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Dream’s room is quiet. Too quiet. No music. No background noise. No laughter. George stands outside the familiar door, holding a takeout bag that’s slowly sweating through the bottom. The sun has dipped just far enough below the horizon, casting everything in a dusky blue.
He knocks.
Nothing.
He tries again, harder this time. Then, pulls out his phone and texts: Hey I’m outside, just dropping off food
No reply. Predictable.
George leans against the doorframe, eyes drifting towards the living space, towards the small potted plant resting on the coffee table. It’s dying. Crispy around the edges, leaves beginning to curl inward like a fist. Dream used to water it every morning, sometimes barefoot and half-asleep.
He sighs and sets the takeout bag down on the floor.
As he turns to go, the door opens just a crack.
“Hey,” comes a voice, hoarse and flat.
George turns. “Hey.”
Dream looks like a version of himself filtered through static—barely there. His eyes are puffy, skin pale, a faint shadow of stubble creeping along his jawline. He’s wearing a hoodie George hasn’t seen in years, the original Georgenotfound hoodie that was discontinued due to copyright, sleeves pulled down over his fists like a child trying to shrink into himself.
“I’m not really… up for talking,” Dream says, eyes flicking to the bag. “But thanks.”
George nods. “Yeah. No pressure. Just wanted to make sure you’re—,” he catches himself. “To make sure you’re eating something.”
Dream gives a half-nod. No smile. Not even a twitch.
“You’ve texted back, like, three times this week,” George adds, softer now. “You good?”
A beat.
“I’m working.”
“You’re always working.”
Dream doesn’t answer.
Behind them, the front door of their house opens—Dream’s mum. She steps in slowly, cradling a casserole dish with a dishtowel draped over the top. Her eyes meet George’s from across the living space, and for a moment they just stare at each other.
She looks tired.
So does he.
She gives a faint, silent nod. He nods back. No words are exchanged—just shared concern, carved into their expressions like weathered stone.
Dream glances behind him, seeing her approach. He exhales through his nose, sharp and bitter. “Tell her I’m not in the mood.”
“She’s your mum.”
“I know.”
George watches him retreat further into the doorway. “Dream—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
Dream meets his gaze for half a second. It’s the kind of look that begs not to be seen, like eye contact might shatter him. “I can’t do this right now.”
The door closes with a soft finality.
George stands there for a moment longer, staring at the wood grain. Something between worry and mourning settles in his chest—too heavy to be sadness, too familiar to be fear.
George has plans to see Allen tonight. Nothing fancy—just dinner, like they often did. They’d been hanging out like this for over a year now. George is serious when he says they’re just friends. Really. It’s just that… there is something else there, isn’t there?
Their conversations carry a current, a flirty lilt, like a song playing in another room—faint, but always there.
Allen has a way of noticing things: the way George picks at labels when he’s anxious, the way he hates the texture of live bait on his fingers. George mentioned it once, offhandedly, and since then Allen has taken over every hook. He notices things that remind him of George when he is out and about. He’s never shy about letting George know he is thinking of him.
He sends good morning and good night texts like clockwork. Not out of obligation, but the way someone might water a plant they genuinely care about—consistent, gentle, warm.
Allen lets himself be absolutely embarrassed in CS2 because he wants to play games with George and Sapnap.
Allen is, in every sense of the word, nice. Not in a vague, vanilla way, but with a genuine sweetness that makes George feel safe. Cared for. Adored.
If things kept going like this, George thinks, maybe, just maybe, their friendship could quietly bloom into something more. Something romantic, even.
After dinner, Allen drives him home. The car hums quietly in the driveway as they sit in companionable silence, headlights dim, the radio low. George has his hand on the door handle when Allen reaches over, gently taking his hand in his.
He brings George’s knuckles to his lips and kisses them softly, without ceremony.
George lets out a surprised giggle. “What was that for?”
Allen gives a half-shrug, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Just felt like it.”
There is a pause, longer this time, weighted.
