only thing that could’ve made him feel better. He knew what he had to do, but he also knew, deep down, what the consequences would be. “I don’t— think it’s a good idea, George,” he said, but his body betrayed him. He moved closer as he said it, he pressed their foreheads together. They were sharing the same air, breathing into the reduced space between their mouths.

George sprawled out his fingers across Dream’s chest. “You don’t have to mean it,” he whispered, because he didn’t know what else to do. Everything was spinning—the bed, the room, the entire world—but he could only focus on Dream. He could pretend there was nothing else. He’d done it before. “You don’t have to actually love me, I just— I just wanna feel it.” He felt broken as he said it. He craved it; he was desperate for it. The void in his chest didn’t let him think of anything else. “For a moment, I wanna feel it, and— I know you care about me enough to pretend and make me believe it.”

That was Dream’s last straw.

It was their first and only kiss. Three years ago, late at night, in an isolated hotel room in the middle of New York City. George was tipsy, extremely sad, helpless in the face of the loneliness that coursed through him… and Dream kissed him. Dream kissed him. He kissed him deep, slow, gentle. It made his lips tingle, and his eyes burn even more. It made him melt, it brought him back to life. The bubbles vanished and so did the sorrow, and all that was left was Dream, brighter and louder and more real than anything he’d ever experienced.

Dream’s kiss felt like everything else about him. It felt comforting, like coming home, like finding True North. Dream is such a fucking good kisser. The gentle drag of his lips and the graceful dance his tongue started almost faded into the background with the way his hands felt, cupping George’s cheeks and thumbing at the soft skin to meet his tears halfway, to get rid of them as soon as possible. George had never been kissed like that. Michael had never kissed him like that. No one has, ever since. No one has kissed him at all after that night, and he couldn’t erase the imprint of Dream’s lips—of Dream’s name—from his mouth, no matter how hard he tried.

Everything came back slowly when Dream pulled away. Both their breaths were ragged, and the wave of care that had hit George like a tidal wave was still enveloping him, hugging him tight, securing his chest. His blood was flowing smoothly and his lungs were filled with clean, fresh air and everything was right in the world. Everything, except the fact that he knew he’d never feel that way again. One kiss is what he’d asked for, and one kiss is what he got. That’s all Dream would give him.

He almost regretted it when he opened his eyes, when he saw Dream so close to him still, grazing the tip of his nose with his own. George lost a part of himself when their gazes met. He felt it shatter; he heard it fall. He still hasn’t been able to recover it. He doesn’t think he ever will. It stayed there—invisible but powerful, like a ghost—roaming the halls of that hotel, even the streets of New York. George hasn’t been to New York again. He’s terrified he’ll find it, terrified it’ll haunt him because it can’t be a part of him anymore.

But that wasn’t it. “That good enough?” Dream asked after catching his breath, letting his hand drop. George nodded, still trying to regain composure, to get back all the words and thoughts and cognitive skills Dream had snatched from him with his kiss. He couldn’t even graze it with his fingers before Dream spoke again, pushing them even further away. “I’ll never have to pretend, George,” he said, something addictive to his voice. Then, he kissed the tip of his nose, and George’s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. He held his breath as his heart skipped five beats in a row, as Dream put even more distance between them and whispered, “you mean a lot to me, G, you know that.”

George simply hummed, gaze averted. He couldn’t look at Dream, not without crying again. He didn’t want to cry again. It’d be too easy to give in to the feeling because it was there. Of course it was there. Dream made him feel loved—more than anyone had before. Not only by kissing him when he was the most vulnerable, but also by making sure George knew it wasn’t entirely transactional. Dream loved him. Of course Dream loved him.

But not in the way George had meant it. Not in the way he needed him to.

