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George leaves the phone back on the bedside table and face plants into one of the pillows. “They’re getting married.”
It’s two in the morning. Just a few minutes ago, George was telling Dream about a new game he found online. He sounded rather excited. He was about to brag about how he’d beaten Sapnap at it earlier when his sister called.
Dream assumed he’d leave the room to pick up or something, but he didn’t. He rolled around in the spot he claimed in Dream’s bed, and he had that one look on his face—the one that means that he’s paying attention to whatever’s going on.
Right now, though, he just seems defeated.
Dream shifts in his place, turning towards him. “Oh,” he says, arching his brows. “Congratulations to her.”
George groans as an only response. His face is stuck to the mattress, making him look silly. Dream likes it when they do this—stay in each other’s bedrooms until the sun peeks out, until it casts shadows across their faces and breaks the darkness they hide amidst.
He likes it and he fears it, sometimes. Right now, it’s mostly the latter.
Dream pokes one of George’s cheeks with his finger. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and George peers at him like he should know already. Like he’s mad Dream didn’t read his mind instead of asking. Dream flashes him a cheeky smile. “I thought you just didn’t understand marriage, not that you were actively against it.”
“That’s not—” George rolls his eyes to the best of his ability, brows knitted, lips quirked down. “Idiot. I’m not against it, I just— dunno. She’s getting married.” Dream nods. “I guess I didn’t expect it to— to happen so soon.”
Dream hums, sliding down in the bed. He intertwines his own fingers, resting his hands on his stomach, giving into its slow rise and fall. He asks, “how long have they been dating for?”
George counts in his head. Then, he answers, “I dunno. Like— five, six years.”
“Six— George.” Dream laughs and something shifts. Suddenly, he feels the weight of all the love he stores within him fall on his shoulders. Colonizing, deeply rooted. More than six years’ worth. “That’s more than reasonable. I’d—” He scoffs. “That’s fine, that’s not too soon.”
George hums in acknowledgment. Dream lets it die out, along with everything else. He lets it float away.
He should clean his room. He’d find dust bunnies and half sentences all over the place. Getting rid of it wouldn’t be too easy, but he must do it, lest they rot. It’d be such a mess. It might not be worth it.
“What were you gonna say?” George asks after a few seconds have gone by, catching Dream red-handed. His tongue was playing with the words he didn’t say but didn’t swallow, either. He bites the inside of his cheek instead. “You stopped yourself,” George accuses. “You’d what?”
“I’d—” Dream takes a breath, chuckling shakily. “Well, I’d probably propose before that.” He looks at George, who’s already looking at him, his eyes attentive. “Six years, that’s like— a long time. I’d probably propose after— I dunno, two or three years, depending on the person. Six is not too soon.”
George turns to lay on his side, and Dream mirrors his position. The bed is big but they don’t seem to notice. They never do. There’s this force tugging them closer. It’s always been there. It feels more powerful when they’re here, when they’re alone.
“I keep forgetting that you’re crazy about marriage,” George says, sliding his hand under his own face, looking at Dream through his lashes. It’s cruel, in a way. More so when he says, “I guess I just don’t get it.”
It’s déjà vu. Dream remembers a conversation on a night just like this, except that they were on a couch in the West Coast and the words echoed across an empty house they couldn’t call home yet.
It’s this time of day that makes them go there. It’s a risky hour. Dream is bolder after the clock strikes two. George is too, in his own way.
He’s been thinking about it more recently. He’s not sure why. It’s the half-sentences, maybe, sneaking in to haunt him. Coming back to bite him. They have less space now that there’s two people on this bed. They can’t move freely.
If he thinks about it hard enough, Dream swears he hears the words ‘future’ and ‘relationship’ and ‘marriage’ bouncing off the walls. The problem is he and George are close now. That the door is locked, so they can’t get away.
So George should be able to hear them too.
“I don’t get it,” George had said, and mere seconds later, Dream was laying out his heart and soul on the coffee table like it was nothing, putting a name to things that, until then, he’d never dared mention.
“You become one,” Dream answered, among other things. He looked down at his hand like he could picture a gold band around his ring finger, like he could envision the life he’d have if he wasn’t such a coward. “You share everything. You choose each other for the rest of your lives.”