Allen clears his throat softly. “I know we only met last year,” he begins, voice quieter now, “but it feels like I’ve known you forever. I really like your company. I like making you laugh. I like thinking of things that might make your day better.”
He exhales, then looks at George with a sort of quiet bravery. “I just really, really like you.”
George blinks, stunned into stillness. Something in his chest twists—not in a painful way, but the kind of twist you get when you're not quite sure what you’re feeling yet.
Allen keeps his gaze steady. “You don’t have to say anything back. I don’t want to put pressure on you. I just… wanted you to know.”
Then, softer still: “And I guess… I just want to know if you ever see anything more happening between us.”
George sits back in his seat, his heart a messy orchestra of emotion.
Allen is so good to him. So effortlessly kind. George can imagine a future with him—easy days, shared meals, soft evenings watching the sunset from the backyard. Allen would never make him question if he was loved.
But somewhere, tucked in the folds of that imagined life, is a dull emptiness. A missing spark. Like watching firelight through glass: beautiful, but out of reach.
“I like you too,” George says gently, finally. “And I think we’d be good together. I really do. But…”
He swallows. “It feels like something’s missing. Passion maybe. A spark, you know? You deserve better than that.”
The words sit heavily between them.
Allen looks down for a moment, nodding slowly. When he looks back up, his smile is tinged with sadness, but still warm. Still Allen.
“I understand,” he says. “I meant what I said, I love spending time with you. I’d really like to stay friends. Truly.”
He looks out the windshield, the quiet night stretching ahead of them like a road neither of them has mapped.
George fiddles with the silver chain that has found home around his neck for the past year. “I should give this back, right?”
Allen shakes his head, eyes still downturn, a small smile forming on his face. “Keep it. Silver suits you.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“If you ever change your mind…” he adds, eyes flicking back to George, “I’ll be here.”
George nods, squeezing Allen’s hand one last time before stepping out of the car. The door shuts with a gentle thud.
As he walks up to his front door, he realizes that sometimes love is just a warm glow, but he wants the kind of love that ignites.
George pushes the door open, stepping into the dim hush of his house. The scent of Allen’s cologne still lingers faintly on his sleeves—warm cedar and something soft, almost sweet. It clings to him like a question.
He drops his keys in the bowl by the stairs and climbs slowly up towards his room, mind already beginning to drift. He feels full, not just from dinner, but from the conversation. The tenderness of it. The ache of it.
His bedroom door is cracked.
George frowns, puzzled.
He pushes it open fully and freezes.
Dream is curled up in his bed. Hair a tangled mess, eyes swollen and ringed with sleepless shadows, wrapped in George’s blanket like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
“George?” Dream’s voice cracks like old wood.
George blinks, stunned. “What are you doing here, Dream?”
Dream sits up slightly, eyes flicking away. “I… I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be back tonight.”
George steps into the room, confusion blooming fast. “What’s going on?”
Dream refuses to meet his eyes, clutching the edge of the blanket like a lifeline. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, George. Everything is confusing. Nothing makes sense.”
George doesn’t say anything at first. He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress shifting beneath them. He places a hand gently on Dream’s shoulder. It’s a silent invitation: I’m here. Keep going.
Dream closes his eyes. “Got into a fight with my girlfriend.”
He pauses.
“Ex,” he corrects. “Ex-girlfriend.”
The room is quiet except for the hum of George’s air purifier and the soft rustle of blankets.
Dream stares at the wall. “She was easy to be with. Like… easy. She didn’t get mad when I disappeared for work. Didn’t ask too many questions about my past, or why I sometimes just… shut down. She let me ramble. Never interrupted. Never really disagreed. If we fought, it was about jealousy—mine or hers—but she always apologized. Even when I was the one being a dick.”
He shakes his head, eyes unfocused. “She was… perfect. I think I told myself she was perfect.”
George feels something pinch in his chest. “Then if things were so good,” he asks, eyebrows drawing together, “why the fuck would you guys break up?”
