Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Sapnap doesn’t ask any other hard questions while they book a last minute flight and throw their stuff into their bags. To reward him, George offers to buy dinner at the airport. It’s the least he can do. He’s not even super annoyed when Sapnap picks the most expensive steak they have. He’s not.

They’re lucky to get last minute seats, but they aren’t together. In many ways, George prefers that. He sits next to an elderly lady who smells like cats, and watches her try to figure out the entertainment system.

It’s a long, brutal flight, and George spends the entire time wondering what he’s going to say to Dream, how he’s going to explain that they had to leave early. They were supposed to be there another four days.
 

When they land, it’s to several frantic voicemails and texts from Dream to The Boys group chat. Sapnap takes a long look at George while they’re still deplaning, rolls his eyes, and texts Dream explaining what happened. And then Dream cools off. 

Dream continues to treat him the same—sending random texts about things from his day, a funny tweet he saw on his timeline, a picture of the food he got from the Korean place down the street from their Airbnb. Part of George wants Dream to say something, to make him own up to running away, but most of him is just grateful for the way Dream seems to know him. 

The next day over lunch, Sapnap mentions that Dream said he left one of his hats at the Airbnb and George realizes that they’re talking, too. Of course they are, naturally they talk. It’s just—George feels his stomach sink when he thinks about them talking about him. Did Sapnap mention why they left? Did he say that George—did he bring up the conversation he started in L.A.? Did he tell Dream he knows? George can’t bring himself to ask.

“It’s still cold in this bed, George,” Dream complains over FaceTime a few days later. He remembers the excuse Dream gave that night—that his bed was too cold and he’s transported back into his comfy bed next to Sapnap’s room, Dream’s weight next to him, shared body heat. 

“You could—” George says and though the words taste like ash in his mouth, he has to say them. They’re just friends. Dream only wants them to be friends. George doesn’t own Dream or have any right to ask him not to sleep with anyone else. He has to say, “I bet you could find someone to, uh, warm you up.” 

Dream’s face squints out at him, he tilts his head like a dog and George can’t find it adorable because his guts are quaking over the shit he’s forcing himself to say. “Why would I—what?”
 
Oh, so he’s going to make George spell it out more. “You could—I mean, people would—they’d line up to be with you.”

Dream snorts. “I guess the fuck not.”

“What does that mean?” George asks, honestly curious. 

“I don’t want just anyone, George.” Dream runs a hand through his hair in a way George has come to associate with his frustration. “Is that not obvious?”

Maybe Dream is just as picky as George. That brings a modicum of peace to him. Maybe he’s more normal than he thought.

“No, I said I wouldn’t—” Dream says, but George figures he’s talking to himself. That doesn’t stop him from wanting to know everything. “I’m giving you space. And time. I’m not—I said I wouldn’t talk to you about this because that’s what you asked for.”

“I don’t see the correlation,” George says, his accent thicker to his own ears. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dream says, brushing it to the side. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else. That’s all that matters. Actually.”

“Okay,” George says, trying to contain his confusion and happiness. 

“When you’re ready to talk, we’ll talk,” Dream says. 

The confusion is winning out with George now. “Talk about what?” he asks and Dream sends him a puzzled look. 

“About what we’re—” he starts and then clamps his lips shut. “No, George, I have to go.”

“But you just called,” George protests. No matter how confusing this conversation is, he doesn’t want it to end.

“I have to get to the studio. We have one day left, and then we’re done,” Dream explains. 

“And then you can come home?” George asks. He feels so small for some reason.

“Yeah, baby, and then I can come home,” Dream says and the bottom of George’s stomach falls out. He likes the name, he likes—

“Don’t call me—”

“Gotta go,” Dream says, interrupting him and ending the FaceTime, leaving George bereft in more than one way. 

What the hell was that?

Ciera invites herself over for brunch that same day. She doesn’t call. She doesn’t text. George doesn’t even think they ever exchanged numbers, instead using Dream as the intermediary for any communication. 

She just knocks on the door. There’s no one else it could be, and even though George is up in his office, Sapnap’s frantic text about who could be knocking at the front door doesn’t fill him with fear. There’s only one person who knocks on their door without letting them know she’s coming over.

He texts Sapnap back that it’s for him and makes his way downstairs with Patches hot on his heels. She’s taken to following him around the house, lying in his office in a little Patchington sized bed, getting hair all over his pillow when he’s trying to sleep. She’s a little shadow and he loves her.

The first thing he sees is a familiar brown bag. Ciera’s head pops around it and she smiles over at him. He can’t help but smile back. “Brunch?” she asks and how is he supposed to say no? In classic Ciera fashion, she hasn’t given him much chance, though if he said no, he knows she would turn right back around and head out. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks. As far as he knows, she’s not here for—for any of that. Dream’s in L.A. still and that’s well documented online. There’s no way she’s here for Dream.

“I’m bored, my boyfriend’s busy, and I no longer have a best friend. I was hoping you’d take pity on me.” She lets the bag down from her face as she speaks to hold it against her chest, and adds, “Also, you don’t have a job, and it’s a weekday.”

“I have a job,” he says, but he knows she’s teasing.

“Well you weren’t doing it, were you?” she raises her eyebrows and he can’t help it; he laughs. 

“Did you bring that French toast?” he asks just so he doesn’t seem like a pushover.

“The mimosas, too,” she says with a cheeky smile. “I can’t wait to tell you all about Hartley.”

“Are you going to tell me about his dick?” George asks. He really doesn’t want to hear about Hartley’s dick.

She shrugs. “Not if you don’t want to hear about it.”

His turn to shrug. “Alright, come in.”

She sits at the same spot at the kitchen counter she did months ago when they first had brunch. George hates that he hasn’t stopped thinking about it as her spot—just like he thinks of the last row of chairs in the cinema belonging to Ant and Velvet, like the two bedrooms on the far end of the house belong to Skeppy and Bad—he likes the footprints the people who are dear have made on this house.

He likes that it’s big enough for their friends to carve out their own spaces.

“You look terrible,” Ciera says with concern after she’s put brunch on the table and handed over his champagne flute.

George almost snorts, but he holds back. “Thanks.”

“What did Clay do to you?” she asks and George has a flash of Dream’s tongue in his ass in a way that makes him want to cry and laugh at the same time. The way only Dream seems to be able to make him do. 

“Nothing,” he says and forces a smile. “We don’t need to talk about him. Do you want something else to drink?” 

“Just the tea,” she says like a dog with a bone. 

“I’m afraid we’re out of tea,” George responds, deliberately misunderstanding. 

If we don’t have any, I can, like, DoorDash some, he remembers Dream saying. 

George shakes his head to get Dream out of it. He knows it won’t work—Dream took up residence in his heart, mind, body, and soul a fucking long time ago, and there’s no excavating him now. It would just leave George a broken shell of a man. 

Ciera crosses her arms over her chest, for once not in an attempt to emphasize her breasts, but meant to show she’s not backing down. “What happened between you two?” she asks. “When we called off our little… thing… I was hoping he would man up and you two would get together.”

“You what?” This is news to George. He sets his mimosa down on the counter, half gone. 

She shrugs and uncrosses her arms in the process. “He was always interested in you, and I knew once you moved we would be on a ticking clock.”

“That’s not…”

“George, he insisted that we keep our arrangement quiet,” she says adamantly. “Even from Nick. But not you.”

