Archive of Our Own

They hugged when George got to Florida. Not just that one, kind of awkward one on camera, but another, realer one when the cameras were cut and the vlog wasn't recording. One where Dream put his arms over George's shoulders, and George put his around his ribs, and Dream's nose was pressed into George's hair, and George's face was in Dream's shoulder. George thought, in that moment, that everything was falling into place, like they had two halves of a jigsaw puzzle that they put together across an ocean, helping each other on call along the way, and now that they were next to each other, they were able to put the halves together and complete the puzzle. In that moment, everything was good and everything was going to be okay.

Things didn't stay that good. It's not like they were bad; the time that George has spent in Florida has been the absolute best of his life. His best friends are there, rarely separated by anything more than a room. They sit at the same table and eat meals together; they get in the car and go for drives; they spend hours on the couch talking and being near each other until the sun rises. It's great and unreal, and nothing can take away from that. It just wasn't everything. Dream and George were toeing a line over voice calls, crossing a very vaguely defined line that separated friends from more, and they had been for a while. But yet, here, in Florida, where they have each other in the flesh, George's half of the puzzle remained in one of his suitcases, and Dream's was locked away somewhere in his room. And they're worthless on their own; half of a puzzle means nothing. The pieces are literally made to be put together.

Dream doesn't reach out to George like he does to literally everybody else. George will walk into the living room and find Dream resting his head on Sapnap's legs, or he will watch the two spontaneously hug. George thought, at first, that's fine, George is new; he and Sapnap had been living together for upwards of a year at that point. Dream and Sapnap being comfortable and coexisting physically in that way made sense. George just had to be there for a little bit and fit into that dynamic.

But then, they'd go out to parties or cons, and that's where it stung. Because why was Dream putting his arms over everybody's shoulders? Why was he letting Karl kiss him? Why was George finding Dream curled up next to their friends, practically cuddling on a couch? He'd just met all of these people.

And why didn't he do that with George?

Was he creating space? George had really almost figured that Dream was trying to make a point, like that hug was too close, like Dream had thought George was getting the wrong impression about them, and he was staying away from George in the ways that he wouldn't stay away from anybody else. Like, no, George, you don't mean anything like that to me, and just in case you aren't aware, I will stay completely out of your personal space so that it's obvious.

If Dream thought George was getting the wrong idea, then George was getting the wrong idea. George, an ocean apart, had leaned towards the idea of them being something. Something they wouldn't really be able to make sense of until they were next to each other. George thought Dream felt the same, hoped Dream felt the same, but he was never 100% sure; it was never spoken about, not explicitly. Just conversations that edged uncomfortably close to need, nearing romantic love that overtook the platonic love they were both very confident in. Maybe that's why George couldn't say I love you — because even if he knew he loved Dream as a friend, he was kind of nervous that he loved him as something more.

Maybe that's why it was so easy for Dream to say I love you — because Dream didn't have that fear.

If Dream really never did have that fear, then George thinks he doesn't know his place in the world.

It was after the cooking stream that Sam streamed in their house that George was really starting to get bothered. More specifically, it started to hurt.

Dream was there, and he was as physically affectionate with everybody as usual. Maybe it was the hug and kiss on the cheek with Sam that really got George riled up. Maybe it was the way chat spammed for Dream to hug George, and Dream had seen it (George knows because he saw him make a fleeting glance at him and not move a muscle) but hadn't done it. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it was every single moment up until then, and these were the ones that got him upset. Either way, George had barged into Sapnap's room and asked about it, embarrassingly. He didn't knock, and Sapnap looked at him incredulously as he walked towards where he was lying on the bed.

"Dude, what is your problem? what if I was—"

"Why does Dream hate me?"

Sapnap had stared at him for at least ten seconds straight. With eyebrows furrowed, completely lost, he waited for more information to be thrown, for George to scale back his dramatization, anything, because Sapnap knows that Dream does not hate George and he expects George to know that too. But George doesn't give anything else, just sits on the end of Sapnap's bed and waits for him to speak. "What are you talking about?"

