Work Text:
Unlike most days in the past year, Dream wakes up alone—not just in the sense that the person usually to his left has gotten up earlier than him, but rather there’s nobody to wake up to at all—for the time being, at least.
He rolls over, shoving his face into the mattress and taking a deep whiff of the cold sheets, barely catching traces of eucalyptus and jasmine—a scent that’s become all too familiar to him and essential to soothe the innermost parts of his heart.
It’s enough to give him the energy to sit up, the blanket falling off his torso as he does so.
As a habit he’s developed in the last couple days, he turns to inspect the space to his left, checking to see if the person-shaped divot is still there. He lets out a little breath of relief when he finds that it is.
The impression of George’s body on their bed is what’s been keeping Dream sane for the past two days. It’s a fact he’s not ashamed to admit.
It’s stupid and probably borderline insane, but he refuses to make the bed if only to keep the evidence of George’s presence lingering on the sheets—as though the moment he flattens out the fabric and wipes out its creases, his boyfriend’s essence will disappear into his memories.
It’s starting to smell stale—and maybe a tad sour—but he’s become accustomed to George’s scent in his nostrils and his warmth through his clothes, sue him.
And Patches doesn’t seem to mind, if the way she’s curled up on George’s pillow says anything.
He’ll be back soon, he reminds himself, even though it does nothing to remedy just how much he misses George like a limb.
So with a deep-seated longingness combined with muscle memory from years ago, the first thing Dream does as soon as he’s fully lucid is dial George’s number.
He picks up within two and a half rings.
“Couldn’t stand being away from me, I see,” George says in greeting, his tone is teasing but there’s something soft underlying his voice that coaxes Dream into feeling light and fuzzy. His shoulders untense without even realizing they were stiff in the first place—George tends to have that effect on him.
“You know I can’t,” Dream easily admits into his phone, ignoring how reminiscent this moment is to many others during the period in his life when this was all he ever had, everything else just out of reach.
He actively tries not to let memories of pixelated videos and static in his ears ruin his somewhat peaceful morning, but the fact that George is all the way in London during the holiday season brings back the throbbing ache in his chest, so much so that Dream fears it’ll consume him whole and drag down George with him—and he can’t have that happening, not when his boyfriend is getting a well deserved break with his family whom he knows he misses so much.
The deepest, darkest parts of his heart urges him to tell, beg George to come home—preferably right this second—but he bites his tongue and traces Patches’ spine with his finger.
George scoffs into the phone, the audio coming out scratchy. “You’re stupid,” he remarks, “did you just wake up?”
“Mhmm,” Dream affirms. “The bed's too big without you,” he can’t help but say.
“You cornball,” George laughs, but all Dream can think about is how the rasp in his voice tickles his brain just right. “Lame pickup line, zero out of ten, would not recommend.”
“Hey now,” Dream pouts, but it’s hard to maintain it with the smile that threatens to break through. “I was just saying. It worked on you before, no?”
A scoff, one that sounds like George is trying to hold back his grin himself, “That was a moment of weakness, you can’t judge me solely off of that.”
“Right, okay,” Dream huffs as he lays back down in bed, trying to picture George’s smile from memory.
Somehow, the image of George in his mind is more accurate than the photos in his camera roll—as though only he can do George’s beauty justice in a way no lens ever could. The softness of his boyfriend’s hair is memorialized in his hands like a permanent phantom touch, nothing could ever capture the silkiness of George’s skin than the peach fuzz on Dream’s arms, and only his mouth would truly, wholly know the shape of George’s own.
Subconsciously, Dream brings a knuckle to his lips, probing for something only he can feel.
The brief goodbye kiss they shared before George left for the departure area still lingers—it’s everything and not enough at the same time.
When George only snickers in response, Dream tacts on, mentioning the first thing that comes to mind, “I tried putting a collar on Patches last night— the one with the bell. She hated it.”
“You’re horrible, Dr’m,” George tuts, “Why would you force her to wear something she doesn’t like? That’s not very empowering, is it?”
“Shut up,” Dream chuckles breathily, “you know damn well she likes going into the bushes outside. I just wanted the extra precaution.”