“He said,” George starts, trying to figure out these two conflicting stories. This isn’t making any sense. “He said you liked the—the idea of someone else. He said it got you worked up to send things to me.”

She chuckles a dry laugh, and George knows then that he’s going to believe whatever she says next. 

“I played that up because of how much he liked it, the idea of you involved. I’m not—I’m not proud of this, George, but I needed the practical experience and Clay was helping me with that, but, what,” she pretends to count on her fingers, “the first, like, three times sucked for both of us.”

“Sucked?” George is incredulous. “I thought you guys wouldn’t stop talking about how good it was.”

“The first few times were super fucking weird and awkward, man, I dunno what to tell you. When I called, asking to come over again because I was determined to get it right—to be good at it—he blew me off to say he had plans with you.”

“Oh.” His heart beats wildly in his chest. The glimpse she’s giving him, the behind the scenes look at how their little affair played out… he’s getting dangerous ideas. 

“What kind of guy blows off getting his dick wet to hang out with his friend and, like, it’s not even for work or whatever. He told me you two didn’t even have an idea of what you wanted to do, he just had to keep you company.”

She smiles and takes a pointed sip of her mimosa. “I gave him a hard time about it and he sent me your picture and was like, something to the effect of, ‘Would you turn down a guy like this?’”

George feels his face flush. No matter how many times he sees or experiences proof of Dream’s attraction to him, it’s still—heady. 

“I told him I understood. You’re hot. Like, I get it. But something about the way he was about you—how it was so different from how he talked about Nick… I admit I started, like, dangling your name out there. I used his excitement about you to reel him back in.” She looks sheepish at her explanation, but there’s no regret there and George has to respect that. 

“You’ve got to understand, though! I needed the opportunity to be, like, amazing in bed. I had already decided I needed to be better at sex. I wanted to be better at sex in the safest way possible and with someone I knew wouldn’t be weird about…” She leans towards him, intensity in her eyes, and George thinks this is the realest version of Ciera he’s ever seen. 

This is her being one hundred percent honest. 

“And I told myself you weren’t even here yet. He couldn’t have you, but he could sort of have me. So, I mentioned you. I teased him about how you would feel about him doing this or that, or—I told him that you’d like how he looked when he was—you know.” She gestures with her hand like she’s trying to come up with the correct words. “I played it up. And, fuck, George, he came alive. He really—things got soooo good after that. And I knew then that it wasn’t about me. I was just, like, the outlet. It was you he wanted so badly.”

“Ciera, that’s—he doesn’t. He can’t.” He wants her to be right. He wants her to be right so badly, but he can’t afford to believe her without proof.

“Sorry, baby boy. You can’t wish someone else’s feelings away. Are you not—I mean, I guess I assumed you were into him, too,” she says, looking at him critically. “You stayed with us. You participated and, don’t worry I’m not taking any offense, but I know that’s not because of me.”

“Sorry, I—you’re very pretty, I just—”

“You’re gay, I get it.” 

George shakes his head with a laugh. Fuck, after all this. “If only it were that easy.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t think I’m gay,” George says, finding it strange to be discussing this. Ciera feels safe, though. She’s not in the venn diagram of their friends and family, she’s in a separate category of her own—trusted, but not too close. She holds secrets, but she won’t spill them or she would have already. 

“It’s just—” he breathes heavily and it’s only then that he realizes there are tears prickling in his eyes. He hates that he cries so easily. “It’s just him, Ciera. I only ever really—just him.”

“Okay,” she says easily, like it’s not a life-ruining thing George is talking about. “So you’re a little, what, graysexual? Demisexual?”

“What?” he asks. After all his talks with Kris, Karl, and even Dream and Larray, he thought he knew all the terms. He knows aro and ace and those don’t feel exactly right since, well, Dream. But he hasn’t heard of demisexual. 

“Demisexual is when, like, you’re only attracted to people after you have an emotional connection with them,” Ciera says. 

“Oh.” George feels like the breath has left his body. He feels hollowed out. He takes a seat on the barstool next to her. “That’s a—that’s a thing?”

“Yeah,” she says kindly. “I’m no expert, but I think it’s more common than you might think.”

“You can just—not be attracted to anyone who isn’t your friend?”

“I mean, it’s not all your friends, is it?” Ciera asks. “You don’t feel that way for Nick, do you?”

George can’t even find it in himself to be mean to Sapnap, he just quietly shakes his head no. 

“And it’s not, like, a—a gay or straight thing?” George asks.

Ciera laughs, but it isn’t mean. “Hey, I’m not an expert! It’s your thing. Look it up and then have a think.”

“That’s—” He licks his lips to find a burst of orange. “That’s a good idea actually.”

A name. There might be a name for someone like him. He dares not let the hope bubbling up in him take over. He learned a long time ago to keep his expectations low so he won’t—so he won’t get his feelings hurt.

Fuck, maybe that has to do with Chet and Eric.

There are many things that might have fucked George up, actually. He thinks back to how he felt when—Chet came out to him and Eric on a Friday after school. They were supposed to be having a sleepover and playing video games. George was already well versed in Minecraft hacks, a peeling back of the curtain, and he liked to impress Chet and Eric with the fun things he could do.

Neither of them could do it. The two of them were best mates, thick as thieves, and they said George was their best friend, too, but it didn’t always feel that way. George wanted Eric to be impressed with him—he found himself looking at Eric occasionally, comparing himself, he’d thought at the time. Eric was taller than him, broader. His time playing football for their school made him stronger and more popular. 

Chet, looking back on it, dropped a lot of hints to George that he never picked up. Chet talked about how good looking Eric was all the time, and while George privately agreed, he wondered why Chet would say that out loud. Chet wasn’t any taller than George, but he could make Eric laugh like no one else.

Sometimes it annoyed George, even though he got to laugh, too. George wanted to be the one making them all laugh—making Eric laugh.

Looking back now, at Eric’s thin promises that nothing would change once Chet said the dooming words—I’m gay—George sees things a little differently.

He had a crush on Eric, and he had no idea.

Eric’s fists pummeling Chet’s face the next week felt like blows to his own face, a tangible rejection of the feelings that George bestowed on him. Whatever brittle attraction he could summon up shattered with that broken promise. George couldn’t stand to look at either of them ever again. 

No one made George feel that way again.

Not until Dream. 

With Dream, god, George got to be the one making him laugh. He fell into friendship with Dream so fast and so deep that it didn’t feel like they were ever strangers, not really. Whatever Dream’s soul was made of, they must have taken from George’s leftovers. 

With Dream, he can share his every thought and know it’s safe, no matter how stupid or selfish.

With Dream, he can be unapologetically George, and Dream only likes him more. 

When Dream started to pop off, he could have left George behind on his way to mega stardom, but he didn’t. He reached down to pull George up beside him with one hand, and Sapnap with the other. That’s his Dream.

Dream, with his beautiful eyes and his big heart and the way he feels moving inside George—his tongue, his fingers, his dick, his spirit—he makes George come alive. 

No one’s ever done that. No one’s ever made George feel like that.

Demisexual. Huh.

“You have time for an episode or two of a show before you have your big existential crisis?” Ciera asks, shocking him out of his own thoughts. She’s managed to finish her entire meal while he was lost in thought. “I wasn’t kidding about being bored.”

“No anime,” George concedes because he thinks he’d like the company.

“I’m no weeb,” she says, crossing her heart playfully.

When she throws on Real Housewives, George thinks he’d prefer to be watching anime. You reap what you sow.

