Archive of Our Own ^beta

When George was eighteen, he took his girlfriend at the time to a soccer game. It was nothing major - just a fun, casual date. They bought sodas and laughed about finishing them before the game even started. They laughed about the party they’d been to last week, and about the gift they had bought their shared friend. They traded kisses and let their knees bump together with shy smiles - despite the fact that their three year anniversary was coming up.

But then the goalie got a ball to the face and a nosebleed to go with it, and crimson flowers bloomed beneath his girlfriend's nose.

George and his girl knew, of course, that they weren’t soulmates. But they had loved each other anyway. They hadn’t cared. 

But suddenly, the universe was telling them no . A clear sign to stop delivered by the feet of a small town midfielder.

They broke up after the game - awkward words and stilted smiles in the parking lot. Her stuff was out of his room in a day, and she married the goalie within a year.

Unsurprisingly, the hole she left behind was big. When she walked out she took a hammer to three years - to promises of a future.

George, left alone to pick up the pieces of a failed relationship, allowed the years to go by, desperately searching his skin for crimson petals of his own, for the promise of a new future with someone else. Someone who wouldn’t leave him like she did. He stayed awake at odd hours, just in case his soulmate was in another time zone, he studied his chin for shaving burns, studied his hands for paper cuts. Nothing. Never ever anything.

He’s just turned twenty-four. Still nothing.

He tries to not let it get to him. People have had it worse, after all. There are those who never find their soulmates, and those who find them when it’s too late. Those who, in the middle of a day at work, watch as flowers bloom all over their skin, telling them the worst in the prettiest of ways.

It’s difficult though, to watch as his friends find their soulmates. To hear the heavy implication of yet another wedding invitation sliding through the little slot in his door and landing pathetically on the floor in a cruel reminder that he doesn’t have anyone to even joke about weddings with. It’s difficult to realise that it’s better to just buy a tuxedo instead of renting one every time. It’s difficult to be asked to be the best man time and time again. It’s embarrassing to watch the maid of honour accidentally cut herself on her desert knife and search a stranger's skin for blooming roses. It’s embarrassing when he does it himself, umber eyes searching empty canvases and clinging onto hope for a spatter of red.

There’s a part of him that whispers gentle words about there being someone. There’s a part of him that just doesn’t feel complete. He feels it in the mornings when one half of his bed is cold, and in the evenings when he sits alone at his dinner table. He feels it at work when he hears phantom vibrations of loving text messages never sent. He feels it when he laughs, when he cries, when he is. 

Deep down, George knows there’s someone out there for him. He knows that someone has had flowers bloom as a result of his petty searching at weddings and bars and cafes. But he doesn’t understand how he’s never seen any flowers of his own. He wants them. Wants his own faux bouquet, bound together by hope and embellished by excitement.

His friends ask him - often - if he’s alright. They’re not very subtle. Their voices overflow with concern, and their words are always paired with a grasp on his shoulder or a pat on the back. With every wedding, there’s another six “you okay?”’s and George can live with that. He can live with being that one friend everyone worries about. He is okay. 

Just a bit lonely.

.::.

The invitation came in late July, and in December George packs his bags and flies across the Atlantic for his sister’s wedding. He’s not the best man this time, not really a part of the ceremony at all. And he’s fine with it. He’s perfectly content with just being George, brother of the bride and not a member of the wedding party. Just a guest.

The young woman next to him on the plane finds her soulmate thousands of feet in the air.

George almost throws up when she bashfully compares an open wound to a branch of blossoms on another girl's arm. So he’s happy when the plane lands and he’s allowed to leave. 

His sister meets him at baggage claim, and despite the hell,  he went through at customs, he’s glad to see her.

“George!” she laughs when she wraps her arms around him. “I missed you, what the hell!”

“Don’t let mum hear you, she’ll spew some I told you so bull crap,” he snorts, happily returning the hug. 

“She did tell us though! We said we hated each other so much when we were little, but look at us now!” She pulls back, holding him at arm's length to study him. “Look at us now.”

“You’re getting married at twenty, Emma, and I’m four years older and alone. Yeah, look at us,” George cringes.

Emma clicks her tongue, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop being so dramatic. You’ll find someone.”

“Sure.”

With a shake of her head and an eye roll, she grabs his bag and turns away to leave, leaving George to scramble after, weighed down by his heavy carry-on backpack.

In the car, she tells him about the venue. She tells him about the food and the pretty lights and the drinks and about Adam . She tells him that Adam has a friend. A friend who is single and into guys and very handsome and smart. A friend who’s lonely. She doesn’t say it, but the words just like you hang in the air. George only listens with half an ear. He has no interest in a vacation fling with his sister’s husband's friend when his soulmate is probably back in England waiting for him.

“You deserve to be happy, too, George,” Emma says when they’re somewhere on the highway. Her eyes are trained on the road, less for safety and more because they both loathe eye contact. “Get your mind off this whole soulmate thing and allow yourself to- fucking- just fucking be .”

“Easy for you to say, you’re marrying your soulmate,” George mumbles.

“I was lucky!” she argues.

“And I’m just not. But it’s fine, Emma. Jesus. You act like I’m dying! I’m fine.”

Silence wraps around them, shielding them from the AC’s cold air with a thick blanket of tension.

After a few moments, Emma breaks the silence  “I just want you to be happy.”

“And I will be. Eventually.”

George’s words are the last to be spoken before the car pulls onto a driveway. Adam runs out to meet them, and he excitedly shakes George’s hand when he exits the car.

“It’s so nice to meet you, man. Emma can’t shut up about you,” Adam laughs, strong fingers crushing George’s slender ones.

George smiles through the pain. “Nice to meet you, too,” he says - strained. 

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Emma says, heaving George’s bag out of the boot. “He’s paler than a ghost.”

Adam laughs kindly. “Some Florida sun will do you good,” he says with a wink. “We’ll get you looking alive in no time.”

