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“Dream, c’mon. It’s getting late.”
“Mm.”
George laughs softly. “What?”
Dream shrugs slightly, lifting only one shoulder as he leans on the other. His elbow is pressed into the blanket, cushioned by fabric and the plush grass underneath; he isn’t cold, not in a thin shirt and not from the breeze that slips over his skin, oh so alike to the fingertips that rub circles over his knuckles. George’s touch comes in hues of tangerine and vermillion, and Dream wouldn’t snatch his hand away from the heat even if it burned him.
The boy beside him laughs again, lifting his hand to press a kiss to the back of it. Dream’s heart aches at the sight and feel, and he swears that the red and orange from the sunset in front of them has materialized on his skin, blessed in George’s touch and the breath in his lungs.
“If you’re gonna stare, at least take a picture,” George teases. “It’ll last longer than the present.”
Dream’s smile grows, ever permanent on his lips and only encouraged by the blush rising in his chest. Petals, he thinks, soft petals would match the colour of it. “I wish I was materialistic. I can be satisfied with just this.”
Petals would match the colour, but the full flowers themselves would compliment the gaze he gets in return.
George shakes his head softly, still sitting beside him with mere inches between; the line of his body is relaxed, and as Dream brushes his thumb over George’s palm, the shiver that comes after makes him warm. He’s already given George his hoodie and the greater part of the blanket, shielding them from the ground that would steal their heat and the grass that doesn’t need it; Dream would give anything he thinks George deserves and more if it means he can stay in this moment a little while longer.
“Are you coming over tonight?” George asks quietly, nerves lacing his every word like Dream hasn’t tasted them from his tongue himself, like the blond in his bed is a new thing and like the pillows at Dream’s house don’t smell like him. “We can watch the sunrise instead, perhaps.”
Dream snorts at that. “Like you would get up in time for it. But, yes, if you want me there then I’m all yours.”
“And you weren’t mine before?”
“No, believe me, I always have been,” Dream responds, rose tones lacing his voice as he pushes himself up to a sitting position. George watches him with the same flare of colour present in his eyes, aided by adoration and a simple love that Dream has learned belongs only to him. “You know I always want to come over.”
“Mm, now you sound excited.”
“I just think your bed is comfier, especially when you’re in it with me.”
George scoffs gently, but it’s buffered by the blush on his cheeks; the fading sun does him justice, painting him in tones of tangerine and sweet touches that would only suit George. Dream thinks about what he said, about the picture, but then he decides that this is something that he can keep in his heart. Materials and memories be damned, this is Dream’s in the moment and now.
“Do you want to go back?” George repeats from before, but even then he makes no move to actually stand up. Perhaps Dream isn’t the only one reluctant to break this limbo.
“We could just stay here,” Dream offers. He doesn’t want to leave, honestly, not when they’re so comfortable in this park, sitting in the spot they had a late picnic in and enveloped by the warmth of the sun and her waning rays. It feels good here in a sense of words, and as the wind shifts away Dream gently tugs on George’s hand. “It’s not like we’re walking home. I can drive in the dark.”
Gold and carmine flood his vision. Dream is mesmerized by it, captured and locked in by everything that is George.
He doesn’t even have to say a word, and he’s so far gone on his lover.
“C’mon,” Dream urges, “Let’s stay here for a little. Please?”
George takes all of two seconds to decide, apparently not the only one weak to the present. “Fine. Fine, okay.” He doesn’t sound mad, not one bit. “Make sure you remember where you put the keys, idiot, cuz’ it’ll get cold when the sun sets and I don’t want to get caught out at night.”
Dream’s cheeks ache. His heart feels more of it, and he wonders how something that hurts like this is so good for him. “Of course.”
And so they stay there. Some words are passed, dripped in honey and exchanged kisses, sheltered by the breeze and Dream’s arm when he sits up to get closer. George curls into his side, laughs in velvet tones and murmured words, and the sun keeps moving; she doesn’t love George as much as Dream does, and it shows as the colour fades cruelly from the horizon.
The euphoria doesn’t, though, and Dream locks it in with a brush of lips to George’s forehead.
They stay there for hours longer than they should, killing their phone batteries with the flashlights as the stars come out. Dream falls back down on his back and George tucks close to him, using his arm as a headrest as his fingers come up and trace lines through the constellations.
