Chapter Text
Dream slumps against the door behind him, a deep sigh tumbling from his lips as he drags hands down his face.
It’s been a long day, full of streaming and screaming and jokes gone too far, and Dream finally managed to slip away, ducking out of the living room as soon as he saw the opportunity. He loves his friends—really, he does—but sometimes they’re so. . . much.
Dream looks around the “Party Cave,” as ceremoniously dubbed by Sapnap and Karl (everyone just calls it the movie room). It’s appropriately named, as it is the site of the household’s weekly movie nights—a long-standing and much-honored tradition around the house—and it looks as such. Empty soda cans and crumpled napkins litter the floor and the small couch in front of the large flatscreen TV that nearly covers an entire wall. Beanbag chairs are flung haphazardly across the room, yet the small Ikea table Quackity had bought and assembled on stream (for a sub goal, of course) is clear, save for a few coasters and candy wrappers. The messiness of his housemates shouldn’t surprise him, yet he must admit he expected better of Bad. Shaking his head softly, Dream moves to pick up the room.
Just as he does, a soft rap on the door behind him startles him out his thoughts. Dream stifles a groan, unprepared to deal with the wrath of his friends for any longer, no doubt here to drag him back to the chaotic mess in the living room. They’re late for movie night—it is Sunday, after all—and Dream isn’t quite sure why he chose to escape to the one room he knows that the rest of them will inevitably flock to.
Deep breath, he opens the door, hoping it’s no one other than—
“George!”
“Hi.”
And thank the high heavens that it’s George standing in the doorway, fiddling with his sleeve and looking entirely too nervous, and not anyone else. Dream doesn’t know if he could deal with any of them right now.
“You disappeared,” George informs him. “Quickly. Wanted to make sure you didn’t shit your pants or something.”
He laughs, but his stomach swoops at the thought of George being worried about him, and Dream feels slightly sick. He remembers exactly why he had to leave, now. Racing heart, sweaty palms, swirling stomach, all from a pretty boy in blue. It’s been worse, lately, than usual. He’s not quite sure why, but he knows that every second he spends around George makes him one step closer to accidentally blurting out something that he means. To fucking up their entire friendship.
Instead he says, “I’m fine. I just sorta needed a second.”
Somehow, George shrinks in on himself even more. “Oh. Well, I’ll just—“
“No, no, no,” Dream insists. “You’re alright, George.” He lets a goofy smile tug at his lips, and he flings open the door dramatically with an extended arm, gesturing for George to enter. “Come in, please. Excuse the mess, I would have cleaned up a bit if I knew you were coming.”
George shakes his head with a fond smile, tells him he’s an idiot, and Dream revels in the bit of tension that clears from the air. But George seems to skirt away from Dream as he walks through the door, shying away from his presence and barely entering the room, and Dream is already frowning by the time he processes any of it.
George seems to notice the state of the room for the first time. “God, we live with animals, don’t we?”
“We sure do,” Dream agrees, both of them knowing fully well that they absolutely contribute to this. Dream moves around the room, collecting soda bottles and wrappers and other garbage while George hovers near the doorway. His brain itches to ask him what’s wrong, but he finds his mouth saying, “So, you’re the only one who came after me, huh?”
“Yeah, I think I’m the only one who noticed you were gone.”
Dream winces, Ouch , and George scrambles to backtrack. “That’s not what I meant—“
“It’s alright.” Dream waves a dismissive hand in the air, though the sting of the comment lingers on his skin a tad bit longer. “I was quiet tonight anyways.”
“Sorry,” George whispers, and uses his socked toe to roll an empty Monster can towards Dream gently. He snatches the can and carefully places it in the crook of his arm. “You were pretty quiet tonight,” George notes cautiously, and Dream knows this is his way of asking if he’s alright.
