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Soulmates. Magic, fate, a flaw. No one can seem to agree on what causes them, where they come from, what they mean. The simple truth; they’re something special, something that is not easily understood. Exceedingly rare, an estimated half of a percentage of the entire world having whatever gene or spark or anomaly causes them.
And Dream is one of them. An enigma among rarities, his bond manifesting when he’s only ten years old, connecting him to a boy across an ocean named George. He’d been in love with the idea of soulmates his entire life, leading up to the day he woke to a few words scribbled across his arm, some sort of packing list that he certainly hadn’t written.
He’d nearly fainted from excitement, tripping as he jumped out of bed and grabbed a marker to write hi in large letters, on his left arm. The response had come quickly, and from then he’d been forever tied to another.
But they were just friends. They decided early on- that neither of them wanted any of the gross romance stuff. Having a friend to play Minecraft with was way better, and they wasted no time in exchanging Skype’s, taking their connection from a limited and revered form to the common, accessible channel of the internet.
It was a fast friendship, but strong and true. Their fights were few and far between, often petty and usually ending with a few words exchanged across skin. It was easy, to fall back on the other when things went wrong, when no one else would listen.
Growing up meant big choices, and Dream and George diverged in theirs. George went to university, arguing that it would be easier for him to come to America if he could get a good job. Dream skipped out on it, instead throwing himself into studying the thing he had been wanting to do his whole life; creating.
YouTube was fascinating to both of them, and in between homework and lectures, George would help Dream study every asset of the algorithm, the two of them breaking the platform down, learning it’s inner workings to better understand how to fully take advantage of it.
And when Dream feels that they’ve learned enough, that it’s finally time, he writes to George.
Come with me?
Always.
And of course, Sapnap is the second person Dream asks, and the three of them were always going to do it together; it wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.
It works. The numbers are proof, that they have something special between the three of them, a spark that draws other to the three of them, makes their content so captivating, whether it be through videos, livestreams, or even Tweets.
It works, and Dream has everything he’s ever wanted. A best friend, a soulmate, a career he’s endlessly passionate about.
And yet, something is missing.
Something is in the way.
No Visa. The words have been on his arm for weeks now, written in permanent marker. They were meant to be a reminder, to look forward to the day they could be crossed through. Yet the days went on, and still they were true.
They’re on call together, more often than not in the late months of 2021, when the waiting has become a weight on his chest.
He’s editing, a video they’d recorded a week ago that he should have had done already, lost in timelines and clips and music. But George is with him, as he always is, present as he works. It’s been hours since either of them have spoken, a silence that feels like a warm blanket in the chilled autumn months.
Dream’s head is spinning when he finally takes a moment away from his screen, eyes blurring as he looks around his room to steady himself, startling when he finds his hands covered in ink.
A rich green, spiraled designs intersected by simple doodles, spanning from his fingertips to his elbows. He traces a hand over a line that weaves around his knuckles, smiling softly under the dim light of his screen.
“George?” he asks softly, unable to keep the fondness from his voice. Through his headphones, he hears a gentle stirring and a startled little noise not unlike the chirps Patches wakes when he rests a hand on her small head, waking her from sleep.
“Hi Dr’m,” George says, voice soft and scratchy from sleep. “D’you like my drawings?”
Dream bites his lip to fight back his smile, even though no one is around to see. “They’re incredible, maybe you should have been an artist instead of a streamer,” and he taps one with his finger, an elaborate drawing of a penis. The attention to detail is quite impressive.
“And leave you all alone? I don’t think so,” it’s a sleepy joke, but still it warms Dream like nothing else could.
“Hmm, well, I’m almost done with the video,” he says, looking over his editing software again and groaning when he feels the beginnings of a headache.
George mimics him with a groan of his own. “No more editing. Go to sleep.”
“Only if you do,” Dream shoots back, already shutting his PC down. “And I don’t mean on your desk dummy.”
“Oh, you want me to come to bed with you?” George teases, and Dream hears him stretch through the rustle of fabric and squeak of his chair.
Dream rolls his eyes. “Yes, please come cuddle with me Georgie. It’s so cold.”
It hurts, sometimes, to joke about the distance, but it feels like giving up to ignore it.
They both switch the call to their phones, going through their routines together. George even stays through Dream’s skincare, even as he yawns between every word. It’s worth it, to collapse into bed at the same time and listen to the rustle of sheets on the other side of the world.