“Mm,” George hums in contemplation, “maybe she’ll let me put it on, seeing as she loves me the most.”
“Oh yeah?” Dream indulges him, “not the guy who adopted her and raised her?”
“You’re just the stowaway,” George remarks, the teasing lilt audible through his tinny voice. “The spare.”
“Right,” Dream concedes, not bothering to counter him. Against his argumentative nature, he finds himself agreeing with George more and more these days, just because he likes the smug little hum his boyfriend makes.
He glances back to where Patches is nuzzling her little head inside George’s pillowcase. He tells him so, which earns him a delighted cheer through his speaker.
George then walks Dream through his morning routine, and it’s immensely comforting. George switches his camera on, and Dream eagerly watches on as his boyfriend splashes his face with cold water and talks through a toothbrush in his mouth. For a moment, he pretends that he’s right beside him.
“You’ve been on Twitter a lot lately,” George mindlessly comments when he settles back in his childhood bed, the rustles of his sheets nearly drowning out his words.
Dream mirrors the action by cocooning himself further into his blanket, positioning his phone against a throw pillow, keeping it upright.
“Been bored,” Dream replies, curling into himself just to feel a bit more warmth.
It remains hot in Florida, but George’s absence in their shared bed sends shivers down his spine. He feels naked almost, like George is the sun and took all the heat with him the day he left.
Dream knows he’s barely hanging on a thread here, but he just misses him—so much that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’d work on his code, but he’d need George’s advice for that. He’d go on a drive, but George isn’t there to take over the aux. He can only hope George can’t sense his overbearing desperation ebbing and flowing in his veins—not if it means it would put a damper on his boyfriend’s mood or worse, make him feel guilty for leaving.
Furtively though, he likes feeling like this in a way—he loves how George is the only person who can reduce him to bits and pieces and he loves even more that he’s the only one who can put him back together. Call it pathetic, call it weak—to Dream, this is what being in love is like.
All the ache, all the cold nights and even colder mornings—they’re worth it if it’s in George’s name.
“Well, talk to me instead of talking to losers on Twitter.” Dream relishes in the possessive curl in George’s tone, and he succumbs to it easily.
“Okay,” he shifts in bed. “Tell me about your day,” Dream gently prods through a whisper.
“My day barely started,” George retorts. He looks cozy like this—soft around the edges and an even softer smile—all for Dream and Dream only to see. He almost reaches a hand to touch.
“Yesterday, then.”
George hums, flicking his eyes to the ceiling for a second, “I got your brand of shampoo from Tesco yesterday morning. The— the blue one.”
“Yeah?” Dream closes his eyes in contentment. “How was it?”
“It sucked.”
Dream barks out a laugh at that, making George smile so wide his crow’s feet make themselves seen even through the camera. It sends a rush of pride down his chest. “Why—” Dream wheezes, “Why did it suck?”
When his laughter dies down, George whines, “It doesn’t smell the same. Fix it, Dr’m.”
“How could I fix it?” Dream snorts. “Maybe they just make it differently over there.”
George rubs the tip of his nose, and the image is so cute Dream bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a coo. “Nah, just— It doesn’t have you in it.”
There’s nothing Dream can do to stop the flutter in his chest. More often than one might think, George just says stuff like this so casually and doesn’t realize just how sweet he can sound. Dream never comments on it, but he tucks moments like this close to his heart for safekeeping.
He hopes his smile doesn’t look as dopey as it feels. “I miss you.”
George’s expression softens, and his voice is quiet when he assures, “Just one more week, Dream.”
“Too long,” Dream pouts. He knows he’s acting like a clingy girlfriend—and if Sapnap were here to witness it, he would never live it down—but he thinks he’s allowed to be when it comes to George.
His boyfriend laughs, not out of mockery, but of fondness. He can tell with the way George tilts his head to the side and squints his eyes as though to look at Dream through his screen better. “Mum will think you’re trying to trap me in America,” he teases.
At the reminder, Dream deflates a little. It hits him all at once—the George-shaped hole in his space, the fact that his boyfriend isn’t just his to hog and take up all his time—and the guilt comes right after, making his shoulders droop.
