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At this point, Dream isn’t sure they’re ever going to talk about it.
It, he scoffs to himself. The distinct ambiguity probably gives him away more than anything else; George tingles like an itch in the back of brain. It. Them. DNF.
They don’t talk about the songs Dream has written for George, or the breakfasts George has cooked for Dream. They don’t talk about the fanart Dream likes on twitter, or the hoodies George picks out of Dream’s closet.
It feels unspeakable to label the way he shrinks himself to fit against George’s chest, and the easy way George’s hand falls over his waist. It’s unfathomable to consider them anything less than a couple, yet at the same time, they’re nothing more than friends.
They’ve been doing it for so long now that Dream thinks addressing it head-on might break them. All he can do is dance on the asymptote of affection, an infinity never to be crossed, wondering when the distance between platonic and romantic will become negligible.
He exhales, long and slow.
“Dream?”
Fingers stroke over his forehead in a silent question, drawing delicate swirls above his eyebrows. Dream forgets that George can feel every breath when they’re like this, pressed against each other like cookies that have spread in the oven to overlap each other’s edges. It makes his heart ache sometimes at how attentive George is, keeping close enough to hold Dream’s heartbeat against his chest.
“Are you awake?” George whispers when Dream doesn’t respond.
His voice is gentle, the same tone he uses when he talks to animals, and on the couch, burrowed into George’s chest, Dream almost feels like a cat, happy shivers zipping down his spine in the wake of George’s soft touches. He thinks George’s Patches’ voice might be the most devastating thing in the world.
He doesn’t move, too tired to answer George’s question, too needy to disrupt the slide of George’s hands across his back.
“You’re asleep,” George answers his own question, quietly fond as his voice lilts upwards. “Sueño is asleep,” he giggles.
Dream can feel George’s smile in his chest, and he slips further and further when George squeezes his waist like he belongs to him. These kinds of nights are his favorite, his heart oozing between George’s fingertips, the quiet of the evening sifting down like sugar snowflakes. It doesn’t matter if they’re in Florida or LA or Mars when George’s fingers tangled in Dream’s hoodie mean more than a million I love you’s. Dream can’t get enough of it, simultaneously comforted and terrified by the intimacy.
He drifts off somewhere in between George threading a hand through his hair and scratching soothingly at his scalp. It feels so good that he almost burrows further into George’s chest, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into their shared warmth and close every chasm between them. Head blurry with sleep, Dream feels dizzy when George seems to read his mind, his stomach swooping as George’s palm closes on the back of his head, holding him tight.
“—time is it—George?”
“—asleep, be quiet,” George whispers above him, urgent. His chest rumbles with the words, a flicker of noise that slips under Dream’s skin.
He floats back to liquid consciousness, his world still dark as he registers Sapnap’s voice mixing with George’s. Oh God. Even though he knows Sapnap knows them, understands them, there’s a sharp current of embarrassment that undercuts Dream’s hazy mind as he thinks about Sapnap finding them like this; intertwined on the couch, Dream’s head pushed into George’s chest, legs entangled.
He’s deathly aware of George’s hand fidgeting with the wisps of hair at the back of his neck, fighting how good it feels, how safe he feels, tucked against George’s sternum. Inch by inch, he relaxes, calmed by the slow circles George is rubbing into his nape. In the dark hours of the evening, there’s a kind of confidence to George’s affection; He wields it shamelessly, publicly, in places where Dream shrinks from gnawing eyes.
Dream thinks he loves him for it.
Hazy with sleep, noise filters back into his reality, amorphous sounds suddenly shaped by familiar voices. “Are you guys going to bed soon?” Sapnap is asking, somewhere off to the left.
“Mm,” George hums, hand stroking behind Dream’s ear. “Maybe in a bit. I want to let him rest.”
Sapnap’s voice comes lower this time, laced with a secret that he’s not sure he’s supposed to know. “Like… are you—?”
Dream can practically see his hands gesturing in the air, spinning for an answer. Sapnap talks with his hands a lot, especially when he’s unsure about something, and he knows it means something when George’s palms pause against his hair.
“Sapnap,” George starts carefully.
“You can tell me to stop, if I’m pushing it or whatever,” Sapnap rushes, like he’s afraid he’s overstepping. “I just—I don’t know, dude. He’s literally curled up on your lap.”
Dream, feigning sleep, feels his skin prickle with warmth as George holds Dream’s head to his chest, fingers tangled in his hair when he answers for both of them. “And?”
Sapnap hesitates. “Do I— Do I get to congratulate you yet?”
George sighs, moving Dream’s head up and down with the motion. “No,” he answers. He’s using the flat voice that he only puts on to hide his hurt, and Dream gets the sinking feeling that he really shouldn’t be hearing this conversation. “We’re just—us.”
“But—”
“I know, Sapnap,” George replies softly, urgently. “I know. But it’s delicate, okay?”
