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From the moment he sees the cat shaped cookie, George wants it. Even as they sit down on a table at the overpopulated, Holiday themed coffee shop, and the smell of coffee grounds makes Dream make a face, George insists that it is crucial that he orders one too, so he does.
“Dream, look at it,” George says, signaling once again to the small display window, where the frosted cookie is sitting. It has a simple design of two cats hugging and, to be fair, it was really quite cute to look at. He isn’t, however, quite sure about eating it.
“You know I don’t like sweets,” Dream says, huffing a laugh. George still asks for two matching cookies.
He inspects the little menu the waitress had provided for them with a glance, trying to find anything decent within it. The girl tending for them sticks around, offering recommendations from the menu, until Dream dismisses her with a smile, saying he isn’t quite sure what to get yet. It’s George’s time to scoff.
The cookies are as cute on a pretty plate as they look on the display. Each is personalized, as much as the format will allow, and he argues with George about getting to bite into the one that looks the most like Patches, a tabby-like kitten hugging another, grey. George argues that he should get to keep it, since the waitress had placed the place closer to him, and next to his glass full of strawberry lemonade. They’re interrupted from their silly squabeling by their server asking Dream, again, if there is anything he wanted to drink.
“Um, I’m okay, thank you,” He answers, a bit touched. He wonders if she’s a fan, but there’s not a hint of recognition on her face, just an attentive stare.
“Are you sure? Our menu is festive, and there’s a lot of really nice stuff. A favorite is our Christmas mocha, a tasty mixture of grounded coffee and our imported chocolate, really good according to our reviews,” she insists, tucking a few of her hair strands behind her ear. Dream’s smile turns the slightless bit strained. He gets that she wants a tip, and really, he will give her one, but mostly he wants to spend his time with George. George looks even more annoyed than Dream, but just to the trained eye that Dream possesses; to anyone else, his smile would look as placid and kind as anything else. The waitress doesn’t even spare him a glance, her attention focused on Dream. “There’s also our latte specials, of course, and if you look right here on the menu there are—”
“A cup of water would be fine, right?” George interrupts her, rather gently, kicking Dream’s leg and startling him. They both jump, and Dream takes the out that it is.
“Yeah, that would be perfect, please?” he asks. The waitress’s eyes switch from George to Dream in a quick succession and she nods, smiling at him again before leaving again, scurrying between all the customers filling in the cozy space.
“We should have ordered to go,” George comments briefly, and Dream laughs a little.
“Maybe, but it’s kinda freezing out there,” he says, briefly looking through the gigantic window they’re sat next to. The Christmas lights of the neighborhood are all shining brightly in the dark afternoon, and while it doesn’t look like it will snow or anything as cliche, it is dropping significantly more than it tends to do in Florida.
“It’s more than, like, 10 degrees. You’re being a baby,” George retorts, taking the Patches cookie before Dream can keep protesting about his rights regarding it, like having ownership of a similar cat gives him the right to keep the damn cookie. Still, something about how he holds the cookie gently and brings it to his lips has him pause, scrambling to take his phone out of his jeans’ pockets.
“Hold on, let me take a picture—” he says, and George pauses with the cookie still between his teeth, big eyes staring back. He snaps a picture of him like that just because, and then makes him pose with the sweet in all kinds of poses, until George gets tired of him and just bites into the Patches lookalike, which Dream also documents. And then he takes a couple more pictures of George because he’s able to.
“I’m posting this one,” he declares, pointing to one where George had just biten into the cookie, almost laughing about his own impatience. Dream had captured the exact moment between his eyes squinting into his big smile, the little bits of crumb falling down to the table and George’s sweater. It was such a perfect picture his chest was actually crushing at the sight of it.
“No, don’t actually,” George protests with his mouth full, still unable to contain his giggles.
“I’m going to, literally going to. Drapchat will return,” he says, taking his phone again and taking a picture of it, the cute design making him smile. He saves it to post later, together with another picture of George. He thinks he will gatekeep the cutest ones for fun. “Is it good?” he asks George, who is halfway through his own cookie, having devoured the Patches' side.
