Work Text:
Why Dream hates funerals:
1) Emotions.
Funerals always came with piles of emotions that Dream never really understood how to unpack. He’d spent most of his life masking his feelings so as to properly fit into a society he barely understood.
But funerals were a gathering for the living, a place where grief could manifest and release into the world. Or something. Again, Dream never really understood any of it.
Emotions were messy, and big. And, holy crap, he hated crying.
2) Condolences
Hand in hand with emotions came the usual stream of: ‘Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss’ and ‘I’ll keep you in my prayers.’
Dream never understood what those empty words and promises were supposed to do for him. Did he say thank you? As in, thanks for your sorries? Thanks for your prayers? Or was this meant to be a ‘You too’ situation—like when the waiter says ‘Have a good meal!’ and you accidentally reply with ‘You too!’...
3) Slideshows
Pictures of the deceased person.
Dream had a really hard time watching these because whoever made them usually tried to include a photo of the deceased with everyone they could think of. It was just one of those weird things he’d never understood or enjoyed.
4) Wearing black
Formal suits and all-black attire just weren’t Dream’s thing. Why wouldn’t you want to wear colours to honour someone’s colourful life? If the person who passed never wore a formal thing in their life, why would everyone need to attend their funeral wearing a suit?
5) The inevitable after-service events that always meant going to someone else’s house or secondary venue and spending hours talking about memories he’d just rather not think about.
Of all the things Dream hated the most about funerals, the gatherings after the service were the things he hated the most. Once or twice, he could get away with not going, but in the case of family…his attendance was mandatory.
——
It’s close to nine in the evening before Dream is able to fold himself in his car and drive home—and closer to ten by the time he is pulling into the garage.
A notification dings on his phone—a text from George that says to meet him in the back when he was done with the car.
Is he in the hot tub? Dream would have to get changed for that, and he isn’t sure he’d make it back outside again once he undressed. Being home is like a release of all the exhaustion he’d been holding onto. No one really talks about how mentally taxing it can be to spend hours just pretending to fit in with neurotypical folks.
But Dream feels it now, like a fog settling in over his eyes and clouding thoughts until he feels somewhere between high or almost asleep. It’s a dangerous feeling to have when also being around George. Because George is dangerous in his own way. Flirtatious when he wants to be, coy and bratty, but also with a hint of submission…only for Dream though. And it’s a cloying and heady mix to be around when also feeling like his filters don’t exist.
George could get Dream to say anything, to do anything, and he’d happily give into whatever George wants. It also means Dream is far more likely to confess to feelings and emotions he can scarcely admit to in the morning light.
George is everything. But it’s a dangerous kind of everything. Because Dream knows just how easy it would be for George to break him.
“Dream?” George’s voice sounds off from somewhere in the grass of their backyard.
Squinting, Dream can barely make out the shape of him, laying down on the slightly slanted hill. His arms are behind his head, face pointed upwards to watch the starry skies above. It’s a surprisingly clear night, so much so that Dream stands in awe for a moment. He hadn’t noticed any of it on the drive home—mind preoccupied and filled with the singular focus of getting home.
“Coming,” Dream says, slipping out of his shoes and socks—then making his way over to George, bare feet padding in the soft, dewy grass.
There’s something to be said about being connected with the Earth like this, especially when stress is practically permeating every inch of his body and soul. It feels a lot like recycling energy into the world—like he’s sending back all the negative space and getting clean vibes back from the dirt connecting him to the ground.
“You gonna sit?” George murmurs from his spot.
Dream sees now that George is laying on a spread out blanket, likely to keep himself safe from bugs, or offer some softness to protect against the rougher spots of ground.
“Yeah, yeah. Move over though. You’re hogging all the blanket.” Dream says, dropping down onto a small corner of blanket actually available.
“Maybe that’s on purpose,” George replies, and while the tone is teasing, Dream can see something else in George’s gaze. Hunger?
The air is surprisingly cool for the time of year, less humid than it had been in the day too. He understands why George opted to come outside for a bit. Arms crossed over his knees, Dream starts to rock slowly back and forth, a comforting stim he’s barely even aware he’s doing, until George’s hand reaches out and touches his thigh.
“Hey,” George says, actually moving a bit this time, so there’s room for Dream to lay down beside him. “Look up. There’s something I want to show you.”
Doing as he’s told, Dream takes a minute to readjust, then lays down next to George. Even he has to admit, the sight is gorgeous…
Inky black background is littered with stars and swirly hues, like the universe dipped its fingers in paint and splattered the sky with colour and light.
“Holy cow,” Dream whispers, then hears George snort beside him. “What? I can’t admire the universe? Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”
“It’s different. I’m picking out constellations. You’re just looking at it like it's the baby's first painting.”
Dream laughs, feeling the tension leaking out of him. From the top of his head, to the soles of his feet, normalcy returns, and it’s almost like he hadn’t spent the whole day at a funeral—surrounded by people he knows, and others he doesn’t, wishing him their sincerest condolences.