There isn’t much time before Dream’s set to return, and something in George tells him that the strange climax they’ve been building towards is about to be upon them. It;s just a feeling he has.

When Ciera leaves, George settles himself into his desk in his office, Discord set to Do Not Disturb, and he goes on a Wikipedia spiral to end all spirals. The dam of emotions he’s been sheltering behind for years finally breaks free and the water crashes over him, wave after wave. It’s all he can do to keep his head above the surface.

Demisexual—the more he reads, the more it feels right. Suddenly a lot of little things start to make sense, like how when he was a teenager, his peers spent all their time trying to get laid, and George didn’t get it. In university, he gave it a real try—dating a girl here or there that his friends badgered him about, saying how hot they were—and it never did anything for him. One time he full on forgot he had a girlfriend.

The couple of sexual experiences he had were just… awkward. George would have preferred to just bring himself off because he knows how he likes it, and he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone else’s feelings on the matter. Or their judgment. 

He never felt the spark with anyone else, not really. He never looked at someone—a man or a woman—and wanted to put his mouth on theirs.

But Dream. He thinks back to when these feelings might have started to spring up, and he can’t pinpoint it. With how he feels right now, he thinks he had to have always felt this way. But that can’t be right. He knows, intellectually, that at one point he thought Dream was annoying. A kid, really. Still, the feelings came about before he ever saw Dream’s face, he can admit that much.

He thinks back, back to before he saw Dream’s face. Would he still want to be with Dream if he were a girl? Non-binary? A shorter, less manly version of himself? Would he still be attracted to Dream?

For so many years, “Dream” was a name and a voice, a set of skills on a game they both played, an amorphous blob of a person. He thinks Dream could have looked like anything and he’d still be attracted to him. 

Yes. He’d still be in love with Dream. 

George has a hard time getting to sleep that night. Around four in the morning, he grabs Patches and walks into Dream’s room to help himself to Dream’s bed.

With the smell of his lover under his head, George finally falls into troubled sleep. He has no idea what he’s going to say to Dream. 

The Dream that walks through the door and into the house later that day doesn’t look any different from the Dream that made George come on just his tongue, nor any different from the Dream that kissed his forehead the morning after he poured his heart out to George. He doesn’t look any different at all.

And yet George feels like the groundhog must have seen his shadow, or whatever that weird American holiday is, because the winter is over and spring is here.

“Dream!” Sapnap says and vaults over the couch to greet him with a hug, slapping his back and not letting Dream drop his bags. 

“Hey, man,” Dream says, allowing himself to be embraced. He seems happy to see Sapnap, but his eyes drift around the room and land on George. And then they burn. “Hi, George.”

“Dream,” George says, uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden. He doesn’t recognize himself. He doesn’t know this version of George who can’t talk to Dream, can’t find anything to say other than his name.

Sapnap steps away from Dream, and looks between the two of them before rolling his eyes. “Sheesh,” he says, “I’m starving, let’s go get food.”

Once Sapnap makes the suggestion, George feels his stomach gurgle with hunger pangs. He might have accidentally missed a meal. Embarrassingly, it’s loud enough to catch Dream’s attention. 

“Geez, George, did you not eat?” he asks, setting his bags down next to the foot of the stairs to take up later. 

“No, I—” George says. He definitely had brunch yesterday, but the anxiety mounting in his gut hasn’t left much room for mundane things like eating. “I ate.”

Dream’s piercing gaze seems to see right through him. He lets it go, though. Since Dream just traveled, Sapnap offers to drive. They pile into his car, George in the backseat, and crank the music up all the way. Out the window, George stares up at the dark sky, broken up only by traffic lights and street lamps—there’s an industrial beauty about them that he can’t help but think is related to Dream.

The world’s more beautiful with Dream in it.

God, he’s going to make himself sick.

Dream wants to go to Buffalo Wild Wings because he’s basic at heart, and Sapnap is too excited to have him back to challenge him on it. George has no opinion this time; he’s not sure he’ll be able to taste the food anyway. So it doesn’t matter where they go.

Dream sits next to him in their booth, and George feels his presence the entire forty-five minutes it takes for them to order, eat, and pay. He thinks if he went into the bathroom right now and took his clothes off, his entire left side would be sunburned.

It’s excruciating, and yet George won’t get up, won’t orchestrate a reason to sit on Sapnap’s side, won’t give up his spot for the world. He can’t help but feel he’s meant to be right here, after all. Right next to Dream.

Just when George thinks he’s safe, that he can relax for the night and worry about how to approach things another day, Dream texts him asking him to come to his room.

George sees the message as soon as it comes through as a banner notification at the top of his TikTok For You Page, but he spends five minutes panicking on how to respond.

He doesn’t want to appear too eager.

Why does accepting his feelings for Dream come with so many—so many limitations now? He’s so on edge, worrying about how he’s coming across, trying not to be annoying or “pick me”. Ugh, but he wants Dream to pick him. 

In the end, he says fuck it, throws his phone in his pocket without responding, and knocks on Dream’s door. 

“Come in,” Dream says in invitation. When George opens the door, there are piles of clothes spread all over the room, on the bed; the laundry hamper’s overflowing with dirty clothes. He’s unpacking. 

“Hey, there,” Dream says, and his smile is so bright, face happy to see George like he’s been waiting all night to greet George properly without an audience. He looks good like this in his natural habitat.

“Hi,” George responds, fingers dancing on the threshold. “If you think I’m going to help you unpack, you’re dead wrong.”

Dream chuckles and throws a white t-shirt at his head. He ducks, letting the material zoom into the hallway behind him. “I’m not dumb, I don’t expect you to help.”

“Good.” George walks in and plops himself on the bed, pushing Dream’s suitcase off. The pillow is still in the position he prefers, bunched up and ready for his head to lie on. Could Dream—could Dream tell he slept here? He hopes not.

“Just keep me company,” Dream says, easy as anything. 

George does, providing a running commentary on everything Dream missed. He mentions all the places he found Patches, the secret shit she took in Sapnap’s office that made George laugh and Sapnap almost puke. He tells Dream about the video idea he had, and they debate back and forth how they could code it. And as Dream finishes unpacking and gets ready for bed, George even follows him into the bathroom to tell him about Ciera showing up.
 
“You saw Ciera?” Dream asks after he’s spit toothpaste into the sink, looking at George in the mirror. 

“She said she wanted to do brunch,” George says, shrugging. He doesn’t want to keep anything from Dream, not any longer. 

“Brunch?” Dream asks, voice high pitched and dripping with meaning. 
 
“Hey,” George says as Dream throws his still wet toothbrush back into the cup by his sink. “I could do brunch.”

Dream turns around, sharp eyes taking him in, and he nods. “Yeah, of course you can do brunch. I know that.”

“Why are you being weird about brunch?” George asks, dying to get to the bottom of this.

“I’m not—” Dream starts in his usual argumentative tone, and then curves left. “I’m sorry. You and Ciera don’t need my permission to talk to each other.”
 
“I know we don’t,” George says, though secretly he thinks he’d still like Dream’s blessing even if he doesn’t need his permission. “But nothing happened—she’s still with Hartley anyway, Dream. She wouldn’t—”

“No, I know,” Dream says, suddenly looking tired.

“And I don’t—” here it is. “You know I don’t really want anything, like, sexually with her, right?”

“You don’t?” Dream’s eyes are big when he asks. He leans against the counter and he’s still taller than George.

“No, I—no.”

