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A few days after George gets his visa, he goes for a walk for the first time in ages.
It’s early in the morning—George hasn’t ever been an early riser, but he’s had so much energy ever since getting the news that he can’t manage to sleep in late anymore. He’s started waking up early, but it comes at the cost of no longer being in sync with Dream. He decides to go for a walk after pathetically checking Dream’s status on Discord for a third time, finding that he’s clearly still asleep and accepting that he may as well do something to fill the time.
He only has a couple weeks left in London. He supposes it’s as good a time as any to make an effort to spend more time outside his flat.
George walks by familiar shops, pausing as he passes the restaurant he brought all his friends to when they came to visit. There’s something that aches within him at the memory, one of not many bright spots from an otherwise dull and monotonous year.
Just as George snaps out of his reverie and begins to wander further, his phone vibrates in his hand. He doesn’t even bother glancing at the contact name before picking up—George can just tell, instinctually, because there aren’t many people who would call him without warning even at bizarre times of day when he isn’t typically awake.
“Dream,” George says as soon as the call connects, not bothering to disguise his eagerness to hear his voice.
“Oh,” Dream sounds surprised, his voice low and raspy from clearly just waking up. “You’re up early?”
“Obviously,” George laughs. “Why are you awake? It’s like—it’s literally the middle of the night.”
George is suddenly grateful that it’s so early the streets of London are nearly empty—he doesn’t need to feel self-conscious about the grin he can’t manage to keep off his face listening to the long yawn Dream lets out.
“My schedule is so fucked,” Dream groans, only further emphasizing how deep his voice sounds after hours of disuse. “I almost went back to sleep, but I thought—I don’t know. I thought I’d call and see if you were up.”
“I’m never awake this early,” George points out. He decides not to mention that they’d been on a call only a matter of hours ago before he fell asleep in the first place.
“You aren’t.”
“Why’d you call, then?”
George hears the rustling of bedsheets, like Dream is rolling over, or sitting up.
“Dunno,” Dream deflects, and George imagines him shrugging, maybe rolling his eyes. “Just felt like it.”
“Clingy,” George teases, without any real bite. “You should go back to sleep if you’re tired.”
“Are you outside?” Dream changes the subject, and George hums affirmatively. “Who even are you? You’re awake before the sun rises and you’re touching grass?”
“You’re stupid,” George argues pointlessly. “I couldn’t fall back asleep, and it was just—I don’t know. I don’t have much time left here, I may as well—yeah.”
Dream sighs, and George tries to picture what he must look like as he listens to him breathe.
“You should turn on your camera.” George blurts out the request without allowing himself to think it through, suddenly overcome with the need to see Dream’s face now that this is something he’s allowed to ask for.
“What?” Dream sputters, and George can imagine the way his brows pinch together and his forehead creases, his face scrunched up in confusion. It’s surreal, how vivid it is in his mind—how quickly he’s started to memorize Dream’s expressions.
“You heard me,” George doesn’t relent, deciding that the benefits—getting to look at Dream while he’s too sleepy to be self-conscious and put any thought into how he looks—outweigh the mild humiliation he feels being so openly needy.
“Fine,” Dream grumbles before yawning again, and then abruptly hanging up.
It only takes a few seconds for him to call back, this time through Facetime. George doesn’t hesitate before picking up.
“Hi,” George greets cheerfully, tilting his phone at a low angle to show the dark early-morning sky above him, and stepping closer to a streetlight so it’ll be easier to make out his features.
It takes a conscious effort not to wide-eyed stare when Dream blinks slowly at his screen and brushes his hair back as he seemingly studies his own appearance.
You look good, George wants to say, to stop Dream from analyzing himself any further—and because it’s true, because even with sleep in his eyes and a haircut that he despises, George thinks he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.
“You look like an idiot,” George says instead, because it makes Dream laugh and George swears he can feel rays of sunlight beaming down on him despite the moon’s prominence in the sky. “Stop like—stop staring at yourself.”
“Oh, do you want me to look at you instead?” Dream teases, raising his eyebrows. George shakes his head, hoping that the red tinge to his cheeks won’t be noticeable through his poor lighting. “It’s so dark,” Dream complains—trying to look at George, his distraction successful.
“It’s early.” George shrugs.
“Where are you walking?” Dream asks, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and shifting to lie on his side—he’s still in bed.
George shrugs again, glancing around at his surroundings and deciding he may as well start heading back in the direction of his flat before the city wakes up with the sun. “Nowhere, just—wanted something to do.”
“Are you going to miss it?” Dream asks, elaborating when George looks at him quizzically. “Your neighbourhood, places to walk, that type of thing.”
George shakes his head immediately. “I’ll find new places to walk in Florida.”