“Thanks,” George mutters, a deep red blush blooming on pale cheeks.

They pile inside. Adam ends up carrying the suitcase up the stairs and into the guest bedroom, despite both Emma and George telling him they could do it. They leave him alone after that, letting him settle in and unpack. 

It’s with little pleasure George hangs his neatly packed suit in the wardrobe. It’s a familiar dance. The ironing and pressing and tie knotting and bowtie straightening. He knows the steps all too well. Knows how long to spend on his hair and on getting dressed, knows how to write a killer speech and tell it to a room full of people.

When he goes to bed that night, he desperately wishes he could just forget it all.

.::.

The wedding is far from the most spectacular one George has been to, but it’s far from the most simple one too. It’s a Wedding. It’s beautiful, of course, because it’s his sister. George cries, of course, because his sister is getting married.

She looks beautiful, and Adam cries too when she walks down the aisle. Then she cries, because Adam is crying. For a second, George thinks the priest is going to cry, too.

The vows and their kiss go by in a blur for George, and he feels bad. This isn’t just another wedding, it’s his sister’s! But he’s heard a billion vows and seen a billion kisses; he’s so used to zoning out that he can’t help it. 

It’s not until he’s seated at the reception that he zones back in and allows the veil of blur to disappear. The room buzzes with activity as people mill around trying to find their seats and talk at the same time. Words and laughter mix together in a numbing symphony and George finds himself longing for his noise-cancelling headphones and the soft feel of his sister's guest bed.

As his table fills out, George silently wonders if his sister hates him. He’s seated between two of Emma’s friends - both single, they tell him quickly. Across from him is a guy his age who looks like he’d rather die than talk to anyone at the table, and on either side of him are two children; if you can call a seventeen-year-old a child. It’s a weird mix, clearly the leftovers. Clearly the Single’s Table.

George decides that his sister definitely hates him.

The girls next to him introduce themselves as Becky and Olivia, and they both giggle when Becky accidentally drops her glass on the floor and cuts herself on shards.

“Oh my- Shit,” Becky laughs, holding her hand away from her dress. “I’m so- Oh my god- I’m so clumsy! I’m so, so sorry!”

“It’s okay,” George says softly. “Do you want my napkin while you go find a bandaid?”

Becky’s eyes flicker to somewhere behind George - probably to Olivia - before she nods and accepts the napkin with a small smile. Visibly disappointed, she leaves the table with a napkin around her thumb.

“Sorry about her,” Olivia says when she’s out of earshot. “She’s getting desperate to find her soulmate. Dunno why though, she’s just twenty.”

“I‘ve found my soulmate,” one of the kids say, a proud smile lighting up his face.

“Really?” George asks, arching an eyebrow. The kid’s words shoot a little arrow of loneliness into his skin. It seeps into his pores, reminding him that there are people who have it so much better than him.

“Yep. He moved into the house next door when we were twelve. I cut myself on the swings,” the kid says. “He’s awesome. And my mom is super happy I found mine already, 'cause she lost hers before she met him.”

There are also people who have it so much worse,

George frowns a little. “I’m sorry. About your mom.” 

The kid shrugs. “She’s fine now.”

No one is ever really fine after losing their soulmate, everyone knows that.

“You’re lucky,” the other kid says - a girl. “I haven’t met my soulmate yet. And I’m eighteen.”

The two kids dive into a discussion, and George zones out once more. It’s heartbreakingly clear that the guy across from him is gathering up the courage to talk to him, and as bad as he feels about it… George doesn’t want a random fling with an American. Especially not one that is so clearly not his soulmate.

.::.

Hours and an awkward let-down later, George sits alone at the bar, eyes deep in a glass of whiskey. The music is loud, and the booze is free. For the first time that night, George feels at ease.

“Why are you sitting here all alone and sad?” someone asks behind him.

George turns around and his eyes go up, up and up until they meet bright green. 

“I don’t dance,” he says.

The guy is hot. He’s the all-American boy next door with messy blond hair and perfect rows of pearly white teeth that seem to sparkle when he smiles at George.

“Can I sit?” the guy asks. George shrugs in response, and he takes it as a yes, sliding into the seat next to him. “I’m Dream.”

“Dream?” George chuckles. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Are you one of Adam’s friends or something?” 

“Uh-huh. And you’re George, right? Emma’s brother.”

“How’d you know?”

Dream laughs, and his whole body moves with it. “Seriously? What are the odds of two British brunettes with pretty lips and a victim complex being at a wedding without being related? You’re obviously siblings.”

“A victim complex? ” George snorts. He turns fully towards Dream, the glass of whiskey abandoned.

“Yes! Why are you sitting here moping? It’s a wedding! It’s fun. Go dance or find someone to have- I dunno- sex with!”

“This is, like, my 40th wedding, alright? It has lost its charm.”

Dream’s face falls, and it’s the saddest thing George has ever seen.“Oh. No soulmate yet?” he asks, voice dripping in pity.

“Nope,” George says, making the ‘p’ pop . “I’m twenty-four.”

“People wait longer,” Dream says quickly. “And I haven’t found mine either - I’m 21.”

“The average age is twenty-three,” he sighs. “But it’s fine, honestly. I just- I’ve never even seen flowers on myself!”

“You haven’t?” Dream asks, eyes wide. “Geez, I get flowers all the time, but never around someone who’s bleeding. Which is… you know, not great. But- seriously? Never? No flowers at all?”

George shakes his head and sighs again. “No. A-and I don’t get how! What kind of person never cuts themselves or anything? Like, not even a paper cut?”

“To be honest, the sight of blood makes me faint, and so I’ve managed to not cut myself in years. My soulmate probably hates me… But hey, maybe your soulmate lives in a different time zone? And you’ve just missed it every time? They only last, like, five minutes, you know.”

“I guess so… But I stay up late a lot. God- I- I don’t know. I’ll find them eventually. Hopefully.”

