post-it notes and loose change

by alisonsomething, dizzy

Summary:

It’s February 2022 and Dream can't stand to see George alone, waiting, and getting lost to the storm clouds chasing him.

So he spends four days in London, trying to help George find the light.

There is a long weekend that doesn’t happen. It doesn't happen in February. It isn’t raining when there isn’t a knock at the door. There aren’t four days of clouds and cold spent in another world.

He doesn't come home with a new stamp in his passport and a fifty pence coin in his pocket.

Because it doesn’t happen.

-

George is sad.

Dream knows it. Nick knows it, too. They've talked about it before. The way George is just existing right now. He's on calls, but he doesn't say much. He seems to barely sleep. They have to mention food ten times before he grudgingly agrees to order something. Sometimes he says he will and he doesn't, and he thinks Dream doesn't notice, but Dream does.

"What's wrong?" he asks, late one night when it's just the two of them.

George makes a sound like a shrug in the back of his throat. "Dunno."

"George."

"What."

"George."

"Fine," George says. "Fine. I'll admit it. That's my name. I am George."

The joke doesn't land. Dream just frowns harder. "You sound so tired."

"I am tired."

But that's not what Dream means, so he clarifies. "You always sound tired lately."

"Dream..." George sighs. "Stop."

"Why?" Dream says. "I'm just asking. I'm asking questions. I want to know how—how you are. And you're not answering me."

"I am answering you."

"You're not. Not really."

"What do you want me to say?" George snaps. It's the most life his voice has had in days. "I don't know. I just feel bad, Dream. That's like—that's all. I feel bad. Are you happy? Is that good? I feel bad."

Dream blinks hard. "No," he says, finally. "No, it's not good."

George sighs. "I have to go," he says, and then does something he almost never does.

He hangs up the phone.

-

Dream stares at his ceiling.

George feels bad.

Logically, Dream understands. He gets it. He and Nick live together now. George doesn't live with them. George lives across the world. He doesn't get to hang out in the living room and watch a game. He can't come over to Dream's parents' house for family dinners and laugh with Dream's siblings. He doesn't get to roll around on the floor with Patches, dangling a toy for her to catch.

He can't do any of that. He's stuck alone in a small flat, in a concrete city without his two best friends. They're under the same moon and the same sun, but they're so far apart even their days and nights are different.

They force it to not matter in every way they can. But they can't control everything. Dream can't fix everything.

He can't make George feel better.

He can't...

He can.

But he can't.

-

The first time he hears George cry, it's eight in the evening.

It's not quite dark yet, murky light filtering in through Dream's blackout blinds. Dream's mind does the translation like it's second nature: not quite dark here means all the way night in England.

It's night, some late hour, and George is crying.

Dream doesn't say anything at first. He just listens to the hitched breaths, the softly uncontrolled gasping, and he feels his chest breaking apart.

"George," he says, voice rough and gutted.

George lets out a sound, a broken sob. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Dream says. "Don't be sorry. I'm the one that's sorry."

"Hang up," George tells him, like he both wants him to listen and is terrified that he will. "You can go."

"No," Dream says. "I'm here, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

So George keeps crying, and Dream keeps breaking.

-

He packs a bag and doesn't tell anyone.

He also doesn't do anything with the bag. He just packs it.

Two pairs of jeans. Two hoodies. Four t-shirts. Underwear. Socks. He steps back and rethinks, adding a couple extra pairs of underwear, just in case he shits himself twice or something. Then he adds a spare phone charger. He'd need an adaptor for the UK plugs. His parents might have one, but he's not asking them. He has money; he can just buy one in the airport.

It's all hypothetical though. He can't—he can't go. He just. He can't not—

He zips up the bag and puts it in his closet, like just the act of packing the bag and having it ready to go will make some kind of difference.

Then he goes into his office and calls George, making him listen while he does a couple of speedruns. George isn't even on screen share, he's not even watching, but he listens and he makes just enough conversation that Dream can't say he's not talking.

The phone call lasts almost twenty-eight hours. Nick comes and goes. He has other things he wants to do. Other people he wants to talk to. He streams, playing Valorant with Punz. Dream and George don't watch it, staying in their call together, in their little bubble.

They watch some YouTube videos together. George laughs three times, soft muted sounds. Three times in two hours. Dream aches and aches.

When George finally falls asleep, Dream buys a plane ticket.

-

It's not the first time he's thought about it.

He has a passport. It's old and the picture on it barely resembles who he is now. The expiration date is only a few months away, close enough that he has to check to make sure he's still allowed to use it.

He doesn't know when he'll renew it. The thought of having to go somewhere and have his picture taken—it makes his stomach clench.

The thought of going through airport security does, too, but he thinks about George not laughing anymore, not really wanting to do anything anymore, and he pulls the packed bag out of his closet.

-

He tells Nick that he's going to his grandparents' for the weekend.

He tells his mom that he's going to visit a friend. She wants to know who but doesn't ask. He's sure he'll tell her when he's back. This isn't the first time he's plunged ahead with something questionable without asking anyone around him for advice, and she knows it.

He doesn't know if that means she trusts him or if she just understands that once he's made his mind up he can't be talked out of something.

Would she even try?

Would she just be confused?

Probably, Dream thinks. He has no idea how he'd explain that he's hidden his face for two years and he's risking it all to fly across the world because George is feeling down. He's missed weddings and funerals, graduations and birthdays, all to protect his face reveal, and now he's jumping on a plane because his friend is sad. Even to his own ears, it sounds suspicious.

Before they even take the exit for the airport, Dream is tucking the elastic bands of a face mask behind his ears and pulling a beanie over his hair. He knows the risk he's taking, but he's still going to take every precaution possible to avoid being noticed.

He checks in online. He has no baggage to check, so he doesn't have to speak to anyone, drastically cutting down his chances of being recognized.

When he's waiting at his gate, he gets a call from George and debates answering it, but he doesn't want to be talked out of this. He doesn't want to give George a reason to worry or feel guilty or any of the ridiculous things he could possibly feel. So, he doesn't answer the call.

He can't remember the last time he didn't pick up for George.

It feels shitty, but when he's on the plane, tucked away in his private first class seat, relief starts to edge out the shittiness and the anxiety of doing this. The plane takes off and, with every passing moment, he gets closer and closer to where he needs to be.

-

Sliding into the back of a taxi, Dream reads George's address off his phone, where it's been saved with his contact information for the few times he's had to use it. Sending him merch, ordering him food, and, once, sending him flowers on his birthday. As a joke.

The taxi driver doesn't try to talk to him, for which Dream is grateful. At customs, he'd had to speak and lower his mask to show the officer his face, and he thought that his heart might beat out of his chest.

He saw it in his head: the officer looking at his passport, at his name, and saying, "Hey, wait, I know you. You're that famous Minecraft guy." People around would turn, would take pictures, and they'd be on Twitter in mere seconds. His face reveal would be lost in an instant. Everything they'd planned.

But the officer had only asked him a few standard questions, stamped his passport, and sent him through without a second glance.

The traffic heading into the city is congested and they get stopped in it a few times along the way. Dream is impatient to get there, but he's also nervous. Maybe he should have told George ahead of time. Maybe he won't even be home.

But, realistically, where else would he be? He's barely left his flat in months. That's the problem.

When they get close, Dream asks the driver to let him out early. They're still a half mile or so from George's flat, but he needs time. His legs are twitchy with nervous energy, and he needs—he needs a minute. He needs to clear his mind.

He pays the driver using his card, because he doesn’t have any cash. It hits him then how unprepared for this he is. He has no money and no idea if he’s getting extra fees for using his credit card abroad. Looking at his phone, he sees that it has switched to roaming charges because he hasn’t set anything up.

Normal people prepare for this. But he’s not normal, and he is rich, so he has the luxury of not giving a fuck.

He thanks the driver and starts to walk. The streets are busier than he expected. There are people passing him by on their cell phone, or walking their dog, or chatting in couples or small groups. He steps to the side to avoid a gaggle of identically dressed children in school uniforms running by him.

He’s flown all night and it’s midday in England now. They must be getting out of school. He wonders if George wore a uniform like that when he was young and then he wonders if George has ever seen those specific kids. It's possible. It's entirely possible that George has been in the same spot he is now, passing the very same kids.

He passes by a Tesco and realizes it’s the one George walks to when he’s out of juice or wants something specific to eat. Dream has talked to George on the phone countless times while George walked these exact steps back home from the store. There’s a buzzing in Dream’s chest that only amplifies as he checks the map on his phone.

He turns one corner and there it is, the numbers on the door staring back at him. George lives here. This is George’s flat. Somewhere, at least, somewhere in this building. The first floor, or second, depending on which you count. They’ve had that argument before too; Dream says the first floor is the first floor and it’s stupid to call the one above it the first floor. George argues back as good as he gets.

Usually. Not lately, though.

And that’s why Dream’s here.

He lifts his hand to the door and, just as he knocks, the rain starts.

-

The knock does nothing. Dream realizes there’s a buzzer panel instead, and pushes the button for George’s flat.

Unfortunately, that also does nothing. George doesn’t answer the buzz.

Maybe Dream should have anticipated this. His hands shake as he raises his phone to his face. It rings three, four, five times. The rain is still just a drizzle, but he looks at the darkening sky and he can tell it's just going to get worse.

Still no answer.

He feels like he’s going to actually be sick now. He calls a second time, and then a third. He’s imagining a universe where he has to fly back home without even seeing George now, even though that’s ridiculous. If George is asleep or not home, Dream will just wait. He'll—he'll find a nice covered spot to sit or he'll rent a hotel room if he has to or—

Then George answers the call.

“Wow,” he says, voice dry. “Dream remembered I exist.”

“What—” Dream remembers the flight and ignoring George’s call. “Look. Look, George. I can explain.”

“You don’t have to,” George says, sighing. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter, okay. Nothing matters. You and Sapnap were probably like, I dunno, having fun or something.”

“We weren’t,” Dream says. He leans his forehead against the worn paint of the door. “George, listen. I need you to come downstairs.”

“Did you send something?” George asks. “Is it food? I’ve literally already eaten, Dream.”

“Just answer the door,” Dream pleads. “It’s so important. I promise you.”

“Fine,” George says. There’s defeat in his voice. “But I’m actually not hungry, okay.”

Dream closes his eyes tightly, then pops them back open again. His nerves light up again as he listens to George's feet on the stairs, getting close to the door. He knows the pattern of these sounds. His mind knows the number of seconds it takes to get from the last step to the creak of the door.

He takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

And then there’s George standing right in front of him.

-

George is staring. He looks at Dream like he’s seeing someone familiar but whose name he can’t quite recall. His mouth opens once, then closes.

Dream takes a breath and says, “George.”

George startles. His eyes go wide. He almost looks scared. “No,” he says. “Wait. No.”

“Yeah,” Dream says.

“No,” George says again, more forcefully.

Dream smiles just a little. “Okay, but yeah?”

Instead of saying 'no' again, George shakes his head, like if he denies that this is happening enough, Dream will disappear.

But Dream is not disappearing.

He reaches out, touching George's elbow, just to show that he's here, that he's real. And maybe for selfish reasons too. He's standing in front of his best friend for the first time. He gets to touch him for the first time.

He wants to hug him so badly, but he waits, giving George time to process.

"Your face reveal," George says, still shaking his head a little bit. "This isn't how this is supposed to happen."

Dream takes a step closer. "This isn't happening," he says softly, pretending he's not nervous as fuck. "I mean, it is, but—when I leave here in a few days, it won't have happened, okay? You will never have seen me. I'll never have come to England. We take that to the grave."

George is staring at him, listening, the shaking of his head finally stilling.

"We can have both, right? This can be, like, an alternate timeline. What would have been if I'd said 'fuck it' and come to see you."

He can't help but notice that George's eyes are glassier than they were a moment ago, even if he's valiantly trying not to show any emotion.

Dream sighs, letting his other hand touch George, too, both of them sliding up to rest on his shoulders. "I couldn't stay there when—" his voice cracks and he swallows hard— "I couldn't not come, you know?"

He waits to see what George will say, if he'll slam the door in Dream's face and push him back out into the rain or if he'll pull him in or—who knows what he'll do. George is unpredictable on a normal day and today is anything but normal.

Finally, after a long moment, George clears his throat and says, "You're a fucking idiot."

And then he pulls Dream into the tightest, warmest hug Dream has ever experienced. He breathes out hard, wrapping his arms around George's waist and holding him so close that he half expects him to complain about not being able to breathe. The fact that he doesn't complain just shows how much he needed this, how much he needed Dream here.

And, god, Dream needed it too.

He breathes in deep, trying to make little notes in his head about George. How he smells like clothes that have been worn too long, like stale sweat and sleep. How his breathing is coming in soft little puffs and his fingers are twisting into Dream's sweatshirt. How, like this, he's just tall enough for Dream to press his nose into his hair.

How it doesn't feel like their very first time meeting. It feels like they've done this a hundred times before, somehow, like holding George is as familiar as hugging his mom or fist bumping Nick or petting Patches.

"I hate you," George says, his voice weak. "I actually hate you so much."

Dream smiles into the top of his head. He knows exactly what George is saying.

"I know, George. Me too."

-

George's flat feels smaller in person. Dream can imagine how it would feel claustrophobic after a while of being stuck here.

He drops his bag by the front door and brushes himself off, glad he didn't have to wait any longer and get soaked. Shaking out his hair, he looks around at walls and floors and furniture he's seen many times on video calls. It's surreal, seeing it in person. Dream didn't think he'd ever get the chance to step foot in here.

"I don't have, like, drinks to offer," George says, standing by his desk. "And I really did eat, so I don't have food or anything."

"I didn't come here for a meal," Dream tells him.

"What did you come for?"

Dream chooses his words carefully. "I think we both needed to see each other. It was getting too hard."

“Life is hard, Dream,” George says, voice exaggerated with wisdom. “You’re—”

“Don’t,” Dream says, shoving him slightly.

George giggles. It’s high and a little giddy, and he’s looking at Dream with wildness in his eyes, like he’s just realized that this is actually here. “Does Sapnap know?”

“No,” Dream says. “No one does.”

“No one?”

“No one,” Dream says firmly.

“Wow,” George says. “Dream is a secret agent. A spy.”

“International spy,” Dream adds. “I snuck my way around the world.”

“Not literally though,” George says. “All the way around the world would be right back where you started.”

“Halfway around the world,” Dream says.

“No,” George says. “The world is like twenty-five thousand miles around. Florida is only 4,300 miles from here. So it’s not even half of half.”

“Well, it’s still too far,” Dream says. He stands in George’s lounge and looks at him and repeats, “It’s too far.”

He watches as George twists the fingers of one hand with the other, then nods. “It’s too far.”

-

There’s a moment where it’s awkward.

Dream sits on George’s sofa and looks around, still trying to make it feel real. There are cardboard boxes lining the wall, and he’s not sure if it’s packages he’s received or just things he never unpacked.

George even asks him how his flight was, and Dream can’t help but laugh. “I’m not your grandmother, George,” Dream says. “But it was fine. It was—I don’t know. It was fine. I watched a movie. Don’t even ask me what it was. I don’t remember. And then I just watched some old episodes of The Office. The one with the pizza guy?”

“Oh, yeah,” George says. “That’s a good one.”

He stops looking at the room and looks at George again. He seems—small. Smaller than Dream expected, and Dream already… expected. It doesn’t help that the shirt he’s wearing is massively oversized but his arms and his legs look more fragile than Dream expected. “Have you lost weight?”

George’s head jerks at the question. “I dunno. Maybe.”

He has, Dream’s sure. He’s seen pictures of George before. He suddenly understands better than ever the way his grandmother’s first inclination whenever they visited was to feed them a meal. The protective urge settles just out of place in Dream’s gut. “It’s okay, right?” he says, needing to feel the air. “That I came?”

“Dream.” George scoffs. “You’re so stupid.”

“What?”

“It’s—no. Actually. It’s not okay. Not at all. I hate you, actually. Actually. Get out. Go.” George’s voice gets more and more exaggerated as he talks, until he’s flailing his arms at the door.

“I hate you so much,” Dream says, and reaches out to shove George again.

“No! Don’t touch me!” George shrieks, and he’s laughing, he’s actually laughing. Dream feels flushed with it. He can’t stop the smile on his face. He’s being so dumb, so George, and Dream missed it so much. “You have to leave. Go. I never want to see your face—like, hide it again. Hide it!”

“Fine!” Dream throws his hands over his face and sinks down into the sofa. “I’ll just go fucking, wandering into the street or something.”

“No,” George says, and grabs Dream’s arms, pulling them from his face. His eyes are shining and he’s smiling and his fingers can’t even circle Dream’s wrists. “No. Don’t. Stay, Dream. Let me see you.”

“Okay,” Dream says, smiling back at him. “You can see me.”

-

“How long?” George asks. He’s retreated back to the other side of the sofa.

“My flight home is Tuesday,” Dream says. “I just… picked one.”

“And no one knows,” George says.

“No one.”

“You’re my secret.”

“I guess, I mean, yeah. I guess I am.”

George leans his head against the back of the sofa, his legs all tucked up where he's sitting, facing Dream. "What exactly are we supposed to do while you're here?"

The truth is, Dream hasn't thought about it. Not once. All he wanted was to be here, to get to George. After that, he didn't think about what they'd do. Just sit and stare at each other? Honestly, there are worse ways he could spend a long weekend.

"First, we should order some food," he says, his eyes lingering on George's tiny frame, swallowed up by his shirt.

"I told you I already ate."

"What did you eat?"

George rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn't dim. "I had half a thing of chicken nuggets left over from a couple days ago. And a couple of apple slices."

Dream shakes his head. He understands why George hasn't been prioritizing food—he's been there. He gets it. But not on his watch.

"We're going to order some real, fresh food that doesn't come from McDonalds. This is London, I'm sure there are a million options, right?"

"Well, it's not two in the morning, so, yeah."

Dream nods. "Pull up the app. Let's look."

George doesn't move though. He keeps looking at Dream, curious. "But then what? You're here for four days. You can't go anywhere or meet anyone or—"

"I'm not here for any of that, George."

George's mouth opens like he's going to ask again why he's here. But then he just closes it like maybe he's finally getting it. Maybe he finally understands that it doesn't matter what they do.

They're together. That's all Dream cares about.

"Fine," George finally says, sighing like he's being put out as he pulls his phone from his pocket. "I guess we can get food."

-

They order way too much Chinese food because neither of them can decide what they want. With the order placed, Dream hands George his phone and puts away his credit card, and a silence falls over them. It's not uncomfortable, exactly, but Dream still feels like they should be talking. Then again, if they were on call, they wouldn't necessarily be talking the whole time. They sit in silence all the time; it shouldn't be any different because he's here.

Luckily, George is the first to speak, saving Dream from having to figure out what to say.

"It's so weird seeing your face."

Somehow the fact that George has never seen what he looks like has slipped his mind, overshadowed by everything else. "Do I look different than you expected?"

"I don't know," George says, considering him. "I'm not sure what I expected. I guess I just pictured, like, a blob."

"Did you think I looked like the smile logo?" Dream asks, snickering. "Like my merch?"

"Shut up," George laughs. "I just pictured—I didn't picture anything. I tried sometimes, but nothing I imagined ever felt right."

"Well, does this feel right?" Dream gestures to himself, curious to hear the answer.

George's head tilts thoughtfully as he studies him. "I have to get used to it."

Dream can't help but snort. "Oh, thanks. Exactly what everyone wants to hear. 'I have to get used to how you look.'"

"Oh my god, stop fishing for compliments, Dream."

Emboldened by George's initiation of physical contact earlier, Dream reaches out, grabbing George's arm. "But I need them," he says, playing it up. "Please, George, tell me I'm pretty."

"No."

"George, please," Dream cries. "I need it."

George laughs again. Dream will never get tired of that sound.

"Get off me. You smell. I hate you."

"But am I pretty?" Dream asks, hopeful. "I don't care about the other stuff."

George groans, rolling his eyes. "Fine. You're not, like, hideous."

Dream grins like George has just told him he's the most beautiful man in the world.

"But I still hate you," George adds.

Dream's hand is still holding him, wrapped firmly around his skinny forearm. He feels delicate like fine china, like if Dream squeezed just a bit too hard, the bone would crack. It scares him a little, feeling how breakable George is. He wants to wrap him in bubble wrap to keep him safe. Or, better yet, he wants to stay with him and personally make sure that nothing bad ever happens to him.

"George," he says, swallowing.

He wants to tell him that he loves him, but something holds him back. He's not sure why—he's said those words before. But right now, it feels like those words would weigh too much.

Instead, he says, "You're my best friend."

The last thing he expects is another hug, but when George crosses the space between them to wrap his arms around Dream's shoulders, Dream decides that he likes surprises.

-

Dream puts the food away when George shows no inclination of doing it. There’s easily enough for a few meals, but Dream’s mind is two steps ahead. The more food he leaves George with, the more chance there is that George will keep eating well once he’s gone.

So maybe tomorrow Dream has a craving for pizza. Maybe for dinner he wants pasta. He’s congratulating himself for the smart thinking when George’s phone bursts to life with noise. It’s familiar, the sound of a discord call.

Dream turns around. The flat is open plan and he can see George from the kitchen.

“It’s Sapnap,” George says. “Should I answer it?”

“No,” Dream says.

They both wait out the sound.

“So you’re really not going to tell him you’re here?” George asks.

“Um,” Dream says. “No?”

“Why not?” George’s voice takes on an odd quality.

“Because I think it would hurt his feelings that I came without him,” Dream says.

“Why?” George asks, more forcefully. “He’s had you for ages without me there. He literally hung up on me when you two met.”