The world could be his game and still Dream would play it, forever entranced with the golden boy beside him and the auburn blush he brings forward, delicately brushed in cranberry against his skin and staining him for the rest of his life.
Maybe that’s somehow dramatic. Thank god he’s not realistic but even if he was, Dream would give anything to have that with him for the rest of his life.
He gets caught up watching George, staring in awe and simple love as he talks about the stars and the legends attached, musing over the possibilities and the gaps in stories and myths like he could draw out the answers with only his words. Dream listens, cutting in only to add small commentary and adjust his position. The blanket edges are curled around them, tucking them in under the duvet of stars for extra warmth and aiding in the comfort that Dream drifts into.
Headfirst, they always said. You dive headfirst into the things that will bring you the best life.
Somewhere along the way, George stops talking. The lights from their phones have been shut off, leaving them in the mild dark of the greenspace and the echoing lights of the midnight city.
Perhaps they should leave soon, but there isn’t anything that could make them break this limbo and send it crashing to the ground.
George sighs softly.
Dream can only breathe.
Somewhere along the way, they walk back to the car. Dream slings his arm around George’s waist as he shivers, not bothering to check the time on his phone. They spent hours there and it isn’t even an exaggeration; he wonders if by the time they drive home, the sun will be back and rising to kiss George’s cheeks in greeting.
It’s almost too easy with how they get into the car, meeting over the console as seatbelts click and an ignition starts to kiss. George tastes like spring, like tulips and roses and things that would make up Dream’s bones if he were more fragile; he hopes he isn’t, and that he won’t wither away when the seasons change.
He knows it’s alright, though: George will take him with him anywhere he goes.
Even with the car started, Dream doesn’t move. George hums sleepily at the windows, eyes drooped and soft in the lowlights of the dash.
“Look how foggy that is. People are gonna think we’re up to no good.”
Dream laughs, sudden and somehow still so fitting in the quiet. “Maybe we were. Who are they to know?”
George’s gaze slips to him and all Dream can think is roses. George would like roses, perhaps, and a ring fitted in the center of the bouquet. Flowers were never his strong suit and he barely knows a dandelion from a daisy, but Dream would learn if it meant he could see George smile.
“Jealous?”
“Of you? Never. Of the people outside…?” Dream leans his hand on the console, tilting his head so that he can fit his nose beside George’s. Hot breath echoes against his lips and he can feel the heat of George’s skin, slightly chilled on the surface from the midnight air but every so tantalizing. “Not when I know I’m the one who gets to have you.”
George licks his lips, eyelids lowered. His eyelashes nearly touch his cheeks, mimicking the way George traced the stars mere hours ago. “So you’re not jealous… just possessive?”
The words flare red in his stomach and Dream searches for George’s hand on his lap, taking his fingers and threading them through his own tightly. George squeezes back just as hard and he knows he’s not the only one aching this way.
“Don’t act like you aren’t the same, darling. You can’t hide now, not from me and not from yourself.”
George smells good. He’s everything like Dream’s cologne and his own, and something underneath like the water in his shower and linen. It’s a dizzying mixture and Dream is struck with the thought of home, but it’s not surprising in the least. The other has always been home for him, even through familiar stop signs and streets that he’s memorized: George is his home, and Dream has never once thought about running away.
“You’re right,” George rasps, copper slipping over his tongue and pressing against Dream’s face, threading down his chest and curling soft hands around his heart. “You said it yourself, you’ve always been mine.”
“Mhm,” Dream sighs, leaning forward the tiniest bit to press his forehead to George’s. The contact sears and his next exhale is shaky. “Yours.”
“Mine,” George whispers in turn, and the next thing he knows is pink lips against his and the ache in his heart settling.
George kisses him like he’s summer, blistering heat and gentle breezes all in one, sweet scents and the flowers that bloom during the earlier months. He presses into him with a small gasp, swallowed by Dream’s mouth as he eagerly accepts the affection, begging for more in the same movement and letting his tongue lave over a soft mouth.
A sound escapes the brunet and his fingers tighten on Dream’s hand, tilting his head more so he can kiss Dream deeper, show him more, prove to him that he belongs only to George and that it won’t change. Summer will come and go and fall will take its place and they’ll still be here, sitting on the hill and watching the leaves burn on the trees and still talk about the constellations.
Dream pulls back slightly but George doesn’t let him, lifting his other hand to catch the blond by the back of his neck—he moans into it, lets George lick into his mouth and chase his own taste of cherry and cranberry and everything that comes hand in hand with his lover. Fingers scratch softly at the short hairs at the back of his head and Dream is weak.
