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Dream keeps accidentally taking George on dates.
Well. They’re not exactly dates, given that Dream has not breathed a word of his hopeless, gut-wrenching crush on George to anyone, especially George, nevermind asking him out. He hasn’t done anything more than melt into the floor and nod when George comes up to him and whines, “Dream, I’m hungry,” because he’s never been good at refusing George anything.
It’s inevitable that George drags them out to the car and Dream drives them to Chipotle, McDonald’s, wherever George wants to go – and they never call it anything, even when Sapnap asks where they were and George giggles at Dream as he texts back like they’re sharing a secret.
They certainly feel like dates, though.
Tonight, George is practically buzzing when he drags Dream down the stairs to the car and tells him the name of the restaurant he wants to visit.
“George, this is a really nice place,” Dream frowns, scrolling through the page on his phone. “I think we need, like, a reservation to go here.”
“We have a reservation,” George says proudly. He wears an offhand smirk like he’s won something, and Dream has to avert his eyes from the hunger in George’s gaze, a shiver creeping over his shoulders.
“We do?” he asks, dumbfounded.
“Yeah, I made one, idiot,” George says, “like four days ago, or something.”
“For us?” Dream’s mind is spinning.
George shoots him a look, eyes sharp and deep with meaning. “Who else?”
“I dunno,” Dream mumbles, biting his tongue against the implications of a dinner place that George picked out just for them. He looks at George again, tracing his jawline and the way his head tilted expectantly at Dream, gazing at him with quiet attentiveness. It’s been half a year since George moved, and Dream still isn’t used to the way George waits for him, patient and soft in a way that burns his mouth when he tries to think of a reply.
He thinks he might have swallowed sand when he notices George’s chain glittering over his shirt, expensive and pretty and mine, Dream thinks, not caring how possessive he sounds when the chain falls so elegantly across the dip of George’s collarbones. There’s something addicting about how George wears it so visibly, putting it on display without any terms and conditions. Dream can’t stop himself from looking, eyes flicking up and down George’s body, painfully obvious as he takes him in.
“I know you’re not checking me out right now,” George teases, raising his eyebrows, but he sounds pleased at the thought. “That would be— that would be ludicrous, wouldn’t it Dream?”
“Everything is ludicrous to you lately,” Dream replies. George is wearing his fluffy blue and green coat, the one he favors in airports when he’s trying to look fashionable. Did he really dress up for this? For Dream? “You’ve been hanging out with Sapnap too much.”
“You’re ludicrous,” George shoots back, and Dream smiles.
“Okay, George.”
“Okay, Dream,” George mimics. “Let’s go already.”
Dream shakes his head, fond. “Ludicrous.”
___
Dream can’t tell if the food tastes good because they’re at a nice restaurant or because George picked out a nice restaurant and made a reservation for the two of them. It’s probably mostly the latter, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed, though, not when George giggles at him across the table with a million-dollar smile.
Dream basks in it, reveling at the restaurant around them; it’s still surreal that he gets to eat out whenever he likes, and even more surreal that he gets to be here with his best friend. He knows George’s love is in the details, but it hits him stronger than ever as he watches George unroll his napkin for a dinner that he especially arranged for them, and vows to never let George’s quiet affection go unnoticed.
“This is really good,” he says, with a little too much enthusiasm for the plate of salmon before him, stumbling around how to tell George how much this night means to him. “Good choice, George.”
“Wait,” George hisses, throwing a hand out. “Don’t eat that!”
Dream raises an eyebrow at him. “Has it been poisoned?”
“No,” George shakes his head as if it’s obvious, “We should just do the Snapchat thing first.”
Dream looks at him. “The ‘cute date’ thing?”
George nods twice, already swiping over to Snapchat on his phone.
“You want to be my cute date, Georgie?” he teases.
“Obviously,” George rolls his eyes, not quite scoffing at the accusation. He holds up his camera. “Smile for me.”
Dream smiles instinctively, a little too genuinely for the silliness of this little tradition, but no one has to know that.
