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Dream can be an idiot, sometimes.
No one will probably believe George, since the MIT Statistics professor has a massive brain, high IQ, huge mental capacity, all that, whatever . The point is, people see Professor Dream Wastaken as someone smart.
Not George, though.
George thought Dream was. You know. Smart. This intimidating overachiever when they first met three years ago at MIT's annual cross-department gathering seems less daunting, far from it, as he stands like an idiot in the middle of their living room.
It went like this:
Alarm blaring. Warm hand on his waist. A cold press of lips at the back of his nape.
He groans, reaching with his hand by their bedside table to turn his phone off, and snuggling back into the covers. Dream, his husband , groans from behind him, his arms burrowing deeper around George’s body, a warm hand snaking under George’s shirt, seeking for more warmth.
George buries a soft grin in his pillow before turning to face his husband.
Husband . They’ve been married not for long, around a couple of months, but it has been the happiest time of George’s life.
Dream makes him happy.
And a few minutes from now, Dream might make him late.
He sits up, regrettably so, Dream chasing after him even in his half-asleep state, and George bites his bottom lip to prevent from grinning too much this early in the morning and splitting his dry lips. That has happened way too many times he could count.
He steps off the bed into the cold floor, ignoring Dream’s ‘ George, come back, the bed is so cold without you come back please’ as he stands up and stretches his back. Dream whines from the bed, body diagonal across it, face down on the sheets as his hand stretches up to reach for George, but he’s probably too sleepy to get up or wake up properly. George scoffs under his breath, intertwines his hand with Dream’s raised one and leans down to kiss the top of Dream’s head.
“I have a class to teach in an hour.” He whispers, and lets go of the hand, ignoring the pathetic wails of his husband. So dramatic.
He gets in the bathroom, does all his morning routine of taking a shower and brushing his teeth in a span of a few minutes, all the while humming a tune to himself. Once he gets out, their room is empty, the bed already made.
George fetches a simple button up and a cardigan, deciding that today is probably gonna be an easy day, judging by the loose schedule of lectures he has for the day.
With his messenger bag on his hand and his phone on the other, he struts across their bedroom and into the living room, setting his stuff down before making his way to the kitchen.
Dream is there on the kitchen isle, sat on top of a stool, with a cup of coffee beside him, his laptop open in front of him, the sound of the coffee machine in tune with the keyboard, clacking. He doesn’t have classes today. George knows this because they know each other’s schedule like the back of their own hands. The back of their own hands where their wedding ring is visible. George laughs to himself. And so what if he likes the fact that they’re married a little too much?
“Good morning!”, he greets.
Dream doesn’t raise his head when he greets back, “Good morning.”
George passes by behind his husband and gives a glance to what Dream is doing. Some google docs. Probably the draft he’s doing for the book he’s going to be writing.
He squeezes his husband’s shoulder and kisses him on the cheek routinely. The man doesn’t react.
George rolls his eyes. The other gets like this sometimes, George had taken to notice. When he focuses on something, it can be hard to pull him out.
Not that George minds. Dream is hot when he’s focused.
George laughs to himself as the thoughts he’s not supposed to be having at 6:45 in the morning flood his mind.
He shakes his head, puts two slices of bread in the toaster and pushes it down. As he waits for it to cook--toasting bread is still called cooking, okay?-- he pours himself a cup of coffee.
He downs half the cup, burning his tongue in the process and thus the coffee being efficient in its job of waking him up, the bread comes out of the toaster, he spreads strawberry jam on one and puts them together, manages to finish it half way, and Dream is still clicking away in his laptop.
When George finishes his coffee, and leaves the half-finished strawberry jam sandwich by the table (Dream doesn’t eat breakfast but he always finishes the food George leaves behind. George leaves them behind on purpose) Dream is still typing on his laptop, eyes not straying from the screen.