"Like—" George sighs, almost a scoff, and looks at his fingers. He picks at the loose skin around his nails until he gathers the strength to say what he wants to say. "He doesn't even— he's so touchy with everybody else. Why isn't he like that with me?"

"You don't like touchy," Sapnap says. "You don't even— you don't even like when I'm touchy with you; why would he think you would like it from him?"

"I never told him I didn't."

"Well, Dream isn't stupid, and he's observant," Sapnap says, looking at George like he's losing his mind. Maybe George is, a little bit. "Like, he's seen you on streams, and with me. He isn't just going to—"

"I never said— I never told him that—" George doesn't know why he's arguing. George doesn't know why he's defending himself. George doesn't know why his friend's words are making him feel bad.

"George," Sapnap cuts off, tone incredulous. "Listen, I know that you guys have this weird little hokie-pokie thing going on, but—"

"Hokie-pokie?" George questions, tone guarded. "There is no hokie-pokie. I don't know what you're talking about."

Sapnap groans, then, throwing his head back. "Okay, princess, no hokie-pokie, I don't care, you guys—you guys do whatever you need to do. But if Dream is an exception, he doesn't know that he is."

"Exception?"

"George, you don't like when people touch you most of the time, and you've barged in my room asking why Dream isn't fucking touching you. Clearly, you—"

"No, it's just an observation," George says. Sapnap clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. "Like— I don't care. I just didn't— I didn't know why he was like that with everyone else and not me."

Sapnap looks at him for a couple of moments with a thought behind his eyes, and George makes a bratty motion, telling him to say whatever it is he's thinking. "You know that I don't care about— about what you like, or what you and Dream end up being, right? You can talk to me. Like, I'm happy for you guys if—"

"Stop being an idiot," George says immediately, standing up and making his way to the door. "That's stupid."

"Alright, well don't expect me to he—!"

George shuts the door behind him, cutting the dark-haired boy's sentence off cleanly, and moving to his own room to wallow under his comforter, because that's all he really could do.

If Dream is an exception, he doesn't know that he is.

Is Dream an exception? Is that really what you'd call it?

George really hadn't given much thought to the way he turned away touch and physical affection. He never really thought about it as not liking it, but it was true that most of the time he would curl away from it. It's a weird feeling. Sometimes, it feels like a shock on his skin, an uncomfortable tingle, a scratchy feeling. Kind of like how sour candy feels on your tongue when you're not expecting it to be sour. When caught at the right time, George doesn't mind. Sometimes, Sapnap would touch him to be annoying and it wouldn't bother him, leading him to reciprocate for their little jokes, like when Sapnap carried him for their Snapchat story or hugged him for a picture. But that wasn't true most of the time; most of the time, he didn't like it.

George isn't sure what lets him feel content with it and what makes him move away from it. Like he said, he never really even thought about it until now. Maybe it's the context, or how expecting he is of the touch, or what kind of mood he's in. George just doesn't really know.

So then, how does he get around this? Because he looks at Dream and wants him to touch him, almost all of the time.

Maybe that is considered an exception.

But how does he get across to Dream that he doesn't mind the contact, doesn't mind if he puts his head on George's lap like he does with Sapnap, doesn't mind if he hugs him without reason, doesn't mind if he presses a hand into his waist while they are doing something next to each other? Doesn't mind if he . . . 

The extremely reasonable and rational voice in his head gives him two solutions: 1) touch Dream so that he knows he's okay with it, or 2) just fucking talk to him.

George doesn't know how to do either of those. George is realizing a lot about himself right now. Realizing a lot about himself that is just irregular — things he had known but never really considered in depth. First his awkwardness with touch, and now his inability to initiate anything.

George cannot imagine a world where he walks up to Dream and hugs him. That feels insane. The thought makes his face scrunch and his stomach fall a little bit. It's weird to him. 

Maybe everybody else grows up with a constant affection that George didn't have. Don't get him wrong; he loves his family and his family loves him. They are wonderful, amazing people who have supported George through everything. But George's family isn't like most families; George had rarely ever heard his parents actually tell him or his sister that they loved them. Can't remember very many times when he was hugged as a kid, besides when his grandparents died or when his sister hugged him because he got into university. He really can't remember any reasonless affection from his family, and even when there were reasons, it was still infrequent. Plus, he didn't have the kind of friends growing up that were like that, and as he got older, most of his friends were online anyway.

