Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dream is an asshole. A self-absorbed, vain, moody asshole. 

Dream and George– they used to be friends. Sandbox besties, cradle to grave, ride-or-die kind of friends. Now they’re nothing, just strangers on a college campus who barely look in each other’s direction as they pass by, neutral recognition in both their eyes. People whose mums hang out while they sit at opposite ends of the room with their own friends at the grown-ups' New Years party. Ex-friends who know one another’s deepest childhood secrets, but don’t even know each other's phone numbers anymore.

What baffles George the most about his forgotten friendship with the boy next door is that nothing happened to cause the distance. One day Dream was knocking on George’s door, begging his parents to let George out to hang, and the next– the next he was riding his bike through their suburb with a different boy from school, and when George called, a robotic voice told him this number is not in service . The week after Dream abandoned George, there was a black streak dyed into Dream’s dirty blonde hair. A year later Dream showed up at school with a piercing, then another, and another… When he turned eighteen, tattoos started to appear in similar succession.

And it's fine– George is fine. He won't fight for a friendship someone doesn't want, that’s not what he’s like. He will work on his friendships, forge them stronger and hold them closer, but if someone leaves, he won't beg them to stay.

So now they’re just two guys of a similar age, who are going to the same college and still living in neighbouring houses with bedroom windows that face each other. 

George’s desk used to sit in front of that window, and from it he could see Dream at his desk, facing back at him. On days when the Florida weather was mild and unchaotic, they’d open their bedroom windows and talk through the two metre space between their houses. George moved his desk a couple years ago– moved his whole room around one random night at like three in the morning, just so he didn't have to see activity through Dream’s window anymore. 

Because there's been a lot of activity happening in Dream’s window in the last couple of years. Lots of comings and goings, as George’s mother might say. What’s coming is girls and boys of varying appearances, and what’s going is those same girls and boys a few hours later, looking more dishevelled than when they came. George thinks he could colour-match the exact shade of purple that Dream causes on these girls' and boys' necks, and he isn't even the one doing an arts major.

George isn't slut-shaming. He isn't. It’s just– disrespectful, he thinks, that Dream sneaks these people through his window in the middle of the night and his parents never know. George would never do that to his parents, no matter how much they pissed him off. Also, George knows Dream’s parents are almost never home— hell, he never even sees Dream’s dad, so why can’t his conquests use the front door? Is that too official for the messed up man Dream has become?

He’s more than happy to parade his flavour of the month around campus though. Dream walks through the college each week with a new dalliance under his arm. A pretty girl in a tight skirt, a pretty boy in even tighter pants. They smile up at him like he is the sun, he looks down at them like they mean nothing– and George supposes to Dream, they don’t. They never last more than a month against his side or in his bed. George used to keep track, paying attention to who climbed out the bedroom window opposite his. Now if he were to keep track his brain would have no room for anything else, he’d overload his hard drive and cause his mind to short circuit. 

George doesn’t care how Dream now spends his life, just as Dream stopped caring about how George spent his. School is all George needs to set focus on, a Computer Science degree and being headhunted by a well paying tech company so he can pay for his parent’s retirement home and support his future wife and kids. 

Though George isn't really interested in girls right now… He’s too focused on school, too busy with his studies and his part-time job at the old fashioned cinema in town. He’ll occasionally find time for Sam, his best friend since Dream left and the only reason George leaves the house nowadays, or he’ll play games online with his friend Sapnap (that’s not his real name, he’s just some guy in Texas who’s far too secretive about personal info for George’s nosy mind). 

Sapnap’s not private enough to withhold his phone number though. He justified it by insisting it was so he could call to get George to play when he wasn’t on Discord. George knew it was because Sapnap thought of him as a friend outside of video games but wouldn't say it. That’s okay though, George thinks the same and would never admit to it either.

He’s texting George now– practically spamming messages about how a new gun skin has come out on the game he’s playing, and he wants George to hop on and have a look. George doesn’t even like the game he’s on about– even though he’s, of course, cracked at it. 

But George is at work, so even if he wanted to he couldn’t, he’s too busy getting popcorn butter in his hair and ticket paper cuts on every single one of his fingers. He shoots Sapnap a message with buttery, cut fingers, telling him to piss off and that he’ll look after work. 

“Texting at work,” a voice in front of George tuts. 

His head flies up in a panic, thinking it’s his manager or a speak-to-the-manager Karen. Instead, it’s Dream. 

His hair is so long now– ears that George knows are full of piercings are covered by dark blonde curls, and his eyebrow piercing is framed by a particularly curly piece of black hair. His lips are chapped and cracked, with a ring through the middle of his bottom lip, his nose is equally pierced and red from the cold. 

He would be cold, because although Florida isn’t exactly freezing, nobody should be walking around Orlando at night in an oversized tank-top. To call it a tank top is honestly being generous, the arm and neck holes are so wide Dream might as well be shirtless– one quick spin to the side and his whole pierced nipple would probably be exposed. The tank is black, but acid-washed, and has a smiley face on the front except the eyes are x’s. It makes George want to roll his eyes. He’s paired it with black skinny jeans that have definitely seen better days, and an equally well worn pair of Dr Martens. His exposed arms are covered in black and grey ink, and wrapped around one of those arms is a short blonde girl with bright blue eyes.

He’s so different from the boy George once knew.

She’s pretty, though. George looks at her, trying to see her appeal. All he sees is someone stupid enough to fall for Dream’s charms. 

“Welcome to-” George starts the monotonous customer-service spiel.

“Hi, George,” Dream interrupts.

“Hi,” he replies, “What’re you wanting to see tonight?”

George grits his teeth and bares it. He's being paid right now to talk to Dream and nothing more. This is a customer-employee interaction only. 

“Two tickets for Scream Six, please,” the girl clinging to Dream asks. 

George taps it into the till. “Any popcorn? Drinks?” he asks. 

Dream’s just staring at him, a weird mix of hurt and confusion clouding his features. “Uh- large cola with two straws, and a-” he looks at the girl on his arm, she nods- “and a large popcorn too. Thanks.”

He seems to have picked up on George’s tone, matching it with equal neutrality. 

George rings him up, Dream pays, he hands over the tickets, and he gets their snacks. Dream mutters a thanks again and then they’re off to watch their movie. George sighs in relief and slumps back against the counter behind him. 

It’s only about half an hour into the movie when George sees Dream again. Not enough time, George hadn’t mentally prepared himself yet. 

“Hey, George,” he says again, an awkward smile on his face. He scratches at the inside of his elbow, a tell-tale sign from childhood that he’s nervous.

“Do you need another drink?” George asks again, clinging to his professionalism like the girl clings to Dream’s tattooed arm. 

“Uh- no… I’m good.” Dream looks at George expectantly, like he’s waiting for him to say something. Anything. George gives him nothing. “So… How are you?”

Now it’s George’s turn to display confusion. “What?”

“I mean- We haven’t spoken in…”

“Seven years,” George answers for him, wincing internally at how he could pull that from his brain so quickly. He’s good with numbers, that's all. 

“Wow… Yeah I guess it has been that long.” Dream leans his hip against the counter. George only notices because he wants to shove it off– he wants Dream to shove off while he’s at it. He’s working. He’s busy. 

“You sound less British,” Dream says, ignoring how George burns a hole into his hip. 

“I’ve lived here longer now. That tends to happen when you move places,” he replies, curt. 

“Right, yeah. Of course.” George watches as Dream’s confidence crumbles, his bravado melting away. He’s so unused to being rejected. George can’t say the same. 

“How’s your date?” George asks. He doesn’t know why, maybe just to pour salt into the wound he’s creating by being so rude. 

“Oh-” Dream seems caught off-guard, almost like he’s forgotten about the pretty girl he’s left in the movie theatre watching a horror movie that definitely wasn’t her idea. “It’s… yeah, it’s fine. Thanks. Uh, I should probably head b-”

“Bye,” George says too fast, turning on his heels and storming to the back-of-house, leaving Dream in the dust. 

“George? I thought you were still at work till midnight?” Sapnap’s voice sounds weird through George’s phone instead of discord. It’s clearer, he sounds more southern when he isn't talking about video games or RNG.

Truthfully, George doesn’t remember calling, or know why he wanted to call in the first place. 

“Yeah, I am,” he says, “I just- I had to deal with… some guy- an asshole. He pissed me off. I needed to calm down.”

“So you called me? Awww Gogy!” His voice is thick with teasing. George wouldn't expect any less.

“If you don’t mention this ever again I’ll never bring up the time you butt dialled me while you were-”

“Okay! Okay… Jeez. So what’d this guy do?” Sapnap asks.

“He-” George realises he’s about to sound ridiculous. “He talked to me.”

“Well, how dare he?” Sapnap says, still teasing and heavily sarcastic. Even when they’re serious, they aren’t. 

“No- he’s just. He’s someone I used to know. We used to be friends.”

“ Oh…” Sapnap says, clearly pondering. “Used to be? What happened? Did he steal your girlfriend?”

“You literally know I've never had a girlfriend, asshole,” George replies, unamused. “No he just- he just dipped one day. Forgot I existed.”

George can hear video game gunshots in the background. It’s strangely comforting. 

“Ah…” Sapnap says, clarity in his tone. “So this guy ghosted you, and then came up to you today like nothing ever happened.”

“He didn't ghost me,” George mutters, though his argument sounds weak. “We weren't like- dating. He just decided we weren't friends anymore. But- yeah. Basically.”

“What an asshole,” Sapnap says. The gun sounds increase, Sapnap clearly losing focus on the conversation. But George is feeling better anyway so it’s fine. 

“Yeah. Thanks, Sap. I gotta go back to work.” He hangs up before Sapnap can reply and puts his phone away before going back out front.

When “Scream Six” ends, George doesn’t make eye contact with any of the customers leaving the theatre, But he notices a pair of worn Dr Marten’s slow down as they walk past him.

-

George phones Sam on the way home, like he always does. It’s not that he’s scared– it’s only a fifteen minute walk from work to his house. But it’s dark, and George isn’t exactly big, or strong, or able to defend himself if a large gang of big, scary men tried to mug him– not that Sam can exactly do something through the phone.

His phone pings where it’s held up to his ear. Sam is talking about a girl in his English class who has a really big ass. George isn’t really listening. He puts his phone on speaker in case Sam says something he’s supposed to respond to and looks at the notification. 

“What?” he says, shocked.

“I said, her ass is probably even bigger than yo-”

“No, Sam. Shut up," George interrupts. "Dream just requested to follow me on Insta.” 

“Dude? What the fuck?” Sam says, sounding equally as shocked. “What the fuck does he want all of a sudden?”

Sam didn’t know Dream, but he knew of him. It’s not that George talked about Dream a lot, he’d just mentioned it in passing when Sam was at George’s house and a boy climbed out Dream’s bedroom window. 

“I mean, I did see him today,” George says, trying to sound nonchalant. 

“Yeah, but I mean we see him nearly every day. You probably do see him every day since he’s your neighbour.” 

“No, I mean- like he talked to me. He was on a date at the cinema,” George explains. 

“Oh, weird,” says Sam, and George hums in agreement. “Are you gonna accept the follow request?”

“I… I don’t know. Should I?” George asks, unsure. 

George can’t see Sam, but it’s like he can sense through the call that he shrugs. “I would. Let him see how awesome your life is without him in it. Maybe then he’ll keep leaving you alone like he should do in the first place.”

George hovers his thumb over the accept button, hovers and hovers and thinks. 

“Jesus dude, just press it.” Sam must have that psychic ability too. His voice makes George jump and the decision is made for him. He’s accepted the follow request.

-

Dream’s instagram is a mess. George prides himself on his layout, having his photos matching and cohesive with their filters, having a standardised layout for his captions, tagging correctly and not using too many hashtags. 

Dream’s is… well. Honestly, it's a little scary. It’s all in black and white, so at least it fits that standard for George. But the pictures are blurry and dark, like they've been taken underwater, or while speeding down a highway. There’s pictures of graffiti and honestly George wouldn't know where to find graffiti in a Florida suburb. There's a couple of pictures of Dream’s face, but he always looks like he’s screaming, or crying, or both. What strikes George most is the pictures of Dream’s tattoos. 

One photo of the front and one of his back, Dream stands straight in centre frame, shirtless with his sweats sitting low on his hips. His torso and back are littered in black ink, thick lines making up flowers, leaves, skulls and god knows what else. There are two matching swallows sitting on each of his collarbones, and flowers or leaves down both his arms. He has a skull on his shoulder-blade, an anchor on his hip. Looking past the ink, George can’t help but stare at Dream’s body. Gone is the lanky boy George once knew, Dream has grown into his height and filled out in a way every man would be jealous of. 

Wide shoulders, slim waist, toned but not obnoxiously muscled. His arms are thick and strong, but natural in a way that shows he doesn’t work to look this good. 

Something stirs in George’s gut– envy, he supposes, that Dream gets to be that good looking when he hardly has to try. They used to have gym class together in high school and Dream never showed up. 

George locks his phone and launches it onto his bed. He should be studying, not staring at photos of his ex-best friend. 

Ever since the cinema, George thinks he’s losing his mind. He sees Dream everywhere now– he can’t leave the house without bumping into him and then even in the house he can't escape. Dream’s been home a lot, and Dream’s been by his bedroom a lot. But nobody has been crawling in and out of that window. Which George finds odd. 

But he’s studying, so he shoves it to the back of his mind– shoves Dream to the back of his mind where he belongs. 

George’s phone pings from where it’s resting on his comforter. George wills himself to ignore it and focus, but the zeros and ones on screen blur to nothing before him. He huffs out a frustrated sigh, too distracted today to do anything. At least he’s already ahead on his assignment, so he can afford to have a bad day. He closes his work and abandons the PC, climbing onto his bed and retrieving his phone. He expects a message from Sapnap, maybe Sam complaining about not getting a text back from the girl he’s talking to– not Dream DMing him on instagram.

Dream: like what you see? 

George: What the fuck are you on about?

Dream: My picture…

George goes back to Dream’s account, dread sinking low in his belly. When he looks at the picture of Dream’s tattoos, of Dream shirtless, instead of an empty white heart underneath, it’s red. He liked the picture. Fuck.

George: That was a misclick. I didn’t mean to like it.

Dream: But you were looking at it?

George: No. 

Dream: Whatever you say, Georgie… You can see the real thing if you want?

George feels hot, flushed with rage. How fucking dare he? George isn't even… He’s not. 

His phone pings again.

Dream: Look out your window

George doesn’t know what possesses him, why he even wants to. But he moves to his window all the same. Dream is standing in his too, facing George. He smiles, pleased and cocky, before moving to type on his phone again. 

Dream: Good boy.

George looks at the message, and panic rises in his throat. When he looks back at Dream, his hands are at the hem of his t-shirt and he’s lifting it up over his head. George drags the curtains closed in a flash, before he can see anything he shouldn't. He throws his back on the bed, peeling off his own shirt. He’s too warm. He’s boiling with rage. 

George: I’m not gay.

-

University of Central Florida is a big campus, there’s over sixty thousand students. So you would think it would be very easy to avoid an Art History student when you are a Computer Science student. George had thought he’d be fine, that it’d be easy. 

He was wrong. 

Turns out it's hard to avoid said Art History student when he waits outside your lecture. 

George tries to storm past and pretend he doesn’t see him. Maybe Dream doesn’t see him either, maybe he’s waiting for his latest girl or boy of the month, maybe he’s not waiting for–

“George!” he calls, jogging after George when he tries to speed away and feign ignorance. “George, just wait please.”

Dream reaches George easily, longer legs to his advantage. He steps in front of George, blocking his path.

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

George scoffs and can’t help the way his eyes roll as he tries to sidestep Dream and keep walking. Dream blocks his path again. 

“No George, I mean it. Please.”

George glares at him, anger seeping out his pores. “Sorry for what exactly? Abandoning me for no fucking reason when we were kids, cornering me at my workplace or for trying to fuck me?” he spits. 

Dream takes a step back, bowled over by the vitriol in George’s voice. “I-” he stutters, “all of the above?”

George walks around him, continuing on his path home from campus without another word to Dream. 

“Hey, wait.” He runs after George, but after receiving yet another furious look, he decides to keep his mouth shut. 

They walk home side-by-side, no matter how many times George tries to outwalk Dream, or shake him. His pace is matched and his attempts are thwarted. It isn’t until they make it to their suburb that Dream finally snaps. 

“I didn’t mean to just- stop speaking to you one day and never explain. I wasn’t- I wasn't supposed to do that. That wasn’t cool.” He sounds genuinely remorseful, and a little shy. It makes the inner child in George ache. 

“You’re right. It wasn’t cool,” he says instead of offering forgiveness. 

“And I didn’t mean to corner you at work. I didn’t even know you worked there, but I was genuinely just really happy to see you,” Dream continues, “and I am so sorry for the… flirting.”

Both of them cringe at the memory. “I just saw you liked that insta post and thought that was you coming onto me-”

“It wasn’t,” George interrupts, stern. 

“I know that no-” Dream tries. 

“I’m not gay.” 

“Okay.”

When they get to their houses, George goes inside without a second glance, and without a goodbye. He can feel Dream’s eyes boring into his back, the sensation causing a shiver to roll up his spine. How can someone he used to be so close with now be so infuriating?

George goes straight upstairs and turns on his PC, needing to be around a human being he likes right now. He needs to talk to someone less maddening. 

“Gogy!” Sapnap’s voice fills George with cooling, calming energy. “How was college?”

“Ugh,” he says, knowing that’s all he will need to say for Sapnap to give them a distraction. 

“Want to play Fortnite and take your anger out on some bots?” As always, Sapnap pulls through. 

They play for hours, until George is starving and Sapnap has to get off for the night because he has high school in the morning. He’s only a couple years younger than George, but enough for George to bully him and call him a baby. 

“Yeah, well if i'm a baby, what does that make you?” Sapnap teases, a familiar back and forth that soothes George. 

“An idiot with a nimrod child for a friend,” he replies, smiling and ending the Discord call. 

Downstairs is quiet, though he knows his parents will still be awake in the living room. They’re night owls like him. As his feet land on the bottom step to the ground floor his mother shouts from across the house. 

“There’s some casserole in the microwave!” 

“Thanks Mum,” he calls back, slinking into the dark kitchen. 

He sets the microwave running and then heads to the fridge to pour himself a glass of apple juice. He downs the first glass in one and pours another to sip. When the microwave beeps he takes the food to the kitchen island, eating in silence with his phone in one hand and the fork in the other. 

Sam invited him out tomorrow night. The girl with the big ass is having a party and somehow he’s managed to get himself invited. George wants to say no, he doesn’t like parties. But Sam never takes no for an answer, especially when a girl is involved. For all his talk, he is shit with getting girls, and will need all the help he can get. 