“He shouldn’t have,” Dream says. He’s watching George’s face, watching as some sort of storm gathers there. This is it—this is one of the reasons why he’s here. Because this is George, lately. His mood turns on a dime and in the beginning Dream knew how to pull him back to the surface but more and more lately he just can’t. Not over a call, but maybe here he can. So he says, “If it’s important to you, we can tell him.”

“It’s not,” George says, curling up on himself. “I don’t care. It doesn’t even matter.”

“It matters,” Dream says.

“It doesn’t.” George sighs and it’s like the fight goes completely out of him. He closes his eyes and it gives Dream another chance to study him. The smudges of dark under his eyes look darker in real life than they do through a video call. “It doesn’t even matter.”

Dream sits back down. “When was the last time you slept?”

“When was the last time you slept?” George shoots back.

“Over a day ago,” Dream says.

“Then some time before that,” George says.

Dream knows exactly what George means. The last time he slept was the call where he woke Dream up crying.

“So we’re both tired,” Dream says. Allowing himself to think it unlocks some new level of exhaustion within him. This is about George, but it’s also a little bit about the way his battery is completely drained right now. Two years of barely leaving his house and he’s walked in crowds of hundreds today. “And we’ve eaten. So maybe… we just sleep for a while?”

“Okay,” George says, but he doesn’t move. Then he sighs and heaves himself up. “I have clean sheets somewhere. I’ll take mine off the bed and sleep on the sofa. You’re way too tall for it. Freak.”

Dream’s mouth goes dry. That sounds like effort, but even more than that, it sounds like distance between them. “Or don’t.”

George stares at him. “There isn’t a bed in the second room.”

“I know,” Dream says.

“Wait. Wait. You want to sleep in my bed?” George asks. “With me?”

“Yeah,” Dream says.

The words don’t mean anything explicit. He’s shared a bed with Nick before, the first couple of nights Nick came to live with him, while they waited on his mattress to be delivered. It’s a strange memory to let rise to the surface, the way his life felt like it was falling apart but he had his best friend in bed laughing with him until they were breathless with it over stupid memes. The bed was big enough that the wide gulf between them went untouched, and Dream wasn’t sad when Nick’s bed got delivered, but it wasn’t a bad experience.

Nick isn’t George, though. And Dream doesn’t just want to sleep beside George because it’s a better option than the rest. He wants to know he’s using his time here to the fullest. Dream knows himself and he knows George. They could easily sleep for five hours or twelve. It’s a long time to have walls between them that don’t need to be there.

He doesn’t want George crying at night without Dream knowing.

“Okay,” George says, and shrugs. “Fine.”

-

It's obvious as they strip down to boxers and t-shirts that George is nervous. He won't quite meet Dream's eyes as he closes the curtains, blocking out the sun that's still high in the sky, and plugs his phone into the charger next to his bed.

Dream doesn't plug his own phone in. There's no one he needs to talk to who isn't right here.

When they climb into the bed, their bodies meeting again under the covers, Dream can hear the shake of George's breath. "Hey," he says quietly, "is this okay? I can move to the couch if you want."

"It's fine," George says, his tone hard to read. "I just haven't had anyone in my bed in a long time."

Dream nods. He understands that.

Carefully, he reaches out to touch his fingers to George's wrist where his arm is resting on his chest.

"I haven't been in anyone's bed in a long time," he agrees. "I just—4,300 miles was too far. But so is a few feet."

George darts his eyes away, chewing on his lip. "Yeah."

Dream can feel the heaviness of impending sleep weighing on him, dragging him under. He closes his eyes and lets his fingers slide over George's skin, moving up to trace the bones in his hand. Each finger, each knuckle. He makes a map to take home with him, to remember this weekend that never happened.

He's almost asleep when George speaks so softly that he can barely hear. "You're going to leave. I'm going to be alone again."

It breaks Dream's heart. It's true, of course. There's nothing either of them can do to change that.

Instead of trying to convince George to enjoy these few days while they have them, to not mourn a loss they haven't even lost yet, he tries to keep it light.

"Unless I pack you in a suitcase." He shuffles closer, resting his forehead against George's shoulder. "You're so tiny, I think you'd fit. I could probably even fit you in a carry on."

George rolls his eyes and shifts onto his side, turning away from Dream. For a brief moment, Dream thinks that he's shutting him out, but then George is reaching back, blindly grabbing for Dream's hand. When he finds it, he pulls it around his waist, until Dream is spooning him.

And, finally, he feels close enough.

"You think you could?" George asks after a few silent seconds.

"Absolutely," Dream answers, lowering his voice even more. His mouth is so close to George's ear that he doesn't need to speak any louder than a whisper. "No one would ever know. We could just keep you with us forever."

George hums sleepily, and it's clear to Dream that he's drifting. It's a sound he knows by heart, that airy tone he gets right before his breathing changes.

He realizes, in his own sleep haze, that he's been making a map of George long before his arrival in London.

-

Dream sleeps hard. He’s not sure if he was just that tired or if his body somehow knows it can release the George-related tension that he’s been holding onto for ages.

He sleeps longer than George, too. The other side of the bed is empty when he wakes up and he feels a pang at that. He’s not sure he wants to study the reaction too much. Maybe it should just go into the box marked Confusing George Things in the back of his mind, where so many other moments go to rest once they’re over.

He doesn’t get up right away. He turns instead and lies on his back, staring up at George’s ceiling. There’s a water stain just above his head. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. The flat is old the way most things in London seem to be old, standing tall but marked with time.

Dream’s house in Orlando is so much newer and nicer, though based on London real estate prices they probably cost close to the same. He thinks about if he could buy this place, or any place here. He could open a business in England and just—stay.

He’d rather not, though. He’d rather just bring George to him. Dream isn’t selfless enough. He’d miss his family. He’d miss Nick.

At least he could bring Patches with him. George should get to meet Patches. In a world where they still fell asleep in bed together, she could twist herself between their bodies until she found just the perfect sleeping spot.

“You’re awake,” George says.

Dream immediately feels guilty. This weird growing whatever he feels for George has no place here and now. This trip isn’t some kind of romantic endeavor. He’s here because George is his best friend, and George is sad. He should feel bad for imagining them playing house together when that’s not the reality.

“I’m awake,” Dream confirms. He sits up, the duvet falling to his waist. “What time is it?”

“Like, I dunno, four am or something.”

“Oh.” Dream flops back down. “What are you doing?”

“I put in a load of washing,” George says. “It was… messy.”

“I don’t care if your apartment is messy,” Dream says, looking over at him.

George shrugs sheepishly. “I’ve only had one person stay before.”

“Fundy?” Dream asks.

“Yeah,” George says.

“He slept on the couch,” Dream points out. He’s heard this story before.

“Yeah,” George says again. “He did.”

“Come back to bed,” Dream says. “It’s too early.”

George sighs and gets back in bed. Dream slept on the outside so he has to crawl over Dream to get there. Dream catches a glimpse of his stomach when his shirt gapes loosely around his waist. He swallows and tries to pretend that his brain isn’t spinning in circles.

He finds George attractive. He’s known that for a while. This isn’t news, he reminds himself. His sexual crisis didn’t come from nowhere.

But that’s not what this is about.

“Dream,” George says.

“Yeah?” Dream asks. He pulls the duvet back up around them.

“Do you want to hear something funny?”

“I do," he answers.

“I told Sapnap I couldn’t talk and he said he was going to tattle on me to you if I didn’t answer.”

Dream laughs. “Okay, that’s funny. What did you say to him?”

“Bitches get stitches.”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

“Yes it is,” George says stubbornly. “Because he’s a bitch.”

Dream snorts. “He is not, actually, he’s just worried about you.”

“He didn’t come to see me though.” George sounds quietly proud. Dream lets him, because he likes it.

“He wants to,” Dream says. “We talked about it. I told him I’d buy his plane ticket. Would you want him to?”

“Would you come back?” George asks.

Dream answers honestly, not wanting to get George's hopes up. “I don’t know.”

He turns onto his side. There’s stubble on George’s jaw thicker than it was when they went to sleep. Dream has never felt a man’s stubble against his fingertips. He’s never felt such a keen want to. It’s George, though. It’s George.

“Why not?”

“It’s more dangerous to fly with someone,” Dream says. “People know his face. They’d put two and two together.”

“Then take different flights,” George says.

“George.” Dream sighs. “I’m here right now.”

“Fine.” George turns on his side too, but facing away from Dream.

Dream reaches out. He can’t not. It’s like second nature. He fits his fingers against George’s shoulder and draws them down slowly. “Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” George says. “It’s just hard. It’s like… hard. In my head.”

“Tell me.”

“I already have,” George says. Then, contradictingly: “I don’t know how.”

“Try.”

“I just feel empty. Blank. Like… there’s no reason for anything.”

“There’s a reason, George.”

“Yeah, I know, but. I don’t feel like there is. Like nothing is ever going to change. This is just my life. And then it’s like, okay, but I’m actually rich now, and I can go on Twitter and people are using my face as their profile pictures and like, there are all of these TikTok edits, and I can get thirty thousand viewers on a stream. But it still isn’t real? Because it’s actually just me. Dream, it’s just me, and I’m like—alone.”

George’s voice is shattered by the end of it, like each word was a unique blow to his vocal chords.

Dream can’t not reach out for him. He pulls George back against his chest and holds him tight, his other arm sliding underneath George’s body easily. “You’re not alone right now.”

George’s fingers grip Dream’s arms tightly enough that his nails dig in crescents into Dream’s flesh. “I will be again.”

“Don’t think about that yet,” Dream says. He pulls harder and George settles into him, their bodies fitting like puzzle pieces sliding into place. It’s like the night before, when they’d fallen asleep, but more. It’s closer, more desperate, more intense. “Don’t think. Just—I’m here. I’m right here.”

George breathes a ragged, heaving breath and says, “Okay.”

They don't move. Dream keeps waiting for George to push him away, to ask for space, but the seconds and then minutes tick by and George is still holding onto his arms like Dream might leave if he lets go.

It's hard for him too, thinking about having to leave again. That was why George never visited them in Florida, after all; he didn't want to have to leave once he got there. Now Dream has that burden. He has to be the one to walk away. He supposed it's the least he could do.

"Can you sleep more?" he asks, voice murmured.

"I don't know," George answers. "I don't—I don't know why you came. You shouldn't have come."

"What? Why?"

George doesn't answer. His nails bite into Dream's skin again, like a hawk sinking its talons into its prey. Already, Dream is realizing that George says so much with his body that he can't say in words.

"George. Why do you think I shouldn't have come?"

George is quiet for another long moment before he answers, "You want to fix me in a few days, but you can't. You can't fix me, Dream."

Dream closes his eyes, pressing his face into the back of George's head. His hair tickles Dream's nose. "Are you happy I came? Like, right now, are you glad I'm here?"

"Obviously, yeah, but—"

"Then it's worth it, George."

He waits for a rebuttal, for George to argue his point, but he doesn't. Maybe he believes it and maybe he doesn't, but he lets Dream win anyway, falling back into silence.

Against his own chest, George's back is warm. Dream can feel his heartbeat as clearly as his own.

He falls asleep to the rhythm of it, and to the gentle breathing of George slipping off to sleep right along with him.

-

The next time he wakes up, George is still there. It feels good in ways he can't even explain to wake up with George curled up in his arms. It feels warm and cozy and—good. It feels—

It feels too good. Oh, shit.

He shifts his hips away from George as carefully as possible, trying desperately not to wake him. He can't imagine the shit George would give him for popping a boner their first night sleeping in the same bed. That is, if he wasn't horribly uncomfortable with it. Either way, bad.

He manages to get out of bed without waking him and he scurries to the bathroom, locking himself inside. Once he's safely inside, he looks down and sees it: his traitorous body betraying him, the front of his boxers tenting obviously.

It's been ages since this last happened. It makes sense, he guesses. He hasn't had another body pressed up against him like that in a long time. He can hardly blame his dick for taking interest. It's certainly not the first time his dick has taken an interest in George and he's sure it won't be the last.

But, god, how embarrassing.

The way he sees it, he has two options: wait it out, or take care of it quickly and quietly before George wakes up.

He does need a shower. He grabs his bag but knows there are only clothes in it, no toiletries. He hadn’t wanted to risk being stopped by TSA. He’ll just use whatever George has.

He pisses first, carefully aiming into the toilet bowl and trying his best to blank his mind out so he softens enough to go. It takes him a few minutes after that to actually figure out which way to turn the knob for hot water and which for cold. He’s flagged enough by the time he steps under the spray that he thinks maybe the problem is already taken care of.

Then he pops open the cap on George’s shampoo and he thinks about how it’s George’s shampoo, because he’s in George’s shower, and then his mind is full of images of George naked right where Dream stands.

How many times has George jerked off right here? What does he think of when he does it? Dream gives up the modicum of self-control he’d been pretending to have and reaches for himself. His cock is hot against his own palm, the glide smooth with the water splattering over his skin. He’s a little too tall and it hits him at an awkward angle, but he isn’t paying attention to anything but the way his fist feels around himself now.

He looks down and sees the head of his cock emerging from between his own fingers. He likes watching. He plants his feet more firmly apart and braces one hand against the slick tile of the shower wall, then starts to fuck into his fist.

Does George do it like this? Or does he get himself off in bed instead. Does he sweat against the same sheets that Dream just slept on?

Dream’s balls tighten and draw up. He’s not trying to make it last. The shorter the shower is, the less conspicuous it will be. His mouth drops open, breath panting. His eyes close finally and he lets the motion of his hand speed up to meet his hips. He tries to keep the sounds he wants to make buried way down, and he thinks he succeeds. Even the strangled gasp as he comes is muted against the pounding of the water.

He stares down at himself as it happens, the flushed red head of his cock spitting come against the shower wall with surprising force. The last few weaker pulses drip out over his fingers, onto the floor underneath him. He lets himself sag forward, that one hand on the wall taking most of his weight, just for the span of a few breaths.

Then he forces himself upright, cupping water from the showerhead and using it to wash the jizz off of the wall. He kicks water with his foot to do the same to the floor, then grabs the shampoo again. He feels good enough from getting off that he manages to make it through a quick wash without picturing George naked again.

Well, mostly.

-

George is awake when Dream steps out, clean and fully clothed. He’s on the sofa in the same clothes he’d worn the night before, the same things he’d slept in, curled around his phone.

“I don’t have any of my hair stuff,” Dream immediately complains. “You can’t make fun of me.”

George twists around. “Wow,” he says. “Where did Dream go? All I see is an actual poodle.”

“Shut up,” Dream whines. He’s tried to dry it with the towel like he usually does but it didn’t have the same effect. “I have, like—conditioners and things. It’s not always this frizzy. There’s something in the air here, I don’t know. It’s weird. Your country is weird, and my hair hates it.”

“Well, that’s because you suck. Dream sucks, and England knows it,” George says. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“I hope I didn’t use all of the hot water,” Dream says.

“Doesn’t matter,” George says. “I’m fast. I hate showers.”

“I know,” Dream says, fondness tugging at him. “You hate getting wet.”

“It’s stupid,” George says. “Why can’t people just, like, magically be clean? There should be a spell for it, like in Harry Potter.”

“I’ll get someone on that,” Dream says.

“Good. Do. You’re rich. Pay someone to invent it.”

“I mean, dry shampoo does exist, and I’m sure there are other equivalents—you could be like a—an elephant or something. Do a sand bath.”

“Elephants do not take sand baths,” George says.

“They do! They—they absolutely do, just—hold on. I’m going to look it up. Where’s my—oh, my phone’s dead. You look it up then. They do, I’m telling you.” Dream slides beside George and leans in close over his shoulder. “Sand baths—there. See? Elephants.”

George starts reading the article out loud and it’s another twenty minutes before he makes it into the shower, a full twenty minutes talking about sand baths and elephants and whether chinchillas are real and any other stupid topic that comes across their minds.

It's like being on call with him, but so much better. He can grab the phone out of his hands when he's skipping past important things and he can watch George's eyes light up when he proves that he's right. If he ever worried that their chemistry wouldn't work in person, he knows now that it does. It works very well.

When George is finally in the shower, Dream sits at his desk, running his fingers over all of the trinkets scattered under his monitors. He leans back in the chair that George has spent countless hours in and he looks around. This is what George sees when he's streaming. When they're playing Minecraft.

In the bathroom, there's a thump like George has dropped something, and Dream closes his eyes, trying not to think of what he looks like right now. In hindsight, he's glad he was weak and got himself off in the shower. If he hadn't, he'd probably be in danger of getting hard again, just from the knowledge that George is naked under the same roof as him. Just one flimsy door away, he's naked and wet and runny his hands over his body, his skin slick with soap and—

Actually, he needs to stop thinking about it. Even after having an orgasm just a half hour ago, he still can feel blood rushing to his dick.

To occupy himself, he starts opening desk drawers, fully aware that he's snooping. There's nothing interesting in there though. A bunch of pens, some loose change, a roll of tape. He finds a stack of Post-Its and uses a Sharpie to draw a smiley face on it, along with a heart.

And then, just for fun, he writes 'DNF'. Pleased with himself, he puts the Post-Its back for George to find someday when he's gone.

The shower stops and Dream waits for him to dry off and get dressed. When the door opens just a couple minutes later, though, and he sticks his head out, it's clear that he's not dressed yet.

"Hey, I forgot to bring underwear in. Can you close your eyes?"

Dream takes a moment to ask god why. What did he do to deserve this?

"Do you want me to grab you a pair? Where do you keep them?"

"No," George says, a beat too fast. "No, just turn around and close your eyes. I'll just run out and grab them."

And then, because he's a masochist, apparently, he says, "Don't you have a towel around your waist? Why do I have to close my eyes?"

"Oh my god, Dream, just do it already."

Dream sighs but he obediently turns away, closing his eyes. Part of him wants to sneak a peek, of course—he's only human, after all. But he keeps his word and doesn't look until the bathroom door is closing again and George's voice calls out to let him know he can open them again.

So Dream does—and then he stares.

“What?” George asks. “I know I don’t have something on my face, I literally just washed it.”

“No, it’s just—your hair,” Dream says. “It’s… wet.”

George smirks. “That happens after a shower, Dream. Don’t you know that? You’re supposed to be smart.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “Shut up. It just—it looks good. You know I like your hair like that.”

“Wait, did I?” George asks, clearly pretending. “I don’t think I did. Tell me more, Dream.”

“You’re being mean to me,” Dream says. “Shut up. Stop it.”

“Or what?” George walks up to Dream, then reaches around him to pluck something off of his desk.

Dream sees pale pink between George’s fingers as he rubs at it. His stomach flips pleasantly. He knows exactly what it is George is fidgeting with.

“Or… I don’t know,” Dream says, admitting defeat. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Because you’re a simp.”

“I’m a simp,” Dream says.

“I knew it. I am the best. I’m the greatest. Dream simps over me, everyone.” George congratulates himself for the victory.

“But,” Dream says. The smile drops. Dream finishes by saying, “You are, too.”

“I am not,” George automatically says.

“I mean, you are,” Dream says. He reaches out and starts to poke at George’s sides. George yelps and backs away. “You shouldn’t have told me you were ticklish.”

“You can’t use that against me!” George cries out, backing away.

Dream gets up and follows him, all the way across the flat and into his bedroom, until George’s knees are bumping against his bed. He has nowhere to go after that and Dream gets in a few good wiggles of his fingers as George’s screams hit higher decibels.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop,” George whines, contorting his body around to try and escape.

“Admit it,” Dream says. “Say you’re a simp for me, too.”

“Fine! Fine! I admit it!” George gasps as Dream finally stops.

“Say it,” Dream says.

“I’m… not a simp for you!” George launches himself up and runs away.

Dream grins at the ceiling, that same water stain he stared at hours before, then gets up to chase him.

-

They have cold Chinese takeaway for breakfast.

George steals from Dream’s plate and tells him stories that Dream has mostly heard before. He’s in a good mood.

Dream wants to soak it in. He wants to revel in it. He wants to not think about how he’s been here almost a day now, and how quick this visit really is.

“George,” he says, when there’s a lull in conversation.

“What?” George asks around a mouthful of peanut chicken.

“Can we talk about things?”

George tenses up immediately. “Why? Let’s just—not.”

“I can’t leave on Tuesday and you still be just as bad as you were before I came.”

“I wasn’t bad,” George says. “Not—not really.”

“You were,” Dream says. “You know it. And it’s not healthy, okay? It’s not—it’s not good. You’re shutting me out. You’re shutting Nick out. You’re here, but you’re… not.”

“So what do you want me to do?” George asks. “Nothing’s going to change.”

“Talk to someone,” Dream says.

George looks at him like Dream just told him to walk into the street and murder someone. “What?”

“I think you should talk to someone,” Dream says. “And maybe just—start getting out more. There are people here you could hang out with. Wilbur and, and, and Tommy. Or Jack. They’re always talking about how you never do anything with them.”

“Why do you want to get rid of me?” George asks.

“It’s not that,” Dream says. “You know it’s not. There’s—George. You know. You know there’s no one else I ever want to be talking to more than you. But this isn’t good for you.”

“You just told me you want me to be around less.”

“No,” Dream says. “I want you to be around more. I want you to be around like, all of the time, okay? But only if it’s really you. Not this… ghost you’ve been.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. He can see the walls slam into place, and the split second of absolute devastation before it happens. Panic explodes in his chest.

“This is me,” George says quietly. “Sorry if you’re disappointed, or whatever..”

“George.” Dream reaches out for him and grabs his arm. “Stop. Shut the fuck up. That is not what I meant. And this isn’t you—well. It is. It is you. But you’re depressed, George. And that’s what I want to be different. I want you to be happy. And as much as I always want to be talking to you, I’d rather lose a few hours of that a week if it means you feel a little more like yourself.”