Maybe George just doesn't know how.

So without doing it himself, and without talking to Dream explicitly, how was he going to get Dream to understand that he wanted him to touch him?

The idea came to him the next morning when Sapnap was trying to be obnoxious and make a point. Dream had already been downstairs, eating his own breakfast, and George had come down and started making a smoothie. While George was waiting for it to blend, Sapnap came in and wrapped his arms around George's ribs in something that could be described as a hug but felt more like an attack on George's body.

"Get off," he had spoken immediately, wriggling out of Sapnap's grip. He didn't even have a chance to think about it. He was pushing away instantaneously, that sour feeling coming over his skin. Sapnap obliged, stepping aside and looking at him with a face that said, do you see what I mean? George met his eyes, and for a split second, he must have shown a little bit of understanding, a little bit of I see what you mean, because Sapnap raised his eyebrows. George hid it away and quickly rolled his eyes, pushing him. "Get away from me."

Sapnap walked to the fridge to find his own food, and George was left staring at his blending smoothie in contemplation. If I react like that, obviously, Dream is not going to come near me.

"I think your smoothie is done, George." Dream's voice. George turned, startled by the words, met his amused eyes, and then spun back to shut the blender off.

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "Probably."

If I react like that, obviously, Dream is not going to come near me. So obviously, I should stop reacting like that.

A few weeks later, the Dream Team was having a tiny house party with close friends. Some extra people were in town, so it wasn't just the Florida crew. The full guest list included Karl, Sylvee, Hannah, Gia, Sam, Bad, Skeppy, Ant, Red, Foolish, Tina, Puffy, Punz, and Cate. George was extremely conscious of every move he made, every interaction he had. He indulged in the physical side of Hannah's sibling-coded arguments, letting a pillow fight start where she grabbed at his arms to stop his swings. He laid on top of Karl a couple of times, letting him wrap his arms tightly around him at any given moment. He let Tina give him a long hug when she walked in the door. He let Punz pick him up for some odd reason, carrying him around the room. He then let Sapnap take him from Punz's arms, carrying him around himself. He did all of this while his skin burned burned burned.

He knows Dream saw all of it because he looked at Dream with every step of the way, made sure that he saw. And then he plopped himself down right next to him as Punz, Sapnap, and Foolish all went to the kitchen to start mixing drinks for everybody, hoping he caught the hint, hoping he'd get Dream to put an arm over his shoulder, at least let their thighs touch, do anything.

And he didn't.

So yeah, when the drinks came out, forgive him for having one too many. Not enough to lose himself, or to put him over the edge, but enough to get him to stop thinking. He moved from Dream's side and sat on the floor in front of where Karl was on the couch, leaning his back against his legs, with Tina and Foolish next to him and all three of them playing stupid games with their hands.

The thinking didn't stop. Maybe it got worse. He watched Dream do the regular nine yards with all of his friends after just giving George nothing, and he kind of wanted to cry, which is crazy because George doesn't really cry. He was lying across the couch with his legs over Sam's lap, Gia and Sylvee were putting little ponytails in his hair, and Sapnap had come over to get him to taste a drink he made up. As the night passed, at some point, Puffy had come over to mess with the cat beanie that was put back on his head after Sylvee had taken out the hairbands, Skeppy and Bad had started doing a palm reading on him of all things, and when Dream stood to get a snack, Punz squared up to him and they pretended to box, which of course got Sapnap, Sam, and Foolish to jump up and join. George watched all of it and let his heart take a hit at every unnecessary touch that Dream gave out, that Dream took in, and that Dream existed happily against.

At around 11 p.m., it was time to settle down and for some to head out. Some drank so little or not at all that they could drive home (if home was nearby), others fought for the guest rooms, and the rest had to find spots on their well-sized couch. It wasn't bad. Everybody was comfortable at the end, and after making sure all of their guests were okay, the Dream Team decided to head up to bed themselves.