He couldn’t clarify, though. He wasn’t brave enough. “Drink water, yeah?” Dream told him, giving his hand a final squeeze as he moved to get off the bed. He wasn’t careful in the way he looked at George. When he paired it with the suggestion, George understood that he was utterly convinced that the alcohol hadn’t lost its effect. George didn’t know whether that was a good thing or not—he was drunk, either way. Not on cheap whiskey, not on free shots. Dream was more than enough to have his head spinning for days on end, and he was painfully unaware of it. “Get into bed,” he instructed, not at all put off by the fact that George hadn’t moved a muscle since their kiss had ended, all too caught up in the feeling lingering on his lips. Dream’s hand found the door handle. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

George looked up at him. He can only imagine how he looked then, kneeling on the mattress, dry tears around his eyes, lips swollen from the best kiss he’d ever had. He wanted so desperately to ask Dream to stay, to maybe finish something they hadn’t really started, to give Dream everything that had already been his for an embarrassingly long time. But he didn’t. He knew it wasn’t appropriate, he knew he had no right. He knew Dream would say no, would try to pin it on his long-lost inebriation. So he took a deep breath, swallowed the lump in his throat, and mumbled, “okay. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream bid him goodnight before leaving the room. He closed the door softly behind him—quietly, carefully, in the way he always does things. George felt it run through his body, like a shiver, like a ghost had run past him. And maybe—just maybe—it had. Maybe, it was that abandoned piece of himself saying its final goodbye. Maybe, it was a sign of what was to come—the lingering touches, the haunted hearts, the scary feelings. George’s love for Dream was present in the way it rushed through his veins like honey—sweet but thick and threatening to clog them, pure enough to be the end of him.

He couldn’t stop himself from crying one more time before going to bed. He didn’t have Dream’s shirt to wipe his tears away with, nor his delicate fingers to card through his hair or soft voice whispering sweet lies into his ear—like how much he didn’t deserve this, like how everything would be okay in the morning. Dream would’ve tried his best to convince him that they were true, even if George knew better.

He woke up two hours after falling asleep to an alarm he’d forgotten to turn off. His face ached and so did his throat, and he was pretty sure he’d cried himself to sleep, but he couldn’t do anything about either of those things, and so he didn’t.

Instead, he picked up his phone from the bedside table to stop the alarm and found the screen achingly empty, just like his chest, leaving room for someone who was never going to claim it.

Not in the way he needed. Not in a way that fixed him.

It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

The burning sadness that’s been stuck in George’s throat finally pours from his eyes one second after he bangs the apartment door shut behind him. Blue tears cloud his vision, as his hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging and tugging and tugging as if pulling the strings of his heart to remove it from his chest. He wants to spit it out his mouth. He wants to watch it as it thaws, as it drips, and then brush the floor clean to get rid of its remains, to forget he ever had one.

He runs to the roof, for lack of a better hiding spot. He feels like an idiot. God, how he hates feeling like an idiot. He stumbles on his own feet and feels his soul leave his body as he falls to the dirty floor—the night air ever so cold and piercing breaking through his skin. He leans against a wall, legs spread and kicking and aching because all he wants to do is throw a tantrum. He wants to scream until the sky breaks, until whoever is up there takes mercy on his soul and reaches out a hand. He wants to bite their fingers and ask why the fuck did you do this to me?

It’s not anyone’s fault, really. Deep down, he knows that, but finding a culprit might help his addled heart heal. It might justify the pain he feels—sharp and consuming—even if he knows it shouldn’t be there. It shouldn’t be there. He’s not entitled to it; he doesn’t have the right to suffer from it. He and Dream are just friends, that’s how it’s always been. If George fell for him, if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, then that’s his own fault, and he’s to suffer the consequences.

His heart breaks a little bit more with each tear that rolls down his cheeks. He knows he’s spilt too many already. Not today—he’s just getting started—but for a lifetime. It’s not how things are supposed to be. Dream used to make him happy. Even if he had to settle for less than what he really wanted, Dream made him happy. When he smiled at him from across the living room, when he sang love songs coming out of the shower, when he grabbed his hand to start an impromptu dance in the middle of the kitchen, late at night, when no one could hear them.

Each memory sinks into one of his tears, rolls down his face and falls to the floor. The broken shards ricochet, dig themselves into his thigh, and remind him that he’s never getting them back. It’s his own fault. It’s his own fault that his and Dream’s friendship is now unfixable. He couldn’t even wait for an answer before he left the apartment, shocked and scared of himself, of the venomous words that had left his mouth, confused as to how they’d gotten away. How, when he’d been so careful? Why, when he didn’t want them to?