The night is quiet, save for the sounds of breathing. Dream stares at his arms, counting the lines in place of sheep, imagining the twin pair as he does.
George sighs, distinct from an exhale for the drama that he imbues even in a simple release of breath. “I can’t sleep,” he murmurs, and Dream knows it’s a lie from the way his voice trails off. It’s an excuse, but Dream happily takes the bait.
“I guess I could talk and bore you to sleep,” Dream says, settling further into his duvet.
George giggles, and there’s the telltale sound of him sliding his phone closer, his breathing becoming clearer. “Yes please, tell me about ‘football,’” even close to sleep, George manages to put an American accent on the word, and Dream only rolls his eyes again.
Dream is a weak man, quick to comply with George’s request, and they fall asleep on call as they have many nights before, as they’ll continue to do as the months drag on.
Somewhere in the cloudy sky and the endless droll of waiting, Dream gets caught in introspection.
Something that’s been tugging at the back of his mind, always present but easier to ignore for fear of judgment. And there’s no one he’d rather talk to than George, although he doesn’t think he can do it aloud. So he turns to their bond, grabbing his best marker and playing songs that remind him of childhood through his headphones.
Hi George. He writes, tapping the marker as he waits for an answer.
It comes quickly, a simple hi in return, and Dream writes back.
Can I tell u about something??
Call?
No like this
Ok.
Dream takes a deep, deep breath, feeling the way his chest aches as he does. His hand is shaking, and he hopes his writing will be legible as dives in.
I think I’m a moment of hesitation, and he writes out the next letters so, so slowly, that the marker bleeds, lines thick and intersecting not straight.
(Do u want me to respond or do u just want to talk?)
Dream smiles, drawing an accompanying :) to show George. No, I want u to respond. If that’s okay?
Ok :] thank u for telling me :]]
I’ve wanted to tell u for a while but he pauses I thought I might be wrong
?? u can’t be wrong about ur own shit idiot
I know that
I don't know if u do but its ok
Dream draws a little frowny face next to George’s words, adding more frown lines until George draws a circle around it, and writes, I’m serious. U literally cant be wrong when it comes to stuff like that. Even if u find out more about urself in the future, ur correct now.
Okokokoko what r u the sexuality guardian??
The drexuality one maybe and Dream can’t help but laugh out loud at that, probably looking crazy smiling down at his arm.
Call? He writes, feeling much more comfortable in the topic and just wanting to hear George’s voice now that the hard part is over.
He gets the call a moment later, answering quickly. “-tattoo that on your arm. I swear to god Dream, I’ll do it.”
“What?” Dream asks, bewildered by George’s immediate rant.
“I said,” George’s voice is firm but soft. “That I’ll get something dumb like ‘Dream is an idiot’ tattooed so you stop being so hard on yourself.”
Dream blinks. “Wouldn’t that- Isn’t that the opposite?”
“You’d know what I mean,” George sounds smug, happy in a way Dream hasn’t heard him in a while, and it makes him giddy. “Now tell me more. What caused this realization?”
Dream buries his face in his hands, suddenly regretting all his life choices. Because George asking how he realized he might not be straight- Well. Well.
Listen. Objectively, George is a very attractive man. Dream can appreciate that, from a distance. And George is his soulmate! Of course he’d feel, like, connected to him. But does he want to tell George all that? Not… Not really. And it hurts that he doesn’t, that there’s something more keeping them apart.
But he’s too scared to ruin what they have, so he lies. “Oh, there’s not really anyone- or anything- specifically. Just like- y’know. I can tell.”
“Right,” George says, dragging the vowel out. He’s still teasing, no hurt in his voice, and Dream relaxes. “Guess I won’t tell you what made me realize then.”
And Dream freezes. Ice in his veins and a heat in his chest, tearing him apart and forging him into a new person entirely. He must make some sort of noise, because George laughs, loud and free.
“What, don’t tell me you didn’t know. C’mon, Dream, you can’t have been that oblivious.”
Dream chokes, tries to speak and gets tangled in his own words. It’s a reality he’d never considered, that George could be anything but straight. And it’s terrifying, the way he feels a small flicker of hope burning in his chest.
“Dream. Seriously?” George sounds genuinely baffled, but still lighthearted.
“Seriously. How was I supposed to know?” Dream defends, voice pitched high and a bit shaky. He can’t feel his fingers or toes, the combined whiplash of coming out only to have the script flipped affecting him greatly.
“For one, I was like, obsessed with drawing rainbows on myself. I meant it as like, a little hint for you, too,” George explains.