“Oh. Right, yeah sorry. You can go join your family if you want— sorry. Was just being dramatic, you know me,” he says through a wince.
There’s a pause, and George frowns—it immediately has Dream’s heart clenching.
He looks sad—maybe a little bit remorseful—and it only makes Dream feel worse. It’s an expression on his countenance Dream never wants to see, much less cause. “Dream, you’re not— you know you can miss me, right?”
Dream chews on his lip, “Yeah but— you were having fun. I don’t wanna like, ruin your—”
His boyfriend sighs, “Dream. Dreamie. You are very much an idiot. My idiot, but still an idiot.”
Dream makes a small noise of offense, “Wha—”
“Mum’s been asking about you,” George cuts him off, straightening his position as he leans away from his headboard—which tells him he’s getting serious. When all Dream can do is blink in response, his boyfriend continues, his voice becoming more syrupy sweet as he goes on, “She whacked me in the head when I arrived home. Asked why I didn’t bring you along with me.”
“I— really?” Dream breathes out, almost in awe.
“It’s really bad, Dream,” George tacts on as though Dream never said anything. “She even made her special cinnamon cookies just for you and you aren’t even here to try them. She put in extra cinnamon— extra. ”
“Tell her I love them already.”
“You haven’t even tried them, you dummy,” George giggles, unable to conceal the fondness bouncing off of him. “And you’re officially invited to Christmas next year. Family consensus.”
Somehow, George consistently knows the exact right thing to say to ground Dream to reality, to keep him where his feet are—it’s an ability of his that he’s perfected over time. In moments like this, he’s never felt so known.
And he’ll always be glad that it’s George.
“My family like, loves you, they won’t get mad if my boyfriend misses me during the holidays.” He pretends that George addressing him as the B-word doesn’t send tingles throughout his skin—the novelty never really wore off.
“They love me?” Dream repeats, as if confirming it for himself. “Just as much as you do?” he adds to make George laugh.
“Not nearly as much,” George scoffs. “Never as much,” he finishes with a soft murmur.
It hits Dream like a ton of bricks—not for the first time—that George loves him. He loves Dream. It’s still so surreal to think about, still crazy to think that it’s a fact that he gets to live with, because exuberant, beautiful George chose him of all people, out of the countless options he no doubt has.
And this—this sacred, precious thing they share together—Dream will cherish more than anything else.
“George,” he croaks, touched—if his boyfriend can see his glossy eyes through the phone, he doesn’t mention it. “You can’t just say things like that.”
His boyfriend scoffs, “What? Is it so surprising if I say stuff like that?” It's said as a joke, but there’s an undercurrent of insecurity hidden in the layers that Dream rushes to squash down before it begins to fester in George’s pretty little head.
“‘Course not,” Dream assures with a little sniffle. “It’s just more special when it’s you.”
The red on George’s cheeks is unmistakable, and to save his boyfriend from feeling more vulnerable than he’d like, Dream changes the subject. “So, what are your plans for today?”
It does the trick, and the rest of their conversation is pretty much lighthearted after that. Thanks to George’s voice in his Airpods, he maintains a good mood throughout the day, and his boyfriend is sweet enough not to hang up even as he eats lunch with his family.
Dream, in turn, lets George watch as he feeds the cats their meals and cooks his own. The commentary George provides as Dream whisks his eggs and washes his dishes keeps the smile plastered on his face.
It’s reminiscent of the days when this was all they had, but instead of the melancholy that usually tints his thoughts, he finds the air tasting a little sweeter, knowing that it’s him who George comes home to now.
They’ve withstood the test of time and distance, and nothing will be able to cut off the tether that ties them to each other—it’s a fact that Dream knows well in his heart, and it’s a fact that keeps him going through times where it feels like everything is against him.
As it always is with George, time moves a bit faster than usual and suddenly it’s night time—the sky darker than it has been all year and the wind through the window just a little bit breezier.
Dream and George get ready for bed simultaneously, and when they tuck themselves under their respective covers, Dream finds himself not wanting to hang up, even as unconsciousness tries to claim him with its claws once more.
