Archive of Our Own

Being awoken by a stressed-out Dream at the crack of dawn was not a part of his schedule.

The blond had burst through George’s bedroom door, going on and on about how he was going to throw a girl down a flight of stairs because she forgot she booked a trip to California the same week of the school production and, apparently, she was the leading lady.

“Like seriously, California?” Dream asked, incredulously. “Florida and California are basically identical. How is that even worth it?”

“Mmhghm.” George had replied, face still molded into his pillow.

And after several rants and some concerning threats to whats-her-face, Dream had turned to the half-asleep George with a question in mind.

“So anyway, now that you know what sort of situation I’m in,” The boy began, “And you know, how you’re such a good friend and so– so kind and charitable to everyone–”

George grunts.

“Exactly!” Dream nods, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. “Um, well I was kinda hoping you’d step in and take her role.” He says it with a smile, as if this is the best news of George’s life. “Opening night is in ten days, by the way.” He rushes the last sentence out, tacking it on as a ‘fun’ surprise.

And it had taken a couple moments for the request to process in his sleep-muddled brain, but once it registered George immediately denied it. There's no way he could learn an entire play in just ten days. He doesn't even like acting.

“Dream, I said no.”

“George, please. I wouldn’t be asking you if I wasn’t desperate.”

“Just ask somebody else.” His voice was muffled by the pillow he’s trying to burrow into, wanting to go back to sleep. It was way too early for this.

He heard Dream let out a frustrated groan. “Nobody else is available! Please, please, I’ll do anything.” He’s nearly whining at this point.

From the way the blond has been pacing around George’s room and begging, it’s pretty obvious he wasn't going to leave unless the brunet agreed. And to think, George thought this was finally his day to sleep in.

“Oh my god, fine.” George turned over to face Dream in defeat. “Fine, I'll do it.”

The smile that bloomed on Dreams face could contest the sun. “Seriously?”

George rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Yes! Yes, George, thank you. Genuinely, thank you. Holy shit.” Dream looked like he’s buzzing with excitement. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You better.” All the brunet wanted to do was melt into this mattress for another four hours. “Now get out.”

“I will, I will.” Dream started walking backwards to the door. “Just make sure you’re at the Drama hall by seven tonight, we need to get you learning your lines as soon as possible.” George watched as he flashed him one more golden smile before shutting the door. He could still hear him celebrating on the other side, shuffling and talking excitedly to himself.

George shook his head and flopped back onto his pillow.

What did he just get himself into?

Drama had always been Dream's thing. Ever since they were kids and Dream forced all of his friends to reenact episodes from their favourite shows, the blond knew he lived to be on stage. George had gone to production after production, sitting in the front row for whatever small role Dream had managed to once-again score, waiting outside his dressing room with a Just-A-Joke bouquet of flowers every time, without fail.

George was more of a quiet person, preferring to indulge in hobbies and interests that are more self-guided and independently like coding or computer science. He wouldn't necessarily say he had stage fright, but he definitely wouldn't put himself in that situation just for the hell of it.

However, seeing as he’s standing just outside the doorway to their school's Drama hall, it’s becoming clear that there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for the blond.

George sighs before walking into the building. Might as well get this over with.

He’s immediately greeted by an overexcited Dream, rushing towards him like a golden retriever.

“George! Come here, come here.” The blond ushers him over to a nearby classroom. George mutely follows.

It’s a little crowded for a Thursday evening, seeing as most students are studying for exams and finishing final projects at the library. Here, the room is filled with everything from set pieces to costumes to lighting equipment, people sprinting back and forth with paint on their clothes and fake feathers stuck in their hair. There are small cubicles in the back that George assumes are for privacy while rehearsing lines. It feels like one cohesive mess.

No wonder Dream likes it here so much.

“This is Karl.” Dream introduces him to a boy sitting at a desk with a stack of papers and clutter surrounding him. “He’s our student director.”

Karl glances up with a polite smile, before his expression shifts as he recognizes the brunet. “Oh my god, George– it’s George, right?” He can’t even respond before he’s engulfed in a hug. “George, you have no idea how much this is saving our asses. I thought it was all over when Lacy dropped out. Seriously, I am like– out of this world, over the moon, eternally grateful.”

George gives a short laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no really.” Karl pulls away slightly and stares him dead in the eyes. “I will sell my soul, my apartment, and my car if you so much as ask me to. Thank you.”

The brunet can only give a slightly strained smile. “Uh, no problem.”

A few seconds pass of the two just staring at each other. George starts to wonder if he’ll ever let go and if he should be concerned, when a tanned hand lands on his shoulder, pulling him away from the director.

“Alright Karl, uh, we gotta start rehearsing.”

Karl seems to jump-start at the blond's words. “Of course, of course.” The smile is back on his face. “Don’t let me keep you.” He pushes himself off and returns to his work.

George feels the hand slip down and rest on his lower back and before he knows it, he’s being led out the door in silence. The fingers against him curl and uncurl. Goosebumps start to rise on George’s arms at the feeling.

“What was that?” The brunet cannot help but ask, curious as they exit the room.

"He's been on the verge of losing his mind ever since our lead dropped out.” Dream answers. “Doesn't matter though, he'll be normal soon. C'mon, we need to get started.”

George raises an eyebrow. “But I thought you practice in there?” He looks back to the room, confused about where they were heading.

And the blond's demeanour fully shifts at George’s question, an excited grin overtaking his face. The hand moves to encompass his wrist. “It’s too crowded. I have a better spot.”

George has no choice but to follow as Dream pulls him throughout the building, past empty rooms and hallways.

The brunet crashes into Dream's back when he suddenly halts. Pushing him away with a scowl, he takes in the sight in front of him.

They've stopped in front of the entrance to a hidden spiral staircase, winding up, up, and up.

Unlike the rest of the flooring, the steps leading up are crafted out of old, grimy wood; just by looking at it, George knows they creak with every press. As if it couldn’t get any worse, there’s a thick layer of dust on the railing and an overhead light that won’t stop flickering.

George cannot help but be skeptical.

“Dream," he frowns. "This looks like it leads to a serial killer's house. I’m not going in there.”

The boy only turns to him with a slight laugh, tugging at the brunet's wrist. “It’s better than it looks, I promise.” He starts to pull them both inside, and then his tone takes on a quieter lilt. “It’s just better if we have privacy.”

And the words sing in his ears.

Get a grip.

Heavy and searing, the feel of Dream’s grasp on him starts to steal his thoughts, but he tries not to let it affect him. He merely wonders if he’ll find a burn mark later that night, if he’ll still feel it. Privacy, privacy, privacy.

Just the two of them. Him and Dream. Alone in wherever this stupid staircase leads to. Alone in a place where nobody else knows. Alone to practice George’s lines.

Alone.

“You coming?” Dream’s voice rips him away from his thoughts. How long was he standing there?

The brunet nods, and finally lets himself be yanked up the stairs. He makes sure to hold his breath in fear of blurting out something dumb like “don’t ever stop holding my hand” or “I might shit myself if you speak to me like that again.”

But Dream shows no sign of distress at George’s silence, only tightening his clutch as they reach the top of the stairs.

And he braces himself to be met with cobwebs and dirt and possibly a creepy doll but the room is the absolute opposite of what he was expecting.

What he thought would be a dark, barely lit attic turned out to be the most serene place he’d ever seen. Beams of light come in through old diamond window panes, evidence of past colour now slightly faded from the hot sun, shining yellows and reds and pinks onto the large wool rug that covers most of the floor. The ceiling rises up to form a point at the top of the roof, making the space feel airier.

A large comfy bean bag and an old sofa with threads fraying at the edges remain as the only seating, placed on either side of the room with small wooden crates working as tables around them. Various clutter sits pushed to the side on the floor, stacks of textbooks and boxes of fabric tucked away. A singular reading lamp, plugged into the only socket, rests in the corner with a few used candles scattered around.

It looks like a safe haven.

“Dream?” George steps further into the room, closer to the blond. “What is this?”

“A better spot.” Is all he says, dropping George’s hand to collapse into the sofa.

Dream wordlessly pats the spot next to him, motioning him over even though there was clearly another place for the brunet to sit. He doesn't think too much about it as he takes a seat on the couch. He totally doesn't.

“Did you put everything up here?” The fabric under George’s palm feels old and worn down.

The actor nods, picking at a piece of lint himself. “Karl sent me to the supply closet one day but I sorta got lost and found this instead. It looked pretty cool and no one ever comes up so I just started putting stuff in here. And now I come to go over lines.”