Dream nods, thinking back to finding the little stripes of color on his arms occasionally. He doesn’t have the heart to tell George the colors were usually off enough that he wouldn’t have been able to call them pride flags, but he understands the sentiment. Dream is a fucking idiot.
“For second, is that the saying? For another, when have I ever talked about girls?”
“Okay, that doesn’t count. I just thought you were like- bad at dating or something.” Dream can’t help but laugh at his own words. George? Bad at dating? Yeah right.
A muffled sort of cough, and then- “I mean- wouldn’t you like to know.”
Dream laughs, and the conversation devolves from there. And it’s so nice- everything is the same, but it feels more complete, not having to hide anything from George, from his soulmate.
The Visa doesn’t get approved that year, and it fucking sucks. For Dream, stuck inside and without one of the most important people in his life. For Sapnap, although he makes the best of it with frequent trips to North Carolina and to see their friends in Florida. And of course, for George.
There’s a period of time after the holidays and entering the new year when George pulls back. He’s barely online, responding to texts and Snaps sparingly. Dream tries not to worry, knowing there are plenty of valid reasons for George to want time to himself. But still, it hurts.
Dream is selfish. It brings him comfort to draw a small heart on the underside of his wrist every day, in the richest blue he can find, so it becomes a ritual. Wake up, in increasingly off hours of the day due to his fucked sleep schedule, grab the marker off his bedside, and draw a little lopsided heart for one man's eyes.
There’s no response for the first few days, but it's enough to know it's there, that there’s a chance that it made George smile. And when on the fourth day a smaller green heart appears next to it, Dream knows that everything will be okay.
Sapnap goes to England in March, and Dream is so happy for both of his friends, so excited for the future.
And the wait continues. Summer is awful, but there are glimmers of hope. The timeline is still good, the approval process for the type of Visa George needs is expected to take time, but still. It doesn’t really hurt any less.
And September. September is the cliff’s edge, the peak of hope but the closest to failure. None of them know what they would do if it’s denied, so they don’t mention it, but it hangs over them as a dark cloud.
But when the mail comes, and George calls Dream out of nowhere with a smile nearly splitting his face in two, the sun shines brighter than ever before.
The week or so between the arrival of the Visa and George’s departure from London is a whirlwind- literally. From Mr. Beast challenges and Sidemen soccer matches to the powerful storm bearing down on Florida, they don’t have as much time to talk as they’re used to. And it’s fine, because they’ll be together soon, but Dream still draws a heart on his wrist every day, writes out his lists of things to do across his legs, gives George the little bits of his life that have always been there, and that will soon be for the both of them more than ever before.
There are small things Dream worries over, too irrational to share with anyone. Fears of showing his face, of course. Not of public reaction, not really, but of giving himself entirely over, finally showing his last cards and hoping he wins the hand. A carefully calculated play from the outside, a series of fortunate circumstances and quick decisions in reality.
And of course, there’s the soulmate thing. Old superstitions with no more merit than a fairytale, yet he finds himself awake at night, thinking of all the warnings he’s been given over the years.
A woman catching him in church, when he’d snuck his marker in to talk to George during the long sermon. “Careful with that,” she’d said, placing a hand on his shoulder and breathing down his neck.
“Sorry ma’am,” he’d said, already disregarding her words. What did she know that he didn’t?
She’d tsked at him, probably seeing his indifference from a mile away. “My momma used to tell me a story about a boy just like you. Talked to his soulmate too much, the moment they met their bond vanished,” she’d snapped, directly in his face, and he’d glared. “Just like that. Couldn’t stand to be around each other anymore.”
And she’d left him, sitting in the pews with a marker held loosely in his hand, a question from George still waiting to be answered. He’d paused for only a moment before writing his response, but it had stuck with him as hard as he tried to forget.
And there were more instances, of course, with everyone who knew he had a soulmate chiming in with some advice from their mother’s cousin’s best friend who’d had one. It was exhausting, annoying, dumb. And it had been so easy to write it all off when their meeting hadn’t been so imminent.
On the day of the actual meetup, he gets hardly any sleep, as much as he tries, tossing and turning in bed for hours before giving in and working on the script for the face reveal video.
When Sapnap knocks on his door to let him know he’s leaving for the airport, Dream is slumped at his desk, asleep on his keyboard. Sapnap just laughs, telling him to get on with it before he leaves, closing the door behind him.