He fucked up. He fucked up and he ran, like a coward. It’s not the first time he does it; it probably won’t be the last. Except that today, right now, he has no one’s arms to fall into. He has no one’s shoulder to cry on, no one’s lips to kiss and pretend to fix himself with. He doesn’t have them because an outburst of rage made him single-handedly murder the only real thing he’s ever had in his entire life.

Except that it wasn’t real. It was an illusion, something he tricked himself into believing. It was just a hoax.

Dream shows up three minutes and forty seconds later, give or take. George doesn’t look at him, gaze lost somewhere in the horizon, dark, prying eyes scrutinizing the city from above. It should feel powerful, but he’s never felt more helpless. Even as Dream settles next to him, even as he clears his throat to speak. George’s heart races inside his chest, but not even curiosity can urge his head to turn.

He can feel Dream’s gaze on him, though. He can feel it from where he sits by his side, heavy and piercing, pointed in a way he doesn’t understand without analyzing it. Still, he refuses to meet his eyes. “Why’re you here?” George asks in a thin voice, affected by the remaining shards, the ones he had no choice but to swallow. He’s not sure he wants an answer, really. He would’ve liked to be left alone, to take his time to study his options carefully.

There’s only one solution, one that Dream won’t like. “Can we talk?” Dream asks, always so careful and puppy-like. He scoots an inch to the side, closer to George, and George bites a broken sob into his lip. “D’you know I said no?” George’s head snaps towards him. The cold breeze plays with Dream’s hair and the stars reflect in his green eyes, making them gleam. He looks gorgeous, and it’s upsetting. It’s more upsetting than what he just said. George grits his teeth, and Dream needlessly clarifies, “to Lea, I— I said no. I don’t wanna date her.”

George huffs out a bitter, half-assed laugh. “So?” he asks, a venomous feeling churning inside his stomach. He hates the response just as much as the words that leave his mouth next, a repeating earthquake since the one he caused downstairs, within the confines of their home. “It— It doesn’t change anything,” he spits, and Dream’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re gonna find someone new to date in a few weeks and I’ll have to pretend I’m okay with it.” Dream’s lips are curled down, his hands restless on his lap. George sniffles, feeling his heart shrink inside his chest. It’s too much for him. He gets on his feet and loses his gaze amidst the streetlights below them. “I can’t keep doing it,” he says, barely above a whisper. Dream stands up, too. For what feels like the first time in his life, George doesn’t pay him any mind. None at all. “I can’t— go back to normal after tonight, Dream. I can’t keep doing this.”

There are some things people can’t come back from. George thinks he’s been nearing his limit for way too long. The lid is off now, a full can of worms smeared all over their lives, and there’s nothing he can do to pretend they’ve never been there, because Dream knows, now. He knows. “What if that’s not what I want?” he asks, causing George’s hands to clench into fists. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s too fucking tired for it. Still, Dream prods further. “What if I don’t want to go back to normal?”

George can’t keep pretending he’s strong. “Maybe I’m tired of doing what you want, Dream!” It’s unfair, he knows. Dream never asked for anything, not directly, but George has been holding back too much for his own sake, and it’s been rotting inside of him for an extremely long time. It needs to be let out. “I can’t— watch you bring someone new every few months only so that—” He chokes on his own sadness and presses his hands down on his eyes. He takes a deep breath, a sharp breath, and lowers his voice even more. “—only so that they can steal little pieces of your heart, one by one, ‘cause—” A stuttered beat, and then he’s looking into Dream’s eyes, letting his blood pour. “‘Cause you know I’ll replace them with my own. And I’m running out, Dream.”

He’s never been good with words, he doesn’t think. He hopes his point comes across regardless. He hopes, selfishly, bitterly, that Dream can feel the venom seeping into his tone, that he can swallow it down just like George has been doing for years. The realization doesn’t taste good, it weighs him down. It’s not Dream’s fault, he knows it isn’t. He keeps telling himself it isn’t, like an infallible mantra, but deep down—really deep—he’d like Dream to experience even an ounce of what he’s been putting up with. Then, maybe, he’ll understand. He’ll understand why George can’t keep living with him.