Dream is silent for a long time.
Then, barely above a whisper, “I don’t think things were good.”
George stares at him. “I don’t understand.”
Dream still won’t meet his gaze. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
George’s breath hitches, but he says nothing.
“I’d be talking with her,” Dream goes on, voice thick, “and I’d say something ridiculous—like, about whether water is wet. She’d smile and nod and say, ‘You’re weird,’ and that was it. But if it were you, George…” He gives a short, broken laugh. “We’d be yelling by hour two. You’d call me a fucking idiot a dozen times. We’d pull up research papers. You’d make some dumbass argument, and I’d get so pissed.”
George feels his throat tighten.
Dream’s voice grows quieter. “If I ignored her for hours, she’d just keep texting me sweet messages. And when I came back, she’d act like nothing happened. Like I didn’t just vanish.”
He finally turns his eyes toward George, red-rimmed and glassy. “But if I did that to you, you’d turn into a colossal nightmare. You’d storm into my office and rip me a new one. You’d demand I listen. You’d be mad because you care.”
George shakes his head, slowly. “Dream… those don’t sound like good things.”
“They are, though. You are.”
Dream reaches out, lightly touching George’s wrist.
“I like that you challenge me. That you won’t let me disappear. That you call me out when I’m being a dick. That you barge into my space and make me deal with it. That you give a shit.”
George swallows hard.
“What are you saying, Dream?”
Dream blinks slowly, as if gathering the courage to walk into traffic. “George… I love you.”
George’s voice is barely audible. “I know.”
“No, George,” he whispers, raw and trembling. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”
George blinks. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Dream lets out a humorless laugh. “‘Oh.’”
Silence floods the space between them, heavy and waiting.
George breaks it, words spilling faster than thought. “Allen asked me tonight if I thought we’d ever be more than friends.”
Dream’s face flickers. “That’s… that’s great, George. I’m happy for you.”
A smirk tugs at the corner of George’s mouth. He shakes his head. “You’re such an idiot.”
Dream blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I said you’re such a fucking idiot.”
George places his hands on Dream’s face, turning to Dream to fully face him. “I told Allen I don’t feel what he feels. That he deserves someone who does. Someone who lights up when they see him, who wants to give him the fucking world. I told him I couldn’t be that, couldn’t feel that, for him.”
Dream stares, eyes wide.
George gives a quiet sigh. “But I do. With you. You make me feel things that piss me off, light me up, make me want to scream, and laugh, and punch something. All at the same time.”
Dream swallows, hard. His eyes catch the glint of the chain around George’s neck. “That’s from him, isn’t it?” he asks quietly, not accusing, just knowing.
George glances down, fingers brushing the silver lightly. The chain feels cool and mild, almost weightless. It didn’t burn. It didn’t blaze. It simply was—soothing, quiet, like the moon hanging gently in a velvet sky. He remembers when it was gold that hung there instead—bold, radiant, almost too warm for his skin. That chain had gleamed against his collarbones like a flare, catching light in every movement, impossible to ignore.
There was comfort in silver. A quiet familiarity. It didn't ask him to burn. It let him breathe.
Still, part of him ached for the sunlight of that old gold chain. He missed the way it commanded attention, the way it made him feel like he was something precious too.
“Yeah.” He finally responds, letting out a breath, half a laugh. “Funny thing is, I’ve always been partial to gold.”
Dream doesn’t respond right away, just offers a small, understanding smile. They fall into silence again—not awkward silence, but a calm, comforting silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled.
George leans back against the pillows and finally speaks. “So… what do we do now?”
Dream exhales, voice softer than ever. “Maybe… maybe we just see where it goes?”
George nods once. “Okay.”
Without another word, he pulls the blankets back and slips under them. Dream turns toward him instinctively, like a compass finding north, and wraps his arms around him.
There are no more confessions. No grand speeches. Just quiet, steady breathing.
And right before sleep takes him, as Dream’s fingers curl loosely around his side, George realizes, this feels like home.