Dream groans, sitting up and rubbing his face. He can feel the indents of the keys on his cheeks, not ideal for recording a video showing his face to the world for the first time.
In the bathroom, he splashes water on his face, grimacing when he sees his hair. It’s… Not ideal, to say the least. But what can he do? Might as well embrace it. He goes to leave the bathroom before remembering something else he’s never had to worry about before- exposing the writing on his skin.
He remembers a conversation with George, about how careful they’d need to be when George would stream with facecam, to not show anything to their curious viewers. As much as they speculate, giving them that sort of ammunition could only end poorly- Dream really didn’t want to have to justify his relationship to anyone, and he knew George felt the same.
And now it’s his turn, to look over his arms for anything that might give them away. The hearts are there, of course, but he wouldn’t dream of scrubbing them away. There are the faded letters of a conversation from a few days ago as well, so he decides to wear a shirt with sleeves. And as an added bonus, it’ll hide just how damn pale he’s gotten from being locked inside for three years.
He’s nervous filming the video, doing multiple takes of small sections until he gets somewhere that feels at least somewhat natural, as good as it's going to get with his lack of knowledge on how to act on camera. He edits quickly, nearly done when he gets a text that takes his mind completely off of it; almost there.
He sends a quick thumbs up back, setting his phone down before his shaking hands drop it. Everything feels like too much in that moment, all the little things pushing in on him and setting him off, and he pushes his sleeves back in an attempt to fight back the sensory overload. Soon ;) is written in what appears to be blue pen, and suddenly Dream can’t stand to sit in his room for any longer.
Eventually, he finds himself pacing in the foyer, after checking over everything he can think to. He rubs his thumb absently over the word and the smile, thinking of the distance slowly closing between them. Closer than they’ve ever been before, a collision course determined the first time writing had appeared across their skin.
He goes from pacing to sitting to pacing, and Patches passes through, giving him a weird look. She must sense his stress though, because she brushes against his leg, chirping when he runs a gentle hand over her back. It’s calming, and he coos at her, enjoying the feeling of her purring under his hands.
It’s only when she looks up suddenly, body stiff as she stares at the front door, that the world freezes. Dream hears it too, the crunch of tires over gravel. He swears he can feel it, the proximity, a pressure across his skin in every place where a word or letter or drawing has appeared, the combined feeling of years worth of friendship culminating in this.
In Sapnap walking through the door, reassuring Dream and giving him time, in the door swinging open to a blue sky and waiting car, to George in the flesh and walking towards him and saying his name and-
He expects hugging George to be something new, something inexplicable and magical, the first touch between soulmates after years of painful waiting. But the moment they meet is magical in a different way; a culmination of good and beautiful things.
George fits perfectly in his arms, and although they don’t hold contact long before jumping in excitement, it feels like a promise for more.
That’s what makes their first meeting, their first touch, perfect. The world opens before them, fate having brought them together as promised and now ensuring that together, they can do anything.
And when Dream is finally able to wrap his arms around both his friends, in front of the house he built for them, everything seems to slide into place.
Things move fast after that. They’re only home for a few days before flying to California for Twitchcon, and there are a seemingly unending amount of things the three of them need to do, pulling them across the country and eventually to fucking Antarctica of all places.
They’re so busy adjusting to life, especially Dream, that there isn’t really time for things to change between them. He and George are both comfortable in their status as platonic soulmates, and their meeting in person had felt like the culmination of everything- now, they get to live as best friends, for the rest of their lives.
And that really is enough for Dream. He’s not so naïve as to be ignorant of the small crush he has on his friend, but it’s easy to write it off as nothing but the culmination of high excitement for their meeting and his exploration of his own sexuality- George is just an easy person to attach that to, safe. So he never says anything. And nothing really changes. Until their second Christmas together.
George flies in from LA a few days after the 25th, and Dream spends the actual Christmas dates with his family, laughing when they ask where the boy he’d brought last year has run off to.
He’s sitting on the couch when George walks in, dragging his huge suitcase that Dream and Sapnap tease him for behind him. “Need any help?” Dream asks, sitting up from where he’d been relaxed against the back of the couch.
“I got it,” George calls back, dragging the bag the remaining few feet to the bottom of the staircase and leaning it against the wall, before turning to Dream and flopping next to him on the couch.
Dream laughs, poking his side when George only groans. “Look at you, that time at the gym is really paying off.”
“I just got back from a work trip and all you do is make fun of me?” George fully curls up on the couch, dragging a blanket over his body, leaving only his head poking out. “Be a good soulmate and make me a smoothie.”