Through the lump in his throat, drenched in sadness, he shoots to kill, to twist Dream’s stomach and make it ache. “You know I’ll hear you cry—” he continues, hitting Dream’s chest each time with his fist. Lightly, just so he feels it, just so he knows it’s there. “—and I’ll rub your back and make you that stupid soup your mum taught me how to make and tell you it’ll be alright and I can’t keep doing it because—” He chokes again. Dream’s eyebrows knit, but he doesn’t move a finger. He only breathes deeply through his nose, shoulders shaking as he does it. George sighs tiredly, close to giving up. “—because then— it’s never alright for me. And I hurt, Dream,” he confesses, in case it wasn’t clear. “It hurts me.”

Dream wraps his fingers around George’s hand—the one that was clenched into a fist, the one that was bumping against his chest—and squeezes it with intention. George would like to snatch it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. He doesn’t have the willpower. So, he lets it rest there still, choosing to focus on keeping his breath going, consistent. He’s trying his best. Dream takes a step closer to him and whispers, “please, stay with me.” It would’ve been enough, any other time. “Don’t go, George.”

Tonight, though, it doesn’t suffice. “Or what, Dream?” he spits, raising his voice, his free hand coming up to drag down his own face. He feels the unfounded anger coursing through his veins, and he knows it’s mostly tiredness, but he needs to let some of it out. Dream stands idly in front of him, taking it willingly, like he deserves it. But he doesn’t. It doesn’t stop him. “What’re you gonna do about it?” George insists, and then sadder, defeated, “I’m not trying to stop you, you— You have every right to date whoever the fuck you want, but— But I have every right to step aside if that kills me over and over again. I don’t deserve that, Dream, and it’s not your fault so I’ll just—”

Dream cuts him off. “I can’t— I can’t beg you to stay, I know you don’t want that.” He’s right, much to George’s dismay. His heartbeat is in his ears, deafening, and he won’t hear any empty excuses. He’s made up his mind already. Or so he thinks. “But this was never about— I’m really sorry I made you feel that way.” George scoffs at that. There’s a part of him that’s shaking, agonizing. It’s the little kid in him, the confused middle-schooler who thought he had feelings for his best friend. It’s the fearful high-schooler, hiding in that boy’s chest after his first romantic disappointment. Dream has always known the password to George’s heart, and he had no problem barging in totally unprompted, shaking his world to the ground. “You mean a lot to me, George, and I— I really don’t want to lose you.”

George isn’t sure he believes it anymore. It’s not enough. For a long time, it hasn’t been enough. “Give me a reason, then!” he screams, his chin angled upwards, his gaze fiery. The night and the air and the city fall on his shoulders, and he furrows his brows in a threatening way, in an unfriendly manner. He raises his voice even more, watching as it all crumbles around him. “Just— give me a reason to stay, Dream, and I swear—”

“I love you,” Dream cuts him off immediately. George blinks, shakes his head, threatens to move away. Dream’s free hand comes up to cup his cheek and the fingers around his wrist tighten. It makes George’s heart race even more; it makes his blood boil. He’s only now realizing that he’s crying, too. “I don’t want stupid dates, George, I don’t want any of it. I want movie nights in your bed and burnt popcorn and to make you dinner,” Dream says. George gapes, frowns, but he can’t bring himself to say or do anything else. Dream takes his silence as a sign to keep going. “I want the stupid soup and to drive you around in my car and sing love songs in your ear when we dance in the kitchen. I want— I want to make up games to keep you entertained and to gossip with you and to bring you back home so that my mom can teach you more of my childhood recipes. I want her to show you all my embarrassing baby photos, and I want my sister to laugh at you because you’re a freak who only showers at night.”

George’s breath catches in his throat for what feels like the millionth time. He’s not sure if it was there the entire time, or if it’s only now starting to bang more loudly, but Dream’s heartbeat under his palm has never felt so strong. He presses the hand further into his chest. Dream’s eyes look so full as he takes one step closer to him, as he cups his jaw delicately. George isn’t entirely sure what’s going on right about now—not once did he take this particular outcome into consideration. With his head fuzzy and cotton on his tongue, he tries for an explanation. “Dream, what do you—”

Dream answers before he can even get the question out. “I mean— I want your smile in the mornings and your sweater paws in the afternoons, and to look at you at night when you’re studying for finals at your desk with your tongue between your teeth,” he says, in that way George barely allows himself to imagine Dream, let alone say it out loud. Dream is unapologetic with it, raw where George is shy, where he hides even from himself to not think of his best friend’s habit of sleeping on the couch when he’s overwhelmed.