Except George was still a little drunk, and questions were burning at his mind, his tongue, his throat. He needed to talk to him. It'd been too long, and it was starting to hurt too much. The jigsaw belonged together. At least, that's how he felt. Dream, on the other hand, George has no idea how he feels anymore.

He'd gotten mostly ready for bed, and when he walked into his own room to lay down, he walked right back out, traversing a few doors down to Dream's. He wasn't lying down yet; he was standing next to his bed doing something on his phone and his door was still open, where he usually sleeps with it closed. He waltzed in — an open door means an open invitation — tapping on his door frame as he passed through it to get his attention. 

The blond looks up, about to smile at him, but very quickly notices the slightly sour expression on his face. "Hey," he says gently, looking over him like he'd find evidence of whatever has him looking like that. "What's the—"

"I don't understand," he says, voice tight and emphasized. Dream's eyebrows furrow, and he sets his phone down.

"Don't understand what?" Dream asks, turning fully to him. His voice is stupidly soft and caring and George wants to absorb it and flush it down the toilet all at the same time.

"You," He snapped, forcefully, having half the brain to shut the door behind him so that no one else had to hear all of the stupid shit that was about to pour out of George's mouth. He steps forward, pointing a finger at him and letting it poke into his chest. "Why aren't you getting it?" George's vision is starting to get blurry, and it takes him a second to really realize he's tearing up. "I tried really hard to—" Dream is lifting his arm, and George sees it from the corner of his eye. "—make you get it, and you—"

His hand touches George's side, on his waist, and the brunet stops. His mouth shuts, his shoulders lower, and most of the anger leaves his body. It feels bubbly against his skin, soft and specific. It's warm, even through the cotton of his shirt, and it makes goosebumps rise over all the skin that he isn't touching, makes him realize how cold he is.

And then Dream pulls it back. "Sorr—"

"No," George blurts, voice rushed, all of the malice leaving his tone. The world will collapse if George doesn't get to feel that again. "No, put it back."

And Dream does, setting his hand oh-so-gently onto his waist. George pulls his finger off his chest, and Dream looks at him like he's lost and unsure. "George?"

The brunet is quiet, looking between each of his eyes. He relaxes into the touch, even though it's small, and he pushes into it a little somehow.

"George."

"I like that," he says, quietly. It's juvenile and stupid, but his head isn't working for too many reasons to count. God, he's drunk.

"You do?"

"Yeah," he almost whispers. Heat falls over his face, cheeks warming at the flow of blood under his skin. "Can you hug me now?"

Dream's arms are almost instantly wrapping around his waist; George's reaching up and around his neck. He puts his forehead into his shoulder, breathing in, letting Dream tug his body in just a little closer. It's months' worth of want finally satisfied in just one moment, and George doesn't ever want it to end. His body feels warm, suddenly, but a type of warm he thinks he's only felt once, months prior. Dream smells good — comforting — and he can't really pinpoint the smell to a typical cologne scent. Maybe it's just him. He feels safe here, right, like he's home, like he can pull that jigsaw puzzle out any second now, but he doesn't want to get his hopes up like he did before.

"Was I—" George hesitates, digging further into him, not wanting to let go even if things don't go his way. "Was I, like, wrong? I thought— thought you wanted . . ." He trails off and doesn't elaborate, with no signs of continuing. He can feel Dream's thumb running circles into his lower back.

"Wanted what?" Dream asks. George doesn't know why he's making him do all the work all of a sudden; when they were thousands of miles apart, speaking into microphones and sending signals across satellites, Dream led and George followed. It's scary to ask, to put his foot forward, and George almost doesn't know how he did it back then, but he figures since Dream did, it's his turn to do it now.

"Wanted, like . . ." George sighs, lowering his head to press further into his shoulder. "Wanted to—to be something."

Dream's arms pull him in more, somehow. "Of course I did. Of course I do."

"Then why . . ." George swallows, turning his head into his neck. "Why weren't you— you didn't— you're so touchy with everybody else. Why not me?"

"Because I didn't think you would like it," Dream says, and George curses Sapnap out in the back of his head for being right, even though he kind of already knew he was. "You don't— you get weird with everybody else, didn't wanna be all over you if you— if you didn't like that."