George sends Sam a text to say he’ll go, and asks for the address when his phone pings.

Unknown Number: Hey, is this still your number?

George: Who is this?

Unknown Number: Who do you think? 

George: Dream?

Unknown Number: Hi :) 

George locks his phone and leaves Dream on read. 

-

If there is anything George hates more than a college party, it’s a sorority college party. 

He’s trapped here now though, in the bowels of the beast that is Alpha Xi Delta. The air is thick with overly-sweet perfume and cigarette smoke– or weed smoke– or smoke from the smoke machine that’s in the living room for some reason. 

The girl with a big ass– or Kat, as George has learnt, is a part of this sorority, something Sam no doubt deliberately fails to mention. Though for once, George can’t blame him, if how Kat dragged him upstairs about ten minutes ago is anything to go by. For once he was actually in with a chance of getting lucky. George just hopes he wears a condom. 

A few girls have found their way over to where George is, nursing a red cup of something. He’s managed to brush them off as nicely as possible, the idea of lifting short skirts up and his pants down being far too unappealing. They aren’t really his type anyway, though he doesn’t really know what his type is. Maybe a bit more edgy, he thinks, less preppy– darker. 

So now George is sat, alone at a party surrounded by people he doesn’t know and people he doesn’t want to fuck. The only thing that could make this worse is– 

“George!” Dream shouts over the loud base, slipping in to sit next to George on the couch without waiting for invitation. 

Vodka wafts from his breath, and his eyes are a little glazed over. His hair is messier than normal, but that black streak still sits curled perfectly on his forehead.

“Never expected to find you at a sorority party,” he says, smiling like they’re best friends.

“Sam dragged me here,” George says, unsure of why he’s allowing the conversation to happen. God, he must be out of his depth here. 

“And where is Sam now?” Dream asks. 

“He went upstairs… with Kat,” he explains.

“Ahh, Kat has a nice ass. Good for him!” Dream laughs then, throaty and too loud in George’s ear. “So why aren’t you getting pulled upstairs by a sorority girl, Georgie?”

He shrugs, his disinterest clear. “Not interested,” he says. 

“Not interested in girls?” Dream asks. George bristles. 

“I’ve already said I’m not g-” his voice rises, and Dream raises his arms in defence. 

“I know, I know. That’s not what I meant, chill.” When George stops the beginning of his rant, Dream continues. “I just meant, well- I’ve never known you to have a girlfriend or anything, so…”

“I’m focusing on school,” George says. 

“You’re at a party…” Dream sounds confused, and honestly George understands why. It’s not a very good argument.

He throws the question back at Dream. “Is that what you’re doing? Hoping to get dragged upstairs by a sorority girl? Because you won’t get very far with that if you’re sitting talking to me all night.” 

Dream shrugs, smiling again. “No, I’m not here for a sorority girl. Despite what you might think of me, my whole world doesn’t revolve around my dick.”

“Could’a fooled me,” George mumbles, receiving another laugh from the man beside him. 

“C’mon, It’s a party, you’re already here. No schoolwork to do here. Let’s dance, and maybe you can find a pretty girl or something to untighten how highly strung you are.” Dream doesn’t give George a chance to decline, his liquid courage clearly telling him it’s a good idea to pull George from the couch and get him into the living room where most of the dancing is happening. 

The room is stifling– hot, sweaty, half-naked bodies gyrate against each other in some kind of bizarre mating dance. Dream drags them both into the middle of the pack, and George feels like Mufasa amid the stampede. George tries to dance, but he can only imagine how stiff his hips look, or how awkward he’s moving his hands. 

Dream laughs, drunkenly beaming at George. “You’re really crap at dancing!” he yells, barely heard over the music.

“I know!” George laughs, and blames the alcohol for making him smile back. 

Dream moves closer, invading George’s space to speak into his ear. George lets him. “Like seriously, you have no rhythm.”

“I’d like you to find a CompSci major with rhythm,” he jokes back. Being friendly with Dream isn’t so bad. 

“Here,” Dream says, breathing hot against the side of George’s face. George doesn’t know what Dream means at first, but then his hands are on George’s hips, and he’s forcing them to move fluidly to the music. 

Dream’s palms sear through George’s jeans and onto his skin. It’s too hot in this room and the more George moves with Dream the hotter he’s getting. Dream spins him around so his back is facing him and moves to talk in his ear again. 

“The girl over there–” He points towards a girl at the edge of the dance floor with bright red hair. “She’s been staring at you since I saw you. Go talk to her.” Dream leaves him with a little shove in the direction of the girl. 

George isn’t drunk enough for this, but he feels Dream looking at him and he wants to do what Dream wants of him. He wants to prove he can. 

The girl smiles when George makes his way to her. “I’m George,” he says. It’s a start.

“Cassie.” Her canines are really sharp and they poke against her bottom lip when she talks, George thinks it’s kinda cute. 

“I’m terrible at it, but… Do you wanna dance?” he asks, extending his hand to her. 

It’s probably a bit weird, and a bit too formal for a sorority party, but Cassie agrees and takes his hand anyway. He pulls them further into the pit of sweaty bodies and Cassie presses close. 

She sways her hips in a way that George supposes is supposed to be seductive, and when she turns her back to him he thinks maybe she’s already grown tired of his presence. But then she shimmies back and presses her ass against his crotch and keeps swaying her hips. George’s hands find her, holding her while she moves and trying to move with her. 

Her hair is in his face, and she smells of coconut rum. It’s entirely too sweet for his liking but he moves her hair aside and noses into her anyway, aiming for her neck. He kisses just below her earlobe and she sighs into it, leaning more of her weight against him and pushing her ass further into his dick. 

He’s not hard, but he blames the alcohol. Cassie is hot– she’s attractive. 

She turns to face George, smiling at him again. He realises her eyes must be green, and they’re droopy with booze. He kisses her. 

She tastes like she smells, like coconut rum. When George licks into her mouth he tries not to cringe against her at the taste. She’s eager, she wants him. She presses herself against him and he can feel her hand slip down to touch him over his jeans. Something in him stirs to life at that, and he sighs in relief, but he knows he isn’t going to get hard and she’s going to be disappointed. 

He looks around when he and Cassie part, as she moves to kiss and bite at his neck. Dream’s in the corner, talking to a boy with brown hair and glasses. Their eyes meet and George mouths help. 

Dream comes over immediately, ignoring his conquest. 

“George!” he shouts, like he’s been looking for him everywhere. “George we gotta go, man.”

Dream turns to Cassie and smiles. “I’m so sorry for cockblocking, but our friend needs help.” 

Cassie nods, seeming disappointed but not mad, and slips off into the dance floor again. Before Dream and George have even left the pit her lips are latched onto someone else.

Dream drags George to the kitchen, and politely doesn't comment when George rinses coconut rum from his mouth with beer.

“Not interested?” he asks, teasing. George glares at him but it’s more playful now. 

“I’m too drunk, I wouldn’t have gotten hard. Best to not disappoint.” It sounds like an excuse even to George’s own ears. “You can go back to that boy now, thanks for the save.”

Dream shrugs. “Eh, I wasn’t really interested. Kinda thinking of heading home…” 

He doesn’t ask, but George knows he’s inviting him to walk back together. 

“Let’s go then,” George says. 

Outside is cold– or cold for Florida anyway. George regrets choosing to only wear a sweatshirt when he left the house earlier. Dream is faring better off, he has a black denim jacket on, but it’s fleece lined and it looks cosy. 

George wraps his arms around himself, desperate to trap the heat to his chest. 

“You’re less mean when you’re drunk,” Dream says, out of the blue because they’ve been walking in silence.

“You’re less annoying,” George counters. 

Dream laughs again, and the sound no longer fills George with rage. “I’ve missed you, you know?”

George stops walking, stares at Dream. “That’s not fair,” he says. 

“What?” Dream asks, stopping too. 

“You left me,” George explains. “So that’s not fair.”

Dream sighs, regret flooding drunken features. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that,” George says. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t want to hear me out then. I’m hoping you do now.”

George looks at Dream in the dim streetlights: tattoos and piercings and dark clothing mask the boy he knew, his old best friend. He smiles at Dream. “Fine, apologise again, nimrod. I’m listening.”

Relief floods Dream's face as he takes a step forward and bundles George into his arms. George lets him– but only because it’s cold. “I’m sorry, George.”

Dream holds him tight, buries his nose in George’s hair. He can feel Dream’s breath fan against his scalp and it’s so nice and warm. His nose is buried in Dream’s shoulder, and he smells like citrus and something woodsy. It’s good. Dream smells good.

George recoils before he lets the thought sink in, shoving Dream off him playfully. “Okay, let go, It’s fucking freezing.”

“Do you want my jacket?” Dream asks. 

George thinks about it, thinks about being swaddled with the smell of Dream– with his warmth, and shakes the idea away. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

It’s only a few minutes until their houses, and unlike last time, George says goodbye before he leaves. He still feels Dream’s eyes on him, and it still sends a shiver up his spine. But it’s not so bad this time. 

-

Being friends with Dream again is weird. It’s like nothing– but also everything has changed. They walk to college together now if they both have classes at the same time, and George isn’t afraid to look out his bedroom window anymore. 

And don’t get him wrong, they’re not as close as they were. But it’s nice to not feel that hatred simmering anymore. 

A downside of looking out his bedroom window without fear is that he now sees Dream’s escapades again. Girl in, girl out. Guy in, guy out. 

“You’re kinda’ a whore now, huh?” George says to him one day when they’re walking home from class, Dream having waited for him to finish before leaving. 

Dream chokes on a laugh. “ What?” 

“I mean, with all the girls, and guys… crawling out your bedroom window every night,” George says. 

“It’s not every night,” Dream defends. George gives him a look . 

He raises his hands defensively. “I am just a man, okay, I have needs. I like sex. Don’t you like sex?”

George feels his own blush creep up, and he desperately wills it away before Dream can notice. “Sure,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sure, not at all.

“George-” Dream says, dragging his name out in a way that makes George want to shrink. “No way.”

“Shut up,” George says, feeling like he ought to be ashamed. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he doesn’t, but it still feels embarrassing to be a virgin at his age. 

“God no- George I’m sorry, I don't mean to make you feel weird about it. That’s- that’s fine, to y’know…”

“Let's stop talking about me and go back to how you’re a whore, please,” George says, laughing awkwardly. Dream shoves him playfully and they move on. 

They go back to George’s house. His parents are away for the week and Dream needs to do a pencil sketch figure drawing or whatever, and after clarifying about fifty times that he can stay clothed, George had agreed to be the model. 

“Why didn’t you get one of your boyfriends to model?” George teases, trying to deflect from how awkward he feels just standing in his living room while Dream draws him. 

“I don’t have a boyfriend, let alone multiple,” Dream mutters, entirely focused on his drawing. “I have guys I fuck and guys I let fuck me.”

He says it so casually that George chokes and has to stop ‘posing’ to catch his breath back. 

“Don’t move!” Dream wails, looking back at the picture and then back at George with disapproval. 

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“George… You literally called me a whore an hour ago, what did you think we were doing in my bedroom? Just kissing?” Dream smiles, humoured by George’s prudishness. 

“Well, no- obviously. I just– didn’t expect you to… For you to do it like-” He stumbles over the words, and instantly hates himself for starting this conversation. 

“You didn’t expect me to bottom?” Dream’s always had the easy ability to tell what George means, that clearly hasn't faded over their years of estrangement. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

George shrugs, trying to remember his original pose so that Dream can keep drawing. “I don’t know, guess I just thought you wouldn’t see the appeal that way.”

“George…” Dream scolds playfully, returning to his drawing, “Why wouldn’t I want it that way, have you heard of the prostate?”

George scoffs, “Of course I have, I’m not an idiot.”

“So then you know how good it feels?” Dream asks, brows furrowed as he sketches messy graphite lines in his art book. He’s dragged his hair out of his face with a headband, and George can see the two barbells that slot through his eyebrow. 

“I’m not gay, Dream. Why would I know what that feels like?”

Dream rolls his eyes, but makes a point to not tear them away from his art. “You don't have to be gay to use your prostate, George. It’s not gay to feel good. You should try it, it’s way better than just jerking off.”

“I don’t even jerk off much,” George admits. 

Dream laughs under his breath. “No wonder you’re always so cranky.”

George breaks his pose for a second time to smack Dream in the arm. 

-

That night, George finds himself laying in bed, and all he can think about is his stupid conversation with Dream earlier. 

It can’t be that good, it can’t be that much better. Jerking off already feels awesome whenever he does it, so why go through the extra discomfort and effort? 

And for fuck sake, he can’t get the image of Dream being fucked out of his head. Why is he thinking about his friend getting railed into the mattress, an image that now lives in his brain? 

George stares at the lube on his bedside table. The lube stares back. 

“Fuck sake,” he mutters to himself, sliding his pyjama bottoms down and off his legs. 

His dick springs free, already half-hard. Probably from thinking about jacking off— definitely not from thinking about Dream. 

He bends his knees and puts his feet on the mattress, then pours lube onto his fingers. He doesn’t know how much lube he needs, so he goes for a lot . It’s cold when his fingers reach below his balls and find his asshole and everything inside him is screaming at his index finger to retreat. But curiosity killed the cat, so George dips his finger in past the tight ring of muscle. 

He has to force himself to relax– to not clench around the intrusion. He breathes in, breathes out, and pushes the finger in further. It doesn’t feel bad per se, but it certainly isn’t  mind-meltingly good like Dream had described. But he hasn't found his prostate yet, so he pushes in further until his whole finger is fully seated in his ass. His wrist already aches from the weird angle George is putting it through, and he still isn’t feeling any pleasure. He tries to wiggle around, searching for his prostate to no avail. He pulls his finger out, intent on giving up, but the slide of the withdrawal feels good, so he pushes in again. 

George isn’t an idiot, he knows what he’s supposed to be doing– in theory. In practice he's not really sure when it's time to add a second finger. His first finger is fucking into himself a bit easier though, and he’s impatient to feel more, for it to feel earth-shattering like Dream suggested. He pulls out, and pushes two back in. 

The stretch is… something. It’s kind of uncomfortable this time, and he thinks his wrist might actually snap off if he does this for too long. He keeps searching, ignoring the strain and the stretch to just find his prostate and see what all of the hype is about. The very tip of his middle finger touches something that sends a little zip of pleasure up his spine, but it’s out of reach– he can’t get more. 

Frustrated and now fully hard, he desperately pushes deeper to try and find that part again. But it’s gone. He withdraws his fingers and muffles an irritated scream into his pillow. 

He reaches for his phone before he can even process that this is a bad idea– too blinded by horniness and frustration. 

“Hello?” Dream answers the phone after the third ring. 

“I don’t want you to laugh at me, and we will never speak of this again after the call ends. Deal?” George’s voice sounds ridiculous, hungry and desperate in a way it’s never been before. 

“I’m not sure I can agree to that without knowing what this is about…” Dream muses, though there’s a hint of teasing through the phone-line that George knows means he’s already agreed.

“I can’t reach,” George says. “I don’t understand how I'm supposed to reach to make it feel good.”

There's a pause, and then– “George, what are you-” another pause. “Are you fingering yourself?”

George breathes out a whine, relaxing against the bed, his fingers idly playing with his hole. “Shut up. Just- tell me how to do it.”

“ Jesus fucking christ,” Dream breathes into the phone, under his breath– George probably wasn’t meant to hear. “Uh- how are you- like, are you laying down?”

“Yeah,” George answers, dipping his fingers back in just to feel the pleasurable buzz when they slide back out. He sighs into the feeling and George hears Dream’s breath catch on the other end of the line. 

This was a bad idea. 

“O-okay, well you have small hands, so that’s probably not going to work,” Dream says. “You might want to try sitting up on your knees, and like- reaching behind…”

George is already pulling out his fingers and shuffling up onto his knees.

“If you like, have your wrist on the bed with your fingers up, y’know, you can sit on them,” Dream continues. He sounds breathless, like he’s the one trying to get off and not George. 

Why does the idea of Dream getting off to this make George’s dick jump?

George does as instructed, resting his wrist against the mattress behind him and moving to sit on his fingers. The two slide in easily, George’s hole now well acquainted with his index and middle fingers. It does as George had hoped, the pad of his middle finger reaches that point in him that has him gasping and choking on a moan, an electric shock of pleasure running down his spine and into his twitching cock. Precum bubbles at the head and slides down the shaft. 

“ Dream-” George says, moving his middle finger again and again to keep stimulating that spot. 

“Holy fuck, George-” Dream’s voice is strained, but George can hear it. He’s turned on. 

George’s dick twitches again. He starts bouncing on his fingers, whining and moaning every time he reaches his prostate. Dream was right, it feels incredible.

“How- how do you last like this? I’m already close.” George tries not to think why neither of them have ended the call yet. Why Dream is still listening– why George is still talking. 

“You get more used to it,” Dream says, then he moans. George is sure he heard a moan. 

“Are you?” George lets the question hang, unable to ask it fully. Scared and excited by the answer. 

“Fuck, George- What do you think?” And that's when George hears it, faint and barely audible in the call– the wet slide of Dream’s hand on his cock. 

George moans again, grinding down on his fingers until he’s seeing stars. “We don’t- we won't talk about this again,” George says between moans and blinding pleasure. “I’m not- I’m not-”

“Sure George, it’s okay. Just keep making pretty noises- fuck.” Dream breaks off into a moan– a real moan this time, unabashed and unafraid. 

“You were right,” George says, fucking himself so fast on his fingers that his thighs ache and his cock slaps against his stomach. “It’s so much better.”

Dream practically growls. “It’s even better when someone fucks you. It’s- god- George-” 

“Are you close?” George asks. He imagines Dream, lying on his bed only a few short metres away, fisting his cock and listening to George fuck himself. Maybe he’s shirtless, glistening with sweat and covered in black ink– Maybe he’s biting his lip to contain the sound, catching the ring pierced through the plush pink. Maybe he’s pierced places George hasn't even seen.

“Yeah, yeah I’m close,” Dream says. “Are you?”

George nods, but Dream can’t see him, instead he says. “I think I’d let you fuck me, Dream. I want to know what it feels like.”

An earth-shattering moan and a gasp that sounds like George’s name makes its way through the phone, and George pictures Dream as he cums– wonders what he looks like. He thinks Dream would look beautiful as he cums.

George’s own orgasm barrels towards him, knocking him forward as he cums on his bedsheets. His whole body shakes with it, he keeps moving his fingers against his prostate until he’s squirming and whining– until it’s so much that he sobs. 

And then he collapses against the bed, spent and exhausted, ninety percent sure his wrist is sprained.

“Did you touch your cock?” Dream asks, voice as wrecked as George feels. 

“No,” he admits, “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Not many people can,” Dream says. “That’s- that’s hot, George.”