“But you liked the pictures,” Dream says, like he’s trying to wrap his mind around this. “You liked the—”

“I liked that you sent me the pictures, maybe,” George says as his heart tries to pound out of his chest and his face tries to melt off. His body is betraying him. 

“Oh,” Dream says like this is a real revelation. George can’t imagine that it is, truly. How can he not know that? Or at the very least, suspect it?

“Anyway, she just stopped by to chat,” George says, trying desperately to change the subject. That’s enough bravery today, thanks. It’ll take him seven to ten business days to work up his courage to bring up the other part of all this. 

“With brunch,” Dream says again, weirdly fixated on brunch. “Did you get the—the French toast?”

“Yeah, I got the French toast,” George confirms. “It was good.”

Dream pushes off against the counter and walks up George until they’re standing nose to nose. “I knew you’d like that French toast.”

George isn’t sure what to say about that, and Dream’s proximity is quickly stealing all his breath, so even if the words came into his mind, they wouldn’t make it out of his mouth. 

A hand comes up and cups George’s cheek. “You wanna have a sleepover, George?”

George grips Dream’s hand with his own, but he doesn’t let it leave. If anything, he presses it harder against his face. “What are we, twelve?”

“C’mon,” Dream says and brushes his thumb along George’s face until it touches his lips, just barely. George hears his own tiny gasp and wants to wither in embarrassment. “Just you and me. No funny business. I know you don’t—no funny business and we can just sleep. I missed—I liked having you next to me.”

His heart warms over, giving off heat like some kind of sun. He thinks he could support life with how Dream makes him feel. 

“Maybe not—maybe not no funny business,” George concedes. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind if we…”

Dream’s eyes are bright with happiness. “Really?”

His hand drops and winds around George’s waist to pull him closer. It’s very strange to be standing this close to Dream in his master bathroom. Dream draws him even closer and then, shyly, like he’s waiting for George to take it back at any second, nuzzles into George’s neck. He doesn’t have the courage yet to tell Dream that the rejection will never come, but he can’t actively say words to encourage him either. So he tilts his neck for better access, telling Dream with his body that he wants more. 

He’s so much better at speaking with his body. 

George can feel Dream’s smile on his neck—he knows from years of hanging out on call together that he’s grinning—and then that joy morphs into need, and George lets himself float belly up in it.

In the mirror behind Dream, he watches them together, watches the way Dream’s back is bent to reach George’s neck, watches the breadth of his shoulders move under the vanity lighting. George’s smaller fingers travel up to grip on Dream’s curls, the light refracting off his hair.

They look very good together.

Dream’s mouth moves glacially slowly, like he’s still on tenterhooks. He kisses George’s jaw, his cheekbone, his temple, his nose, and then dips down enough to brush their lips together. George wants to sigh into this kiss—it’s almost like, in a way, a part of him has come home.

It’s literally like a part of him has come home.

He doesn’t know how long they stand in the bathroom, just kissing, trading the taste of Dream’s minty mouth back and forth—but he never wants to leave this moment. 

So he’s shocked when Dream pulls back, big dumb idiot grin on his face, and says, “Come with me.”

George doesn’t argue. He’s learned that if Dream asks him to go somewhere with him, to accompany him, George will say yes. It’s an instinct honed by years of good results when he follows Dream.

Dream’s hand dances down George’s arm until he can wind their fingers together, and then he tugs. While Dream leads them out of the bathroom and over to the bed, George’s heart pounds hard while his nerves play the bongos in his guts. He needs Dream’s dick to get in there and break up the party. 

George sits automatically on the side of the bed, expectant. Instead of stepping closer or joining him, Dream smiles secretively and reaches for his phone on the nightstand to George’s confusion. 

“Do you want—” Dream starts, scrambling through his phone and unable to make eye contact. He has such a frantic, restless energy about him—the complete opposite of the vibes in the bathroom. George is going to get whiplash trying to keep up. “Do you want to hear a song?”

“Of yours?” George asks, dumbly when the meaning sinks in. “I mean, fuck, yeah, I—Yeah, of course I do. Get it out. Get it now. Show me.”

“You’re so stupid,” Dream says, but George can tell his enthusiasm is helping settle Dream’s nerves.

“And you’ve been gatekeeping,” George throws back. He’ll take this change in direction, but only because he figures they’ll get back to what they were previously doing soon enough. He might not get another chance to hear the new music. “I want to hear all of it.”

Dream’s eyes narrow over his phone while he pulls up the song. “One song. That’s it.”

“No, all of them,” George argues, trying to make himself appear as cute as possible. Dream has a hard time turning him down when he’s cute—it’s too bad he has no idea how to achieve that.

“One song, or no songs,” Dream argues, and George pouts but he gives in. He’ll even take a momentary pause on the direction they were headed just to hear what Dream’s been working on for so long.

As much as he wants Dream’s body, he wants this too. He craves it—Dream’s passion, his creativity, the things that make him get up and drive him. George wants to be part of it, have a hand in all of his projects, support him—keep that shine in his eyes glowing when he talks about his projects.

Dream’s hands shake when he pulls up the song. He looks over the phone at George, biting his lip, and sits down next to him finally. And then, he lets it play.

The beat is slow, hypnotizing, and the melody of the piano is gentle and serene. It reminds George almost of a lullaby, stripped back with soft strings and simple chords. He doesn’t know much about music, but this is—this is calming. And then Dream’s voice kicks in, low and angelic, and George wants to cry even before the words register. 

He’s all too aware of his own breathing—trying desperately to keep his lungs moving even as the song steals his breath from him. 

This is a love song.

This is a love song Dream’s written for someone.

It’s beautiful, and George weeps.

Dream hasn’t noticed yet. George tries to subtly wipe his eyes. He can’t let Dream see how his heart is breaking at this song—that this song belongs to someone else, that this will never be George’s song. There’s no way this song could ever be for him. Dream would have mentioned he was writing a song for George, like he talked about writing a song for Techno, for his mom. 

He won’t make Dream shoulder this for George. He deserves all the praise and accolades for it. 

When the song fades out, quieter and quieter until all George can hear is his own treacherous heart, Dream fidgets. 

“I probably won’t even release this one,” Dream says when George can’t find words.

“Why not?” George asks, praying internally that his voice doesn’t give him away. As much as he can read Dream, Dream can read him just the same. “It’s—it’s gorgeous.”

Some tension leaves Dream’s shoulders when George praises it. “Thank you,” he says and fiddles with his phone. 

“Why wouldn’t you—” George starts, and has to clear his throat. “Why wouldn’t you release it?”

“Because it doesn’t just belong to me,” he says and still George doesn’t get it.

“Like, someone else wrote it with you? Why wouldn’t they want you to release it?”

“No,” Dream says, a little half laugh in his voice, and not the happy kind. “It’s too—it’s too personal.”

Giving up on wiping the tears away now, George garners all his friendship points and uses them up—like he’s pooling his tickets at an arcade to buy the big prize. “You should at least show it to the person it’s for.” One of them should be happy, and it’s honestly better that it be Dream.

Dream throws his phone without care back to the nightstand and then groans into his hands. “Are you for real, George? Like, I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me just to be cruel, or—”

“Cruel?” George gasps out. 

“Yes, cruel, how could you—”

“What are you talking about?” George asks, coming to the end of his rope. “I’m not—I’m not trying to be cruel, you idiot. I’m trying to—I’m trying so hard to be what you need. To be your friend. How can you call me cruel when I’m struggling so hard to—”

“I don’t want you to be my fucking friend!” Dream bursts out in frustration, turning to George with the most intense look he’s ever had on that face. He looks wild, unhinged. 
 