"I think . . ." George huffs, feeling a little bit too vulnerable. He turns his head in, slightly, cheeks hot. "I think I don't mind when it's you."

Dream breathes out some air through his nose in a quiet laugh, and then he falls into a little fit of giggles. If George had any willpower, he'd pull away and push him back and berate him for laughing, but he definitely doesn't, so he just whines into his neck. "That's cute."

"No it isn't," he says quickly.

"I think it's cute."

"Shut up," he practically whispers. They stay like that for a long while, and Dream eventually starts swaying them. "Can I ask something a little crazy?"

"Okay," Dream speaks.

"Say yes," George pushes, feeling awkward about it. He feels Dream's cheek lift against his head and hears the smile in his voice when he says yes, ask. "Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Of course you can."

George feels his stupid little heart swell, and he wants to yell at it for making him say so many stupid, embarrassing things, but he also wants to praise it for making him say so many stupid, embarrassing things because it's gotten him here.

Dream pulls back, hesitantly, like he doesn't want to as much as he needs to, but leaves one of his arms around him, turning them towards the bed. George likes the way he just moves him in his grasp, and then he realizes how insane that is. "Do you want the inside or the outside?"

"In," George says quietly, like it's a sin.

"`kay," he says. "Are you ready to sleep, or do you need to—?"

"I'm ready."

Dream laughs a little again, and George just can't win. He's desperate right now. And drunk. And stupid. But Dream's hand is pressed around his waist just like he wants it, so if he has to take a little laughing, then he's okay with that. After a moment of standing there, with Dream looking at him patiently, George blinks and says a quiet little 'oh,' before he pulls Dream's comforter up and slips under, moving in enough for Dream to settle next to him. Dream opts to look at him for a second, with a look on his face that he's seen vaguely directed at him before, but not without restraint, and any ounce of worry that was stuck in the back of George's head melts away. He knows that look. It's stupid and fond and nauseating, and the only thing he shares that look with is Patches.

George huffs, but he lets him have his moment because if he feels even a sliver of what George is feeling right now, he gets it. Dream relents, eventually, and lifts the comforter up again to let himself in.

The warmth hitting George's body that radiates from Dream's skin is insane, and he feels like it's completely possible that he's never been this cozy in his life, even while they're not even touching. 

"How do you wanna lay?" Dream asks, and George thinks it's the awkwardest sentence in the world, but it doesn't even feel that way. It has George giggling, turning on his side to face him, shrugging. "Well, figure it out."

"You figure it out," George says, and Dream holds eye contact for a few seconds.

There's a slight unsureness in his gaze, and he hesitates when he says, "You scare me a little."

George falters. What does that even mean? "I scare you?"

"I just don't want to do anything wrong," Dream rushes to explain.

"You can't," George says. "You can do anything, it won't be wrong."

"Anything is kind of vague."

"It's not. I want anything. Everything."

"We're being idiots," Dream says, quietly, a little amused.

"We are," George giggles, and it makes Dream smile.

He looks at him for a few moments with those green eyes that look like a stupidly perfect shade of gold to George, and then he starts to adjust. "Okay, fine, c'mere," he says, and he turns onto his back, slipping his arm underneath the brunet. George sits up, not really knowing where he's supposed to go, but Dream tugs him into place. He's set laying on his stomach, half-on and half-off of Dream with his head pressed high on his chest, more on his collar bone.

He feels Dream let out a long, comfortable breath, and strongly resists the urge to giggle like an idiot again. Still, he figures they should talk some of this through a little better — not George's strong suit, but maybe while he's kind of drunk and willing to say almost anything out loud, it's good timing. "Have you been scared this whole time?"

His hand is running up and down George's back, pressing gently into the skin, and it feels good. He's quiet for a few moments before he finds the right words to say. "Kind of. You're just . . . You're different from anybody I've been in love with before." Dream says it quietly, like he feels like it's something that shouldn't be said, like it should be a secret to George.

"In love?" George repeats, ashamed to admit that the words made him giddy.

"You said anything, I figured the L-word was included," Dream almost laughed, still rubbing circles into his back. It seems to soothe him as well — the mindless act of pressing down skin in a way that's calming. Relaxing.