“Too bad,” George says, jaw set stubbornly. “Maybe this is just me forever. What then, Dream? What if I never go back to how I was? Are you just done with me then?”

“No,” Dream says. “I’m not. But you can’t ask me not to try to help you.”

“I told you,” George says. “I can’t be fixed in a few days.”

“Good thing I’m not giving up on it in a few days then,” Dream says. “I don’t care if I’m in Florida or London or Timbuktu, I’m not giving up on you.”

George is quiet for a long time and then says, “Dream. Dream. Why would you be in Timbuktu?”

"Shut up. That's not the point."

"What is the point then?"

Dream wants to shake him. He pushes his plate away and turns fully to George, moving his hands to George's shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. "The point is I love you."

He watches as the words register in George's head, the way his eyes widen before he goes completely still.

"I love you, George. I literally just want you to be happy again."

George doesn't fight back this time. He looks down, shoulders falling under the weight of Dream's hands, defeated. He's quiet, but Dream waits. He gives him time to figure out how he feels, what he wants to say.

Finally, his quiet voice says, "Hanging out with them is—it's almost worse, in a way. Like, they're all super close and then I'm just there. It's weird."

Dream rubs his thumb dangerously close to the neck of George's t-shirt, where the soft skin of his neck is exposed. "Maybe do a one-on-one thing? I don't know, George, I just—it fucking sucks knowing you're feeling like this." Before George can jump in and misunderstand what he's saying, he goes on. "And it's not your fault that you do. I just want to help you figure out how to feel better. If I can."

George shakes his head, but this time, he doesn't say anything.

"We can take it one step at a time, okay? We don't have to have it all figured out today, or even before I leave. I'm not—I'm not going anywhere, George."

George is quiet for a moment before he glances up and asks, "Not even Timbuktu?"

"No, you idiot," Dream says fondly. His thumb slips, stroking warm skin just above the neckline of his shirt. "I'm not going to Timbuktu, okay?"

"Where even is Timbuktu?"

Dream tries to remember, picturing the maps in Geoguessr. "Somewhere in Africa. Senegal? Actually, I'm not sure."

"I always thought it was made up."

"Yeah, me too."

Some of the tension from earlier has bled out of the room. Dream takes his hands away from George's shoulders, afraid that if he leaves them there, he'll keep inching them towards places he shouldn't touch.

And he can't.

-

Nick calls George again.

George doesn’t answer, and Nick immediately messages Dream on Discord. Dream’s phone is still in George’s bedroom with a drained battery, but he has his laptop out. He answers with a vague message about having talked to George already and that he’s probably just asleep.

“He loves you,” Dream says.

“Ew,” George says. “He’s stupid. Stupidnap.”

George’s television is on now. They’re watching Breaking Bad, starting from the very first episode. It was George’s idea but Dream agreed, not because he loves the show that much but because it feels right to take something they’ve always shared together over calls and situate it into this reality where they’re side by side.

Dream doesn’t push George on the Nick being worried issue. He’s done pushing completely for now, feeling like they both need some recovery time after another raw conversation.

Instead he tells George he wants food, and not the Chinese from the day before. They can’t decide what to get and end up with orders from two different places—Nando’s for Dream, and McDonalds for George.

“It’s apples,” George insists. “It’s healthy.”

“It’s literally all sugar.”

“Healthy sugar.”

“Whatever,” Dream says, and orders more than he’ll eat.

-

The food comes and is eaten and is put away. Walt and Jesse argue on their screen. Dream feels like maybe he should want to do something more than this, but he doesn’t. His brain and body are in agreement that the sofa with George is a full experience and even his ADHD-drenched brain is willing to put itself on pause.

“Dream,” George says, offering their first interruption in a while.

Dream looks at George questioningly.

“If it were Sapnap and not me, would you be here?”

Dream has to think about it. “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s like—impossible to answer. If it were just the circumstances, then Nick would just be in Texas, and I could drive there, so it wouldn’t be as big of a risk.”

“But if it was,” George says. “If it was that big of a risk. Would you have?”

“I don’t know,” Dream says again. “I can’t—it’s not like that. So I can’t just… know what I’d do at that moment. I’d like to say I would. But.”

George’s expression goes keen at the last word. “But?”

“What are you getting at?” Dream asks, trying to cut around the hypotheticals.

“Dunno,” George says. “It’s just a question.”

“I don’t think Nick would need that,” Dream says. “Not—not like he couldn’t be depressed. I mean. He could be. But I think if he were, there are other people he’d reach out to? He’d tell like, his mom. His dad. He has other friends.”

“He went to you,” George says.

Dream looks at George. “You couldn’t. Like—literally. Legally. You weren’t allowed.”

“I would have,” George says. “If I could have.”

“I know.”

“I feel like I missed something important because I wasn’t there,” George says. “We were all equal and now we aren’t, because you and Sapnap are together and I’m not.”

“George.” Dream reaches his arms out. “Can you come here?”

George does, because apparently this is a thing they do now. He joins Dream where he’s half-slouched on the sofa, stretching out horizontal and putting his cheek against Dream’s shoulder. Dream wonders if it’s just for the weekend, just because he said this weekend doesn’t exist. He pretends to hope that isn’t the reason.

Dream wraps one arm around him. “I promise you, there is nothing Nick and I have that’s that vital that you can’t be a part of. And we have our own thing now, you know? Me and you. Because he’s not here.”

George rests a balled up fist lightly on the center of Dream’s chest. “I don’t want to feel left out.”

“You aren’t,” Dream promises. “The three of us are—we’re a fucking team, okay. We’re a team.”

“The three of us,” George echoes.

“And we’re a team too,” Dream says. “Me and you. With or without Nick.”

He doesn’t really know why he adds that. But George doesn’t seem to mind, not with the way he flexes his fingers open and grasps Dream’s t-shirt in between them. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Dream wonders if George can feel his heartbeat the way he had felt George's as they fell asleep. He hopes that, if he can, he can't tell that it's sped up over the past couple minutes.

"I love Nick," he says, his eyes on George's hand, laying on his chest. "Like, obviously. But it's different with him. Or maybe it's different with you."

"Different?" George asks.

He can feel the walls closing in, trapping him. He looks around for an escape route, but can't find any. "Yeah. Like, he and I—we don't even hang out that much. There's only so much you can do stuck at home, you know? But with you—it wouldn't be like that with you."

George's fingers start playing with Dream's t-shirt, fidgeting. "What would it be like with me?"

Dream huffs out a soft laugh. "Something like this, I guess."

George's hand stills and, for a moment, Dream thinks that he's said too much. It's so hard to tell where the line is with George. It always has been, but here, it's even harder. It's like the line has been smudged so much it's totally unrecognizable. And things are already delicate—he can't risk fucking this up, especially not now.

Just when Dream is sure that his heart is going to explode in anticipation, worried that he's overstepped, George lifts his head and looks at him. Their faces are so close that Dream can feel warm wisps of breath against his chin.

He doesn't speak, and Dream wouldn't know what to say, either, even if he had his voice. All he knows is that the line is gone, they're dipping their toes into something very dangerous, and he wants to fucking dive in. But he can't. Because no matter what he said, this weekend is happening. He is in London, he is in George's flat.

They can't—they can't forget something like that.

"I can see your brain working," George says.

His voice is soft like it almost never is. It makes Dream feel even weaker.

"I, um." He clears his throat and tries to ignore the blush warming his cheeks. "I'm just thinking about the show. This is a good episode."

George doesn't buy it for a second. "No, you're not. You're literally not."

"Oh, yeah? Tell me what I'm thinking then."

George studies him for a long moment, a moment during which Dream isn’t sure he takes a single breath. He waits to see how honest George will be, how willing he is to jump over that smudged line and take Dream with him.

“You’re thinking,” he starts slowly, “about all the things that could go wrong.”

Dream’s breath comes out shaky when he finally exhales. His hands find George’s waist, curling around it. He’s even more attractive up close like this, breathing the same air as Dream.

But George is right. He’s thinking about everything that could go wrong and the risks are—it’s too much. He reminds himself once again that he’s not here for this. It would only distract them both from the point of his visit.

“Actually, I’m thinking I need to pee,” he lies. “Sorry, mind if I get up?”

George hesitates, like he’s considering pushing the issue, calling him out. But then his expression changes in an instant, the storm rolling in.

“Fine,” he says, crawling off of Dream and moving back to his corner of the couch.

“Sorry, George,” Dream says as he gets to his feet. “We can cuddle again when I’m done?”

George is staring at the TV screen though, his expression stony. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“But I want to.”

George still doesn’t look up. “Weren't you going to pee?”

With a sigh, Dream turns and walks to the bathroom, determined that he’ll get George out from under those storm clouds when he’s done.

-

When he comes back out, George isn’t even there. The couch is empty and the door to George’s bedroom is shut.

Dream is floored. He wipes his damp hands on his shorts and looks at the door, then walks over to it. He hesitates again there before he raises one hand and knocks. “George?”

“I’m taking a nap,” George says. His voice sounds completely awake.

“Can I join you?” Dream asks.

He isn’t really surprised when George says, “No.”

-

He goes for a walk.

No one knows his face and no one expects him to be in London. Maybe it’s stupid, but he just wants some fresh air. He doesn’t have keys so he leaves George’s front door unlocked.

He didn’t really take in much of George’s part of the city on his way here. He was too distracted thinking about meeting George for the first time. There’s a mixture of old brick and wrought iron, things that look like they’ve been standing for centuries, alongside newer builds. He passes a pizza place and a blur of houses and then stops in front of the same Tesco he passed on his way to George's flat the day before. It’s small, barely bigger than most gas stations in Florida, but he’s heard George inside this store so many times.

He walks around in circles until the person behind the register starts to stare at him. He picks up a few things; a candy bar he won’t eat, a loaf of bread. He looks at the rows of canned items, mostly brands he’s never seen before.

How long has it been since he’s actually been inside of a grocery store? He tries to think, and he can’t remember. He also tries to think how long it’s been since he actually cooked something, and he can’t remember that, either. He looks at the bread in his hands and decides he should get… something.

He finds cheese, and butter, because he’s reasonably sure that George has neither of those. He finds some ham too, because protein is important, and good in a grilled cheese. What does he eat with grilled cheese? Not tomato soup, because George hates tomatoes. What does George like? Not salad, nothing green. He looks in the freezer section and finds a bag of frozen fries, grabbing them. George likes fries. What does he dip them in? Dream can’t remember. He gets ketchup and mayo, because they’ve had that conversation before, about how mayo goes on fries.

Dessert, Dream thinks. He needs dessert. He finds ice cream but they don’t have the kind George likes. What else? Cookies, Dream thinks, and he finds some cookie dough. Chocolate chip—like the kind McDonalds has, Dream hopes. He doubles back and grabs a couple of apples, knowing that, if nothing else, George will eat those.

He feels bolstered by action. He walks around the shop one more time. They have Kinder Eggs with Minions on them. He feels ridiculous, but he grabs one. Then he’s at the front of the shop and his arms are full. He has to buy a bag to put his haul in, and he’s sure he’s getting more international fees from using his card, but he doesn’t care. He has a plan now.

He walks back more quickly than he’d walked there, almost smiling when he pushes George’s door open.

The smile stops right away. He can hear the most awful sound—George crying again, but it’s like he’d been holding back all the times before. This sound is pure pain. Dream drops the groceries at the bottom of the stairs and takes them three at a time.

George is sitting on the floor in front of his bedroom door, legs drawn up to his body. He’s shaking with how hard he’s crying and Dream is all devastation when he says, “George?”

George’s head jerks up. He stares at Dream like he’s shocked. His eyes are big and wet and red and reach right into Dream’s chest to squeeze his heart like it’s a messy, throbbing stress toy about to be wrenched in two.

“George, what happened?” Dream asks, crossing over to him. He hits the ground on his knees with a force that will probably bruise them, but he doesn’t care.

“I thought you left,” George says. His voice is scratchy and his breath hitches. “I came out to say I was sorry and you were gone.”

“I just went to the store,” Dream says, pulling George forward. He cups his hand over the back of George’s head and draws him close, fingers sinking into George’s hair. “I didn’t leave. I just went to the store.”

George's arms wrap around him, fingers digging into Dream's back. "You were gone," he repeats. "I thought I finally fucked it up for real."

Dream frowns, drawing the pads of his fingertips over George's scalp in his best attempt at a calming gesture. "Finally? What do you mean 'finally', George?"

"Just like. I keep waiting for you to get sick of me. Sick of this."

"Sick of what? You being sad?" Dream asks. When George doesn't answer, Dream goes on, saying, "You're my favorite person, George. Happy or sad. Healthy or sick. I will never get sick of you."

George's sobs have dissipated by now, fading into soft sniffles and trembling breaths. Dream doesn't let go though. He won't until he's sure that George is okay.

"Sounds like cheesy wedding vows," George mutters after a minute, his voice still thick from crying.

Dream smiles, glad to hear him teasing again. "Well, we're not getting married, but you could still call them vows."

"Don't forget cheesy."

Dream's heart lifts a little bit more. "Yeah, yeah. I'm cheesy, we all know this."

Waiting another few moments, Dream finally pulls back when George's breathing has steadied and he's not clutching quite as tightly at Dream's back. When he looks, George's face is streaked with drying tears. He's heard him cry a few times before, but seeing it up close is still new to him. He can feel his heart breaking as he brings his thumbs to George's cheeks, wiping the remaining wetness away.

"I'm leaving Tuesday at two in the afternoon. Not a second earlier. Even if you kick me out or tell me you hate me or—"

"I don't hate you," George interrupts softly.

Dream smiles. "I know."

He does. He knows that George loves him. He even thinks he knows that it means—something like what it means to Dream. Something—more.

If he thinks about it too hard, he'll start to panic and do something stupid, so he shakes the thoughts away and stands up, pulling George to his feet. "I just have to run down and get the groceries I dropped by the door."

George's watery eyes squint curiously at him. "You bought groceries?"

-

It's still late afternoon when he starts making dinner. George helps him, buttering the bread and spreading the frozen fries out on a pan that was so dusty he had to wash it off first. If Dream is being honest, his help isn't really all that helpful, but he's glad for it if only because it keeps him close and Dream—he needs him close. After hearing the terrible sound of him crying, it keeps echoing in his head, and he's feeling clingy. His hands can't seem to stay away from him for long, resting on his back or gently guiding him out of the way, finding any excuse to touch him.

The grilled cheeses turn out good, just a little extra crispy on one side, and when Dream squirts too much mayonnaise onto his plate, they just share it, taking turns dipping fries into the white blob. It's a little overkill between the butter and the cheese and the mayonnaise, but George seems happy, so Dream is happy.

George decides not to open the Minions Kinder Egg, displaying it on his kitchen counter instead. Another trinket to keep. Another memory.

Dream hopes that it will remind George of cooking together in his tiny kitchen and sharing mayonnaise rather than the moments before that, huddled together on the floor, tears soaking Dream's shoulder.

-

George seems exhausted again after dinner. Dream is beginning to understand the cycle—the way George lets his feelings build and build until they explode and how much it takes out of him. He sleeps and he hurts and with nothing to interrupt the cycle it’s wearing him down.

Dream is not qualified to give anyone mental health advice, but being unqualified has never stopped him from feeling like he has good ideas and it won’t now. He won’t let George just sit here and keep getting worse, keep letting bits of him be worn down until nothing is left.

He won’t lose George to this. He won’t lose George to anything short of George’s own choice, and even then he’d probably give one hell of an argument before he accepted it. That’s what’s on his mind as he grabs his laptop and says, “Let’s just get in bed. We can watch stuff in there.”

“Okay,” George says. The dishes are still piled in the kitchen, but neither of them care that much.

-

George sits on the edge of the bed. “Do you still want to?” he asks.

Dream’s mind hasn’t caught up yet. “Want to what?”

“You know.” George clears his throat. “Cuddle.”

He says it like it’s something gross or embarrassing, which just makes Dream grin. “Yeah, I do.”

He holds his arms out. George rolls his eyes but settles against Dream similar to how they’d been on the sofa, his head gingerly on Dream’s shoulder. “Do you do this with Stinknap too?”

“No,” Dream says. “This is a GeorgeNotFound special.”

“Good,” George says.

Dream tries not to let himself think about that too hard, but it feels a little ridiculous not to. He wraps his arm more securely around George and pulls him in until George is more firmly against him. George resituates along with it, one leg hitching up

“Yeah?” Dream asks. “You don’t want to share me?”

George doesn’t answer.

“George?”

“Stop,” George says softly.

Dream freezes immediately. “Okay. I’m—I don’t know what I did. But I’m sorry.”

“Don’t take the piss,” George says. “Don’t be mean to me.”

It’s so stunningly opposed to how George normally is, skin so thick and willing to sling barbs with anyone and walk away laughing it off. The way nothing gets to George is one of the reasons he and Nick fight so much, because Nick hasn’t yet learned that sometimes George just likes to see how far he can push things.

“Okay,” Dream says. “I didn’t mean to. I actually- I mean. If it helps. I wasn’t really… like I was joking, but I wasn’t—I don’t want this with Nick. And… if you don’t want to share that, you know, that experience, that’s okay. Because this is just me and you. It’s not me and… anyone else.”

George is quiet again, but it doesn’t feel like anger now. This isn’t a storm; it’s just the sun slipping away. It’s just darkness.

Dream presses play, hoping to distract George with a show. He’s not sure if it’s working, but George doesn’t move away, his head resting on Dream’s chest, staring at the laptop screen.

Until, a few minutes in, when he asks, “Do you ever think about dating? Like, after your face reveal?”

Dream immediately feels his pulse quicken, unsure what George is asking. “Dating? Like—”

“Like girls.”

Dream stares at the top of George’s head. He wishes that he could see his face. “No,” he answers honestly.

“Why not?”

He must know. There’s no way he doesn’t know.

“All I think about is you finally being there. And, like, shit we’ll get to do. Go to conventions, meet fans, stuff like that. But mostly I just think about having you there. I don’t really think about anything beyond that.”

There’s another long silence while George seems to think about that, or maybe he’s just accepted the answer and moved on. Breaking Bad plays on the laptop, but Dream’s eyes stay on the top of George’s head, watching the hairs part as he drags his fingers through them.

And then, when Dream has all but forgotten what they were even talking about, George’s voice comes out quiet but clear.

“I don’t think about dating either.”

It takes every ounce of restraint for Dream not to push for more information or just to reach for his chin to tilt his head up, to look into his eyes and see if he recognizes the feeling in them.

To kiss him and keep kissing him until Tuesday at two in the afternoon.

He bites his lip to hold onto his silence and he squeezes George closer, hoping that it’s enough.

“Dream,” George says.

“Yeah?”

“All I think about is you, too.”

Dream’s hand drops down to the back of George’s neck, squeezing gently. “Is it wrong if I’m glad?”

“No,” George says, then he pauses. “Actually, I lied.”

“Okay…”

“I think about Patches, too. Don’t be jealous, but I want to cuddle Patches. Maybe—I’ll say it. I’ll go ahead and say it. I’ll admit it. Maybe more than you.”

Dream laughs. “Okay, that’s—that’s fair. I can live with that. Just be warned, she’s not as easy as me.”

“Hmm,” George says. “You are easy, actually.”

“Just for you,” Dream says, and he smiles.

George moves again, half on top of Dream this time. “You’re so warm.”

“You’re not,” Dream says. He reaches down and covers George’s hand with his own. George’s fingers are slim and hold a chill to them.

“Warm me up,” George says, then lets Dream hold his fingers in a sturdy grasp.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” George says. “I guess.”

“Are you cold anywhere else?” Dream asks.

George snorts. “That sounds like such a line. Dream has L rizz, wow.”

“George!” Dream protests. “It’s not. I was going to say we can get under your blanket if you want.”

“Duvet,” George says. “It’s a duvet.”

“It looks like a blanket to me,” Dream says.

“That’s because you’re stupid, Dream. It’s a duvet.”

“So,” Dream says, moving his body underneath the blanket. George immediately claims the same spot. Something about it bolsters Dream. “Anyway, if it had been a line, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Why not?” George asks.

“Because you said you don’t think about dating.”

“Oh,” George says.

“Right?” Dream checks.

“I mean, yeah. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Dream,” George says, sighing.

Dream has no idea what to make of that. He’s not even sure why he’s pushing. He can’t do anything about it, so knowing either way would just hurt. Asking is total masochism.

And still. It gnaws at him.

“It’s just a question,” he says, squeezing George’s hand.

In response, George pulls his fingers out of Dream’s hand and Dream thinks he’s fucked up again, but they’re not gone long. They come right back, slipping between Dream’s fingers until they’re locked together. There is no pretense of keeping him warm like this. This is just holding hands. Just to be close.

And then George says something that fucking devastates him.

“I told you. All I think about is you.”

Dream is pretty sure he stops breathing then. His whole body seems to shut down.

He wants to cry. He wants to scream.

He wants to stay.

Fuck Tuesday.

“Don’t run away again,” George pleads, his voice muffled in Dream’s chest.

Dream takes a deep breath and he pulls their interlocked hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to George’s knuckles. “I’m not running,” he promises.

It feels like weakness and bravery in equal measure. Like he’s taking a chance and giving up all at once.

“Wow,” George says softly. “Dream kissed me. DNF is real, confirmed?”

Dream laughs, giving him a little shove. He pulls him right back though, not letting any space between their bodies.

“Shut up. You’re so dumb.”

“Says the guy who just kissed me.”

“I kissed your hand, okay? Not, like, your lips.”

He mentally kicks himself for even saying it, for even putting those words out there.