George nods. And now I’m here. The words go unsaid. You’ve brought me to a place that’s just for you. His head feels loud despite the jarring lack of noise. This feels too special. This boy will be the death of him.

The sound of rustling papers brings him back to the surface, watching as Dream pulls out a very full binder.

“I have all of our lines here already. These are yours.” He hands him an intimidating stack.

George scrutinizes it. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do this with the other leading person?”

And George watches, puzzled, as Dream’s lips curl into a grin before casually responding, “Yeah, it would.”

The brunet only stares back. “So, are they coming?”

A giggle. “Uh yeah, they’re right here.” Dream says, letting out a louder laugh at the way George’s jaw drops.

“You?” George asks, disbelieving. “You got a leading role?”

The blond makes a face, pretending to be offended but George knows him too well. “Okay wow, I didn’t think I was that bad at acting.”

“No, no, no.” George immediately backtracks, waving his hands in front of him. “I just mean, well. You usually get smaller roles.” He explains with a sheepish expression. “Like a side character or– or a tree.”

Dream scoffs, shoving him in the shoulder. “I was a tree once. Seven years ago. Let it go.”

The brunet laughs at his obvious fake offence, reaching out to shove him too before a memory pops into George’s mind and his expression drops. “Wait.”

An echo of Dream rambling excitedly about the school's new production. A key detail George seemed to have forgotten until this very moment.

“Wait, but isn’t this play like…” God, his face suddenly feels like it’s on fire. “Isn’t it, well, you know…”

Dream does not in fact know. Is it suddenly super hot in here?

“What?” Dream raises an eyebrow at the brunet’s hesitancy. “What’s wrong?”

George would rather die than utter the words. “Isn’t the play like… oh my god Dream, don’t make me say it.” He covers his face with his hands.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Dream laughs, reaching out to pull the brunet's hands away. “Spit it out, idiot.”

George groans, turning away. “Dream.” he complains, whining out the name. The words he wants to say fit awkwardly in his mouth. “Isn’t the play supposed to be like, I don’t fucking know, mushy gushy?”

And just as expected, Dream loses it.

“M–mushy gushy?” The blond laughs. “Oh my god, just– just say it has romance!” He says between wheezes, trying to catch his breath. "You’re such an- an idiot.”

George wants to burrow into the floor and never come back up. He’s never cringed harder in his life. “Stop, stop.” He says after a few embarrassed laughs of his own. “Just answer.”

Dream, releasing the last of his chuckles, throws his head back to fully collapse against the couch, chest having. “You’re– you’re gonna kill me.”

And Oh, the irony of the words is so bittersweet.

I’d never want to hurt you. George thinks, as Dream turns to him with a beaming sunshine smile, green eyes upturned and glistening; his hair practically glowing against the warm tones of the stained glass in front of them, splayed against the couch cushions in a way that’s practically begging George to run his fingers through it.

So many words he could say right now, right on the tip of his tongue. So many ways he could go, uncertainty at his fingertips.

“Answer.” He chooses the safe route.

The blond rolls his eyes, albeit playfully. “Yes, George. The play is ‘mushy gushy’.” Dream finishes the sentence by making quotation marks with his hands, mocking the brunet's choice of words. His tone betrays him though, the softness peaking through shows his lack of cruel intent.

And even though this is exactly what he asked for, George wishes Dream had never replied to the question.

“So…” He begins, looking anywhere but the boy next to him. “You’re saying that we’re the leads for a play that– that has romance?” George asks, already knowing he’ll hate the answer.

Dream’s gaze suddenly loses all amusement. “Yeah.” He nods.

The brunet is silent. He chews on his lip and picks at his fingernails because what the fuck.

There’s no way he’ll be able to get through this. A whole week and a half of them acting couple-y and in love, spending basically every moment with each other so that their play is perfect. Surely, this will be the death of him. George has barely managed to stay sane sitting in this room with Dream, and they haven’t even started practicing their lines.

If he can’t even be normal around his best friend, how are they supposed to act in love for ten whole days, perform in front of hundreds of people, and then act like it never happened? George feels like he’s spiralling, a heavy weight resting on his chest as he imagines the absolute delight of being able to hold Dream and then the horror of it all being ripped away as quickly as it came.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair to George and his poor heart. And it definitely isn’t fair to Dream.

It’s bad enough that George has to pretend like he isn’t in love with his best friend, but with the addition of forced close proximity and touch, this is only going to end terribly.

The brunet has already felt horrible for swooning and sighing secret sighs when he thinks Dream isn’t looking, but now that he has permission– no, encouragement to indulge in such fantasies–all while it means nothing more than a role to Dream–it’s starting to feel impossible.

He shouldn’t have agreed. He shouldn’t have said yes. He can’t do this anymore. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Dream will hate him. George can picture it; the disgusted look on the blond's face when he realizes that George had secretly been enjoying being Dream’s fake partner far more than he should have. The backward stagger as he yanks his hands away–

“You don’t have to do this.”

George’s mental breakdown gets cut short.

“You can say no.” Dream voice doesn’t seem to be enough to cut the tension. The brunet still feels stiff and unsure.

George clears his throat of all the words he can’t say. “What?” He’s never heard himself sound so small.

The blond has turned away from him at some point. “If– if it’ll make you that uncomfortable you don’t have to do this for me.”

In the back of George’s mind, he registers how dejected Dream sounds.

Dream speaks again, arms folding together. “I can find somebody else if you want. No pressure.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

And no matter how badly this’ll kill him, George can’t bring himself to say no. He can’t even count the number of times Dream has done him huge favours, been there for him when he needed a friend. As much as it’ll hurt, Dream needs his help.

George finds the courage to respond. “No, that’s– that’s okay.”

The blond lifts his eyes to meet brown and umber. “George, really, it’s fine. I don’t want you to feel…” he seems to be choosing his words, “...weird about things.”

“Dream,” The brunet wants to cry at how careful he’s being. “Look at me.”

Dreams arms fall as he fully turns to George. The reassuring look in his eyes contrasts the slight downturn of his lips. George wants to reach out and fix the frown himself.

But he keeps his hands to himself.

“It doesn’t matter to me.” He says, even though it does. It matters more than Dream could ever know. “Let’s start before it gets too late.”

Dream stares for a few more seconds. His eyes dart all over George’s face, searching for any hint of discomfort, but he finds none. With a defeated sigh, the blond picks up his booklet.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much though, right?” Dream asks, unknowing of the awful things that simple question does to George’s heart.

“I promise.”

The first couple of days go by without a hitch, practicing only the beginning of the play. It’s just a slow buildup of the plot, establishing characters and dynamics. Surprisingly, it’s been pretty easy. The conversations and scenes between George’s and Dream’s character flow naturally, it feels like a normal talk between friends. And thankfully, the blond is nice enough to substitute for the other roles that George shares scenes with, even if it means more memorization for him.

He’s not sure what Dream told Karl to let him be the only one who really practices with George, and he also doesn’t get how it’s as “efficient” as Dream claims. All he knows is that it’s nice when it’s just the two of them in their special room. (Dream insisted that George pick out a candle of his own so he feels more at home.)

The only hiccup that happens is when Karl gets them to do a run-through on the actual stage of all they’ve done so far, just to see if things are going smoothly, and the student director asks them to try and be more physically affectionate.

“You’re meant to be falling in love!” Karl shouts from the audience chairs. “Act like you want each other.”

If only he knew.

But as soon as Dream’s arm wraps around his shoulders, all of George’s lines come out stiff and stuttering.

He can see the worried look on Karl’s face as he realizes how big of a problem this might be considering they were, you know, supposed to head over heels by the end of the play. George can feel a swirl of doubt and guilt settling in his stomach, doubt of his abilities and guilt for ruining the production. This is exactly what I feared.

And then Dream gets an idea.

“George, hey, I wanted to talk to you about something.” Dream comes up to him after the stage crew starts to pack up the set a little after six o’clock.

“You need to stop being so weird. Quit freaking out whenever I touch you.”

George resists the urge to physically shake away the thoughts. “Yeah?”

The blond passes him a water bottle which George takes gratefully. “You’re still not uncomfortable doing this right? I– I just–” Dream fiddles with his own drink in his hands, eyes downcast. “I saw how things were today and–”

“It’s okay, Dream.” George interrupts, he can’t let this stop them, not when he’s already committed. “I’ll work on it.”

I’ll try and move on.

Dream eyes lift to meet the brunets at his words. “Okay good, great. But that’s actually kinda what I wanted to talk about.”

George nods, taking a swig of his drink as a silent prod for him to continue.

“So, I was just thinking about how you had trouble with, um like touch and stuff. And I think I thought of a solution.”