“I like eventually,” Dream says, a kind smile tugging on his pink lips.

“And I think I’m gonna go home and sleep, to be honest.”

“Already?”

“I’ve been to too many weddings to have fun,” George chuckles sadly. He slides off the chair, purposely putting himself between Dream’s legs. “Unfortunately.”

Dream eyes him, and the smile lowers into a smirk: “Unfortunately,” he replies, voice soft.

“Bye, Dream.”

“See you, George.”

.::.

After the wedding, George gets the house to himself for four days as Emma and Adam fuck off to have sex by a beach. 

Now, George considers himself to be an unfortunate and involuntary expert on the subject of marriage and honeymoons , but he’s never heard of such a short one before. Four days barely seems long enough to come to terms with the fact that you’re married. But Emma had brushed it off when he mentioned it, claiming that she wanted to spend time with him, with George, while he was in the states. The beaches wouldn’t move, she said. They could go on a real honeymoon when George was back in England.

So, stuck with an unfamiliar house he was. In addition to an unfamiliar country.

The clock has barely ticked over into the p.m.’s before there’s a knock on the front door. When George opens it apprehensively, he’s met with a familiar face.

“Dream?” George says, almost chuckling. “Emma and Adam aren’t here. They’re-“

“On their honeymoon, yeah. I’m… here to see you,” Dream grins. And it’s easy. It’s free and easy and George envies him deeply.

“Me?” he frowns.

“Yeah, uh. Emma said she’d be leaving you alone to watch the house, and I’m assuming you don’t know it very well. But I do! I lived on the couch for like a month once when I was between jobs,” Dream says, rolling back onto his heels as he speaks.

George stares. Then he blinks, and then he stares some more. Poor Dream, he thinks. Forced by Emma to play babysitter to a grown man. George is quite fine on his own! He knows where the necessities are, and it’s not like Emma’s gone underground. He can easily call her and ask for stuff if he can’t find it. 

Of course, he says none of that. Instead, he says, “Between jobs is just a bad excuse for unemployed. ”

A stunned expression laced with confusion flashes across Dream’s features before he collects himself and forces a breathy laugh.

“Well- I mean. I- I have a job now, so. It was a period between jobs.”

“What do you do?” George asks.

He’s still standing in the open doorway, one hand in the doorknob. Dream stands on the porch, hands on his pockets and the sun behind him, lighting his golden hair on fire and making it glow.

“Programming. And stuff,” he shrugs.

George raises an eyebrow and nods slowly. “Cool.”

“A-and you?”

“Programming. And stuff,” he repeats, smirking a little.

Dream laughs, but this time it’s real. And it fills George with warmth. Unexplainable, unwelcomed warmth.

“Thank you,” George says, voice harsher than he meant, and it cuts Dream’s laughter off. “But I'm fine without… a guide. To my sister's house.”

The blond’s face falls, and George is happy to feel the unwelcome warmth leave his chest.

“Oh. Yeah, okay. Uh. Do you want my number or anything? In case you need to go shopping or- or whatever. I’m guessing you don’t have a car. Or a drivers license that’s valid here,” Dream says sheepishly.

George doesn’t even have a license that’s valid in England. He lives in London, for Christ’s sake. What would he need a car for? Where would he park it?

But again, he doesn’t say that. 

It could be helpful to accept. George has no idea how stocked up his sister is on food or toilet paper, and he loathes the idea of walking to a supermarket.

“Sure,” he says, and he even smiles a little. “That’s cool of you, thank you.”

“No worries! I took out some days off for the wedding so, you know, I’m free! Call me- call me any time,” Dream grins. 

“I’ll keep it in mind,” George chuckles as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Now- um, your number?”

.::.

That night, when George eats his dinner, he asks himself how he feels any more alone than he usually does. Back home, he eats every single meal alone after all. But maybe it is because Emma’s house is clearly furnished and made to fit more than one person. George’s one-bedroom apartment is nothing short of a shoebox, both in style and personality.

When he throws himself onto the couch after putting the dishes away, his thoughts wander off to Dream.

Not because he can’t stop thinking about him, but because apparently, he lived on this very couch for a month.

Dream is something George would expect to see in a crappy Netflix Original movie with no-names, one stunt casting and a plot you’ve seen a thousand times before. He’d be the protagonist's love interest, of course. Blond, green-eyed and filled with enough charm to put Cinderella’s prince to shame. Muscular, too. And kind. Probably smart as well if he’s a programmer of some sort. 

George groans out loud and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He presses until he sees stars - until a sun-made halo framing eyes that put a forest to shame fades.

A schoolboy crush on his brother-in-law’s best friend is not what George wanted. Not at all. Not when his soulmate is back in England, hopefully waiting for him. And not when Dream’s soulmate is going around kicking walls in anger for the lack of flowers on their skin.

George laughs quietly. Maybe his soulmate is just like Dream - scared of blood. 

It’ll all be fine in the end, he supposes. If he just doesn’t see Dream for the remainder of his stay in Florida, the stupid crush will go away, and George can return to sunny London without a worry in the world. Or at least not any more worries than he showed up with.

.::.

On the third day, George is rudely awakened by a knock on the front door. 

He ignores it the first time and presses his face into the warmth of his pillow, praying whoever it is will go away.

They don’t. 

A second round of knocking rings through the house.

With a groan, George rolls out of bed. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, but doesn’t bother with a shirt, and stalks down the hallway to open the door.

Once again he’s met by Dream.

“Hello!” he grins. “You haven’t called- I know. But I was bored, and I thought maybe you are, too. And then I thought that we could go to the aquarium! Make a day out of it.”

George glares half-heartedly. “Lots of thoughts. But, Dream. It’s like- morning.” 

Dream raises his eyebrows and laughs softly. “It’s almost one, George.”

“Oh. Well, I just woke up.”

“Clearly,” the smile that previously played on Dream’s lips morphs into a smirk, and green eyes travel the length of George’s body. 