“I don’t wanna fall asleep,” Dream mumbles when the silence stretches for longer than he’d like.
George blinks sluggishly at him, “If you sleep now you’ll wake up earlier tomorrow, then I’ll be home in less than a week.”
“But if I sleep now I’ll see you less,” Dream counters, purposefully making his eyes look bigger because he knows it’s one of George’s biggest weaknesses.
George is quick to catch on. “Don’t look at me like that, you freak,” he chides, but the softness in his voice mitigates the sharpness of his words.
Dream grins, “Like what?”
His boyfriend rolls his eyes, “You’re incorrigible. Go to bed, idiot. Come on.”
“But I’m not—” Dream cuts himself off with a yawn he can’t hold back.
George, to his credit, doesn’t make fun of him. “Sleep, Dreamie,” he says instead, all honey and citrus. “I won’t hang up.”
It’s said as a promise, a vow, and it’s instinct for Dream to trust George down to the marrow in his bones. So, as he always does, he listens to George and closes his eyes for the final time that night.
The last thing he hears before he succumbs to a deep slumber—one significantly better than the other nights his boyfriend’s voice wasn’t in his ear to lull him to sleep—is a soft, muttered, “Miss you.”
❤︎
When he comes to, his bed is warm.
Familiarly so, not the kind of heat you get from the sun shining down on you, nor from the weight of an electric blanket, but rather one from a person—someone who feels like home.
It doesn’t quite register in Dream’s brain just yet, but he barely takes note of something smooth running up and down his bare arm, as well as a weight dipping on one side of the bed.
When the scent of eucalyptus and jasmine breach his nose, his eyes flutter open.
It’s the pattern of his breathing and the airy chuckles that has Dream shooting out of bed, coming face to face with the molasses-y brown eyes that he’d missed so much.
“George!”
Whatever George was going to say is muffled by Dream’s shoulder as he envelops him in a big, warm bear hug—arms coming to wrap around his waist like they were always meant to be there, and Dream’s head tucking itself in the crook of George’s neck, a space carved just for him. The tiny shaking coming off his body tells Dream he’s holding back delighted laughter.
“Hey, idiot,” George finally greets when Dream pulls away—reluctantly at that.
“What are you doing here?” Dream laughs in relief, “you were supposed to be back by New Years Day.”
“Saw a flight home and took it,” George shrugs like it was nothing, but to Dream— it’s… it’s what he always imagined love would look like—one that he never thought he’d have.
Dream reaches out his hand to run his fingers through George’s curly hair, and to his pleasure, his boyfriend leans into it and nuzzles against his palm the way Patches would.
“You— you came home early for me,” Dream reiterates, reaffirming the fact to himself. He can’t quite believe this is his reality. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he breathes, using his other hand to cup George’s cheek, running his thumb on his skin.
“Don’t make such a big deal of it, loser,” George huffs, the air hitting Dream square on the nose. He’s trying to come off as nonchalant, Dream can tell, but the way he brings his arms around Dream’s middle and squeezes him tight says everything he needs to know.
“I missed you,” Dream says into his shoulder, pressing a kiss onto the same spot.
George breathes out a content sigh, like all the tension has just left his body right then and there. “Me too,” he whispers.
“What about your family?” Dream asks, but he honestly couldn’t care less about anything that doesn’t concern the pretty, wonderful man in his arms.
“They got sick of me because I was ‘moping’, can you believe that?” George scoffs into Dream’s nape, and it’s a confession all the same.
Dream giggles, “Poor baby,” he teases, planting a kiss onto George’s cheek as he retracts from their embrace.
“Oh! That reminds me,” George leans away and pulls his duffle bag up from the floor, opening it up and fishing through its contents until he plucks out a sealed shut tupperware container, presenting it to Dream. “Mum had me bring these cookies to you. I require a shipping fee, though, got it?”
Dream smiles, with so much fondness that his weight wouldn’t be able to support it, pushes the tupperware away—gently, he’ll have to make a quick call to George’s mom later to personally thank her—and cups his face with both hands, bringing him into a deep, long kiss—one that George eagerly falls into.
He tastes of cinnamon.