He grabs his phone for a photo of George, lips crooked upwards as he adds a text bar over George’s food, heart trilling when he types Cute date. There’s a part of him that aches, yearning for it to be real, wishing he could grab George’s hand under the table and know that it was more than platonic.
Impulsively, he adds a heart emoji to his post, and sends it.
Within the next breath, he gets a notification for George’s snapchat. The nerves kick in his stomach again, even though he already knows what it is, and he feels like a teenager again as he rushes to open it.
When he clicks into the image, his thoughts are immediately displaced by the way George has captured him. The warm light of the photo makes Dream’s smile look gently sincere, his eyes focused slightly to the right, and the caption. Oh god.
“George, you—” Dream swallows, looking at his own likeness and the words cute date emblazoned below him, “I thought you were going to say, like, salmon or something.”
“I was,” George shrugged, not meeting his eyes. His cheeks are flushed. “But, y’know.”
“Y’know?” Dream blinks at him.
“Just thought it would be funny,” George replies, unrolling his napkin. He starts to dig into his food as if he hasn’t flooded just Dream’s stomach with butterflies, and Dream supposes he has no other choice but to follow.
The food is good, and he tells George as much (again), noticing the way he straightens his spine proudly, happy. They talk about nothing; a tweet that George liked, their upcoming travel plans, Sapnap’s mother, what color Dream’s hair is, and a handful of everything else under the sun.
Dream feels bubbly inside when George laughs with him. It feels extra special tonight, seeing him giggle with rosy cheeks, uninhibited and at ease in a public space. Both of them are usually so reserved during large events, politely friendly under the duress of being known, so tonight is a gift, just for the two of them.
“Hey,” Dream says after they’ve finished a delicious slice of cheesecake dessert. He nudges George’s foot under the table. “Are you tired?”
George yawns. “No.”
Dream smiles secretly, warmed by food and George’s company. “I’ll get the check for us.”
“I already paid,” George smirks, hiding another yawn. “Slipped the waiter my card earlier.”
“Wow,” Dream grins, chest glowing with something like love. “Should I feel special?”
“Never,” George says, but Dream can read the fondness under his words. On late nights like this, he doesn’t bother to conceal it under much more than that, and Dream decides that he should feel very special when George lets him see through him so transparently.
They walk out to the car, Florida stars shining down on them. It’s a perfect night, Dream thinks, head buzzing with the novelty of it. He doesn’t go out with George very often, both of them homebodies preferring to stay in, but tonight was perfect.
Dream feels alive again in a way that only George can give him. His edges feel fuzzy with affection, and he just barely holds himself back from capturing George in an embrace, instead walking closer for the excuse of brushing their hands together.
“Watch your step,” he says as they step off the curb, a hand coming to rest on George’s back. It feels surprisingly natural, and Dream leaves his hand there for a dizzying moment as they both step forward.
It’s almost comical how George stumbles on the curb, catching himself against Dream’s chest. Dream’s hand slips to George’s waist, stabilizing them both, and when George looks up at him with a silly grin, Dream almost loses his breath at how close they are.
“Oops,” George giggles.
“You’re— an idiot,” Dream answers weakly, his brain-to-mouth filter defaulting to the only thing he can think to say. The physicality of George in Florida still takes him by surprise sometimes, and it’s all he can do not to spill his heart on the floor of the parking lot.
“Yeah,” George agrees. He’s still pressed against Dream’s side. Dream’s mind is still not functioning.
“Let’s go home,” he offers, squeezing George’s waist once before extracting himself, watching as George trails after him, and tries not to think about how good it felt to have George tucked into his side.
“I’m tired,” George announces with a sigh when they reach the car, slipping into the passenger seat.
“I know,” Dream says. “Me too.”
He turns on the car, soothed by the thrum of the engine. George is already settling in, adjusting his seat back until he’s almost laying flat, and Dream aches to tell him how lovely he is.
“Hey, George,” he starts softly.
“Mm. Sleeping.”
“Sorry,” Dream says, pulling onto the road, sappy in the safe cocoon of night drives. “I just—thank you for dinner. It was really nice.”