“It’s kinda mid, actually,” George replies with a smile. “You should give me the other one; I’m actually saving you from having a mid cookie.”
“You can have it if you want,” Dream replies, achingly sincere. It’s not like he really wants it. George immediately frowns.
“You have to eat it,” he insists, pushing the small plate towards him. Dream gets distracted by his hand, again, a bit pink from the cold outside, barely able to warm up with the glass of lemonade George has been holding on and off during their entire stay. Dream would like to hold his hand, to feel each line and space from it right now, but he resists the urge just barely. Looking up, he finds George’s sweet brown eyes, looking up at Dream.
It barely affects him, not because George’s stare isn’t lethal—but because there’s nothing Dream can do but let himself fall deeper into the love he already holds for him.
It’s funny. He thought unrequited love was meant to hurt, but nothing about this feels inadequate or harmful. George loves him. There’s no doubt in Dream’s soul that he does. Everything George does, he does thinking of Dream, including watching him intensely as he tries this cookie, that may be a bit too sweet, but just as good as George had told him. And George is good to him.
He cares for him, in a way nobody else has ever done before him. And George has loved him for so long, through a distance, without even knowing what he looked like, that it would be insulting to even pretend that this love isn’t the same amount of love Dream feels for him, back.
Sure, Dream would love to hold his hand, to count every single mole in George’s body. He would love to be able to lean forward and kiss the lingering taste of George’s lemonade from his mouth. He would love to grow old with him, two kids and their cats for the rest of their life. But this is good, too. He’s loved. People live with less, for their entire lives.
And he can’t bring himself to truly resent anything in their relationship. He loves George too much to be able to.
The way George’s eyes reflect the lights, the curve of his pink lips remind him of how much this man matters to him. Red and yellow look unfairly good on him. His heart squeezes again when he notices how there’s still crumbs clinging to his mouth and chin, his scruff making a brave return to life. He wants to look at him for eternity.
“Clean your face, idiot,” he laughs.
Taking the check is almost the force of habit, so he’s terribly shocked when George bats his hand away and takes the receipt from the kind waitress. She looks surprised too, her face growing a bit redder as George inspects the paper in his hold. He pays easily, because it’s never a matter of money with George, but rather that he just likes making other people pay for him; Dream is always pleased to fill this role, so he’s kind of miffed at being stolen of that small joy. He still leaves her the tip he feels like she deserves, and they prepare to leave, but she stops him after running his card.
“Um, sorry if this is too forward, but do you want my number?” She asks, and Dream has to do a double take at her. “I think you’re cute. I was gonna be subtle and give it to you with the check but, y’know, your friend wanted to treat you.” She laughs a little nervously, her light brown hair bobbing a bit with her twitching.
Suddenly, many things make sense. Most of all the attention to their table, but also George’s barely concealed annoyance at her.
George, despite his own refusal, can be terribly possessive. It’s something Dream doesn’t mind in the slightless, feeding a small, hungry delusion inside of him that insists that George must want him in the same way. And Dream can’t be too judgemental, because he knows himself as a jealous fool, and despite George’s teasing about the fact, he has never stopped Dream from placing his hands on George or scolded Dream for begging for his affection. It’s one of those things that make them work, the push and pull of their mutual obsession. This is how Dream can live being loved by George. Whatever shape of love that is, it is enough for Dream.
It isn’t even a question in Dream’s mind. He opens his mouth to let her down easily, but—
“Sorry, he’s taken,” George says easily, materializing next to Dream and, in such a wonderful act, holding his hand. George’s fingers are a bit cold, and Dream rubs their hands together gently by force of nature. “I wanted to treat my boyfriend.”
It’s so dizzyingly pleasing that he can’t do more than look at George, who’s staring at the poor worker with another small, polite smile. She stutters a few apologies and leaves once again, and Dream is mostly dragged out of the coffee shop by George’s hand. Which he’s still holding. He feels a small squeeze, even.
Once they’re back on the street, walking away from the quaint shop, Dream’s mind spins the memory of George’s voice saying my boyfriend until it’s all his ringing ears can hear, while attempting to come up with a way to word a normal sentence.