George feels his cheeks go red under the blond’s gaze. He looks down at his feet, body frozen despite the spreading heat. “I-I… The aquarium?” he mumbles.

“Yeah. It’s really cool. They have a butterfly room and everything. It’s a great place for a date.”

“A date?” George sputters, eyes snapping up to meet Dream’s. “We- no. No!”

And Dream laughs. “Of course not, George. I’m just saying. It is a great place for a date. Objectively.”

George narrows his eyes, glaring lightly at the boy in front of him. “ Objectively. ”

“Objectively,” he confirms. “So. You on?”

For some reason, George finds himself saying “give me ten to get ready.”

He slams the door in Dream’s face, leaving him to wait outside.

The warmth is back, still as unwelcome as two days ago. George knows what the warmth implies, and he hates it. If he wants to forget Dream, the last thing he should do is go on a date with him.

Except it’s not a date.

But it so clearly is. It’s not like Dream’s shy about his ogling. And really, George should be happy. He should feel flattered that a guy as hot as Dream, a guy he likes, seems to like him. But he can’t feel any of those things. Not when there’s a return ticket to England booked in his name.

Still, he gets dressed. 

Still, he leaves the house and follows Dream into his car.

“So,” George says when he closes the car door behind him. “Uh.”

“Aquarium!” Dream grins, turning the keys in the ignition.

“Were you actually bored or did you just want to spend time with me?” the brunet asks. He turns his head, eyes fixing on Dream’s profile.

A smirk tugs on his lips. “A mix of both, maybe.”

George snorts and turns his eyes to the road instead. “So you’re Adam’s friend, then? The single one who’s all lonely and my age and whatever. Emma told me to hook up with you, basically.”

“Well, I’m a friend of Adam’s, but I think the friend Emma meant is the guy who sat across from you. His name is Nick. And sure- he’s fucking hilarious and he’s so cool, but it takes him a while to open up,” Dream says.

They pull onto the highway. George watches the scenery idly, frowning a little.

“You knew where I was sitting?” he asks.

“George. I- I couldn’t keep my eyes off you after I saw you in the church,” Dream says quietly. “I can’t say I’m sad that Nick didn’t gather the courage to talk to you. I’m quite happy, seeing as I now have you to myself.”

“You don’t have me,” George mutters.

Dream chuckles lowly. “Don’t I?”

The rest of the car ride goes by in silence. George keeps his eyes stubbornly locked on the road, same as Dream. The speakers play what George assumes is one of Dream’s playlists, but the volume is so low that he can’t hear it.

It’s not until they’re safely parked outside the huge building that Dream takes a deep breath and turns to George.

“You done being mad that I’m flirting with you?” he asks, a smile playing on his lips.

George rolls his eyes. He says nothing, keeping his vow of silence, and exits the car. Dream’s laughter follows him but gets muffled when he slams the door.

He heads for the main entrance, knowing that the blond will follow.

And sure enough, he’s barely taken five steps before a car door is opened and closed behind him, followed by the distinctive locking beep . Dream catches up easily, and he grins at George when their eyes meet briefly.

“So, George! Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” Dream says, coaxing him like he’s a child on the first day of school, forced into a game of Let’s get to know each other!

“Dream-“

“Come on! Or at least say something. I don’t want you to be grumpy when we’re about to go look at cool fish.”

“Fine, I won’t be grumpy,” George says with a sigh. “Not that I ever was in the first place!”

“No! No, of course not!” Dream gasps. He even places a hand on his chest in pure mockery and George is forced to glare at him again.

“I’ll keep being grumpy if you keep teasing me,” he mutters.

“No teasing, no grumping. I get it.”

Silently, they walk together towards the entrance. There are people everywhere - mostly families with small children that are probably gonna scream a lot and get on George’s nerves. He sighs softly. Kids shouldn’t be allowed outside the house before they’re five. Or ten.

Dream pays. George tries to argue with him, but he barely has time to open his mouth before Dream shakes his head at him and promptly pushes his card into the card reader.

“It was my idea to go here, so I’ll pay,” he says, eyeing George before he enters his pin. “You’ll pay next time.”

“Next time?” George scoffs, pushing his hands into his pockets. “How presumptuous.”

The girl at the reception desk giggles as she nudges the reader a little to let Dream know he can take his card out. “First date?” she asks. 

George says “ no!” at the same time as Dream says “something like that.”

She giggles again, clearly finding their disagreement amusing. “Have fun anyways! Maybe you’ll figure it out.”

Dream smiles at her and pockets his wallet. “Maybe we will,” he says before turning to George. “You coming?”

“No thanks to you,” George scoffs.

The blond laughs and holds his hand out to George. He eyes it carefully, weighing the pros and cons of taking Dream’s hand. Eventually, the pros (warm hands, Dream’s hand, Dream’s hand ) win and George carefully intertwines their fingers.

“Maybe we will,” Dream says again, although this time he’s looking at George.

“Let’s just go,” he sighs, tugging on Dream’s hand.

“Okay.”

Dream takes a map from the receptionist and then they’re off towards the first room. 

Wrapped up in the blue radiating from the aquariums and the mind-numbing buzz of strangers, George finds himself staring at Dream instead of the tropical fish swimming gracefully around them. He pressed in close, silently blaming it on the crowd around them. But the room is far from packed, and George doesn’t really have a reason to hang on Dream’s arm in the way he is. Neither of them says anything, and if Dream notices the way umber eyes stay fixed on him he doesn’t mention it.

They go from room to room. They don’t talk. Sometimes Dream will press a finger to the glass and point something out to George who hums quietly and eyes it for a second before returning to look at more interesting things.

He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so transfixed by Dream. Why suddenly, the warmth feels a little less restricting and a little less unwelcomed. All he knows is that Dream is beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. He reads every sign with quiet devotion, studies every little creature with wonder in his eyes. He shares the funniest facts with George, like how most fish don't have eyelids or how fish communicate with each other. George listens with one ear, too busy to watch the way Dream’s lips move when he talks.