Cum cools against George’s chest, and he shivers in the chill of his room. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he thinks about what just happened– what he just did with Dream. What Dream did with him .

He coughs awkwardly, clearing his throat and straightening up, as if Dream can see how ruined he still is. “I’m gonna go,” he says. 

“Right.” Dream sounds equally as awkward now. George can hear shuffling on the other side of the call. 

“This didn’t happen,” George repeats again, making sure. 

“Yeah,” Dream sighs.

George ends the call. 

-

He doesn’t talk to Dream for three days– enough time to get the sound of his moans out of his system. Then everything goes back to normal. 

Dream is good on his word, and he doesn’t mention it, so it's fine. It’s fine. 

They’re at Dream’s house. His parents aren't home and his TV is bigger. He’s been trying to get George to watch this show since they became friends again and George has finally caved. 

The show sucks, but he’s powering through if only just for the way Dream smiles at the screen. 

“What’re you doing after class tomorrow?” Dream asks in between episodes, shaking George from his zone-out. 

“Uh, probably nothing. Why?” 

Dream shrugs, casual and cool. “Gonna get a new tattoo. It's gonna take ages and I like company so I don't die of boredom. Wanna come?”

Truthfully, George has been avoiding spending prolonged time with Dream. Things are fine– back to normal, but he just– he’s kept his distance a little bit. Still, there will be a tattoo artist there, so they won't be alone. 

“Sure,” George says, “I hope you cry like a little baby the whole time.”

“I’m not the one who cries, Georgie,” Dream teases and the pit in George’s stomach opens up. 

He remembers the sound of his own sob as he came with Dream’s name on his tongue– Dream remembers too. A shiver wracks through him at the thought. “Shut up,” he says. 

-

The tattoo shop Dream goes to looks exactly how you’d expect. It’s dark despite the bright, clinical lighting– black painted walls, black tiled floors, black leather beds. There’s long rows of reclaimed wood around the sides of the room, held up by black metal brackets. They hold rows and rows of little ink pots and random knick-knacks that the artists have collected over the years. There are animal skulls and posters hung across the walls, with sheets and sheets of the artists' work mixed in.

George feels out of place, cowering behind Dream with clean skin. Everyone else in the room is heavily tattooed, Dream included. 

Dream greets the receptionist like an old friend, and she smiles at him in a way that makes anger boil in George’s throat, but he doesn’t know why. 

He tunes everything out while they discuss the design and Dream checks the stencil. They have him fill in a form and Dream does it in seconds– basically on autopilot. Then they sit on a black leather couch in the front of the studio until Dream’s artist calls for them to come over. 

Now, George should’ve expected what happens next. Dream’s arms are almost completely covered, very little space left on them for new ink, and they had a conversation that Dream was reluctant to get his neck done because of employment, so that left very few easily visible options…

Dream pulls his shirt off over his head in one quick motion, and George immediately regrets agreeing to come. 

He tries to look anywhere other than Dream’s torso while the stencil is applied. He wanders towards the artist instead.

She’s very pretty– maybe only five feet tall, and she has brown hair with vibrant yellow ends but it's all tied into a messy bun on the top of her head. She is just wearing blue jeans and a black t-shirt, but she makes them look good all the same. She isn’t wearing makeup– at least George doesn’t think she is, but her eyelashes are long and her face is smattered in freckles. Her arms and neck are covered in colourful tattoos, vibrant reds and oranges, all warm toned against very pale skin. Her hands are small– smaller than George’s, covered in black gloves and smoothing all over Dream’s naked torso. 

George gulps, his throat suddenly dry. He takes a sip from the bottle of water he’d brought. 

He’s had his nipples pierced since he took that Instagram photo George has seen– two silver bars stabbed through pink buds. George takes another sip of water. 

The tattoo artist peels back the stencil, leaving royal blue lines all across Dream’s ribs from his waist up to his pec. George can't make out what the design is from the stencil, but the lines swoop perfectly under Dream’s pec, missing the skin completely to frame it with the ink. It ends at the centre of his sternum, leaving the other rib free for a future design. 

“What is it?” George finds himself asking, his eyes not leaving the design– or Dream’s chest.

“You’ll see,” Dream says, inspecting the stencil in a full length mirror, hopefully not catching George stare as Dream’s body moves and his muscles shift with it. 

He seems satisfied with it, and so does the artist. Dream climbs onto one of the leather beds, and the plastic wrapped around it makes an awful, sticky sound as he readjusts.

There’s a stool on one side for the artist, and another pulled up by the side not getting tattooed for George. He sits down to a perfect, uninterrupted, close-up view of Dream’s chest and takes another sip of water. 

The tattoo needle looks less like a needle and more like a fine-tooth comb. The artist dips her pinky finger in a blob of clear gel, and then the needle in a small pot of black ink. As the tattoo machine buzzes, the pot of ink vibrates when the needles touch the surface, then she takes the needle to Dream’s skin. 

George watches Dream tense at first impact, but then he sighs and relaxes into the feeling. After each swipe of the needle, the artist smoothes her pinky over the fresh line, removing the blue ink to leave the fresh black that's now embedded there. 

“What does it feel like?” George asks, drawing Dream’s attention away from the ceiling. 

“Uh- like a cat scratch, I guess. Maybe a papercut.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really- or not at first. One papercut is fine, right?” he asks, and George nods. “But then imagine like, five thousand papercuts…”

George winces at the thought.

“So by like, the two thousandth cut, it probably stings to fuck, yeah?” Dream laughs a little, trying to keep his body still.

“So why do you get so many if they hurt?” George asks.

“Because they look cool,” Dream says, like it's obvious, and George supposes it is. 

Dream does look… cool.

“Do they have any meanings?” he asks. 

“Some do, some don't. This-” he trails his hand down his chest to the anchor on his hip, George’s eyes follow the movement, “is for my Grandpa.”

“He was in the Navy, right?” George remembers stories about Dream’s grandad from when they were children. He died when Dream was twelve– Right before he ghosted George.

“Yeah, the swallows are kinda for that too. The style of them is very similar to the style a lot of military men used to get,” Dream explains. “And this tattoo I’m getting now, that has a meaning.”

“What’s the meaning?” George asks.

“Let’s wait,” Dream says. “See if you can guess.”

George rolls his eyes– how is he possibly going to be able to guess? 

Eventually the buzzing sound fades into the background– into nothing. Dream and George use the time to fill in the gaps with each other's lives, to go through the parts they missed when Dream cut ties. 

Dream’s parents got divorced, and George is shocked that he hadn’t noticed that one of his parents no longer came home. He talks about his art, and how he wanted to go to a proper art school, but didn’t want to leave his mom on her own, so he stayed close. George says he didn't want to move– he’s already done one life-altering move in his life and he has no intention of doing it again. 

Dream asks if George still plays video games, and he says he does. Then he goes on a twenty minute rant about how Sapnap is an idiot. Dream thinks Sapnap sounds cool, and asks George to introduce them one day so they can play together. 

Before long, George has been so distracted with talking, he’s barely looked at Dream’s chest– or Dream’s tattoo. When he looks over, it’s almost finished. 

“It’s a tree,” he says, stating the obvious now. 

Dream looks down to where the artist is still working on his skin, admiring the permanent change to his body. “It is.” He smiles. “What kind of tree, George?”

“It’s a willow tree.”

Dream has a willow tree in his backyard. When they were kids they used to swing from the rope-like branches and pretend they were monkeys. Dream’s first dog is buried at the base of the tree; George held him when he was eight years old and sobbing. In the wind, some of the branches make their way over the fence and into George’s garden instead. 

“Oh…” George’s throat feels syrupy thick. It’s a good tree. 

Dream gives George a small smile, almost shy. They don’t say anything else for the rest of the session– or nothing of note anyway. When the tattoo is done, it’s beautiful. The artist is very talented. 

Dream holds the door open for George, and he scurries out the studio. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Sore,” Dream says, laughing and then wincing when his ribs move. “Let’s go get boba.”

George doesn’t even know what boba is, but he follows along anyway. The boba shop is only a few buildings down from the tattoo studio, and it’s cotton candy pink with baby blue accents. Dream, in his all black attire, tattoos, piercings etc, looks absolutely ridiculous in it. George can’t help but laugh. 

“What?” Dream asks after ordering two milk teas– or whatever it was, George let him pick for him. 

“You look dumb,” George says. “In here, I mean.”

Dream looks around at the pastel paradise that is the boba shop, and then down at his own black t-shirt and skinny jeans, worn out Dr Martens on his feet. “Oh,” he laughs, “yeah, I guess I do.”

The cashier rings them up, and Dream pays. George is starting to worry that maybe this is a date when they sit across the booth from one another. Then he starts to freak out that the idea of being on a date with Dream makes his tummy feel fuzzy. 

“Would you ever get tattoos?” Dream asks, taking a sip from the oversized straw. 

George follows his lead while he thinks about his answer. The drink is sweet and caramelised, but other than that it really just tastes like milk– George is glad, because he hates tea. Though as he takes a bigger drink, he’s struck by something solid shooting through the straw and into his mouth. He coughs, surprised. When he looks back over the table Dream is desperately trying not to laugh.

“You could’ve warned me, idiot. What if I choked to death?” he says, but with no real anger.

“Sorry, Georgie. I just wanted to watch you choke on some balls.” Dream smirks at George, only smiling wider when George coughs again, choking at the insinuation. 

“You- you can’t say stuff like that.” George feels his face heating, and he wishes it was with embarrassment and not because he's– he’s flustered.

“Fine, fine,” Dream says, pacifying. “Anyway, tattoos?”

George takes another sip, conscious of the boba pearls this time. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Not sure I have anything that means that much to me yet.”

Dream looks at him with a mixture of pity and hurt that George doesn’t understand. 

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing, nothing.” Dream takes another drink of his boba. 

-

George hasn’t been online much lately, and Sapnap has noticed. He can only dodge the what’re you doin’ question for so long before he has to actually log on and face the music. 

“You’re…” Sapnap pauses, forming his thoughts. “You’ve ditched me, your loyal and amazing friend, for the guy that ghosted you?” 

“Stop,” George whines. “It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“That’s because it is bad, Gogy! It is bad!” Sapnap’s mic peaks in George’s headset and he has to pull it away from his ears. 

“Listen, just because you don’t understand adult friendships-” 

“George, I am eighteen and only three years younger than you. Shut the fuck up, bro.” Sapnap isn’t mad, but he knows George too well. He stops George from changing the subject. “Did he apologise?”

“Yeah,” George says.

“Did he tell you why he ghosted you?” he asks. 

“Well…” 

“ George. ” Sapnap sounds two seconds away from saying I’m not mad, I'm just disappointed.

“Shut up. Have you found enough diamonds for our armour yet?” George does what he does best; he distracts– and although Sapnap can no doubt see straight through it, he lets him. 

They’re playing Minecraft– a childhood favourite that's stuck with them. They have their own server that they’ve been playing on for a few months now, and they’re already pretty rich on it– or they were until Sapnap convinced George to go into the deep dark. Now they’re running around in iron because there's no way in hell George is going back down to face the warden again. He’d also insisted that Sapnap had to fully replace both of their armour since it was his fault. 

“Do you like him?” Sapnap asks after about half an hour of focused silence. 

“What?” George asks, distracted. He’s upgrading their base and sorting out the chest storage because Sapnap is a mess. 

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around it, man. You were so upset when you saw him, and like- Now you’re spending time with him but not telling me about it. You always tell me about your friends and-”

“Sapnap, I’m not-” George cuts himself off. Something he’s said a thousand times over now lodged in his throat, stuck on his tongue. 

“You’re not? You’re not what?” Sapnap asks. 

Why can't George say it? Why does Dream’s face come to view in his mind when he tries to say familiar words, a familiar excuse. He’s not– he’s not. 

Fuck.

“Have you…” George doesn’t know why he’s asking this, but it’s Sapnap. It’s fine. “Have you ever wondered if you were… gay?”

“Uh. Not really, to be honest, George…” There's a moment of silence. George sags against the back of his chair and sighs. “Do you think you…”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I think so?” George blurts it all out at once, panic stricken and scared.

“You sound like you’re maybe still a bit confused, bro.” Sapnap is such a good friend. What other random dude online would sit and listen to a sexuality crisis and just– just be there?

“I’m so fucking confused, Sap.” George feels his eyes prick and sting. He blocks himself in in-game so he doesn’t die. 

“Is it him? Is he confusing you?” Sapnap says it like an accusation. George hates it. 

“No, no. I mean yes, but not how you’re thinking. I just- I’m never interested in girls… But-”

“But you’re interested in him?” he asks.

George nods to himself, silent tears streaking down his face. “Yeah, I think so.”

-

Am I in Love With My Best Friend?

Dream isn’t George’s best friend, but he used to be, and they’re definitely friends again now. Unfortunately there isn't a quiz called Are You in Love With Your Ex Best Friend Who is Now Just a Friend– so this will have to do. He sits at his PC in the dead of night, thinking that if it’s dark nobody can see him. This feels more sinful than his porn habits– which he doesn’t have because porn has never interested him or gotten him hard, and that’s a whole other problem that’s probably solved by the word stuck in his throat. It’s just a stupid Buzzfeed quiz, but for some reason this feels more life-changing than a final exam.

Do you ever catch yourself staring at your BFF?

He’s taking this far too seriously for a joking online quiz. But does he? Yeah, he does. He thinks about staring at the Instagram photo, or at the tattoo shop, over boba– even when they first stopped speaking and he’d stare through his bedroom window hoping to see him. He clicks the option that says once in a while .

Are they the first person you call when something happens?

George would call Sapnap, probably– or maybe Sam. But then, there’s some things where it’s Dream he’d want to hear from. He clicks sometimes.

Do you try to make him/her happy?

George is starting to think this whole quiz is ridiculous. Why would you try to make your friend unhappy? They aren’t really your friend if you do. He clicks yes.

Do you get jealous if he/she has a bf or gf?

He hovers his cursor over no– he wants to say no. Dream’s never had a girlfriend or boyfriend per se, but then he thinks about moving his desk so he didn’t have to watch Dream’s lovers climb from his window, or the boiling in his gut when the receptionist at the tattoo studio smiled at Dream. Yes.

Do you try and look nice when you know you’re going to be together?

George doesn’t think he could look nice if he tried. But he has brought his jeans out of retirement lately, and yesterday he was wondering what to do with his hair. Does that count? He isn’t sure. He clicks maybe .

Do you get butterflies if you touch?

As much as George hates to admit it, he doesn’t need to think about this one– yes.

Do you ever think about your future together?

No– not really, anyway. They’ve talked about their futures, what they want in life, but George has never let himself entertain the idea of Dream in his future. He did that before, when they were kids– expected them to be friends forever and to always be in each other's lives. George doesn’t think he could risk letting himself think like that again. He clicks no.

Do you have dreams about them?

How could he not? Ah– fuck. Yes.

How do you feel when you hug?

Warm. Happy. Like Dream smells good. None of the answers really sum it up, but he clicks the most similar option .

Do you go out of your way to help this person?

He sat on a plastic stool for five hours while Dream got repeatedly stabbed with tiny ink-covered needles. Yes. 

What do you think when they laugh?

That he’s pretty– Shit. 

Do you ever think about what it would be like to kiss your best friend?

George closes the quiz before it’s even finished. He takes solace in the empty house, and screams into the open air. 

Not only is he– well he doesn’t know what he is, but the more he thinks about the word and his lack of interest in girls, 'gay' works. He’s probably gay. He’s also into Dream– his friend, his friend who’s hurt him, his friend who’s a massive raging whore and who doesn't date.

All of this is a recipe for disaster. 

-

Sexuality crisis aside, George does what any other person does when they have a crush on someone they can’t have. He pretends the crush isn't real. 

It’s easy to pretend when he doesn’t have to see Dream. He can pretend that he’s busy and ignore his texts, or pretend he’s tired to end the call when he feels too loose-lipped and close to confession. In person, though– in person is hard. Especially when he has to see purple marks up and down Dream’s neck, sometimes even on his shoulders and collarbones when he wears those stupid-cut tank-tops. 

“Why do you let them bite you like they’re fucking vampires?” he asks one day, desperate to keep the jealousy from his voice. 

Today Dream’s wearing a t-shirt, thank god– but even so George can see purple and red climbing up from below the collar to under his jaw. It’s fresh in a way that makes George’s ears burn with unwarranted rage.

Dream shrugs from his place on the couch, his feet tucked under George’s thigh. “Feels good, y’know?” 

“I mean-” George shuffles away, uncomfortable with the closeness during this confession. “I don’t really know,” he admits.

“No…” Dream says in denial, “no, I saw that girl at the party kissing your neck, people have kissed your neck before George. You’re not that much of a virgin.” 

He’s teasing as he says it, but the memory of Cassie latching herself to George’s neck makes him cringe. “Well- that didn’t feel good, ” he says.

“Huh,” Dream’s voice wanders off, he's thinking. “She must not have been doing it right.”

George laughs– Dream’s being ridiculous. “How can you do that wrong? It’s not exactly a skill.”

“Oh, Georgie… That’s where you're wrong.” Dream wiggles his eyebrows in mock-seduction, George hates that it still manages to work and make his stomach swoop.

“Well how are you supposed to do it right?” George asks. “Surely you just… kiss?”

“I mean, kinda?” Dream sounds hesitant, George knows what he’s thinking. “But there’s a bit more to it than that.”

George doesn’t know what he’s thinking– hell he doesn’t really think he is thinking. 

“Show me?” he asks. 

Dream looks taken aback, as though this wasn’t the idea forming behind his own eyes. George knows he was thinking it, he knows Dream wants to. George wants him to– even if it won't mean anything to Dream and will mean everything to him.

“Why?” Dream asks, clearly trying to air on the side of caution, but he’s already shuffling closer to George on the sofa.

George shrugs, forcing his posture and tone into casual nonchalance. “Why not? You’re the rizz master, and it means nothing to you. You kiss plenty of people’s necks.” 

There’s a pang of hurt on Dream’s face when George says this, but it’s gone as quickly as it arrives, and then Dream’s moving impossibly closer– so close George has to lean back and his spine hits the armrest of the couch. 

“Right,” Dream says. “It means nothing.”

George only has a chance to nod and gulp before Dream’s crawling in between his thighs, putting his hand on George’s waist, and leaning down to touch his lips to George’s neck. 

It’s nothing like when Cassie kissed him there. 

Dream’s lips are chapped, and cold, the metal pierced through his bottom lip is even colder still– but he’s surprisingly gentle. He kisses under George’s jaw, right on his pulse point, and George can’t help the gasp that escapes. It’s almost ticklish, but not in a way that makes George want to pull away– instead he’s lolling his head back over the end of the sofa, giving Dream more space. 

