Chapter Text
George hated college.
Well.
It wasn’t that he hated college, he just hated his college.
His only saving grace was the fact that he didn’t hate his roommate, Quackity, and that he’d made another friend on campus, a fellow Brit, Wilbur. (Who always caught the things George had missed from their one shared lecture, and never stopped talking about wanting to drop out to pursue his band back home.)
Aside from that, George hated his classes, he hated his classmates, he hated the dining hall’s food and how they never kept blueberry muffins in stock, he hated how long the walk was to one of his software classes, even if that was the most tolerable class he was enrolled in, and he hated how Wilbur could get there faster because of his freakishly long legs. Most of all, though, he hated the cold. He had thought it was going to be more like home, with biting breezes and cloudy skies. But the more time he spent in Boston, he realized his definition of home didn’t really have anything to do with a place at all.
So, George hated college. But, there was nothing he could do about it, and he was going to have to white-knuckle it through the rest of the semester.
“You didn’t think I had the right to know?” Dream said angrily, in a tone that George had never heard directed at him before.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” George defended, while Dream stared at him incredulously.
“You’re going to school states away and you kept it a secret from me. You never even told me that you got in. You don’t think that’s a big deal?!” Dream shouted, throwing his arms out.
“I thought about going there before we even started dating,” George said stiffly. “Maybe I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d freak out.” Dream scoffed, which made George clench his jaw. “You’re so fucking controlling sometimes, God forbid I do something I want.”
“I’m controlling,” Dream said, void of any emotion. He turned, facing away from George, and George felt it like someone had forcibly tugged him oceans away. “I’m controlling because I want to know what’s going on in your life?”
“I don’t have to tell you everything,” George said shakily.
Dream let out a laugh, but it wasn’t humorous, and it rattled George to his core. “You don’t have to, you’re right,” Dream said like there was a joke George wasn’t in on. “The thing is, George, you should want to.”
Dream’s shoes crunched on the mulch surrounding the equipment of the dumb park that was in between both of their houses. The one that George had loved ever since Dream had pressed him up against his car and kissed him. His heart always skipped a beat at the memory of Dream kissing him on the swings in the middle of the night.
“Sometimes, I don’t even know where your head’s at anymore,” Dream told him, his hands wiping down his face.
And honestly, George didn’t either.
Wilbur and George’s friendship was a bit unconventional. They didn’t have much in common when it came down to it, but what they did share was a similar music taste, and an absolute hatred for Boston. Wilbur’s was the result of homesickness, while George’s was for an entirely different reason, one that had a disarming grin, and made George terrified whenever he went on any of his socials.
He had blocked Dream after the breakup, like any normal, sane person, but that didn’t mean he had dropped all of his friends, who were mostly Dream’s friends. It was like a game of Russian Roulette every time George went on Instagram and scrolled through anything posted by Karl, or Sapnap, or any of the others.
George wasn’t hung up on him.
Except he was completely hung up on him.
And the tattoo, well- he couldn’t really explain the tattoo.
He had been drunk when he’d thought of it, he remembered that, surprisingly. He’d been stone-cold sober, however, the next day when he’d gone to the shop and had gotten it done. He had stared at it in the mirror after he’d taken the bandage off and traced over the shiny black numbers for entirely too long to be anything other than heartsick.
“Sometimes it’s like you’re obsessed with me,” George said, crossing his arms to mirror Dream. “It’s suffocating.”
Dream didn’t say anything for a while, and George watched him. His feet prickled from the beat-up sidewalk, and he realized he hadn’t even put on any shoes. Dream wasn’t even looking at him, though, instead, he was squinting up at George’s bedroom window.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Dream said finally.
“What?” George said, his eyes widening. “Dream-”
“I suffocate you,” Dream said like it was torn out of him. “I guess I’m just ruining your life.”
‘’Dream-” George started, but didn’t know what to say.
“What?” Dream prodded, clearly looking for an answer.
George didn’t have one. “I don’t...I don’t know.” He knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he saw Dream’s face fall.
“You don’t know?”
George let out a frustrated huff. “You always twist my words! Like everything is coded!”
“No, George,” Dream said, sounding tired in a way that made George’s stomach twist. “I think you say exactly what you mean to.”
George hadn’t been the biggest fan of Florida’s weather when he’d had to move to the States in sixth grade. He was pale, and gangly, and used to the overcast skies and mild weather that England was known for. The humid air, slicing sunshine, and golden hues were off putting at first.
Dream was golden, too, in nearly every way imaginable. He had gold eyelashes, honey hair, all framed around sepian freckles that glistened in the sun. George liked watching Dream in the sun, and how his tanned skin always soaked it in.
Boston was cold.
Boston was blue, and shivery, and lonely, and the taste of snowflakes burned his tongue, when all he wanted was sunshine.
He’d painted his nails yellow once, on a bad night, dipping into the collection of pastels that Karl had given him as a joke.
He couldn’t stand how it looked once he was finished, and he wiped it all off, his fingers dry and reeking of acetone by the time he was done. It made him think of green, and how they all looked the same. He thought of Dream and his golden shirts and golden laugh until he wanted to smash his head into the empty wall by his bed. Dream would know what to do with the space. He would find some tapestry that George would love, without even trying.
Or, even worse, George could see him taping up all the pictures he had of them on the wall, always the more sentimental one, matching the ones he had in his own room. George wondered not for the first time if he’d taken them down. It was only fair, but George’s veins filled with jagged sharp crystals at the thought of Dream throwing them away.
As he stared at his blank wall he wondered if he ever actually had a personality at all, or if Dream had taken that with him too.