“Good,” George replies, and when Dream chances a look at him, George’s eyes are cracked open, gazing at him. He smiles briefly when their eyes meet, tired and happy. “I—good.”
“Good,” Dream agrees, his hand finding George’s knee in the darkness.
It’s only nine p.m, but sleep is already dragging at his eyelids. He hasn’t felt content like this in a long time, good food in his stomach, surrounded by the people he loves. The road stretches out before him like a rainbow leading to a pot of gold and Dream almost wishes it would never end, just so that he could keep driving to the rhythm of George’s breathing, comforting and constant.
___
By the time they pull into the driveway, Dream is hovering on the edge of sleep.
Both of them stumble into the house, tired and weighed down by heavy limbs, unthinking as they crash onto the nearest soft surface together — Dream’s bed, because his room is on the ground floor, and George claims to be too tired to attempt climbing the stairs.
They curl around each other, unwilling to let the night end, and it’s mere minutes before Dream has his head in George’s lap. George’s fingers are carding through his hair, slow and gentle, shaking through his curls, fingertips fanned over his forehead delicately. Every time he passes a hand through Dream’s hair, a shiver goes down his spine, his skin prickling like dynamite and goosebumps all at once. Dream feels more liquid than human, shapes dissolving behind his closed eyelids as he sighs happily.
The air is heavy like a weighted blanket, and Dream has never felt safer than right now, wrapped up in his favorite person. Full of food and warmth and love, Dream isn’t afraid to admit to himself that George is more than his best friend. If he was lucid enough to be poetic, he would tell George that he glows brighter than a thousand moons, laughs prettier than a million sunrises.
“Mm,” Dream hums, eyes closed as he pushes his face into George’s palm. Sleep-drunk, he wishes that this kind of affection would slip from George’s hands every day, every hour, every minute. He wants this always. “More?”
“You’re like a cat,” George comments, running his nails over Dream’s head. Dream makes a soft noise, brain tingling at the attention.
“Patches,” he mumbles.
“Patches is a cat,” George confirms. “She doesn’t let me pet her like this, though.”
“Me,” Dream replies nonsensically, eyes still closed. The sentence fragments he gives as answers don’t make sense to anyone but George, who knows Dream inside and out, so intimately it scares him sometimes.
“Just because Patches sits in your lap doesn’t mean I’m not her favorite,” George translates petulantly, and Dream tries to hold back a rush of warmth when George rakes his hand through his curls. “Besides, I’m your favorite. You’re like— purring.”
“M’not,” Dream whines, already melting as George pets his hair again.
Sometimes it feels unfair that George’s hands hold all of Dream’s secrets, even the ones he hasn’t told anyone. But when George thumbs over the indent behind Dream’s ear so naturally it makes Dream tremble and press close, he thinks he doesn’t mind at all.
“You’re falling asleep,” George whispers, as gentle as the first snow.
“Your fault,” Dream slurs, cracking an eyelid to look up at him. He’s lovely like this, orange and pink and glowing with a sweetness that tastes like comfort. In the dim light, all of the shadows on George’s face look like smiles.
“You love it.”
“Yeah,” Dream concedes, too tired to play at flirting. He means it too much to pretend. “Sorry.”
Sorry for loving you too much. Sorry for loving you and being too afraid to say it out loud. Sorry for wishing that you loved me like the way you’re holding me right now.
“Don’t be,” George says softly, after a moment. “Don’t be sorry.”
“Okay,” Dream replies, and, just because he can, “sorry.”
“Idiot.” George shakes his head, and Dream closes his eyes, eased by the familiar fondness.
He drifts for a while, nose pressed to George’s thigh, letting the quiet rhythm of their breathing surround him while George scrolls on his phone. It almost feels like their old Discord calls — but this time, George’s noises aren’t just in his ear, but against his skin and in his hair, warm and real.
George inhales sharply, a breath that Dream barely hears. He doesn’t think anything of it until his fingers pause on Dream’s head, suspended mid-motion.