The words come into focus in George’s mind and something snaps in him. He doesn’t want to live in a world where Dream doesn’t even want to be his friend now. Where the fuck did he go wrong? He’s tried so hard to keep this level for Dream, to make things easy without George’s feelings falling all over him. He can’t even fucking do that right. What’s wrong with him? 

He hears himself sniffle and it’s like the sound registers with Dream too. He notices that George is crying and the frustration recedes until the concerned version of his love comes back to the forefront. 

“George, I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—of course I want to be your friend. Always.” Dream’s body is turned towards George like a sunflower, his palm as soft as petals when he touches George’s cheek and wipes the tears away. 

“Then why would you say that?” 

Dream’s eyes are assessing when they travel all over George’s face—he’s taking everything in, the same way he does when they do a Manhunt—learning the environment and cross referencing his inventory to see what he can use to turn a situation to his favor. He makes a snap judgment. “George, just…”

“What?”

“Just let me love you.” His eyes are big and George can’t look at him. “This song is for you. Of course it’s for you. Who else would it be for? I wrote this with you in mind, dying to have you love me like I love you. So, just… why won’t you just let me love you?”

Speechless, George can feel his heart pounding in his ears. He wonders if he slipped and hit his head on the bathroom sink or something, and this is all a terrible concoction of his greatest desires. Surely, this isn’t—he doesn’t get to be happy like this, does he?

“What’s wrong with how I love you?” Dream asks earnestly when George can’t respond. The devastation on his face fights with his determination, and George just loves him. “Why can’t I be the one you—”

Dream shakes his head like a dog while his hand slips from George’s warm cheeks. He turns back to George, grabbing the hand in his lap and squeezes it.

“Have you had enough time yet, George?” Dream asks, sounding more desperate and hopeless. “Have you worked it out yet? Because I can wait as long as you want. I can wait forever as long as I know I can be there with you, next to you.”

Dream loves him.

The sky is blue, the ground is hard, and Dream’s love for him encompasses the sky and the earth. Of course it does.

George takes a deep breath because everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be more than okay.

They get to have this.

He suppresses the smile that wants to take over his face, and asks Dream, “What do you think, Dream?” He grips Dream’s hand back tightly, reassuringly, with so much love given back that he might break Dream’s hand. “When you were analyzing the risks and all the outcomes, because I know you, and I know you did exactly that—do you think I don’t? Do you really think I don’t love you?”

“I think—” Dream says, swallowing thickly. He takes his time, figuring out what he’s going to say, eyes staring deeply into George’s. “I think you look at me sometimes like I’m the only person in the world that could give you this much happiness. I think you changed your entire life around to be closer to me. I think you fell into bed with me a little too easily. I think you want my approval more than anyone else in the world. I think you like being the person I rely on. I think…”

“Say it,” George commands while his hand brings Dream’s up to his mouth to kiss it tenderly. He’s in love with these hands. He’s had these hands before he had anything else of Dream, before his dick, before his face, before anything else, he always had these hands. 

“I think you’re in love with me,” Dream whispers, heart-breakingly sincere. “And that’s why you’re worth it. That’s why we are worth it.”

“I think you’re—” George stops only because his stomach is churning so violently with nerves. “I’m afraid you’re right, Dream.”

“Afraid?” Dream’s voice is soft, puzzled, like he won’t let himself accept reality yet. 

“You’re stuck with me,” George says and dives into Dream’s chest, burying his head in the soft skin of his neck to hide his face.

Dream’s hands move to George’s back to pet long strokes up and down it. He can hear the confusion in Dream’s voice when he says right into George’s ear, “Why are you—why are you acting like that’s a bad thing?”

“Because I’m—I should tell you something,” George says and pulls back to look at Dream. His hand moves of its volition up into those wild curls, the texture comforting because it’s Dream’s.

“What?” Dream asks, looking prepared for anything, like George might pull the rug out from under him at any moment. And, well, that’s kind of what George thinks he’s going to do. He can’t enter into anything real with Dream without telling him. He deserves to know what he’s in for. “What is it?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m… I’m demisexual, Dream,” he says, barely getting the words out. They’re the hardest thing he’s ever had to say in his life. 

It’s so hard to put himself out there, offer up this part of his heart that he just figured out, and hope like hell the only person he wants to own his heart accepts the bill of sale. After such a difficult journey—twenty-six years of it—figuring this out, he’s sure it’ll take Dream some time to come to terms with it as well. 

George is prepared to give him time, the same way Dream gave him time to figure himself out. He can do that. 

“Oh,” Dream says. “Okay, that’s—that’s fine. I’m not getting why you’re, like, dooming, though.”

George feels like he missed a step going up the stairs, the same feeling when Patches tries to weave between his legs while he’s walking. “Don’t you get it?”

“Baby, no, I really don’t.”

It’s humiliating having to lay it out for Dream like this, but he’s worth it. He has to know. He gets to—he has to know this about George. He reminds himself he’s safe with Dream, all his secrets and desires and needs are safe with Dream. This is, too. He can be vulnerable here without repercussions. 

“You’re it for me, Dream. You’re the only person I’ve ever—I think I’ve only even liked one person before you, like truly. I— once you realize how bad I am at—at all this, you’re going to go on, and, like—fuck— find someone better.”

“There’s no one better, George,” Dream says with conviction. 

But George is on a roll. “Someone who can give you, like, kids, or a family, or—someone normal. Someone you can take to the Christmas party.”

“Don’t want normal,” Dream argues. “I just want you.”

“And I won’t be able to move on,” George says, desperate to explain where he’s coming from. He needs Dream to understand this, understand the magnitude of this thing between them. “I’m, like—I’m too in love with you. There’s not going to be anyone after you, and I’ll—I’ll just sit around watching your videos and missing you and—”

“George!” Dream says sharply. He grabs George’s chin and forces him to look Dream dead in the eyes. “There’s not going to be anyone after you, either, you idiot. You’re it for me. Only you. No one else. There’s not—there’s no shot I ever get sick of you, or whatever weird things you’re thinking, okay? No shot.”

“You don’t know that,” George mutters, not sure whether he wants Dream to hear or not.

“I do know that,” Dream says and places a delicate kiss on his forehead. “I do. I’m so in love with you it’s sickening. People are literally sickened by it. If you decided you were done with me—”

“Not happening—” George chokes out. He feels full to bursting with every emotion under the sun. 

“Okay, but if you did,” Dream says, “then I’m not going to be able to just move on, either. Even if I’m attracted to all genders. It’s not about—it’s not about sex with you. It’s just—you’re my person. It doesn’t matter if you’re demisexual and I’m whatever I am, you’re it. There’s no competition. There’s no one I’ve got my eye on in the meantime while I wait to see if it works out with you, okay? There’s not—as far as I’m concerned, you’re the only person in the world I want to have sex with, to love, to—only you. Until I end up dead.”

“Stream it,” George says and Dream chuckles.

“No one makes me laugh like you do, baby,” Dream says, leaning down until their foreheads touch. They’ve never done this. It’s intimate, being so close to Dream without kissing him. “No one makes me giddy like you, or safe, or, or a million things. You make my heart race.”

“Are you sure?” George whispers.

“I’m beyond sure, George. I’ve been sure the whole time. I knew before you moved that you were—I just didn’t know you were an option.”