Honesty. It’s what George had been lacking.

Dream continues. “I— want you to kiss my forehead when you think I’ve fallen asleep and— to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ while you wash your hands so you know for how long you’re supposed to be doing it.” George has never felt seen like this—not by Dream, not by anyone. He breathes through his mouth as he looks at him, crying again, out of sheer bewilderment. He didn’t think— “And I will be there every time you put on your earphones and curl into bed by my side because you want silence but not the kind that comes from being alone.” Dream wipes one of his own tears away almost aggressively before pressing his forehead to George’s. Frustration seeps into his tone as he groans, “fuck, George, do— Do you want a reason?” And then—

Dream’s lips taste of salty tears and sour distance. They have no regard for George’s stability, but rather give into desperation, into want and need and please, let me have you. It’s George’s first kiss in over three years. He didn’t remember— He didn’t think it was supposed to feel this fucking good. The kiss is searing, electric, deep, and passionate; it’s a little messy but altogether perfect, tugging and tugging and tugging, as if pulling the strings of George’s heart to steal it, to make it Dream’s to keep. Even though he’s had it for years now. Even though no one else could ever claim it.

His hand finally leaves Dream’s and buries itself in dirty blond hair, pulling lightly, giving himself space to muffle a sound into his mouth. It’s nothing like the soft, gentle kiss they shared in New York. It’s brutal in a way George never felt before, because it’s the first time in his life someone kisses him with this much intention. He’s not sure if it’s the teeth sinking into his bottom lip, the hands burning bruises into his waist, the chest pressed flush against his—but he feels every atom of Dream vibrating at the same frequency as his own, with the same purpose, the same intensity.

He feels as though he’s being lifted off the ground. He didn’t think anyone could feel this much by just one kiss, that so much sentiment could be whispered into it. Except that it isn’t ‘just a kiss’. Between him and Dream, there’s never room for ‘just’. It’s always big, always heavy, meaningful. It’s always Earth-shattering, life-changing, all-encompassing.

It always ends way before George expects, cut way too fucking short for his liking. George chases after Dream’s mouth when he breaks apart. It’s a little embarrassing, he knows, but he thinks he can’t be blamed. Not when his entire Universe is teetering to the side, imploding and taking him with it. The momentum makes him fall against Dream’s chest, and a steady pair of hands keeps him from going anywhere else stupid.

The lips that were just on George’s attach themselves to his jaw, creating a drag so sweet it’s barely even there, hypnotizing when paired with the distant rumble of Dream’s chest when he speaks. “You don’t need to give me pieces of your heart because mine has belonged to you since before I can remember,” he says, writes it across his neck. He moves up again to whisper against his ear—low, like a prayer. “I kept dating people trying to forget you and the way you carved a permanent place into my life but I— It’s impossible, George, and I—” He sounds hurt in a way George thought only he himself could endure. The words string themselves together as though he’s been rehearsing them alongside the rest of their choreographies—for days on end, down to the millisecond. It’s a confession. “I followed you to New York and I followed you here even though— I didn’t think you felt that way about me anymore, because— Because I just needed to be with you. I couldn’t stand being apart from you.”

It’s gentler, the second time around. George sucks Dream’s lip into his mouth, lets it get a little messier, a little more playful. They kiss slowly and deeply. They kiss until George’s tongue tingles, until it’s warmer where it meets Dream’s, until he can feel him linger after he’s moved someplace else. He breathes through his nose, and George can feel it—hot against the side of his mouth, obliterating the cold nighttime breeze that taunts them almost innocently. Even if George feels it when they break apart, the warmth of Dream’s body seems a lot more important.