George put his hands in his pockets. Dream sees it now, that he was trying to hide from the very same thing Dream was chasing after. “It sounds nice,” he whispered, regardless. “It just doesn’t make sense to me. I don’t see—”
Dream blinks slowly, letting the memory slip away. “What don’t you get?”
“People put so much meaning to things,” George says, shrugging. They’ve talked about this too. How words can be big. Monumental. “Marriage and love and—”
Dream cuts him off. “But you love love.”
“But it’s different. The way I see it.” George turns to lay on his back and Dream is left staring at his side profile. A blush on his cheeks, the curve of his nose. He looks pretty. It’s not a novelty. “Take being in love, for example. People— they live that differently than I would.”
Words hold power. All that Dream hears is that George has thought about it. About living, loving. What he’d do, what he wouldn’t.
He thinks George would like company. He’s the kind of person who loves by being. Asking for advice and giving it back, thinking in silence. The part of love that’s hidden, that thrives in the shadows, in privacy, even secrecy.
In dusty rooms, maybe.
It’s not a bad thing. Dream doesn’t think it’s a bad thing, but maybe that’s what George was thinking about when he said that people live love differently. More openly.
He’s not built like that, and to this day, Dream is still trying to convince him that it’s okay. That he gets it. That his love doesn’t have to be out in the open, for it’s bright enough to break through whatever cage George thinks he’s putting it in.
“I wish we could just—” George sighs, clicking his tongue. He moves his hands in the air, like urging his thoughts to leave him alone. “I dunno, talk about those things without, like— without them having so many implications.”
Dream plays with ‘we’. In this context, he can’t be sure of what George means. We, as a society, or we— “We can,” he says, taking a guess, taking a chance. “If you want.”
“What?” George asks, curious.
Dream simply shrugs. “Pretend that words don’t mean anything,” he explains. Then, he breaks. “And talk about love.”
George hums. He stops to think about it for a moment, poking his tongue out between his teeth. Dream wants to say what he feels without worrying about the baggage his words may carry. He’d like to explain them to George as though he’s never heard them in his life.
He can almost see the way George rids himself of all that sick, twisted prejudice. The weight of years of history and comments that are sharp enough to kill. Dream stares at him as he breathes, letting it go, and wonders what will prevail.
“What’s it like?” George asks, finally, without looking at him. “When you love someone?”
They’re about to mess with the very delicate foundations of who they truly are, Dream realizes. He imagines what will be left when all is said and done, when all is gone. There’s a promise, somewhere. There’s whatever waits for them in their future and romance colored gray. It wilts and it vanishes, and then they’re naked, just like that.
Dream lets it happen, jumping headfirst.
“Well, if you must know,” Dream says, turning too, because he may be strong, but he can’t bear to look at George as he confesses, “I’m— in love with you, I think.”
It takes George a minute. Dream didn’t realize he’d been moving until suddenly he was still, facing the ceiling, letting his eyes wander. Dream basks in the emptiness of it all as he pleads in silence. Ask me why, he thinks. Forget everything you know. Ask me what it means to me.
“You think?” George repeats, breathing deeply through his nose. Keeping composure. Dream melts into the mattress. “Why?”
“It’s like—” he starts, picking the word apart. In love. He remembers the way it felt to acknowledge it. To realize that maybe it didn’t have to be so life-changing. “The way I feel about your, like, personality. Or when you’re with me. It’s— it feels a lot like being in love.”
George does turn now, sliding his hands under the pillow, stealing the memory from Dream’s head. “Is that what you meant— when you said ‘friends you’re in love with—’”
“As a person,” Dream completes, “yeah. It’s not even in like— in like an ‘I wanna be with you’ kinda way. It just feels like love. Like being in love.”
“But you’re not in love with me,” George argues, like he could possibly know better. “Not in, like, the normal way.”
Dream puckers his lips, chewing on a smile. “We’re not talking in the normal way, though.”
For a second, just the one, Dream feels like he can say ‘I love you’ a thousand times over and it won’t be as catastrophic as usual. George will think it’s less but what he means is more. More, because the way in which he loves George isn’t normal. It isn’t logical.
It’s all-consuming.
George, for his part, practices patience. “So you’re in love with me but— you don’t wanna be with me.”
It’s not a question. Dream still feels like he owes him an answer. “I don’t really know how to explain it,” he says. His heart grows insistent. That love, that flame, is so ingrained into his body that he doesn’t feel its presence anymore. He doesn’t fear it like he should. “Just— we’re soulmates, right? Do you believe in that?”
George shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe.” From the corner of his eye, Dream notices that he’s averted his gaze. He fidgets with the blankets. “Like— I think that— if soulmates are real— we must be, right? Like it’s— it must be this. If that’s a thing.”
Dream thinks of the ocean, boundless. He thinks of how he managed to see George through the haze, through distance and water. Now George is right here, and he doesn’t even try to see him though the charged air and the symptoms of his everlasting infatuation. He’s always been better at hiding, at running away.
Today, he doesn’t feel so lenient.
“Yeah,” he agrees. ”Yeah, I think so too.” He makes a pause, then adds, “I do believe in soulmates though. I think that— there’s people you’re just bound to—”
“Fall in love with,” George completes, and it seems so simple. Unavoidable. “If you meet them. I— you said that once.”
Dream hums under his breath. Even back then, he had no idea what it would come down to. That he was already too far gone. “It’s pretty much how I feel about it.”
“So—” George clears his throat, lowering his voice, becoming softer. “When you met me, did you already know you’d fall in love with me?”
There’s only so much he can unmask. There’s a difference between telling George that he’s in love with him and telling him when I met you, I didn’t even know what love was. I still don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d base it on what I’ve learned with you. It’s the closest thing I’ll ever have.
The kind of connection they have can’t be replicated. There’s a room in Dream’s heart built exclusively for him. That one’s clean. That one stores all the good things—the secrets and late night conversations just like this one.
Dream’s future looked so bright from his parents’ house, mere minutes after he held George’s hand through a screen and swore to never let go. And then they jumped, and they blew up, and they’ve been here ever since.
Dream wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I dunno,” Dream says, but he’s smiling because he remembers it like it was yesterday—to be young and hopeful, to have the world at his feet. “I should’ve.”
George rests his chin on an upraised arm, looking down at Dream from his side of the bed. “You should’ve?”
“I was, like— I was definitely, like, drawn to you,” Dream explains, finally breaking under the pressure and turning to meet George’s eyes. “Like I just wanted your— attention or whatever. Your approval. All the time.” George smiles. He must remember feeling it, too. Dream’s craving for his time. “Guess I just wanted you to see me.”
George sees him now. His smile reaches his eyes and a blush dusts over his cheeks, and he sees him. He sees the unnamed feelings slow dancing with the words they’ve just deprived of meaning. Empty shells and broken distance; all perfused with the sound of the ocean.
It shakes George’s world to the ground. “Is that what being in love is?”
Dream sucks in a breath, unsure of how to answer. It’s not like he knows himself. Not like he can actually tell George how he feels about it right now. He needs him to let go, to stop looking for alternatives.
Dream’s been there before, grasping at straws, trying his best to understand. “Y’know? I— actually googled it once,” he says and then scoffs, mocking himself. George doesn’t laugh, so he continues. “I googled, like— I know what people think that being in love is and what it, like, implies. But—”
“You googled it?” George asks, but he’s not judging him. Maybe it’s his turn to wait for someone who’ll give him the answers. Dream’s been down that road, and it didn’t turn out great. This may be different. Them, here, together… it could be different. “What did it say?”
“It said, um— it’s a sense of euphoria when— when you see that person,” he answers, staring straight into George’s eyes, telling his heart to chill. “It’s, uh— missing them when they’re gone. Even if they’ve been gone for, like, a minute. Imagining a future with them and always taking their feelings and point of view into consideration.”
“Hm.” George sighs, letting himself fall again, still looking at Dream’s face. Dream would swear he’s closer. It certainly feels like it when he says, “maybe you are in love with me, then.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” It’s Dream who turns on his side now, and yes, George is definitely closer. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss. “I’m always happy to see you. I always wanna be with you. We— quite literally built a life together. This house. Our jobs,” Dream says, so it doesn’t disappear. George nods along, closing his fist around the sheets, holding on tight. “And I’ve already told you there’s no one’s opinion I value more than yours, so.”
“So,” George completes, “you’re in love with me. And we’re soulmates. And you want my attention all the time.”
The tone is teasing, but the smile that shapes George’s sentences is genuine. Dream suddenly feels the weight of what he’s doing. Of what he started. He and George are breathing in the same air and the room is big, but the space between them has never felt smaller.