Outside, the dark has already fallen despite it being barely seven on the dot, and he’s forced to use his free hand—the other trapped under George’s grip— to close his jacket to the sudden hit of freezing air. The lights outside, all the careful decorations put up in front of windows and doors hit his eyes and he’s blindly following George as he goes down the street, towards where the Christmas market starts. He remembers, vaguely, George being excited about it before the cookie had grabbed his attention. He supposes it’s as good of a direction as any as he’s still shocked into silence.
He isn’t quiet for too long.
“What the fuck was that?” he asks George with a laugh.
“What do you mean?” George plays dumb, hiding his face into the collar of his oversized cloak. His cheeks look red, and Dream suspects it isn’t only the cold coloring him.
“What was that at the shop, my beautiful boyfriend ?” he says, because George never slips like this. He’s almost giddy about it, the feeling of having the upperhand for once. It feels like he’s scored a point, for some reason. He has some real confirmation of—something. He isn’t sure what , or what George meant by that, why he couldn’t just let Dream reject her on his own but he will savor the feeling of being wanted this way for at least a month.
“Well, I had to save you,” George replies easily. His hand lays a little bit more relaxed pressed next to Dream, and while he could let go, he doesn’t. “Or did you want her to like—keep annoying you?”
“She wasn’t like—technically if you think about it she wasn’t annoying me, she barely said two words,” Dream reasons. “I wouldn’t have accepted her number but she wasn't super insistent.”
“Oh, wow, okay,” George says with an eye roll. He tries to let go of Dream with a yank of his hand, with little success. The effort sends him gravitating closer to him and they almost slip on the cold floor. “I’ll let you get all the numbers next time, since you weren’t annoyed,” he huffs with a small pout. It’s so cute it almost makes Dream kiss him right there.
But they don’t do that. Not sober, at least.
He squeezes George’s hand, though, and presses his face on the small space between his folds of clothes and neck. He thinks about pressing a kiss there but manages to only rub his beard against the sensitive skin. “C’mon, be nice.”
It should be embarrassing, to act out in this way in public, but he can’t help it as George’s hesitance melts into laughter and shyness, never running away.
“You didn’t even thank me for my benevolent action!” George insists, laughing quietly as he tries to stop Dream’s affection with little success.
“Oh, thank you so much, boyfriend,” Dream insists, finally letting George’s hand go to use both of his to grab him closer by the waist. “What would I do without you, my boyfriend.”
He thanks whatever lays above them for the basically deserted street leading to the Christmas fair they plan to get to, that lets him get this. He’s being too bold, enjoying the attention perhaps too much, but he almost doesn’t care in the bubble of warmth and grins they have created between them. It’s so intensely them that Dream can’t be bothered to care about what he should do, or how much each reiteration of George’s false title makes him wish for it to simply be true.
“You’re being so annoying,” George squeals as Dream lets him go, finally.
The lie should’ve ended at that shop.
They move on easily. George keeps walking, just fast enough so that Dream knows he’s excited about the fair but never too far from Dream, and they find the main vendor street once again, with a mixture of small food stalls, different trinkets and small things to buy for the jolly season. George is obsessed. He keeps jumping from stall to stall like a small magpie, shiny trinket to shiny trinket. Dream is happy to follow his pace, fidgeting with his keys inside the pocket of his cardigan. It’s soft, an early gift from his mother from this morning. They’d passed by her house to have brunch, a new tradition Dream had started after too many months stuck at home, coding. It gives him the perfect excuse to get out of the house and stretch his legs, his mom gets to fuss over them and George likes the company and free food in their house, or the chance to snoop around Dream’s baby photos album.
“It will be chilly later,” she had said, with a worried curl of her lips. “It brings me peace to know you have this with you.”
It was easier to just let her win this time than to protest any further. Besides, she’d glanced where George had left for a quick bathroom trip, and smirked at Dream, the way only a well meaning mother could do. “If you don't need it, maybe George will.”
It hadn’t take more to convince Dream of the cardigan’s importance. And despite wearing it now, it would take less than a shiver for Dream to offer it for George. But he was dressed appropriately for the weather, and he looked terribly pretty with his oversized clothes and messy, curly, slightly too long hair.