“I didn’t know I was an option either,” George says. “I had to sort myself out a bit.”

“And did you?” Dream asks, and to George, it’s a check-in. He cares more about George figuring himself out than making this a way to get in his pants, to have more sex with him. That alone shows George he’s made the right choice in Dream. Not that his heart gave his brain any decision making responsibility. “Did you figure everything out that you needed to figure out?”

“I think so,” George says. “I like you.” Dream tugs on his hair and George laughs and corrects himself. “I love you. I love having sex with you. I want to—I want you to be only mine. Those are all the things I need to know about myself, I think. For now.”

Dream’s smile could outshine the sun. 

“I love you. I love having sex with you. I want you to be only mine, too,” Dream says and they feel like vows, like an oath a knight of old would swear to his king. 

“Okay, fine, I’m yours,” George says. 

“Okay, fine, I’m yours, too,” Dream responds in kind.

“Then do something about it,” George tells him. “Kiss me or something.”

A laugh of relief and joy escapes Dream and he leans over, quick as anything, to place a kiss on George’s lips. It hasn’t even been ten minutes since the last kiss they shared, and already this one feels different. It feels like forever. It feels like promises made and carried out. It feels like jokes and burdens shared. It feels like Dream and Dream’s love. 

Dream pushes him backward on the bed, slowly like a panther stalking prey, and George feels himself stir—he’s so responsive to Dream. Dream can look at him in a certain way, and his body follows his silent command.

Here, now, in Dream’s bed, George lies down, hands scrambling to pull Dream on top of him. Chest to chest like this, George can barely breathe, but he craves that feeling. He wants Dream to smother him, crush out all the bad feelings and replace them with Dream’s soft gasps and words of praise.

“I love you,” Dream says as he bites down on George’s ear lobe. 

George squirms against the pleasure and runs his hands up the back of Dream’s shirt. “I love you, too,” he says up to the ceiling, pushing the shirt up enough that he can get full access to Dream’s back. “I’m never sharing you again.”

Dream chuckles dangerously into George’s neck and then sits up and pulls his shirt off over his head. Straddling George, he looks hot. His hair sticks up from the fabric and his chest hair is right there for George to touch—which he does. His hands explore Dream’s chest, his pecs, the way his ribs feel under his skin, the tickle of hair that feels so different from George’s. He’s obsessed with Dream.

“I’m never sharing you, either,” Dream promises. He reaches down and encourages George to shuck his own shirt. It’s a little more difficult since he’s lying down, but between the two of them, they manage. His pants are a bit easier, Dream only needs him to lift his hips for a moment while he drags them down. And then Dream just stares at him, face dumbfounded. 

“I never wanted to share in the first place,” George manages to say, keeping up with the thread of conversation by a molecule. 

Dream huffs fondly. “I was desperate, okay? I didn’t think I could ever have you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” George says, bucking his hips up and hoping Dream will give him something to distract from this line of thought.

Dream’s hand finds George’s bulge under his boxers and rubs. “Can we—” he starts and George moans too loudly to hear him, so he has to start over. “Can I make love to you, George?”

It’s too sweet for George to not make fun of him, it really is. “You can fuck me lovingly, yes,” he manages to say and Dream rolls his eyes. 

“You’re so annoying,” Dream teases. “Won’t even let me have anything.”

“I’m trying to let you have this ass,” George says, almost laughing too hard to get it out. 

“Why do I love you so much?” Dream asks, but the dopey smile on his face reassures George that he does, in fact, love George very much. 

“Because you’re dumb,” George says. “But I’m very glad you’re so dumb.”

Dream leans forward and like he can’t hold himself back another second, he kisses George like their lives depend on it. It’s nothing like the sweet kiss from earlier, nothing like the parting kiss he bestowed on George when he left him in bed the other morning. This kiss is possessive, intimate, a declaration. George lets Dream have his way, opens his mouth further to invite him in, feels his legs spread wider to accommodate Dream’s big body. 

Their bodies know each other now; they move together like one. George feels Dream’s fingers at his rim, teasing without lube and he almost wants Dream to go in without it, too eager to wait even the ten seconds it’ll take for Dream to get the lube.

“No time to lick you right now,” Dream says, voice low and straining. “I need to be inside you so badly.”

“Yes,” George says, pushing at Dream’s pants. He needs to get them off. “Get your pants off, idiot.”

Dream stands up to take his pants off, underwear going with them. He’s already at full mast and George thinks that they’re as insane as each other. “Lube,” George tells him, pointing unnecessarily at the nightstand. “Condom.”

Dream nods and digs through the drawer, “Got ‘em.”

“Good, now get in me,” George demands. There’s a stark difference between this time together and the last time they were like this in L.A., and it’s not the natural sparks of attraction. It’s the way Dream knows George is in love with him, the way George wants Dream to know that, the way George wants to tattoo it on the back of Dream’s hand so he’ll see it all the time.
 
And Dream loves him. George knows it down to his bones. He knows it in his ears, the music Dream made for him. It’s in the loving way his fingers touch George like he’s priceless. 

Those same fingers find George’s prostate quickly and then stretch him open. Those fingers stuff themselves inside like a puppet and George doesn’t even mind—part of him wants to put on a show for Dream. 

“Ready?” Dream asks him when George feels the fingers leave him empty and aching. 

“Yeah, please,” George says, letting his hands come up to pull Dream’s face down to his. He needs another kiss, needs to feel Dream taking him from both holes—wants to feel full of him and his love.
 
Slowly, Dream enters him and George moans into Dream’s mouth. 

“No one has ever felt as good as you,” Dream pulls back to say, a confession and a secret meant for George to hold dear. 

“Good,” George says. 

“You make me insane,” Dream says as his hips push further in, small baby steps so George can get used to him. George doesn’t want slow, though. He wants it hard.

“You’re making me insane right now,” George complains. “Give me more, Dream. I want to feel it.”

“I’ll make you feel it,” Dream promises and pushes all the way in. Interlocked together like this, George looks up at Dream and melts at the look of adoration on his face. This man loves him. He’s never going to get over it. 

“Dream,” George begs, pushing his hips up as much as he can, hoping Dream will get the hint and start moving.

“Stop moving, or I’m going to come,” Dream says through gritted teeth. 

“Get better,” George teases. His fingers migrate up to Dream’s shoulders and he lets them dig into the skin there. 

“Oh yeah, well, we’ll see how you do when we do it the other way around,” Dream says, voice still strained with restraint.

“I’ll be amazing at it,” George says because they can’t prove otherwise. He probably will be amazing at fucking Dream. He’ll certainly be enthusiastic enough. “I’ll fuck you so good, Dream.”

“Holy fuck,” Dream says while his hips stutter like they have a will of their own. “Yes, we’re going to—yes, please.”

“For now, you better put your back into it,” George says and moves his legs up Dream’s back to give him some room to maneuver. Dream’s hands manhandle his legs up, watching closely for any sign of pain, and put his heels on Dream’s shoulders. “Fuck.”

“That’s the idea, yeah,” Dream says and slides out of George’s hole. Like this, they can both feel it deeper. George can’t reach up and kiss Dream, but there’s time for that later. They have years for kisses, decades. Right now, he wants Dream pounding into his prostate. He wants Dream’s hand on his dick, jerking him off. He wants Dream losing himself inside George. He squeezes his inner muscles down around Dream just to make him lose his mind further.