“You won’t want to go for walks here,” Dream argues, his brow furrowing. “You’ll hate the bugs. And the heat.”
“I don’t go for walks often anyway,” George dismisses his concern, not liking the way Dream seems insistent on finding a problem where there isn’t one. “I wouldn’t be—I wouldn’t need something to do if I was in Florida. I’d just go bother you instead.”
“Oh, would you?” Dream’s worry seems to melt away instantaneously, his lips curling into a grin and his eyes softening. “What if I was asleep?”
“I’d wake you up.” George holds his phone up closer to his face, wanting to be able to see Dream clearer without a glare.
“Nick never wakes me up,” Dream counters. “He always lets me sleep in.”
“You’d want me to.” George knows he’s right when Dream doesn’t deny it, when his smile only grows and he shakes his head wordlessly. “You would. You’d rather hang out with me than be asleep anyway.”
“Guess you’ll have to find out,” Dream retorts smugly, as if they don’t both know George is right.
“We’ll be in sync anyway,” George points out. “It’ll be so much easier.”
Dream goes quiet for a moment, as if considering it. “I’m really—I’m just so excited for you to be here.”
“When I’m there,” George doesn’t even intend to bring it up—it’s an accident, but once the words begin to tumble out of his mouth he accepts that it’s too late to attempt to retract them. “Will you—will we still do this?”
Dream’s nose scrunches up when he’s confused—it’s one of George’s favourites of his expressions. “Do what?”
“Like—” George sighs. “Talk first thing when we wake up, I guess. It would be weird not to, right?”
Dream answers without any hesitation. “Obviously, what? Why wouldn’t we?”
“I don’t know.” George hums, considering it. “I mean, like, are we going to call each other even from the same house? That’s kind of dumb, right?”
“I don’t think that’s dumb.” Dream pouts a little, and George tries not to let his eyes follow the curve of his lips. “It’s like—that’s what we’re used to. It would be dumb to miss out on talking to each other.”
George sighs dramatically. “Fine, Dream, just say you’d miss me. It’s fine, I get it.”
“Fine, maybe I would.” Dream copies George’s tone, widening his eyes and leaning closer to the camera, so close that George is able to see the barely-there freckles across his nose.
“That’s lame,” George scoffs, and he wonders if it’s obvious how feeble his attempts at mocking Dream already feel even to his own ears. He’s so used to needing to disguise what he truly wants—it’s a strange thing, how the relief of finally feeling a little less helpless eviscerates his instinct to hide. “We’ll be in the same house.”
“And I’ll still miss you if you aren’t next to me.”
We won’t have to worry about this if we just sleep in the same room. George hesitates, the joke too heavy on his tongue because there’s truth to it. He doesn’t say it, but Dream raises his eyebrows like he can see straight through him nonetheless. George wonders if he was thinking the same thing.
This, too, is lighter than it’s ever been—knowing that what George wants is written all over his face but not making any jokes or changing the subject to stop Dream from noticing. Dream has always been able to read him too well, but it’s different, allowing himself to be read.
For the first time, George hopes Dream knows. He wonders if Dream has any idea how terribly he’s longed for nothing more than this—light, flippant conversations about sharing the same space and adjusting to a life together. He thinks Dream has to have at least some idea.
“I guess we should just always be in the same room then,” George says as nonchalantly as he can manage. “We do have a lot of time to make up. It’s kind of like—”
George pauses, trying to think of a way to put it into words. Dream nods encouragingly, always patient with him.
“It’s like, we’re so used to waiting that sometimes I forget what I’m even waiting for. I’m so used to like—sending it away, pretending it doesn’t even exist, because it sucks and I’m still not there and it’s like—I don’t know. It’s weird, because now that we’re so close it’s like I can see it just ahead of me again—like, it was frozen for so long but now it’s defrosting. I don’t know.”
Too much, George thinks, as soon as he manages to stop himself from rambling further. Too close to the truth.
“Frozen,” Dream muses. “Like, what you want was buried in snow. But now the snow is melting.”
George tries to ignore the emphasis Dream places on the word want. Tries to convince himself they aren’t both envisioning the same thing. “It doesn’t snow in Florida.”
Dream grins knowingly, his eyes bright with excitement. “Exactly.”
-
Dream kisses George the same day he gets to Florida.
Dream seems more surprised than George is, despite being the one to initiate. He jumps back, tearing his hand away from George’s jaw and instead clutching one of the couch cushions to steady himself, his eyes widened in terror as if he’s just made a horrible mistake, an apology clearly already forming on his lips. George is helpless to do anything more than stare at the same lips that were just pressed against his own, his head spinning and his breath caught in his throat.
