Chapter Text
The power went out as soon as the heavy rains started.
It was as if the house was connected to a single outlet and someone had pulled the plug, and all Dream was left with besides the insistent whoosh of the winds outside was total darkness.
And George, of course.
And maybe that said something about George’s priorities—the fact that he could’ve flown to LA with Sapnap and avoided the storm altogether—and yet he chose to stay with Dream despite the impending doom, despite already having been in Orlando with Dream for pretty much the entire year.
So, yeah, George’s priorities might’ve been a little off.
But, then again, so were Dream’s. And maybe that was why this whole thing between them even worked out in the first place.
Like the fallen trees in his backyard, Dream had a million dollars worth of equipment that littered his gym floor. Like flying debris, external factors would halt the hundreds of hours of progress poured into his project.
And still, despite it all, George was still the one and only thing he occupied his mind with keeping safe.
This wasn’t just love. This was something just as all-consuming as a hurricane.
“Dream?” he heard from behind him. Then came the shift of limbs against a blanket.
Dream smiled privately to himself. George often slept in Dream’s office bed while Dream worked. It wasn’t at all different from the situation now, except that George wasn’t sleeping and Dream wasn’t working. “Go back to sleep, George.”
George didn’t go back to sleep. Instead, he stated, rather obviously, “The power went out. It went out, Dream.”
Dream giggled, sarcasm flowing through the sound like floodwater. “Okay, congrats. I almost couldn’t tell with the way my monitor turned off.”
“You’re being mean,” George warned. “You’re being mean to me, Dream. You can’t be mean to me right now. There’s a hurricane.”
Dream giggled again. He couldn’t help himself. George often reduced him to this state. “What? What does that have to do with anything? And besides, I’m not even being mean. How am I being mean?”
“You just are.”
“How?”
And suddenly, Dream knew exactly what George wanted from him. It was like a sixth sense. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was that his five main ones were just always focused on George, George, George.
“I’m coming.” And because he couldn’t help himself, Dream added, “I’m also arriving to where you are.”
His chair creaked like the four walls around him as he stood up from his desk. In the pitch black, he fumbled his way to the office bed, steps quiet as he crossed the distance. Once his thighs made contact with the mattress, he brought his hands forward, not knowing exactly what George looked like in front of him.
The first thing he touched were George’s ribs and the skin that enclosed them. “Where’s your shirt?”
“I took it off,” George answered. “It’s hot.”
“You’re hot,” Dream quipped, and his hand continued upwards, fingertips against a body he could map out with just his lips, a body that even his fear knew the shape of.
When he got above George’s heart, Dream pressed his hand down, feeling the thumps against his palm. He frowned. They were fast. Like there was a hurricane beneath George’s chest.
Even in complete darkness, Dream still knew what George was feeling. His eyes weren’t adjusting. His eyes didn’t need to. Dream knew him blind. A storm down its forecast track.
His shirt was easily discarded as he climbed on top of George. He smelled like humidity and their shared soap. He felt like something to squeeze and also to handle like fine china. He looked, well, like George, if George was nothing at all. George could’ve been nothing at all. Even then, he’d still be everything to Dream.
A hand found its way to Dream’s mouth, and before either of them knew it, they were tracing each other’s facial features, making up for what their eyes couldn’t see.
“How long will it be out?” George asked.
“The power? I don’t know.”
Dream imagined George’s expression—mock annoyance in a deadpan manner. “You’re supposed to know. You’re Dream the Weatherman.”
“Well,” Dream said. “That’s true . But if that’s the case, you should know too. We’re Dream the Weatherman.”
And it didn’t make sense. And it made all the sense in the world.
After another few minutes of wandering hands, Dream spoke again, a simple, a quiet, “George?”
“Yeah?”
Dream thought back to his rapid heartbeat. “You okay?”
He felt George nod. But Dream knew him better than that.
“Do you want me to bring you more chocolate raisins?”
George huffed, dramatic to his bones. “You want to leave me here. To die. Alone.”
Dream rolled his eyes. “Stop. I’m serious. I could get them for you.”
“No,” George said. “It’s dark. You’re gonna, like, fall down the stairs or something.”
“Aw,” Dream teased, “you’re worried about me. George, that’s so sweet.”
“I’m not.”
“Really?” Dream pushed. “You’re not worried about me?”
“No.”
“Okay, fine.” Dream made a move to get up. “I’ll go stand out in the yard then.”
But George’s hand flew to Dream’s wrist before he could get very far.
Walls tumbled like rainfall, like broken windows and flyaway roofs. The world became just them two, just Dream and George and catastrophe.
In a way, it was familiar—shutting everything out when everything went to shit. He’d do this in every lifetime. In whatever situation it came with.
Dream leaned down for a kiss. And it was awkward and clumsy and his upper lip ended up catching on part of George’s nose instead. But it was worth it because George laughed, and Dream relished in the way it felt like an earthquake against him.
George’s hands were unstopping, now playing with the blond hair that grew sparsely across Dream’s chest. George’s breaths were warm as they intermixed with his. George’s bangs were long as Dream raked them off of his forehead. Dream knew, without looking, that his hair was wild with Florida humidity. Wild with the sacrifice of both getting here and staying.
“I’ll be okay,” Dream whispered into the secret space between them. “We’ll be okay.”