George lifts his head, looking up into Dream’s eyes, and it’s too much. He’s too much.

“What’s wrong with my lips?”

If Dream’s body had shut down before, it fully ascends now. He leaves Earth altogether, heading for the stars.

His eyes flick down to George’s mouth through no doing of his own. They’re—they’re good lips. Very nice lips. Not a flaw in sight.

His throat feels dry when he answers. “Nothing is wrong with them.”

George doesn’t look away. He just lays there, pressed close to Dream’s body, and he looks up at Dream like it’s all he wants to do.

It’s relatable. Dream could spend every moment of this trip just looking at George and he’d never get bored.

When it’s clear that George isn’t going to turn away, Dream pulls his fingers out from between George’s and he lifts them to George’s chin. He hasn’t shaved since Dream’s arrival. He’s got some nice scruff going and, as Dream drags his fingertips over it, he feels the scratch against his skin. The feeling sends currents of electricity through his body, sizzling under his skin.

He dances his fingers over George’s stubbly jaw and he thinks about this stolen weekend that never should have happened. He thinks about every risk he’s taken, everything he could have lost by coming here.

It’s all worth it, just for this moment. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

George shifts a little, moving into the touch. “Dream.”

Dream closes his eyes, trying to get a grip on himself.

And then.

George’s lips are touching his.

George kisses him again. Dream kisses back harder. It’s been a while since he’s done this with anyone, but muscle memory serves him well. It’s a good kiss, especially when George pushes himself up off of Dream to get some leverage.

Dream’s fingers splay wide over George’s jaw then and their lips part enough for the hint of dampness. He swipes a tongue just barely and George makes a barely-there sound that Dream immediately wants to hear every day for the rest of his life.

“Dream,” George says a second time.

“Is this okay?” Dream asks.

“That’s what I was going to ask you, idiot,” George says. “You’re the one that’s always… thinking.”

Dream laughs. He presses his lips together and he can still taste George. “Wow, didn’t know that was a crime.”

It feels good that they’re still like this even now. It’s reassuring.

“I don’t want to talk about feelings,” George says.

“Okay,” Dream agrees.

“Because it’s always—stupid. It’s always so stupid.”

“You’re stupid,” Dream offers.

George punches him ineffectively. Dream grabs his fist easily and brings it to his mouth, kissing it again.

“Stupid,” George repeats.

“Stupid.” The word is starting to lose all meaning but Dream doesn’t care because George is on top of him now and their mouths are on each other.

-

The kissing is good, but George keeps stopping.

Dream won’t push him. It’s not like he really knows what this is or… isn’t.

It feels like George has something to say.

So they make out until Dream’s lips feel numb but he doesn’t put his hands anywhere he hasn’t before and he ignores the low pulse of arousal humming inside of him.

“I have to wee,” George says, pulling back.

“Hot,” Dream says, just to be an idiot.

“Wait, what.” George makes a disgusted face. “You’re gross, Dream. Gross.”

“Shut up!” Dream laughs. “I was joking.”

“Sure you were.” George disappears through the doorway and into the bathroom.

Dream is left with a moment to think without his brain clouded by George. This may not be anything. George might change his mind later.

But Dream doesn’t really believe that. His head is a scrambled mess but he knows with certainty that whatever is happening here is a result of him and George being two people with the kind of connection he doesn’t have with anyone else.

He’s sitting up in the bed when George walks in. George slows past the doorway, just staring at Dream.

“Earlier, when we were on the sofa,” George says, leaning back against the wall next to the doorframe, “when you ran into the bathroom? I thought—I thought you were, like, turning me down. I thought you came all the way to England just to tell me no to my face.”

Dream sits up, pushing his laptop to the side. Breaking Bad is still playing even though neither of them has paid any attention to it.

“What? George, come on. Of course I didn’t.”

George shrugs and lifts his hands in front of him, picking at his cuticles. “I still don’t want to talk about feelings.”

“Okay. We don’t have to.”

“But you have them, right?” George glances up, vulnerability written in the creases by his eyes. “Like, you have—feelings? For me?”

Dream swallows back his anxiety. “I have a fuckton of feelings for you, George. More than—more than I should, maybe.”

“Or maybe not.”

George looks at him across the room, his truth unspoken but so evident, hanging in the air between them. They’re not talking about feelings, but they exist. They’re there, on both sides.

“Come here,” Dream says, holding his hands out.

George pushes himself away from the wall and walks to the bed as Dream swings his legs off the edge. When George is within reach, Dream grabs him by the waist, pulling him to stand between his thighs.

“Hi.”

George rolls his eyes. “Hi, idiot.”

Dream lets his eyes rake down George’s delicate frame, swallowed up by a wrinkled shirt that’s far too big. He wants so badly to get that shirt off of him, to see what he really looks like underneath it all. He wants to see if he has any scars or birthmarks, wants to memorize every bump and divot of him.

But he already feels like they’re on a high speed train with the brakes cut. Like they’re hurtling ahead so fast that he feels dizzy, out of control.

Leaning forward, he presses his forehead to George’s stomach and takes a deep breath in. Then he kisses him there, through his t-shirt, before looking up.

“You’re unbelievable.”

George’s lip is bitten. “In a good way? Or a bad way?”

“So good, George.”

As gracefully as possible, he leans back and pulls George down with him, a hand twisted into the front of his shirt. It’s not quite like in the movies, but it’s hotter like this. It’s hotter because it’s real.

“Can we do the kissing thing again?” he asks when he’s got George on top of him, sprawled sideways on the bed.

“I guess,” George answers with a smile. “I mean, you came all this way. The least I could give you is some kisses.”

Dream hums, pressing his lips to George’s jaw. The scratch of his stubble is even better against his lips than his fingertips.

“It’s the least you could do,” he agrees, stifling a laugh. “And the most you could do is…”

“Shut up,” George hisses, and then he presses their mouths together to do it for him.

-

They’re still kissing when George’s phone starts going crazy next to them on the bed. After he ignores three calls and a couple of texts, he finally groans and rolls over to check it.

“Sapnap says he’s going to call the police if I don’t call him back,” he reads. “Or my mum.”

Dream sighs, cursing their stupidly thoughtful friend. Of course he couldn’t just let them disappear for a few days without freaking out about it.

“Just call him, I guess,” he relents. “But don’t tell him I’m here. He’ll be so pissed that I lied to him.”

George gets a wicked glint in his eye. “Tell Sapnap Dream is in London. Got it.”

He presses the call button before Dream can say anything. He knows that George wouldn’t actually do that, of course. He’s an awful little gremlin, but he’s not actually that bad. More than anything, he just likes to rile people up.

It just so happens that Dream likes being riled up by him.

The call only rings once before Nick’s familiar voice is blaring out of the speakerphone. “George! Fucking finally!”

“Wow,” George says, voice a long drawl. “You missed me so much you couldn’t live without me for one day.”

“Fuck off,” Nick says. “You know you’re supposed to check in every day. That’s the deal, bro.”

The deal? Dream raises an eyebrow at George, who pointedly ignores him. “I replied to you on discord.”

“Not good enough.” Nick’s voice is surprisingly firm. “Don’t tell me you were sleeping.”

“I was…” George looks at Dream again. “I mean, I was sleeping some of the time. Humans sleep, idiot. It’s a basic biological function. But I also went with my mum to see my grandparents.”

“Uh huh.” Nick does not sound convinced.

“Wow, Sapnap thinks I’m lying. Do you need to call my mum to verify?” George asks.

“Nah,” Nick says. “I’ll talk to her tonight when I fuck her anyway.”

Dream has to bite back a laugh at how stupid and casual and actually funny Nick manages to be with an overused joke.

“Anyway,” George says. “I’m still busy, so. Bye.”

Nick’s answer is immediate. “No. Nope. Nuh uh.”

“Wait. Wait, what? Are you telling me I can’t be busy?”

“I’m calling bullshit, bro. We are talking for at least half an hour and if not, I’ll—I’ll tell Dream on you.”

Dream grins even wider. He still has one arm around George and rubs his fingers up and down George’s non-existent bicep, squeezing gently. George tries to wiggle away but Dream won’t let him.

Eventually George settles into the grip, leaning onto Dream.

“Where is Dream, anyway?” George asks, smirking.

“Actually,” Nick says. “That’s the other reason I was calling. Besides the welfare check. Something’s up with him. He said he was going to see his grandparents, and like, whatever, that’s cool, but he’s never done that before? And his phone is off. He isn’t responding to any of my texts. Is it ludicrous if I call his mom and ask what’s up with this phone?”

Dream shakes his head frantically.

“Don’t,” George says. “Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Nick asks. “I mean, Mama Dream is cool with me, I see her like every week at the house.”

“His phone is broken,” George says, staring at Dream with wide eyes, making hand gestures. “He um. Sent me a message on Discord.”

“Oh.” Nick sounds put out now. “Why didn’t he tell me? I’m the one feeding his damn cat.”

“It’s Dream—you know. Dream. He’s just… bad at that.”

“Well, if you talk to him, tell him I’m stealing Patches if he doesn’t let me know what’s up. I don’t need to be worried about both of my best friends.”

“Don’t worry about us,” George says, and he doesn’t look at Dream but he does lean even closer in. Dream drops his hand down to George’s waist and kisses his temple. “Dream and I are both good. I am, anyway. And—I think Dream is.”

Dream nods, nose still pressed to George’s hairline.

“You do sound better today,” Nick says. “You’re doing better after that whole Dream thing?”

Dream frowns.

“Yeah,” George says quickly. “It’s fine. It was—nothing.”

“I mean, it is weird that he just left without telling you, but I told you he wasn’t mad at you or anything. Y'all need to work on that codependent shit if you were that upset because he was ghosting you for eight hours.”

“Shut up,” George says, a little too forcefully. “We talked. It’s fine.”

“Oh good, then I can tell you that you were being a total bitch baby about it.”

There’s a blush high and bright on George’s cheeks when Dream mouths ‘bitch baby’ at him. George mutes the call and hisses, “Shut up,” at Dream before he unmutes. “I hate you and I’m hanging up and I’m never talking to you again, so there.”

“Fine,” Nick says. “I’m gonna try to call Dream again anyway. Since that’s my life, I guess. Trying to fucking track down my best friends. Once you’re here I’m microchipping both of you.”

George answers back but the pattern of the conversation is more familiar and less concerning to Dream. It’s just like listening to them bicker on a call, except this time his arms are full and he can feel the vibration of George’s voice as much as he can hear it. George is a little too loud when he laughs and his body is in constant small acts of motion, hands twitching around and legs resettling. Dream loves learning the feel of him and he has to pretend he doesn’t have to walk away from this in a couple more days.

Maybe that’s the thought that has him sliding fingers underneath George’s shirt, seeking out the smooth warm skin of his side. George’s breath catches when he feels the touch. He looks at Dream sideways and then bites his lips, so unassumingly coquettish that it makes Dream want to scream.

George is still trying to get Sapnap off the phone as Dream spreads his hand flat against George's stomach, pushing him flat on his back. Big eyes stare up at him, uncertain but clearly interested, and Dream gets up onto his knees, straddling George's thighs.

"Sap, you should go call Dream," George interrupts as Sapnap is complaining that they forgot his fruit in the lunch he ordered. "I have to—I have to go."

"What the hell is going on with you?" Sapnap asks, clearly frustrated. "Do you have, like, a secret girlfriend all of a sudden? Or boyfriend? Why are you trying so hard to get rid of me when just yesterday you wouldn't let me go, freaking out about Dream hating you or whatever."

George blushes again, but Dream just frowns and dips down to kiss the part of his stomach that's exposed, where his hand has rucked up George's t-shirt. He peppers kisses across the strip of skin, inching the material up even more to give himself more room. When he feels George squirming under him, he looks up to find George staring back, lips parted.

"I wasn't freaking out," George argues. "I have to go, Sap. I'll—I'll check in again tomorrow. Promise."

Before Sapnap can do more than sigh heavily into the phone, George ends the call, tossing his phone to the other side of the bed. "I hope you're happy you made me call him back."

Dream ignores him and asks, "You thought I hated you?"

George's hand comes to rest in Dream's hair, combing through his messy curls. "I didn't know what to think," he says. "You just disappeared. I kind of spiraled."

"Like when you thought I left earlier?"

George's eyes dart away reflexively. "I guess."

"George," Dream says, pressing another kiss to his soft stomach. "I'll never hate you. I never—you're not getting rid of me, okay?"

"I'm not?" George asks. "What about Tuesday?"

When he looks down again, Dream sees fear in his eyes. He sees sadness.

"Today isn't Tuesday," he says, climbing up George's body until they're face to face. "Today is Saturday. I don't want to worry about any of that stuff right now, okay?"

George seems hesitant for a moment, but he nods, sliding his hands down Dream's sides. "What do you want then?"

"You," Dream answers without having to think about it. He kisses George again, a hand slipping underneath his shirt again. "This."

"Okay," George whispers back before their lips collide again in a kiss that's new and exciting and yet somehow already feels familiar.

What doesn't feel quite as familiar is the press against his thigh, more and more insistent as they kiss. He doesn't point it out right away, not wanting to scare him off, but he leans into it, sliding his leg firmly between George's to feel more of it. His head is already spinning at the thought of George being turned on by him, getting hard for him. Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to reach down and touch, to get his hand around him.

"God, George," he breathes, his mouth slipping away from George's lips to trace his jaw and then move to his neck. "Why do I feel drunk right now?"

"I poisoned you," George says. "You're just dying really slowly."

"Yeah?" Dream asks, smiling into George's neck before gently digging his teeth into the flesh, sucking just hard enough that it probably won't leave much of a mark. "You wanna grant a dying man one last wish?"

George gasps when Dream bites down on another spot, closer to his collarbone. "Depends. What's your wish?"

There’s one response that immediately comes to Dream’s mind.

“Okay—don’t laugh,” Dream says. “Promise me you won’t laugh.”

“No,” George says. “I make no such promise.”

“I feel like this is my wish come true,” Dream says.

George groans, and then pretends to gag. “What? What?”

“Shut up, you—shut up! George. Come on. I just mean… look, when I came here, it was because I was worried about you, and I wasn’t thinking of anything else. It didn’t matter if like—if the um. If the feelings we aren’t talking about were reciprocated or not. I just needed to know you were okay. But if I had like, Robin Williams granting me a wish for how this would go… this is basically it?”

George reaches up and covers Dream’s face with his hand, shoving gently. “I cannot look at you. You’re too disgusting.”

“Stop,” Dream says, dodging the hand.

“I wish you hadn’t come here for that. I don’t need... I’m not a baby, Dream. I’m not incapable. I don’t need someone checking on me.” George’s voice drops.

“Can you accept that I want to, even if you don’t need it?” Dream asks. “Because I do.”

“I guess.” George reaches up, hand on Dream’s cheek.

Dream has a moment of wondering what he looks like to George. He has a complicated relationship with his own reflection, borne not so much out of inherent insecurity but simply of knowing that he’s not the societal definition of what makes an attractive man. Whatever George sees, he seems to like, though. Dream is stunned by how strange this is, to see this kind of naked want on George’s face when they hadn’t even had a conversation about it before now.

When, technically, they still haven’t had a conversation.

“But I’m still glad you’re here,” George adds.

“Glad enough to kiss me again?” Dream asks.

“Maybe,” George says. “I guess. But only after you call Sapnap back. Because otherwise he will call your mum and that’ll be really weird.”

“Oh, fuck.” Dream almost falls off the bed he jolts to the side so fast, grabbing his phone. “I need to charge.”

George twists around and gets him the charger.

-

Dream talks to Nick for a few minutes, just long enough to reassure him that everything is fine, and then just to make sure they won’t get any more interruptions he calls his mom, too.

George gets up and leaves halfway through the call. Dream wants to follow but he decides not to, giving George a little space.

Not much, though. As soon as Dream stops talking George comes back. He has an apple in one hand, half-eaten. He puts it on his dresser and walks back to Dream. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah,” Dream says.

“Good.” George crawls on top of Dream and takes the position Dream had been in before, straddling him. Dream’s hands go to George’s hips like it’s instinct instead of the very first time. George puts his hands on Dream’s chest, fingers kneading slightly. “I’m gay.”

“Huh?”

“I told you I had a girlfriend at uni,” George says. “I lied. I just stayed off of teamspeak every time I said I was with her. And then it got boring so I just said we broke up.”

“That’s so stupid,” Dream says.

“Your face is stupid,” George says. “It’s not, actually. It’s—I like your face. I get to see it. Just me and Sapnap but only me right now.”

“Only you,” Dream says.

He lets his fingers push under George’s shirt again.

George speaks more. “Sometimes I just feel really bad. And I don’t want to get out of bed, or eat, or go anywhere.”

“I know,” Dream says.

“Not just now. I mean, now, but like. It’s happened before. When I stopped going to my a-levels.”

“You told me about that,” Dream says. “You had to redo the classes.”

“And uni. When I told you I was dating someone. It’s like, I was lying, it was stupid, but everyone on the internet says bad things about people that are gay, and I didn’t know anyone else that was. Ant and Velvet hadn’t even come out yet. And people kept—you were asking me like, all the time. You were—you talked to so many girls, and you always asked me, and so I just. Lied. And then I felt like rubbish over it.”

“I’m sorry you felt like that.” Dream rubs his hands up George’s back, along smooth skin. “I was such a stupid kid.”

“You weren’t.” George’s voice is shockingly protective. “You were never stupid. You wanted to do things I thought were impossible and you made me think they weren’t, like, actually impossible.”

“And then we did them,” Dream says. “Together.”

George leans forward and kisses Dream full on the mouth. “I thought this was impossible, too.”

"Honestly, I did too," Dream tells him. "I tried not to think about it because it felt so out of reach. Like, in what world would someone like you want someone like me?"

"That's stupid. You're stupid."

"Stupidly in—" He stops himself and he can't help but laugh at the look of terror on George's face. "Sorry, too soon?"

George's face is a little bit whiter than a moment ago, his eyes wide. "We're going back to no feelings talk, effective immediately."

"Fine," Dream agrees, reaching up to haul George in by the neck. "No feelings talk. Just lots and lots of kissing."

George grins before their lips touch. "Deal."

-

They make out until George yawns into Dream's mouth. It doesn't go any further though, and Dream is sure that's for the best, but he can't deny that if George had made any kind of initiative, he would have jumped at the chance. He's spent too many nights with his dick in his hand, wondering what it would be like. Wondering what George would sound like.

How he'd feel, how he'd taste.

But things are already going so fast that it makes sense not to immediately jump into bed. Or, well, the kind of bed where they get naked. They've been in the other kind of bed all day and now, it's where they're lying in each other's arms, falling asleep.

Dream doesn't know which one of them falls asleep first, but it's the best sleep he's ever had. He dreams of George in Florida, in his own bed, petting Patches and meowing at her in a silly little song. He dreams of kissing him in the kitchen, of lifting him to sit on the island. He dreams of George peeling his shirt off and leaning back, letting Dream's mouth explore his chest.

He dreams of licking his nipples and delighting in the little gasp of pleasure that he gets in return.

And then the golden sun of Florida is gone and he's back in George's flat, bathed in darkness. He's not sure at first what's woken him up, but as he comes to, he feels a soft touch that tickles a bit. He can feel that he's lying flat on his back instead of pressed up against George, like how they fell asleep. Curious, he opens his eyes and looks down to see George dragging a single fingertip over the outline of his—visibly hard—dick.

He understands now why he felt tickling.

"Hey," he says, the word scratchy as it comes out.

George doesn't even look up at him. "You woke me up," he says softly. "Or, this woke me up."

"Oh. Sorry. That's—I don't know why this keeps happening. I swear I don't usually have this issue."

"Keeps happening?" George asks, finally looking up.

"Yeah," Dream admits. "Yesterday or—today? I don't know what day it is anymore."

George doesn't push for more information. Instead, he asks, "Can I look at it?"

Dream swallows, his brain catching up. George is touching his dick. Barely, but he is. And he wants to see it. Maybe he's still in his dreams.

"Of course, yeah."

George pushes the sheet over him back away. Dream feels exposed, but there’s less insecurity than he expected there would be.

Maybe it has something to do with the way George is looking at him, like he’s fascinated by what’s underneath his touch.

“You haven’t done this before,” George says. “But it’s okay?”

“More than okay,” Dream says.

“Good.” George touches him again, two fingers this time, a little more pressure.

“You’ve done this before,” Dream says.

George answers, “Yeah.” His eyes flicker up toward Dream, then back down, like he just can’t stop looking.

“Okay,” Dream says, then hooks his thumbs into the band of his shorts and shoves them down.

His dick slaps against his stomach.

“Dream,” George says. Dream can’t read his tone of voice, but he doesn’t think it’s bad. He stares down with George, taking in the sight of his own cock. He’s hard but not urgently so, not yet, and only the tip has turned a ruddy shade of red. He’s not even leaking yet, but that changes when George circles one finger around the head.

“Jesus,” Dream breathes out.

“You’re so big.” George states it like it’s fact. “I hate you, Dream, your dick is like, epic.”

“I’m not—it’s not that big,” Dream says. “It’s not like, porn star big. I’m not packing ten inches or something.”

“No, ew, you can’t even do anything with that,” George says. “You’ve got like, a real person big dick.”

Then George curls his fingers into a loose fist and starts to jerk Dream off. Dream makes a strangled sound and clenches his fingers into the duvet. He won’t come immediately, he won’t, he won’t.

“Are you going to nut?” George is wickedly pleased. “It’s been two seconds, Dream. Come on.”

“No.” Dream grits it out between clenched teeth.

“I think you are,” George says, voice full of exaggerated wisdom. “I think you’re sooooo close right now.”