“Don’t apologize,” George manages to blurt out, wanting to say anything to smooth over the creases of worry forming across Dream’s forehead. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Dream stares at George like a deer caught in headlights, and George nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I really didn’t mean to just—”
“Dream, I said it’s fine,” George tries again to stop him, not sure if he can handle the direction he’s certain this conversation is going to go. “We don’t have to talk about it. If you didn’t—it doesn’t have to mean anything. It doesn’t have to be weird.”
“What if I want it to?”
George freezes, the room terrifyingly silent save for the thunderous roar of his own pulse ringing in his ears. “If you—want what?”
“What if,” Dream pauses, clenching and unclenching a fist like he’s resisting reaching over to George, like he’s afraid he shouldn’t. “What if it means something?”
For a single, terrifying second, George is afraid he might burst into tears. “Does it?”
“George,” Dream’s resolve appears to collapse, the tension leaving his shoulders as he leans closer, reaching over and covering George’s hand with his own. “How couldn’t it?”
On reflex, George shakes his head, disbelieving. “Dream.”
“I meant it,” Dream reasserts, brushing his thumb over George’s knuckles as if trying to soothe him. “I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t mean it. You have to know that.”
Even stunned into silence, George knows that Dream can somehow hear everything he’s unable to say. You can’t just kiss me as if it’s nothing. “I don’t—I don’t know that.” You can’t just shatter every wall I’ve carefully built up for years in a handful of hours.
Dream’s expression softens—something that shouldn’t even be possible, considering the fondness already held in his eyes while he studies George carefully. “Well,” Dream lets out a breath, “I do. I want—I want whatever you’ll give me, George. Whatever I can have.”
George almost wants to argue, because he doesn’t feel like this is something he’s allowed to believe. Too good to be true, voices chorus inside his head. You can’t be this lucky.
“I love you,” Dream whispers, as if he can hear inside George’s head and somehow already knows he’s at war with himself. “I think I’ve always loved you. I didn’t always know it, but I couldn’t—I don’t think I could ever not love you. It’s always been different.”
George starts to believe him.
“You love me,” George repeats, the words stiff and cold in his throat.
“I do.” Dream squeezes his hand, and then, like he can see right through George’s hesitation, he adds, “I always will.”
George feels his eyes welling up with tears, laughter bubbling up in his throat at his own incredulous reaction. Knowing that Dream hoped for more from across an ocean was one thing—it’s another entirely to be face to face with Dream’s kind eyes and soft hands and full lips and know, without any room for doubt or uncertainty, that he hasn’t changed his mind.
“Kiss me again,” George instructs, surprising a laugh out of Dream.
Dream brings their lips together a second time, soft and deliberate and careful, as if he’s afraid George might shatter. He lets go of George’s hand in favour of running his fingers through his hair instead, and George tries not to cry over how sweetly and lovingly Dream pulls him closer.
“Is this okay?” Dream whispers, one hand still in George’s hair and the other wrapped around his waist.
George nods. “Please don’t stop.”
“I love you,” Dream says again, and George thinks he might be addicted to the shape of the words on his lips. “Sorry, I just—I can’t stop thinking it.”
“I love you too,” George says quickly, without even needing to think about it. It’s never been so easy.
-
They don’t rush into anything. George manages to stop himself from being selfish—from pushing for more despite all the months and years of anticipation behind them, despite finally feeling reassured that they’re on the same page.
It doesn’t ache like George thought it would.
For the first few months, they don’t really put what they are into words. George moves most of his things into Dream’s room—most, but not all, which feels like an important distinction. In a whirlwind of traveling and meetings and huge new opportunities, sometimes George will go entire days without seeing Dream at all, but there’s comfort in knowing each night, wherever they are, they’ll come home to one another.
In Florida, George learns what it means to love without complications.
Most nights, when they lie down in bed together, Dream kisses George goodnight. When George wakes up to find Dream already downstairs cooking breakfast for the two of them, he kisses Dream in the soft morning light of their kitchen. George’s toothbrush sits in a cup in Dream’s bathroom, and two towels hang from hooks on the back of the door.
His water pressure is better, George lies when Sapnap catches him in the hallway after just showering in Dream’s room. If Sapnap sees through the obvious lie, he doesn’t press any further. He just rolls his eyes and shrugs, like he’s already accepted that he won’t ever understand.
Christmas feels like vindication. Months and years of let-down expectations and broken promises, all leading up to this—to holidays shared with thousands of overjoyed people, with Dream’s family, by three people and a cat in the home George has waited a lifetime to call his own.
It’s over the holidays that they finally talk about what they are, what it all means, and Dream starts finding ways to slip the word boyfriend into every conversation because it makes George blush every single time.
They’re in L.A. when George realizes he’s been spoiled by their constant proximity.
Dream starts spending more and more long days at the studio, and it’s a particularly late night when he still isn’t home yet that George starts to get impatient. It felt like we saw more of each other from different countries, George thinks bitterly—admittedly, incorrectly. Nothing about being in different countries was easier.