Dream takes that space greedily. He starts off small, peppering little kisses from under George’s chin to just below his ear. When he catches George’s lobe between his teeth and flicks his tongue against it, George can hardly contain the moan that threatens to escape. When Dream kisses his neck again after, George can feel the pleased smile against his skin. 

George holds Dream’s biceps– unsure where else his hands could go, where else they’re allowed to go. But he wants Dream to keep going, so he plays it safe, plays it cool, plays it straight.  

Dream’s lips are warming against George’s skin, the metal matching the heated temperature of George’s body. He kisses back to George’s pulse, eliciting another little gasp, then he opens his mouth wider and takes George’s skin into his mouth and sucks. 

All sense of composure is lost, George doesn’t mean to moan, or for his hips to jolt upwards and collide with Dream’s– but it happens. 

Dream sucks at George’s neck, biting occasionally too, until George is writhing. His hands tighten on George’s waist and hold him there until he’s finished devouring him. When he unlatches, he licks across the area and blows cool air onto the skin. George shivers. 

It’s hard to not whine when Dream pulls away and moves back to the other end of the couch. It’s even harder to sit back up and act normal after being kissed like that. Something else is also almost hard and George really hopes that isn’t obvious to his friend either.

“See?” Dream says, breathless but smiling smugly. He knows he’s made his point. Stupid, sexy bastard.

“Yeah, I guess.” Playing it cool does not work when George sounds wrecked– ruined from just a little bit of neck kissing. 

He presses his finger to his neck, where it throbs dully. It aches like a bruise when he pushes down. 

“ Dream?” he asks, aghast. Dream’s face is already breaking out into a mischievous smile when he notices George’s hand against his neck. “Did you give me a fucking hickey?”

Dream shrugs, almost laughing. “You wanted to know if it felt good, I had to give you the full experience!” 

“It’s so high up! How am I supposed to hide this?” George asks, dramatically pointing to his neck as if Dream can’t see the purple mark he’s caused. 

“Just don’t, that’s what I do. Maybe you’ll get some if people don’t think you’re a massive loser.” He starts laughing full then, only laughing more when George launches a pillow at his head.

The doorbell rings, and George stands to attention, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Like– oh shit. 

George is a bad friend. 

Well– okay, he isn't. He’s a good friend. But clearly he becomes a bad friend when he has a crush on someone. He’s never really had a crush on someone before, so he didn’t know it would turn him into a bad friend. 

He learns he’s a bad friend when he answers the doorbell and Sam is on his porch, showing up at his house to hang out, and Dream is already there, because George forgot he invited Sam round. 

“I can go,” Sam says, shuffling from one foot to the other awkwardly. Seeing his friend awkward in his home makes George awkward too, and George can’t ignore the way Sam’s eyes keep drifting to his neck. 

“No,” George rushes, “stay, me and Dream were only doing classwork anyway. It’s not important–”

“I mean school work is kinda important, Georgie.” Dream grins, teasing. Sam looks between the two of them with a confused expression. It doesn’t help George’s case that there’s no school books out in his living room.

“Georgie?” he asks, rolling the name around on his tongue. 

“Do not get any ideas, Sam. No,” George says, stern like he’s disciplining a dog. 

“But dude, why can your new friend Dream call you Georgie and I can’t?” Sam says friend mockingly, like he doesn’t believe it’s real. George can see Dream bristle from the corner of his eye. 

“I’m an old friend, actually,” Dream says, “I’ve known George since we were babies.”

“Yeah. I know exactly who you are buddy,” Sam spits.

George cowers in the corner of the room, so unused to this kind of behaviour from both his friends. 

“Okay, well I'm not having a dick-measuring contest with you, buddy. So I'll head out and let you guys hang. See ya, George.” 

Dream stands from the couch, long legs unfolding until stands toe-to-toe with Sam almost intimidatingly. George can’t help but stare when his muscles move and shift as he swings his leather jacket over his shoulders, covering beautiful black ink. He doesn’t even realise he’s staring at Dream the whole time he walks out the house until the front door is closed and Sam scoffs. 

“You’re such a simp Gogy,” Sam says, tapping his foot and crossing his arms like a disappointed parent.

“What?” George asks. “You’re the one who told me to accept his follow request.”

“Yeah, to show him what he’s missing by being an asshole. Not to leave me for him!” Sam sounds genuinely upset. George feels awful. 

He sighs, and sags down onto his sofa. “I’m not leaving you, idiot. I just–”

“He’ll fuck you and I won't,” Sam says, sitting beside him. “Sorry for being straight, I guess.”

George jolts. “I’m not fucking him, he’s– he’s not fucking me.” 

“But you want him to.” Sam doesn’t phrase it as a question, and George doesn’t have it in him to deny Sam the truth. He’s his best friend.

“I think so…” he admits, wanting to shrink into the ground. 

He expects teasing, jokes, mockery, maybe some poor imitation of himself being a whiny bitch. What he doesn’t expect is Sam to grab him and pull him into a tight, bone crushing hug. 

“I’m proud of you, dude,” he says. 

George’s eyes sting. He hugs back. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you as much.” And now he’s started, George can’t stop. He feels tears well in his eyes. “I’ve just- I’ve been so confused.”

Sam holds him tighter, buries his head into George’s shoulder and nearly knocks his cap off. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to do,” George sobs. It’s like Sam has opened the floodgates. 

“I’m so sorry George.” Sam smooths his hand down George’s back in comfort. “Is there any chance you and him could…” the words die on his tongue, Sam can’t even convince himself that it's a possibility; they both know Dream’s reputation. 

He holds George while he cries, and when George pulls away puffy-eyed and embarrassed, they silently agree to not talk about the emotional outburst again. They play Mario Kart and George thrashes him, like always. 

-

“I have an exhibition for my end of year final in a few weeks,” Dream says. He’s covered in paint of every colour, and he splashes it around haphazardly– though Dream would call it abstract. 

“I figured,” George says, sitting at the foot of Dream’s bed with a book in hand. “Y’know, since we go to the same college and will have our finals at roughly the same time,” he teases.

“Shut up, idiot.” Dream point’s a red-tipped paint brush at George threateningly, waggling it around and dripping watercolour all over his carpet. “Let me finish.”

“That’s what she said,” George jokes, “to you. Because you’re bad at sex.”

Dream cocks his eyebrow, a smug and teasing look on his face and a remark on his tongue that will make George blush. But then– he drops it. His face drops and the joke never comes. 

He coughs awkwardly. George is confused. 

“I have to do like a mini exhibit, and I wanted to make sure I can use my drawing of you in it?”

“Oh,” George says, taken aback further. None of this conversation is making sense to him. “Yeah- I mean it’s your art so…” 

“But it’s your likeness, I just wanted to make sure.” He’s so considerate, George thinks. Or is he just really into him?

“Yeah, do what you want with it. It’s yours.” I’m yours. 

“Alright, yeah. Cool.” Dream turns his attention back to his painting, and George to his book. 

They study and paint in companionable silence. There’s just something comforting about being alone with another person instead of being alone alone. Being alone with Dream is good– surprisingly, despite his raging attraction to his friend, he can focus better when someone is working alongside him. When he and Sapnap were both still in high school, they used to sit on discord calls together while they studied. Sapnap’s really smart, so he could help George as much as George helped him. 

Eventually though, Dream’s painting is finished and it can't come off the easel until it’s dry. Which means George can't study anymore because someone wants attention. 

Dream headbutts his shoulder, making a pathetic sound like a wounded puppy.

“Oh my god, stop,” George laughs, shoving Dream away and ruffling his hair in the process. 

“But, George…” He elongates his name, stretching it out into a whine. “I’m bored.”

George sighs, folding down the page to keep tabs and closing the book. “What do you want me to do about that?”

“You should let me do your makeup,” Dream says, throwing George off-kilter.

“You know how to do makeup?” George asks. 

Dream nods, scurrying off his bed and rooting around in his closet before coming back with a black leather makeup bag. 

“You’ll look so pretty,” Dream says. Clearly he’s decided this is happening whether George likes it or not. 

George sighs again, resigning himself to his fate. He shuffles back on the bed, crossing his legs so Dream can sit in front of him and get good access to his face. 

Dream perches in front, unzipping the bag and pouring its contents out into the small space between them. Unsurprisingly, most of the contents appear to be dark, heavy makeup.

“Do you wear it?” George asks, watching as Dream picks up a bottle of what looks like moisturiser.

“Sometimes,” he says, pouring a small amount of tan cream onto the tips of his fingers. “When I want to feel good- or look good.”

George scoffs while Dream dots the cream onto his face: chin, forehead, each cheek, the tip of his nose. His hands are warm against George’s skin.

“You always look good,” George admits, feeling his blush form under his skin as Dream smoothes the product across his cheeks. 

Dream’s face is so close, when he speaks George can feel his breath fan across his face. 

“Thanks Georgie.” His voice is so sincere, quiet in the limited space between them. It makes George’s heart throb.

“Shut up.” His face feels sticky, like just after smearing sunscreen on, he scrunches his nose at the feeling. 

“Just-” Dream scrambles for a small compact and a brush, “one sec,” he whispers, popping open the compact and swirling the brush across a light beige powder before dusting it across George’s face. The sticky sunscreen feeling dissolves as the powder moves over his skin. 

“Am I gonna look like a barbie?” George asks, already feeling the weight of the makeup. 

“No, no. This is all really light stuff.” Dream takes what looks like a little toilet brush, and combs it through George’s eyebrows, and he has to admit it feels nice. 

Dream touching him always feels nice.

He grabs a black pencil from the scattered mess of products. “You’re gonna hate this bit,” he says, pointing the pencil right towards George’s eye. He can’t help but flinch. 

“Dream,” he warns, the pencil getting closer. 

“Just close your eyes, but don't scrunch them up.”

George does as he’s asked, eyelids fluttering shut and the sight of Dream gone with them. Dream cups George’s face in his hand, and George thinks he’s losing his mind. He can’t help it when all the air rushes from his lungs, lips parted in shock and want. He leans into the touch while Dream traces the tip of the pencil across George’s lash-line. 

“You’re blushing,” Dream murmurs, rubbing his thumb over where he’s drawn to smudge out the line. 

“Shut up,” George replies, breathy and weak. Terrified he’s giving himself away. “It’s the makeup.”

Dream laughs. “I didn’t even put blush on you, idiot.”

George frowns, refusing to admit defeat.

“Okay, open your eyes and look up,” Dream instructs, George follows. 

It’s blurry when he opens his eyes, but he can’t help noticing that Dream’s looking at him weird before he looks to the ceiling. 

“This is the bit you’ll hate,” Dream warns, dragging the pencil across George’s waterline. 

He's right, it's awful. George can feel tears well up in his eyes and escape down his cheek– but Dream makes gentle, quick work of it and then the pencil-torture-device is removed from George’s eyeball. 

With a quick swipe of a cherry scented lip balm, Dream leans back to admire his work, his hand leaves George’s face and he mourns it. 

“There,” Dream says, proud.

 He looks at George and George looks at him, their faces still so close together. George can still feel the ghost of Dream’s hand– the warmth of him against his skin. He wants to lean back into it, to fall forward into Dream and let him have him. But he can’t, Dream doesn’t want George the same way George wants him. 

“Beautiful,” Dream says, cutting the tension in the air like a knife. “Oh- wait.” Dream swipes his thumb under George’s eyelid, it keeps travelling and tracing the bone structure of George’s face, smoothing over his jaw and just barely grazing George’s bottom lip.

His hand comes back with a mascara covered eyelash on the tip of his thumb.

“Make a wish,” Dream says, and George might cry again for a different reason altogether.

-

George has no idea what to wear to an art exhibit. 

He stares at himself until he doesn’t even look like a human anymore. Jeans? Trousers? Shirt? Sweatshirt? 

His brain hurts. He’s going to be late.

Black jeans, white shirt, nice jacket over the top. That’ll do. 

He tried to recreate the stupid eyeliner that Dream had done for him, because curse that bastard he did look hot with it. But it’s nowhere as neat as it was when Dream did it and his mum’s makeup is old and dry. It works though with a healthy amount of smudging– he doesn’t look too ridiculous. 

It’s a ten minute walk to the exhibit, and George had tried to convince Dream to give him a ride, but apparently Dream has to be there before it starts to set up. Which is stupid, in George’s opinion, when he could be in a comfy car right now instead of the semi-cold Orlando streets. He huddles into his jacket and thinks back to that stupid quiz he took and the question about going out of your way for the person. 

The university has managed to rent out a small wing of the local art museum for the exhibit, making it look much more professional and sophisticated than George had anticipated– he should’ve pulled out the formal trousers and not jeans. 

There’s catering students floating round with silver platters of canapes and champagne. George takes a glass even if he knows he won’t like the taste, just for something to hold or fiddle with that isn’t his own hands. 

He wants to make a beeline for Dream, to search him out immediately and be done with this whole poncy charade, but there are arrows on the floor and a path to follow. It's clearly designed so people don't do exactly what George was planning. 

Each artist stands in front of their display, and George gives an awkward smile and attempts to look at the art critically– like he has any idea on the piece's significance. That’s not to say George thinks the art is bad– actually some of it is really pretty, but George doesn’t really understand what it means. He’s the kind of person who deals with facts and solid information, not interpretation and reading between the lines. 

Naturally, Dream’s exhibit is near the very end. As soon as George spots a mop of messy, light brown hair he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, no longer interested in listening to the artist in front of him explaining the significance of a certain brush style in her work. 

Dream hasn’t spotted George yet, he’s making polite conversation with an older lady in a suit. He’s smiling and laughing, being engaged in the conversation and professional. It’s… weird– not in a bad way, but George is unused to seeing Dream interact with people this way. Unless it’s with him. 

Finally, he gets to the start of Dream’s exhibit, and actually takes his time to look at the pieces, to understand them. 

They’re all portraits or full body sketches like Dream did of George, and each painting has been attacked by a flurry of aggressive paint splashes. The first is an older woman– actually, George thinks it's the lady in the suit Dream was talking to– and her painting explodes with vibrant shades of orange and pink. Next is a boy, he looks about Dream and George’s age and his painting is smattered in blues and greens. George works his way through Dream’s exhibit, desperately trying to understand the meanings of the art before he actually gets to Dream himself– he doesn't want to look like an idiot.

He passes a self-portrait, and Dream really hasn’t done himself justice. It’s good art, but not nearly as beautiful as the real thing. Dream’s painting is striped with every colour of the rainbow, swirling around his face and into the curls of his hair. 

When George finds himself, he can’t help but stop and stare. His portrait is different to all of the others, instead of vibrant colours he’s a muddle of black and grey watercolour. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the canvas, surrounded and practically smothered by the gloom. He’s trapped in a stormcloud, a void. His painting looks miserable. 

“George!” Dream shouts. He comes bounding over, grinning ear to ear. George feels a hollowness in his chest when he looks back to his monochrome counterpart. 

“You made it,” Dream says, still smiling. He looks to George, and then to his painting of George. “So what do you think?” 

“Why is mine– Why am I not in colour?” George asks, ignoring how he sounds like a spoiled child who doesn’t get his way. Why doesn't Dream see him in colour?

Dream’s brows furrow, like he’s been asked a trick question. “Because… well, because you’re straight, George.”

“So? Just because I’m-” He still can’t say it. “That makes me boring?”

Dream laughs and George kind of wants to punch him. “No George, everyone is painted with their sexuality- like the colours of their flags.”

“Oh.”

“It’s about not judging others based on how they might appear, and also to be unashamed of your identity and whatever. It’s- it’s something I struggled with for a while, not being ashamed of it.” Dream rambles on, and George is listening, he is. But there’s a dark pit opening up in his chest that’s taking all of him away. He feels empty to his core.

“I have to go,” George says. Dream’s face twists in hurt and this time he makes no attempt to hide it. 

“But, why? The exhibit ends in an hour, and then- then we can hang?” 

“I’m going, Dream.” George walks away without another word, and the walk home feels colder for a whole new reason. 

-

George ignores Dream’s calls for three days; he also ignores the knocking on the front door, his mum telling him that Dream’s outside, the pebbles thrown at his bedroom window, the texts– even a fucking email. 

He has no right to be so upset. He told Dream he was straight, he said it over and over, hammering the lie home. But he– he touched himself with Dream, they spend all their time together. Dream kissed him– left a hickey.

What upsets George more is when Dream isn't busy believing he’s straight, or knocking on his door, girls and boys still climb in and out of his bedroom window. It’s like George doesn’t matter, and why would he? He’s ‘straight’.

Even if Dream knew he wasn’t, he’d just be a conquest. George would just be another boy climbing out of Dream’s bedroom window. 

-

On the fourth day, Sam has had enough. 

“C’mon,” he says, ripping the bedsheet off George’s body and exposing his pyjamas to the cool air. “Your mom let me in, you’re wallowing, we are going out.”

“We are not going out,” George grumbles, grabbing a pillow and smothering his own face with it briefly before Sam drags that away from him too.

“Yes. We are. Go shower, you smell like shit.” Sam doesn’t give him a chance to refuse for a second time, because like his sheets, George is also dragged from the bed and shoved towards his bathroom with a towel. 

He showers– really showers, because god damn it as soon as he takes his t-shirt off he’s met with the stale stench of his own skin. Sam was right, he does smell like shit and it hits him like a brick wall. He shaves and puts on deodorant, before realising he was sent to the bathroom without a change of clothes.

“Sam?” he calls out. 

“There’s an outfit for you outside the bathroom door, and don't even think about whining. You’re wearing what I chose, you’ll look awesome.” 

George opens the door carefully and drags the clothes inside, desperate to not have his best friend see his dick and balls today. Luckily, he goes unexposed.

It’s not like Sam could’ve gone too crazy with choosing what to wear– most of George’s wardrobe is sweatpants and hoodies. But somewhere in that mix he’s found a pair of blue jeans and a black sweatshirt that doesn’t have some kind of ambiguous food stain on it. He’s also managed to remember clean underpants and socks while George tries to ignore the fact that if Sam went in his underwear drawer he almost definitely saw his lube. 

He leaves the bathroom and is greeted by Sam assaulting him with cologne. “Where are we even going?” he asks around a cough, having inhaled some of the spray. 

“Luke and Noah are having a guys’ night at their dorm. I promise, nothing crazy. You just need to get outta the house.” There's a pleading look in Sam’s eyes, and though he’d never admit to caring about George as much as he does, or even saying he’s worried about him, George can see it. So he agrees.

Luke and Noah are more of Sam’s friends than George’s, but Noah’s boyfriend Karl is cool and George is happy to see him there when they arrive.

“Gogy!” Karl climbs off his boyfriend’s lap and bundles George up into his arms like they’re the best of friends, and although George isn't usually one for mass amounts of physical affection he melts right into it. He needed it. 

“Hey Karl,” George says, smiling for the first time in four days. 