They can’t last long like this, the pleasure is too great, but neither of them mind. This isn’t a session for long, drawn out orgasms. This sex is about proving something to themselves and to each other. They’re caught up in the cyclone of desperation—a folie à deux of romantic love.

George has no sense of time passing as his orgasm builds higher and higher—Dream’s hand knows how to touch his dick perfectly. His hips have found the angle to hit his prostate. George never stood a chance, and he doesn’t want to.

He comes.

He purposefully keeps his eyes open while white hot pleasure rips out of him. Dream can’t take his eyes off of George. He studies him, lets his thrusts go harder and deeper, determined to make it the best he can, and then Dream tips over the edge with George and comes into the condom.

George didn’t think the last time could be topped, but he was wrong. This was even better. 

Dream collapses on top of George, chest hair contaminated by George’s spunk, and they both struggle together to catch their breath. George’s hand creeps into Dream’s hair, sweaty curls tacked onto his neck. 

“That was hot,” George says into Dream’s neck. “But clean me up now.”

“You’re going to be really demanding, aren’t you?” Dream says on a sigh as he sits up. He’s smiling. 

“I’m an angel,” George says. 

“That’s true,” Dream concedes as he gets off the bed to head back into his bathroom. Over his shoulder, he says with a smirk, “Your ass is heavenly.”

“Only you would know,” George says too quietly for Dream to hear. He’s not sure he wants him to hear that. It’s… it’s implied, but that’s a conversation for another time. Maybe.

Dream’s hands are gentle as he wipes George down, and then wipes off his own chest. George watches him openly now that there’s no pretense here. 

“You’re my boyfriend,” George tells him when Dream slips back into bed beside him, arms reaching to draw him close. George has to say it definitively. His mouth curves around the words, words he never thought he’d say in his life. They feel right coming out. That’s Dream. He’s a multimillionaire, a YouTube juggernaut, a marketing genius, singer/songwriter, and George’s boyfriend.

“You’re my boyfriend,” Dream says. “You’re a bigger boyfriend than I am.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” George says with a playful eye roll. 

“Sure it does,” Dream argues. 

“You wrote me a love song,” George argues because he loves to argue if it’s with Dream. “That makes you the bigger boyfriend.”

“You’re in love with me,” Dream says, eyes flashing like he can’t believe that’s a statement he gets to say that’s truthful. 

“You’re in love with me,” George counters. “How long have you been in love with me?”

“A few months? My whole life? The second we started talking? When you moved here? How am I supposed to know?” Dream asks and shakes his head. “It feels like I’ve always been in love with you.”

“I don’t want—” George starts. Dream’s face is open with love, ready to listen. That’s what gives George the courage to keep going. “I don’t want to tell, like, the fans. At least, not yet.”

“I don’t know if we should ever tell them,” Dream says, surprising George. “Not that—not that I’m ashamed of you or anything, obviously not, like—there are some things that I want just for myself, you know? They already have so much of me, so much of us. They don’t necessarily need this, too.”

“Dream, are you sure?” George knows Dream likes to share things. He gets excited and news comes out, little anecdotes and observations fly freely when he’s talking to fans. George doesn’t want to shackle him or silence him—he’s always loved how Dream relates to people.

“I’m sure,” Dream tells him. “I’m open to changing that later, of course. It’s your choice, too. I just—our friends and family can know, but I don’t want the fans getting into our business even more, you know? I don’t want cheating rumors or break up rumors every ten days because we’re apart for business things or something. It’s just—it’s so much pressure, and I can’t handle anything breaking this.”

“What about when your songs come out and they’re all about me?” George asks, half serious. It’s hard for him to have prolonged serious conversations and this is about at his limit. It’s too important to completely derail, though.

“Eh,” Dream says with a sigh. “They’re open to interpretation.”

“Oh, you don’t name me personally in the other ones?” George asks with a fake pout. Dream laughs at him and kisses the pout off his mouth.

“I’ll go full Taylor Swift and lay easter eggs that are all for you,” he promises with laughter in his eyes.

“Make the first letter of the lyric lines spell out my name.”

Dream snorts and says, “Why stop there? I’m going to spell out ‘I love George’s ass’ and watch them go crazy.”

“I knew you were in it for my ass,” George says and snuggles up closer to Dream. There’s no guilt about sleeping here. He’s not scrambling to find an excuse to leave to save face. Dream wants him here and George wants to be here. They’re in love and George is giddy with it.

He lets his legs tangle between Dream’s, soft dick pressed against Dream’s hip with no pretenses, wrapped up in Dream’s arms like he’s wrapped in security and love. 

“I’m in it for your fat ass and your fat heart,” Dream says into George’s hair, punctuated with a kiss.

If George expected Sapnap to be surprised, he’d be disappointed. When Dream and George enter the kitchen together the next morning, George’s head on Dream’s back, shuffling awkwardly together and still grumbling that Dream made him get up, Sapnap doesn’t even blink. Not even at the clothes George threw on from Dream’s messy floor.

“Morning,” Sapnap says before pushing the start button on the blender for the smoothie he’s making.

George flinches at the loud sound. “Dream, make him stop.”

Over the scream of the blender, Dream chuckles and manhandles George to his front where he can put his head on George’s shoulder. “Do you want a smoothie, too?” Dream asks him. 

George nods, looking over at the fruit Sapnap’s left scattered all over the counter. They have some leftover orange juice from brunch with Ciera. 

The blender abruptly stops. “Did you two figure your shit out, then?” Sapnap asks. 

George stands up straighter, but Dream doesn’t move from him. It’s Dream that says, “Yeah, we did.”

“Good,” Sapnap says and pours his smoothie into the glass he had waiting. “Don’t break each other’s hearts,” he says with a degree of sincerity that almost gives George an allergic reaction. “And don’t break each other’s dicks, either. Because I’m not helping drive either of you to the hospital if that happens.”

“Sapnap!” George spits and Dream just laughs. 

“You can call your mother and explain that one, count me the fuck out,” Sapnap says, punctuating his statement with a long sip of his smoothie.

“If Dream breaks my dick, he can buy me a new one,” George says with a shrug. 

“A bigger one,” Sapnap laughs.

“Any bigger and this thing would be dragging on the ground,” George counters, giddy with the feeling of being in love and having his other best friend happy with them. 

“You’re so full of shit,” Sapnap says, shaking his head. “Dream, he’s full of shit, right?”
 
“Are you asking me to talk about my boyfriend’s dick?” Dream asks. The word ‘boyfriend’ makes butterflies dance in George’s stomach. He wants to laugh at himself, next thing he knows he’ll be dragging out glitter blue gel pens and doodling their names together. “Because I will talk about it, Nick, and I don’t think you’ll be very happy about it.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” Sapnap says just as George elbows Dream to say, “Don’t tell him anything about my dick, what the fuck?”

“Aw, baby, I love your dick, though,” Dream says playfully, getting a two-for-one in annoying his friends.

The rest of their friends take the news well. They keep it in very close circles until they meet up with more of their friends, and the truth just kind of slides out of George’s mouth.

Larray sends him a knowing look the next time they go back to L.A. and sets up a dinner for Dream and George and all their queer friends in town—a small circle for them, but they want it that way for now. 

Austin fakes outrage that George didn’t try to hook up with him in his gay awakening, but George can tell it’s all for show. So much of Austin is, but his heart is good. Austin congratulates Dream on his little twink boyfriend, and gets them both accidentally wine drunk at dinner to get the full story out of them.