Dream could move a finger and bump into him. He could reach out a hand and simply go through him, like a ghost. He gapes, unsure of what he’s supposed to do next.
“I just—” he breathes out, unable to take the olive branch George is offering and choosing to follow his heart instead. “I don’t think I could ignore you in a room full of people even if I tried.”
George likes that. His breath hitches and his lips part, but just from the look on his face, Dream can tell that he really has nothing to say. He knows they’ve been there. They’ve been at parties and meetings and all sorts of social situations and Dream has never left his side.
They’re one, when it comes down to it. Everyone knows it.
“I’m just drawn to you,” Dream says, shrugging. George simply nods, taking it all in. “I still am, after— however many years.”
“Eight,” George says quickly, letting one of his hands fall in between them. Suddenly, ‘six years’ has lost meaning, too. “Eight years. You’ve been obsessed with me for eight years.”
Dream tsks. “I didn’t say obsessed.”
“You said in love,” he argues, and he says it in a way that has Dream finding his eyes almost immediately, worried he might’ve crossed a line. What he finds isn’t fear, but something different. Something he doesn’t recognize. George tries and fails to hide it. “You told me you’re in love with me, I’m just—” He sighs. “I’m just trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with it.”
“You’re not supposed to do anything,” Dream says, pulling away. One second later, George’s fingers are curled around his shirt, bringing him close again. Closer than before. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing. Only God knows where it’ll end. “You don’t— George, you don’t have to do anything. I’m just telling you.”
“Just telling me.” George repeats, choked out, tugging harder. Dream has half the mind not to give in, not to tell him to just ask whatever he’s thinking so they can let this go. George, however, has a different plan. “You’re telling me that you love me. And that you don’t wanna be with me.”
Dream frowns. “I didn’t say that. I said I’m in love with you regardless of whether I’m with you or not,” Dream admits, and it’s a different confession entirely. “Like— I dunno. The way I see it, they’re— different things. I’m not telling you that I wanna be with you, I’m telling you that I’m in love with you.”
George shakes his head, hiking himself up higher. Dream’s frown deepens as he looks at him, at the way he lays by Dream’s side like it’s nothing, digging holes into his soul.
He wants to be with George, of course, but that wasn’t the point of the conversation. By the looks of it, it never will be.
“You’re contradicting yourself,” George mumbles, facing the ceiling one more time. Dream stares blankly at him, gaze heavy on the side of his face. “You’re telling me that you’re in love with me but that doesn’t mean that you wanna be with me and that you’re not saying you don’t wanna be with me.” He winces and shakes his head, then laughs bitterly under his breath. “It— it just doesn’t make sense.”
To Dream it does, is the thing. He searches for more useful words in some hidden corner of his mind. It feels like he’s lost them in a mess of papers and roots and unfinished ideas. Of pictures and memories. Of George, George, George.
“How’s this?” Dream asks, bracing himself. “I love you,” he repeats, and he finds it in himself to pull at George’s shirt so that he can look into his eyes this time. There’s no coming back from what he’s about to say, but it’s not like he didn’t just tell George that he’s in love with him, anyway. In for a penny, in for a pound. “If I’m not with you, it doesn’t make me love you any less. I’m in love with you for the sake of it.”
What George does can’t be really cataloged as an answer. He gapes and he shifts in place, angling his body with Dream’s, but he doesn’t talk. He simply lets his eyes drift down Dream’s face for a second so brief Dream almost misses it. Almost.
“I’d love you if you were in London,” Dream continues, lowering his voice and letting surprise seep into his tone. Surprise that he’s finally putting these feelings into words. Surprise that George is actually listening, that he’s not running away. “I’d love you if you didn’t live with me and I’d love you if we never got together. I’d still love you, so— no, I don’t love you in an ‘I wanna be with you’ kinda way. I love you because—” He shrugs, flashing a soft smile. “Because it’s who I am. I don’t care if we’re not together.”
George’s hand twitches once, twice. He looks down at it with his brows knitted and his face so pink Dream would worry if he wasn’t already too occupied with the way his own heart races inside his chest. It’s so loud against his ribs. It’s screaming, begging for someone to listen.
George listens.
George looks up again, tilting his head to the side. He speaks slowly, like he’s putting the words together in real time. “You don’t love marriage just ‘cause you love marriage but— because you like the idea of loving someone so much that it makes you want to share everything with them?”