“I’m here too, y’know?” Sam says, feigning anger. 

Karl swings both arms around the boy’s waists and drags them further into the dorm. “How could I ever forget you, Sam?” Karl giggles, snatching Sam’s cap from his head and running off with it. 

Luke and Noah’s dorm is huge. George didn't even know you could get dorms this big or he would’ve definitely considered campus life. All of the furniture has been pushed to the sides of the room so they can gather on the floor in the middle. There’s a pile of snacks and candy, but more importantly, a monstrous pile of booze.

“Hey George.” Noah smiles and George comes to sit beside him.

Noah’s in George’s CompSci classes, and he sticks out like a sore thumb because he’s also jacked . He plays football for the college team and has a pretty little arm-piece boyfriend in Karl. He’s really out living the popular jock dream. But George knows his deepest, darkest secret… he’s the biggest nerd of the lot of them. 

George gives a nod to Luke across the room where he’s curled up by the window smoking a joint, and he salutes back to George with it burning between his fingers. 

“Hey Noah, pass us a drink?” 

Noah’s eyes the pile of booze. “On a scale of one to ten, how fucked you planning to get?”

“Twelve,” George replies. 

“Oh shit!” Karl shouts, running back over and climbing into Noah’s lap. “We popping off tonight, Gogy?”

“Something like that…” George says, watching as Noah pours a solo cup of rum and coke, except there's definitely more rum than coke. 

“Man’s has had his heart broken,” Sam says, coming to sit next to George. He’s managed to retrieve his hat from Karl, but George quickly snatches it too just to see the way his hair clings to the sweat on his head. Sam grumbles, but then smiles at Noah, “Make me a drink too, baby.”

Luke takes one last, long drag of his joint before throwing the embers out the window. “Shit, George, didn’t even know you were seeing someone, what did she do?”

“Was it Cassie? I saw you two pretty close at Alpha Xi Delta a while back…” Noah chimes in. 

“Uh, no,” George says. He takes a big drink from the solo cup, letting the rum burn his throat and his nerves. “I’m gay, actually… So-”

“I knew it!” Karl shrieks, shaking his boyfriend’s shoulder while Noah just laughs fondly and places a kiss on Karl's temple. 

“I thought you weren't supposed to say that when someone comes out to you?” Luke asks, before smiling at George. “Proud of you though, man.”

“Thanks,” George says, feeling proud of himself too. 

“Listen,” Karl says, “ You’re not. But there was no way in hell George was this hot and straight. I mean- that’s like… impossible.”

“Hey, I’m straight,” Sam defends.

“You’re also ugly,” Noah jokes, earning a smack to the knee.

“So… anyway,” Luke says, “What did this guy do? Cause like, I’ll beat him up if you want.”

George laughs, trying to imagine Luke and Dream in a fist fight– a blur of blonde and ego. 

“It’s nothing, it’s just-”

“He’s a player,” Sam says and George takes another gulp of his drink. 

“So?” Noah asks, curling around Karl as if on reflex. Noah wasn’t exactly a relationship guy before Karl.

“Not like you, Noah, like-” George sighs and empties the solo cup. Ignoring the wide eyes from his friends as Luke wordlessly fills another. “Ugh- it’s Dream, okay.”

George doesn’t know what possesses him in that moment– probably the rum.

“Oh shit, that's rough.” Luke had stopped pouring the rum and was about to add the coke. Instead he adds more rum. 

“Oh yikes,” Karl winces, and George knows why. Karl may or may not have been one of the boys to climb out of Dream’s bedroom window. 

“Yeah,” George sighs, beginning his second drink. 

-

George stumbles home, loose-limbed and woozy. He feels like he could take on the world, but also like the world just won't stop spinning. 

‘Accidentally’, he walks one house too many, and is banging loudly on the wrong door. 

Dream opens the door with bleary eyes and ruffled hair. He doesn’t have a shirt on– just flannel pyjama pants sitting low on his hips. George can’t help but stare, he’s too hot and George is too drunk. The hickeys covering his body from neck to navel make George think he might be sick.

“George?” Dream looks at George with confusion, brows scrunched and his mouth pressed into a hard line. Then he starts swaying. 

Oh– no, George is the one swaying. 

“George, are you drunk?” Dream asks, holding his hands out as if he’s ready to catch George. But it’s too late, George has already fallen and Dream didn’t catch him then. 

“You did your painting wrong,” George says, selfishly letting himself fall into Dream’s braced arms. 

“What? Jesus, George, you stink. How much did you drink?” Dream ushers George inside and puts him on the couch. 

“Your painting- it sucked. Zero out of ten for accuracy,” George calls, Dream’s out of sight.

He returns with a large glass of water and hands it to George. “Drink,” he demands, “and then tell me what you mean.”

“You kissed my neck,” George says. 

“I- yeah. You asked me to Georgie.” 

George bobs his head, agreeing. “And we- we called, and- and did stuff .” He says it like a child saying a swear word. 

“We did…” Dream sounds hesitant, and George understands why. They were never supposed to talk about this. 

“I’m gay, Dream. You idiot.” And then George starts crying. 

It takes Dream a moment, but then he's bundling George into his arms. George cries against his bare shoulder and clings to his skin like he’ll die if he doesn't. 

“You did my painting wrong,” George says again, muffled by sobs. 

“Oh, Georgie- I’m so sorry.”

-

He doesn’t remember much more from his night, but when he wakes up on Dream’s couch with a pounding headache, George wishes he could remember even less than what he does. 

“ Ugh,” he groans, unswaddling himself from a throw blanket that he’s found himself well and truly tangled in. 

“Morning.” Dream’s voice is soft behind George, but it still makes him jump and nearly fall off the couch.

Dream rounds the couch and puts a glass of water and a glass of apple juice on the coffee table.

“Thanks.” George feels shame and leftover rum swirl in his stomach, he takes a sip of water desperately, hoping to quell the ache.

“You okay?” Dream asks, and George winces. It sounds like Dream’s treading on eggshells with him and he hates it. 

“No,” he says. “I’m so sorry I came over.”

“It’s okay, I- I’m sorry about the painting.” 

George turns to him with wide eyes, meeting pained green. “No, Dream. It wasn’t your fault. I told you- I told you so many times.”

“I shouldn’t have exactly listened though, Georgie. I mean- the call.” 

George cringes, embarrassment joining the pool of emotions and alcohol in his gut. 

“I can’t imagine how awful it would be to just be coming to terms with your sexuality, and then someone shoves you into a box you don’t- you don’t belong in.” Dream’s voice is choked, George looks to him and sees tears well in those beautiful green eyes. 

“I’m just so sorry, George.” 

For the second time in less than twelve hours, they hold each other. George lurches forward, ignoring how his delicate stomach lurches with him, and he bundles Dream into his arms. It’s not as fluid as the other way around, Dream is too gangly and George doesn't have enough limbs to fully envelop him. But they make it work.

“I’ve been- it’s been so messed up, Dream.” George strokes smooth patterns down Dream’s back, feeling each notch of his spine. “It’s okay. It was me, not you.”

Dream squeezes tighter, throws his whole weight down like carrying it for this long has been too hard. George takes it, falling back against the couch and taking Dream with him. They tangle together in a way friends don’t, and George can feel his hangover dragging him back under. 

-

When George wakes up again, light is streaming through the open curtains and straight into his eyes. His stomach has settled and his head doesn’t pound like it did before, but he really  needs to piss. 

He crawls off the sofa, unwilling to sacrifice the blanket so he wraps it around his head. He crawls up the stairs, desperate for the toilet and maybe to swill his mouth in the tap. 

That’s when he hears it– a moan.

It’s not Dream, it’s definitely a girl. 

George is losing his mind. He thought– he–

He goes to piss, and abandons the blanket on the bathroom floor. He storms downstairs, uncaring of how much noise he makes and finds his shoes. 

He’s lacing them when Dream comes down, in just his sweatpants. His lips are kiss-swollen and his hair is dishevelled. George wants to throw up. 

“You’re awake,” Dream says. George wants to believe he hears guilt in Dream’s tone. He wants. “I- I already had plans and- I forgot to cancel.”

George doesn’t say a word, and Dream doesn’t say another. George ties his sneakers and he’s out the door. 

He’s calling Sapnap before he’s even made it back to his own house. 

“Fucking whore.”

“Good afternoon, George. How’re you?” Sapnap says, lighthearted and kind and so good.

“I told him I’m gay- I told him,” George spits, anger flooding his senses– he thinks he can actually see red. 

“Shit.” Sapnap’s teasing is gone. He sounds ready to fight, to protect. George is so lucky. 

“I wake up from a fucking nap at his damn house, and he’s fucking a girl upstairs. I told him, Sapnap. I told him.” George slams the front door behind himself, and locks it just in case. 

“Fuck.”

“Can you only say curses right now? What the fuck, man.” George’s blood is boiling. It’s like he can feel it heat up and bubble in his veins. 

“George, man. I’m- what can I do?” He’s such a good friend. This dumb kid from Texas cares about him so much. 

George crashes face down into his mattress. The weight of yesterday and the agony of today sit heavy in his bones. “I’m gonna sleep,” he says.

“Do you want me to stay?” Sapnap asks. 

“Yeah, please.”

They fall to silence while George tries to sleep. Sapnap is typing away on the other end of the line, presumably doing his schoolwork. George should do his, he has his exams soon, but he knows he’ll pass without even having to try– he’s one of those annoyingly smart people and he knows it.

The gentle clacking and clicking of Sapnap’s keyboard usually helps, usually makes George pass out in seconds, but he’s been asleep all day and he can't get the sound of that girl’s moan from his head. 

“ Ugh,” he says. 

“Can’t sleep?” Sapnap asks, still typing.

“No, what do I do though?” 

“Take some nyquil?” Sapnap suggests.

“No, no, not about sleep. About Dream.” George rolls over, the cool air of his bedroom hitting his face. 

“Honestly?” Sapnap asks, sounding hesitant. 

“No, Sap, I want you to lie to me. Yes, honestly.” George rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t think just cause I can’t see you doesn't mean I don't know you did that,” Sapnap says, knowing George all too well. 

“So what should I do?” He doesn’t know why he’s asking an eighteen year old who’s only had one girlfriend. 

“I wouldn’t do anything.” George can tell Sapnap shrugs. “I mean- it’s not like he’s cheated on you, you aren't together. And as much as yeah- maybe it sucks, you knew he was a player when you became friends again. And you are just friends.”

George groans, annoyed that Sapnap is making sense. 

“I think you need to focus on you right now. You’ve just had a raging sexuality crisis bro- I don’t think a relationship with a fuckboy is the best move…” Sapnap continues. 

“I hate you,” George says. 

“No, you don't,” Sapnap replies in full confidence. “Now if you’re not sleeping, get your ass on your PC cause if I do any more schoolwork tonight I’m gonna kill myself.”

George crawls out of bed and jumps on Hypixel.

-

As much as George hates doing what Sapnap says, and hates even more when he has to admit Sapnap is right, he– he is right. 

The next day, once the hangover has finally subsided, George texts Dream as normal. Like two friends text, because that’s what they are. 

Dream: You’re not mad? 

George: Why would I be?

Dream: You seemed mad… 

George: Your hookup woke me up and I was hungover, I’m not mad.

Lying seems like the best move, and somehow, it seems to work. At the very least Dream drops it and things go back to normal. Dream is his friend– his hot, pretty, sexy, slutty friend. George needs to focus on himself, on this huge development in his life. 

He needs to talk to his mum. 

She’s curled up on the sofa, and his dad is on a business trip, so it’s the perfect time.

It’s not– he’s not scared to tell his dad, it’ll just be easier if his mum is already in his corner. Just in case. 

“Mum,” he calls, getting her attention away from her book. She's got a fluffy blanket over her lap and a glass of red wine on the coffee table, she looks up at him over her glasses. 

“Hey, Georgie. You okay?” she asks. 

“Yeah, I just- I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says.

She puts her book face down on the table, saving her page, and she lifts the edge of the blanket in invitation. 

George isn’t a cuddly person, he isn’t. But his mum doesn’t count– mums never count. He slips under the blanket and leans heavily into his mum’s side while she wraps them both up tight. She’s warm, she smells like wine and love. She loves him. It won't change her love for him. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” She holds him tighter, like she can feel the weight of his confession through where their skin meets. “Talk to me.”

George nods, giving an affirmative hum and nuzzling closer into her comfort. 

“I’m gay,” he says, ripping off the bandaid. 

He doesn’t mean to cry, he’s just– he’s so relieved. 

“Oh, baby,” his mother coos, kissing his hair and smoothing his hand up and down George’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, his emotions hitting him like a tidal wave. 

“What do you have to be sorry for, silly boy,” she shushes. “My perfect, silly boy.”

It takes a few more moments of sobbing and sniffling, and George thinks he even feels wetness land into his hair from her too, before he’s able to pull his face from his mother’s neck. He must look a mess right now– red faced and puffy with tears running down his neck. 

“I love you, Georgie. Okay?” she says. He nods, leaning into her hand when she holds his cheek and wipes away a tear with her thumb. 

“Will you help me tell Dad?” he asks, feeling smaller than ever in his mother’s arms.

“Of course, baby. Of course I will. He’ll- he’ll be okay, y’know. You don't need to worry about him.” 

George knows this, he knows his dad isn’t like, homophobic or anything, but their relationship is very different to his relationship with his mum. His mum thinks it’s because they are so alike– ‘closed off’ she’d said once, ‘stubborn to your cores’, and George can’t really disagree.

-

Telling his dad goes okay, as expected. Honestly his father reacts as though George has told him tomorrow’s weather report and not a huge aspect of his life, but that’s better than rejection, so in George’s books it’s a win. 

He even manages to face Dream again, a week after he’d shown up on his doorstep shitfaced.

“Hi,” he says, standing in the same spot that created a lifetime's worth of embarrassment. 

“Hey Georgie.” It’s hot out today, and Dream’s in shorts and a tank– tattoos deliciously on display.

George has to remind himself not to stare. “It’s hot as balls out,” he says instead, forcing his eyes to meet Dream’s which honestly is just about as bad as staring at his body. 

“Didn’t know you knew how hot balls were, but good on you, Georgie.” Dream sports a shit-eating grin, even though the joke wasn’t even that good. 

“I have my own balls, thank you very much.” He rolls his eyes to exaggerate the point. “Let’s use your pool.”

George walks past him, into Dream’s house without invitation. It all feels so familiar now, like the years of them not being friends never happened. Dream trails behind as he makes his way through the house and out to Dream’s backyard. 

George’s house doesn’t have a pool– and honestly fuck his parents for that. Who moves to Florida and doesn’t get a house with a pool? 

“I told my parents I’m gay,” George says, throwing his t-shirt to the ground and slipping straight into the pool.

“Oh,” Dream replies, his voice sounds off. George has to turn to check his facial expression, trying to figure out why. “How did that go?” 

Dream takes his shirt off too, and George almost forgets he’s been asked a question. 

“It uh- it went really well actually. They’re chill.”

Dream smiles, but it’s strained. He sits at the edge of the pool and dangles his legs into the water. George swims up beside him, leaning against the edge on his elbows and nudging Dream. “What?” he asks. 

Dream looks down at him, sadness hiding behind his eyes. “I- did you know why my dad left?”

George shakes his head. “I didn’t even know your dad left.”

“He- he wasn’t chill about it, y’know…”

“Shit.” George isn’t really sure what else to say, comforting people isn’t his strong suit. “Do you still see him?”

Dream shakes his head, looking down at his hands in his lap. It’s the first time since they rekindled their friendship that Dream looks like the boy George once knew. 

“What a dick,” George says, nudging Dream’s thigh with his elbow again, trying to get a smile. 

It works, and Dream looks at him softly. “I’m glad it went well for you though.”

“Thanks,” he says, unsure of what else to say. 

He swims away from the water’s edge– away from Dream. He fully submerges himself under the chlorinated water, letting it flood and block his ears so all he can hear is the gentle movements of his own limbs. His hair feels weightless, swishing around his face in soft swirls. He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting the sting of the chemicals and not needing to see anyway. It’s like sensory deprivation, everything melts away and all that's left in the world is him.

But eventually he has to breathe– an unfortunate side effect of being human. 

When he comes back up for air, Dream’s gone. George tries not to let the abandonment find its way into his bubble.

But George’s bubble is quickly burst by Dream’s return– Dream, who comes running from inside the house and is now in swimming trunks. Dream, who’s beelining for the pool with raucous laughter and mischief all over his face. 

Dream, who divebombs straight into the cool water with a joyous scream, making water rise up and whoosh over George like a tidal wave. 

“ Dream!” he yells, laughing while choking on the water in his lungs. 

Dream comes back to the surface less than a metre away, hair pushed back by the water and his skin glistening. He looks beautiful, always. 

“Hi,” he says, with a boyish grin on his face. George tries desperately to ignore the way Dream’s eyes roam his body. 

“I could’ve drowned,” George says, crossing his arms over his chest to appear mad, but also to shield his skin from Dream’s blazing gaze.

“You’re so dramatic,” Dream laughs, swishing forward and ruffling George’s wet hair. “Your hair looks good like this, I’ve- I’ve never seen it like this before…”

George runs his own hands through it, ignoring the spark that jolts through him when his fingers graze Dream’s. “I probably look ridiculous,” he mutters.

Dream is quick to shake his head. “You don’t. I don’t think you realise how pretty you are sometimes.”

If George wasn't standing in the cold water, he’d blame the sun for the heat in his cheeks. “Shut up,” he whispers, voice weak. 

Dream’s hand hovers in the air, not quite touching George but his fingers twitch like he wants to. George wants him to. He steps forward into Dream’s palm and it cups his face. Dream looks at him with pleading eyes. “George,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

George wants to kiss him. He leans into Dream’s hand, feeling his thumb smooth under George’s eye and along clumped lashes. He looks up at Dream through those lashes, and that's when he finally notices it. 

Barely there but definitely fresh– a hickey below Dream’s ear. 

It’s like a bucket of ice has been dumped over George’s head. He steps out from Dream’s palm with an awkward cough, ignoring the tingling sensation on his skin from the touch and ignoring the hurt that flickers across Dream’s face. 

The rest of the day goes without another incident. George is careful to keep his distance, and not stare into green eyes for longer than absolutely necessary. 

-

“How do you like- find someone nowadays?” George asks. 

He’s sat in Luke and Noah’s dorm again, this time without Sam having to force him. Despite the end of his last night here, he had fun. It’s nice to spend time with people– it’s healthy.

Karl is making some kind of deadly concoction for the night. George has seen multiple spirits and juices find their way into a large plastic container, the drink itself turning a murky orange. “Tinder, Grindr, clubs, campus… You name it, pretty much anyone at college is game.”