“I hate you,” Dream says, but the conversation has actually helped. He lets his legs fall open a little more.

“You can’t hate me when I’m touching the drick.”

“I hate you extra for calling it that.”

“No you don’t.” George tightens his fingers and starts to work Dream with more intent, left hand working effectively. There’s sweat on the small of his back despite the coolness of the room.

“George,” he says helplessly.

George’s lips are soft and pink, shining with spit from where he’s just licked them. Then they’re shiny with something else, because George is brushing them over the slit of Dream’s dick in a kiss that would pass for chaste if placed on any other bit of flesh.

He fits his lips around it, not sucking yet, just letting it rest there. His tongue rubs against the underside of the head and Dream feels delirious with it. It isn’t that it’s been almost two years since he’s had a blowjob, it’s just—it’s George.

It’s George, and this is sex, or some form of it.

“Please,” he says, unable to resist putting his hand on George’s head.

George hums and takes him back in. He doesn’t blow him properly, just sucks him like a lollipop. It’s enough that Dream’s cock is throbbing and he realizes he’s already straddling a sharp edge again, so close to something that’s going to be amazing.

His breath comes out heavy and stuttered, and when a whine sneaks out with it, George looks up, his lips still wrapped around Dream's cock. He can feel himself twitch against George's tongue and he knows that he's leaking, that George is tasting him. Their eyes stay locked as he pulls off with a wet pop, only to come back with his tongue, flicking it over the tip.

"George," Dream whimpers, embarrassed at how broken he sounds. "I'm begging you."

George just smirks, not even acknowledging him, and he sinks the heat of his mouth down Dream's cock again, his lips loose. He dips down further, though, taking most of Dream's length into his mouth, and even without pulling his lips tight, Dream is pretty sure he can't last long like this.

As George pulls back, he sucks at the tip again, tongue lapping at Dream's slit like he loves the taste of him. Dream hopes like hell that he does. He hopes that this is even half as good for George as it is for him. It's unlikely, but he hopes.

His mouth lets go of him, letting him slap back against his stomach, and Dream groans, needy for friction, for pressure.

And then, like a gift, George's hand wraps around him and starts stroking him. He pulls him back to his lips and starts mouthing at the head, his hand keeping a rhythm, and it's enough. It's more than enough.

"I'm gonna come," he breathes, eyes wide. "Is that okay?"

George's eyes snap up to meet his. He nods, opening his mouth to jerk Dream off against his tongue, and Dream watches as he comes pearly white against the pretty pink of it.

It's the best orgasm of his life. He's pretty sure that he levitates.

As it pulses through him, he spills into George's waiting mouth, filling it up until he has to close his lips to swallow. Dream tries not to think about how good he is at this, how he doesn't even gag. He doesn't want to know how much practice he's had. He doesn't want to think about how bad he's going to be when it's his turn to do this for George.

So he doesn't think about it. He enjoys his release and then sinks limply into the bed, the aftershocks still surging through him, head to toe.

Once he’s ridden the last of it out he opens his eyes and nearly has a second, spontaneous orgasm from the sight of George licking away a smear of white at the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck,” he says, flinging his arms over his head. His chest is still heaving. “What the fuck.”

“Mm,” George says. “I’m the goat, aren’t I? You came so hard.”

“Yeah,” Dream agrees. “Definitely the goat. The dick sucking goat.”

“Barely even sucked it.” George slaps Dream on his belly, laughing at the sound it makes. “You’re so easy.”

“Easy for you.” Dream reaches for George. “Come here. Please.”

George starts to crawl forward and Dream says, “Wait.”

“What?”

“Shorts off,” Dream says. His mouth goes dry again. “I want to see you.”

George doesn’t seem to have any self-consciousness as he strips down, tossing his t-shirt off with it.

“Thank you.”

“He’s polite.” George tucks Dream back into his shorts and crawls up his body. He doesn’t try to keep any space between them. Dream can feel the warm weight of George’s balls against his sternum, and the boniness of his knees as they press into Dream’s ribs. “Dream. Dream.”

“What?”

“Touch me,” George orders. “Why are you not touching me?”

“I just—I literally just came my brains out. Give me a fucking second.” Dream isn’t lying. Technically. What he is doing is just… staring at George’s dick instead. He’s never touched one that isn’t his own. He’s barely even accepted that he wants to, but here is George, and Dream wants to… so badly.

George jerks his hips, making his dick bob in front of him. “Dream!”

Dream laughs. He can’t help it. “Oh my god you just—George, you just like, waved your dick at me, what the fuck. What the fuck!”

George fights a smile and fails to turn it into a scowl. “Touch it!”

He’s not sure what he thought George would be like in bed, but it turns out he’s just… George, but naked and hard. Somehow this is still the most George he’s been in a while.

Dream really couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Dream touches him. George’s dick jerks in his grasp, and the laughter quickly dies in Dream’s throat as he realizes how hot this is. He’s wet, leaking, hard as a fucking rock. George isn’t small but Dream’s hand still looks big on him and he’s immediately obsessed with the way George starts to shallowly thrust into his grasp. His eyes are half closed and his mouth draws up, little noises coming from his throat.

“George,” Dream says. “You’re so fucking… beautiful.”

George’s eyes open. They look so dark. Dream’s still half hard, never really softened entirely, but he ignores it. He just wants to make George come right now.

“I’m sucking you later.” Dream makes the words into a promise. “I want you in my mouth.”

George bucks forward. “Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer after that. George chases his orgasm with determination, leaning forward with his hands on Dream’s shoulders as he gets close. He fucks Dream’s fist and when he comes, it splatters in thick strings over Dream’s shirt and a little onto his stomach where the shirt has ridden up.

It gets on Dream’s fingers, too. His first instinct is to play with it but he waits until he’s sure George has stopped trembling. When he spreads his fingers wide apart, it webs between them.

“Gross,” Dream says, not really thinking that at all. George lets his body list to the side and then hits the mattress, uncaring. “You nutted all over me.”

“You actually nutted in me. I win.”

“In your mouth.”

“Which is part of me.”

“It’s—oh, come on. George, it’s not—it’s not a competition.” Dream wipes his hand on the bottom of his shirt, then studies the cooling come on it. He decides there isn’t much point in modesty at this point and yanks the shirt over his head, tossing into the floor.

He isn’t expecting George to curl up against him like taking it off was an invitation, but that’s exactly what George does. He rests his head above Dream’s heart and rubs back and forth a bit. “You have chest hair.”

“Yeah,” Dream says. “You don’t.”

“I do, too!”

“You have like, three strands. Maybe—maybe four.”

“You have enough for both of us.” George drags his fingers through the soft patch of it across Dream’s chest.

“Fair,” Dream agrees. “Does it bother you?”

“No.” George pokes Dream’s nipple. “I like it.”

“I like…” Dream goes quiet. This is pillow talk. He’s no stranger to it, but he doesn’t want his mouth to run away with him, either. “I like everything about you.”

“Simp.” George tilts his head up.

Kissing him is as natural as breathing right now. It’s slower, unhurried, but George’s mouth opens against his own. It almost feels more intimate than sex, the way he can feel George’s soft cock and his balls against his hip, the length of their bodies so close together. The air between them smells like sex and George tastes a little like come, just a hint of sharpness to it.

“Dick breath,” Dream informs him.

“Your dick. You can’t complain. There are rules.”

“Hey,” Dream says. “I don’t know the rules. I’m new at this.”

“I’ll teach you,” George says.

“Oh yeah? All of the rules?”

“All of them.”

“Okay, what’s another one?”

George hums, thinking. "First one to come has to buy breakfast."

Dream laughs and gives George a squeeze, captivated by how well their bodies fit together. "You didn't have to make up a rule to get me to buy you food. You know I'd do that anyway."

"I know," George says proudly.

Dream grins lazily and turns onto his side enough to draw his fingers down George's back, riding the bumps of his spine all the way down to the soft swell of his ass. He keeps his touch light and, when George's eyes flutter at the feeling, Dream feels his dick give a little twitch of interest.

"I'm a little obsessed with you," he whispers, letting his fingers graze the cleft of George's ass without pushing any further. "Getting to touch you is just—like, unreal."

George sighs dreamily, hitching his leg over Dream's. "Where else do you want to touch me?"

"Everywhere," Dream answers. It's the easiest question he's ever been asked. "Every inch of you."

"Later. Touch me everywhere later."

Dream kisses his forehead. "Deal."

-

In the morning, Dream wakes up first. Their legs are still tangled together, but instead of being sprawled on top of Dream, George is splayed out next to him, his face pressed into the pillows. The position offers Dream an amazing view of his ass once he brushes the "duvet" aside.

He feels like a creep staring like this, but he did wake up just a few hours ago to George touching his dick, so he thinks that looking is okay. He's going to have to remember this view when he's gone, after all. He needs to memorize every inch of his body, starting right here.

The thought of leaving fills him with too much melancholy for someone who just had sex with the person they always wanted but never thought they could have. He should be riding so high right now, but every second of these few days is bittersweet. They're on such a short timeline that beginnings and endings seem to blur together.

He tells himself that it won't be long, that George's visa will be approved soon and he'll be in Florida indefinitely. But the truth is, he has no idea how long it could take. It could happen tomorrow or it could take a year.

It could just never happen.

A spike of panic runs through him, wondering what he would do. Could they just visit back and forth? Would that be enough? Could he ever actually leave Florida?

Looking around the room, he tries to picture this as his life, waking up in this bed every day, walking around the streets of London. He wonders how much he would be willing to give up for the man next to him and, as much as he hates thinking about it, he knows that there isn't much of a limit. He knows that he would choose George over most things in this world.

Set on breaking out these thoughts, he reaches over George's naked body and unplugs his phone from the wall. He types in the passcode and scrolls until he finds the UberEats app, pulling it up to browse their options.

Again, he orders too much food and feels no guilt when he checks out, charging the ridiculous amount to his card.

-

George eats more than Dream expected. When he likes something he doesn’t hesitate to take more of it, considering Dream’s plate fair game, too.

Dream doesn’t mind. It’s nice to see George feeling good.

It’s less nice to wonder if this will continue once he’s gone. He knows his dick isn’t magic. But he shoves those thoughts away again, puts them in the same box as the thoughts about when the visa will come, and slams the door shut just for now.

“Do you know what you should do?” George asks. He’s sitting on the floor to eat, because he says it helps him focus on the food better.

Dream thinks he’s an adorable little freak, and doesn’t mind telling him.

“What should I do?”

“Edit a video for me. While you’re here, and all.”

“What?” It’s not the last thing Dream expected him to say, but it’s definitely far down on the list.

“Yeah, like. Just. Edit for me. Because you’re here.”

“That does not make sense,” Dream says. “Footage can be sent over the internet. There’s not like—there’s no inherent advantage to me being here.”

“Yes there is,” George answers stubbornly.

“Well.” Dream considers it. “Okay, wait, maybe—let’s make a deal.”

George doesn’t trust it. That’s immediately clear. “What kind of deal?”

“I’ll edit on your setup, any singular video you want, if you clean this place up a little.”

He expects George to balk at the idea but instead he looks—embarrassed, actually. “Oh. I mean, yeah. It is like—trash.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dream tries to say. “I just… environment is important.”

He’s just repeating words that his mom has said to him, but he also knows she’s right. It’s one of the reasons he lets her come clean his house every few weeks. But George’s mom isn’t that type of mom—and George isn’t the type that would let her.

“This isn’t an environment.” George puts air quotes around the word. “This is like, I dunno. A lobby. I’m just here waiting for the game to start.”

“Yeah, but you’re still here, right now. So just… I don’t know. Take the garbage out. Clean the counters. Put your laundry away.”

“No,” George says stubbornly.

“Okay, how about…” Dream thinks for a moment. “How about I help you do all of that, and then we can edit the video together?”

George groans. “Why don’t we just have sex instead?”

The words are still a shock to Dream’s system. The laugh that comes out of his mouth is high and has a whistle to it. “George!”

“What?” George looks far too pleased with himself. “It’s a good idea, Dream. I’m smart. I’m the smartest.”

“Fine, let’s just… clean a little. Just a little. And then we can edit some, or, or, or we can have sex.”

“We can do both, idiot,” George says. “Unless you have like, endless dick powers, sex doesn’t take that long.”

Dream’s face is red. He wonders if George can even see it, and hopes not. “You don’t know. I might have endless dick powers. I might be, like, a sex god.”

George drags a mozzarella stick across his bottom lip. Dream hates that it’s as distracting as it is ridiculous. “Is that so?”

“Stop,” he says weakly, shifting on the sofa. “Stop, you are not—I will not get hard over you eating cheese. Stop it.”

George laughs and shoves the whole thing in his mouth, chewing obnoxiously.

When they've finished eating as much as they can, Dream shoves the rest into the fridge alongside the leftover Chinese and then turns to George.

"Okay, do you have cleaning stuff? Something to wipe down the counters?"

"I just use dish soap," George says, pointing at the half empty bottle next to the sink.

"Oh. You don't have, like, some kind of surface cleaner? Like Clorox or something?"

George shrugs. "Soap works fine."

But Dream isn't falling for it. "Listen, I'll make a list of a few things we need to clean up and you can run down to the store and get them."

He pulls out his phone to start typing out a list when George surprises him by saying, "No."

"No?"

"No. I don't want to go to the store. I don't want to clean. I don't even want to be here, Dream."

The tide is turning, Dream can see. His dick is not magic then.

"Maybe you won't mind being here so much if it's clean," he suggests, trying to be as gentle as he can be.

But all the gentleness in the world wouldn't be enough, probably.

"I will mind it so much," George insists. "I'll mind it because you won't be here. It doesn't matter if my dumb counters are clean if you're in Florida and I'm still stuck here."

Dream takes a deep breath, hoping that George will mimic him, will try to breathe through the storm.

"And now you're just—we only have a couple more days together and you want to send me away to do the shopping and get me to do the washing up. I'm about to lose you again and you don't even want to spend time with me."

Dream frowns, crossing the space between them, pulling George into a hug. "Baby, no, that's not what I'm saying at all. I just want to make sure you're okay when I leave."

“Baby,” George repeats, after a moment. His arms wrap suddenly and tightly around Dream’s neck. “You’re so stupid. Of course you say things like that.”

“Should I… not?” Dream asks. He didn’t even mean to say it, but he’s getting comfortable with a lot of things around George faster than he ever thought he would.

“Stupid,” George says, which isn’t an answer, except it kind of is.

Dream holds him securely. “You know that’s wrong, though, don’t you? Like—you know I’m not trying to get rid of you.”

“Whatever,” George says, which also isn’t an answer. He tucks his head underneath Dream’s chin and sighs. “I guess.”

-

They do clean, but just a little. Dream takes the “bins” down to be collected and George shoves clothes into drawers without discerning one item from the next. Towels get stacked in the bathroom and clean sheets get put on the bed, the dirty ones shoved into the washing machine.

Dream does the dishes, which also doesn’t take long because George doesn’t have that many to begin with.

George seems exhausted by the time they're finished. He doesn’t make any motion to turn the computer on, and Dream doesn’t bring it up. He sits by George instead, and lets George curl halfway onto his lap.

“I didn’t think you’d be so…”

“What?”

“Cuddly,” Dream says.

“Shut up.” George buries his face in Dream’s shoulder. “Two days.”

“Two days,” Dream repeats.

“Why can’t I just go with you?” George asks. “Don’t—I know, okay. I know it looks bad for the visa. Whatever. It’s bullshit. It’s stupid. Dream, it’s so stupid. I should be able to just go there, and wait.”

“You should,” Dream agrees.

He doesn’t know how to keep George from getting worked up over this. He doesn’t know how to keep himself from getting worked up, either. He looks at a cobweb in the top corner of the room.

George probably has more to say, but he doesn’t voice the words that are making him tuck himself so tightly into Dream.

-

It’s Dream that falls asleep on the sofa.

He doesn’t mean to, but his body just has that reaction to feeling safe and secure and comfortable. He misses midday naps with someone pressed up against him.

He’s going to miss them even more now that he knows what it feels like with George. He wakes and stretches gingerly. George is not asleep. He’s playing chess on his phone, and looks up when Dream yawns.

“You sleep so much,” he says.

“Sorry. How long was I out for?”

“Like an hour,” George says. “You were drooling. I took so many pictures of you.”

The words are a cold shock to Dream. “What? Delete them.”

George looks taken aback. “What?”

“You can’t have pictures of me on your phone. What if—what if someone steals it? Or, like, hacks your cloud? Delete them, George.” Dream doesn’t mean to snap but it’s the panic talking. He can’t get face revealed like this. He’s not ready yet.

George rolls off of the couch and catches himself, moving easily to his feet. He drops his phone down on Dream’s chest and says, “Delete them yourself,” then stalks into the bedroom and slams the door.

Dream sits stunned, trying to process what just happened. He really hadn't meant to snap. It's just such a sensitive issue for him.

Opening George's phone, he navigates to the photos. There are a handful of pictures of himself sleeping, as George said, and he feels bad about it, but he deletes them all. Then he immediately goes to the deleted folder to empty it, making sure that they're completely gone. Not a trace left.

As he's scrolling back up, he sees an album titled with a smiley face, just ':)'. Too curious for his own good, Dream opens it. George handed him his phone after all. He told him to delete the photos. That's basically blanket permission to go through the rest of them.

He's not sure what he's expecting to find under such an ominous album name, but what he finds makes his heart feel like someone has reached into his chest and squeezed it as hard as they can. It's an assortment of screenshots of texts and discord messages.

All from Dream.

It's the first time he said "I love you" years and years ago. It's compliments he gave on videos that George did or codes he came up with. It's, more recently, reassurances that everything will be okay. That they'll be together soon.

Suddenly, Dream isn't sure if the smiley face is for him or because this is where George comes when he needs to smile.

Dropping the phone on the couch next to him, he jumps up and goes to the bedroom door, knocking.

"George, can I come in?"

A pause, and then, "I'm sleeping."

"Please," Dream says, not bothering to acknowledge what he knows is a lie. "I'm sorry I freaked about the pictures. I'm sorry—I'm sorry we're in this stupid situation. I'm sorry it isn't happening faster. It sucks. I know it sucks. I—"

The door opens. George is standing there with red eyes and a weak glare.

"It sucks, Dream. I hate it. I hate it."

Dream nods because it's all true. It fucking sucks.

He'll try to make George see the glass half full tomorrow. Today, they can agree: it sucks.

"Just don't push me away," he says, reaching for George and pulling him close. "Let's hate it together."

George looks like he isn't sure for a moment, like he might want to stay mad a little bit longer. And, honestly, Dream would understand. He would. He'd just be heartbroken over it.

But then George wraps his arms around Dream's shoulder, tucking his face into Dream's neck, and he says, "Fine, whatever."

Dream smiles, relieved, and cradles the back of George's head.

-

They watch more TV. They play Would You Rather and Fuck Marry Kill. They kiss. God, they kiss so much.

And then, when the sun has gone down and they've reached the end of the season of Breaking Bad they've had playing, Dream pushes George back against the mattress and slides a leg between his. They're both still fully clothed, but all the kissing has made Dream hot—literally and figuratively.

"You said you'd teach me the rules," he points out, ignoring his nerves. "What are the rules of, like, sex? Like—if two guys have never done it. How do you decide where things go?"

George giggles, a sound that Dream wants to bottle and keep forever. "I think probably you just talk about it."

"You think? Probably? You're supposed to be the expert here."

George scoffs at him. "I've done stuff, you know, but I've only done that once."

"Oh? Tell me about it."

At that, George's smile dampens. He looks away and says, "It was trash. I barely even remember it."

Somehow Dream has a hard time believing that. How could you forget your first time having a dick in your ass? But he doesn't argue the point.

"Was it at uni?"

"Yeah, my first year."

Dream dips down to kiss the corner of his lips. "So it's been a while, huh?"

George doesn't answer, tilting his head to capture Dream's lips in a real kiss.

Dream’s mind doesn’t stop though. “So was it trash because you didn’t like the positioning, or did he not have good rhythm, or—”

“Oh my god, are you psychoanalyzing the first time I had anal sex?”

“N-no,” Dream tries to protest. “I just want to know like… what went wrong then, so we can do it right this time.”

“We’ll do it right,” George says firmly. “You’ll put your dick in my ass and it will be right.”

Dream hadn’t actually let himself think in such specifics, but now it’s all he can think about. He’s achingly hard in almost no time at all. “So you want—I mean, like, are you—do you exclusively b-bottom, or—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” George says, kissing Dream’s mouth forcefully each time he repeats the words.

If that’s actually supposed to shut Dream up, it’s a bad tactic. Dream decides not to let him know, though.

“Okay, fuck, I just wanted to know.”

“I don’t exclusively do anything,” George says. “But right now I want your dick in my ass. And I know you want it, too. You love my ass. You’re obsessed with it. You want to marry it.”

Well, Dream’s definitely not going to answer that, not with what immediately flashed through his mind at the word marry coming out of George’s mouth. “Yeah,” he admits. “I am obsessed with it. I told you that already, remember?”

“You said you were obsessed with me,” George says.

“Your ass is part of you.” Dream is emboldened by the topic, and grabs a cheek in each hand. He loves the little giggle George lets out. “I can’t believe you’re gonna let me fuck you.”

“Believe it.” George makes it sound like an order, and then kisses Dream afterward. It’s the kind of kiss Dream can lose himself in.

“Do you have um… stuff?” Dream asks.

“I have lube,” George says.

“Condoms?”

George stares at him blankly. “What?”

“You know what condoms are, right?” Dream asks.

George scrunches his face up in annoyance. “Yes, Dream, I know what condoms are.”

“So… do you have any?”

“... no,” George says.