There’d been another night, when he’d gotten wasted in his dorm room, and then snuck out to the common room once Quackity had come back. He had huddled up in the corner on one of the couches, feeling distinctly sorry for himself.
He called Wilbur after a few minutes.
“Do you know what I should do?” He asked him, his knees tucked up and under his chin, and his voice wobbly.
“I think…” Wilbur said slowly, “If I knew the answer to that question, we wouldn’t be friends.”
It was honest enough, and had made George laugh, dislodging a few of the tears that had gathered in his lashes. He wiped at his face hastily.
“I’m really glad you’re my friend,” George said, feeling like Wilbur deserved it, and because he was trying to do better, and be a better friend.
Wilbur made a small noise of assent. “And I’m really glad you hate Boston.” He teased back, steering George away from shaky ground.
“Yeah, well, what else would we have bonded over?” George joked. “Other than being depressing fucks.”
“Depressing fucks who like the Arctic Monkeys, George, that’s the most important part.” Wilbur quipped, making George snort out a laugh.
George still couldn’t bear to cut out the section of him that was bathed in marigold, but he felt like he could finally breathe for the first time in three months.
They stood three feet away from each other as the air cooled, and George’s chest lifted up and down rapidly as he tried to get his breath back from their latest screaming match. They’d been in tumultuous waters the last couple times they had seen each other, and George was exhausted.
“I don’t know why you keep coming over if all you do is pick a fight!” George bit out, raking his hands through his hair.
“‘Cause it’s always me, it’s always my fault. I’m the one who always starts it,” Dream said, halfway between sarcastic and incredulous. George wanted to throttle him.
“I have to pack,” George said desperately. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“In front of me,” Dream said, sounding hurt anyway. “Do you have to do it in front of me? You could have done it at any other time, but you have to do it while I’m here?”
“Well if I do it any other time you might accuse me of keeping secrets!” George bit back.
“You know what I think?”
“No,” George said, just to be mean. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway.”
Dream’s expression soured even further. He scoffed and then turned around so he was facing George’s bedroom door. He banged his fist against it in frustration. “God, sometimes I don’t even know why I-” He cut himself off.
“Don’t finish that sentence,” George said, his voice like lit coals.
Dream straightened, tossing his next words over his shoulder. “I think you’re running away.”
“Running away,” George repeated numbly. “Running away from what?”
“Me,” Dream said first, his voice rough, and then he turned back around and waved at the space in front of him. “This, us, everything. I think you’re running away.”
George glared at him. “You know, Dream, I know you think the world revolves around you, but it doesn’t.”
Dream clenched his jaw and averted his gaze before he flipped around and wretched the door open.
“I hope you have a really great fucking time at Boston, George,” Dream seethed. “Really, I do.” He paced forward to grab his bag, which had been on the floor, and hastily strung it over his shoulder. “I hope that you love it, and make new friends, and fuck other people, because fuck me, right?”
George choked on a sob as he started shoving Dream out the door. “Honestly, yeah, fuck you, Dream. You’re a fucking bastard.”
Dream got out into the hallway and angrily pounded down the stairs, though not before shouting to George, “Have a nice fucking life.”
“It will be!” George screamed from over the bannister. “Because you won’t be fucking in it!”
After Dream had slammed the front door, George stomped back into his room and slammed his own door, hard enough that it rocked on its hinges and shook the wall.
He moved into his dorm six days later.
“Why Boston?” Dream asked, breaking their silent atmosphere. George had tensed immediately, so Dream continued. “I’m not trying to start anything, I just don’t- you’ve never even talked about Boston before.”
They were both lying on the hood of Dream’s car, looking at the sky. They were supposed to be looking at the stars, George remembered, but he had mostly been pretending not to look at Dream. Dream in the sun was something to behold, but George liked him maybe most at night - when it was dark and the shadows of his face were exaggerated. Dream was usually unguarded, but he was even more so at night, and George liked to watch him.
“My parents went there,” George said eventually. “It’s where they met, actually. They’ve been dreaming about me going there since I was born, practically.”
“You don’t have to go,” Dream said softly.
“I don’t,” George said tightly. “But I’ll get an alumni scholarship, it’ll make them happy, and it’s a good school.”
Dream hummed. “You never mentioned what you wanted in that entire sentence.”
George rolled his eyes. “What I want and what’s smart tend to be the same thing.” He replied. Dream’s arms were around him, and he hoped that he wouldn’t pull away. “What I want doesn’t really matter, anyway.”
Dream sucked in a breath. “It should always matter.” One of his hands came up to run through his hair, and George couldn’t help but sink into it. “Sacrificing yourself isn’t sustainable.”
“Yeah, and being self-absorbed isn’t sustainable.” George retorted hotly before he had a chance to think about it. He regretted it as soon as he felt Dream shift. “I take that back,” George said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean that, I take it back.”
“Okay,” Dream said, and his hands came down to tighten around George’s hips. “Okay.”
“I don’t want to fight,” George said, his voice sounding just on the edge of shrill in a way that he didn’t like. “This is why I didn’t- can we just, can we have a good night?”
“I’m sorry,” Dream said, and kissed a spot behind his ear. “I don’t want to fight either,” He soothed.
“It’s okay,” George said, and tangled their hands together. “Dream?” He prodded, needing that reassurance.
“Yeah, baby?” Dream asked right by his ear, and it had George wanting to tilt his head back to kiss him.
“I love you,” George said, and let it seep out from deep in his chest.
“I love you, too,” Dream replied instantly, placating George’s nerves, the ones that couldn’t decide if Dream was too much or too far at the same time. “Love you so much, baby.”
George squeezed Dream’s hand. Maybe if he held on tight enough, things would be okay.