Dream looks straight into George’s eyes, thumbing at his cheek, playing with his nose. He cocks his head to the side and lets the shared sadness take over them. He’s fighting back tears when he confesses, “I was blind and stupid and I’m sorry that I ever made you feel that you’re not loved, George, because all I’ve ever done my entire life is loving you.” George’s knees give out for a split second. He feels as though he’s being pulled down, as though the Earth is tugging and tugging and tugging at his legs, messing up his balance. Dream cracks a soft smile through the tears coating his cheeks. “And I want to keep doing it. I want to learn new ways of loving you, I wanna— take you places we’d never go on our own, and stargaze with you and kiss you and— sleep with you.” George lets go of a broken sigh through parted lips, clenching his fists around the fabric of Dream’s clothes. A wave of heat courses through him, up his spine, and settles at the base of his neck, where one of Dream’s hands presses against. “I want to know every inch of you until I can draw you from memory alone and name every freckle on your body.” Oh, George knows that feeling all too well. He leans in until his lips brush Dream’s and lets him spill the end of his monologue right into his mouth. “I’m— God, I’m in love with you, George. I feel so stupid that I never—”

It hurts, the third time. It’s wet in all the ways a kiss normally is and then some, with George’s tears merging with Dream’s and pooling at the corner of their mouths, trying to seep in. George doesn’t let it. He gathers them with his tongue and lets them die down his throat, like he’s been doing for years. He doesn’t mind it this time, though. He knows they’ll never crawl their way back up.

“I love you. I’m—” he breaks, getting on his tiptoes and wrapping his arms around Dream’s neck, pressing their chests together, syncing up their heartbeats. He hugs him so tight he might as well squeeze all the yearning out of him, let it pour through his mouth and his eyes and everywhere it can find. He digs his cold nose in the crook of his neck and breathes in his perfume and that smell of Dream that takes over his room every time he falls asleep in his bed after a movie night. He lets himself be enveloped by it; lets it sweep him off his feet, bubble all the way up to his head and make him dizzy, drunk, obsessed. He missed it. He missed it so fucking much. “Dream, I don’t— I can’t believe we never—”

“I know,” Dream cuts him off, clinging onto his waist desperately, like he’s astray in the middle of the ocean and holding George is the only thing that will guarantee he makes it back to the shore safely. He holds him he’s his lifeboat, his only hope. George becomes undone under his gentle hands, melting into his body easily and wishing, deep down, that they could become one only so that they never have to be apart again. “I know, me too,” he coos, a blurry whisper into his ear. “I know you, George. I could never not love you. You’re so easy to love. You’re—” A shaky sigh, and then they’re breaking apart for Dream to look into his eyes again. Thick with honesty, laced in sweetness, “you’re perfect for me. It’s always been you.”

George thinks he’s about to wake up. He thinks one of these times, he’s going to blink, and when he opens his eyes, Dream won’t be here anymore. His touch will vanish and his heart will stop reverberating against George’s chest and his tears will disappear into infinitude, stolen for the Universe to toy with, in place of George’s peace.

It never happens.

“You’re perfect for me, too,” George says, clearing his throat right after to make sure that the words he’s about to utter come out crystal clear. He can’t give place to any misunderstandings, can’t bear any more miscommunication. It’s been a long time coming. “You’re everything to me,” he says, the first hint of a smile dancing with his quirked lips, pressing his cheek until a dimple appears. “I thought I could settle for being just your friend, I thought— I thought I was fine with the kind of love you were giving me. I didn’t want to be greedy or to ruin our friendship or—”

“George,” Dream sobs, laughs, all at the same time. He presses his lips to George’s temple—he doesn’t kiss him, simply rests his head against George’s, not giving it weight, keeping them connected. It’s like he thinks all of his secrets will crawl out of his head and sink into George’s, like they can communicate that way. Maybe, they can, after so many years. He articulates them out loud, too, just to make sure. “Our friendship has been ruined since high school. We’re— We’re not supposed to be friends, George.” It doesn’t fall on George but rather slips under his feet—making him light; making him float. His smile widens ever so slightly, and his blood boils and bubbles in a way that doesn’t feel invasive, that reminds him of long nights of making soup on the stove or blowing into straws to disturb the water and pull a laugh out of his best friend. It’s still them, after all—whatever the title. “I’m so tired of pretending I can be your friend, I— Again, I was stupid. But please, sweetheart, just let me—” A deep breath. It sends chills down George’s bruised spine. “Let me have you.”

Dream makes it so easy to fall for him. He never gave George a choice. Not since he took care of him after his heart-rending break up in New York. Not since he went to George’s house every day in junior year when he was sick, putting in extra effort to make his notes more legible so that his best friend wouldn’t stay behind with schoolwork. Not even since sixth grade, when he gave George one of his favorite video games for his birthday—the one they played together when he stayed over at his house—alongside a little handwritten note with a bunch of Spider-Man stickers scattered all across it. George thinks he still has it, somewhere back at home. Orlando, that is—the city he spent most of his life in, creating memories with his best friend he fell in love with as soon as he discovered what love was.