“Um. Fuck.” Dream closes his eyes. “Should I go get some?”

“Do you have to?”

“I don’t know,” Dream says. “Do I?”

George stares at him, then groans loudly. “Ugh. Fuck. Whatever. Yeah. Go.”

Part of him had been hoping that George would say no, but he also can’t imagine George prioritizing getting tested when he’s barely even gone to the doctor in years.

“Why am I going?” Dream asks.

“Because I live here,” George says. “I don’t want the Boots girl to see me buying condoms. It would be on twitter like… the next minute. GeorgeNotFound is getting laid, breaking news. Needs his penis covered. Jizz must be contained.”

“Technically it’s my penis being covered,” Dream points out. “And my, you know, um. Contained.”

George pushes him away. “Not if you don’t hurry.”

Dream gets to his feet. He has to adjust himself, and he sees George’s eyes on him the whole time he does it. He can’t really say anything, though. He’s definitely staring at the outline of George’s dick where it’s pressed against his sweats, emphasized by the lazy spread of his legs.

“Five minutes,” Dream says, and then almost falls down the stairs.

-

The walk to Boots—which google tells him is a pharmacy—is just long enough for his boner to die down.

He may also take it at a light jog, but that’s between him and the one old man he sees walking a dog.

Inside the store, he walks around for about thirty seconds before he sees the display he needs. He doesn’t even bother reading what else the box says, just grabs what he knows is his size.

Then, on pure impulse, he grabs one size smaller as well. He doesn’t think he’s getting fucked this weekend. But he also didn’t think sex of any kind would be happening until a day ago, so maybe he needs to expect the unexpected.

He awkwardly adds a pack of gum to the counter as he pays, and then shoves a box in each pocket.

-

When he pulls the boxes out of his pockets, George quirks an eyebrow up. "Two different kinds?"

Dream flushes. "I wasn't sure which size I'd need," he lies. "It's been a long time since I even used these."

George's nose wrinkles in displeasure. "Let's not talk about that."

He knows, of course. He knows the last time Dream used condoms. He knows that it was with his ex. He even knows that they stopped using them at one point because when she told him that she forgot to take her birth control, it was George he freaked out to. In the end, it was just another manipulation tactic, but at the time, he was sure that he was going to have a kid and it was going to ruin everything he had planned, everything he wanted to do with his life.

George called it out, but Dream was blind to her tricks back then.

He hates that he's even thinking about her now. It's like the ghost of her is still trying to ruin stuff for him. But he's not going to let this get ruined. Not by her, not by anyone.

He sets the condoms aside, looking down at George. "If anything I do is trash, you'll tell me, right?"

"Yes," George huffs impatiently. "I've been waiting here for ages. Can you get naked now?"

"I was gone for like ten minutes, George. You're so dramatic."

"Well, you promised it would be five, so you lied. You're a liar. And now you owe me."

Dream prepares himself for yet another demand for him to edit a video. "You are so—ugh, whatever. What do you want?"

To his surprise, George does not ask for video editing.

"I want you to use your mouth," he says, biting his lip. "Like, before we get into the other stuff."

Oh. Oh.

"You want me to blow you? Or—or did you mean—"

"Yeah, blow me. Not—not that. Just, suck my dick a little bit."

Dream's mouth practically waters. "I don't really know how that's a favor for you, but yeah, I'll—yeah. I will. I just—if I'm not good—"

"Then you'll practice," George offers. "It's still going to be good though."

Dream nods, hoping to psych himself up. Moving to kneel between George's legs, he looks down at where there had been the visible line of his dick a few minutes ago. Now, that bulge is gone, but he'll get it back.

He pulls down George's sweatpants, uncovering his mostly soft cock and balls, and then he slides them off entirely and tosses them to the side. With him fully on display, he takes a moment to study him. There's some hair on his balls and around his dick, but it's very sparse. Overall, it's very pretty. Just like the rest of him.

"I've never seen balls so symmetrical," he says, touching them. "They're, like, perfect."

George lets out a shaky breath. "Didn't know you were a ball guy, Dream."

"Neither did I," Dream says, giving them a squeeze. "Never cared about them in porn or whatever."

"Lucky me," George exhales, looking down as Dream keeps exploring him, cupping each ball in his palm, getting used to them.

And then he notices that his ministrations have had an effect, George's cock twitching, swelling where it lies against his hip. He moves his hand to it, more interested in that now, in feeling it harden in his grasp. The only other time he got to touch, it was already rock hard before he got his hands on him. This time, he gets to feel it for himself.

George is patient for a while, letting Dream acquaint himself, but after giving a few strokes, a few swipes of his thumb over the head, he speaks up.

"I asked for a blowjob, not a handjob."

Dream laughs as he says, "Brat," and then, finally, he dips down to take him into his mouth.

He's not fully hard yet, but he's getting there, and Dream is relieved to find that he doesn't have to struggle to take him into his mouth. It's not a tiny cock by any means, nothing that would be embarrassing, but the fact that it's on the smaller side of average does help him. He's able to pull it between his lips and suck him down most of the way without gagging.

As soon as it's in his mouth, he knows that he likes this. He likes sucking dick. He likes sucking George's dick. He even likes how it smells now that he has his nose buried in the wiry hair at the base. He doesn’t smell bad or dirty, but it’s not how a woman smells, either. It’s thick and sharp and he breathes in deep just to drag it further into his lungs.

George gets harder against his tongue, and Dream likes that, too. It’s like instant feedback, a sign he’s doing something right. Not that he needs one with the sounds George is making. There’s nothing showy about it, it just sounds like George isn’t bothering to hide that this feels good to him. It’s not even anything special—just Dream sucking on him. But it works for George, apparently.

He tries bobbing his head a little and George likes that, too. His cock twitches in Dream’s mouth and he can suddenly taste something a little sweeter. He pulls off and watches precome bead at the tip, then licks it curiously.

George groans.

“You’re cut,” Dream says, the thought just occurring to him. “I didn’t think you would be.”

“Well, I am,” George says, and moves his hips impatiently.

Dream laughs and kisses his hip bone. “Are you always this greedy in bed?”

Actual hesitation flashes over George’s face. “No? I dunno.”

Dream still isn’t used to that, the way vulnerability is a little too close to George’s surface right now. The protective feelings well up inside him again.

“You can be,” Dream tells him. “I like that you want me. It’s like… actually epic.”

“My dick is epic,” George says, recovering a little.

“It is,” Dream agrees, and goes back to sucking it. He plays with George’s balls a little more, rubbing his finger along the seam between them and then finding the shape of each one within the sac. George is making more of those sounds and Dream is spurred on by the vocalizations.

He presses two fingers behind George’s balls, finding his taint. He rubs deeply and George jerks and makes the best sound yet, Dream’s name in a high moan. Dream keeps going, keeps touching, until his fingers are nudging between the cheeks of George’s ass.

George tenses, clenching together. It makes Dream laugh, pulling off of George’s dick to look up at him. “That’s gonna make it hard.”

The response Dream gets from George is nonsensical. “You’re gonna make it hard.”

“I actually already did, thanks,” Dream says. He leans down and sucks just on the tip, drawing his tongue into a point and rubbing. George’s thighs twitch and he makes another bitten off sound. “Lube?”

George twists over and opens the top drawer of his nightstand. The bottle is three-fourths empty and Dream makes a note of the brand. Not that he’s going to do something ridiculous like order more of it when he’s home just so he can be using the same lube George is and feel a little closer to him. Not that at all.

He leans back, watching as George’s cock jerks up toward him like it wants to follow his mouth. “Can I finger you?”

“Yeah,” George says. His lips are a darker pink, like he’s been biting them, and his nipples are the same color. Dream is drunk on the sight of him sprawled out like a meal just waiting to be tasted. He wants to lick the plate clean.

He opens the lube and spills some across his fingers, then presses them between George’s legs. As soon as his slick fingertip touches George's hole, George gasps softly in surprise. But his legs open wider, giving Dream more access, and Dream takes it. He presses his finger in, holding his breath until it's buried.

The way George is squeezing around his single finger makes him wonder how the fuck he's going to cram his cock in there.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, anxiously checking George's expression.

"Not really," George answers. "Your fingers are bigger than mine though."

That explains the mostly empty bottle of lube. "You do this to yourself a lot?" Dream asks, drawing his hand back and then pushing in again, waiting for George to get used to the feeling.

"Sometimes," George answers. "I have a—a thing, too."

"A toy?"

George nods. He's taking the finger well, his body not held quite as rigid as when he first pressed inside.

"I want to see it," Dream tells him, desperately curious.

"You're a little busy right now," George says. "Unless you just want me to use that and leave you out entirely."

Dream has to admit that the idea of watching George fuck himself on a dildo is enough to drive him crazy with want, but he also doesn't like the part where he would be left out. He wants it all. He wants it all, and he only has two days left.

Fuck. Less than that now.

"I'll see it later," he finally answers, clearing his head.

"Good choice."

When he gets approval, he adds a second finger, marveling at how George's body makes room for him. He stares at where his fingers disappear beyond the stretched muscle and he feels a compulsion to put his mouth there, to see if he tastes the same inside as he does outside. It should gross him out, thinking that, but it doesn't. It just makes him harder.

"One more," George orders then.

His cock has gone a little limp in the time he's been working him open, so as Dream presses a third finger in alongside the first two, he bends down to suck it some more. George immediately moans at the feeling, and if three fingers is hurting him at all, it's not clear from the sounds he's making and the way he's growing thick and heavy on Dream's tongue again.

A little belated, he realizes he should try to find George's prostate and he begins rocking his fingers in at different angles, hoping to be able to feel it when he finds it. He doesn't have to worry about feeling it though, because when he rubs up against it, George's back arches, a whine pouring out of him, and his dick squirts a dribble of precome onto Dream's tongue.

"Did I find it?" he asks when he pulls off. "Is that the spot?"

"Yeah," George breathes heavily. "Don't do that again or I'll come too soon."

Dream nods, watching George pant, his body twitching and rolling against the bed as Dream fucks his fingers in, starting to feel the muscle loosen around him. He looks unbelievable like this. It's not even weird seeing his longtime friend suddenly on his back, moaning as he gets finger fucked. It's not, like, awkward. Like how Dream would have thought it would be.

It feels so fucking natural, like it's just them, but naked. It's just them making each other feel good.

They were always meant to be like this. It was only time and distance getting in their way.

"I need you inside me now," George says.

"I am inside you."

"Your dick, Dream, give me your dick."

Dream bites his lip, looking down, and he thinks that he'd give him anything. Anything he wanted.

He knows deep down that, if George asked, he would miss his flight on Tuesday. If George really needed him to, he would give up everything he's ever worked towards. And that knowledge scares him to death.

"Okay. Take off your shirt," he says, removing his fingers and wiping them on a tissue from the box next to George's bed.

Climbing off the bed, he stands and strips himself, still a little self-conscious. Even though George has seen him, even though he knows that George wants him, he thinks he'll always be just a little bit self-conscious when getting naked in front of someone else. The fact that George looks the way he does, like literal perfection, doesn't bolster his confidence.

But when he's naked, George looks at him like he's every bit as perfect as George is, and that's enough. He trusts that George wants him as much as he wants George.

He grabs the box of condoms in the larger size and rips it open, pulling out a single foil packet.

"We should have used the Dream condom," he says, remembering that he sent it to George, so it must be around here somewhere.

George snorts. "The drondom. I don't know if I'd trust it."

"Well, it wasn't official Dream Branding merch."

"You should make them," George says, dropping a hand to absently stroke himself as he waits for Dream. "Make, like, a whole line of sex stuff. Dream lube—call it drube. And—and a drildo, of course."

"Modeled after me?" Dream asks, rolling the condom down his length.

"No, ew," George says immediately. "I don't want them—only I get your dick. They can't have it."

He isn't sure if George realizes it, but he's answering a question Dream hadn't even thought to ask yet. With the condom on properly, he leans down to press a kiss to George's lips and says, "Only you get my dick. Promise."

“Good,” George says. Then he looks at Dream with those big, dark eyes, a look that says so many things they haven’t actually spoken between them yet, and Dream has to kiss him again and again and again until George is squirming, pushing their bodies together.

He pulls back again and it hits him, slams into him, that this is about to really happen. He grabs the lube and slicks himself up with a light touch, too afraid he’ll come before he even gets it in if he properly strokes himself. The sight of George with his stretched open hole right there waiting for him nearly gives him an aneurism without adding any physical stimulation to it.

He lines up and presses just the tip against George. It pops in and he has to stay still again, trying to ignore the rushing of blood in his ears.

George whines. “Dream.”

“Stop,” Dream says, one hand on George’s thigh while the other grips the base of his own dick. “Just—give me a second.”

“Are you—oh my god, Dream, are you literally about to come.”

“No,” Dream lies. “Just—shut up. Shut up. Don’t—look at me.”

George laughs openly, and reaches down to touch himself. Dream drags in a strangled breath and moves forward. He has to keep it slow and shallow but it’s worth it for the way George’s expression changes as Dream sinks in.

“Fuck,” he says, once Dream is halfway buried. “You’re so—you’re so stupid. Your cock is so stupid. And big. Stupid big.”

“Bigger than your toy?” Dream has no idea what possesses him to ask, but he does.

It’s worth it for the way George’s head tilts up and mouth curls into a grin.

“Yeah,” George says. “Now will you please fuck me?”

Dream pulls out and thrusts back in, giving George what he wants. It moves fast after that, ragged breathing and whimpers. George claws at his shoulders until Dream leans over him, chest to chest, and that’s exactly how he wants this. He buries his face in the curve of George’s neck and mouths kisses there while his hips fuck in. George’s hands are restless and his voice is endless, his cock leaking between their stomachs.

It’s Dream’s name he keeps saying and that almost does as much for Dream as the heat and tightness of his body. He keeps being struck by the moment, the way he can’t believe he’s here, like this, with George. With George.

Eventually they’re barely moving, just rocking together. Their mouths meet in a wet, messy kiss and Dream’s lips drag away against the bristle of George’s stubble. He pushes desperate kisses into any place he can touch. The sweat of their bodies is smeared together, skin slapping every time they part and come back together.

George shoves a hand between their bodies and starts to jerk himself off. His knuckles dig into the softness of Dream’s stomach, and somehow that’s hot too, just knowing George is making himself feel good while Dream is balls deep inside of him.

He doesn’t even realize he’s about to come until the feeling is right there on him, knocking him out with the force of it. He grunts and he’s coming into the condom before he can even tell George, burying himself desperately deep. George finishes as soon as he realizes what’s happening, even more of a mess between their bodies.

Dream feels like he’s run a marathon. He lets himself go slack against George, his body weight blanketing George completely. He’s aware it’s a little rude but he actually thinks his brain might be broken. He might never move again.

Then he tries, and George doesn’t let him, wrapping his calves around Dream’s thighs and locking him in place. “No,” he says stubbornly. He uses his hands too, the left one leaving sticky smears of come on Dream’s skin as he grabs at Dream’s sides. “Stay.”

"I'll stay," he agrees, and he carefully gives George his weight again.

They lie together for a while, catching their breath and coming down from the high they both just experienced. They had sex. He kind of wants to call Sapnap and tell him all about it, to gush over how he had sex with the guy he's been crazy about for years. He can't do that, for so many reasons, but the impulse is there anyway, nudging him to tell someone, to tell everyone, tell the whole fucking world.

He's still inside George when he feels him tremble, the telltale hitch in his breath that he's had the displeasure of learning recently. Lifting up enough to look him in the face, he finds him lip-bitten and shiny-eyed, staring at the ceiling.

"George," Dream says softly, worried. "What's wrong?"

He reaches down to grip the condom on his slowly softening cock and he pulls out, making quick work of tying it up and tossing it aside so he can focus fully on George.

"It's so stupid," George says, shaking his head.

"Let me decide that."

George sighs and, wiping his cheeks, he meets Dream's gaze. "I just can't believe you're going to be gone soon. Best sex of my life and you're just—leaving."

The words sting. He remembers his realization earlier though. He knows what he would give up for George.

"It was the best sex of my life, too," he says, trying to be as positive as he can be, to keep George from spiraling. "And I'm only leaving because you're coming to me soon. For good."

"Soon," George huffs sadly. "I get why they all hate that word."

Dream frowns and leans in to kiss him, running a hand through his hair. It's slightly damp at the roots from sweating. "It sucks," he agrees. "Which is why we shouldn't think about it until we get there. Right now, can we just think about the epic sex we just had?"

George doesn't answer. Instead, he wraps himself around Dream again, pulling him close and rolling them onto their sides. There is come and lube all over, but Dream doesn't care. He holds George so close and lets his fingers run up and down his back to calm him. It seems to work, the tears clearing and his breath evening out.

Just when he thinks that George is falling asleep, he says, "I want ice cream."

Dream has never been one to deny George something he wants, even if it's literally freezing outside.

"I can go get us some if you want."

"It'll be all melted by the time you get back."

And then, proving that sex makes you stupid, Dream suggests, "Let's just go together. We can wear face masks. It'll be fine."

The smile he gets from George in response makes it worth every little bit of the risk.

-

They shower before they go, crammed into a small stall laughing as they pass shampoo and soap back and forth. Watching George finger lube out of his ass definitely wasn’t on Dream’s short list for things that would happen this weekend, but the faces George makes as he does it have Dream almost doubled over laughing. It’s stupid, and ridiculous, and everything.

George makes no pretense about stealing the shirt Dream had been wearing all day. He’s sure it smells, at least of deodorant near the pits, and seems like exactly what you wouldn’t want after scrubbing clean. But Dream likes the sight of it and he doesn’t complain.

-

“How do you not know the area? You literally live here,” Dream says.

They haven’t been able to find ice cream, but there is a gelato place. It’s empty when they walk in, save an older woman behind the counter. She doesn’t look like their general demographic so he lets himself relax and not overthink it.

“Bro thinks I’m Google Maps,” George says. “I never leave the flat.”

“You leave more than me,” Dream points out.

“What. You’re literally in another country right now. You left home so far. Idiot.” George rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. What do you want?” Dream asks.

Dream doesn’t even normally like sweet things that much, but somehow it tastes amazing right now. They end up scooping from each other’s cups more often than not, masks tucked down under their chins. Their backs are turned to the window that faces the street, and the entire time no one comes into the shop. Even the woman that got the gelato for them disappears into the back when it’s clear they won’t be asking her for anything else.

“Hey,” Dream says, and reaches for George’s phone where he has it laid on the table. He picks it up and takes a picture of their ice cream cups together. George’s hand is in the corner of the frame, and on the other side is a bit of Dream’s knee. “Here. Memories.”

George rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Wow, thanks,” he says, but he pulls up the phone and looks at it again.

Dream knows George likes… things. Trinkets. Mementos. He’s never thought about how that might translate to pictures, too.

He vows one day, when George is in Florida and Dream isn’t guarding his face like a secret anymore, he’ll let George take a million of them.

-

They walk home side by side, arms brushing with the occasional errant step. “This place was too far,” George complains. “Dream, it's cold and my legs hurt. Call me an Uber.”

“We’re–George, it’s–it’s literally like, two minutes to your place. Two minutes. I am not calling an Uber for two minutes.”

“Because you hate me,” George says. He keeps on antagonizing Dream and Dream lets him because this is the George he’s missed. This is the George that will tell Dream that he’s an idiot who needs to die in a way that feels like a confession of affection, that is too loud and too brash and vibrant in the moment.

This George and the other George, the one with quicksilver moods and the saddest eyes Dream has ever seen– they’re the same George. Dream knows that. He thinks about the years he spent viewing George as his older friend, his wiser friend, the one that had experiences Dream hadn’t gotten to live yet. He used to think that George was so mysterious and so cool. That playing field leveled out a while back—somewhere around the time Dream made his first million and realized George and Nick both were looking at him to lead the way. George stopped being mysterious and started being a person Dream thought he knew inside and out.

But this whole last few months, and last few days in particular, have proven to him that George is still a mystery in a lot of ways. He gets sad in a way Dream has never felt in his life before. He knows now that this isn’t the first time George has sunken into this pit. He wants to grill George on how he got better last time, or the time before. He wants to find a solution, because that’s what he does. He sees problems and obstacles and he figures out how to get around them.

He can’t make this better. He can’t chase the clouds around George away with a kiss and an ice cream. George will still have to suffer alone, while Dream walks through every day of his life knowing that George lives with this heavy oppressive thing weighing him down.

Dream’s chest aches at the thought of it.

“You’re thinking too hard,” George says. They’re at his door, and Dream hadn’t even realized. He waits until they’re both inside and George is locking the door back behind them, then he puts his hands on George’s waist.

As soon as George turns around, Dream is kissing him again. He tastes sweet like strawberry and chocolate, and he responds to the kiss without questioning it.

He already knows that this will never get old. He already knows that he wants to keep kissing George for—

For a long fucking time.

"You know how I promised that you're the only one who gets my dick?" he asks between kisses, lips catching against George's.

George pulls back, hesitating. "Yeah?"

He's worried that Dream is going to take it back. This beautiful idiot thinks that Dream could ever want anyone else. Unbelievable.

"It's not just my dick, you know. It's—it's everything. All of me is just for you."

George stares at him, wide-eyed and with the beginnings of a smile slowly curling the corners of his lips. Beautiful, beautiful idiot.

"Is that okay?" Dream checks. He doesn't want to go back home without knowing for sure, without saying it out loud.

"All of you is just for me," George repeats, like he's trying to get used to the words, to the concept.

Dream nods. "If—if you'll take it. If you want—"

George kisses him again, pulling him in to smash their mouths together in a kiss that answers the question as well as any words could. Right there, standing just inside George's front door, Dream kisses George and he knows. This was not a one time hookup. This is not some friends with benefits situation.