“I-” George stumbles, looking around the room with a desperate expression. Trying to find the right words for Karl.

“I think if George didn’t want to fuck Dream even though he could, he probably isn’t looking for someone who’s game, dumbass,” Luke chimes in, saving the day.

“That- yeah.” George sags down against the wall. 

“You can use dating apps for things other than hookups,” Noah says, tearing into an industrial sized bag of ice to add into the cocktail. 

“Yeah, you can also talk to someone for two weeks straight and then never hear from them again,” Sam chimes in from his seat next to George, his tone tinged with bitterness that suggests he’s speaking from experience. Luke nods in agreement. 

“Kat?” Noah asks.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Sam sulks.

“I mean- I know a couple people who wouldn’t like, fuck you over or whatever,” Karl says, taking red solo cups and dishing out his creation. 

“What about Wilbur?” Sam asks, accepting the drink that Karl hands him with notable scepticism. 

“Is that the guy from your high school?” Noah asks Karl, who nods. 

“Who’s Wilbur?” George asks, rolling the name around his brain and coming up empty. 

“He went to school with me in North Carolina for freshman and sophomore year before moving back to Engl-” Karl pauses, realisation dawning on his face as he stares at George before bursting into giggles and jumping around the room.

“Karl? What?” George looks around the room, everyone else equally as puzzled, but Sam seems to come to the same realisation a couple moments after.

“Oh my god it's perfect!” He stands to join Karl in excitement.

“What are you two on about?” Luke asks.

“He’s British,” Sam says.

“It’s perfect!” Karl adds. 

“It’s not perfect just because we are both British.” George rolls his eyes, though he can't help but think it couldn’t hurt. 

“You have to go out with him now,” Karl insists. “I’ll give you his number like- now.”

“He’s in my English classes, he’s pretty chill,” Sam chimes in.

Karl is already searching around Noah’s bed for his phone and George can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. He lets Karl put Wilbur’s number into his phone and accepts a cup of the most disgusting thing he’s ever tasted. 

-

He doesn’t think about it again– not until he gets a text from Wilbur while he’s hanging out with Dream. 

“Huh,” he says, staring at his phone like suddenly the message will make more sense. 

“What?” Dream asks. He’s standing at his easel drawing something. George hadn’t bothered to ask. 

“I, uh- I just got asked out on a date by someone.”

“Oh,” Dream says, his voice unusually tight. “Uh- who?”

“Wilbur, he’s one of Karl’s friends. Karl gave me his number and I guess I wasn't moving fast enough for Karl’s liking so he’s… I guess he gave Wilbur my number too.”

“Are you- are you gonna go?” Dream asks, feigning indifference, but George can see his paintbrush hovering by the canvas, not moving until he gets an answer. 

George looks at Dream, looks at the new purple mark on Dream’s neck. “Yeah, I’m gonna go.”

Dream nods, not making eye contact, and his brush moves against the canvas again. “That’s, yeah- that's cool. Just- wear a condom or whatever- have him wear one.” 

George chokes, sputtering in shock. “ Dream,” he says, scandalised. 

“What?” he asks. “Safe sex is important, Georgie.” 

“I’m not going to have sex with him,” George says. “I mean- not straight away anyway.”

George looks to Dream again, to the purple that travels from his ear to under his shirt. 

“I want to date, Dream. Like- a relationship. A partner. Commitment, and monogamy or whatever.” He doesn’t mean to sound so cruel as he says it. He doesn’t mean for it to feel like an attack, but he understands why Dream flinches at the words. 

“I want that too, y’know,” Dream mumbles, barely audible. “Like- with the right person or whatever. Just cause I enjoy sex doesn’t mean I don't also want that.”

“You’re right. I know.” George sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re kind of a slut-shamer, Georgie.” The pain in Dream’s voice makes George ache. 

“I don’t mean to be. I just-” he stalls, unsure what to say. “If you really liked someone, and wanted to be with them, would you stop hooking up with other people?” he asks. 

Dream looks at him with such intensity that it makes him want to cower away. He looks at George like he’s searching for the answer to the universe. George wonders if he finds it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah I would.” 

-

A week later George finds himself in a coffee shop that looks like something from a sitcom– or Pinterest. It’s all exposed brick and wooden beams, there are reclaimed wood tables and an abundance of houseplants to the point that the place looks like a jungle. The baristas look like they listen to The Smiths and the music sounds like it's The Smiths. There’s a man on a tall bar table with ridiculously oversized spectacles, with a Macbook and an overly fancy latte, there’s a girl with baby pink hair who looks like she’s making a scrapbook, and there’s George. 

He orders a hot chocolate, and politely declines when the barista offers to add a shot of coffee into the drink– George hates coffee. He probably shouldn’t have agreed to a date at a coffee shop, but he isn’t exactly an expert on dating, so he just went along with it. 

George sits in a booth at the back corner of the cafe, nursing the hot chocolate between his palms. His knee is bouncing up and down under the table, and it's taking everything in him to not pick at the skin around his thumbnail. 

He’s going on a date. He’s going on a date with a man. 

Wilbur arrives five minutes late. He waves at George as he walks into the shop before awkwardly gesturing at the barista. It gives George time to appraise him while he orders his drink. 

He’s tall– like really tall. His hair is a mousy brown, somewhere between curly and a straggly mess and George can tell it’s beginning to thin. He’s wearing cuffed, black jeans and Dr Martens, a button up shirt with a sweater over the top, and wire-rimmed glasses. He looks put together, his fashion somewhere in between what George might wear when he’s trying too hard, Karl’s everyday casual, and Dream’s toned down looks. 

He isn’t unattractive, which is good, but George isn’t sure if he’s attractive yet either. 

“George, right?” Wilbur says as he finally makes his way over to the booth, sliding in opposite George. He’s so gangly his knees bump George’s under the table.

“Yeah, hi.” He grips his mug of hot chocolate just a little bit tighter.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Wilbur says, and he actually sounds like he means it. 

“You too. It's, uh– it's been a while since I've spoken to someone from the UK other than my parents,” George says, giving a half-hearted laugh. 

“No kidding, to be honest you don’t really sound very British anymore.”

“I’ve been here since I was like seven, Americans say I sound British and British people say I sound American. It’s annoying,” George says. 

Wilbur’s face twists awkwardly. “Oh god, sorry- I didn’t mean to like- annoy you.”

“Oh- uh, sorry. You didn’t. I was just saying.” 

George wants to put his head through the exposed brick wall of the coffee shop. 

The rest of the date goes much like the start. It’s awkward, and they both fumble through it. George decides that Wilbur is objectively attractive, but not attractive to him. Still– he’s friendly enough, kind enough. He pays for George’s second hot chocolate and gets water for himself. 

Outside the coffee shop he offers to walk George home, and George thinks about letting him, of taking this stranger inside and seeing what it feels like to be wanted the way Dream wants so many people. 

He politely declines Wilbur’s offer. 

He does however accept the kiss Wilbur leans down to give him. It’s better than kissing a girl has ever been. His stubble scratches against George’s and he smells like a man. But his lips are too soft– he kisses too gently, and he tastes like coffee. It’s nothing George craves to repeat as he pulls away with a sheepish smile. 

Wilbur walks away and George watches him go. He has no urge to see him again, he doesn’t wish for him to turn back to look at him. He just watches him go. 

-

Karl: Soooo! How did it go? 

George: It was fine. He’s nice.

Karl: Fine doesn’t sound good

Sam: Fine is Gogy speak for bad

George: It wasn’t bad. Just… 

Luke: Not good?

Sam: Not Dream

George: Ugh I hate this.

Karl: Maybe you should just fuck Dream and get it out your system?

Sam: That’s not the worst idea…

Luke: That’s a TERRIBLE idea

Karl: I mean at least he’s guaranteed to have good sex for his first time. Dream’s S tier.

Noah: I am RIGHT here! 

Karl: Oh hey babe. 

George: I hate it here. 

George throws his phone on the bed with an exasperated sigh. He looks to his PC, debating logging on and maybe studying, or playing a game, but quickly decides against it and throws himself on the bed too. 

His phone pings a few more times, but George is too busy smothering himself in his pillow to look at the group chat, to answer more questions about why Wilbur was just fine. Maybe he’ll tell them they kissed and the lack of metal piercing Wilbur’s skin made George feel empty. Maybe they’d pity him. 

His phone begins to ring consistently– a call. George has half the mind to ignore it completely like he has been with the texts. But nobody calls George unless it’s important…

Or unless it’s Dream. 

“Hi, Georgie.” His voice floods through the phone line like velvet, American and deep and perfect. 

“Hi,” he croaks, sounding weary even to his own ears. 

“How- uh. How did your date go?” he asks. 

George cringes at the mere mention of it coming from Dream. Somehow going on a date with another man feels like cheating. George has to remind himself it's not. 

“It was fine,” George replies.

Dream chuckles, soft and away from the mic as though George wasn’t meant to hear. “That bad, huh?” George can’t help but hear how Dream sounds pleased by this. 

George groans, shoving his face back into the pillow. “ Ugh.”

Dream stays silent, patiently waiting for George to finish his tantrum. 

“It was so awkward!” George begins. “We had nothing in common and he took me to a coffee shop.”

“You hate coffee,” Dream points out.

“I know! He doesn’t though. Ugh it was just awkward small talk for like two hours and then a shit kiss that made me want a breath mint after.”

“You kissed him?” Dream asks after a too-long pause. “Why?”

“Because he wanted to kiss me, and I've never even kissed a guy before, I was curious. Now I’ve wasted my first guy-kiss on a coffee-breathed Brit.” George doesn’t mean to sound like he’s sulking. 

“If you wanted your first guy kiss, you should’ve just kissed me ” Dream says casually, an almost teasing tilt to his tone. 

“Shut up,” George says, feeling his face heat at just the thought. 

“That’s not a no,” Dream says.

“You’re a nimrod,” George counters.

“You’re still not saying no, Gogy.”

“You’re- you’re an idiot.”

“I’m coming over,” Dream says.

“Wha-” and the line goes dead. 

George jumps from his bed, dashing to the mirror. He’s still dressed from his date, and he goes to smooth out his hair but then he remembers how Dream said he liked it messy so he leaves it.

What is he doing?

George hears his front door open and close. His head swings towards his bedroom door, panicked that maybe his parents are home, but then Dream walks in. 

He’s wearing pyjama pants and a zip-up sweatshirt, the zip not fully done so his chest and collarbones are exposed. His hair is a mess and there’s remnants of eyeliner smudged around his eyes. 

“You look dumb,” George says. 

“I am dumb.” He shrugs unapologetically, taking a step closer to George. 

George can feel heat pooling in his stomach, the look of determination on Dream’s face makes him want to pass out.

“But I'd also like to kiss you,” Dream says, taking another step forward and thoroughly invading George’s space. “Can I?”

George looks at his childhood best friend– his friend – and there’s no doubt in his mind that he wants Dream to kiss him. 

He nods. 

Dream’s hand comes up to cup his face, just like he did in the pool. George leans into it the exact same way. Dream’s gaze travels over George’s face and he lets his own move over Dream’s. A mess of blonde hair with a black streak, black metal adorning his features, thick lashes, green eyes, pink lips. Pale neck, no bruises. 

Dream’s thumb swipes over George’s bottom lip and his breath stutters. He looks up at Dream and Dream is staring back at him, there’s hesitation and doubt hiding behind his confident facade. George can’t help but feel the same. 

“This means something, right?” George asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

Dream smiles, his face so close to George’s that he can feel the exhale of his breath when he laughs. 

“Now who’s dumb?” Dream asks.

“Still you,” George says, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet to crash himself against Dream. 

Now this– this is what it should feel like. 

Dream kisses him hard. There’s a desperation– a need, a hunger in the way they kiss. Dream consumes him. His lips are insistent and he pries George’s mouth open to lick in, he’s rough and greedy and George loves it. He clings to Dream’s shoulders, blunt nails digging into the thick fabric of his sweatshirt. One of Dream’s hands still holds George’s face, keeping him close and keeping his mouth on him, while the other grips bruisingly at George’s waist like George will run away or disappear in a puff of smoke. 

They kiss for so long that George can’t breathe, but he thinks he’ll die if he pulls away. He grips at the open top of Dream’s sweatshirt and drags him along while he walks backwards to the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress and he topples backwards, bringing Dream with him.

When Dream draws himself back and detaches his lips from George, he can’t help the whine that leaves his throat or the way he paws at Dream’s front to bring his mouth back to his own. 

“Georgie-” he pants, breathless and flushed, smiling so wide it looks almost painful. 

George makes another incoherent noise and tries to drag Dream back against him, but Dream holds strong and hovers over him. 

“George, I- I wanna do this right with you,” Dream says.

He rolls off of George’s body, lying next to him but not breaking eye contact. He buries his fingers in messy blonde hair and tugs on it. 

“I don’t understand,” George admits. 

“I want to do this right. You– you deserve- you should get everything.”

“I-” George tries to argue that he is getting everything he wants right now, that there’s nothing more he could possibly want. But Dream cuts him off before he has the chance.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says, a newfound determination in his eyes. 

“What?” George asks, he thinks the lack of oxygen has damaged his brain. 

“You want dates, a partner, commitment, monogamy or whatever.” Dream smirks, throwing George’s own words back at him. “Let me give you that. I want to give you that.”

“You want that?” George asks, just to be sure. He’s definitely lost his mind. 

“George, I’ve wanted that since before I even knew I could have that,” Dream admits. “So will you? Will you go on a date with me?” 

“Only if you kiss me again,” George says, smiling wide and coaxing Dream’s lips back against his. 

-

“You’re not,” Sapnap says.

“I am,” George replies.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

George sits at his setup grinning ear to ear, his Minecraft character hopping around his and Sapnap’s server excitedly.

“What the fuck,” Sapnap says, with a complete air of disbelief. 

“I know!” George makes his character shift and jump in front of Sapnap’s in a little dance.

“So he’s stopped being a fuckboy?” 

“Yep,” George says, popping the 'p' sound of the word.

“No way.” Sapnap’s character starts jumping too. 

“Gogy!” he yells, so loud it makes George flinch, but nothing can take away from this moment.

“I know!” George’s whole face hurts from smiling, he hasn’t been able to wipe his face of it since Dream left. 

“So you guys have sorted everything out?” Sapnap asks, his character running away towards their base.

“I mean, what is there to sort? Well- I guess he has to sort the date but-”

“No,” Sapnap interrupts. “I mean why did he stop talking to you when you were kids?”

“Oh- uh,” George stumbles. “No, I guess not. But-”

“Nah, you always do this,” Sapnap says, suddenly sounding pissed.

“Do what?” George asks, following Sapnap’s character so they can talk ‘face-to-face’.

“You make your feelings unimportant. That shit messed you up, you- you called me like having a panic attack when you first saw him.” Sapnap has always been like a brother to George, and right now he’s an annoying know-it-all brother. 

“Ugh you’ve ruined my mood now,” George admits as he slumps back in his chair, his smile finally dropping from his face, but the residual ache of it remains. 

“Sorry, Gogy. I’m happy for you, I am. I just- I care about you, bro.”

George cringes when Sapnap says it. He can hear in Sapnap’s voice that he’s doing the same. 

“I don’t want him to hurt you.”

“I’ll ask,” George says. “I’ll ask him.”

-

The sushi restaurant is far too fancy for two college students, but they both make the effort to fit in. 

Dream borrows his mom’s car, and he’s sitting in the driver’s side with trousers and a simple white button-up. On closer inspection George notices the buttons are small, beautiful pearls. He’s still heavily adorned in metal jewellery and his sleeves are rolled up to expose the tattoos on his forearms. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top just enough to see his chain and a glimpse of collarbone. He looks incredible. George gets the urge to just– bite him. 

George is also wearing smart pants, with a black shirt. His second attempt at doing his eyeliner went much better than his first, but it still doesn’t look quite as good as when Dream did it. 

“Hi,” Dream says when George slides into the passenger seat. His smile is so wide, George wants to kiss it. 

George can kiss it. 

George kisses him.

“Hi,” he says when he pulls away, grinning at the dumbstruck expression on Dream’s face. For a man who must’ve been kissed a million times, being kissed by George makes him blush a gorgeous fuchsia– something that makes George impossibly happy. 

It’s a quick drive to the restaurant, and George spends the whole time looking at Dream’s profile– a strong jaw, bold nose, a fluffy mess of hair, unfairly long eyelashes. 

“Is there something on my face?” Dream asks. 

“No,” George replies, smiling. 

The hostess is a girl, maybe about their age. She gives Dream and George a weird look, something between desire and jealousy, and George’s stomach turns uncomfortably. He reminds himself that it’s okay, that Dream’s reputation and past doesn't matter. It’s something he’s quickly going to unlearn– the judgement, the bitterness. He knows now where it came from and he knows now that it was dumb. 

She sits them at a nice table, near the back of the restaurant and away from a lot of the noise. Dream pulls George’s chair out for him and it makes George blush. The restaurant is dim, and Dream’s face is lit up by warm candlelight when he sits in the chair opposite George, making his hair look almost auburn and his eyes sparkle in the dark.

“I didn’t even know you liked sushi,” George says, eyes scanning the menu as best as they can in the low light.

“I haven’t actually ever had it,” Dream admits sheepishly. “But I know you like it, so I asked around for somewhere nice.”

“Wow, you’re such a simp.” George laughs, Dream’s cheeks darken.

“You’re definitely in charge of ordering, though,” Dream says. 

George takes his role very seriously, figuring out the best rolls and nigiri for a first timer and using his knowledge of what Dream likes anyway to shape a collection of dishes for them to try. 

Luckily, it's a success.

“My life is changed forever,” Dream says around a mouthful of salmon and rice, George can only laugh at him in a way that's disgustingly fond. 

“How have you never made me eat sushi before?” Dream continues, but George’s mood wobbles. 

He can't get what Sapnap said out of his head. 

“Why did you stop talking to me?” he asks, watching as Dream fumbles once again with his chopsticks. 

Dream looks at George with a mouthful of maki and confusion on his face. 

“When we were kids,” George clarifies. 

Dream’s eyes go wide, and his throat bobs. “Uh- shit, okay,” he says. “We’re doing this now?”

Dread fills George’s whole being, but he nods. He has to know. 

“It was stupid,” Dream says, rubbing his palms against his pants with nerves. 

“Just- tell me. Please,” George begs. 

“I started- I started having some- some feelings. About you. And- well I told my parents. Because I told my parents everything …”

“Oh, Dream.”

The puzzle pieces begin to slot together and George’s heart breaks for the boy across the table. 

“Obviously, you know how that went,” Dream says. 

“Shit-”

“And, I know it wasn’t your fault, like I know that, I only have myself to blame. But I was so upset and my dad had just left because of my feelings for you and-” 

George reaches over the table to take Dream’s shaking hand with his. 