When they reach the butterfly room that Dream mentioned earlier, George has no idea how long they’ve been at the aquarium. 

They linger outside the doors, and Dream turns to him.

“You want to go in?” he asks.

“Yeah,” George says, hoping Dream won’t comment on the hoarseness of his voice.

“You sure? It costs five dollars. Might be a waste of money if you’re gonna keep staring at me all the time.” Despite the teasing intent of the words, Dream’s voice is soft and kind.

Nevertheless, a blush blooms bright red on George’s cheeks, and he quickly averts his eyes. “If you don’t want to, it's okay,” he mumbles.

“Hey,” Dream says quickly, squeezing his hand. “I want to.”

“I’ll pay,” George says. He pulls his hand out of Dream’s grasp, cringing at how sweaty both their palms have become from staying locked together for so long.  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet.

“No, you won’t,” Dream scoffs, picking George’s wallet out of his grasp. “Didn’t you hear what I said before? This place was my idea, so I pay. You pay-“

“Next time,” George follows. He looks up at Dream, their eyes meeting in an unreadable stare. “What makes you so certain there will be a next time?”

A smile tugs on Dream’s lips. “You haven’t looked at a single thing we’ve seen today. You’ve only looked at me.”

“I-“

“You know it’s true, George. You want me, but you’re scared,” his voice is soft. Lethal. “Don’t be. I want you, too.”

“You’re not my soulmate,” George whispers in a wavering voice.

“So? If I’m not yours then you’re not mine.”

“They’re waiting for me.”

“Can’t they wait a little longer?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

Neither of them speaks for a few moments. 

George’s eyes flicker between Dream’s face and his brown leather wallet, still clutched in Dream’s hand. 

Oh, how easy things would be if Dream was his soulmate. How easy it would be if George cut himself on something and watched flowers bloom on Dream’s skin - his own bouquet of love and hope. He wonders if Dream is thinking the same.

Their moment is interrupted by an employee approaching them. “Excuse me, are you in line for the butterfly room? The next group is entering now and we have two spots free,” he says, smiling kindly at them.

Dream’s eyes linger on George before he turns to the employee and nods. “Yeah. Two tickets. That’s ten dollars, right?”

“Exactly,” the employee replies.

“Do you take cash?” Dream asks. He puts George’s wallet in one of his pockets and pulls his own out of the other.

“We do, sir.”

This time, George doesn’t bother protesting. He lets Dream hand a ten-dollar bill to the employee and follows obediently when they’re instructed to join the group.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Dream whispers in the middle of the rule run-down the employee is giving.

“No,” George whispers back. “I’m not mad.”

“Good.”

Suddenly, his hand is enveloped by warmth as Dream intertwines their fingers once again.

“I’m not mad either.”

George snorts quietly. “I know you aren’t.”

“Good.”

The doors to the butterfly room open, and the group piles in. Hand-in-hand, Dream and George follow them.

Humid heat meets them. Within a second, everything feels clammy and gross. But when they look up and around it’s all forgotten.

Trees and flowers in every colour imaginable line the walls and the ground, and everywhere there is the flutter of butterfly wings. It’s an explosion of colour that George has never experienced before and it’s beautiful; and for the first time since they entered the aquarium, George takes his eyes off Dream and looks .

The employee reminds them to watch their steps - butterflies don't understand the difference between their branches and the stone path for their visitors.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” George says, eyes dancing around the room in an attempt to take it all in.

To his right, Dream chuckles. “It is.”

Quickly, George looks towards him only to find him looking back.

“It is,” he says again.

.::.

As they exit the building, they see a girl fall and scratch her palms and knees. They see a boy running up to her with roses on his skin and a smile on his lips.

.::.

The car ride home is quiet. Dream keeps his hand on the centre console, palm up, the whole way. George has to keep his hands locked between his thighs to keep from reaching out.

It was so fucking dumb, indulging Dream like that.  Nothing could ever happen between them, because George is leaving in barely a week and somewhere in England his soulmate is waiting for him! Somewhere in the States, Dream’s soulmate is waiting too.

They couldn’t see each other again, George knew that much. He was scared of what would happen if they did. He was scared of falling for yet another person who wasn’t his person. He didn’t want the universe to tell him no again. With Dream, he probably couldn’t take it.

But Jesus, he didn’t even fucking know Dream! Sure, he was attractive and he seemed kind and intelligent… But what did he actually know about him? Jack shit. 

The engine dies suddenly, and George realises they’ve parked in Emma’s driveway.

“So,“ Dream starts, turning towards George. “Do you want to-“

“No,” George says. “No, I don’t. And we shouldn’t hang out again.”

Dream laughs uncomfortably. George hates the sound of it. “Why not?”

George turns his head and their eyes meet. “Because you’re into me. I- And I- I’m into you. But nothing can come of it. I’m leaving in a week. I'm going back to England where my soulmate is and I’m not going back with a broken heart.”

“We could just be friends,” Dream mumbles.

“We couldn’t. It’s best if you just forget I exist. I’ll try to do the same about you,” George says, one hand reaching for the handle.

“Please-“ Dream rushes, grabbing George’s thigh. “I don’t care about finding my soulmate. At all. A-and I could make you happy!”

“But I care, okay? I’ve already watched the person I love be taken away by the universe once, I’m not gonna let it happen again. Besides… you don’t know me, Dream. We’ve barely met three times. This is physical attraction, nothing more,”

And with that, George steps out of the car.

.::.

George spends his last day alone moping. He wakes up and goes from laying in bed to laying on the couch; and he stays there, only getting up for snacks and toilet breaks.