“You didn’t have to stay up for me,” Dream frowns as George lets him in. “I told you it’d be late.”
George shrugs, tugging at the sleeve of Dream’s sweater to urge him toward the bedroom they’ve been sharing. “I wouldn’t get to see you all day then,” George says, and it sounds like I miss you.
Dream pouts, too tired to put up much of a fight, his arm wrapping around George’s waist to pull him closer and his head falling onto George’s shoulder. “I’m so tired.”
“Don’t work so late then,” George complains weakly, the sincerity in his voice betraying how terribly he truly wishes Dream could. He sinks into the loose embrace, threading his fingers loosely through Dream’s long fringe. “You should take the day off tomorrow.”
Dream grumbles something like I can’t, which George knows is probably true, but he pushes a little more anyway. “You should. Or at least tell whoever that you need the afternoon off, tell them you’ve got plans.”
Dream grins, amused, when he lifts his head. “Oh, now I have plans?”
“You do,” George decides. “With me. We’re going out tomorrow. I can’t believe you forgot.”
Dream starts to slowly walk George backward toward their bedroom, giggling fondly when he seems to suddenly recognize the suspiciously-too-big sweater George is wearing as his own.
“I can probably get off early tomorrow,” Dream sighs. “Maybe. Since I stayed so late tonight, I can ask, at least.”
George loves how little it takes for him to fold.
“They’ll let you,” George insists. “You’ve been staying late all week. You deserve one day to be all mine.”
Dream’s eyebrows raise, the beginning of a smirk playing across his lips as he shuts the door behind himself. “Already all yours,” he says easily, like it won’t take George’s breath away. “Always have been.”
“Stop,” George protests weakly, embarrassed by how little it takes for him to become a flushed mess. He sits down on the end of the bed, stretching out his shoulders while waiting pointedly for Dream to join him.
“I should shower,” Dream grimaces, like he’s already prepared for the way George glares at him in dissatisfaction. “George. I’m gross.”
“Don’t care.” George shakes his head, grabbing onto Dream’s wrist to tug him closer. “You can shower in the morning. I miss you now.”
“Georgie.” Dream’s eyes widen as he steps between George’s legs and wraps an arm around him, his other hand cupping George’s chin to stop him from looking away. “You miss me? I’m right here.”
“You haven’t been,” George complains, the words feeling small and pathetic as he spits them out. “I miss—I want to go home.”
“Do you?” Dream’s fingers trace over the gold chain around George’s neck—his chain, one he gave to George just a short few weeks prior, insisting that he’d always wanted to see George wear it. George hasn’t taken it off since.
“Not really,” George mumbles, feeling exposed by how carefully Dream studies him, frowning a little. “I don’t want to go home unless you’re going with me. I just miss—I don’t know. I miss having more time to ourselves.”
Dream kisses the corner of his mouth, just a quick peck, before wrapping his arms around George tightly and gently maneuvering him backward so they can lie down together.
“I know,” Dream whispers into George’s hair, his hands greedily slipping beneath the hem of George’s sweater to grab at his hips. “It’s been a lot. I promise it won’t be like this forever.”
“I don’t mean to be so—” George sighs, pressing his lips against the curve of Dream’s jaw, naturally moving right to the spot that always makes Dream’s breathing hitch. “So, like, needy. I know we can’t just sit at home and never work again. But I still wish we could.”
“Me too, baby.” Dream mumbles the pet name like he couldn’t help but let it slip out, and George’s cheeks burn with how much he likes the sound of it on Dream’s tongue. “You’ve been so patient. I promise I’ll make more time for us.”
Patient, George repeats inside his head. You have no idea.
“I do still need to shower though,” Dream reiterates, and George curses his stubbornness.
“I’m coming with you, then,” George counters. He raises his eyebrows, already knowing that he’s won from the way Dream presses his lips together, considering it.
“Oh, are you now? You don’t need to shower.”
“I can think of something else I need.” George bats his eyelashes, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing in satisfaction at the way Dream’s eyes darken.
“George,” Dream mumbles, his cheeks flushed. “I’m tired. I don’t even know if I have the energy to do anything.”
“Let me take care of you, then,” George promises, softer. “We don’t actually need to do anything. I just need you, idiot.”
Dream hums, though he makes no effort at getting up, instead nestling further into George’s side and burying his face in George’s neck. “In a minute.”
“No rush,” George says, because there never is.
-
George loves his friends, but he can’t help but dread the fact that his house is full of people after he’s had to suffer through a miserable few weeks without Dream in the Bahamas. He’s excited to see everyone—or, he will be, once he can manage to get over the irritation he feels with the constant pairs of eyes on the two of them, when all he wants is to enjoy their reunion to the fullest.