And George almost spits out his drink.

But somehow, Dream fails to notice George’s panic, and proceeds to say the worst thing imaginable.

“I thought that we could just start being more uh– physical I guess. Just like, as a new norm. So we can get used to it.” Dream rambles, smiling like he didn’t just turn George’s world upside down.

George sputters and coughs around his water, heat rising to his cheeks at the possible implications. “Wh– physical?” He manages. “What do you mean physical?”

“Just, you know, like more affectionate.” Dream clarifies, a little red in the face himself. “I mean, our roles are basically uh lovers so– so I thought we could, like, warm up to it by doing it more often.” The more he talks the more unsure Dream sounds.

And George merely blinks in response because there’s no way the blond doesn’t know what he’s doing to him.

This entire experience is opening doors he didn’t even know existed. Never in his life would he have ever thought that Dream would allow–or ask for–this kind of closeness. It all seems too good to be true.

Probably because it is, George’s head reminds him. Dream is doing this for the sake of the play. Not because he wants to, not because he wants you.

“Or not.” Dream is quick to add after the brunet remains silent for a little too long. “It was just a suggestion.” Dream’s hands tuck themselves away in his pockets and he leans away like he’s about to leave any second.

And once again, George stupidly puts his heart in front of his head. Just to see you smile. “Yeah that could work.” This is going to hurt so much more. “Let’s try it.”

The blond’s grin is back in an instant. George doesn’t let himself read the emotions shining from within emerald eyes. He’s scared of what he’ll find.

“Cool.” Dream says. He promptly walks away after, leaving George in a puddle of his own feelings.

“Cool.” George mutters to the empty space in front of him. “So, so cool.”

Things don’t change immediately.

A day has passed since their talk to resolve the physical awkwardness but the only scenes they’ve gone over haven’t been between their actual roles. It’s getting smoother the more they practice, George really getting into his character and growing comfortable with acting.

The brunet is almost convinced that Dream forgot about the suggestion. That is until they’re packing up after a long day of memorizing line after line.

“You ready to go?” Dream asks, grabbing George’s backpack for him.

George nods, dusting his pants off from the grime that still gathers on the old musty couch.

And then suddenly there’s a hand intertwining with his, pulling him down the stairs.

“I think Karl planned a small get-together thing for the cast today.” The blond says. “Like a de-stresser before it’s officially a week until opening night.” Dream readjusts his grip on George as they make their way out of the building, like it’s any other day.

George can only hum in response and pretend like he hasn’t wondered about how Dream’s fingers would fit next to his own for months.

Dream spares him a glance. “So did you wanna go?” He asks.

“Um,” George can’t think when the blond’s thumb starts to rub up and down. “Sure.”

The actor smiles and immediately starts to lead them both to his car.

For the past few days, they’ve been driving to and from the Drama Hall together; Dream waking up extra early to bring him breakfast because he knows that George forgets to eat until his stomach starts to rumble. It’s become a routine, a fixed moment in both of their schedules.

What’s not routine, however, was their hands locked together over the centre console.

And George doesn’t even know where they’re heading because all of his focus is on the fact that Dream’s fingertips are rough but his palms are soft and he squeezes every time he makes a turn and never once loosens his grip.

Before he knows it, they’re pulling up to a small diner. Inside, George can see pretty much the entire cast and crew filling up a handful of booths. A familiar pair of gray eyes spots them, pressing a hand against the window and waving at them to come in.

Dream’s already by his side as he steps out of the car, closing the passenger door for him.

And George supposes he shouldn’t be as surprised as he feels when an arm comes up to wrap around his shoulders. Get used to it.

They enter the diner, smiling politely and greeting the other members of the play before sliding into the booth where Karl sits along with two other crew members: Sapnap and Quackity. Sapnap’s in charge of lighting and Quackity is the head of sound equipment.

Over the course of the past couple of days, George has gotten to know them fairly well, considering he’s involved in almost every scene and has needed to learn a lot of tech queues.

He thinks he’s really starting to fit in here.

“Did you guys order already?” Dream asks the three boys sitting across from them.

Sapnap’s eyes are not-so-discreetly darting back and forth from their faces to the arm that’s still keeping them attached. “Uh yeah, but just a few minutes ago.”

“Okay, cool.” Dream smiles, grabbing a menu from the holder in the middle of the table and skimming the options. George tries to think about what he wants to eat but his mind keeps drifting back to green eyes and golden grins and warm palms.

He hasn’t even decided on what drink he’ll get when Dream turns to him and pushes the menu closer. “Let’s share a chicken sandwich and just get extra fries.” He points to an item and then leans in closer to talk softly in his ear. “We’re both not that hungry right?”

George shakes his head. He’s not. And he knows Dream’s not since they both had a big breakfast this morning.

Dream smiles in response, leaning back to sit up properly and immediately getting into a conversation with the rest of the people at the table.

And George tries to listen, he really does. But it’s hard when there’s that constant weight of your best friend's arm laying on your shoulders, jostling him whenever the blond happens to laugh. It’s hard when this feels so natural that it hurts.

Every time Dream finds his arm falling off of the brunet's body and he readjusts, ever so slightly pulling him closer with each movement, it feels like there’s someone chipping at his sanity piece by piece. With every deep inhale and exhale that George can feel against the side of his head, it’s like someone is breathing new life into his lungs, and then leaving him in the dark, cold and alone.

Because even though they’ve never been closer, it seems like they’ve been placed on opposite sides of a canyon by the blond himself; given the ability to see and hear each other all they want but the hope of personal, real touch is futile.

Dream has set the rules, laid out the plan and the boundaries for what this all truly means. And George has foolishly accepted it, thinking that any time spent with him is time well wasted.

But it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the pang in his heart when Dream stares at him like he’s the only person in the entire world, and then speaks words that do not belong to him, words that would never really be directed at George. It’s pulling him further and further down when Dream reaches for his hand in a place where a million eyes can see them, but only so that their performance next week can be more bearable.

And deep inside, George knows that Dream means no harm. Everything that’s happened so far has been his fault. He said yes to helping, he said yes to playing the role of Dream’s lover, and he said yes when Dream offered a solution to George’s “problem” with physical touch.

He just doesn’t have the courage to tell the truth: George just wants this all to be real.

George is pulled from his thoughts by a plate of food being placed in front of him and Dream. Searching for a distraction from the ever-present war of his emotions, he immediately goes to pick up some fries.

Dream, however, seems to be hesitating.

George watches, confused, as the blond’s gaze seems to flick back and forth between the food and– Oh.

The blond is sitting on George’s left, meaning his right arm is the one casually thrown around him, and Dream just so happens to be right-handed. George can see him weighing the options of dropping his arm to eat or using his left hand. He can see it in the way his mouth twitches and his nose crinkles.

George can only roll his eyes at him. He is so, so stupid.

“George.” Dream says, just like he knew he would.

“What?”

The blond purposefully makes his eyes just a little bit wider. “I can’t eat.”

George scoffs, dismissively. “Sure you can.” He drops a fry and raises a hand to Dream’s chin, forcefully opening and closing his jaw. “Like that.”

Dream shakes his hand off. “Feed me.”

“What? No,” George hopes he’s not blushing. “You’re an idiot.”

“Feed me.” Dream refuses to relent.

George just picks up half of the sandwich. “You have hands, Dream.”

The blond drops his head onto the brunet's shoulder, somehow pulling him even closer. “They’re occupied.”

And he can’t take any more of whiny Dream, the proximity making George pliant under his touch. He really is soft for this boy. You’ve got me wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even know it.

“Fine.” is all he says. He isn’t sure if he can say more without it sounding like gibberish.

Begrudgingly, George picks up the other piece of the sandwich and holds it in front of Dream’s mouth. He lets Dream take a bite and start chewing before he puts it back down, going to grab his own to eat. They chew in silence, content, before the sound of someone clearing their throat calls their attention.

The three other boys sitting at the table are watching them, not even touching their own meals. Quackity’s eye is twitching. Karl’s eyes are narrow, scrutinizing and seeming like an idea is forming in his head. Sapnap just looks like he’s trying not to puke.

“What?” George asks, hand pausing midway to Dream’s face to give him a fry. Dream grumbles at the deprivation of his food.

Karl is the first to speak, placing his elbows on the table and folding his hands together. “I thought you guys weren’t dating.” His tone is cautious, like he’s testing the waters.

George’s eyebrows knit. “We’re not.” Thanks for the reminder.

Quackity sputters and his face contorts. “You’re gross. This is gross.”