Rolling his eyes at George’s dramatics, Dream goes to stand, more than willing to get George whatever he asks for. Not that he’d ever admit it aloud, especially with George’s teasing, but he has missed him.
“Wait,” George says, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “It’s too cold for a smoothie.” He sounds sad, and Dream doesn’t like that.
“I can turn up the heat if you want?” he offers, taking George’s hand in his own and feeling the coolness of his skin. “And get more blankets.”
“Yes please.”
So Dream does just that. And not even ten minutes later, George is sipping at a strawberry smoothie, wrapped in enough blankets to survive another trip to Antarctica, with a space heater pointed at him.
He’s telling Dream all about LA and his video that’s nearly ready, and Dream hasn’t felt so content since the last time they had time to just be alone together, which had been over a month ago.
George must see the dopey smile on his face because he pauses mid-sentence, staring at Dream with a questioning look.
“Sorry, I was just- I missed you,” Dream admits, ducking his head in embarrassment.
There’s silence for a moment, filled only by the hum of the heater and the shifting of blankets as George frees one of his feet, using it to poke Dream in the side. “I missed you too, idiot.”
Dream looks up, meeting George’s eyes easily. He’s smiling gently, and Dream returns it easily, moving closer to snuggle into the side of George’s mountain of blankets.
“Wait, I almost forgot,” George says suddenly, as Dream is unraveling a blanket to wrap around himself. “I got you a present.”
“I thought we said none this year?” Dream asks.
George wiggles, and Dream feels it against his back. “It’s small, don’t worry.” And suddenly, a small wrapped package is being dangled in front of his face that he takes before George can drop it on him.
It’s warm, presumably from being shoved in George’s hoodie pocket, and Dream admires the wrapping for a moment.
“I asked Neeko to wrap it for me,” George admits, and Dream laughs.
“Of course you did,” he says, peeling back the tape and going as slow as he can, drawing the moment out to see how George will react.
Predictably, he grows impatient after only a moment. “Dream,” he whines, dragging the word out.
Moving faster, Dream pulls the rest of the paper off to reveal a box, that rattles when he shakes it. Curious now, he’s quick to open it to reveal a marker. A rich green, unsecured in the box. He lifts it out carefully, feeling the warmed plastic on his fingertips and looking it over curiously, trying to find the secret meaning or hidden message.
Behind him, George has stilled, all of his earlier fidgeting quieted. Dream turns with his whole body to face him, looking between George’s carefully blank face and the marker in his hand.
“It’s a marker?” he asks, tilting his head.
George nods, dragging his eyes from the marker to Dream’s face, then to the sleeves of his hoodie. And it clicks.
“You want me to write to you?” Dream uncaps the marker, drawing a line on the back of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees quick movement as George yanks his own hand from his cocoon. He draws another line above the first, connecting them with a series of smaller lines between them until there’s only one thicker line.
The marker is nice, but in all honesty, Dream still doesn’t really get it. A gag gift?
“Do you like it?” George sounds timid when he asks, unlike his usual self.
“It’s nice,” Dream says, putting as much enthusiasm as he feels is appropriate into the words. The whole situation uncomfortably reminds him of Christmas as a kid, of not knowing how to react correctly to any gift, no matter how much he liked it. “The green is pretty,” he adds.
George sighs. “I missed you,” he says again, more melancholy than he had been earlier. “Sometimes it feels like- ugh, never mind, I’m being dumb.”
“What?” Dream says, concerned. Something in George’s voice is setting him off, urging him to dig deeper, to fix whatever’s wrong. “It’s not dumb if it’s making you sad.”
“I’m not sad,” George defends, but his eyes give him away this time. His smile doesn’t reach them. “It’s Christmas. How could I be sad? I have everything I ever wanted.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.”
George’s lack of a response is enough of an answer for Dream, but he doesn’t know what to say.
He spins the marker between his fingers, uncapping it again and hesitating, staring at the blank canvas of his skin. As odd as it is, he doesn’t think he’s ever done this with George so close. Since meeting, they haven’t used their bond much.
Dream turns his left hand over, drawing a slightly lopsided heart on his wrist, heart aching at the memories it brings. He may not know exactly what’s wrong, but he does know what’s helped before.
He looks up slowly, to find George’s eyes on Dream’s wrist, flicking to his own after a moment.
“I think, no, I know I missed this. You never write to me anymore,” George says slowly, like the realization is coming as he speaks.