"It is," George assured, embarrassingly quick. He doesn't repeat the sentiment; the idea feels far off, even right now, but he does mirror the feeling. He loves Dream; he just doesn't really know how to say it. He hopes Dream knows. He thinks Dream has to know, like maybe the way he reacted to saying it way back then is starting to make sense to him. He can't say it because he means it.

The rest of the world catches up to him, and he remembers that they are conversing and there is more to Dream's statement than 'in love'. "Different how? In a bad way?"

"No, not in a bad way at all," Dream says. "Just in a way that . . . that you love differently, and I feel like I have to scope you out first. Don't know what you want sometimes. Don't wanna make the wrong move."

"Want you," George says, turning his face into his skin preemptively to hide that his cheeks are stupidly red. He doesn't miss how Dream says that he 'loves' differently, which means he knows he loves at all. "Want you all over me."

"God, you are drunk," Dream says, and George almost retracts at the way he doesn't say anything back, but Dream is instantly speaking again. "I wanna be all over you, too."

"Okay, so," George says softly. "That's easy, right?"

He feels Dream nod, his chin pressing into the top of his head a couple of times so that he knows George can feel it. A few seconds pass, and he says "I guess it is."

"Good," George whispers. A thought hits his head, and it comes out before his brain has time to filter it. "Can you kiss me in the morning?"

George doesn't have enough time to feel embarrassed about it before Dream is answering. "As long as you promise not to be mad at me for letting all this happen while you're drunk."

"Being drunk was the catalyst, I would not have said any of this without it," George says with a quiet laugh. "And I'm really not that drunk, just like, drunk enough to not think before I speak."

Dream laughs at that because it sounds kind of bad, but both of them know what he means.

"Don't say it back, I don't want you to," Dream preempts, his other hand suddenly in George's hair and pulling through gentle knots. It makes George stupidly sleepy, and he hums for him to go on. "But I love you."

With his eyes shut, George smiles, squeezing the boy underneath him tightly. "Thank you."

He's asleep within the minute.

If he didn't wake up with arms still tightly around him, he'd just assume all of that was a dream. If his eyes didn't open to a grey comforter that isn't his, George would think he was losing almost his entire mind for dreaming something as vivid as that. But both of these things are true: the grey comforter is draped over him, and Dream has strong arms wrapped tight around his waist, pulling George's back into his stomach. 

They definitely moved in their sleep, but the fact that George can hear gentle, slow breathing behind him—the sound Dream's breathing only makes when he's asleep—tells him they kept each other close all night.

As his body becomes more aware and his senses start to absorb everything, he almost wants to start kicking his feet. Dream's arms really are tight around him, with George's back pressed flush against his chest. His face is pressed into George's shoulder like he's going to take a bite out of it, his nose sticking out over top and his hair rubbing against George's neck and cheek. George finds his own arms resting over his, hands holding onto his forearms just for the contact. The arm that's under George is tucked so perfectly under the dip of his waist that it doesn't even feel uncomfortable to lay on his log of an arm. Their legs are tangled; one of Dream's legs is hooked around one of his, pulling it backward. It's all too perfect, like God sculpted it while they dreamt. 

George doesn't know how his heart can beat so fast while his head remains so content. It must be a fluke.

And then Dream adjusts in his sleep, pulling George in impossibly tighter, and tilting his head so that his nose is pointed into George's neck instead of over his shoulder. The little puffs of air coming out of his nose tickle George's skin a little, but he stays still, not wanting to wake him up.

He stays perfectly still like that for at least an hour, before he gently tugs one of Dream's hands up, intertwining their fingers and bringing them to his lips, kissing the back of his hand. It makes him stir, slightly, and the arm still around George's waist pulls in. He literally feels Dream's eyelashes against his skin, his eyes fluttering open. George presses another kiss to his hand, telling him that he's awake, before he hums gently, moving his head.

He shuffles a little, waking up fully, and then he talks quietly into George's shoulder: "please God tell me you remember last night."

George laughs, quiet, almost like a whisper. He turns around a little, looking over his shoulder at the curly-headed boy behind him. His hair is messy but it's perfect at the same time. "As long as my clothes are still on, I think we're good."