Dream leans forward to take the fry for himself. “We’re just eating.” He says around the food in his mouth.

“Oh right, yeah. And eating means you have to be, like, on top of each other?” Sapnap asks, looking scandalized.

George doesn’t really know how to answer. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to say. He keeps quiet, shrugging as if that’s a suitable response.

Karl still has yet to turn away. “You guys can just tell us the truth.”

“We aren’t.” George stares at the plate in front of him.

The blond suddenly lifts his head up from George’s shoulder, sitting up properly. The arm around him falls, and George thinks he finally has a chance to breathe, but then it wraps around his waist instead. Dream’s fingers feel like they’re digging into his skin and soothing it at the same time. George needs to get out of his head.

“It’s called method-acting, Karl.” Dream shoots a sickly-sweet grin to the director. “Ever heard of it?”

Immediately, all of their expressions switch to a look of disbelief and uncertainty. George tries to school his own and make it look like he doesn’t want to be as far away from here as possible.

In a way, this feels embarrassing. George knows that none of them mean any harm, but in his mind, he can’t help but want to crawl into bed and forget this entire thing. He wants to pretend like it never happened to save himself from the discomfort of having the love of his life explain how they need to “practice” being a couple.

He also feels dirty. Dirty and unclean and horrible because he’s got Dream thinking he’s just awkward with touch when in reality, George just wants too much to the point that he can’t act normal.

“You’re method-acting dating?” Karl sounds like he wants to laugh.

The two of them nod.

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” Quackity deadpans.

Dream shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s working, right?” He pulls George impossibly closer, pressing his head against brunet hair and plastering a toothy grin on his face. “We look like a couple. You guys even thought that.”

George resists the urge to burrow further into his neck. This feels like heaven. If heaven were temporary.

Sapnap only rolls his eyes, defeated. “You know what? Sure. Whatever. Fine.”

And Dream just laughs like he won, like that’s how simple it is. George wishes it were that easy.

George wishes there was nothing more to it, but it was already complicated before they even stepped foot in their secret room. Feelings were already muddled and unleashed and running rampant through George’s mind and, like a fool, he let it slip out of his grasp, agreeing to whatever Dream said because he is so, so weak.

Only one more week, George reassures himself. One more week and then I move on.

He’s not looking forward to it.

The drive back home is quiet, but not uncomfortable.

Dream had immediately grabbed his hand again when they both settled back into the car, returning to their place over the centre console. It seems like he’s going to keep doing this without any warning and George is just going to have to learn to not lose his breath every time their skin brushes.

The rest of the meal had been spent talking about the play. Karl caught them up to speed on his plans leading up to opening night, saying that something called dry tech was in a couple of days. (Dream had whispered what it meant in his ear a little while after. George nodded, even though he didn’t focus on a single thing other than peach lips pressed so close against his skin. He doesn’t even remember what he said.)

The student director also explained that the final dress rehearsal and a celebratory party were in 6 days–the day before opening night. George doesn’t know if he’ll still have a voice by the time this whole thing ends, having to practice every day and then do 3 full shows without a break is going to be hell.

The sound of Dream putting his car into park breaks him out of his thoughts. The blond drops his hand and opens his car door before George can even process where they are, but as he steps out the familiar sight of the front door of his apartment complex puts him at ease.

“Welcome home, your highness.” Dream teases as he leans over the still-open passenger door, arms folding over the top of the window.

George rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to do that, Dream.”

Dream’s jaw drops, faking disbelief. “Of course I do. I can’t let the leading man use all his strength before his big performance.”

“All my strength? To open a car door?” George deadpans. “And last time I checked, you were also a leading man? Your logic is flawed, idiot.”

“But I’m a stronger leading man. Physically.” Dream explains. “Clearly, you’re the one with actual acting expertise.”

The brunet only shakes his head. “Clearly.” He chooses to ignore the irony of the situation. If Dream knew how much pretending he actually does, the blond wouldn’t find it nearly as funny. George doesn’t know if he could even look Dream in the eyes if he ever found out.

He’s getting ahead of himself again. One more week.

“We should start focusing on our scenes more.” Dream suggests.

George hopes Dream didn’t see the way his expression falters. “You just want an excuse to flirt with me.” He blurts before the blond can sense his apprehensiveness. That’s not exactly what I meant to say. Where did that come from?

Dream chokes out a laugh, seemingly surprised himself. “I mean…” He leans into the door a little more. “That’s definitely a plus.”

The brunet turns his head in what he hopes comes across as defiance, but is really just a way to hide his oncoming blush. “You’re obsessed.”

“Maybe.” God, he can hear his smirk.

George only glances back when he’s sure that his flush isn’t as visible in the diminishing daylight, the moon masking his secrets. “Same time tomorrow then?”

Dream nods, eyes boring holes into the brown ones in front of him.

His stupid, casual stance is making George want to reach out and screw up his hair and wipe the grin off his face so that he wouldn’t be the flustered one for once.

Dream deserves a taste of his own medicine. And shocking even himself, George does something better.

Or worse. He isn’t sure yet.

In one swift movement, George rises onto his toes to lean over the car door between them and plants a short but hard kiss onto Dream's left cheek, placing his hands over the blond’s big tan ones to steady himself. Only a second passes before he pulls away, not allowing it to last more than it needs to.

George faintly hears a sharp inhale next to his ear, and he wants to grin at the way he finally has the upper hand. He’s not entirely sure where this came from. All he knows is that his hands are definitely gonna shake from adrenaline long after he returns to his apartment.

Taking a step back, he briefly peers into Dream’s green eyes, trying to grasp his full reaction. But the gaze just feels so, so heavy. It’s too much. He turns away.

“Goodnight, Dream.”

When the morning comes, his face feels like it’s on fire.

Memories of the night before haunt him. He tries to convince himself that he was just doing the same thing that Dream had all day, but the blond never went past holding hands and wrapping arms around each other. He let his feelings take over and didn’t even wait to grasp the blond’s reaction.

George is pacing back and forth in his room. Dream usually texts by now, saying he’s outside with breakfast. Oh god, he’s stepped too far. Dream must’ve seen the look in his eyes when he pulled away, must’ve sensed the desperation in his action. The blond is probably too weirded out to even be near George right now.

What will he even say when Dream inevitably asks for an explanation?

“Hi Dream, sorry I laid one on you. I was going to cry if you held my hand again, so I kissed you because I hate when people get the best of me and I wanted to see you blush because I think you’re pretty when your face goes red and you’re actually pretty all the time and I’m in love with you. Bye!”

Yeah, that’s not going to go well.

This is all his fault. George knew that this was all a mistake. He’d barely been holding his feelings back before, what made him think that he could hide it when they were pretending to be in love?”

He’d ruined a perfectly good friendship because he’s too smitten to say “no” to Dream. Stupid, stupid, stupid–

A knock interrupts his spiralling.

He rushes to the door, unlocking it quicker than he’s ever done, and yanking it open. There, on the other side stands a startled Dream.

They stare for a few moments. George is just grasping the fact that he’s here which hopefully means he doesn’t actually hate him.

“Hey.” Dream greets.

“Hi.”

“Wanna get going?” The blond jabs a finger behind him.

George pauses. This is not what he mentally prepared himself for.

“Um, where?” George asks, trying to understand if he missed something.

Dream eyebrows furrow, but an amused grin starts to grow on his lips. “Um, rehearsal?” He copies the brunet's tone.

George pauses once more. He had expected a million different things when opened that door. He’d expected a fight, a screaming match, some crying, and–albeit wishfully–even some sort of romantic resolvement.

But an extremely calm Dream, who was acting like George didn’t cross a line last night, was not who he thought was going to be standing in his doorway. And yet somehow, this feels so much worse.

Selfishly, he wishes Dream would have yelled in his face and said all the things that would make George regret agreeing to all of this. He wishes Dream would stomp out and maybe even ignore him for a couple of days because surely, he deserved it. He wishes there were consequences.

He kissed Dream on the cheek. Dream was late to pick him up. George panicked. Dream showed up and it’s like nothing happened. What is he supposed to do with that? Was it a mistake? Was it okay? How can Dream act like it was nothing?

Because it was nothing.

The reality settles upon him like a cold shiver, running down his neck and tingling the ends of his fingers. This makes sense. After all, Dream only ever wants to help and he only ever wanted help. What George saw as something more, Dream truly sees as an extension to the touches they’ve been sharing, a step closer in their “method-acting.”

The blond doesn’t even care enough to be mad.

The thought lingers in his brain and weighs his head down, wilting. He can’t dwell on this. If Dream can be normal, then so can George.