George thinks he might die if Dream keeps blatantly missing his clumsy attempts at requesting to go upstairs and take some time for themselves.
“Dream,” George gets his attention for what has to be the thousandth time, physically grabbing Dream’s wrist to pull him aside and grinning when faced with his wide-eyed confusion. He’s so oblivious. George wants to kiss him senseless.
“Yeah, baby?” Dream’s voice is low, his hand settling against the small of George’s back as he leans closer and slips away from the group, following George into the kitchen.
George is practically dizzy with want, his hands shaking from the effort it takes to resist pulling Dream closer than he already is. Anyone could walk in, he forces himself to remember, even as he leans in and kisses Dream quickly, barely managing to keep it chaste when Dream sighs into the kiss happily, like he’s felt just as impatient as George has.
“Is everything okay?” Dream asks when George pulls back too soon, his hand firm against Dream’s chest to stop him from chasing his mouth. The soft look of concern in Dream’s eyes makes George melt, unable to stop himself from pressing another quick peck to his lips.
“Of course it’s okay,” George promises, his hands drifting up to Dream’s neck, fidgeting with his chain. “I’m home. Everything’s okay.”
“You missed me,” Dream says, like it’s a revelation. “Oh, you—oh. This is why you dragged me away from everyone else.”
“Fucking finally,” George groans, unable to stop himself from beaming up at Dream when he wraps his arms around his waist and walks him further back into the corner of the room, until his back is up against the counter. “If you don’t take me upstairs right now—”
“George,” Dream scolds, completely lacking any conviction. “Five minutes, okay? We’ll be back out there before anyone starts wondering where we went.”
Dream lifts George up onto the counter like it’s nothing before he can protest, kissing him again as soon as he’s settled. George manages to forget all his perfectly logical reasons not to do this here, licking into Dream’s mouth and wrapping his legs around Dream’s waist to stop him from moving even an inch further.
George wants to complain that five minutes isn’t nearly enough for everything he’s had to spend weeks waiting for, but it’s difficult to muster up anything to feel bothered by when all he can think about are the quiet little gasps Dream lets out when George’s hands slip under his shirt.
“You’re insane,” Dream breathes against George’s mouth. “Fuck, I missed you so much. Missed this.”
It’s at least ten minutes later when the sound of something crashing in the other room forces them to remember their surroundings and return to reality. Dream jumps back with a start, but even in his bewilderment he’s careful to help George down from the counter and run his fingers through George’s hair as if there’s any salvaging the state of the two of them.
“You look—” George laughs, taking in Dream’s flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips.
“I know,” Dream groans, shaking his head before pressing a kiss to the top of George’s head and pulling his discarded beanie back onto his own. “No one will notice—probably. They’re all idiots, and they’re distracted by—whoever just broke something.”
“Oh, so you agree our friends are idiots, but you still won’t let us ignore them and go upstairs?” George tries a final time, to no avail, Dream’s focus clearly already shifting to figuring out whatever the noise they heard was. He knows Dream won’t be able to think about anything else until his questions are answered, so he glances at his own appearance in the window with a wince before following Dream back into the living room.
Apparently, the noise they heard was a pingpong paddle knocking over a glass—which Sapnap blames on Sam, and everyone else unanimously blames on Sapnap.
George tries to ignore the way Sylvee raises her eyebrows when they make eye contact, glancing pointedly at Dream then back at George. He shakes his head, but he has a feeling she isn’t going to be easily dissuaded from whatever probably correct assumption she’s making.
The broken glass isn’t a big deal, except that they’re apparently all-but out of paper towel and Dream decides he needs to pick up more, and George is frustrated because it doesn’t feel fair that Dream is leaving when it wasn’t even his fault something spilled, but he insists.
“I’ll be back in like, five minutes,” Dream promises, and George thinks he’s lucky they’re in a room full of people because if they were alone he wouldn’t be above begging. He isn’t usually this clingy, but he only just got back, and every single second he has to spend without Dream feels excruciating.
He manages to stop himself from complaining further, but he knows the frown on his face says enough when Dream pauses in the doorway and his eyes soften as they land on George.
“Less than five minutes,” Dream amends, and George rolls his eyes. He wishes he didn’t need to care what anyone else thinks.
“You literally could’ve left and came back already,” Ant teases. George can’t even manage to resent how transparent he feels—Dream doesn’t seem to mind, considering the way he’s smiling in amusement.
“Hurry up and go already.” George tries to pretend he’s been telling Dream to leave all along as if anyone would believe it.
George catches a flicker of something in Dream’s eyes for just a moment, but before he has the time to attempt to figure out what he’s thinking Dream crosses the front hallway in two strides and presses a goodbye kiss to George’s lips right in front of everyone.