George cleans up after himself in quiet comfort, and after a few minutes of milling around, he grabs his phone and wears his bag by his shoulders, before going back to the kitchen to open the side window to let the morning air in. He always does this before he leaves, so the cold from the night before can take its rest and let the sun bathe their home in a warm ambience.
Like coming out of a trance, Dream suddenly raises his head. Fakes a cough. Looks at George sneakily. Places his eyes back down to his laptop screen.
“You’re leaving?” he says, eyes straight down, but the keyboard clacks have stopped, and George can hear the pout in his voice.
He chuckles quietly to himself. Dream shifts in his seat, his shoulders squaring and his face raising up, his eyes still.
“Yeah, I just told you.” George says light-hearted as he crosses the kitchen to get to the cabinet by the living room, fetching his watch and putting it on. He really needs to leave. But Dream is, well, being Dream .
“Well, okay. Just like that?”
George laughs. “What do you mean, Dream? I come home to you. ”
The man flushes. George bites his tongue to prevent the huge smile fighting its way out of his lips.
“ I know. ” Dream scoffs in a frustrated manner much to George’s amusement. “But you’re leaving just like that?”
George is trying so hard to not burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking as he says, “What else am I supposed to do? I’m late.”
Dream nods. And he stares. Nudges his head forward.
George stands there in the middle of the living room. Tilts his head to the side. Stares back.
Dream doesn’t budge; their conversation continues. He keeps staring at George and nudges his head forward even more. Like he wants George to do something.
George doesn’t get it.
But as Dream continues nudging his head forward to an almost comical level, he’s not sure who’s more stupid between the two of them.
“What?” George breaks, amused at the turn of events this morning is having.
Dream stays quiet for a few moments before he raises his eyes up a bit to George before quickly looking back down again. He seems shy. George knows he is.
“Where’s my goodbye kiss.” Dream mutters under his breath.
“Where’s your what now?” George grins.
“My. goodbye. kiss.” Dream enunciates each word with stress, like this whole situation is really stressing him out. George finds it funny.
“Ah, do you even need those?” George teases, staying in his place in the living room, a hand coming up to his chin in faux contemplation.
Dream’s eyes widen at him. “YES. Hello?” There is sarcasm dripping in his tone that George finds absolutely endearing.
“Nah, I don’t think you do.” George makes a show of pivoting his body to walk away.
Dream speaks before he even manages to take a step.
“George.”
George takes a step.
“ GEORGE. ” Dream sounds panicked now, and that tips George over the edge, his long-concealed laughter wracking out of his body in welcoming waves, drifting him afloat.
He’s laughing too hard, way too hard for someone that’s about to be late for his class, that he fails to notice that Dream had already risen from his seat and made his way in front of George.
George stands back to full height when he notices.
“Are you done?” Dream deadpans.
George raises a brow challengingly, wiping the tears that have made its way at the corner of his eyes.
“Yep! I’m leavi--” before he even finishes his sentences, Dream snakes an arm around his waist, pulls him close and kisses him.
Despite the abruptness, the kiss is soft. His husband’s mouth warm on his’, gliding, falling, falling, slowly. Home.
It’s over too soon. George opens his eyes.
There is a melted grin on Dream’s face, and the way that he smiles beckons the sun. George is far from being a poetry major, far from being a Literature professor, but he means this when he says:
The sun wouldn’t rise without Dream there to beckon it.
Things like this sometimes take 7 a.m.’s and late lectures to realize. It’s a good type of realization. One that George will ponder on for the rest of the day.
George sighs, as warmth tingles all the way into his fingertips.
“Bye, George.” his husband grins huge, like a fool.
George shakes his head fondly. “Bye, Dream, I love you.”
He stands at the tip of his toes and places a soft kiss at the corner of Dream’s mouth, his hand by the other’s jaw.
Dream holds this hand and squeezes, as he says, “I love you too.”
As George drives to campus that day, with a soft constant smile on his lips, this thought is the only thing running in his mind:
Dream may be an idiot. But he is George’s idiot.
George wouldn’t have it any other way.