Dream wouldn’t say that he likes the idea of marriage. He’s just always wanted to get married. He’s always wanted a partner and a house in the suburbs and kids running around and a white picket fence.
Then again, he remembers that they’re letting go of implications today. And marriage, in and of itself, doesn’t really mean anything. Not to George, at least.
“Yeah,” he answers, “I guess— probably, yeah.” George breaks a knowing smile that Dream can’t quite read. It’s like he won an argument of some kind, but it doesn’t feel right. Not when Dream just confessed to things he never thought he’d ever be brave enough to spell out. “But what does that have to do with—”
“Well, then that’s what I don’t get.” George leans forward until Dream sees gold in his eyes, his smile bright enough to blind him. “‘Cause you said you’re in love with me, right?” he checks and Dream nods, heated. “And you talked about being one and sharing, like, everything. And wanting to spend the rest of your life with someone.” Dream nods again, slower, frowning. George finally asks, “so what’s the difference? You said, like, basically the same things, but then you said you don’t wanna be with me.”
“I didn’t—” Dream huffs, trying to fall backwards, but George pulls at his clothes again, keeping him still. He forces him to stay lost, to not leave his eyes. That’s where Dream finds it. That’s when he thinks.
He thinks and he realizes that maybe, just maybe, George is onto something. That being married and being in love aren’t all that different to him, when it comes down to it. When they can actually play with it.
When it comes to him and George.
And George must see it in his face, because he props himself up excitedly, letting one of his soft hands rest on Dream’s arm, much less self-conscious than he’d usually be, than Dream would expect.
Touching is different. They don’t really touch on purpose. Dream wraps his arms around his waist, sometimes, in the middle of the night. When they wake up, they only break apart when they’re done pretending to be asleep. George sleeps longer and Dream knows when to stop drawing figures on his skin to not be called out for it.
He thinks George knows, though, what his touch does to Dream. He must. He must notice the way Dream’s attention belongs to him entirely when they’re touching. When their fingers brush in the kitchen, when their thighs are pressed together on the couch during movie nights.
When George looks at him like this as the night begins to bleed into morning, and smiles like Dream just told him he’d be bringing the moon down for him.
In a way, he supposes he did. Just now, he did.
“But you can be in love with someone and not want to marry them,” George argues again, but there’s a special kind of glimmer in his eyes. One that’s usually reserved for that very specific moment when they figure out a code that’s been keeping them awake for weeks. “You said that we have that, that we— that we share stuff and built a life together and we’re not married but you are in love with me. So we don’t need that, we—”
There’s only so many times Dream can look past it. “We?”
George squeezes Dream’s arm and he’s so excited, so cheerful, so hopeful, even. It does something to Dream’s body—something no amount of money can buy.
“You’re saying that you’re in love with me because we have all the things you once told me marriage gives you,” George says. Dream gapes but he can’t bring himself to speak with George’s hand still on him, with the way he’s leaning in so close that he’s basically on top of him. “But we’re not married,” George reminds him, “and you have them already. We have them.”
A house, a life. Dream has always told himself that he has George in all the ways that matter. They discuss the things they know and learn together the ones they don’t. He has his company, his presence. He has his jokes, his help, his advice.
It always seemed greedy to want anything else. To want him in his bed more often, to want his lips, his hand, his heart in full.
“It just doesn’t make sense to me,” George said. “I don’t see how you need to get married to, like— have that.”
Dream didn’t get it at the time.
He thinks he does now.
“I don’t understand what you want with me,” George whispers, and Dream realizes that, at some point, he took George’s free hand in his. That his mouth has run dry, that his heart is racing. That they’re so, so far past the point where this conversation was supposed to end.
Now Dream isn’t so sure anymore. Now, it looks like they’re building towards the very destination Dream thought he was supposed to steer clear from.
“Y’know, when—” George adds, clearing his throat. “I don’t even think you realized but when you explained marriage to me you just— you kind of described our relationship and I thought I was making it up. But now you’re telling me that you’re in love with me but you don’t wanna be with me and—”
Finally, Dream snaps. “I do wanna be with you,” he says, and George, beautiful George, with his fingers laced with Dream’s and not an inch of space between them, has the audacity to be taken aback by it. “Of course I wanna be with you, stop saying that. I—”
Dream trails off and George insists, “what?” He squeezes Dream’s hand subconsciously, shaking him lightly, begging for a little more. Just a little more. “You what? Just— please, just say whatever you want to say.”