He cries a little, but he doesn’t understand why. Rationally, he shouldn’t be this heartbroken over Dream. He met the guy two times and knows nothing about him. Yet he’s sobbing into a can of Pringles while rewatching Merlin for the umpteenth time.  Annoyingly, the characters remind him of him and Dream. A tall, handsome, blond dripping in charm and charisma, and a clumsy idiot with no real prospects. Watching them makes George cry more.

The conclusion he eventually arrives at is that he’s not so much mourning Dream, but more the idea of him. A hookup with an attractive stranger in a foreign land? Who wouldn’t want that? 

Well, George, apparently.

Nevertheless, the conclusion feels final, and he goes to bed that night with a weight off his chest.

.::.

But when he wakes up the next morning, the weight is back.

A glance on his phone tells him that it’s ten. Emma and Adam said they’d be back around one. Which gives him three hours to clean up the mess he’s managed to make in four short days.

George curses himself for not cleaning yesterday. But who could blame him? He was mourning.

When he’s brushing his teeth a few minutes later, he considers calling Dream for help. The thought is only on his mind for a split second, but it manages to make him choke on his saliva and cough it all up in a white spatter over the mirror.

“Fucking hell,” George mutters, immediately reaching for a towel to wipe it off.

Slowly but surely, he proceeds to make his way through the house, picking up trash, putting away dishes and cleaning the counters. He starts both the laundry machine and the washing machine and folds and floofs the blankets and pillows in the living room. 

Despite his efforts, he doesn’t feel ready when Emma and Adam suddenly pile through the door, grinning and happy and in love. The sight of them almost makes George cry.

“Did you miss me?” Emma asks teasingly as she pulls him into a tight hug.

“Sure,” George mutters, returning the hug. 

Adam joins in, wrapping his arms around the both of them. “Will you come over to meet your niece in nine months, George?”

Wrapped up in the too confining hug, George fake gags. “That’s disgusting.”

Emma giggles. “It’s the making of life!”

“Yeah, and it’s disgusting. Especially when it’s my sister, ” he snorts.

After a few more teasing remarks, they head off to their bedroom to unpack and probably have sex again. George glares half-heartedly at their backs as they disappear down the hallway before he goes and plops down on the all too familiar couch.

The couch Dream stayed on for a month.

George bursts into tears. 

“George, have you seen the scissor-thingy we had on our dresser? Are you crying? ” Emma stands in the archway into the living room, staring wide-eyed at her brother. Her hair's a mess, a clear indication of what she and Adam had been doing. Or been about to do.

“T-they might be in my room. And no, I’m not. Go have sex with your husband now,” George says, stubbornly not meeting Emma’s worried gaze.

“I can have sex with my husband whenever I want to but it’s not every day I get the chance to comfort my brother,” Enma says softly as she approaches. She sits down next to him and pulls him close with an arm wrapped around his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Dream,” George sniffles.

Immediately, she tenses. “Did he do something? I’ll tell Adam to ki-”

“ No, ” he shakes his head. “He didn’t do anything. He- he flirted with me. And I flirted back. At the wedding, I mean. Then he came here and all chivalrously offered his fucking help a-and- and I said no! But he came back anyway! And he took me to the aquarium and we saw butterflies and he’s so nice, Emma. He’s so nice and he’s beautiful and I’m so upset! I don't get why! I don’t know him!”

Emma exhales softly and runs her fingers through his hair; nails scratching his scalp in a soothing way. “Have you considered the fact that Dream might be your soulmate?” she asks.

George scoffs, leaning further into his sister. “He’s not. My soulmate is back in England. That’s- that’s the whole reason I can’t do anything with Dream… You remember what happened with Elise, right? I don’t- I can’t take something like that again. And I’m not gonna stop Dream from finding his soulmate because he feels obligated to stay with me.”

“George… you said it yourself. You shouldn’t be this sad. But you are. Your body knows who your soulmate is before you do! It probably thinks whatever it is you said to Dream is a breakup or something. Your body is mourning the loss of its other half.”

It would be so easy to listen to her. To let the words sink in and spread warmth and hope through his veins. But it hurts too much to even consider the possibility of Emma being right.

“You’ve been reading too many romance novels,” he mumbles. “Dream isn’t my soulmate. I’m… I’m crying over a lost opportunity, not over him.”

Emma sighs. It’s harsh, sharp in a way sighs shouldn’t be. “If you say so,” she mutters.

George nods and sits up, pulling himself out of his sister’s arms. “I’m saying so.”

A confused Adam appears in the archway suddenly, eyes searching for his lost wife. “Emma? George? What’s up?”

“George is being an idiot,” Emma sighs, standing up. “Come on, let’s unpack.”

George groans quietly. Now he’s ruined his sister’s sex life too.

.::.

Cold water rushes from the showerhead above, effectively cooling George down. 

He and Emma just got home from Universal - something she insisted he had to see before he leaves tomorrow. And sure, it was cool, but now his feet hurt and he smells like corn dogs. George really just wants to take his shower and go to bed and sleep, unpacked bags he damned.

Through the clogs in his ears, he hears the doorbell ring, followed by footsteps running to open.

“I’ll get it!” Emma yells just as she’s outside the bathroom door.

“Thanks,” George mutters to no one. 

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the wet strands out of his eyes. His hair is getting long - too long, so George makes a mental note to book a haircut appointment when he gets back to the UK. He wishes time would move just a little faster. The house is starting to feel restrictive, and the thought of Dream being so close makes his chest ache.

It will all be better when he’s back home; in his own bed, at his own table. Alone, as he should be.

There’s a yell from the hallway that catches George’s attention. He turns off the water and listens for a cry for help, but instead, he just hears laughter. With a snort, he turns the water back on and lets the cold envelop him once more.

He sighs loudly, but it’s drowned by the water as he turns his face into the stream. He stands like that for a few long moments, just letting the water beat down on him. 

When he reaches down to get the soap he’s been using - one of Emma’s that reeks of artificial lavender - something red catches his eye.

Flowers.

His right knee is covered in red roses, blooming on branches without thorns. His own bouquet of hope and love. Finally.