“More,” he whines softly, trying to get George to continue threading his fingers through his hair, “Please?”
George says nothing.
Dream feels a cold pit drop into his stomach when George extracts his hand from his curls, looking at his phone intently. Dream peels his eyes open, squinting against the lamplight as he tries to make out George’s face.
“George?”
“Mm?” A complicated expression passes over George’s face, like a cloud briefly eclipsing the sun. When he blinks again, he looks peaceful, nonchalant, unbothered. Dream swallows against the seeds of worry in his throat.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” George replies. There’s a sense of finality around him, but when he runs a hand through Dream’s hair again absently, Dream can’t help how quickly he calms at the touch. “Just remembered I need to edit my video tomorrow.”
“You’re not going to edit tomorrow,” Dream says, amused. “You’re going to get two minutes into the footage and then beg me to do it for you.”
“I should probably sleep,” George says distantly, still looking intently at his phone. “It’s late.”
Dream frowns, eyebrows drawing together. “Already?”
George nods silently.
“Here?” Dream asks quietly, allowing himself to be vulnerable. He doesn’t outright ask for affection often, but after an hour of dissolving under George’s touch, he’s too clingy to hold himself back from wanting more.
His chest burns with hope at the thought of George staying beside him, slipping under the covers and curling perfectly into the curve of each other’s bodies. He wants it constantly, carnally, heart aching like it’s almost starved for it, and when he meets George’s eyes, he can already see the answer.
“I’m going to go to bed, Dream,” George replies gently, and the butterfly under Dream’s ribs wilts like a dead flower. God.
It’s worse that he’s gentle, kind hands lifting Dream’s head from his lap as he slips out of bed. Dream lays on his side in the spot that George left, unmoving as he watches him collect himself and walk to the door, and wonders what he did so wrong that George looks like he’s trying to escape.
“Goodnight,” George says weakly, hovering in the doorway.
“Yeah,” Dream answers, aching, and then George is gone, no more than the slip of a shadow.
Dream exhales, deflating into the mattress. It tastes like he’s just eaten overripe strawberries, tangy toxic sweetness clinging to his mouth. George has that effect on him, sunflowers and beach days when he smiles at Dream, rain and crumbled laundry when he leaves, and Dream can feel the hollow pit eating at his insides. The light in the room, he once called George. Dream leans over to click off the bedside lamp, plunging into darkness.
He rolls over, feeling more alone than ever when he doesn’t brush up against George’s socks or legs or shorts, and closes his eyes. He pushes his face into the silhouette of George’s lingering warmth, and lays there until the bed grows cold.
___
Dream wakes up with a bad feeling.
The anxiety in his gut from last night seems to have festered, and his stomach lurches when he rolls over to grab his phone, squinting against the afternoon sunlight. His hands feel trembly in the way that they normally only do when he’s sick, and he absently checks his temperature with the back of his hand, wondering what disease he’s caught this time.
When he opens his phone, he feels sick for a whole new reason.
There’s a handful of texts from Sapnap; asking if he and George are okay, a whole string of question marks, and one that just says twitters going crazy bro.
There are no new messages from George.
Dream swallows. God knows he’s got an entire resume of drama and controversy under his belt, but it never gets easier to face. It was better before, when he was young and his hands were red with finger paint, but the years have worn him down. It strips him down to bone and sinew, scrolling and only finding pain and panic. There are days he can barely hold himself together, clinging to George and Sapnap like lifelines and wishing he could heal whatever hate that made people so cruel.
When he opens Twitter, he doesn’t have to look further than the trending page to find out what happened. In all caps, practically emblazoned in blue and green, are the words DNF IS REAL followed by CUTE DATE and DREAMS HAND.
Dream swallows. At least it’s not a hate post, he reassures himself, but trying to be positive, but when he clicks on the trend, his stomach immediately drops.
There’s a picture, terrifyingly incriminating, pixelated only by the amount of people that have reposted it. Dream’s chest feels cold when he notices it was posted twelve hours ago.