He knows that he will carry George home with him, tucked away in his chest, in a spot he carved out a long, long time ago.

But before he does that, before he leaves, he needs to do everything he can to make George's lows a little bit easier to handle. He knows that he can't fix him, that he can't slap a bandaid on this and call him all better, but he can do something. He can help, even if it's just a little bit.

"Wanna go lay in bed?" Dream asks, trailing kisses from George's lips to his cheek, up to his temple. "We can play Word Hunt."

"We can play Word Hunt anytime."

"Yeah, but now I can see your face when you lose," Dream teases. "It'll be so much more gratifying."

George wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I am literally so much better than you. I have, like, so many more wins than you, it's ridiculous."

"Only because you've played way more than me. My win ratio is higher."

“Play me in chess,” George demands. “I rule chess. I am the chess god.”

“No,” Dream says. “I suck at chess.”

“Wow, Dream’s scared to lose to me at chess,” George says, sighing. “It’s sad to see your heroes fall.”

Dream starts poking him relentlessly in the sides, propelling George to duck away from him and run up the stairs.

-

Dream doesn’t want to sleep, but he doesn’t complain when they end up back in bed. There are really only two places in George’s entire flat suitable for sitting with someone, and the bed has so much more potential for closeness than the sofa.

George has TikTok pulled up on his phone. He’s showing Dream some drafts he has. Dream can tell they’re all months old, and he’s already seen most of them back when George first filmed them. But George is talking about posting one and Dream just wants to encourage him.

“We can film one together when you get to Orlando,” Dream says. “We can go all out. I want like, fucking, fireworks and everyone. We can have a party.”

“Yeah.” George’s voice is instantly dim.

Dream regrets bringing it up. But he can’t not. They can’t avoid reality. Dream’s never been one to do that. He faces things as they come.

Even when they suck.

Discord message notifications start flowing in and at first, George just swipes them away, but finally he gives in and opens the app to see what they are.

“AssNap has been blowing your discord up again,” George says, reading the new messages and then scrolling through the rest of his inbox.

It’s weird for Dream to see his own name so far down on the list, but he hasn’t really needed to message George when he can just whisper in George’s ear right here in real life.

“What does he want?” Dream asks.

“To know when you’re going to be back. He’s trying to figure out a schedule for recording some videos. I dunno. Boring, boring, blah, blah, work, whatever.”

"Just tell him—tell him you haven't heard from me," Dream says. "He'll get pissy if he thinks I've been talking to you and not him."

"You have been talking to me and not him."

Dream shoves him lightly. "Okay, whatever, that's different. I'm here."

"You could just tell him that," George points out.

Dream takes a moment to consider that maybe it bothers George that he hasn't told anyone. Maybe he feels like a secret that needs keeping. Maybe he wants to talk to Sapnap about this, the way Dream felt an impulse to call him after they fucked, to tell his best friend all about it.

Maybe, just maybe, he's being selfish.

"Hey," he says, looking up. "If you want me to tell Nick I'm here, I can. If it bothers you that I haven't."

"No," George answers without even giving it any thought. "Don't tell him."

Dream nods, curious now. "Okay. Is there—is there a reason you don't want him to know?"

George is looking at his phone, marking discord notifications read as he answers, "I don't want anyone to know. I like having things that are just ours."

Dream grins, hearing the recurring sentiment echoed again. They are just each other's. This is just theirs.

"I do too."

George rolls his eyes and drops his phone, pushing Dream onto his back to kiss him senseless.

For once, Dream doesn't worry about anything. Not his impending departure, not George's tears, not the chance of getting recognized on the long journey home. He forgets everything outside of these four walls and enjoys this. Right here, right now.

-

George falls asleep first.

Once Dream is sure that he's no longer awake, he pulls up his phone and starts googling therapists in the area. He doesn't know anything about England's healthcare system, how hard it is to get in to talk to someone, but he has learned over the past few years that, if you throw enough money at a problem, it will resolve itself pretty quickly.

He finds a few who look decent, unsure exactly what George would want in a therapist, and he makes a list. Pictures, names, phone numbers, email addresses. He makes it as easy as he possibly can for George to reach out. And if it's still not easy enough, he'll do it himself.

It's late when he finally calls it quits, saving the list, and plugging his phone into the charger. He curls up to George, spooning him, and he hopes that the storms stay away when he brings it up in the morning. But he knows that, if they don't, they'll work through it together. They'll hunker down and wait for the sun to shine again.

Because it will. It always does.

-

It's raining when Dream wakes up. George is sitting next to him on the bed, his knees tucked up to his chest and the blanket wrapped around him messily. He's staring out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, and Dream watches him for a moment before George realizes he's awake. He wonders if his head looks something like the rain on the windows, damp and dreary and muted.

He hates thinking that it might.

"Hey," he says softly after a minute.

George turns to him, not frowning and not smiling. Not happy and not sad. Or maybe—probably—feeling both of those things equally.

"How long have you been up?" he asks, reaching out to touch his arm under the blanket.

"Not long," George answers. "The rain woke me."

When Dream tugs at his arm, George goes eagerly, tipping over onto his side and shuffling into Dream's arms, their noses brushing. There's a chill in the room this morning, but George is warm enough to keep it at bay.

"Hopefully my ceiling hasn't sprung a leak again."

Dream laughs, remembering the video George sent. He has a hard time remembering what George has posted and what he's sent directly to him, but he thinks that one made it to the public.

"Didn't they fix that?"

George shrugs. "Another one always pops up. It's old. Stuff breaks all the time."

Dream hums, thinking about their new house in Florida. Even if something does go wrong, usually his dad will come over and fix it before they can call out a handyman. He doesn't mention any of that though. Florida is too far away from George right now. The reminder would just sting.

"You should post a video of it on Twitter," Dream says instead. "And then announce you're officially on leaktwt."

George laughs, a bright spot on a dreary morning. "That's actually funny. Dream's got jokes."

"Dream's got more than just jokes," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "But I think we should get breakfast before I show you what else I have to offer."

“You aren’t tricking me, by the way,” George says. “By the way. I see what you are doing?”

“What am I doing?” Dream asks.

“Feeding me. You have like, a feeder kink, or something. You’re just constantly like—ooh, George, let’s get food. Let’s eat food. I’m going to order some food.”

Dream laughs. “You need variety in your diet. You can’t live on McDonalds.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” George says. “You’re not my mum.”

Dream’s face screws up in disgust. “I mean–I hope not. Considering what we've done in the past two days.”

George shrieks in disgust and starts slapping Dream on the chest. Dream grabs his arms by the wrists and tugs him in close until there’s too little space between their bodies for George to playfully hit at him, and then takes advantage of the close distance to steal a few more kisses.

-

A few more kisses turns into something else.

They’re hard together and it doesn’t actually take much for Dream to be talked into breakfast after they get off, not before.

“I just want to play with you,” George says, earnest and honest. He studies Dream’s dick like he’s turning it over and over in his mind, and touches places on Dream’s body like he’s trying to find just the right combination of jumps to sail through a parkour course. He strokes fingers along Dream’s inner thighs and his pelvis, kisses the stretch-marked skin of his stomach in a way Dream hadn’t really imagined ever feeling comfortable with someone doing.

But this is George, and George just–wants him. Dream can’t really deny George anything he wants, and that’s how he ends up sweating into George’s sheets twenty minutes into a handjob that might just kill him. George uses plenty of lube and every touch feels electric, but too light to get him there until George’s curiosity is satisfied. He feels like he’s been hard for a century by the time George starts to genuinely jerk him off.

“Hey, Dream,” George says, voice conversational like Dream isn’t trembling with how turned on he is. “Is it better than when a girl does it?”

“Um.” Dream’s mouth is dry. “What?”

“You can like, you can compare now, right? So do guys give better handjobs than girls?”

“I don’t–George, I can’t answer that. It’s not like–I didn’t take notes. I can’t just compare. And I don’t–I’ve gotten handjobs from like, two girls in my entire life, and one of them wasn’t–I didn’t even come, she just kinda, she groped me through my pants. It barely counts. And the other was-”

“I know.” George cuts him off. His wrist keeps the same pace even as Dream’s orgasm is building. “I just want to know if I’m better.”

“Oh,” Dream says, shifting restlessly. “You’re better. You’re the best.”

“Are you saying that because you want to nut?”

“No.” Dream gasps. “No. You’re better than, like–everyone. You’re better than everyone else, to me.”

“Good,” George says. “I have to be. I have to be better enough that someone doesn’t steal you away while I’m not even there.”

“No, wait,” Dream says, struggling to make sense through the fog in his brain. “There’s no–no one else.”

“There could be,” George says, finally picking it up a notch. “You talk to loads of people online. You were friends with all of those girls that played Minecraft with us. You used to like–flirt with them. You showed me the sexts. I hated that so much, Dream. You didn’t know, but I hated it. I hated them.”

“George.” Dream digs his heels into the bed. His orgasm is happening whether he wants it to or not, balls drawing up close to his body and aching with the need to empty. “George.”

And then he’s coming, cock pulsing thick shots up his belly. George wanks him faster to get him through it then gentles the strokes back down to draw out the aftershocks.

It actually is the best handjob he’s ever had. But he’s also distracted by all of the things George was saying, and the afterglow doesn’t feel quite as magical right now.

He lets himself take a few seconds to come down, to catch his breath, and then he reaches for George, grabbing his hand. Luckily it's not the one he's been using to get Dream off, so it's not covered in lube, but he wouldn't have cared if it was. He wouldn't have cared about anything but making it perfectly clear to George how he feels.

"George," he says again, shaking his head. "You don't get it. If I ever thought I had a chance with you—like, honestly, I just showed you that shit to try to make you jealous. Or, like, just to gauge your reaction. If you—if you said you wanted me to yourself, I would have been yours a long time ago. I would have—"

He feels like his words aren't sinking in enough, like George is hearing him but not truly understanding the extent of it. So, since Dream has never been good at holding his tongue even when it's maybe for the best, he decides to tell the truth.

There, with jizz all over his stomach and George's messy hand resting on his thigh, he says, "I've been in love with you forever, George. Don't you see that?"

George's eyes go wide, the shock of the words hitting him. Dream doesn't expect to hear them reciprocated; he knows George well enough to know that things like that don't come easily to him. He's shown Dream over these few days, though. He's done enough to make Dream feel confident that the feelings are there, even if the words aren't said out loud.

So, it's okay that he doesn't say anything. What is less great is that George scrambles off the bed and runs out of the room, locking himself in the bathroom.

Dream lies there stunned, feeling like he's majorly fucked up. He knew that saying those words would be a lot for George, but he didn't realize it would send him running. With a sigh, he reaches over for the tissues, taking the last couple from the box and making a mental note to order him some more.

Once he's wiped off his stomach, he pulls his underwear back on and walks on metaphorical eggshells towards the bathroom door. The rain is still pouring outside, but luckily, the ceiling seems to be doing its job.

He knocks on the door. "George? I'm sorry if I freaked you out. And, like, you don't have to say anything, okay? If that's what you're worried about, I'm not looking for anything from you that you haven't already given me."

There's no reply. No water running, no footsteps. Dream rests his forehead against the doorframe. "George, please. This is my last day. Please don't shut me out over some dumb words."

And then, suddenly, the door is ripping open and George is standing there, some mixture of anger and sadness written across his face.

"I know it's your last day, you idiot," he says. "I know you're leaving tomorrow. You love me and you're leaving tomorrow and I hate you and they're not dumb words, Dream, but you're leaving."

“Okay,” Dream says, beginning to understand. “Okay. I–I get it. My timing wasn’t great. But I just needed you to know.”

“Why?” George asks forcefully.

“Because you were talking like–like you thought there was some kind of a chance I wasn’t in love with you.”

George flinches. “Stop. Stop saying it. You said we weren’t talking about feelings.”

“Actually, you said that,” Dream points out.

“You agreed to it.”

“Well, maybe I was wrong to,” Dream says. “I flew to another country just because you were sad, George. I love my friends, but I wouldn’t do that for someone that was just a friend.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Why are you mad at me, George?” Dream asks. He feels helpless and lost, like there’s a whole layer of this conversation he missed.

“I’m not.” George glares at him.

“You are, though.”

“I’m not. I just—this is hard, Dream. And it’s–it’s stupid. It’s all so stupid because you’re leaving.”

“I’ll stay,” Dream says. “If you want me to. If–I’ll stay. I’ll cancel the plane ticket. I’ll tell Nick I’m here. And my mom, and, and everyone. I’ll stay.”

Once the words are out of his mouth, he realizes how much he means them. He stares at George who stares back at him, not saying anything.

So Dream keeps talking. “I know I can only stay so long on a visitor visa, but that’s six months, right? I’ve looked into it before. Six months and by then your visa will be here, I know it. I know it. I can take a hiatus from videos and, and streaming. Or I can still stream and just–use your setup. My Twitch isn’t monetized, it’s not working, I think–I’ll ask my dad. Or a lawyer. Or I’ll ask my dad to ask a lawyer.”

“Stop,” George says. He steps forward and grabs Dream’s face in his hand, using a little too much pressure as he pulls Dream’s face down toward his. He kisses Dream hard on the mouth and then whispers, “Idiot.”

“I mean it,” Dream says.

“I know you do.” George sighs again. “You can’t just–stay. You can’t like, abandon your career, because I’m depressed.”

“Why not?” Dream whispers.

“Because I said you can’t,” George says. “And because you have to afford the house you’re going to buy that I’m going to live in, because I am not paying you rent. There is a certain lifestyle to which I am going to become accustomed.”

Dream laughs. “You’re so stupid, George. Just–I would. I will. Just say the word.”

George kisses him again. “Me, too.”

Dream is confused for a minute, even opening his mouth to ask what, when he realizes. “Really?”

George shrugs one shoulder and won’t look Dream in the eye. “But we aren’t talking about it.”

“Okay,” Dream says, because for right now those two little words are enough. "And you're sure you don't need me to stay?"

A flash of annoyance crosses George's face, but it's lighthearted this time. "I don't need you, Dream. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He rests his palms against Dream's bare chest. "And I know you would resent me if I asked you to stay. Like, maybe not right away, but eventually."

"I wouldn't," Dream argues, but it comes out sounding like he's just trying to convince himself.

"It's okay that you would," George says. "I'm not—I know in the past you've been asked to give things up for, like, significant others. That's not me. I don't want to keep you from doing the things you have your mind set on, even if it means being away from you a little longer."

Dream can feel his lips twitching into a smile. "Significant other? George, are you my—"

"Oh, shut up," George says, pushing him away. "That's not even what I meant."

Dream grins and grabs George's wrist when he tries to walk away. "Hey," he says, his smile unstoppable. "You're significant. This is significant."

He knows that he's pushing his luck, so it's not a surprise when George says, "I can't stand you actually. Get out of my house. Go back to Florida, I liked you better there."

Dream just tackles him and smothers him with kisses until they're both laughing so hard they can barely breathe.

-

They eat breakfast. Dream replies to Sapnap's increasingly desperate discord messages while George answers a call from his sister, trying to coordinate a joint Mother's Day gift. When it hits noon, Dream thinks in 24 hours I should be heading to the airport. At two, he thinks, I'll be in the air now.

"Do you want to fuck me?" he asks out of the blue while they're clearing up the trash from their late breakfast.

George nearly trips over his feet. "What? You're just—asking that?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know," George says. "I didn't expect you to want to."

Dream frowns. "Why?"

George throws the last of the trash into the bin and then hops up onto the counter. Dream takes it as an invitation, stepping between his legs.

"I guess—like, I didn't even know you were—I mean, I still don't really know what you are. Obviously, you're not straight. Like, I've picked up on that. But I don't know much beyond that. You've never really said."

"I mean, I haven't exactly hidden it," Dream points out. He's flirted harder with George than anyone else.

"Yeah, but that could mean anything. That could just be—curiosity, or whatever."

“It is, technically, but the curiosity comes from somewhere, right? I don’t think most straight guys–I don’t think like, Nick, for example–has ever randomly thought what it would be like to have a dick up his ass with, with any measure of like, genuine interest in it?”

“Sucks for him,” George says. “Having a dick up your ass is fantastic.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Dream says pointedly.

“Is that even something you’d like?” George asks.

“I don’t know,” Dream says. “That’s like–the point, right? I won’t know until I try it.”

“But if we do it and you don’t like it, that’ll be weird,” George says. “I don’t want that.”

“It won’t be weird.”

“Dream. I don’t want that.” George’s voice is so plainly asking Dream to understand him.

Dream wishes he did. But he stops and he thinks about it. He puts the George filter on his brain. Then he loads a new version of that filter, complete with everything he’s seen and learned this weekend.

Dream doesn’t want to leave London knowing that even a little bit of their time together was spent finding out something that doesn’t work between them. And if it would be something Dream doesn’t want, then George definitely wouldn’t either.

So Dream doesn’t push it. He does say, “I want it to happen though. At some point.”

“No one’s stopping you,” George says.

Dream is taken aback. “I’m not going to go out and fuck someone else, George. Or–or let them fuck me.”

George rolls his eyes. “Of course not. Idiot. You can just do it yourself. They make things for that, you know.”

“Oh.” Somehow Dream hadn’t even considered that. “So… okay. Okay. Yeah. I can do that.”

“And then when I move to Florida…” George smirks. “You’ll be ready for me.”

“Why is that so hot?” Dream wonders out loud.

“Because I’m a sex god,” George says, sounding bored. “Next question.”

“Can we go back to bed?” Dream asks.

George’s eyes flicker down. “Wow. Ratio’d by your dick. Absolute L.”

“We’ve been talking about sex for like five minutes,” Dream says. “It’s a biological reaction. I can’t help it. And I know you have to be horny still, you didn’t come earlier.”

“It’s not a one to one ratio, stupid,” George says.

“No, but it should be,” Dream says, hands smoothing up George’s back. He juts his lower lip out and looks up at George through his lashes. “Please?”

George plants a hand on Dream’s face and pushes him backwards. “Stooooooop.”

Dream starts kissing George’s palm. “Please. Please. Let me just… make you feel good. Please. I am literally begging you.”

“Like that makes you special. I have men begging me every week. Hordes of them, one might say.”

“But you like me the best of all of them, right?” Dream keeps up the dramatic act.

“I guess,” George sighs.

“I’m richer than any of them,” Dream points out.

“Maybe.”

“I’ve got a bigger dick.”

“You don’t know that.” George’s eyes drift down again.

“I’ll eat you out,” Dream says.

George has no answer to that, but he does start to squirm just a little.

Dream lifts his eyebrows, surprised. “Oh. Oh, you like that idea, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say anything,” George insists, even though it’s written all over his face.

“Have you—have you done that before? Or, I mean, have you had it done to you?”

“No,” George answers quickly.

Dream takes a moment to think about that. He likes the idea of having one of George’s firsts. George already has one of his—it’s only fair that he should get one of George’s. It would be a first for him, too, but at least they’d be trying something new together. That’s what they do. They jump into things, side by side.

Or, in this case, ass to mouth.

“Can I?” he asks, pulling out his very best puppy dog eyes. “Come on, George, please?”

“I can't believe you're literally begging to eat my ass. That's so cringe, Dream."

"I don't care," Dream says, unwilling to get dragged into George's dumb little back and forth. "I want to put my tongue in your ass. Will you let me? Or do I have to wait for that too?"

When George hesitates, Dream already knows what the answer will be.

-

George is spread out on the bed, totally naked, his skin still damp from the quick shower he took to "make sure he was ready". He looks so incredibly good like this that Dream has an impulse to take a picture so he can keep this image forever. It deserves to be commemorated, to be hung in a museum for centuries to come.

But, of course, he can't take a picture. Not if George can't take one of him.

Crawling onto the bed, he settles between George's legs, skimming his palms up the back of his thighs. He can feel himself getting hard in his pants before his hands even get to George's ass, squeezing a cheek in each hand and marveling at the softness of it, the—the juiciness of it.

"You're so thicc," he whispers, mostly to himself, as he squeezes again.

George wiggles a little bit but, for once, he doesn't hurry Dream along, so Dream takes his time, feeling him up thoroughly. When he spreads George's ass cheeks a little bit, just enough to see his hole, his mouth waters. He knows that it's a bizarre response to have, but he's thought about this a lot over the years. Ever since he started realizing he was potentially interested in guys, it was something he started thinking about. It's not a surprise that a lot of those times it was George's ass he was picturing.

Finally, George has had enough waiting. "Hurry up. I'm bored."

Dream laughs and gives a light smack to one of George's ass cheeks. It's not nearly hard enough to hurt, but the way it makes his ass jiggle is pretty great. It's worth it just for that.

But, since he's not a monster, he lowers himself down and presses a soft kiss where his hand landed moments ago. Then, he leaves another kiss on the other side.

And then, hands spreading George open, he presses a kiss right against his hole.

George gasps at the feeling, his spine going rigid. When Dream ventures his tongue out, barely touching him, George lets out the most beautiful whimper. It's all the encouragement he needs to lick again, to explore the silky skin to his heart's content.

If he's expecting it to taste much different from anywhere else on George's body, it really doesn't. There's a hint of sweat, something musky he can't quite put his finger on, but honestly, George washed himself well enough that it tastes just like licking his thigh or his balls or any other patch of skin, really.

He finds himself thinking that, if George hadn't showered, that probably would have been okay.

But for his first time, this is good. He's easing himself into the world of ass eating and, judging by the noises spilling out of George's mouth, he's doing a decent job.

It’s not as much like going down on a woman as he expected. There’s no one specific spot he’s trying to work his tongue against, it’s more like every bit of the skin is sensitive enough that George pushes back against him demanding more. The only wetness is his own spit but it gets messy fast enough anyway.