George can’t think. He can’t breathe. He’s twenty-four, standing in his sister's shower, dick out and everything, and his skin has finally bloomed. 

Someone fucking bangs on the door.

“George! Hurry up! Dream fell and his fucking knee is bleeding! I need a bandaid!” Emma.

Breathless, George looks to the door. His heart pounds and his chest, and it takes him three attempts to ask “which- which knee?” 

“ George! He’s like, deathly scared of blood! Open up!”

With one hand on the shower handle, George repeats his question. “Which fucking knee?!”

“The right one, Jesus!”

The water is left running, and George barely slips into a robe before he’s running out of the bathroom. His wet feet slip on the hardwood floor outside, and he almost falls. It’s ugly, the way he stumbles down the hallway.

But there he is.

Dream.

He sits by the door, pale as a ghost with red covering his right knee. The sound of steps makes him look up and his eyes widen when he’s met with George.

“George?” he asks.

“You!” George exclaims. “ You! ”

“Me?”

With an almost manic laugh, George pulls up the hem of the robe, revealing his matching red knee.

Their matching stains of love. A confirmation they didn’t really need at all - because they both knew since the wedding. Deep down, they both knew.

In an instant, Dream lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “You!”

“ Me !”

George almost collapses right then and there, but he makes it across the hallway and into Dream’s arms before his whole body just… gives out.

And it feels so good to let himself go in the presence of Dream. To let the warmth stay, to welcome it for once. 

Arms wrap around him, pulling him in tight. George grabs onto Dream’s t-shirt and pushes his face into his chest, inhaling deeply.

“Are you smelling me?” Dream laughs. 

“Shut up,” George snaps, voice muffled. 

“You know what,” the blond says as he threads a hand through George’s wet hair, “I knew it since I first saw you. I knew there was a reason I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.”

“Dream.”

“Didn’t you feel it too?”

“I did,” George breathes. “I did. But I was so- so scared.”

“Scared?” 

“I’m- Well, you know that I- that I’m going back, right? To England?” George mumbles. He pulls back and meets Dream’s eyes just in time to see them narrow.

“So? I’ll go with you,” Dream says - as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe it is when it comes to soulmates.

“I love you,” George gasps, eyes flicking erratically over Dream’s face. He didn’t know it before he said it, but god does he know it now. He loves Dream. His soulmate.

It’s easy to see now, why his own girlfriend had abandoned him so quickly after finding her soccer player. It’s easy to see why people never recover after losing their soulmate. It’s easy to see why people do crazy shit in the name of love.

Loving Dream is the easiest thing George has ever done, and he barely knows him. It’s the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s barely felt it for a minute.

“That’s good. Seeing as I love you, too. Seeing as I have loved you since the day I took you to the aquarium. Before that. Since the wedding.”

George laughs deliriously, pressing their foreheads together. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re mine,” Dream whispers, arms tightening around him. “I know I love you, and that you love me. And that getting to know you will be the best thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.”

“Fuck- Jesus- Kiss me. Kiss me, ” he gasps desperately.

There’s a flash of a confident smirk before their lips meet. It’s absolutely nothing like kissing anyone else. It’s messy, for starters. George is incredibly out of practice. But it’s also fucking amazing, for the lack of a better expression. It’s everything good George has ever experienced in his life. The cool guitar he got for his birthday one year, his first kiss on a playground under a starry sky, graduating, late nights with friends, eating his favourite food, and spending a day in bed just because he can. The kiss is too short and never-ending. It’s something that feels too good to be real.

“I love you,” it’s a gasp swallowed by the other's lips. 

“And I you.”

They pull apart, breathless and smiling .

From the door, someone clears their throat.

Instinctively, George wraps his arms around Dream, and it seems like Dream’s instincts told him the same thing, because his grip on George tightens even more.

“I have my own soulmate, thank you very much,” Emma snorts. “I'm just here to remind you that George is pretty much naked and the two of you are on my porch. Maybe consider taking this inside? ”

George giggles unattractively, a mix of tears he hasn’t noticed before and snot collecting on his cheeks.

“You’re crying, pretty boy,” Dream chuckles. “Let’s get you inside, yeah? We’ll dry you off and get you into some clothes.”

“I’m not a baby ,” George glares.

“Let me baby you anyway,” the blond replies softly. He shifts his grip on George so that he has his hands firmly locked under his thighs. Way too easily, he stands up, George in his arms.

“Dream!” he shrieks, arms wrapping around his neck in panic.

“I got you,” he snorts. “You’re lighter than a little rock.”

“A little rock?” George deadpans.

“A pebble.”

“A pebble? ”

“Yes. You’re my little pebble.”

George glares at Dream as he carries him inside. For a split second, he catches Emma’s eyes and notices the tears building up in them. His own eyes widen at the sight and he opens his mouth, just about to tell Dream to stop, but she shakes her head and motions for George to let Dream continue.

She’s happy, he realises. Emma’s crying because she’s happy for him. The thought almost makes George cry again.

“Are you in the guest room?” Dream asks him. George nods and rests his head on Dream’s shoulder.

The blond finds the room easily, and he puts George down on the unmade bed before he closes the door after them.

Suddenly, they’re alone.

George eyes him expectantly from his position on the bed, almost waiting for Dream to pounce on him.

“When’s your flight?” Dream asks.

The brunet frowns a little. “Tomorrow at five.”

“I’ll get a ticket on the same flight.”

“You don’t have a- a visa.”

“I’ll tell them you're my soulmate,” Dream says, crossing his arms. “That I can’t be without you.”

George snorts, smiling at the man in front of him. “Yeah? You think they’re gonna break the law or whatever for me and you?”

“They’re gonna have to,” Dream begins, taking a step closer, forcing George to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. “Because I don’t think I’ll last a second without you.”

“You’ve lasted long enough already,” George says. His breath catches when Dream gracefully sinks to his knees in front of him.