It was taken last night, he can tell. Dream barely remembers leaving the restaurant; it was dark and he wasn’t paying attention to anything besides George, but someone was there, paying attention to them.
He stares at himself, twelve hours younger and horribly in love with George.
His hand is tucked against George’s waist, and George is leaning into him, their shoulders overlapping. He’s looking down at George, inches separating their faces, and Dream can’t even deny how romantic it looks. They look… like a couple, completely at ease with each other, utterly infatuated.
His first thought is that they look good together.
His second thought is George.
Dream tears his eyes away from the picture, telling himself that the feeling roiling in his gut is panic. He pushes himself out of bed, not bothering to get dressed. George has seen him at his highest and lowest; he won’t mind if Dream shows up in boxers and a t-shirt, not when it’s about something as important as this.
He’s down the hallway in less than a minute. George’s office door is opened just enough for Patches to slip through if she wanted, and Dream’s heart squeezes as he knocks gently to let himself in.
“George,” he starts, “are you– can we talk?”
“I could have been streaming, idiot,” George replies, slipping his headphones off. His gaze flicks over to Dream briefly, pointedly avoiding Dream’s eyes, and Dream’s heart sinks. “You could wear clothes, you know.”
“I just woke up,” Dream mumbles, touching his bed head self consciously. “Um. Have you seen Twitter?”
“I have, actually,” George drawls, “it’s a little app with a blue bird on it, lives right on my homescreen.”
Dream squirms uncomfortably. George is being difficult today. Dream supposes it’s justified, given the way their private evening was broadcasted to the entire internet without their consent, and he suddenly feels singularly guilty for the way he had held George’s waist. “You don’t have to be a dick about it, George.”
“About what?”
“You know,” Dream says, finally making direct eye contact with him.
George stares back, unflinching. “What do I know, Dream?”
“You’re so—” Dream makes a frustrated noise, hands itching with nervous energy. “The picture, George. The picture of us from last night where we’re— we’re— together that has the entire internet convinced that we’re dating!”
“They already think that,” George replies, turning back to his computer.
“But this is different,” Dream stresses, frantic to get some kind of response from George, something to make him feel like they’re in this together and it’s not just Dream losing his mind over the implications of a relationship they’ve skirted around for years. George makes a sound like he’s been punched. “How are you not freaking out even a little?”
“Because it’s you,” George bursts out, “that’s what comes with lov— with living with you, and being your best friend. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people will always try and pry into our personal lives, and assume things about you, and me.” He exhales sharply. “You’re like— the face of modern Minecraft, or whatever, so maybe think about that before you go and grab my waist or something.”
Dream reels back, eyes wide. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Just something to get used to,” George mumbles.
Fuck. He knows George and Sapnap are affected by the hate that Dream gets; he’s seen them condemned for everything from his MCC performances to the server that he created for the world. He’s always taken the brunt of it, but maybe that’s not enough, if George feels uncomfortable around him, walking in the shameful shadow of fame that Dream leaves everywhere he goes. His stomach twists unnaturally, sick with the thought of dragging his friends into his own messes.
“I’m sorry,” he tries, suddenly feeling very small and exposed in his wrinkled pajamas.
“You’re fine,” George replies, staring straight at his computer. Dream stares at him, as if analyzing the angle of George’s curls will help him understand what’s going on inside his head. He doesn’t feel fine, the situation doesn’t feel fine, not when George seems set on ignoring the conversation he’s trying to have.
“What… um, what should we do?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Dream,” George says, clipped. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”
“Oh,” Dream whispers, horrified to feel his throat starting to ball up with tears. You do care, he wants to scream at George, you care so much that you can’t even put words to it. He doesn’t know how to fix this anymore. He doesn’t know how to not be Dream, which seems to be the root of everything that’s gone wrong.
Dream can’t say anything without controversy, his words and opinions no more than pocket change in a debate rigged against his character. But Dream also loves Minecraft, loves his friends, loves George more than anything. How can he separate himself from all that? How does he begin to belong in a world tugging him between hope and hate every twelve hours?