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.” He walks out of the apartment, not bothering to look back and leaving all of the heaviness behind him in hopes that it’ll disappear by the time he gets home.

And if Dream notices the way he barely says a word other than the ones on the script all day, he doesn’t mention it.

The touches continue as normal–Dream being the main person initiating everything. George is too scared to cross a line again, and he can’t bring himself to even try.

He doesn’t shy away from anything though, not wanting to raise any suspicions and accepting everything Dream will give him. They hold hands wherever they go now, whether it be walking to classes or a five-minute walk to the car. George is starting to get used to it now, his palms no longer sweat and his words don’t come out stiff whenever they’re “practicing.”

It took a day to get back into the swing of things after Dream arrived at his front door. As much as he’d hoped the heavy feelings wouldn’t affect him, even the blond could tell that something was up, showing up the next morning with a pack of George’s favourite chocolates.

He knew him so well.

And really, that’s what George feared the most.

Dream knew him so well. Too well. The blond knew his most embarrassing moments, his favourite movie to watch on rainy days, and the password to pretty much all of his devices.

It felt like it was only a matter of time before everything came crawling out of the woodwork. There have been moments where George was so sure that Dream was aware of his feelings. Moments where Dream’s eyes would open just a little wider and his teeth would come out to chew on his cracked lips, but then it’s over and the fog lifts from their gaze and it’s like it never happened.

George tries not to let himself feel down about it, but sometimes he can’t help but wonder if that means that Dream has known this whole time, and he’s just choosing to ignore it; saving George the embarrassment and himself the awkwardness of having to turn down his best friend. Pushing it aside for both their sakes.

These past days have felt like a test, pulling him closer and closer to the edge until he inevitably breaks. And they haven’t even reached the peak yet.

Subconsciously, it’s felt like they’ve both been holding off on practicing their romance scenes together as much as possible. Never explicitly showing avoidance, just excuses of unpreparedness and bad timing thrown around.

Today, however, was the day they had to start working on their scenes or else they wouldn’t be ready for opening night. There’s a lot of pressure riding on their shoulders because of this; mainly George’s since he’s the rookie (and having to pretend like Dream’s touch doesn’t knock the breath out of him.) Surely, this will go smoothly.

George is packing up his things as he waits for the blond to pick him up for another day of rehearsing when the loud ping of a text notification grabs his attention.

Dream 10:07 AM
wanna head somewhere different today?

Odd. But not unwelcome.

George 10:07 AM
Okay
Where

Dream 10:07 AM
idk ig my place is the only other option
i just don’t want to inhale anymore dust

George 10:07 AM
Okay

Dream 10:07 AM
why are you so dry
talk to me

George 10:08 AM
I’m using one hand i’m packign
Aren’t you driving

Dream 10:08 AM
no i’m outside

George 10:08 AM
Wtf why didn’t you start with that bye

In a flurry, the brunet grabs all of the belongings that he needs for the day and scrambles out of his apartment. He spots Dream’s car easily. (It’s the only car with a neon green licence plate holder. George says it looks like a booger. Dream says it makes it special.)

Opening the door, he throws his stuff into the back and without thinking, grabs Dream’s hand.

The blond lets out a small noise at the contact and George turns to see what’s wrong when he spots their intertwined fingers. A day ago, he would’ve dropped it immediately and made sure to keep his hands in his lap for the remainder of the car ride but now, George has gotten better at this whole “pretending” thing. He merely glances at Dream’s face and then uses his other hand to turn on the radio, turning to look out the window and hoping that this comes off as casual.

It seems like it works. Dream starts humming to whatever song is on and driving to his own apartment. And it may just be the brunet’s imagination, but he could've sworn he saw a light dusting of pink fall onto Dream’s cheeks.

It’s then that George realizes the lack of food smell coming from the backseat. “No breakfast?”

Dream gasps. “Oh shit. I completely forgot.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, we’ll just get it now.” He changes course, heading for what George presumes is the cafe that the blond has been going to every morning. He’s never bothered to ask.

George raises an eyebrow. “You seem… off, today.”

Dream sends him a look. “How?”

The brunet pulls their hands into his lap, fiddling with their fingers. “Well, you don’t wanna go to the room, you didn’t even say anything when I got into the car, and you forgot breakfast.” George muses. “Seems weird to me.”

The blond only shakes his head. “You’re delusional, George.”

George rolls his eyes. “Wow. Okay. Sorry I care.”

“You– I’m literally being normal.” Dream drops his hand, putting both palms on the steering wheel. “Nothing’s weird.”

And George’s stomach rolls at the dismissal. He shuts up after that. Dream’s never been the one to stop touching unnecessarily, in fact he usually whines about it, making himself look like a sad kicked puppy whenever George turns away.

You just proved my point. George wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat. Is he being the weird one?

It’s fine. George just has to be more careful. Watch his step and test the waters. It’s all fine.

A quiet sigh of relief escapes him when they finally stop in front of a small, tucked-away cafe with old wood panelling framing the shop, paint chipping and vines growing into the cracks of the bricks. (George really needs to find out how Dream manages to keep stumbling upon the nicest secret places.)

There’s a small pause when the car is shifted into park. George side-eyes the blond, waiting for him to open the door for him like usual. Dream doesn’t budge. Holding back a frown, George reaches for his door handle and he tries to ignore how he hasn’t done that in almost a week.

He doesn’t like this Dream. He doesn’t like the nonchalant, borderline-dismissive attitude he’s upholding.

And he knows that he has no right to say that; their increased affection has only been a recent development and before last week they rarely touched. Dream is simply ruining him, George decides. Spoiling him with soft touches and strong grips–unbeknownst to the turmoil he’s felt inside because of it.

They’re not like this. They don’t play the silent game, pushing things aside and acting like things don’t bother them. He hates it. So George takes it upon himself to be upfront.

Circling the car, he goes to the driver's side and opens Dreams' door. He’s never been on this side before, the roles reversed. George looks down at his best friend. Green eyes blink up at him.

“Let’s go.” George holds out a hand.

Dream stares for another beat before complying, reaching out to take the offering hand. George’s fingertips tingle at the anticipation of tan fingers fitting next to pale ones, but he swerves at last second, going further to wrap his arms around Dream’s own and pulling him out.

“Let’s go.” He repeats, but this time the words were muffled by Dream’s hoodie sleeve.

The blond huffs, but a slight curve in his tone tells George he’s doing a good job. At what? He isn’t sure. He hasn’t been sure of much lately. One more week.

They walk into the cafe and get in line.

It’s a little jarring to be acting like this in public. Whenever they “practice” being affectionate it’s only been at home or in private or in the comfort of friends. George’s skin itches at the way this is suddenly feeling much too real.

He wants to hold Dream tighter, bury his face into his chest for comfort but that would only make it worse. He’d rather sit here and feel his chest cave in than tell Dream he’s too head over heels to stand in a goddamn line together.

But it seems like someone out there is looking out for him, as Dream’s phone starts to ring. The blond pulls his phone out of his pocket and George watches as green eyes widen before turning the screen away from his wandering brown ones.

“Uh… I gotta go take this.” Dream starts to pull away. “You know what I get, right?”

George barely has the chance to nod before Dream practically rips his arm away and makes a beeline for the exit. The brunet just flexes and unflexes his fingers, feeling unnatural without the weight of Dream’s bicep under it.

He tries to take his mind off of the way Dream’s been acting all morning, but it’s dug its way under his skin. It stings in the back of his mind like a flame, burning and sending sparks in the way of his thoughts so that he can’t think clearly.

“Excuse me, what can I get for you today?”

George didn’t even realize he’d made it to the front of the line. Flustered, he answers. “Um, hi sorry.” He takes in the sight of a young guy who looks around his age with a smile that’s all teeth. “Can I have an omelette and some pancakes?”

The barista punches in the order. “No drinks?”

“Uh, just ice water and a peach iced tea.”

“Peach?” The guy asks, his smile now becoming lopsided and sly. “That’s cute.”

George is taken aback. He can only give a small, unsure laugh. "Uh, yeah."

“You got a name for that order, sweet thing?” A wink is thrown his way. The brunet has to smother the urge to dodge.

“George.” He tries to sound as polite as he can as he pays for his food.

The worker smirks and he can see his tongue poking the inside of his cheek, like he’s tasting his name. George wants to barf.

“That’ll be ready for you in a few minutes, George.” One final pathetically flirtatious look and then the barista disappears behind the counter to prepare his order.

Gross.

The brunet shuffles away, not wanting to be anywhere near the cafe bar in fear of contracting whatever disease that guy seems to have to make his ego so inflamed. He should really get that checked out.