Not taking a picture of his beautiful face, softened by the yellow lights and mist, would be criminal. He does as fast as he can, but he knows by the small smile that appears on George’s face that he wasn’t subtle. He doesn’t need to be, though, so he isn’t terribly embarrassed of such a small slip.
George beckons him closer. Dream follows easily, and offers his Apple Pay even swifter to get George another pretty, golden rock. He tries to act annoyed, but not even the vendor buys it.
They’re just walking away from the last vendor towards the food stands when George freezes. Dream notices a second too late, and they almost stumble into the ground, which would’ve been super embarrassing for two grown men. He just saw a child slipping on the cold tile; he could never live down with himself if he followed in their steps, clumsiness be damned. They barely manage to stay upright.
It looks like whatever it is that made him stop, it’s urgent enough to tell Dream. George grabs his arms and shakes him. “The girl is back!”
Dream takes a few seconds to understand his words, the world still spinning. “Who—the coffee shop one?”
George’s eyes widen impossibly, in emphasis. “ Yes. She’s there. She’s like—a stalker or something.”
Dream’s eyes follow George’s unsubtle pointing and, sure enough, they find the same chestnut hair from before, this time loose. The poor girl is still in uniform, though, most likely on her break trying to buy some fries from the local food truck.
“She’s just on her break; let’s go the other way,” Dream says, eyeing the sushi place a few feet in front of them. He’s kinda hungry, especially with how long they've been walking. And while George’s small white lie had been funny earlier, he was embarrassed about the scene they had made when he could’ve just let her down quietly. The Tesla is parked too far back to go home before getting at least a snack, and, besides, George would never turn down some free food.
George grabs his hand before Dream can move too far. The touch is immediately overwhelming. In the best way, Dream feels in real time how his DNA gets rewritten. His hand feels cold, and Dream knows the man runs cold—a million of the facts that make George himself live rent free inside his mind—but it’s another thing to feel the gentle press of his skin, the small texture of his hand against Dream’s palm. He almost shakes his hand away from the sheer shock it sends to his nervous system, but all he manages to do is a small jump, locking eyes with George.
“We have to keep up the scam!” George whisper-yells. “What if she tries again?”
Dream feels the urge to laugh. George can be so, so stupid sometimes. “After that humiliation, nobody sane would try again. You’re still here.”
“But if I don’t act like we’re dating, she may try again,” George’s eyebrows furrow, like this is a real, serious issue that Dream isn’t taking with the importance it deserves. Something in Dream’s unimpressed face must cement these feelings, because his frown gets worse.
“That’s it. I’m going to be your fake boyfriend today.”
The word makes another shiver run up Dream’s spine, and he barely stops his jaw from dropping. “Whaaaaaaaat?” he says quietly, barely remembering that the last thing he wants to do while holding George’s hand and leaning closer to his face is to draw attention to himself.
“This is the meta. If we act in—like we’re a couple enough, she will get the hint and won’t annoy you ever again,” he insists. George’s hands fly to meet Dream’s, a touch commanding, and it really shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but Dream thinks he could pass out from happiness. George is looking into his eyes with a beautiful determination and Dream is really only a man. He’s barely conscious of his mouth moving.
“Okay,” he whispers in short awe.
And that really is what condemns the rest of their night.
He might not have thought much about George reciprocating the entirety of his feelings—mostly, because the idea of comparing what he felt for George and what George felt for him felt like standing a bit too close to the sun—but he had spent entire weeks daydreaming about being George’s boyfriend, what George as a boyfriend might be like. As a matter of fact, he had never had a boyfriend, so it was natural curiosity that got him to stare at his ceiling in a trance, wondering what sort of couple they would make.
He knew how he acted when he liked someone. Dream was known to be whipped . He fell and he fell hard for his partners, he was clingy, and he liked to think he was sweet. His partners always called him attentive but intense and he supposed it was true enough. But he had never loved someone as much as he loved George, and he knew that just as friends he tiptoed the line of how close two human beings were supposed to be.