“I’m going to edit my video now,” George says, pulling Dream back to the present moment. “So—”
“Yeah,” Dream clears his throat. He knows a dismissal when he hears one, but it hurts to hear it from George, his George, the man who’s sat with him through countless editing sessions just for the sake of being together. “Yeah, I can—I’ll see you later, George.”
Dream can’t even think as he leaves George’s office, too busy trying to contain the lump in his throat. He feels stupid, wearing his stupid pajamas, opening his stupid mouth, talking to George about that stupid picture. He blinks rapidly, eyes blurry with imminent tears, and flees.
Somehow, he ends up in George’s bedroom.
His breath hitches, staring at George’s bed, swallowing a sob. His chest is hollow with an ache that only George can fill, but George is… well—unavailable. Dream curses his feet for bringing him here, to George’s second skin, sheets and pillows that he can already feel enveloping him in a phantom hug. God, it’s pathetic how much he needs this. Would it be too much of a transgression to slip beneath the covers?
When he shudders with another choked sob that finally tips the tears over his cheeks, he decides he doesn’t care anymore.
George’s sheets are cold, but Dream can’t even begin to complain as he sinks into the mattress, wrapping himself in blankets like he’s trying to mummify himself. It smells like George here, clean and slightly earthy, and if Dream pretends really really hard, he can almost imagine George laying beside him. He presses his nose into the silk pillowcases he gifted George for Christmas, and lets himself cry.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers wetly, to nobody at all. He twists his arms across his stomach, holding his own waist in a sickly imitation of a hug as he rocks back and forth. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, exactly. He doesn’t care. Sorry is just his default for when he feels like shit, a routine that eases the panic inside, as if he can absolve the world of its problems by accepting them all as his own.
He inhales shakily, bringing a hand up to the wetness smeared across his cheek. He drags a finger through it, mesmerized by his own sadness. He has never been scared before of what being this high-profile might do to their relationship. He thinks of George, reserved and private, cards kept close to his chest, and then himself, wild and lovesick and destructive . A simple touch could jeopardize everything, and Dream shudders to think that George might not want to ever touch him again.
He could give George a million dollars, a private jet, his favorite brand of chocolate — but he can’t guarantee him privacy. The moments where Dream’s voice gets soft and George’s voice gets softer deserve to be theirs, and Dream blinks free more tears as he thinks about being stripped of his ability to love George.
No fame could ever be worth that.
“George,” he croaks, like a reflex; out of his mouth before it’s on the tip of his tongue. And that’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Dream can’t contain the way he loves.
He doesn’t know how long he stays there, curled up in George’s bed, running through every iteration of last night like it’s a piece of buggy code to fix. The picture burns behind his closed eyelids, a perfect memory souring in real time, and Dream aches, twisting his fingers in George’s sheets anxiously.
He knows the tired snappiness in George’s face is reflected in his own, exhausted by the weight of publicity, but there’s something about the way that George rebuffed him that leaves Dream utterly lost. Their relationship is a balancing act, as strong as steel yet as delicate as snow, suddenly blown open by a sickly kind of truth.
Dream closes his eyes, skin prickling as he pulls the blankets close. He feels disgustingly exposed, as if it’s criminal to love George, and that thought hurts more than anything as tears carve a canyon down his cheeks.
He’s so absorbed in his own heartache he doesn’t even hear the door swing open, only alerted by a channel of light from the hallway falling across the bed sheets, but by then it’s already too late.
“You’re in my bed.”
George.
“Sorry,” Dream murmurs, chest stinging all over again. He sits up awkwardly, pulling his knees to his chest and trying to surreptitiously clean his face of tears before George can see.
“Dream,” George makes a wounded noise, and the bed dips under his weight. “Why are you in my bed?”
“Missed you,” Dream whispers, unsure what he’s allowed to say. The last thing he wants to do is scare George away again.
George is silent for a moment. “Okay,” he replies finally.
“Should I still miss you?” Dream asks softly, words close to his chest. Maybe if he loves more quietly, in a dark room with no expectations or cameras, everything will be okay again.