#2 on the hate list.
Sobered by the memory of the day, Dream’s laugh slows until it stops and it takes a minute before he remembers what was so funny in the first place.
“Oh! Look, okay see that star riiiight there? The one that’s three to the left of that really bright one?”
Dream waits until his line of sight aligns with where George is pointing. He thinks he has it, but it takes at least three more tries before he gets the right star.
“Okay so take your finger and trace a line from that one to the one over here,” George tries pointing out the next star; but, eventually after another two, or so, failed attempts he takes Dream’s hand and carefully draws the line for him.
In his chest, Dream’s heart pounds so hard and fast, he’s sure every creature in the nearby vicinity can hear it. Their joined hands are warm, and for a minute Dream genuinely can’t breathe.
“Are you paying attention, Dream?” George asks, and it’s the tone he uses that grabs Dream’s attention the most. It’s sultry and deep, like he knows just where Dream’s mind was instead of on the stars.
“N-no?” He tries to say, but his mouth is dry and it comes out more like a stutter.
“Pay attention Dream,” George murmurs in reply, warm voice low and gripping. “See how those three stars connect? If you follow that all the way this way, and up that way, it connects to make Argo Navis.”
“I don’t see it.” Dream frowns, trying to picture whatever it is George is trying to draw out.
“It’s a big boat. The Argo. You know, for someone who got his start with Percy Jackson, you’re pretty dogwater at constellations.”
Dream bumps George’s arm with his elbow. “I’m not dogwater. I’ve just never been good at this. Seeing distinct pictures in the chaos of millions of tiny bright dots.”
There’s quiet for a moment between them, until eventually Dream adds, “Not surprising that it’s something you’re good at though—finding beauty in the things that don’t make sense to anyone else.”
“Are you trying to rizz me up again, Dream?” George is grinning, Dream can hear it in his voice, so Dream grins too.
“Tell me about Argo Navis,” Dream replies instead.
“Well, technically it hasn’t been a constellation since like, 1930? Basically, they decided that it was way too big to be considered a constellation, and that it had too many different stars that made up different sections of the Argo which also kinda just made it way too hard to keep track of in modern times. So they broke it up and now no one calls it that anymore.”
Dream’s eyes were stuck on George’s face, watching him as he spoke with a kind of passion reserved for private moments like this. It was the thing he probably loved most about George, when he got all excited about knowing something and was able to share that with someone he loves too. And Dream has no doubt in his mind that George loves him—it’s there in every breath he breathes, every small action that could be overlooked by anyone else who doesn’t know George like Dream does.
Silence envelopes them again, but it’s peaceful, and for the first time all day Dream feels that peace in his core.
“I got you something,” George says, a little while later.
Dream stills, because gifts from George are rare, but they always hit. Not to mention, there’s no holiday or birthday prompting the exchange.
“You know you don’t have to get me things, right?” Dream teases, but his curiosity has been piqued.
“Shut up.” George rolls his eyes and hands Dream an envelope. “It’s not anything big, actually apparently it’s not anything at all.”
George is still frowning at the sky when Dream opens and unfolds the paper inside. There’s numbers and letters he doesn’t understand, but then under that is his name and a star designation.
“George,” Dream breathes, his whole body thrumming in time with his beating heart. “You bought me a star?”
“Well, no.” George fidgets, a tic that tends to happen more so under stress or great annoyance. “I tried to buy you a star. But apparently you can’t actually buy people stars.”
Dream is lost in a flood of emotions, trying to piece together what George was trying to do for him and the timing…
“George,” Dream says again, but there’s a tremor to it, like the emotions running rampant in his brain are all trying to escape through his mouth. He’s never felt closer to confirming out loud what they both already know.
“I had already bought it when Stinknap made some stupid comment about how it’s not real. So then I did more research and apparently the idiot was right. So now I feel like a triple idiot. But I had bought it anyway, so I just wanted to give it to you? And like, it doesn’t have to mean anything, it’s just a piece of paper at this point. But like—”
Saving them both from the fact that George physically can’t bring himself to talk about his feelings—and instead does these obscure gestures that only Dream can interpret—Dream cuts George off, by rolling onto his side and kissing him.
It’s soft, and so sweet Dream feels like he might die. His own lips are a little dry and chapped from nervously licking them all afternoon, but George’s are like satin.
“Breathe, Dream,” George whispers when he pulls back for a half-second, as if he knows Dream is on the verge of passing out from the lack of oxygen.
But seconds later they’re kissing again, and George is in control. It’s deeper this time, with a bit of tongue—because realising George tastes a little like melted chocolate and caramel is something he’ll not soon forget.
“I love—” Dream starts to whisper, reverent in his deepest desires come to life.
But it’s George’s turn to cut Dream off with a kiss and a whisper, “I know.”
The stars bear witness that night to something far more profound than simple love, but rather a union of souls that crash through the heavens and insert themselves as a new constellation.
—— End ——