Blush turns to red and tangerine turns to auburn with every move, and Dream forgets about the fogging windows and the sky and the way the clock ticks by with mocking numbers. He lets himself fall into George and is caught by welcoming hands and a mouth that knows how to render him useless.
Their lips part on a silent note and Dream immediately licks them, desperate even though his source is right in front of him; George looks the same way, eyes dark as they reflect the dash lights and the love he poured into every touch. His fingers rub into Dream’s skin and he smiles, lips just that side of swollen and slick with proof of their actions.
“You’re so beautiful,” George murmurs, and Dream’s entire soul lights up with scarlet.
He doesn’t know how to respond so he leans back in and catches George’s smile with his mouth, laughing by his lips and squeezing his eyes shut against tears from pure happiness. There isn’t a time he could recall that would measure up to this, and he feels like a fool with how his heart throbs in his chest and bruises his ribcage from the inside out.
George’s hand ends up there, still tangled with Dream’s fingers but somehow, he presses his touch there and Dream is heels over head.
George kisses with everything he has. Dream takes it all and keeps it, buries it inside and protects it with all he owns.
He hopes George will do the same, but there isn’t a fear that he won’t.
Sometime later, when their lips are swollen and cheeks are stained with cranberry reds, Dream will drive them home. Sometime later, he’ll roll through familiar stop signs and memorized streets and park in front of George’s house.
Sometime later, the windows will fog again as soon as he puts the car in park.
It takes them too long to make it to the house, giggling and high off their homemade euphoria as the sun rises behind them. George makes fun of Dream for slipping on the steps to the house and Dream chases George around the front yard, muted laughter and shrieks bouncing off the asphalt and reflecting in the dew that formed in the hours they were awake.
Dream kisses him there again, shoes soaked through and hearts dripping with crushed vermillion.
Maybe the people living on the same street would call them stupid, silly young persons dancing in the dew and pressing grinning kisses to each others mouths. Maybe they would call them dumbly in love, and Dream would take that with a brave face and a hand locked in George’s hold.
“You’re such a fool,” George laughs, arms locked around Dream’s neck as he swings his lover around. His arms are around George’s waist, tucked under the hoodie Dream gave him while they were still on the hill and pressing his hands to every knob on George’s spine; the structural movement of him makes his chest tight and oh, that pressure behind his eyes is back again.
“Yeah?” Dream sets him down then, makes sure George is standing in the damp grass and waits as the sun rises. Just as he thought it would, she brushes golden hues over George’s skin and illuminates him for all the beauty he holds. “I’d be a fool not to love you.”
George’s face softens. “You…”
Dream can’t even manage to smile now. He’s too soft, too vulnerable in the light of the new day and dragging it on for moments to come; it’s a safe time to do so, and even standing in the open of the street not a single bolt of fear rocks him. George’s hands come around and cup his face, supporting him as Dream closes stinging eyes.
“I love you,” Dream whispers, tightening his hold around George as the other rocks up on his toes.
“I love you, too,” the brunet murmurs, sealing it with a brush of tangerine lips and carmine fingertips—Dream wouldn’t be surprised if he left smudges along his cheeks with the way he holds him so gently, careful as though he would break apart with a harder touch. “I love you so much.”
Much later, perhaps too much later, Dream falls into George’s bed. The blankets smell like him and the pillows carry all the comfort he’s ever wanted; George joins him seconds later, movements slurred by the acute exhaustion they both face and touch warming as they find their haven.
Dream will reach for him and George will curl into his embrace, so similar to the hill in the spring and still smelling just the same. They’ll find a comfortable position—Dream’s face pressed to a pale neck and George’s arms looped over his shoulders, heavy and grounding all the same.
They’ll fall asleep. They’ll stay the same, never finishing their sentences and continuing to fog the windshield, always dancing in the dew of the aching morning and basking in the light that the sun will give.
Dream will love George all the same. George will kiss him differently each time, but every touch will be laced with hopelessly familiar emotion. They won’t change, and if they do it won’t be locked in a photograph to remember.
It’s okay to stay here, Dream thinks. It’s alright to stay home, especially when home is the heartbeat in his ear and the hands curling through his hair, and all the petals in his bones when he sighs in safe content.
It’s okay to stay the same, because he knows George won’t change without him.