“No,” George replies haltingly, stopping himself like he’s afraid to say more, and Dream wavers nervously.
George takes a breath, and tries again. “I brought you frozen mango.”
Dream’s breath catches. “George,” he breathes.
He still can’t look at him, but George’s fingers brush over his hair like an olive branch, the bowl of mango sitting on the nightstand. Dream knows George doesn’t like to say it in so many words, but this is an apology in his own way; I’m sorry for yelling earlier as George thumbs over his hairline, I’m sorry that the world is so cruel to you with Dream’s favorite fruit as a peace offering, I’m sorry that I don’t have the words for what you mean to me.
Dream reaches for the mango like a lifeline.
George gives it to him, unquestioning, their hips slotted together, and it feels so natural, even though they’re still floating in the uncertainty between friends and something more. Dream thinks there’s something about George that will forever soothe his heart, and the word soulmates passes through his mind, a ghost of the forevers yet to come.
The ice-frosted mango thaws in his mouth, extra sweet.
___
Dream wakes up the next morning with eye crusties.
In another life adjacent to his own, George would brush them away, palms cupping the sides of Dream’s face as he erases all the hurt that has spilled down his cheeks. He would kiss the top of Dream’s head, and then his lips, and say g’morning with a sleepy, honeyed smile that sends butterflies down to Dream’s toes.
Dream blinks down the fluttering in his chest and scrubs underneath his eyes. He’s alone, though still in George’s bed, and he can feel a spot of lingering warmth next to him, where George slept last night. The bowl of mango they shared sits empty on the nightstand.
Slowly, he peels himself out of bed, unused to the layout of George’s room. Usually, when they spend nights together, they share Dream’s room, and he’s secretly thrilled to wake up in George’s space. Even the sunlight streaming through the window feels intimate, like it’s George’s sunlight that’s decorating his arms in gold.
Dream stumbles over to the closet, greedy. There’s something invigorating about experiencing George’s routine as his own, and Dream stares at the hoodies tossed haphazardly on the shelves, affection clinging to his bones. He takes one, holding it against himself as if to virtually try it on.
Mine and yours burn in his throat as he plays with the edge of one sleeve. He already knows that it would fit, because George likes to buy his clothes oversized so he can drown in them.
Dream thinks he might already be drowning in George.
He slips the hoodie on without a second thought, immediately comforted by the warmth of being enveloped by his favorite person. The hollowness in his chest eases, enough that he decides to keep the hoodie on as he ventures down to the kitchen. He doesn’t quite know what their relationship means now, after the picture, after the mango, but he needs George to know how deeply he is loved.
He finds George in the kitchen, making toaster waffles.
“Hi,” George says without turning around.
“How’d you know it was me?” he asks, hovering behind the countertop.
“I know your footsteps,” George shrugs, like that's a normal thing to say. Dream supposes it is; George knows him more thoroughly than anyone else on the planet.
“What else do you know?” Dream smiles.
“I know,” George says, rolling the words under his tongue, “that you are a blanket hog.”
“No, I’m not,” Dream protests immediately, falling into the familiar push of pull of their dialogue, ignoring that George knows him at his most vulnerable, most uninhibited. It used to be terrifying, just how much George sees him, but after their world was picked apart by a single picture, it feels right that it’s George. He only wants it to be George; he wouldn’t trust anyone else with his mind, body, and soul.
“You so do,” George scoffs, turning around with a plate in each hand. “Look, I’m a chef!”
“A chef,” Dream laughs, infected by George’s exuberance. Little by little, he can feel the hollows in his heart sealing up, healed by the safety of the two of them in their little home.
Patches brushes by his feet, winding around his ankles as she meows, and Dream’s heart glows again. She pads over to the patio door, pushing her face into the sunlight peeking through a crack.
“Do you want to go outside, Patchy?” Dream coos, getting a purr in response as he reaches down to pet her.
“We can eat outside,” George offers. “It’s a nice morning. Sunny.”