“You don’t write to me either,” Dream responds, defensive. “But I’m sorry. Is that why you gave me the marker?”
George nods. Dream draws another heart, and thinks.
He lets his mind wander, thinking over the past two years, and how different they’ve been from the long years before. Everything now seems brighter, happier. But there’s a certain rosy tint to the past, the joy of blowing up, of things being shiny and new.
“Sometimes I feel like we’re not even soulmates anymore,” George says, breaking him out of his thoughts with words spoken quickly. “Like, I know we are,” he strokes his thumb over the hearts on his own wrist. “But it just- I just- ugh. I said it was stupid.”
Dream’s heart drops at his words, and he wants to object, to tell George that of course they’re still soulmates, he loves him more than ever. But if George feels this way, if he’s coming to Dream with a present to get him to talk about it, Dream must be doing a pretty shit job of showing him how he feels.
But before he can speak, George continues. “But if you don’t want to be soulmates it’s fine. Obviously. We can just be friends.”
He says the word friends in a way that has Dream’s breath catching in his throat, feelings he’s pushed to the recesses of his mind suddenly rushing forward.
Dream takes a deep breath before speaking, careful to manage his words for fear he messes everything up. “George,” he starts, meeting his eyes. “First of all, nothing, and I mean nothing, could ever make me not want to be your soulmate.”
He sees the way George’s shoulders relax at the words, the way the creases at his eyes lighten, and it’s enough to ease some of the tension in Dream’s own posture.
“Second. I don’t think we’ve ever just,” he stops as his voice cracks on the words, and George takes his hand, squeezing lightly. “I don't think we’ve ever just been friends.”
George’s eyes widen, but he plays it off. “Yes Dream, I remember you asking me to be your best friend. You wrote it in permanent marker when you were 15, right?” he teases. Dream groans at the memory, thinking of his younger self, insecure in their bond, asking an older George to promise to be his best friend forever. He’d been too scared to look for a response, nearly crying when George had agreed.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Dream says.
“I’m not sure I am,” George admits, and now it’s Dream’s turn to squeeze his hand. “I thought, maybe- but then, it’s been two years, and nothing has changed. It’s still just- us.”
“I’m sorry,” Dream sighs. “Everything just feels so different in person. So real.”
And it’s true. As much as they had clicked right away, there had been a shift in their dynamic since meeting. In the weeks before the Visa had been approved Dream had been as his most confident, both of them sure in the sort of blurring-the-lines friendship they had. But in person- If Dream jokes about kissing George, or flirts with him, or anything even with their usual joking nature, he’s scared of crossing some unspoken boundary, of misreading George’s queues. It had been easier to pull away. And look where that got them.
“It does,” George agrees. “But it’s not bad, right?”
Dream shakes his head immediately. “No, no of course not. It’s so good George, just getting to know you like this has been so good. But you’re right, I have been- I don’t know what the right word would be- ignoring our bond? Fearing it? I just don’t want to mess things up.”
“Well, what you said before? That nothing could make you not want to be my soulmate? I feel the same.” George moves the blankets off of himself, wiggling closer to Dream. “So you want to- What? See how things go?”
Dream turns, leaning against the couch, an implicit invitation for George to follow. When they’re pressed side to side, he says, “I think I’m ready for that. I think I’ve been ready for that, for this. Thank you for making me realize it.”
“Where would you be without me,” George teases, right next to Dream’s ear where he rests his head on his shoulder.
And Dream doesn’t respond, but he thinks George knows the answer. They grew up together, after all. He wouldn’t be half the man he is without him.
Their first kiss is on New Year’s, when the small party in their house counts down from ten and shouts in excitement. Dream doesn’t think anyone notices, except maybe Sapnap who winks at him and wiggles his eyebrows.
They only head to bed when the sun is rising, George following Dream and using the toothbrush that had migrated into his bathroom, stealing a hoodie before sliding under Dream’s comforter that smells like both of them.
Dream follows after a moment, reminded of the times they’ve gotten ready for bed together on call, but this time he can stare at George’s face, place gentle kisses on his forehead until he’s pulled in for a proper one. He can hear George’s giggles clearly, without the interference of an ocean between them.
When neither of them can fall asleep, he can grab the green marker from his nightstand and draw on George’s arm, sloppy smiley faces and hearts that appear on his own. He can fall asleep and dream of a future together, sharing everything, and always with that special connection simmering under and across their skin, two stars born to collide over and over again, set in their fated orbit.