“You’ve always had me,” George assures, because it’s true, because it’s easy. It was scary at first, painful at last—but it was never a lie. It’s always been true, even when George didn’t know it himself, when he pleaded for it to go away. Even when it became unbearable, when it weighed him down, when it pressed on his chest until he couldn’t breathe. No matter how desperately he wanted to, he couldn’t deny it. He didn’t know how. “Since— Since we were young and stupid and in America, and—” Dream makes a pained sound, mourning the distance that’s loomed above their heads over the years. Maybe, they could’ve gotten rid of it sooner, had they known. Maybe, then, George’s next words wouldn’t be true, wouldn’t sting so much. “And even when you’d leave for your stupid dates and I’d stay home crying because I—”

The fourth one is unexpected. It strikes George for a replacement, a substitute. Dream kisses him for lack of anything else, of words and crafted sentences and choked-out apologies. George doesn’t complain. George could never complain, not when Dream’s lips feel so heavenly against his own, like they were sculpted exclusively for his enjoyment, for a moment like this. Like George’s own mouth—and his entire body—were used as a mold, a blueprint off of which Dream would be designed and sent off to the Earth for George to find and match with. Like this has always been it—the final movement, the true destination, the place where they were supposed to end up.

Dream breaks apart but doesn’t let go. George thrives in it. It keeps him together. “I’m so sorry,” Dream says, unable to stop pecking his lips, nipping at them until they’re red and swollen. It’s like he wants to carve his name onto them, like he already did with his heart. He looks hurt, though, a mirror of George’s soul after so many years of longing. “I’m so, so fucking sorry, George. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to make up for the way I made you feel.” George isn’t sure, either. Some part of his brain is still telling him that this isn’t real, that it’ll slip through his fingers soon enough, leaving no trace behind. Realistically, he knows it’s not true, but it’ll take a while. He knows it will. “I know I can’t erase the sorrow, but— Baby, I promise you, I’ll do everything I can to make you happy.” George thinks the pet-name is a pretty good place to start. He doesn’t tell him, though. He lets the heat taking over his cheeks speak for itself. Dream kisses him again. “It’s all that matters to me. It’s— You are all that matters to me.”

“You’re worth it,” George says, the words tumbling out of his mouth ungraciously. He feels it in every cell. His voice doesn’t shake; his tone doesn’t falter. He looks straight into Dream’s eyes, reads the stars swimming in his irises. Dream gapes, probably to protest, but George doesn’t let him. “I mean it, I— It’s horrible to say but, like— I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t put up with it for anyone else.” He shivers. He isn’t sure if it’s due to the night getting colder, or the painful honesty drenching his speech, clogging his throat as he tries to let it out. He never thought he’d be uttering these words to Dream, not with the taste of his mouth lingering on his tongue. He feels an all too familiar burn in his eyes, dreads it when it returns. Maybe, it never left. “I— I don’t know if I thought I could ever have you, but I liked to imagine,” he flashes a sad smile. Dream cocks his head to the side, brows knitted in concern, like he pities him. It’s not hard to see why. “I thought— Sometimes, I’d be, like— ‘Just wait. You don’t know if— You don’t know if tomorrow’s the day when—’”

When he can’t finish his sentence, when a choked-out sob interrupts him, Dream pulls him in again. He strokes the back of George’s head, presses it against his broad chest, kisses his crown to make him feel better. He wraps George in his arms and cradles him like he’s a child, like he’s frail, like he’s precious. George nuzzles against his sternum and presses his eyes shut, letting himself be carried away.