The thing was that George didn’t mind. In fact, he was too close in his own way. He liked to lean into Dream when they were hugging, was obsessed with holding him down in the morning and memorizing his smell. So when Dream pictured the two of them officially together, he could barely imagine anything closer than what they already were. Which was probably unheard of from two strictly platonic friends. It’s not like either of them cared, often.
He was wrong. Apparently, George’s idea of them dating was much more involved than Dream could imagine.
To begin with, he wouldn’t drop Dream’s hand. His vision of a good boyfriend included, too, to feed Dream.
“You’re really paying?” He asks with skepticism, sitting down at the sushi shop booth in front of the chair where George had already slipped into.
“Sure,” George shrugged, staring vaguely at where they had last seen the girl from before. “Think of it as a date.” It takes little else for Dream to understand that this is still part of his “scaring off” tactics, and he rolls his eyes.
“She can’t even see us now; it won’t help or anything,” Dream laughs at George’s insistence. It’s starting to feel more like a bit, and he feels his bones relax into the familiarity of sharing a joke with George. It almost feels like the early days, where he would insist on a kiss or a verbal acknowledgement from George because it was funny and drove fans mad. Even if the only one being driven insane right now is Dream himself.
“Well maybe I just want sushi,” George drawls. “And I want you to have some too. Is that not allowed? Is that illegal ?”
Dream snickers at George’s dumb, dramatic eyes and pout. He doesn’t lean forward and squish his face out of cuteness aggression, but it’s a close thing. “Is this included on the boyfriend packet, paying for your own food?”
“I pay for my own food.” George grumbles, taking a look at the menu from the QR.
“Not when we go out, you don’t,” Dream insists, sticking his tongue out just for fun.
He was trying really hard not to show how much the change was making his stomach turn. Not because he didn’t often enjoy paying for George—he’s thankful for George letting him do it so often, spoiling him rotten where he’s so hesitant to accept other gifts and offers. But it’s more about how it really does feel like George is taking him on a date. He had never had a boyfriend to do this with, and it was probably, to a degree, silly of him to get so stuck on semantics. A romantic partner was still a partner, irrelevant of the title. Maybe it was more about how it really did feel like, right now, George was pursuing him. The thought made him blush over nothing.
He was over feeling butterflies over George. His love had transitioned from an infantile, naive crush, full of kicking his feet and giggling to a domestic, ever growing knowledge that George was it for him in every way a person was meant for another; still, there were moments where George was this sweet that it just caught Dream off guard. Where he could only stand there and let himself stare as George orders and eats and exists, in awe. To stare back at George’s amused eyes and try not to spill his guts over sushi of all things.
They chit chat about absolutely nothing for an hour, and George does pay, but Dream gets the tip just to do something, and they walk out hand in hand again. The coldness of the street hits Dream’s blushing face with fierceness, and he shivers against his will.
“Are you cold?” George asks, immediately. He doesn’t even leave room for Dream to answer before he continues. “We can leave. You should’ve worn something warmer.”
“It is a bit too cold, but ‘m okay,” Dream insists. “I’m not ready to head back just yet.”
He doesn’t say it’s because he’s enjoying this little performance George is putting up way too much, but he doesn't have to. George’s expression changes just enough that Dream can tell he knows.
“I think we should check the last street, the flier said there was a lighting competition,” George says, and it’s hard not to feel the glee of his voice is contagious. “Like, the most expensive light decorations win or something. Oh, we should judge them together.”
“We don’t even have lights on at our house,” Dream says mildly. But he’s looking forward to walking down the street with George: he always has the most creative insults and remarks. There are so many small things that make George the most perfect person in the world, it makes sense he wants to stay at his side. It makes sense that there is a warm feeling inside of him that grows with every time George gets too close, placing a mark on Dream’s body and soul. This was good .
Still, some part of him did want to just ask George why they couldn’t just skip the dance and kiss outside, too. Why he couldn’t let his mom be right about them. He wonders if George is waiting for Dream, for some reason, when Dream has been so clearly ready all this time.
“That’s an L. We’re an L, Dream. An L!” George scrunches his nose in distaste. “We have to fix that next year.”