“I’ll be quick,” Dream repeats, grinning cheekily while George just stares at him helplessly, waving to everyone else and ignoring the shock on their faces before spinning on his heel and walking through the door.
George opens his mouth to say—honestly, he has no idea what, but words fail him and he just bursts into laughter, his cheeks burning when he can feel all of his friends staring confusedly and waiting for an explanation.
“About time, fuck’s sake,” Sapnap speaks first, rolling his eyes and breaking the unspoken tension. George flips him off before covering his face with his hands as if he can hide how flustered he still feels.
“You didn’t already know?” Sylvee scoffs, causing the whole room to erupt into laughter. “You live here?”
Even when he’s bombarded with a million questions and he can’t even deflect to Dream to answer them, George can’t stop smiling. It’s relief—having nothing left to hide, not from the people he cares about. It’s the opposite of everything George resigned himself to accepting his future would hold, finally being able to wear his love for Dream proudly on display instead of keeping it buried deep beneath the snow.
George has never felt farther from London.
-
The first time Dream invites George to come with him to the studio, George has no idea what to expect.
He’s heard bits and pieces of everything Dream’s been working on—he’s heard all the voice memos Dream records late at night when he can’t fall asleep until he does something with whatever idea is bouncing around in his head, and he’s seen a handful of pages from the notebook Dream scribbles into from time to time.
Dream is incredibly shy about it, at times, so George tries not to push. He knows Dream will show him everything eventually—sometimes, he’s just self-conscious about sharing such personal pieces of work, as if George won’t be horrifically in love with anything he creates solely because it’s his.
Still, when Dream tells George that he’s welcome to come with him to the studio since he’s expecting a shorter day, and he’ll be able to show George pretty much everything he’s been working on all together, George can’t help but feel a bit nervous.
George makes himself comfortable to sit back and watch his boyfriend in his element. It’s flattering when all of Dream’s producers already seem to know who George is as soon as he’s introduced, none of them surprised or offput by his presence.
It’s oddly relaxing, watching Dream work and imagining he’s simply a fly on the wall, nothing more than an observer—a fan, really—sitting back and enjoying getting to finally hear the result of all Dream’s tireless hard work.
George recognizes a lot of the melodies from hearing them hummed under Dream’s breath, or lyrics that he’s seen frantically typed into Dream’s phone or haphazardly scribbled down in his notebook.
Later into the afternoon, Dream is recording the chorus of a song that George doesn’t think he’s heard before. Dream keeps glancing over at him shyly between takes, and George has to press his lips together tightly to try and suppress the embarrassingly fond smile he knows he’s doing a terrible job at containing.
“You wrote about me,” George says as soon as they’re alone in the corridor. Dream asked his team to take five, but George knows he won’t have Dream all to himself for very long before he’ll need to get back to work.
“You already know I write about you.” Write, Dream says, instead of wrote. He hasn’t stopped even though the tracklist for his EP is pretty much finalized—George already knew this, but hearing Dream confirm as much so casually still leaves him with butterflies.
“I’ve never heard some of those songs, though,” George counters, his hand finding Dream’s and lacing their fingers together. “You didn’t show me everything.”
“Well,” Dream looks down at his feet, and George thinks he’s probably blushing. “It’s kind of a lot, I don’t know. You’re like—you’re all I can think to write about sometimes. So it just—it’s a lot. I didn’t want to, like, overwhelm you, I guess.”
“Never stop,” George says quickly, squeezing Dream’s hand until he meets his eye again. He shakes his head, leaning forward onto his tiptoes and pressing a soft kiss against Dream’s jaw. “It’s not overwhelming. It’s—it’s really good. Always really good.”
Dream seems to visibly relax at the admission. “It’s not too much?”
George shakes his head again, sliding his arms around Dream’s neck and tugging him down for a kiss.
“Never too much,” George whispers into Dream’s mouth. “Could never be too much.”
Dream’s cheeks are flushed and warm beneath George’s fingers and his pupils are blown out when they break apart. The weight of how much love George feels for him suddenly washes over him like a flood.
Dream has spent months, maybe even years writing poems and stories and songs about how scared he was of allowing himself to have this. Something about it feels triumphant—that they’re standing in a quiet hallway in a studio in L.A., and Dream loves George so much that sometimes he can’t bring himself to write about anything else. That somehow, Dream ever could have thought his love was too much for George, and yet he trusted him enough to share it all with him anyway.
“I want to hear all of it,” George adds, “I want to hear anything you write. I’ll love it all.”
The beaming smile on Dream’s lips and the way his eyes don’t flick away from George’s for a single second feels like a promise.