“I’m so sorry, Georgie.” 

George squeezes Dream’s hand tight– maybe too tight, but Dream doesn’t complain. There’s wetness in Dream’s eyes and such genuine guilt. George smiles at him, desperate to convey his forgiveness, his understanding.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” George says. “I just wish I’d known, I could’ve been there for you.”

“I was so messed up, and self absorbed. I just couldn’t face you with it.”

“Idiot,” George says, a soft look no doubt plastered across his face. “You had your reasons. I get it. But don’t do that to me again.”

“Never,” Dream promises, and George believes him. 

The rest of their date is amazing. They stumble from the restaurant with full bellies and giddy smiles. Dream drives George home, and the whole time Dream’s hand is warm where it curves around George’s thigh. 

There’s a swoop in George’s belly and a want in his heart. He can feel his pulse racing through his body. Dream pulls the car into the driveway of his house, and walks George to his own front door. 

George wants to invite Dream inside, wants to take off his nice white shirt and kiss him all over. But Dream– Dream has other plans. 

“I had a really nice time tonight,” he says, his voice gentle in the quiet, suburban night. 

“Me too,” George says. “Do you…” He looks to his door, leaving the question unsaid but clearly implied. 

Dream smiles and shakes his head, stepping closer to George so he can practically feel the heat radiating from him. He takes George’s face in his hand, smoothing his thumb over George’s cheek like he is the most precious thing in the world– and George feels it. 

“Not tonight, baby. I told you I want to do this right.” He leans down to George’s lips, giving him the most earth shattering, tender kiss, before stepping out of George’s orbit and walking back to his own house. 

George stands on his doorstep for longer than necessary, until he’s cold and shivering. He doesn’t want the night to end, but he wants ‘not tonight’ to come, so he heads inside with a sigh and finds his way to bed. 

-

“So nothing happened?” Sam asks. 

“Nope, he was the perfect gentleman,” George says. 

“Huh…” The look of absolute confusion on Sam’s face is hilarious, and if George wasn’t equally surprised then he would laugh. 

“I even invited him in,” George adds, fueling the shock. 

“That's it,” Sam says with assured finality. “You broke him.”

“ What?” George chokes on a laugh.

“You heard me. You broke the fuckboy. Like cowboys break stallions or some shit,” Sam continues. 

“I did not break him,” George argues.

“Break who?” Karl asks, joining the other boys at their table in the library. 

All this time with Dream has left George feeling underprepared for his exams for once, and none of the other boys need an excuse to study more. 

“Dream,” Sam says. “He’s broken Dream.”

“Like broke his dick or?” Noah asks, sliding into the chair next to Karl with a stack of books fit for two– probably because he’s holding Karl’s for him.

“No, like- his spirit,” Sam says ominously. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” George sighs, shaking his head. 

“He didn’t try to have sex with you!” Sam says, far too loud for a public place– especially the library. 

George’s face heats and he ducks his head, desperate to ignore the scolding looks from other students. 

“Jesus, really?” Luke asks, his voice appropriately hushed. 

“Really,” George says, feeling like a giddy, gossiping teenager. “He just took me to dinner, kissed me and left.”

“What the fuck,” Luke says. 

“Maybe you really did break him,” Noah adds. 

“I think it’s sweet,” Karl says, and for one of Dream’s former conquests, he seems genuine. There’s no bitterness there and George is grateful. “Besides, he isn’t as awful as you all expect him to be just because he’s into casual stuff.”

“Thank you,” George says, relieved that someone isn’t saying he’s broken Dream. 

“Though you are missing out on the sex part,” Karl giggles, receiving a humoured side eye from his boyfriend. 

-

Dream is insufferable. 

George is literally clawing at the walls of his bedroom, so sick of being cooped up to study. His exams are in two days, and even though he feels prepared Dream insists they can’t hang out until George is done. 

It’s maddening. 

George just has to hide himself away– be alone? When he could be kissing a hot guy. Fuck, he’d even settle for just hanging out with Dream with no kissing. It’d suck but he’d do it. He’s going stir crazy. 

Dream answers on the fourth ring.

“This is ridiculous,” George says as soon as the call starts. “I don’t need to study.”

“I am not being responsible for you lowering your perfect grade,” Dream says, holding strong. 

“Exactly. I have perfect grades, and do you know what I never do? Study!” George gets out of his desk chair and launches himself onto the bed dramatically. 

“That’s not the point,” Dream says. 

He’s infuriating.

“You’re infuriating!” George tells him. 

George looks out his bedroom window, It’s such a lovely sunny day in Florida, not too hot, not too crazy. “I don’t see why we can’t spend time together.”

“How am I going to meet your parents if I’m the reason you failed your exams?” Dream asks, and it completely stumps George.

“You’ve already met my parents– like a million times.”

“Yeah, but-” Dream hesitates. “It’d be different now, wouldn’t it?” 

“What do you mean?” George asks, even though he thinks he already knows the answer. He hopes he knows the answer. 

“Well, I wouldn’t just be your friend anymore,” Dream says, nerves thick through the phone-line. 

George rolls over and shoves his face into the mattress, a silent, giddy scream shoved into the fabric for nobody else to find. “Well, what would you be?” he asks, trying to keep his cool. 

“Georgie.” Dream says his name like velvet. He cradles each letter of the word in his hands like they’re gold. 

“Dream,” he replies. 

“Get back to studying.” And then Dream ends the call. 

That bastard. 

George stands from his bed, grabs an assortment of pens from his desk and heads to the bedroom window. He pulls up the sash, and throws a pen at the window two metres away from his own. It clatters against the glass before falling to the grass below. 

Nothing.

He throws another pen. 

Still Nothing.

Another pen. 

Dream appears at his window shirtless, in just a pair of boxers. He’s grinning and shaking his head as he opens his own window. 

“Well, hi there,” he says. 

“Where- where are your clothes?” George asks, stumbling and trying desperately not to stare. 

“I’m at home Georgie, in my bedroom. Why do I need clothes?” he teases. 

“This- that.” George has turned into a blithering idiot. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” Dream asks, feigning ignorance. 

George gestures wildly at Dream’s almost naked body. “ That.”

“But I thought you said I wouldn’t be distracting?” Dream says, cocking a pierced eyebrow.

“Come over,” George asks instead of dignifying Dream with a response. 

Dream crosses his arms over his chest, tattooed biceps flexing. “No.”

George doesn’t know what compels him– maybe it’s the isolation, the staring at code for hours on end, the fact that Dream is less than two metres away and he can’t touch him. 

He pulls his shirt off over his head. “Come over,” he repeats. 

Dream is not so controlled with his staring. He’s unashamed as his eyes rake over George’s body. 

And sure– Dream’s seen George shirtless before, but George knows this is different. 

He isn’t particularly confident about his body. He thinks he’s gangly, maybe a bit thin and definitely too pale. But Dream looks at him like he’s sex on a stick. 

“George,” Dream warns. 

“What?” he says, stubborn as ever. “It’s just warm over here. It’s such a nice day and I’m stuck inside.”

“You need to study,” Dream repeats, but it sounds weaker– like he’s giving in, his resolve is crumbling and he can’t stop staring at George’s body. 

“I don’t,” George argues, sliding his thumbs under the waistband of his sweats.

“What’re you doing?” Dream asks.

“Levelling the playing field,” George says, dropping his sweats to his ankles.

Dream’s eyes widen, and he throws his head back to stare at his ceiling. His voice is strained when he says, “You’re going to kill me.”

“You don’t get to die before you fuck me,” George says. He can already feel himself starting to chub up in his boxers just from seeing how he’s affecting Dream. 

“Jesus Christ, George.” Dream’s voice is ruined; it’s something George has only heard once before but he loves it just as much as he did the first time. 

George can’t help but put a hand to his crotch. Dream’s voice and seeing him standing there is making him want. It does nothing to help when Dream rakes his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands with frustration. 

“Come over here,” he says, “or don’t. Either way I’m getting off.” 

He swears he sees Dream’s eyes roll back in his head. 

“George,” he pleads. 

George steps away from the window– out of Dream’s sight, but close enough for them to still hear each other perfectly well, and finally takes his boxers off. Gasping as they drag across his cock, it springs free and he wastes no time getting a hand around himself. He can’t help it when he moans, his thumb swiping across the tip. He throws his boxers across his room, careful and deliberate, making sure Dream can see the fabric flying. 

“You coming?” George asks one final time. 

“I can’t,” Dream says. He must have some inhuman self-restraint. George can hear him practically panting. 

George leans against the wall beside the window, still out of sight as he fists his cock and lets every little sound slip past his lips. 

“Well then,” he says. “Stay.”

Dream groans, a broken man in the house next door. He stays– George knows he’s there the whole time.

-

Naturally– obviously, George aced his tests. He practically skips from the exam hall, knowing he’s done well while others drag their feet with a look of complete defeat. 

Normally, George would have some more compassion, he wouldn’t want to appear like he’s gloating. But with his finals over he can finally see Dream.

“Gogy!” 

George turns to see Noah jogging out of the test to catch up with him.

“How’d it go?” Noah asks. 

“Uh- yeah. Good. Think I did pretty well,” George says, trying to downplay it. “How about you?”

“Oh, It was a breeze!” Noah grins.

“Right!” George agrees. Noah is probably second smartest in the class, after George of course, so obviously he found it easy too. 

“I mean- there’s absolutely no chance Toby and Tommy passed though, like the questions are stuff they’ve been bugging me about in every seminar,” Noah says proudly. The two freshmen had somehow snuck their way into a Junior class and were not acclimating as well as their cocky selves expected. Noah had taken them under his wing.

“Children,” George says with a fond huff and a roll of his eyes.

“Hey, you coming tonight by the way?” Noah asks. 

“Huh?” George replies, confused.

“Drinks at the dorm to celebrate the end of exams slash drown our sorrows,” Noah explains. 

“Oh- uh. I was gonna hang out with Dream tonight,” George says. 

“C’mon man, I feel like we haven’t seen you in ages. Bros before man-hoes!”

“He literally wouldn’t see me until my finals were done, cut me some slack,” George sighs.

“Wow, responsible.”

George tries not to roll his eyes at the genuine surprise in Noah’s voice.

“Well hey, why don’t you bring him too? He needs to be officially vetted anyways,” Noah suggests. 

George hesitates, and Noah can clearly sense his reservations.

“Seriously, we’ll all be chill about it. But if you two are like- serious, best get it out of the way.” 

George sighs, Noah’s right. “I’ll ask,” he says as he walks off in the direction of home, Noah and him parting ways. 

“See you later Gogy!” Noah shouts. 

George walks home with a small ball of dread snowballing in his stomach. Sam and Dream meeting had been tense enough, he can’t imagine how much worse it’d be with Luke, Noah and Sam. Let alone Karl– they have history. It’s going to be weird until George sees that it isn’t.

When he gets home, Dream is sitting on George’s doorstep waiting for him. He stands as soon as he sees George, taking long strides until he’s close and dragging George into his arms. 

“Hey, idiot,” George says, wrapping his own arms around Dream’s waist.

“I missed you,” Dream replies, burying his nose into George’s hair. 

“It was your own fault. You didn’t have to miss me.”

Dream squeezes George tighter for a moment before letting go, kissing his forehead and intertwining their hands. “Shut up,” he says.

George lets Dream lead them to his own front door, only to act like a complete nimrod when Dream stands expectantly, waiting for George to unlock the door. Eventually he gets the hint.

As soon as they’re through the threshold, George’s mum appears. She’s dressed up and ready for date night with his dad, a date night George was sure they would’ve already left for.

“I know, I know,” she says. “We’re late, we’re always late and you like the house to yourself sometimes so you don’t feel smothered. I get it, we are going I-”

She stops in her tracks, taking in not one– but two boys in her hallway. “Hello.”

“Hello, ma’am,” Dream says, turning on the charm.

Her eyes flicker between Dream and George, then their interlocked fingers, and then back to George again. A knowing but content look plasters itself across her features and at that moment George knows she’s okay with it– she’d sure as hell tell him right then and there if she wasn't.

“Dream! So good to see you again, sweetheart.” She rushes forward, and despite her high heels she still has to raise up onto her toes to land a kiss to his cheek. 

“Right, we are off. Thomas!” she bellows over her shoulder. George’s dad comes scurrying, hardly noticing Dream and George are there as he fumbles with his tie and slinks out the front door with their overnight bags. His mum follows after, landing a kiss to George’s cheek too before she departs.

“You just met my parents,” George says, stating the obvious. 

“I’ve met them before,” Dream points out, repeating George’s own words back to him.

“We are holding hands,” George counters, squeezing Dream’s hand in emphasis.

“So I guess they know then?” Dream says. “Is that okay?”

George turns to him, sees genuine hope and fear in green eyes. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he says, and he leans up to kiss Dream. 

Two weeks without kissing Dream has been hell. He didn’t know what he was missing until they first kissed but now he does, he can’t get enough. It takes every ounce of self control to pull away. It looks like it takes all of Dream’s will to not chase George’s lips. 

“So…” he starts, nervous to approach the idea with Dream, not knowing what he will think. “Luke and Noah are having drinks at their dorm to celebrate the end of finals, and we’re invited.”

Dream cocks an eyebrow at that. “We?” he asks.

“Yeah. Me and you. We. Both of us.” 

Dream looks hesitant– he looks how George felt about the whole idea when Noah first suggested it. But now that Dream’s stood in front of his parents, George wants him to stand in front of his friends too. He wants Dream in every facet of his life. “Is that okay?” he asks. 

Dream gulps, clearly not fully on board. But he looks down at George and must see something on his face that makes saying anything other than yes impossible. “Fine,” he says, putting on a brave face. 

“Great! I just need to dump my bag and change out of these clothes.” George runs up his stairs, he doesn’t expect Dream to follow– but he doesn’t not expect him to either. 

George’s bedroom looks like it always does, but somehow today it looks brighter. The sun streams in through the window and George can see little dust motes floating softly through the air. Dream makes himself comfortable on George’s bed as if it’s his own, leaning against the headboard with his arms behind his head. His white t-shirt has ridden up to reveal a sliver of stomach and a glimpse of his anchor tattoo.

For no reason in particular, George doesn’t really want to go and see his friends anymore.

Dream catches George staring– of course George isn’t exactly being subtle about it. Why should he be?

“Weren’t you supposed to be getting changed?” Dream asks with a cocked eyebrow. He looks George up and down in a way that's dismissive but also hungry. George wants to be devoured. 

“I am,” he says, pulling his sweatshirt off and discarding it on the floor. His t-shirt underneath is crumpled and probably a bit gross so that quickly goes too before Dream can notice.

Dream appraises George’s body again, eyes raking over exposed flesh and leaving goosebumps in their wake. George crawls onto the bed, making his way to Dream and straddling his lap. Dream’s hands find George’s waist like it’s instinct and he squeezes gently, it makes George squirm. 

“How’re you going to get changed from my lap?” Dream asks, feigning innocence. 

“Shut up,” George replies, leaning down to take what he’s been deprived of for weeks. 

Dream fully envelops George in his arms, large hands sliding up his back and holding George close. They kiss for so long that George’s head begins to spin and something else stirs lower down. 

Dream must feel it, because he rolls his hips upward, making George gasp. Right before he can grind down in return, one of Dream’s hands is in George’s hair and is dragging them apart, the sting in his scalp causing a weak little moan.

“Go get changed,” Dream says sternly. 

“Don’t wanna,” George replies, uncaring of how desperate he sounds. 

Dream releases George’s hair and instead grabs under George’s arms, effortlessly lifting George out of his lap and depositing him on his feet next to the bed. “I’m not having your friends accuse me of stealing you away from them.”

“They already say that anyway,” George sulks, doing as he’s told and rummaging through his wardrobe for some jeans. 

“Yeah, well, I wanna be a good boyfriend, I want your friends to like me.” 

Dream doesn’t seem to notice he’s said it until George is staring at him in shock.

“I mean-” he says, stumbling. 

“Boyfriend?” George asks, no doubt sporting the dumbest grin. 

Dream’s face erupts in splotch shades of pink and red, he quickly covers his embarrassment with his hands and lets out a groan. “Oh my god.”

George sits beside him on the bed, wrapping his fingers around Dream’s wrist and putting in a humiliating amount of effort to pry Dream’s hands from his face. When he finally does manage, Dream’s beautifully flushed and looking at George like a puppy being scolded. 

“Am I your boyfriend?” George asks. 

“Do you want to be?” Dream replies. 

George ponders it, scratching his chin and making a real show of it. “Hmmm, I don’t know. I think I'd like to be asked properly.”

Dream sighs and rolls his eyes playfully. “George, will you be my boyfriend?”

“No,” George says grinning. “You’re stupid and I hate you and you’re an id-” 

“George!” Dream complains, thudding his head against George’s shoulder and leaving his forehead in perfect reach for George to kiss.

“Yes, I’ll be your boyfriend.”

-

George tries not to notice how the ring on Dream’s index finger is twisted and twisted by Dream’s own hands the entire walk to the dorms. 

It’s odd– Dream’s never nervous around people, except when he first started talking to George again. 

“It’ll be fine,” he soothes, taking Dream’s hand in his to stop the fidgeting. 

“Sam already hates me, and Noah probably does too because of Karl, and Karl–”

“You’re being an idiot. Sam is just like that, Noah is the one who invited you, and Karl has said nothing but nice things about you even before you and me were a thing.” He stands in front of Dream outside the door to Luke and Noah’s dorm. 

Placing both hands on Dream’s shoulders, he lifts himself up on his toes for a chaste kiss. “Breathe,” he says. “And don’t be a nimrod.”

The celebrations are already in full swing when they walk through the door. Karl is hanging off Noah’s bed upside down with a pipe between his lips, while Sam stands on the bed holding a funnel attached to the pipe and is pouring some suspicious looking drink into it. Luke’s by the window with Noah and a very large blunt, passing it back and forth every few puffs, with Noah shoving Tommy away from the smoke by his forehead.

“George!” Toby shouts when they enter. He’s sat on the floor by the snacks, no doubt rifling through them for something ridiculously sugary. “How’d the test go?”

“Good thanks, what about you?” George asks.

Toby looks at him with a horrified, haunted expression, and that tells George all he needs to know.

“The children were just leaving,” Luke says, looking pointedly between Tommy and Toby. 

“You’re no fun!” Tommy yells, boisterous and annoying as ever. Meanwhile Toby’s stuffing his pockets with skittles and dragging Tommy out the door by his collar. 

“Bye!” they both yell in unison, one sounding begrudging and the other sounding ready to go.

George stands by the door awkwardly for a moment, and Dream doesn’t look much better off. It’s like the room is suspended in time– unmoving.