“Don’t you remember what you said at the aquarium? About being done waiting?” Dream’s voice is low. It stirs something in the pit of George’s stomach; and it grows when Dreams large hands come to rest on his thighs, pushing them apart.

“ Dream… ” he gasps. His fingers twist into the sheet beneath him.

He looks up, meeting George’s wide eyes. “Take the robe off.” It’s an order. One George would be stupid to ignore.

“I’m not wearing anything underneath,” he whispers, a blush that could put his red roses to shame blooming on his cheeks and crawling down his neck.

“Convenient. Take it off.”

“But you’re- you’re fully dressed,” George argues.

“Am I going to have to ask you again?”

When George still doesn’t slip out of the robe, Dream’s face softens and he lets go of George’s thighs in favour of cupping his face gently. “Is everything okay, my little-“

“ Don’t call me pebble,” George mumbles. “And yes. I’m fine. I-I want this… It’s just that- I, well. I haven’t done this in a long time.”

Dream chuckles softly, thumbs rubbing slowly across George’s cheekbones. “I'll take it slow, I’ll be careful. Gentle.”

Slowly, George shakes his head. “Don’t want you to be gentle. Just want you to take your shirt off or something before you strip me naked.”

“Alright,” Dream grins easily. He leans back and quickly tugs his shirt off, revealing a chest that’s way more sculpted than George imagined. “I won’t be gentle, baby.”

George blinks rapidly as he tries to take in the sight in front of him. He sighs heavily and tips his head back. “Lord have mercy.”

“Can I take off your robe and suck your dick now or do you need time to pray or something first?” Dream snickers.

“Suck my dick? I want you to fuck me,” George says with a pout, looking at Dream again. He’s careful to keep his eyes on neck and above only, though.

Dream arches an eyebrow. “Can’t I do both?”

“I’m sure you can take both, but I haven’t had sex in like three years. I’m afraid I might blow my load the second you breathe on my cock,” George mutters.

“You have a way with words, George. You really do,” the blond laughs. 

Groaning in annoyance, George slides off the bed, effectively planting himself in Dream’s lap - and before he can protest, George kisses him. It’s harsher than their first one, messier too. It escalates quickly, and suddenly George finds himself laying on the floor with the blond hovering above him, licking into his mouth. 

Large, capable hands skim down his arms and up his sides before grabbing the lapels of the robe and pulling it open, revealing George’s chest. Dream pulls back, green eyes glued to the new expanses of pale skin. 

“Come on,” George urges, chest heaving.

Dream dives in, trailing kisses from George’s belly button to his neck and back down again while his hands fumble with the knot on the robe’s waistband. He lingers in some spots, sucking harshly and leaving petals on his skin. Every little kiss and exhale makes George shiver, and his lips stay parted as a continuous stream of moans leave them.

With his chin resting just above the now loosened knot, Dream meets George’s gaze. “You bruise easily,” he whispers. “You know what bruises are, right?”

“Bl- blood vessels that break,” George replies breathlessly.

Dream hums. “Your blood is singing for me. It knows what I am to you. What you are to me. My blood courses through your veins, it’s your blood that I bleed.”

A pathetic whimper falls from George’s spit-slick lips. “Do you write poetry in your free time or something?”

“Songs.”

Before George gets a chance to reply, Dream tugs the knot apart and pushes the robe open all the way, putting George completely on display. And if George had any kind of control of his limbs he’d try to cover himself; but laying there on the floor with Dream kneeling between his legs, eyes reverently dancing across his body, George feels so utterly powerless. His body isn’t his own anymore, not really. He belongs to Dream, just as Dream belongs to him, and he won't ever get over him. There's no escape, not from a love like this. Not from the fucking universe. 

“I can’t believe you were made for me,” Dream says. It’s quiet. George wonders if he meant to say it at all.

“Dream.”

Their eyes meet again. “Where do you keep lube?”

“Do you think I brought lube to my sister's house?” George gasps.

“ George. ”

He averts his eyes. “It's under the bed.”

Dream snorts and bends down to search for it. He finds it quickly, but it's not like George hid it well. The bottle is well-loved and almost empty, and it makes Dream laugh softly as he opens the cap and covers his fingers in the cold substance.

“You've been busy,” he hums, throwing the bottle onto the floor next to George.

“It was boring being alone.”

“You shoulda just called me.” 

“I liked it better when you talked all purple prose,” George says with a glare.

“Relax, kitten, I’m about to prep you,” Dream chuckles.

“Kitten?” 

“You’re small and cute and peevish. It fits too well.”

“You know- my ex called me daddy.”

Dream arches an eyebrow at him and lowers his hand, slowly inching closer to where George needs him. “Did you like that?”

“No- god no. I hated it,” George says. He’s breathless once more, chest deprived of oxygen in a dizzying way. Shivers of anticipation rake up his spine, and when a finger finally begins circling his hole, a wanton moan fills the air.

“Good. Kitten it is, then.” 

Too soon, the finger pushes into him. It hurts, but in the best possible way. Dream preps him with gentle brutality, fingers and lips tugging the strings of George’s body and playing him like an instrument. Every shift, every kiss, bite and bruise, brings a new sound from his lips, and he’s trembling on the hardwood floor before long. It’s a never-ending crescendo that buzzes through him, taking control over his thoughts, kicking logic and sense out the door. 

What does he have to worry about, anyway? Dream is there to take care of him. Not even George’s blood is his own, so why should his thoughts and words and body be? He’s Dream’s. So utterly and completely Dream’s.

And when he finally removes his fingers and shifts to cover himself in lube, George wonders if he’s died. If this is heaven or whatever the afterlife has to offer. Surely no mortal thing can feel this good?

“George?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you ready?”

“ Yes. Always. For you, always.”

“You’re mine, yeah? Mine in every sense of the word.”

“Your body, your blood.”

Yours, in every sense of the word.