-
In Paris, Dream seems exhausted. George can tell he’s getting sick before he’s shown any symptoms, because he starts sleeping through his alarms and opting to stay back in the hotel more often than usual, and he protests vehemently every time George offers to stay back with him.
George tries his best not to let his concern stop him from enjoying himself, but it isn’t until he’s out for lunch with Sylvee and Hannah and called out for checking his phone every thirty seconds that he’s forced to admit his mind is elsewhere—that it hasn’t left the hotel room where Dream insisted he was just tired but he didn’t feel up to going out yet.
“If he’s sleeping, why are you checking your phone so much?” Sylvee asks, non-judgmentally, out of what appears to be genuine confusion.
“Because he could wake up any time,” George defends quickly, wincing when he realizes how pathetic the admission sounds. “Ugh, whatever. It’s dumb.”
“You’re worried about him,” Hannah points out the obvious, and George rolls his eyes but nods. “That’s not dumb.”
“It’s not rational,” George amends, taking a sip of his apple juice and tapping his fingers against the table.
“You just love him,” Hannah teases in a sing-song voice, but she’s smiling warmly and George just scoffs. “It doesn’t have to be rational, you’re allowed to just be worried, George.”
“I know, whatever,” George dismisses the sudden sincerity. “He’s fine. I’m fine.”
Neither of them push him to talk about it any further, and their conversation steers back into lighter territory. It’s George who brings Dream back up, after Sylvee mentions how excited she is about going to London in a few days.
“It’ll be kind of weird,” George admits, bouncing his knee under the table. “It’s like—it sounds stupid. But I never thought of Dream in London. That just never felt like something that would be possible.”
“Why not?” Sylvee asks.
George shrugs. “Seemed like—I don’t know. Like it was too unrealistic, back then. Especially before we ever had even talked about, like, me moving to Florida, anything like that.”
George pushes his food around on his plate with his fork. Talking about London now that he’s so far removed from the way he used to feel is—strange, to say the least.
“Did you—” Hannah pauses before finishing the thought, glancing at Sylvee before looking back at George. “Sorry, I was going to ask something kind of, like, invasive.”
“Invasive?” George laughs, bewildered.
“Okay, now you have to say it.” Sylvee scoffs, clearly intrigued, and George nods that he agrees, gesturing for Hannah to just spit it out.
“Sorry, I really don’t—you don’t have to answer if this is, like, too personal,” Hannah apologizes again preemptively, and George rolls his eyes but appreciates that she won’t expect him to answer if it is something he’d rather not talk about. “I was just going to ask—like, if you already loved him then? Before you moved, I mean.”
To George’s own surprise, he’s not even shy about answering. “Of course I did.”
It doesn’t even cross his mind to lie or dodge the question. George can’t bring himself to feel ashamed—not even of the years where his infatuation was a little bit pathetic, because it wouldn’t be fair to his younger self, or to Dream, who has always been so irrevocably good that George has never known how not to be in love with him.
Hannah and Sylvee both look surprised by how easily he divulges this information, which only makes George laugh.
“You don’t have to act so surprised. It’s not like I was all that subtle about it.”
“I had no idea,” Hannah argues, looking to Sylvee and raising her eyebrows.
“I didn’t start noticing anything until you moved here,” Sylvee agrees. “I thought it was like—a bit, at first. I didn’t think anything was serious.”
George tries not to look too surprised. Whenever he listens back to old clips of himself, he feels like the words I’m in love with my best friend may as well have been tattooed across his face. “Well, I was. It definitely wasn’t anything new, not for me anyway.”
“How long have you known?” Sylvee asks, and Hannah elbows her. “What? Sue me for being nosy, okay, George knows he can just tell me to fuck off if he doesn’t want to answer.”
“It’s fine, I’m not, like, embarrassed about it,” George defends, even though he supposes he doesn’t really need to. “Um—if you mean how long, as in like, since we’d actually talked about it? Uh, a little over a year. But if you mean, like, just for me? It was never—it was never not real for me, so, yeah. A long time. Years.”
Both of the girls’ eyes shoot wide open, and it’s comical enough that George has to cover his mouth to stifle an awkward laugh.
“I really had no idea,” Sylvee repeats. “That must’ve been—hard, right? The waiting and everything. Fuck, George.”
That’s an understatement, George thinks, but doesn’t say.
“I mean,” he starts, shrugging his shoulders. “It was, yeah. Some parts were worse than others, and obviously the whole—you know, being in different continents thing didn’t help. I definitely didn’t—uh, like I said, I didn’t ever count on this all coming true. I’d already kind of—I don’t know, processed the heartbreak, or whatever, of things not working out before anything even happened.”
George glances at his phone again, both for an excuse to avoid eye contact and because he’s wondering at what point Dream would want to be woken up. Being so open is still a little foreign, but George finds he doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t squirm around the subject the way he used to, not now that he already has everything he’s ever wanted—not now that it feels so good to talk about.