“Your beard feels so weird,” George says. “I’m gonna have, like, a rash on my asshole.”

“Should I go shave?” Dream asks. Facial hair is only a thing he’s decided he likes in the past year or so, appreciating how he can shave or trim it to add some definition where the mirror tells him is just unappealing roundness.

George hasn’t really complained about it. But if he does, if it’s any kind of deal breaker, Dream will say goodbye to a week’s worth of growth without a second thought.

“No,” George says. His voice is a low mutter. “‘Like it.”

“You like it?” Dream asks.

“That’s what I said,” George snaps, but there’s no vitriol in his voice. Dream knows him well enough to read that it’s embarrassment if anything.

He turns his head and sucks a bruising kiss against George’s skin, then licks his way back down. He swipes his tongue up and down, the hair around George’s hole slicked to his skin in whatever direction Dream chooses. He drags it in swirls and then makes it a point and fucks into the wrinkled pucker of skin again.

It feels almost puffy now, and he’s proud of working George’s body like this.

“Are you going to fuck me again?” George asks.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah,” George says. “I want it–now. Give it to me now.”

“Fuck.” Dream leans back, wiping his mouth on his forearm.

George reaches over the bed and grabs one of the condoms from the box Dream bought, then turns around. He rips it open while Dream is watching then crawls forward and puts it on Dream himself. Then he leans down and sucks on just the tip, ignoring the pinch of rubber he left at the end.

“You’re so hot,” Dream says helplessly. “Do you even know that?”

George shrugs. “I don’t care, I just want you to think I am.”

“I do,” Dream says. He looks down at his cock hanging heavy and full between his legs. “You can literally see how much I mean it.”

George grabs the lube and strokes him.

“You aren’t ready yet,” Dream says.

George hands him the lube. “Then get me ready.”

Stretching George feels just as good as it did the first time. He stays away from George’s prostate, but George still makes a steady stream of sounds that let Dream know he enjoys this.

It makes Dream wonder if he really will enjoy it as much when they switch spots. He doesn’t know, but he hopes so. Three fingers in George and he needs to feel that around his dick, but he needs even more to know he won’t hurt George. He asks George twice if he thinks he’s ready and then laughs when George ends up kicking him before he can ask it a third time.

“Get your dick in me right now,” George demands, and it’s so bratty and familiar that Dream is laughing still when he slides home.

He’s had good sex before, at least sex that felt good to him. But he’s never had this. He’s never had George. He’s never actually felt like sex was just another element to a relationship with someone he already loved more than he could possibly ever express. He loves George in the best friend way and in the companion through life way and in the plan a future together way and now he gets to love George in the naked enjoying each other way.

He can’t imagine anything better.

Except maybe George’s mouth on his as he starts to fuck George.

The heat around his cock is so incredibly good, squeezing him so tight as Dream works his hips against him. The muscle he'd just felt around his tongue, and then his fingers, is clamped down so perfectly around him that each thrust feels like a mini orgasm. But it's that—it's kissing him through it that really does him in.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word muffled into their lips. "Oh my god, fuck, you are perfect, George."

"Shut up," George says, his hands on Dream's neck to keep him close. "Oh my god, Dream. Dream. Dream."

Dream doesn't say love again. But he feels it. He feels it to his core.

He fucks him, faster when he can handle it and slower when he gets too close to the edge. George doesn't move to touch himself, which might worry Dream if he wasn't making all of those pretty noises, letting him know that he's enjoying this as much as Dream is. If that's even possible.

"Wait," George says suddenly, his hands slipping down and pushing at Dream's chest.

Dream stops, lifting up to see what's wrong. "You okay?" His body is trembling with the need for just a little bit more, but he stays still.

"I want to change positions."

For a second, Dream thinks that he means what they were talking about before, Dream bottoming. But it dawns on him a moment later what he actually means.

"Oh, okay," he says, carefully pulling out with a hand holding the condom in place. "Do you want to do doggy? Or you can get on top?"

But George shakes his head. "Lay behind me like you're spooning me."

He turns onto his side, letting Dream slide in behind him, in basically the same position they've often found themselves sleeping over these few nights. It's comfortable, but Dream can't imagine it will feel as good with not nearly as much space to move. Still, he doesn't mind. It's not like he needs much to get off when it's George he's fucking.

"Yeah, okay, get in me again," George directs.

He's got one leg hitched up a bit, giving Dream a bit more access, and when Dream pushes his cock up into him, he lets out a low groan. It's not necessarily a better position as far as how deep he can get or the spots he can hit, but he's touching so much more of George. They're connected almost head to toe and that makes it so fucking good.

Rocking his hips, he holds George to his chest, his hand splayed over his stomach. George feels small like this, like Dream could pick him up and twirl him around. But all he wants to do is hold him and protect him.

He knows that George is a man, perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but the instinct is still there. He still wants to keep him safe. Mostly from himself.

George grabs his hand as Dream fucks him, holding on tight. Dream has never felt this close to someone before. They feel like one. Like they’re moving as one entity, like they couldn’t be pried apart if someone tried. If he believed in soulmates at all, he would know that George is his. There is no one else in this world better suited for him.

“Make me come,” George tells him, moving their held hands to his cock. Dream doesn’t hesitate before slipping his hand from the grip of George’s over to stroke him, to jerk him off. He doesn’t tease this time, because George said to make him come and, fuck, Dream wants to.

George’s name falls from his lips over and over because none of his other thoughts feel safe to say. He’s already given George so much to process—any more would be unkind.

“So close,” George tells him, tipping his head back and letting it rest against Dream’s shoulder. “I’m so close, I’m literally—so—”

Dream feels it, the straining of muscles and the pulsing of George’s cock in his hand. He feels the way George squeezes down as he comes, how the flutter of his asshole squeezes Dream so tightly. He feels it from head to toe, like George’s orgasm is his own, and he hopes that it works the other way too. He hopes that George can feel it when, just a moment later, a wall of pleasure smacks into him and he comes into the condom, buried deep in George’s ass.

After, when he’s riding that high, and they’re still so connected, Dream lets himself start to go soft right there. He’d stay even longer if it weren’t for the condom. When George comes to Florida, he has big plans for all of the condomless sex they’re going to have, and that’s step one.

He breathes damply into George’s neck as he comes down. His entire body feels like it’s vibrating with the pleasure.

“We’re cracked at this,” George announces, speaking what Dream had just been thinking.

“We’re goated. We’re literally the best. If there was an MCC for sex, we’d be first in every challenge, every game, every season.”

“MC-Sex,” George says. “

“You’re so dumb,” Dream says. George laughs and rolls over. “Wait, I have to-”

He reaches down to pull the condom off. “Wait,” George says. “Wait. Let me.”

“Ew, really? It’s a used condom?”

“I wanna,” George says, and then peels it down off of Dream’s dick. He holds it up when he’s done, eyeing the contents. He swings it back and forth. “That’s like, a lot of jizz, Dream. That’s a lot.”

“George! Ew! Put it down!” Dream is laughing hard, his body almost confused as to whether it should still be coasting on sex hormones or trying not to piss himself with laughter.

George ties off the condom and then, with a wildly impulsive look in his eye, brings it close and sniffs it. “Smells like lube and ass.”

“Your ass,” Dream manages to say. “Throw that away, please.”

“Why?”

“So I can kiss you.”

“Oh. Okay.” George flings it at the wall above where the trash can is. It hits with a wet, full slap sound and then falls… about a foot away from the bin. “Whoops.”

“L,” Dream says. “Such an L. You’re picking that up later.”

“No,” George says immediately and stubbornly. “You are. It’s your nut.”

“And it was in your ass,” Dream points out.

He doesn’t actually care, though. He’ll pick up a hundred used condoms if it means George looks this happy.

“Well?” George asks.

“Well, what?”

“Um.” George looks at him disapprovingly. “Someone said something about kisses?”

“Oh, right.” Dream grins and pulls George toward him. They’re both on their sides again, but facing each other now. He pushes George’s hair back from where it’s flopping over his forehead. “Yeah, about that.”

Leaning in, he presses his lips to George's forehead. "There."

The look of indignation George gives him sends him into fits of laughter. George tries not to crack, his jaw dropped in abject horror, but there is a twinkle in his eye that he can't hide and there's a twitch in his lips as he tries not to smile.

"I'm going to go get that condom off the floor and rub it all over your face if you don't give me a real kiss."

Dream can't help but say, "I mean, at least you'd be picking it up." He still tugs George in, tipping his chin up to kiss him softly on the lips.

"You just want another look at my ass," George tells him.

And Dream can't lie. "Always."

-

By evening, there's a pit in Dream's stomach. It's there because his time with George is running out. It's there because George has gotten quieter and quieter as the day has gone on. It's there because they need to talk and Dream doesn't have any idea how to do this. He doesn't know how to bring the subject up without making George feel bad.

But he can't leave without talking about it. So he sits on the couch next to George, takes a deep breath, and turns toward him.

"Hey."

"God," George immediately says, rolling his eyes. "Whatever you're about to say, I don't want to talk about it."

Dream gives himself a silent sarcastic pat on the back for fucking the conversation up before it could even start.

"George," he says, sliding his leg over George's, getting as close as he can. "Please just listen to me. I know you hate this stuff, okay, but it's important."

George sighs, but he doesn't argue anymore. He gestures for Dream to go on, and Dream knows that he has limited time to make his point.

"You've been feeling bad for a while," he starts, resting his hand on George's thigh. "And, obviously, we know why, but—but you said it's happened before. I think it's important you figure out how to stop shitty situations from feeling like—like they're hopeless."

"It's not that I feel hopeless," George retorts. "I just can't do anything to make this happen faster and it's annoying."

"It's more than just annoying, George. You're different. You're—you don't laugh as much. You're not as loud."

He can see George closing off, putting up walls. "Okay, sorry," he says, his jaw clenching. "Sorry I'm not as fun, Dream."

"Stop that," Dream snaps, lifting his hand and forcing George to look at him. "After the past few days, you're really going to act like that's all I care about? Like I'm just selfishly wanting you to be happy again for my benefit?"

“Stop acting like my happiness is your responsibility.” George is sullen and still tries not to look at Dream, though Dream still isn’t giving him much choice.

“I want it to be,” Dream says. “I want to have some responsibility in making you happy. I want to be the person who gets to have a stake in that.”

“You can’t,” George whispers.

“I know I can’t–I can’t just make you happy. But I want to be someone that helps you figure out the things you can do to make you happy.”

“Nothing works.”

“Maybe nothing you can think of. Or… even nothing I can think of.” Dream hovers on a precipice, then jumps off. “But there are people you can talk to whose job it literally is to help you figure this out.”

“No.” George’s response is immediate and brutal in its firmness.

“Why not?”

“You don’t even believe in therapy,” George says. “You don’t go.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” George asks. “You’ve got problems, too. More than me. You’ve been like, canceled by the internet. You’ve had awards taken away from you. You’ve-”

“George.” Dream cuts him off. “I know you’re lashing out, but can we not go over my greatest hits?”

George looks at him and shrugs a bit. His face is still stony but he does mutter, “Sorry.”

“I’m not saying therapy wouldn’t do me any good. But I’m not… non-functional the way you get. Just–just talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be in person. Just let me start finding some people for you to contact. Get a feel for them.”

“If I can’t talk to you, why would I be able to talk to a stranger?” George asks.

“Maybe a stranger will be easier,” Dream suggests. “No pressure. If it goes badly you just never talk to them again.”

George makes a doubtful sound.

“Okay, fine. Then–look. Lets go a different route. I didn’t just think of this, okay. Me and Nick have already talked about this. But I want him to come visit you. And–and maybe some other people too. Maybe Karl? You like Karl.”

George shrugs.

“And you can say yes once in a while when people invite you out. I know it’s not ideal… not for anyone, okay. Not–not for me. I want you with me. But if I can’t have you with me, I just need to know you aren’t this isolated.”

“Why are you ruining our last night together with this?” George asks.

Dream represses a flinch. He decides this is his limit; he won’t give up on the war, but he can let George win this battle. “I’m done,” he says. “Is that better? I’m done. We can just… talk about this later.”

“Or not,” George says, but he reaches for Dream’s hand where it’s still on his thigh and laces their fingers together. “I have a better idea. We can just pretend that tonight doesn’t end.”

“Okay,” Dream says gently.

“And that means there is no tomorrow. So you never have to go the airport. Even when the sun rises, it’s just today again. Your flight will always be tomorrow and you will never leave.”

“I wish that’s how it was,” Dream says. He looks down at their fingers together, marveling at how much bigger his own are.

He wants to hold hands with George in a room full of people one day. Maybe one day very far off, once he’s figured his own shit out, once he and George have had a chance to put this theoretical weekend of them into practice. But that one day thought still bolsters him.

“It can be,” George still insists.

Dream raises their hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of George’s knuckles. “We’ll see.”

-

They don’t sleep. They don’t do anything but sit on the couch together holding hands and occasionally kissing for hours that Dream really does want to stretch on forever.

But when the sun actually rises, it shines pale warmth on them as they bring each other off again in George’s bed. They’re on their sides facing each other, arms brushing with each stroke as they reach across the space between them.

George’s eyes barely close, and Dream feels compelled to keep his eyes open too. He tries to memorize the stubble on George’s face that’s almost thick enough now to be a beard, and the freckles across the bridge of his nose, and the faint lines around his eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers once, and those lines crease with the smile it draws from George.

Dream watches as George comes, knowing that it will be the last time he gets to see it for a while. He feels the warm splash between them and he watches the way George’s jaw drops, his eyes fluttering. Beautiful doesn’t seem a strong enough word, actually. The English language has not figured out a way to describe what George is.

When he has finished too, they climb into a hot shower, cleaning their combined jizz off of them. Under the spray of water, George cries again, hiding his face in Dream’s neck. This time, Dream cries, too, his heart aching at the thought of leaving so soon.

Eventually, their tears slow and the spray of water washes them away. When they get out and dry off, only the red rims of their eyes are left to give them away.

He knows that this is supposed to be a weekend that never happened. He’s supposed to go back home and pretend that he never went to London, that he never met George, that nothing has changed. That feels impossible now. His whole life has changed in these few days. Irrevocably.

They eat one final meal together. When Dream orders enough for a family of six, George just raises an eyebrow as if to say I see you but he doesn’t argue.

And then, when the leftovers are safely put away in the fridge with the rest of them, Dream starts packing his bag, his dirty laundry and his phone charger and—

George stops him, pulling one of the dirty hoodies out of the bag without a word, only a fierce look like he’s daring Dream to try to take it back. But Dream doesn’t want it.

“Don’t wear it on stream,” he says, and then rethinking, changes his mind. “Actually, fuck it. Wear it. They’ll just think I sent it to you.”

“True,” George says. “Who would jump to the conclusion that you impulsively flew to London without telling anyone, including me? That would be an insane theory.”

Dream laughs softly, the best he can do right now. “Yeah, only a nutjob would do that.”

“Your mum gave me a nutjob last night.”

“Actually, that was me.”

“Oh, my bad,” George teases. “I forgot I had to cancel my plans with her because you showed up.”

Dream feels hopeful that, even though there’s a cloud of sadness hanging over them, dimming everything, George is still joking. He’s so fucking worried about how George will do mentally once he leaves, so it helps just a little, seeing him like this.

“If you get to keep something of mine, do I get something of yours?”

George gestures at the flat. “Which of my many treasures would you like to take with you?”

Dream looks around, but his eyes land back on the only thing he really wants to bring with him. He forces himself not to break down; he can do that on the plane. Right here, right now, he fortifies himself and says, “I saw some loose change in your desk drawer. I’ll just take a coin. It’ll remind me of—of this. Being here.”

“Wow, Dream is actually robbing me,” George says.

“Yep,” Dream says as he moves to the desk to grab a coin. He picks the one that isn’t quite round and reads it: fifty pence. “You’re definitely gonna miss this fifty pence.”

George is going on about Dream being a millionaire and still stealing money from poor people like him, but Dream’s focus is on the Post-Its in the drawer, where he drew on the top one and wrote ‘DNF’. He smiles at it and, while George is distracted, he pulls the same Sharpie out and writes ‘I love you’ under his earlier scribbles. Then, he closes the drawer and pockets the coin, turning back to George.

“I wish you could come to the airport with me.”

“I hate airports,” George says, which isn’t an answer. He doesn’t really need to say that he wishes he were going too, though. Dream can still read it on his face.

“Maybe the next time you’re in one you’ll be flying to Florida.”

“Maybe,” George says. He steps into Dream’s arms. “You’ll buy me a first class ticket?”

“I’ll buy you whatever the best ticket they sell is. If it’s first class, so be it.”

“Fly here so you can fly back with me,” George says. He tucks his hands into Dream’s back pockets.

Dream loops his arms around George and hugs him close. “Okay.”

“Idiot,” George says. “Don’t do that. That’s so stupid. Why would you agree to that? You’re not only stealing money, but you’re stealing it and wasting it.”

Dream laughs against George’s temple. “I’m just a simp.”

“Yeah,” George says, humming quietly. “You are. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t.” Dream squeezes George harder to him. “I couldn’t.”

-

Neither of them cries as they say goodbye at the bottom of George’s stairs, an Uber waiting on the other side of the door. All of their tears seem to have washed down the drain of George’s shower. Now, they just hold each other a minute too long, kissing one last time before Dream opens the door.

He doesn’t say ‘I love you’ again. George knows. He knows.

With one last look back, he says, “See you soon.”

It feels better than goodbye.

-

The airport is loud and crowded, too much so for a Tuesday afternoon.

He doesn’t feel as nervous going through the security check, though. He barely even notices if anyone happens to be looking at him. All he can feel is a weird empty ache in his chest.

He tries to fill it with messaging with George nonstop until he’s through security, and then calling when he’s on the other side. George is quieter than he should be, and Dream doesn’t feel guilty at all when he messages Nick on the side telling Nick that he’s going to be unavailable and George is feeling down.

He’s proud of Nick when Nick immediately starts coming up with stream ideas and a plan to force George into it. It’s the only way he can actually bring himself to walk toward the plane once boarding is announced.

It's not until he's in the air that he lets himself feel the extent of the loss. He'll still have George, of course, but he won't have him like he did these past few days. He won't have his small hands to hold or his soft lips to kiss or his body to explore. He won't have the warmth of him to fall asleep against and to wake up next to.

In the privacy of his first class seat, Dream lets silent tears fall, mourning everything he's leaving behind.

By the time he gets to Florida, he has no tears left. Stepping back onto U.S. soil, he is determined to focus on the positives. He just hopes that George can see them too.

-

A month later, Sapnap is in London and Dream is watching from afar. He thinks that, if he hadn't gone first, it would hurt more watching the two of them laughing and having fun without him. As it is, though, he is so happy to let them have their moment together. He is happy just to see George smile.

Karl and Tina will be there soon, too. He has people. He has really good people.

After George and Sapnap stream together, they're still on call with Dream, on video. Dream isn't, of course. As far as Sapnap knows, George has never seen Dream's face. And he hasn't, since Dream left London. George hasn't asked and Dream hasn't offered.

Dream is staring absently at George's face, daydreaming, when Sapnap pulls something out of George's desk.

"Oooh, George, why does this say 'I love you'? Who wrote—oh my god, it says DNF!" He laughs, holding the Post-It up to the camera for Dream to see. "Dream, George is literally a DNF truther."

Dream stifles his laughter as he watches the two of them fighting over the Post-It, arguing. When George finally yanks it out of Sapnap's hands, Sapnap gives up, raising his hands in defeat.

"Fine, whatever. Have your little secrets. I'm gonna go piss."

"Yeah, it's been five minutes, you're due," George bites back.

When the bathroom door closes and they're alone, Dream finally speaks up. "Sorry about that. I thought you'd find it first."

"I never open that drawer," George explains, looking at the small piece of paper.

“Nick’s an idiot,” Dream says. “He’ll forget it in an hour.”

“I won’t,” George says, then Dream watches as he carefully folds it into a tiny square then puts it back in the drawer out of Dream’s view.

“Good,” Dream says. “You aren’t supposed to.”

George stares at the camera and it feels so much like he’s looking right at Dream that Dream actually checks to make sure the heavy black tape is still over his webcam lens. “Yeah,” he says, a note of finality in his voice that doesn’t sound unhappy.

Then Nick is back and laughing about how George’s toilet seat is never up because he pisses like a girl, and it’s just juvenile enough to have them all laughing again.

-

When they finally leave George’s flat for the Airbnb, they end the call.

Dream leans back in his own chair and allows himself just a moment to be grateful. He had to fight hard for George to allow these people in and accept that he didn’t have to be alone. He also knows that George has talked to a therapist at least twice. He doesn’t tell Dream beforehand, only mentions it afterwards, and never says what they talked about.

Dream honestly doesn't care. As long as he's talking.

George has plans for a few weeks out with some of the UK streamers in Brighton, and he’s even talking about Amsterdam in a few months. They both hope that he'll be in Florida by then, but Dream is glad he's making plans anyway. He's no longer just sitting in the lobby, waiting for the game to start.

Dream pulls his wallet out and lets a coin drop into it. He rubs his fingers across the slightly angled edges, then smooths his thumb against the surface like it’s a worry stone. This is not what they want. Nothing will be the way they really want it until there are only walls between them instead of oceans.

But for right now, things are the best they can be. For now, it's enough just to know that George is okay.

It's enough to know that the next time they see each other, it'll be for good.

Notes:

thanks to scoops for beta reading and being our hype woman and charlotte for all of the flaily comments that definitely let us know we were doing something right

and finally... we hope you liked this. it was our first time writing together, but it definitely won't be our last.