Dream's eyes widen. "That is not— George, I would not do that, that isn't funny."

George laughs a little harder, chest shaking because he can barely move his stomach with Dream's grip on it. "It's kinda funny," he retorts, starting to turn. Dream's eyes are rolling as the brunet turns fully towards him, the blond loosening his grip so that he can move properly. As soon as he's re-settled, Dream tightens again.

They stare at each other for a bit, smiling stupidly at one another. And then Dream's eyes flick down for what seems like a millisecond before he asks "do you remember everything from last night?"

George's memory jogs, and his eyes must light up because Dream giggles at him. "yeah!" He says, soft and excited, and Dream laughs even more, lifting one of his hands off of George's waist to settle on the side of his face, rubbing his thumb across the skin of his cheek.

When Dream leans forward and lets their lips touch, it actually feels like the end of the world. George gets light-headed even knowing that their lips are pressed together, and when Dream starts moving, it's literally all over. He lets out a quiet little hum because he doesn't know what else to do with himself, and Dream lifts a little and settles onto one of his elbows.

George can't move. He's stuck against the mattress with Dream's lips on his and every single star aligning because of it. Dream seems to get that, because he leads for him, holding himself higher than him and tugging him in by the waist.

He keeps it soft for a while because he honestly doesn't know what George would do if he started escalating while the brunet was practically paralyzed. When George seems to come to, moving a little more eagerly against it, Dream deepens and lets him set the pace a little more.

Dream eventually finds himself hovering over him with George completely on his back, his arms hooking around his neck and legs wrapping around his hips. Dream juggles between pulling George's body up and into his own or pressing it down gently into the mattress, because he really can't tell which one George likes more. 

When Dream starts to feel like he's running out of air, he can imagine George is too, and he breaks for a second, watching George chase his lips even while he's breathing like he just ran a marathon.

"Catch your breath," Dream says, smiling as he grabs a fistful of the back of George's shirt, pulling him back down.

"I don't want it," George whines, even though his chest is rising and falling like he's moments away from passing out.

Dream laughs at that. "Air? You don't want air?" 

"Yeah," George confirms, letting his arms fall from around Dream's neck to press his thumbs against the blond's lips. The way they swell and turn a stupidly dark shade of pink kind of mesmerizes him, and Dream is forced to laugh again, letting go of his shirt and using both arms to hold himself up. George's attention shifts, and then his hands each reach for an arm, holding onto his biceps, a few of his fingers dipping under the loose sleeve of his shirt.

"You're insane," Dream whispers, watching him continue to breathe in and out through parted lips. Dream is more or less recovered, and he leans down to press a kiss to his nose, letting him feel the way his arms flex at the motion. George's eyebrows raise, almost surprised that they move like that, and it makes Dream laugh again.

Still out of breath, he meets his eyes and says "come back," and Dream has to shake his head.

"Patience, princess," he teases, and George all but kicks him at the words. Dream is laughing again (I think I'm a broken record), and George sees the opportunity to pull his face back down, pressing their lips back together. Dream allows it, letting air out of his nose in a laugh. 

George grabs his shoulders, pulling them down until almost all of Dream's weight is falling onto George, and the blond isn't really sure if it's on purpose so he starts to lift himself back up, but George pulls back down and he gets the hint. He bites George's lip, getting him to open his mouth a little wider, and pushes in even farther.

George moans, and Dream thinks the room starts spinning. He feels bad because he falls out of sync for a minute, but George picks up his slack with the corners of his mouth turned upward. Dream puts his hands on either side of his face (his knees are bent at George's sides, so he's not planking on him, to be clear) and picks his rhythm up again, doing literally anything he can think of to hear that noise again. 

When he doesn't succeed, only because he knows George is holding it back, now, he pulls back, pressing kisses down his jaw and eventually to his neck. Thin fingers find their way to his curls, and they tug, but Dream stays on topic, looking for a spot to work on.

And then he becomes conscious, pulling his head back and meeting George's eyes.

George looks at him in his wide, blown pupils, and blinks at him. George is out of breath, like, severely, and it's kind of embarrassing but he doesn't really have enough brain power to think about it. "What? What's wrong?"