A few minutes pass before he hears his name called. George hesitates slightly as he walks to pick up his order, looking to the front window to try and see if Dream is still on his call. But the blond is nowhere to be seen.

George finds himself frowning.

“Why so sad, sweets?” The voice sounds like gravel in his ears.

George finds himself frowning even more. “Just waiting for someone.” Why the hell is he explaining himself?

The worker leans his elbows on the counter, tilting his head. “I don’t see anyone.” He makes a big, annoying show of looking around. “I can keep you company, George.” His smile drips with tar.

And he’s about to refuse, eyebrows furrowing and fists forming, when a pair of soft lips meet his forehead.

“Hey, baby.” is said into his hair. “Ready to go?”

George doesn’t even have to look to see who it is. He’d much rather watch the icky grin slide off of the barista’s face.

“Yeah, I got our food.” He grabs their order from the counter and hands them to Dream with a matching, fake-lovey-dovey grin.

Dream plants another kiss on the side of his face. “You’re so sweet.” He says and oh George loves him. Loves him for the rescue and for the way his mouth feels while it’s so obviously curled into a smile against his skin.

The blond sends a gorgeous golden smile to the worker. George has to fight down the need to grab his jaw and make Dream face him; only he wants to be on the receiving end of that shining smile.

“Thanks for keeping my boyfriend company.” Dream says, looping an arm around George’s shoulder. “Who knows what kind of creeps are out there?” His green-eyed gaze hardens for just a split second.

George watches with a sinister kind of enjoyment as the barista narrows his eyes before huffing and stalking away.

“Let’s go.” The blond echoes his words from earlier, leading him to the car. George happily follows, giddy at how it seems like Dream is back to normal and therefore, indulging in affection again.

And when they hop in, they look at each other, and promptly burst out laughing. Hands going to cover their mouths, tears threatening to fall down his face as he imagines the stupid, annoyed look on the barista’s face.

“Oh m-my god.” George laughs. “He called me– you weren’t there but he called me, like, s-sweet thing and I–” He makes a face, pretending to gag and vomit.

Dream’s own expression contorts through his laughs. “Ew what? Ewww.” A shudder visibly runs through his body and makes George fall over in laughter. A tanned hand goes to rest on the brunet's thigh, trying to calm both of them down.

Eventually, the amusement trickles down and leaves their system. It takes a second or two for their breathing to become steady and, when it finally does, Dream starts to shake his head.

“Sweet thing is stupid.” He states. “I would never call you sweet thing.”

George blames the flush on his cheeks on the laughing fit. “Yeah, I know. You would just call me baby.” He says through a smirk to hide the way the pet name made his knees almost give out.

Dream only smiles and nods. “Yeah, I would. I did.”

“I know you did. Which means I’m right.”

“What?” The blond's voice turns light, practically giggling. “How are you right?”

George folds his arms. “I’m right. You would call me baby.”

“You can’t be right, George. I already called you baby.” Dream’s fingers shift on the brunet’s thigh each time he laughs. “That’s like cheating.”

“No.” He responds. “It’s not cheating because you did and would and will call me baby. We’re in a never-ending, continuous loop of me being right.” He waves his hand around, fingers bending to make swirls in the air.

“You’re such an idiot.”

George leans in and cups a hand over his ear. “I’m a what?”

Dream laughs. “You’re an idiot.”

George purses his lips and shakes his head. “I don’t know who you’re talking to, Dream.”

The blond sighs, turning to face him with a gaze so soft and silky. “Baby, you’re an idiot.”

And George feels on top of the world.

They reach Dream’s apartment and carry the food up to his place, leaning on each other and struggling to walk in a straight line. The mood feels so different than this morning; light and airy and smelling like roses. The dreary weight that seemed to be weighing the blond down has since been removed, meaning he’s back to opening his car door and sliding his fingers to rest against George’s.

Frankly, it’s a relief. George doesn’t know what he’d do if Dream wanted to cut their time together short.

As selfish and disgusting as he feels for using this opportunity to get closer to the boy he loves, there is obviously that side of him that has never felt more alive. His blood roars through his veins whenever Dream’s palms glide against his skin–whether it be accidental or intentional or circumstantial.

His heart doesn’t know the difference, fluttering with every glance and smirk sent his way.

But his head knows. His head is telling him to keep it to a minimum, to not get too ahead of himself so that the sudden deprivation won’t hurt as bad.

George isn’t sure who he’s listening to anymore. And he’s not sure how much more he can take before something in him snaps.

He fears how bad that might be, the things he’d say, and the things he’d do.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to worry about that right now as the two of them stumble into Dream’s apartment.

And as he steps into the front entrance, George almost drops the food he’s carrying when he’s met with the amount of plants overloading Dream’s entire place. Majority of them are flowers, sitting on just about every available surface.

George is confused.

“Since when were you a plant person?” He’s never even known Dream to go anywhere near dirt.

Dream seems to be rooted on the spot. No pun intended.

"Um. It's a recent development." The blond answers, as if that's a totally acceptable answer to give to your best friend who's supposed to know everything about you.

"When did you even have the time to, like, acquire all of these?" George walks over to a bunch of red roses, sniffing.

Dream, for some reason, looks guilty.

"It's really nothing," Dream begins, setting down the food and leaning back against the kitchen counter. "It's uh, just like, you know.” He shrugs. “It's kinda just… alloftheflowersyou'veevergivenme." He spits out, staring out the ground to hide what George can see is the start of a heavy pink blush.

George almost laughs at the absurdness but something stops him. His head is caught up in itself. "It's what?" He needs to know if he heard him correctly.

Dream scrunches his face. "You know, it's just– I've been–"

"Spit it out, idiot."

"I'm trying!" Dream says, tone void of any real malice. "I guess… I've been keeping all the flowers you get me and planting them." He shrugs again, like this isn’t turning George's world upside down.

His heart is in his throat. "You guess?"

The blond rolls his eyes. "I have."

George can only nod. He stares at the roses some more; roses that he'd apparently bought himself; roses that Dream has kept and planted and nursed and kept alive for what had to be months by now; roses that George thought Dream always threw away or gave to his mom like he said he did.

"That’s nice.” You’re driving me crazy.

Dream sends him a look of disbelief. “It’s nice?”

George nods again. “Yeah.” You have to know what you’re doing to me.

Dream is staring at him like he wants to say more, know more. But he only nods, ending the conversation.

“Let’s eat then. I’m starving.”

The rest of the day goes surprisingly smoothly. After such a rollercoaster start–with weird moods and flirty baristas and a hidden flower obsession–somehow rehearsing as romantically interested leads in a play was the least awkward part of the day.

Thankfully, there’s no actual heavy kiss scene in the performance. Just some on the cheek or forehead kisses like they’d been doing for the past couple of days.

Dream’s suggestion of practicing affection–much to George’s relief–seemed to actually do them some good. George doesn’t sound like someone cut off his tongue whenever the blond presses his lips to the side of his head or wraps his arms around his waist.

They’ve learned almost all of the play by some miracle. The only scenes that are left to start working on is the climax of the play; the big plot twist where Dream’s character supposedly had been working against him the entire time and betrays him by pushing him off a cliff during what was meant to be a romantic outing.

Sounds ridiculous.

But it’s fine.

George is simply happy with the fact that he’s actually been doing good at this whole memorizing lines and performing thing. Dream even admitted that he was impressed with how quickly he’s managed to pick it up. (The brunet had to use his newly acquired acting skills to pretend like he wasn’t about to melt into a puddle right then and there.)

And then Dream had dropped him off late that night with a present.

“It’s for you.” The blond shoves a small potted daffodil into George’s hands.

George deadpans. “Dream, I bought you this.”

“I know.” He smiles, all toothy and bright. “But now I’m giving it back when it’s alive.”

“You’re re-gifting.” George summarizes, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “That’s bad manners, Dream.”

“Yeah? Bad manners?” Dream says it like it’s a challenge. “How’s this for bad manners?”

In a flash, Dream’s breath is fanning onto his cheek, lips briefly taking its place once, twice. The second kiss feels like a taunt. I know how much you like this.

I like you, I like you, I like you.

“Goodnight George.”

But today was the big day; the brunt of it all. There’s no time to get stuck in his head and read too deeply between the lines, especially when he already knows there’s nothing there.

Dream had texted him again this morning, telling him that they were going to go to his apartment again to practice. Yesterday, after eating breakfast and the tension had fizzled away, it had actually been a lot nicer to rehearse in such a comforting place.

Although, as he slides into Dream’s car, it’s clear that something is once again off.