“Mm,” Dream hums, heart pounding at the fact that George implicates him in his morning routine. We.
He feels oddly on display under George’s gaze as they walk outside, as if he’s being studied for a portrait, and he tries to arrange himself attractively, even though George has already seen him tear-stricken and messy.
“That’s my hoodie,” George says finally.
I’m yours, Dream desperately wants to say, fidgeting with the sleeves. He takes a bite of his waffle. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” George replies.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” George nods, looking over him again, and Dream might be delusional, but he thinks George’s cheeks carry a tinge of pink. His chest swells with a wave of hope, and he gives George a tiny smile, wistful.
“It’s really pretty today,” Dream comments, sun spilling over his lap. He nudges at a flower growing between the cracks in the pavement. They don’t use the patio often enough, and he suddenly aches at the abundance of nature before him, grasses and plants and trees sprawling across the yard like overgrown love.
Dream wants to bask in the greenery of it all, watching the leaves sway peacefully as the earth breathes, ancient and unassuming. There’s a privacy to the pace of nature, gentle and slow and unhurried, that rips the air from his lungs. He feels like he’s just discovered something that his heart has hoarded from him for ages, yearning with the weight of a million blue skies.
“I like it here,” George says suddenly. When Dream looks over, he’s looking up at the world too, brown eyes alight with warmth. “Let’s just stay here forever.”
“Forever,” Dream echoes, reveling in the security of it. The trees seem to bend in agreement.
“Yeah.” George takes a deep breath, “Here, you can put your arm around me a thousand times and nobody gets to see. It’s just… ours.”
“George,” Dream says gently, breathless. He feels like he’s made of sunshine. “What do you mean?”
“I get to love you, here,” George says quietly.
Dream’s world spins. HIs mind is a disco ball catching lakes of green light, leaves blurring as his eyes sharpen down to George, just George, sitting beside him with flushed cheeks and a confession that tastes like mangos at midnight.
“You love me?” Dream murmurs, awed.
“I thought you knew that,” George says, fully blushing now.
“How would I know?”
“When I asked you out to dinner, and you said yes,” George answers, toeing the ground, “before someone exposed our first date to the entire internet.”
“I’m sorry,” Dream murmurs. He suddenly feels stupid, regretful of taking so much without even asking. He rubs George’s palm between his fingers, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful about loving you then.”
“It’s fine,” George mutters. "It doesn't matter."
They’re very close now, almost breathing the same air. George’s hand trails up Dream’s arm, sending goosebumps racing up his spine and electricity fizzing through his fingertips.
“This does,” Dream says, and he leans forward until the space between them shrinks to nothing.
He has the striking thought that their first kiss— their first kiss— is theirs, unashamedly and undoubtedly. They’re kissing, in the backyard of the house that they bought together, alone with nothing but each other and slips of green nature.
George sighs into his mouth, soft, and Dream’s whole face tingles with it. They’ve fought the world for this moment, but there’s no more fight left; all that’s left is warmth and love and peace, and Dream melts as George threads a hand behind his neck, holding him close.
“You don’t belong there,” George mutters against his lips, possessive. “You don’t belong to them. You just belong to me.”
“Yours,” Dream agrees helplessly. The weight of it feels like freedom, and he shudders with the endlessness of it all. A thousand different names run through his head, baby darling beloved my angel my light, and yet the only thing he can say is, “George. George, God, I never want to stop kissing you.”
“Then don’t,” George replies, kissing him again.
Dream immediately yields to it, chest burning with enough endearment to rival the sun. He clings to George, hands tangled in the front of his shirt and mouth messy with love. A simple morning of grass and new blooms has undone the hollowness in his chest, replaced by honeysuckle firsts.
“George,” he pants, “George.”
“Love me here,” George says, ever-demanding, tipping his forehead to Dream’s with a smile, scanning their yard with a precious possessiveness. His eyes crinkle, rivers of blue and green, sky and trees. “Love me home.”
And when Dream surges forward, spoiled by sunshine and safety and George’s knees knocking against his own, he can’t think of anything better than loving George out loud.