Dream hesitates, but George breathes out his name and it’s all the strength he needs to let the walls inside him fall, to let his feelings run rampant once and for all.
“I want everything with you,” Dream swears, with George’s eyes so close to him, with a sweet smile growing on his lips. “George, that’s what being in love is. We can pretend all you want to but I am in love with you. I love you in the conventional way and in every way I know and I wanna be with you and I wanna marry you and I want a life with you, idiot, I—”
George puts a hand over Dream’s mouth, shutting him up. He’s beaming, joy dancing in his eyes, bubbling out of him so freely. He leans forward and their noses brush and he’s there. Dream could seriously cry from how good it feels to let it all out once and for all. To let his thoughts loose.
Slowly, George lets him go. He cups Dream’s face too, holding him so sweetly, like a lover, in a way he never did before. It’s when Dream feels it the most—when it feels more real, more alive inside of him.
He wants to say ‘I love you’ again. Again and again, all over again, until George can’t hear it anymore. Filled to the brim with meaning, with implications. Nothing empty, nothing incomplete or up for debate.
Before he can do it, though, George speaks. “Okay,” he says, making it sound simple. ‘Okay’ and everything that entails after what Dream just told him. ‘Okay’, and “I’ll be with you.” A pause, and “I’ll marry you.”
It’s Dream, now, the one who’s rendered speechless.
He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say. ‘Just like that?’ he’d ask, but they could be here all day, just talking about everything they’ve been through. About the things they’ve said, the ones they’ve kept quiet. Talking about waiting and hoping and being, about holding each other close, eight years—eight years—and all they encompass.
“You’re serious,” Dream ends up whispering, allowing his face to grow warm as he turns his face to kiss the palm of George’s hand. George smiles and Dream can see it in the way he’s holding him—because he’s still holding him—that he hasn’t been more sure about anything in his entire life. So many questions float in the air and yet there’s not an ounce of doubt. “You’d really—”
“Yeah,” George vows, playing with his tongue and the meaning of forever. Because words hold meaning, no matter how hard they try to fool themselves, to pretend otherwise. “I still don’t— I still don’t think you need to get married to have it, but— I get wanting that. I get wanting to share your life with someone, knowing they’ll be there no matter what.” He makes a pause, then he adds, “wishing everyone would know.”
Dream nods slowly, wrapping his arms around George’s body, pulling him close. George lets himself fall into Dream’s chest and breathes him in, basking in his comfort, in close proximity. Dream strokes the back of George’s head and feels George’s heart like it’s his own. Finally, it’s his own, and it doesn’t feel all that different.
It just feels right. Overdue.
We aren’t married, Dream thinks, pressing a kiss to George’s forehead. But we might as well be.
“We haven’t even kissed and we’re talking about forever,” Dream whispers against George’s crown, feeling a sense of pride overcoming him, hiding in the gaps between words. Naked words, naked souls, no longer an empty shell but rather the perfect way to fill it.
George chuckles faintly against him. “We hadn’t even met and we were talking about forever,” he claps back, doing something funny to Dream’s chest. “Isn’t that why you gave me your old chain?”
Dream looks down at him, at the gold around his neck. It’s not a ring but it might as well be. Even though Dream didn’t really propose, it certainly serves the same purpose. What matters is that George seems to know that. That he agrees with it.
“You can, by the way,” George mumbles, angling his face up until he’s breathing against Dream’s jaw, and Dream shudders because he knows what he’s saying. He knows what this means. Still, George feels the need to make sure, to clarify, “kiss me, I mean. It’s implied.”
Dream breaks a smile, and says, “thought you didn’t like implications.”
George just shrugs. “Sometimes they’re there for a reason.”
Then their noses brush, and they’re not kissing, but they might as well be. George’s hand rests on his stomach and Dream runs his thumb across his cheek, thinking if this is forever with you, then I want all of it. No matter what it looks like.
Thinking, there’s no one else in the world I’d ever want this with. No one else in the world I’d ever allow to come this close.
Thinking, I’d show you the world through my eyes a million times over if that’s what you need, if that will make you understand how much you mean to me.
And George isn’t saying ‘I love you’ back, but with the way he’s looking at him, Dream thinks he might as well be.