Except this time, George keeps quiet. He doesn’t mention the obvious nerves or weird vibes. He simply writes it off as being scared about rehearsing the big scene. George understands, he didn’t have the best sleep last night due to the looming stress of the next day.

(Totally not because he was busy staring at a certain flower all night. No way.)

The only thing that George does during the drive to the blond’s place is grab Dream’s right hand and hold it in his lap. He tells himself it’s strictly for Dream’s sake so that he doesn’t feel selfish. It helps a little when he sees Dream’s shoulders loosen, ever so slightly.

He thinks he’s getting the hang of comforting Dream. Before all of this, he wasn’t quite sure how to handle the blond when things got the best of him. Of course, he tried. But a reassuring text and fewer jokes at his expense never felt enough.

Now he knows the secret. A quick glide of George’s fingers across Dream’s own and he is putty in his hands.

It almost feels wrong to know this.

George shouldn’t be used to the thankful glow in Dream’s eyes whenever the brunet brushes back his hair. He shouldn’t be familiar with the ghost of his hands resting on his waist. He shouldn’t be accustomed to the ever-present habit of Dream’s fingers drumming on his leg or arm or hand whenever he gets antsy.

But he is. He’s not sure what he's going to do with it when this is all over.

They arrive at Dream’s apartment when the feeling of the unknown starts to cloud his mind, reaching for Dream’s open palm as he’s pulled out of the car as if it’ll stop him from drowning.

And it does in a way. But at the same time, it’s the cause of the water in his ears.

I can make it out of here, George tells himself. And it’ll be like I never held your hand.

They’re rehearsing in Dream’s room when everything comes crashing down.

Dream claims it’s for the acoustics. The walls are thicker, He explained. It’s more private.

George is starting to hate that word.

“George.”

“What?”

“This is weird.”

The brunet pretends like a million thoughts don’t run through his head within two seconds. “What is?”

Dream makes a noise of annoyance. “My arms.” He drops them from where they had been hovering around George’s waist from behind.

“Why can’t I just hold you?” The blond practically whines. “I’m getting tired.”

George refuses to look back at him. “It’s just for a little while, Dream.” He feels stupid for being stubborn. But he’ll feel even more stupid later when the burn of Dream’s hold keeps him awake at night.

“C’mon.” Dream’s voice sounds closer. “Wasn’t this what all that practicing was for anyway?”

Now, George feels caught. “I’m–” I’m in love with you. “It–” It wasn’t just practice to me. “Nevermind. Fine, let’s do it.” I’ll never tell you any of this.

And Dream merely smiles, unknowing of how it blinds George so much to the point that he can’t think. “Let’s go!” Dream whisper-shouts, grin evident in his tone, celebrating into the brunet’s ear as his hands finally wrap around George’s hips.

“See how much better this is?”

“No.” George says, just cause he can. “No, I’m actually dying. You’ve killed me.”

Dream laughs. “No, I’m about to kill you.” He emphasizes the statement with a slight push and pull of George’s body against his own, as if actually swaying him over the edge of a cliff.

It’s sickeningly ironic.

“Whatever, let’s get this over with.” He grabs his nearby script and crinkles it loudly in his hands.

“Okay.” Dream doesn’t bother grabbing his own lines, apparently content with peering over George’s shoulder to read from it as well.

George clears his throat and picks up where they left off.

“You and I have very different ideas of romance.”

“Is a gorgeous view not enough for you, baby?”

The brunet rolls his eyes. “It’s only a crack in the ground; hardly a view.”

“I was talking about me.” Dream presses a smile to his ear.

George has to hold back a smirk at how that’s something the boy would actually say. ”You’re not facing me. If anything, you’re the background.”

“Backgrounds can be gorgeous.” Dream argues, grip tightening. “Tell me I’m gorgeous.”

“What?”

“Baby, tell me I’m gorgeous.”

George places his hands over the tanned ones wrapped around him. “You’re ridiculous, that's what you are. I don’t need to tell you anything.” He curls his tone, making it sound like a challenge.

“You’re impossible. Dream retaliates, gritting his teeth. It’s a little scary how well he transforms into his secretly cruel character. But at the same time, it turns George’s head to mush.

“Just shut up and hold me.”

Dream hums and pulls him tighter. George lets a few seconds pass before reading the next line.

“You know what this reminds me of, love?” George could swim in the feeling of calling Dream that–as fake as it may be.

Dream hums again, burying his nose into his brown locks.

“Jack and Rose.” The brunet states. “From the Titanic.”

“What’s got you thinking about that?”

George reaches back and places his hand in Dream’s hair. “Don’t you feel like the king of the world right now?”

“In a way.”

George sighs. “It’s terrible though; a real tragedy.”

Dream’s breath feels closer to his neck. “What is, baby?”

“Living after watching your lover die.” A shiver runs through his body. Hot air creates goosebumps in its wake.

The blond shifts his hands a little higher on George’s body–dangerously close to his ribcage. George wonders, if Dream inched just a bit up, could he feel his heartbeat through his shirt? Would he say anything?

George continues with his lines. “Do you agree?”

They sway for a second, Dream allowing time for a false moment of consideration. “I think,” Dream begins, “There’s something a little sadder.” A warm press is felt against the back of George’s neck and– Oh.

His breath catches in his throat. This isn’t part of the script.

“R-really?” It comes out wobbly. “What’s that?”

“I think,” Dream exhales onto the nape of his neck. “A worse fate,” There’s a fleeting feeling of Dream’s lips grazing his skin, travelling down into the crease of his shoulder. “Would be a lack of attachment.” Another kiss to the junction of his neck. This isn’t part of the script.

“I’m– I’m afraid I don’t understand.” George barely manages to say, head swimming and knees ready to give out. What are we doing?

“It’s simple, baby.” George can feel the words being said to his skin, mouth shifting and pressing more kisses. Subconsciously, the brunet finds his head tipping back to give Dream more access. Stop. Stop before it’s too late.

Dream goes on. “To die by your lover's side,” Hands slide around to fully wrap around George’s waist. “Is far better than dying by the hands of the one you know as love.”

And then silence.

A beat or two passes.

George thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest. The scene is over. This is where Dream pushes George and the final act of the play begins, so why has Dream yet to let go?

“Dream.” He vaguely hears the script falling to the ground. His fingers feel too unaware of themselves to hold anything.

George laments as he feels another press of lips to the side of his neck. “Dream.” I’d gladly die under your grasp.

“Hm?”

But I can’t tell you that.

“The scene’s over.”

An inhale, an exhale. Dream’s breath flutters the hair around the brunet's nape. “Yeah.”

George wants to cry. “So– so why–”

“You’re pretty, you know that?”

“Dream,” How can you say that? “This isn’t funny.”

The blond laughs. “I’m not being funny.” George is somehow pulled impossibly closer. He thinks he can feel Dream’s heartbeat against his back. It’s faster than he thought it would be.

“Stop.”

Dream lifts his head up ever so slightly. “Stop calling you pretty?”

Something inside him dies a little. “Stop, just stop whatever we’re doing right now. The scene is over.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Dream asks, soft and innocent as if he isn’t to blame for the fingernail dents on the surface of George’s palms.

“Because it’s over. You can let go.”

“Why would I let go?”

“I–” There’s a lump in his throat. “I want you to.” I can’t breathe without wanting to share it with you.

And Dream only makes a slight noise of confusion. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.” George is going to think of this day for the rest of his life when he’s eventually kicked out of Dream’s apartment for everything he’s been hiding.

“Stop.” Dream steals his words from earlier. “George, it’s okay.”

How do you know?

“Let me go.”

A moment of silence, and the warmth against his body is gone.

George doesn’t turn around, staring straight ahead and remaining there. His hands feel cold and guilty. Thoughts swirl in his head, enveloping his brain to the point that all he can think of is soft lips and a dirty imprint. Can Dream really be this cruel? Can George really be that stupid?

He should’ve never let it get this far.

Dream’s voice still feels so, so close.

“I’m sorry.” The blond says.

George almost glances back to look him in the eyes, and maybe find the answer to what he’s been wondering all week: does Dream know what he’s doing?

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and George takes that as a yes.

“What are you doing, Dream?”

The boy sounds distressed. “I– I think I just messed up.” It causes a pang to grow in his chest.

George doesn’t know what to say, so he lets the blond keep going.

“We– I thought–” His voice cracks. “I thought we were on the same page.”

And the words send George’s mind into a flurry. He’s talking before he even realizes it.

“How could you possibly think that?” He turns to face him. “This– whatever this is– this is just mean, Dream. You’re hurting me. You’ve been hurting me.”