Delicate, Dream thinks, wishing he could memorize the gentle wash of George’s voice over his bones. He feels delightfully delicate right now, vulnerable with the way George touches him like he’s something precious. He hopes beyond hope that delicate doesn’t mean fragility and fear, but trust and love, something so venerable it’s become almost divine.
“You’re both idiots,” Sapnap says, finally.
“Helpful,” George answers, mouth twisting in a wry smile.
“George,” Sapnap continues seriously, “I am genuinely going to rip my hair out if you don’t tell him. I’m already sickened by how cute this is, like—This is sickening. Disgusting, you could say.”
“Wowww,” George drawls. The vibrations reverberate through his chest and into Dream’s, their wavelengths perfectly attuned to each other. “I can’t believe you hate gay people. That’s actually kind of fucked up.”
“I will wake him up and confess for you right now,” Sapnap threatens, and Dream’s heart skips a beat as he desperately tries to put himself back to sleep. Confess?
“No,” George hisses, arm tightening over Dream’s shoulders. “Let him sleep.”
“George—”
“He already knows, anyway,” George continues, picking at the fuzz on Dream’s hoodie. “There’s no reason to, like, make a big deal out of it.”
Sapnap is quiet. Dream’s heart pounds, unable to think as George’s thumb slips underneath his neckline, running over the smooth metal of his chain. Goosebumps erupt down his arms, gut sparking, and he almost makes a noise when George tugs at it slightly. He feels like he’s being pulled into the sun, claimed, and he finds he likes how it burns his skin pink.
He knows nothing, and George squeezes his chain between his fingers like a pinky promise. He knows nothing, and his soul glows envisioning the matching one around George’s neck.
“He knows,” George insists in a whisper, tender beyond words. Dream’s head is spinning, blurry with sleep and love unbounded. “How could he not know how special he is?”
“It’s Dream,” Sapnap replies gently. “He’s a little stupid sometimes, remember?”
George exhales, a laugh condensed by the weight of Dream’s head on his chest. “I’m in love with an idiot, aren’t I?”
In love.
Oh fuck. Oh god. Dream tries to control his breathing, even and steady, clinging to his pretense of sleep. Love is a big word, he thinks, feeling fuzzy as he hears Sapnap chuckle in agreement, conversation fading as George’s fingers start to comb through his hair again. Love is bigger than cuddling on the couch, bigger than the jewelry they share, bigger than the heartbeat pressed to Dream’s own.
“Don’t stay up too late, Georgie,” Sapnap says distantly, and Dream listens carefully as his footsteps disappear up the stairs.
And then it’s just them. Dream, and the man who’s in love with him.
He feels fucking crazy.
“George,” he murmurs, unable to breathe properly. “George?”
George stiffens under him, nails trailing across his scalp. “You’re awake?”
“George,” Dream echoes, tilting his head up to meet George’s eyes. He’s still lying on George’s chest, and it’s an awkward angle between George’s chin and his forehead, but he doesn’t care. George has never looked more beautiful, blushed with living room lamplight and secret apprehension, holding Dream’s eyes like he’s seeing the world for the first time.
“I’m obsessed with you,” Dream says, shameless.
George exhales heavily, fingers curling at his nape. His chain pools in George’s palm, growing hot with the warmth of George’s gaze as they stare at each other. Dream thinks he could read George’s mind from his heartbeat alone, chest loud and open with affection as George runs a stray finger along his chain.
He doesn’t let go once.
“You know,” George says, earnest, desperate. “You know, right?”
“Tell me anyway,” Dream begs, leaning closer. Like this, their noses brush, close enough that Dream could count every single one of George’s eyelashes if he wanted to, if he could think of anything besides George George George.
“You’re so stupid,” George shakes his head, but he’s beaming. “I’m in love with you. I guess.”
Dream grins, absolutely giddy. He can feel George’s hand creeping up to cradle his jaw, thumbs sweeping over his pulsepoint. “That’s the big secret?”
“What the hell,” George laughs. “You aren’t even going to say it back?”
“I guess I love you too,” Dream giggles, his heart full with a thousand suns. He can’t believe he gets to have this, dizzy with sleep and clumsy with desire. After months of sitting on the fence, running circles around a friendship that’s always been more than that, it’s impossible to think that it’s this easy now.
Dream closes his eyes against it all, trusting George to steady him, and sure enough, George’s palms are already against his face, infinitely gentle. “Can you kiss me now?”
“Dr’m,” George murmurs, so close his breath fans across Dream’s cheeks. It sounds like stardust, and Dream shudders with relief under George’s touch, clinging and clinging as they come together.
“Tell me again,” Dream gasps, greedy. His whole body aches with it, trembling as he reaches for George, and it should be a miracle that George reaches back, pulling him down again and again and again. His miracle boy.
“Dream, my Dream, always. Always love you,” George kisses him, heart running like a river. His thighs are warm against Dream’s legs, fingers tangled in his chain, delicate, perfect, and it’s all Dream can do to melt into his chest, and let himself be known.