Dream uses the napkin on the floor behind him as an excuse to turn his face away. “I’m fine,” he deflects, stomach curling slightly at the lie. “Just a lot on my mind, I guess.” The truth eases his discomfort marginally, but he still shifts the topic away before George can pry. “ You seem off today, too. Are you alright?”
George’s shoulders and lips lift slightly in a smile and a shrug. “Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”
Dream shoots him a tiny smile and rolls his eyes. As he walks over to the trash can with arms full of garbage, he is greeted with the pleasant sight of an already full—actually, overflowing—bin, mocking him with blithe concern. Dream can practically feel the amusement radiating off of George as he huffs and drops all the trash to the ground in annoyance, a dull clatter sounding throughout the room. He holds up a finger to George before he even has a chance to open his mouth, “Not a word.”
George chuckles. Not more than a second passes before a cryptic expression falls over his face again and he returns to absently fidgeting with his hoodie sleeves.
George is strange like this: quiet, reserved, nervous . He’s never been one for shyness or reservations, and concern pools into Dream’s brain at the sight of him.
“George?”
“Yeah?”
“Is. . .” He hesitates, biting softly at his bottom lip. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
There’s silence, seconds seeming to melt into minutes as Dream waits for George’s response. Finally, timidly, he nods.
“Yes,” George confirms quietly. “But not right now.”
Dream’s head ticks to the side in confusion and George adds, “I don’t think I’m ready yet.”
Anxiety swirls in Dream’s gut, worry amassing as he scrambles to figure out what George could possibly have to tell him that has him this nervous. There’s small, tiny slivers of hope that swirl with it, wishing that—possibly—George could want to tell him the words he so desperately longs to hear. Dream pushes them down, asinine fantasies and selfish daydreams is all they are. He forces a cheesy grin onto his face. “Well, when you’re ready, I’ll be here!” He pours as much corny affection into his words as possible, praying it will cover the maelstrom in his gut.
George huffs at the oversaturated politeness in Dream’s voice, before the room slips right back into something serious, an unnamed exigent force in the room just begging to be addressed. And Dream can’t stand it, can’t stand the thick cloud cover in the room, can’t stand the way his heart tattoos into his rib cage, can’t stand the way his mind is consumed solely by thoughts of the boy in front him; swirling, racing, demanding thoughts of only, “George.”
“Yeah?”
Dream pauses, falters, stumbles, realizing he said that out loud. His brain scrambles, frantically searching for something, anything , to say that will just stop the baleful energy in the air, and before his brain catches up to his body, he finds himself blurting, “I have something to tell you, too.”
George raises a dubious eyebrow, doubt flooding his mocha eyes. “Yeah?” He asks, unconvinced.
Dream swallows, thick, heavy. “Yeah. . . I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.” The words fall from his lips without instruction. “I’ve just never been able to find the right time.” His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. Finally, finally, his mouth stops moving; his brain catches up to his words. Dream ponders silently.
There’s a crossroads painted clearly in front of him. He could say the words he’s been rehearsing in his head for months on end, a careful construction after dozens of rough drafts; the words his heart yearns to say, but his brain is skeptical of. There’s promise of either paradise or destruction if he lets those words breach the odd liminal air of the movie room. Or, Dream could crack a joke, get scolded by George, and keep pretending he’s not madly in love with him.
Dream’s impulsive. He knows this. He’s ADHD, it comes with the territory. Even so, he’s never been one to truly think through his decisions. He acts first and deals with the consequences when—if—they follow. He’d be lying if he said he secretly didn’t enjoy it, the adrenaline that comes with making split-second decisions that he knows could absolutely fuck him over later. Historically, he’s found this not to be too much of an issue. Obviously, there have been questionable choices—eating cat poop when he was younger, almost getting tased for skipping school, locking his sister and a spider together in a moving car—but he’s alive and he turned out fine. Dream’s impulsive. He’s made thousands of stupid, rash decisions based off fleeting emotions and ephemeral thoughts.
He never expected telling his best friend he’s in love with him to be one of them.