Dream looks heartbroken. “I’m hurting you?” His voice has never sounded so small.

“Yes!” George thinks he can feel tears start to prick in his eyes. He doesn’t wipe them. Maybe Dream will see and finally realize how much torture the past several days have been. “I don’t get how you can do any of this and not see how much it’s hurting me. And fuck, I don’t know, maybe it’s my own damn fault for agreeing but you just had to make it so much harder.”

The way that Dream is staring down at him is making George want to hold him and never let go, but that’s what got him into this mess. He should’ve never said yes.

“We– we were almost done! The play is over in a few fucking days! And I thought I could make it but I can’t.” George blinks away what’s gathering in the corners of his eyes. “I can’t stand here and let you do these things when I know that you– you don’t–”

The words are stuck in his throat. He hates to admit it.

“Don’t what?” Dream pleads. “George, baby–”

“Don’t call me that.” The brunet's mouth tastes like rain and salt.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

Dream eyebrows knit and his eyes are rimmed with red. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

George can’t look at him anymore. He doesn’t know what he wants.

He’s in love with Dream. Another second with this boy and he might burst into tears. He’ll love him forever. He needs to calm down and leave and sob into a pillow.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.” The blond takes a sharp inhale. He ignores it. “It’s getting hard to pretend like this doesn’t mean anything to me when we both know it does. So I'm done. And I’m really sorry.”

He shuffles away slightly, arms going to wrap around himself as if it’ll protect him from the inevitable end of everything he’s ever had with Dream. “Tell Karl and everyone I’m sorry too. This is not how–”

“What?” Dream’s voice comes out wet and drained.

“Tell everyone I’m sorry and that I really–”

“No, no wait.” Dream takes a step closer. “What can’t you do anymore?”

“Dream,” George just wants to hide from this humiliation. “Dream, it’s fine.” Don’t make me say it again.

“George, please. Just tell me.” There’s something new in his gaze.

He gives in.

“I– I can’t keep pretending that everything we’ve done doesn’t mean anything to me. And I know that you’ve noticed how I feel and– and get some weird enjoyment off of making it worse but I really just–”

“Oh my god.” Dream’s eyes are blown wide. “Oh my god.” He says again.

“I know.” George drops his head, defeated and crestfallen. “I’m sorry. I need to go–”

“George, don’t go.” Hands reach out to grab his shoulders.

The brunet fights back the urge to fall into his embrace. “I don’t think I can be here right now–”

“George, seriously. Listen to me.” Green eyes strike him and all George can see is guilt and sadness and– hope? “Please, we really need to talk about this.”

A beat passes before George reluctantly nods.

Dream takes a deep breath before speaking. “I– I just want to say that I’m sorry for everything I might’ve done to– to hurt you but–”

George scoffs, turning his head away. This is not what he needs.

“George,” Tanned hands slide up to hold his jaw and force him to look. “I didn’t know you were feeling this way.” Dream admits. “Trust me, baby, if I’d known then I would’ve stopped way sooner.”

He chooses to ignore the pet name. “So what? If you knew, you’d just never say anything? Thanks, Dream. I’m so glad we could talk about this.”

“No, no, no. That’s not what I'm saying.” Dream screws his eyes shut. “I’m so bad at this, okay. George, I thought you knew what I was doing.”

He can't believe this boy. “I don’t even know what you’re doing right now!” He practically yells, running hands through his hair in desperation. He just wants to understand.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Dream wipes a stray tear off of his cheek. “Baby, I thought that when I suggested we– we practice being affectionate for the play and we started getting closer– I thought you could tell that I was trying to be with you.”

George stares.

The blond takes his silence and runs with it. “I– held you every chance I could. I picked you up every day. And then you kissed my cheek and I thought it was finally happening but you then you stopped reaching for me and I thought I messed up so I got nervous and I decided that I should just get it over with and tell you everything but then that stupid guy at the cafe was there.” Dream rambles, eyes never leaving him.

“And I– when I first brought you here and you saw all the flowers I kept, I thought you realized that I liked you! But you didn’t say anything, you- you just said it was nice. And so today was supposed to be my last shot and–”

His head drops onto George’s shoulder. “And now you probably hate me for being stupid and assuming everything.” Dream finishes.

George just stands there in shock.

He tries to wrap his head around it. Dream had been going after him this whole time? It wasn’t just for the play. Dream liked him.

“You like me?” George’s hands go to the blond’s back.

“Yes,” He sniffles against his skin. “And you think I’m an asshole who plays with people's feelings.”

George blushes. “Well, to be fair, I assumed a lot about how you felt too. I’m not totally innocent, I guess. And I don’t hate you.”

“But you did, like, thirty seconds ago.”

“I– Dream, look at me.” He pulls the blond’s head off of his shoulder, cradling his cheeks. “I never hated you. I– I really, really like you and I thought you could tell so you were just– I don’t know, making fun of me? Seeing how far you could go? It’s fucked okay, I know. But I don’t hate you.”

They blink at each other for a bit, taking in the other's presence. The sad creases beside Dream’s eyes have smoothed out, and George couldn’t be happier not to see it.

“I thought I fucked everything up just now.” Dream lets out a heavy exhale. “I thought I was totally being rejected.” He laughs, but it lacks the joy he deserves.

“I love you.” George simply replies, rubbing his fingers against the apple of the blond's cheeks.

And Dream melts in his hands. “I love you too.”

The brunet’s face is surely glowing pink.

“I can’t believe you just started kissing my neck mid-rehearsal.”

Dream laughs. “It’s not like anywhere’s watching us. It’s just me and you.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem, Dream.” This boy knows now how easy it is to make George flustered. “It's you and your dumb face and your dumb mouth and your dumb–”

He’s interrupted by said pair of dumb lips crashing into his own.

It catches him slightly off guard, but George’s eyes fall close as he sighs into the kiss, teeth clacking and smiling too hard to focus. They kiss for a couple seconds, lips pressed against lips before pulling back, letting out a shaky breath against each other's face, and then diving back in.

George uses one of his hands to guide Dream’s own to fall from his shoulders to his waist, releasing a soft noise when his grip tightens and there’s no space between their bodies anymore. Dream tilts his head to deepen it, and George thinks he blacks out for a second. The angle is a little too extreme though, head craning while the blond kisses him like it’s all he’s ever wanted.

“Dream,” He laughs into his mouth. “You’re leaning too much.”

The blond makes a small disgruntled noise when he stops kissing back, chasing George’s mouth.

The brunet grips the back of his neck and shifts his head to where he knows they’ll both like it, and softly reconnects their lips. He lets his hands fall down, resting over Dream’s heart. And to his immense delight, it’s beating abnormally fast.

Dream knows what he’s doing. “George, stop.” The words contrast the grin pressed against his own.

“You’re cute.” George draws a star over his chest.

“If you’re just gonna make fun of me, you can do that later. We’re kissing now.” Dream complains, pulling away slightly to look him in the eyes.

George’s gaze turns curious. “What’s later?”

“I don’t know, wanna get dinner?” The casual words feel ridiculous compared to the shit they've been through not even an hour ago.

He smiles. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Dream sends him a look. “George.”

The boy in question merely raises an eyebrow.

“Baby.” Dream continues to stare.

The brunet’s cheeks feel hot. “Are you?”

The blond is silent for a minute, eyes flitting around his face. Normally, George would feel subconscious at someone analyzing every inch of him, but it just feels right to be here with Dream, staring at each other with matching pink and wet lips.

“Yeah, I am.”

George shines under his eyes. “Then I’d love to.”

We’re gonna be alright.

The play ends up being a huge success.

Karl immediately congratulated them when they walked in for a real rehearsal a couple of days after; they didn’t even have to say anything. Sapnap and Quackity make them swear to not be “gross” in front of them before eventually giving in and claiming that they totally knew this was gonna happen.

Sapnap even brags that, apparently, he’d been the one on the phone with Dream that time when they went to the cafe. He’d called to see if Dream had confessed yet, and how he had to spend the entire time hyping him up. Sapnap recounts the story with great detail as Dream stands there trying to burrow into George’s neck to escape the humiliation.

George just thinks it’s cute.

The performance goes great, with a standing ovation each night and about a million handshakes. The first night, Dream surprises him with a big bouquet of roses and tells him to plant it and keep it safe. George spends the next hour staring at the giant batch of flowers and wondering how he ever got so lucky.

The last night ends with the whole cast and crew having one massive sleepover. And as Dream softly drifts off into sleep and relaxes against George’s chest, he knows that everything has been worth it.