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Before he opened Twitter after ending the stream, George had thought he and Dream had done a good job at keeping their distance at Disney. He had made sure not to linger too long; to keep Sapnap between them whenever they walked; to not reach out and straighten Dream’s gold chain when it was askew, or reach out for his hand when he was itching to.
It had been hard – a bit like what he imagines resisting a magnetic pull must feel like, but he had done it. …Or, he thought he had. More specifically, he thought Dream had done the same.
As it turns out, however, the amount of times Dream looked at him from across the table at the sushi restaurant had been enough to warrant a compilation. Several of them.
It’s a little ridiculous.
Safe at home and ready for bed (in Dream’s bed), George scrolls through them all with a secret smugness. Because although he and Dream had agreed to be low-key on this stream (a concept that, to be fair, has become much more unfamiliar to them with all these months of not being on camera at all), George can’t pretend to be too upset by what he’s seeing on Twitter.
There is something overwhelmingly sweet about the gifs of Dream trying not to stare and failing so miserably.
Dream staring at George taking a sip of his drink, Dream staring at George eating wagyu steak, Dream laughing at everything George says…
George happily copies the links of his favorite tweets and photos and gifs and sends them to Dream for him to see when he gets out of the shower.
Oh, and the way their shoulders kept brushing. Again… and again. It has to have happened a ridiculous amount of times for someone to have made a ‘take a shot every time…’ tweet for it. George sends that one to Dream, too.
He pulls the soft duvet up over his shoulders, basking in the warmth of it along with this endless source of entertainment. Maybe he and Dream really have lost their understanding of personal space like they made it seem today. Maybe that’s what spending every waking moment together gets them. George thinks it’s a price he’s willing to pay.
The door to the ensuite opens with a creak.
“You’re an idiot,” is the first thing Dream says, his phone unlocked in his hand. His hair is fluffy from being freshly washed and dried, and he’s wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. George feels the proverbial magnetic pull get stronger.
He smiles and rolls over to lay flat on his back, letting his phone disappear between the folds of Dream’s silky cotton sheets. He makes a show of closing his eyes; he has situated himself on Dream’s side of the bed, hoping it will annoy him.
It only takes a moment for Dream to notice. He halts at the foot of the bed.
“George,” he says, in what might have been a disapproving tone had it not been for Dream’s inability to turn off his ‘George voice’ when talking to him.
“Mhm?”
There’s a scoff from his direction, but it’s the sweet and frustrated one that always gives George the urge to imitate it. He opens one eye and watches Dream walk around to the other side of the bed, already accepting defeat.
The mattress dips on his right as Dream gets under the covers.
“ Ugh ,” George gives into the urge to echo him. He rolls onto his side to face Dream, waiting for him to settle.
There is familiarity in practically everything that Dream does; from the way he puts his phone on d.n.d. and double checks that the ringer is off, to the sound of the sheets rustling as he gets comfortable.
George tucks a hand under his pillow. “Did you like what I sent you?”
Dream settles with a sigh and turns his head to the side, finally meeting his gaze. He smiles and says simply, “Yes.”
“Did you see the ‘take a shot every—”
“ Yes ,” Dream laughs. He lifts his head and pushes his pillow so it’s flush with George’s. “I saw them all. You’re very funny.”
George narrows his eyes. “Well, I didn’t see you hearting all of my messages. As you would’ve done if you had really liked them.”
There is a wall of bedsheets separating them, and for a second, George wishes he had tossed one of the duvets on the floor while Dream was in the shower so there would only be one. So they would have had to share. But he backtracks a second later—they've slept terribly in enough hotel rooms with only one duvet for him to never want that again.
Dream laughs, and there’s a lowness to his voice that gives his tiredness away.
“Alright, I’m hearting them to you now, then. In person,” he says.
And it would be so easy to make fun of him for being a simp right now, but George mercifully decides against it. It’s his birthday. And it’s been a great one, mostly thanks to Dream. So George can be nice tonight.
He’ll save the smart remarks for tomorrow.
“Thank you,” he says, really looking into Dream’s eyes. To show that he means it. “For today.”
Somehow, Dream’s expression gets even softer. He reaches out a hand, brushing the hair from George’s forehead. “Yeah? You had fun?”
George nods. Because he did. And he thinks he will need a few days to really let today sink in—both the birthday celebration here at home, and the overwhelming love and support from everyone who tuned into his long-awaited stream.
Right now, though, he’s happy to be back in this safe cocoon of Dream’s company. With no cameras on either of them.
Dream hums, “Me too. ‘s always fun with you.”
He twirls one of George’s curls around his finger and lets it go again, and it’s yet another familiar thing about him. The only sound in the room is the whoosh of the air-con. George realises that that, too, has started to sound like home.
He smiles to himself. “ Is that Dream? ” He imitates in a high pitched, but quiet, voice, referencing one of the (many) people who came over to them today.
It’s not so much that they make fun of their fans as laugh at them, fondly.
Dream rolls his eyes, but his smile betrays him. “Stupid.”
In what has become a practiced move, George scooches closer and slips under Dream’s blanket, leaving the other one to slowly fall off the bed. He could sigh at the feeling of Dream pulling him close, holding him. It’s the only birthday present wants for the rest of his life, if he’s honest.
Maybe one duvet can be enough for two, just for tonight.
“ Are you though?” George asks, continuing the bit. although he’s a little distracted by how their faces are close enough for them to share the same air. Dream smells like toothpaste and his vanilla shower gel, mixed with a hint of his cologne.
For his next birthday, George wants that smell bottled.
Dream shrugs, humoring him. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, his eyes are saying.
Under the blanket he puts a hand on George’s thigh, and had it been a year ago, George’s breath would have hitched in his throat at the touch. Had it been two years ago… he might have fainted.
Like, actually.
But now; he melts, both used to—and so addicted to—the warmth that travels from the spot Dream touches out to every other part of him.
“It’s still your birthday,” Dream says, his voice hushed.
George hums.
“Anything else you wanna do?”
Quietly, George smiles to himself. He could sense where Dream’s thoughts are drifting from a mile away, with his eyes closed. “Like what?”
Dream shrugs like he has no idea what he’s hinting at. But hidden under the duvet, his hand is inching higher on George’s thigh, toying with the hem of his shorts.
“Like…” Dream trails off, his fingers trailing further.
George opens his eyes and looks at him. “...You impregnating me?”
Dream’s hand pauses, and then, when the comment finally registers, he starts to laugh. A surprised, tired, perfect sound right in George’s ear that goes straight to his heart.
“That’s so dumb,” Dream mumbles, his hand squeezing George’s thigh.
George gives a tiny pinch to his side in retaliation. “ You’re the one who said it.”
In front of thousands of people , he almost adds, but swallows it down. He’d like Dream’s hand to go back to trailing upwards. That’s all he wants actually. One last birthday wish before it’s over.
Thankfully, Dream seems to have the same idea.
“Did I?” He asks, feigning innocence as he flips them over in one gentle swoop.
“Oh, you definitely did,” George says with a laugh.
And when Dream dips to his neck, and words lose all importance, George thinks maybe it isn’t so bad that they can’t help but be obvious in public.
Maybe, secretly, he has never really minded at all.