“That’s so crazy,” Hannah says sadly. “Thank god you were wrong. I can’t imagine—like, now that I really know you guys, I can’t imagine you not being together.”
“Thanks, I think,” George laughs awkwardly. “London George wouldn’t have believed that.”
“Well, the new London George will,” Sylvee interjects, smiling warmly.
“Part-time London George,” George corrects her, because it feels like an important distinction.
-
To no one’s surprise, Dream is sick by the time they get to London.
George makes sure he doesn’t miss out on much, opting to stay back at the hotel with Dream if he’s awake while the rest of their group is going out, and Dream is too clingy while he’s drained and half-asleep to argue.
Dream is up early on their second day, and he convinces George to go out for breakfast before he inevitably crashes and won’t feel up to doing much later on.
It’s strange, walking down the streets of London with Dream by his side, their hands constantly brushing together between them. Dream asks a ton of questions, wanting to know any shops George used to frequent or places he’s mentioned before. George practices an immense amount of restraint by refraining from holding his hand, knowing that they’re out on busy streets and could be recognized by anyone—it’s not worth the risk, but he wishes it was.
London makes both of them sentimental.
On the walk back to their hotel after breakfast, they walk by a small florist and Dream tells George to pick out a bouquet his mum would like, to bring his parents when they meet for dinner. When he comes back up to the front counter, he can tell Dream is hiding something behind his back that he must’ve already paid for, but he chooses to let it be a surprise.
Sure enough, as soon as they’re back outside, Dream presents him with a sunflower.
“I wanted you to have something from me to put in your room,” Dream explains, a tiny nervous smile on his lips, as if there’s even the slightest chance George wouldn’t be happy with something Dream gave him. “Your old room, I mean, when you’re at your parents’.”
The thought alone makes George teary-eyed, his grip tightening on the small pot. He thinks of the way he’d proudly displayed any trinket Dream bought for him or sent to him on his desk beside his monitor for years, always in his line of sight.
“You’re so sappy,” he teases weakly, but he knows from the beaming smile on Dream’s face that he doesn’t need to say he loves it. He thinks he’s fundamentally incapable of hiding anything from Dream.
“Maybe I am,” Dream laughs, nudging George with his shoulder. “Do you ever feel like—”
Because he’s watching George instead of where he’s walking, Dream nearly walks directly into a lamp post. George grabs his elbow to pull him back, almost grateful for the excuse for contact and allowing his grip to linger far longer than necessary.
“Be careful, idiot,” George scolds protectively. “What were you saying though?”
“Oh, right.” Dream smiles and reaches for George’s hand where it hands between them, holding on for just a second before letting go. “I was just going to ask—I mean, I don’t really believe in, like, fate. But do you ever feel like things just make sense?”
George’s brow furrows. “Explain more.”
“Like—I think we always would’ve become friends, even if we didn’t meet the way we did. We would’ve ended up crossing paths somehow, right?” Dream continues, and George nods along. “I just think, like, being here with you, the place you grew up—it’s, I don’t know, it feels so right. Even though I’m literally dying—”
“Oh my god, shut up,” George bursts into laughter, rolling his eyes and elbowing Dream in the side. “You are not dying.”
“I could be,” Dream says, as if it’s a rational argument, and George just shakes his head. “But okay, you know what I mean. Doesn’t it feel—like, full circle, I guess? Getting to come back here, and now we’ve both gotten to see the cities we grew up in together?”
“Yeah,” George agrees, smiling as he looks down at the sunflower Dream gave him. “It does. It feels like—I don’t know. Whenever I would think of London, I always thought of, like, how miserable it was last year. I thought it would be kind of bittersweet to be here again, but it feels—good, actually.”
“It took a while,” Dream says, grinning fondly. “But we’re here now. We get to travel, see all these different places, and it never has to hurt like that again. It feels like—this is how it should’ve been all along. The universe finally shifted, it’s finally on our side.”
“The snow melted,” George mumbles quietly, randomly hit by a memory of the conversation they had almost a year ago.
He knows Dream must remember, too, from the way his eyes light up and he stops in the middle of the street to lean down and kiss the top of George’s head—uncaring of the fact that they’re out in broad daylight, that anyone could see.
“The sun came out,” Dream says exaggeratedly, covering George’s hand over the flowerpot as if his pun wasn’t obvious enough already and giggling when George groans.
“That was so bad,” George complains, though he makes no effort at all to stop himself from smiling.
“You love me,” Dream states matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, yeah.” George sighs dramatically, but even just the simplicity of the declaration feels triumphant. He’s in London, and he loves Dream, and Dream knows it. And nothing about it hurts. “I suppose I do.”