Next year. He’s used to waiting. He could wait, if George wanted, too. But he thinks he likes how they’re right now enough to take a step further.
And he’s starting to believe George would like the idea, too.
Judging lights is fun. They eat the hour away until the cold becomes too much for either of them to keep walking, no pretty light charming enough for the bite of the cold to keep hitting them. It’s an easy trek back, most of the patrons already beginning to dissipate.
It makes it easier for George to spot her .
Dream finds his world turned upside down a second later, being dragged towards a small dip between the buildings they were walking in. A woman that may be the one who tried asking him out earlier walks past them, oblivious, and they stay there, still.
“What was that?” Dream asks, maybe for the hundreth time that day, a wheeze threatening to rip his lungs apart. He can’t help the laughter that George’s ridiculousness inspires out of him. Dragging him into a filthy alley for someone who probably wasn’t even looking their way.
“It’s just more realistic,” George said, rolling his eyes. And well—Dream couldn’t exactly see it, with George’s face and body hidden in the shadow of the moonlight, but he knew George’s voice like he knew the palm of his own hand, and it was absolutely what he had done. “I wouldn’t kiss you all in the open if I was dating you.”
“Is that so?” Dream’s voice drops deeper, almost involuntarily. He’s unable to stop the small tilt of flirting on his voice. It comes out like that against his will.
“We can never be too sure,” George replies, unbothered. But he says nothing at the way Dream presses him closer and closer to the wall. The chilly, winter air disappears from the small bubble they have found each other inside of.
“What else would you do, if you were dating me?” Dream teases him, his eyes falling to George’s mouth, shaped like an O at the question.
It’s addicting, to stare at George. He’s been this close so many times, drunken and terribly sober making out, or laying next to each other in Dream’s bed, listening to music from the speakers, holding him close because he could and George wanted him to.
“I’ve been showing you all day,” George scoffs. There’s the smallest hint of doubt on his words, like he didn’t really mean to say them and still did. He has confessed to Dream that one of the things that scares him the most is how Dream’s existence just seems to coax sincerity from George, almost as if he couldn’t help it. Dream knows a little bit better—it might be his ego, but he thinks it’s George wanting to be honest with Dream.
George wants him, is the thing. Dream knows this like he knows when a storm is coming in the summer and when Patches hasn’t been fed. He’s tried to rationalize this knowledge for his own heart’s sake, thinking himself foolish, but it’s true. And he can’t ignore such blatant truth anymore. Not when everything he wants is right at his fingertips, and he just has to reach.
He leans the smallest bit closer and sees George’s big eyes drop for a fragment of a second, then return like he’s done something wrong.
“Date me,” Dream mumbles against George’s lips. He can barely see him under the darkness of the night; the moonlight doesn’t reach this small nook in time and space. Still, George’s big eyes glow with something greater than wonder. It feels impossible to put into words.
“What?” George replies, surprised into a thicker accent. It makes Dream smile harder.
“Date me, cut the bullshit, just date me,” Dream insists, only the smallest bit desperate. He’s not afraid to look lame in front of George, though, so he just laughs through it. “Holy shit, this is crazy, date me! Be my boyfriend!”
“I—okay!” George agrees easily. His face is red in a matter of seconds, like he just realizes what he’s said after the fact. “What the hell.”
Then, unfiltered happiness hits Dream like a truck. The only thing he can think of doing is falling into George’s lips, pressing a quick peck against his face before leaning back giggling. He’s thought about this so much, and never enough, apparently, because not once had he realized he would feel this wonderful, this light , at George’s acceptance.
Dream can’t help it. “You like me,” he accuses him.
The response is immediate, his flustered face contorting a bit more in embarrassment. He’s adorable. “Have I not been—like, you knew that?”
Dream thinks he must’ve, in a way. But it was never enough to move him from the wave of uncertainty that’d hit him every time he thought about them. “I thought you liked me as a friend,” he clarifies, with a shrug. It wasn’t bad . Dream wasn’t that sad, or annoyed, he was just wrong.
It’s funny, that’s what it is. “My mom totally called it, though.”