Dream takes a deep breath. George feels it against his ear. “God, George, you— I’m so sorry,” he repeats. He sounds sorry. He sounds broken, exhausted, an echo of how George himself feels. It’ll take a while. Dream knows it, too. “If I knew— Fuck, if I’d known—”

“It’s okay,” George assures, words muffled against Dream’s chest, as though he’s speaking straight into his heart. He wishes he could. He wishes it was listening, beating in tandem with George’s own. “It’s okay, you’re here.” When he shivers again, he knows it’s about time they go downstairs if they don’t want to catch a cold, but Dream’s torso is too warm, and his embrace is too comfortable, and George has been waiting for this for too long to cut it short. He wants to savor it for as long as he can. “You’re here. I’m okay.” And when they go back to their apartment, they’ll still cuddle on the couch under the blanket, they’ll still watch cheesy movies, complain about their professors, and laugh about meaningless things they’ll forget the next morning. Only one thing will be different: Dream will have nowhere else to go. Nowhere but George’s arms, his bed, their house. They’ll share a lot more than a roof, and they’ll kiss until their lips are numb, and then some more. “I’ll be okay,” he promises. “Just— hold me. Hold me, Dream.”

Dream’s arms around him tighten even more, if possible. He cards fingers through George’s dark curls, tugs at them lightly, kisses his head. George leans fully into him, letting his own hands trail down Dream’s spine until they’re sprawled across his lower back, playing with the hem of his hoodie. “I’m never letting you go,” Dream says in a voice George doesn’t think he’s ever heard before. It’s alluring, to say the least. He could get high on it oh-so easily. Its low rumble echoes inside his chest, punching all of the air out of his lungs. Against his hair, Dream whispers another promise, “you won’t ever have to chase me again. Never again.”

“Never,” George repeats, because he and Dream don’t really abide by ‘forever’ and ‘always’. For better or for worse, ‘never’ has been a lot more present in their lives, a lot more meaningful. It doesn’t have to be a bad thing, not at all. ‘Never’, right now, tingles George’s heart just right. He sneaks his hands under Dream’s clothes, digging his fingers in the soft flesh of his back, and thinks I’ll never touch anyone like I touch you. He presses a kiss to the flat of Dream’s chest, and spells I’ll never want anyone like I want you. He looks up, meets their eyes, and swears I’ll never love anyone like I love you. He cranes his neck to meet Dream’s lips again, and he smiles widely, more openly than he has all night. “I love you,” he says, and he means it. He means it, and he wants Dream to notice.

Dream runs a hand through George’s fringe, lips curled up nicely, poking a dimple into his cheek. His skin is laced with a sweet, pink blush; his eyes red with emotion and still a little puffy. His mouth looks more tempting than George has ever seen it, which is saying a lot—all wrecked and bitten, bottom lip trembling from the cold that surrounds them, sharp, white teeth tugging and tugging and tugging at the sensitive skin, as if chasing the remaining taste of George. He’s been there, George thinks, as he kisses him again. He’ll never leave. Dream seems to know. “I’m in love with you, George,” he says.

It eases the scary feeling, the lingering anxiety that was roaming his body. He moves his hands higher up Dream’s back, feels the muscle tense under his palms. He grants him a smirk, resting his chin on his sternum, eyes never leaving Dream’s. “Say it again,” he pleads, almost childish.

He thinks he can’t be blamed. “I’m in love with you,” Dream says again, a playful giggle trying to seep through. It’ll take a while, but you’d never leave me alone. You’ve never given up on me, and you never will.

George scratches Dream’s skin with his nails, spells out invisible love confessions. He wishes they could leave a mark. He wishes he could leave a mark all over Dream—or even better, several marks in the places he loves the most. By his jaw, down his back, in that little soft spot between his belly button and the waist of his jeans. He wants to scatter love all over Dream, to make sure he never forgets how much of it George has to give him. For now, he’ll settle for rubbing their noses together, and whispering, “again.”

Dream looks at him as he cracks a bright, wide, honest smile. He really looks at him, so deep into his eyes George thinks he can see his soul. He can see the long hallways inside his mind, the tall piles of all the books he’s written on Dream, and Dream only. The ones that ramble on for pages and pages about the rebellious curl behind his ear, the way his fingers tap on wood, the cute mole on the nape of his neck, a little to the right, usually hidden by his hair.

Dream looks at him and then looks around him, traces the figure of his body with his gaze. He takes his time with it, making sure he takes it all in. George knows what he’s doing. George sees it, too. Dream’s eyes meet George’s again, and it’s like the rest of the world disappears. “You, George—” Dream starts, breathing evenly through his nose, grinning with honesty. George braces himself, flashing the same smile back. Dream simply says it. “—are my entire Universe.”