That is until Karl rolls off the bed, sputtering and choking on the vast quantities of alcohol that Sam has just pumped into his system.

“Gogy! Dream!” He barrels towards them, if not a little wobbly, and flings an arm over each of their shoulders. “So glad you guys came!”

“How long have you been drinking?” George laughs, nudging into Karl slightly to watch him sway. 

“Not long but I've had…” He trails off, looking to Sam for an answer. Sam just shrugs. “I’ve had a lot,” Karl giggles.

Once they’ve gotten close enough to Luke and Noah, Karl trades Dream and George in so he can drape himself across his boyfriend.

Luke nods to Dream in a very bro way, and Dream nods back. Their silent introduction seems to go well because Luke offers Dream the blunt and he takes it with a quiet thanks. 

“Gogy, Dream baby. What do you want to drink?” Sam asks from across the room. When his and George’s eyes meet, Sam smiles, and George knows he and Dream will get on this time. 

“Not whatever you’ve given Karl,” George replies laughing. “I’d like to keep my mental faculties tonight.”

“Boring!” Noah goads. “I miss depressed mess Gogy who did some level twelve drinking.”

“You didn’t have to clean up the level twelve drinking,” Dream adds, taking a smooth drag from the blunt. 

“Neither did you! I didn’t need cleaning up, it’s not like I puked,” George defends.

Dream looks at him with doubt plastered on his features, “Mhmm, yeah okay…”

“I didn’t, did I?” 

“You did, in your sleep, onto the floor next to the couch.” Dream laughs, and everyone else in the room joins in.

“And you still wanted to be with him after that?” Sam asks, coming over and handing George and Dream a cup of something. 

“He’s cute when he sleeps,” Dream says with a shrug, earning another laugh at George’s expense. 

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch. George gets giggly and silly with a very drunk Noah and Karl while Dream hangs back with Sam and Luke, everyone getting on great. Neither Dream nor George drink more than that first cup of poison, an unspoken agreement between them to not get drunk. None of George’s friends bat an eye when Dream drags George onto his lap on the floor, or when George calls Dream his boyfriend. It’s amazing in every way. 

On the walk home George can’t help hanging off Dream’s arm– his boyfriend’s arm. They walk home hand in hand with no words, their silent affection filling the air. 

“Your place or mine?” George asks teasingly when they reach their houses.

“George…” Dream replies, hesitant. “You’ve drank.”

“I’ve had one drink. Look- I’ll even do a sobriety test!” George begins walking toe to heel along the edge of the sidewalk, touching the tip of his nose with the tip of his finger on every step until Dream can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness.

George stops and stands in front of Dream, cradling his face in both hands and pouring every ounce of sincerity into his words. “I want this. I want you.”

“I want to do this right,” Dream says, not for the first time. 

“There is no wrong way for us, idiot. There’s no reason for this to be wrong.” 

Dream smiles, so bright and so soft as though his whole core has cracked open and love is just pouring out. 

“So,” George says again, “Your place or mine?”

“Do you have condoms?” Dream asks. 

“Have you not got tested?” George steps backwards. 

“ What? I have- jeez of course I have! And I always use a condom, but I’m not- I’m not putting you at risk, George.” Dream’s got his serious face on, but George can’t help feeling a little disappointed.

“So you won’t sleep with me without? I- I heard it’s different with…”

“Of course I want to,” Dream says, stepping forward to bring George into his arms. “But not until I know with a hundred percent certainty that I can.”

They agree on George’s, since he does in fact have condoms. 

As soon as they’re through the front door George is climbing Dream like a tree. Sue him, he’s been waiting for this for ages, probably longer than he could ever realise but he won't think about that for long or his brain will ache.

He latches his mouth to Dream’s neck, sucking bruises into skin that's well acquainted with the feeling. But it’s different now, George knows it is. 

Dream takes them upstairs effortlessly, depositing George on the bed before removing his shirt and climbing between his thighs. 

“Hi,” Dream says, punctuated by a kiss.

“Hi.”

“Are you sure?” Dream asks, staring into George’s soul for any signs of hesitation or doubt. 

“What did I tell you on that call?” George replies instead of gracing Dream with an answer. “Months ago when I didn't even know I was gay.”

Dream flushes at the mere mention of that call. “I was so stupid,” he sighs, nuzzling into George’s collarbone.

“We both were,” George laughs. “Now show me what it feels like.”

George settles against the mattress, bringing Dream down to lay all his weight on top of him. 

Dream kisses him slowly, his hands dipping under George’s sweatshirt to hold his waist. George’s arms wrap around Dream’s bare torso, holding him close. 

They don’t rush. They could’ve been kissing for hours by the time Dream finally asks for George’s sweatshirt to come off, and it's an eternity later that his jeans go too. Dream kneels between George’s thighs and just admires him. It makes George want to shy away or hide, but he’s done too much of that in his life, so instead he lets Dream stare.

“You’re so beautiful,” Dream says, breaking the comfortable silence. 

George lays a hand onto Dream’s chest, tracing the line work of a tattoo with a blunt fingernail and making Dream shiver. “So are you,” he says. 

His finger keeps following black lines across Dream’s body, over swallows and flowers, across the willow tree George watched be created, to the anchor on Dream’s hip. Dream lets out a shaky sigh when George touches there, clearly affected. 

“Where’s your lube?” Dream asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

George nods towards his dresser, and Dream leaves for a second to retrieve it. 

He can’t help but palm himself over his boxers while he waits, without Dream’s skin to distract him all his attention has turned to how hard he is. 

Dream turns to deposit the bottle of lube on the bed, it’s half empty. “You mean you didn’t call me every time you fingered yourself?” Dream tuts. 

“Shut up,” George says, with no real heart. 

Dream shucks off his trousers too, tattoos and thick thighs on show for George. “And I thought you didn’t really jerk off much,” he taunts.

“I don't,” George lies, staring at the depleting bottle of lube and knowing it’s stared at a lot of his sins lately.

Dream leans over George, not fully climbing onto the bed yet. “Can I take these off?” he asks, his fingers slowly trailing up George’s thighs and to the elastic of his boxers.

“Yeah,” George says, gulping and tangibly nervous.

“Georgie,” Dream takes his hands away. “Please, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. It doesn’t matter to me, I really– it’s not important. It won’t change how much I love you if you aren’t ready.”

George desperately grabs for Dream’s hands, to put them back against his waistband. “No- Dream, I am so sure I want this. Please.”

He lifts his hips up and Dream drags his boxers from his body.

His cock slaps against his body, ruddy and already dripping at the head. There’s no other way to describe it– Dream gawks at him.

“Jesus Georgie,” Dream says, fascinated as he drags his finger from base to tip on George’s cock.

“What?” he asks, a little self conscious.

“Why are you- how are you-”

George sits up on his elbows. “What?” 

“You’re so big,” Dream says, mesmerised when he rolls his thumb around the wet head of George’s dick.

“I-” George starts, but really he has no rebuttal. It’s not like he’s been regularly looking at dicks so how was he supposed to know? “I am?”

Dream looks at George like he’s the biggest idiot on the planet before climbing between his thighs. “How am I supposed to top when you have that?” he asks, emphasising his question with a light slap to George’s cock.

It turns out George isn’t above begging when he says “please.” 

“Oh Georgie,” Dream coos, opening the lube and pouring some into his hand. “I’m going to, but I hope to god you’re a switch.”

George thinks about it as he watches Dream roll the lube between his fingers. He thinks about being in his place– of sliding into Dream and being connected like that. “I want that too,” he says.

Dream moves closer to George, his slick hand landing below his dick and dragging down until it catches on George’s rim. “We are definitely trying it.” 

Dream is gentle when he pushes his first finger in– much gentler than George has ever been to himself and it’s incredible. It’s a soft slide and then pure connection. 

“That okay?” Dream asks, crooking his finger inside George. 

“Yeah- that’s. That’s good.” 

Dream’s finger feels like so much more than his own ever could. It’s thicker, longer, better. He moves inside George like he’s been there a million times before, and George thinks maybe psychically he has. George has never touched himself this way without thinking about Dream.

Dream works his lone finger into George at a torturous pace. George knows too well how much he can take at once and Dream is going nowhere near the line. Still, it’s so much better than he could’ve ever imagined. 

He’s watching George as he does it. Scrutinising him for any hesitation or discomfort. 

“I- I can take more,” he says, and he’s not impatient– he’s not.

“Oh?” Dream says, looking at George menacingly. “You want more?”

He slides a second finger in alongside his first, and shuffles down the bed, pulling one of George’s legs up and pressing it against his chest so he can push deeper. 

“Can I blow you too?” Dream asks, his mouth already dangerously close to George’s cock.

“God- please.”

Immediately, Dream’s tongue lolls out to the head of George’s cock, swirling around the wet tip and greedily stealing all the precum before taking the whole head into his mouth. He tightens his lips around it and really sucks in a way George wouldn't have thought to be good, but he’s already a writhing mess. 

Dream’s third finger joins the others as he starts bobbing his head along George’s cock, and it’s only then he begins to move in search of George’s prostate. When he does find it– rather skillfully and way too quickly, George gasps and clenches down, every muscle in his abdomen fighting the orgasm that barrells towards him. 

“Dream-” he gasps, grasping desperately to his pillow as if his life depends on it. 

He digs his hips into the mattress, running away from the euphoric bliss of Dream’s mouth. “Dream I’m too close, please-”

Dream comes back up with a wet pop – his lips spit-slick and his smile gleaming. 

“Can I kiss you?” Dream asks, George’s hand is already around his neck and dragging him closer. 

He can taste the bitterness of his own precum on Dream’s lips, and still he drives his tongue forward like Dream drives his fingers into him. 

“It’s never felt like this,” Dream says when he pulls away, moving to kiss along George’s collarbones.

“Like what?” George asks, barely able to form a sentence. 

“I’ve never felt like this with anyone before, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

George laughs then– because it’s perfect, because it’s brilliant. Because it’s messy and idiotic and completely them.

“Get the condom,” George says, smoothing the glistening sweat from Dream’s brow. 

Dream’s fingers slide out of George while he rummages across the sheets to find the condom. He tears the wrapper open with his teeth and it might be the hottest thing George has ever seen. 

He shuffles out of his boxers and works about putting the condom on correctly and adding a little more lube. George just– stares. He trails a lone finger up and down his desperate cock and watches Dream with his own in hand. It’s beautiful, because of course it is– thick and long, glistening at the head with his arousal. 

Once the band of the rubber sits flush against his pubes, Dream climbs forward between George’s thighs again and George can’t imagine Dream belonging anywhere other than right here. 

He grips his cock and George can’t help the shaky breath he takes when the blunt head lines up with his hole. 

“You ready, darling?” Dream asks, looking between George’s face and where they’re about to meet. 

“Please,” George replies. 

The head of Dream’s cock slides in, catching on the rim for a moment and Dream stills. 

“Keep going,” George says, clenching around the tip just to enjoy the feeling. “It’s good, I’m good.”

Dream looms over George, his fist clenched into the pillow beside George’s head. He leans down and plants a chaste kiss to George’s lips. “You might be,” he says, voice surprisingly tight. “But if I keep going right now I might bust.”

George can’t help but laugh just a little at that. “I thought you were the rizz-master, the Florida whore,” he says with no bite. 

Dream rolls his eyes and takes a steadying breath before pushing further in. “Don't say ‘rizz-master’ while I’m literally inside you, oh my god. I can’t help that you’re perfect,” he says against George’s lips and George thinks he might pass out from that– or from the otherworldly sensation of Dream thrusting in.

George throws his head back, overwhelmed and in pure bliss. Nobody will ever make him feel this good ever again and he knows it. He’s ruined by this man, his best friend– someone who’s left traces of himself on George’s soul that can never be erased. Dream leans down to kiss along the column of his throat, gentle at first but then harsher and hungrier. George can feel the bruising blooming on his skin, but this time he will carry them with no shame. 

This time they will mean what both of them want– they’ll mean George is Dream’s and Dream is George’s.

Dream’s hand comes up to caress George’s face. “How’re you doing?”

“So good,” he says, tightening around Dream to make him groan into his neck. “You can– you can move.”

Dream draws his hips back slightly and gives a small thrust. “Yeah?” he asks, checking. All George can do is nod. 

He takes his time with George, setting a leisurely pace and practically worshipping George’s body. He kisses every inch of George’s skin that he can reach: eyelids, nose, neck, shoulder, right over his heart. George feels like crying and it isn’t until Dream kisses away a tear that he realises he is. 

His orgasm doesn’t come barrelling towards him like it threatened to earlier. This time it’s like a crescendo– slow-building and beautiful. He reaches between their stomachs to grab at his cock, only his hand is batted away and all he does is drag his fingers through the precum pooling against his belly. 

“You don’t need to do that, do you Georgie?” Dream asks, breathless. One of his hands reaches up to grip onto the headboard, and then his thrusts become harsher, more targeted until suddenly–

“ Dream ,” George moans. Dream keeps fucking into him, hammering at his prostate and before George knows it he’s cumming with nothing but Dream’s cock to blame. 

Every thrust of Dream inside him causes another twitch to George’s cock until his whole chest and stomach is glistening with sweat and his own release. It almost feels like too much after he’s finished, like he couldn’t possibly keep going and he feels Dream slow. 

“No, don’t stop,” he says through what almost sounds like a sob. “Please, keep going.”

“Just hang in there baby, I’m close.” The erraticness of Dream’s thrusts confirms it, and George clenches around Dream in time with those thrusts, desperately dragging him over the edge.

Dream’s face when he cums is better than any of the artwork George has ever seen– better than anything Dream could ever make with his own hands. His brows scrunch upward and his mouth opens in a gasping moan, his lips trembling and his whole body shaking with the force of his climax. 

They both wince in oversensitivity when Dream pulls out, Dream’s hand comes off the headboard red from the strength of his grip. George watches as he ties the condom and searches around for a trash can, and he can’t help but giggle at Dream’s bare ass when he turns.

“What?” Dream says, turning back.

“Drass,” George replies, laughing harder. 

Dream shakes his head, fond and smiling. He throws a towel to George and then finally locates the trash. “Dridiot,” he mutters back jokingly.

George wipes his stomach and chest, cringing at the cooling fluid and the thought of trying to wash it off the towel later. 

Dream’s back at his side in seconds, taking the towel and finishing the cleaning job. He whispers sweet apologies when he wipes down George’s dick and between his thighs before throwing the towel blindly across the room and pressing close. 

“Hey,” he says, voice hushed even though there’s nobody else to hear him. 

“Hey,” George says in return, snuggling closer to Dream’s chest and beginning to trail a finger over black lines etched into perfect skin. It’s only when he traces across a black love heart that he remembers. “You told me you loved me,” he says.

Dream’s body tenses against George, and his eyes dart down to George’s, clearly searching for panic or disgust– or something. “Oh.”

“It’s- that’s okay. I like that,” George soothes, threading his fingers into the black streak in the front of Dream’s hair and twirling it around. “I can’t- I can’t say that yet,” he admits.

Dream relaxes into George’s touch, holding his face and kissing him. “That’s perfectly alright, I had a head start on this anyway.” 

George settles down against Dream’s chest, hearing his steady, strong heartbeat loud against his ear. “I think I wasn’t as far behind as you think,” he admits.

He can feel Dream’s nose in his hair, hot breath against his scalp. “Hmm?” 

“You’re not as clever as you think you are,” George teases with a poke to the willow tree on Dream’s rib.

“You’re not that straight, either.” Dream laughs, dragging George on top of him and wrapping him up tight in his arms.

There’s an insistent buzzing coming from George’s nightstand, a sound that both of them have been ignoring for far too long.

“Do you need to answer your phone?” Dream asks, eyeing the device moving across the wooden surface with the force of its vibrations.

“Ugh, probably.” He rather ungracefully reaches over Dream to grab his phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Gogy!” Sapnap’s voice bellows through the line, making George wince. “Where the fuck are you?”

“At home, in bed,” he says, looking to Dream with confusion.

“But today was the end of your exams,” Sapnap says with disappointment thick in his voice. “That’s bedwars and bullshit night.”

It’s been a long-standing tradition between the two that once their finals– or any big life moment has concluded, they hop on Hypixel and play bedwars until the sun comes up on both sides of the States. 

“I– I’m kinda busy.”

It’s at that moment– like the universe decided to give George one final fuck you , Dream coughs.

“Who’s that?” Sapnap asks. “Is it Sam? Tell Sam he can suck a fat one next time we play Risk together.”

“It’s not Sam,” George says, feeling blood flood to his cheeks.

“Is it-” Sapnap hesitates. “Is it your boy thing? Your Dream?”

“My Dream?” George laughs, Dream eyes him sceptically. 

George puts Sapnap on loudspeaker and rests the phone against Dream’s chest. “He’s not my Dream,” he says, giggling. 

“I’m just his super cool and hot boyfriend,” Dream says, wiggling his eyebrows at George seductively.

“Oh- shit, hey! Boyfriend!” George hears the congratulations, and I’m happy for you even if he knows Sapnap will never say it. “Mr my Dream boyfriend, can I steal your boyfriend for some bedwars? It’s family tradition.”

Dream looks at George in question, George shakes his head. There’s no way he’s sitting in a leather gaming chair right after Dream’s rocked the world out of him.

“I think George’s ass is out of service for sitting for a while,” Dream laughs, dodging every hit George tries to land on him, and pointedly ignoring the fake retching from Sapnap through the call. “But I’m actually kinda cracked on the craft, so I could play, or would that break tradition?”

“Hell no, brother!” Sapnap sounds ecstatic, a new person for him to beat in PVP. “You’re part of the family now anyway!”

George groans. He already knows that Sapnap and Dream in the same call, or god forbid, room, is going to be a living nightmare. 

Dream climbs out the bed, slipping on his boxers and nothing else. He kisses George softly and every ounce of the years they’ve known each other glide through it. He ends the kiss with a kiss to George’s forehead before rummaging through George’s nightstand for painkillers and nudging a cup of water towards him.

George takes them willingly, despite his embarrassment at Dream’s joke. He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Georgie, what’s your password?” Dream asks, settling into his setup and starting the PC.

George looks at his friend, his childhood best friend, his boyfriend. Someone he thought he hated, someone who made his blood boil and caused him to rearrange his whole bedroom at three in the morning. A man, a boy, Dream . He can’t believe he got here. 

“Georgie?” Dream prompts, pulling him out of his daydream.

“One two three,” he says. “My password’s one two three.”

He lies back against the headboard, ignoring Sapnap’s squealing at the name ‘Georgie'. Dream stares back at him, all smiles and love. 

So maybe they’ve both been stupid over the years, they’ve made mistakes and shielded themselves from each other when they really didn’t need to-- when all they needed was to actually talk to each other. But hey, if it got them here George reckons there's sometimes good reasons to be an idiot.