Ant and Velvet send them a fruit basket with different varieties of lubes and toys and George blushes so hard he can’t talk to either of them for a month. Dream Facetimes them to personally say thank you. They do enjoy the toys, though.

Bad writes a lengthy essay on Discord in the Manhunt group chat about how much he loves both of them and how great they’ll be together. Dream writes a lengthy reply back and George reacts with an eggplant emoji, his own special way of saying thank you. 

George’s general life doesn’t change very much on the outside. He still streams occasionally. He records YouTube videos that he doesn’t edit, and Dream won’t either, no matter how much bomb ass head he offers. He makes stupid little TikToks to amuse himself, and he watches edits of how his boyfriend is obsessed with him. 

Internally, though, he’s never been happier. Life with Dream is the best thing he’s ever done. They have minor squibbles, they fight over dumb things, but George never has to question if Dream loves him. He knows it.

The only naked pictures on Dream’s phone are of George. 

Life is good. 

A full year later, they receive an invitation in the mail. None of them are great about checking their mail since it’s usually bills and invoices and boring adult things. But this envelope is different, thick material with their names written in calligraphy—minus Sapnap.

George doesn’t wait for Dream, he opens it up and scans it. It’s a save the date for a wedding. Ciera and Hartley are getting married in nine months and time isn’t real.

Later, George shows the invite to Dream when he’s done with his business meetings, and he hits his head and says, “Oh I knew about that, actually.” 

There are many things Dream forgets to pass on, but George won’t hold this one against him. They haven’t spoken to Ciera in a while. She graduated and moved in with Hartley pretty quickly after they got together, but they did seem really happy together the one time the four of them hung out. And they have known each other basically their whole lives.

“We’re going, right?” George asks because he’s dying to see the shit show of Lylia at the wedding between her brother and former best friend. Having Dream be there would just be the icing on the wedding cake. He’s ready to watch it all go down and force Dream to buy him a new suit and then make him dance. He looks so dumb when he dances, George is obsessed with him. 

“Yeah, we can go if you want, baby,” Dream says. 

So nine months later, George flips Sapnap off when he makes fun of his suit, and then joins Dream in the car. They’re meeting Dream’s family at the venue, as they’re also invited, and aside from family Thanksgiving and Christmas (not the neighborhood party), this is the first event he’s attending as Dream’s boyfriend. 

“How do I explain to the groom that his bride once sucked me off in a threesome with my now boyfriend?” George asks Dream when Dream’s mum is distracted and can’t hear. 

“I think you don’t explain that at all, actually,” Dream says like he’s talking to a crazy person. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just scared I’m going to take one look at him and it’s going to come sprawling out.”

“Then don’t be around him, easy enough,” Dream says like it’s that simple.

“It’s not that simple!” George says, but he lets Dream lead him to their seats by the small of his back. That’s his favorite way to touch George in public.

As it turns out, there’s nothing to worry about. The wedding goes smoothly. No one objects. People cry. Dream cries. George laughs at him. It’s a nice wedding. 

They do dance, after all. Lights dimmed and soft music playing, George rests his head against Dream’s chest and falls as far into him as he can with strangers’ eyes on them. George hopes Lylia, wherever she is, eats her fucking heart out. She’s been avoiding them at all costs and George kind of wishes she wouldn’t. He wants to pretend to infect her with his homosexuality.

“Think this could be us?” Dream whispers, a nervous note wavering in his hoarse voice.

“Do not propose to me at someone else’s wedding,” George says. “That’s so tacky.”

“I’m not—” Dream says and then growls. “I’m not proposing. Yet.”

“Okay, not yet,” George agrees. His hand fits perfectly in Dream’s larger one. “But literally whenever you want to ask is fine.”

“Oh, it’s ‘fine’?” Dream teases.

“Like, an appropriate place,” George says. “Lots of food and jewelry and presents, but not—not in public.”

“Not in public,” Dream agrees, taking George seriously at the parts he knows George is serious for. It’s so nice to be understood after so many years of people not getting him. “Definitely not on stream.”

“Definitely not on stream, what’s wrong with you?”

“Just trying to think of worse places to propose than here,” Dream says, amusement rife in his tone.

“Weddings are bad in general, but factor in that you’ve slept with the bride, that I’ve—you know,” George looks around to make sure no one is paying them any attention, and whispers, “with the bride… it’s a no, Dream.”

“So if I asked you here for real, you’d say no?” Dream says around a pout. George can always tell when he’s pouting. His face is made for pouting and George hates that it works so well against him.

It’s important to keep his boundaries. He has to stay strong in the wake of Dream’s pouty face.

“I’d say no,” George says, and then relents, “But I’d ask you tomorrow so we can still be engaged.”

Dream’s hands tighten on his waist. “You want to marry me, George?” 

“Stop sounding like you’re asking me for real,” George commands. He doesn’t know why his heart is pounding away in his chest. This isn’t even the first time they’ve discussed getting married, it’s just the most serious Dream’s sounded about it. He makes a note to check Dream’s sock drawer for a ring when they get home.

“You love me?” Dream asks into his ear, a hint of tease in that way that makes them them. “You want to marry me and have my babies?”

“If anyone’s having babies here, it’s you,” George argues.

“Fine, I’ll have your babies,” Dream says with an indulgent eye roll. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Can I cut in?” a voice asks, and they’ve been so in their own world that neither of them heard Ciera approach.

“Of course,” Dream says with a big grin for her. “Which one of us did you want to—”

“George will suffice,” Ciera says with an answering smile. “And then you, so don’t go far.”

“Hi,” Ciera says once George awkwardly places his arms around her. 

“Hi. I don’t know what I’m doing. Mostly Dream does the leading and I just go with whatever he does.”

She laughs. She looks beautiful in her dress and makeup. “That’s fine, George. No one’s grading you here.”

They sway together to the music, off beat, but George finds himself enjoying the moment. 

“Are you happy?” she asks, when they’ve had a few moments to reflect. “Are you as happy as me, George?”

“I’m happy,” he answers. There’s no way he can keep the smile off his face. He doesn’t even try. “I love him. He loves me. I’ve spent the last couple minutes convincing him not to propose here at your wedding.”

“Oh thank god,” she says. “I’d never forgive him.”

“What can I say? I saved the wedding,” George says. 

“My hero,” she says and puts a hand over her heart.

“Ciera,” George says, trying to think of the best way to say what he wants to say. Dream would find the words. Dream probably already found the words. But they all find things at their own pace—at the right time. “Thank you.”

She twirls him, making the room spin along with his head, and when she brings him back close to her, she’s smiling. “I didn’t do anything, but you’re welcome.”

“You helped,” George tells her sincerely. “Whatever all that was, it helped. It got us—it got both of us here.”

“And we’re happy,” she says with a nod, releasing his hand to put a curl back in place behind her ear. 

“Yeah,” George agrees. “We’re happy.”

He looks over her shoulder to catch Dream’s eye—that’s the look of a man in love with him. He can’t wait to marry him. 

That night, Dream drives them home and holds George’s hand the entire way. They listen to soppy music on the drive while they wear their nice suits. 

“You’re hiring a wedding planner for ours,” George says when the car slides neatly into the garage. “I’m not dealing with all that stress.”

“But you still want the attention,” Dream says with a knowing smile. “Sure thing, babe.”

And when Dream goes into their bathroom after they’ve made love—after he’s fucked George lovingly—George finds the ring in his sock drawer.

It’s a nice ring.