"How—How bad would it be if I— if I, just— a little mark, lower than your neckline?"

George licks his lips, watching the shyness in his expression. "Do you want to?"

"Would it be annoying?" Annoying? More like stupidly hot. George doesn't really know how to say that, though, so he fumbles with his words.

"I don't, really, I mean— I don't care. I think it— think it would be kinda. . ."

"George," he says, an encoded tell me what you mean by that.

"Think it would be kinda cute."

"Actually?" Dream says, watching him, on edge.

"Yeah, like, if I can—" George pulls the neck of his t-shirt up, "—like, with a hoodie, then— then whatever's fine."

"Promise?" Dream blurts, almost out of breath, and he nods sheepishly. Dream presses a quick kiss onto his lips before ducking under his chin again, moving the collar of his shirt out of the way. Dream picks the deepest slope of his neck and then a little bit forward after careful consideration, trying to figure out which spot makes him jump the most. Hands quickly find their way back into his hair as Dream starts pressing light kisses to the area, and then he strengthens them.

George is trying to keep his mouth shut, vocal cords off, but it's kind of hard. One gentle little bite and George makes a sound that sets Dream's head on fire again. After that, he just can't really stop. He controls the volume, hoping that anyone who walks past the door wouldn't be able to hear, but not really knowing. It's when Dream's hand randomly finds George's waist and presses down that he makes kind of a loud sound, and Dream has to pull back and meet his eyes.

"George," he whispers, eyes wide. George thinks he's in trouble, but with the way Dream's eyes crinkle at the edges and he sits up, pointing his ears at the door to make sure nobody happens to be on the other side while his hands gently run over the brunet's chest, he seems more amused by it than anything.

"Sorry," he whispers back, face glowing red. "Your fault, though."

Dream looks back at him immediately, and George thinks he might be about to explode. "Do not say that to me," he says under his breath, as he leans back down and gently finishes what he started, keeping George as quiet as possible. When he's done, he moves back up to his face, pressing a quick peck to his lips, and pulls the bottom of his own shirt up to wipe the spit off. "All done."

George laughs at that, reaching his hand up to feel the spot. His skin is softer overtop, and George is grabbing his phone to flip the camera and look at it. Dream doesn't stop him, but shakes his head. "It's not, like— it takes a little bit to really show, not really there right now."

"Alright, hickey expert," George says, looking at it anyway. It's a little pink, but nothing much, like he said. "You like doing that, don't you?"

Dream shrugs, but his face grows red, and he un-straddles the brunet, lying next to him. George giggles at the reaction but lets him be.

He lifts his camera to look at both of them. Both of their lips are stupidly swollen, darker than usual, and they both look like they just put in work. Dream is looking at them through the screen, too. George's chest is still rising and falling a little quicker than usual, but he at least has it under control.

"Would it be insane to take this?" George says, lifting his camera a little higher for a different angle. He sees Dream smile incredulously through his screen, and then he moves closer to the brunet, making a better face for the camera. George follows, taking a couple of pictures and then immediately moving them into the locked private folder. When George closes his phone, Dream turns into him, burying his face into the side of George's chest. His arm falls loosely over him.

"We should go get breakfast," Dream says into his shirt. George can feel the vibrations of his voice against him. "Like, out. Alone."

"Are you asking me on a date?" George laughs, and Dream shrugs.

"Kind of."

George revels in that for a second, before breaking the bad news. "I feel like we can't get away with walking out of here alone. There's like, seven hungover people in our living room."

Dream scoffs, turning his face so he's not speaking straight into matter. "Oh, please. If the two of us go walking out it will just be a barrage of DNF jokes while they encourage us to head out alone."

George weighs that in his head, tilting back and forth. "True. But we can't say we're getting breakfast, we have to say we're like, running errands. Be secretive about it."

Dream hums, liking that idea, nodding. "That's good. You're smart, you know that?" He speaks in a suave tone, and George rolls his eyes.

"Stop," he says, pushing Dream's head. The blond laughs, sitting up.

"C'mon, let's get ready." George kind of recoils at the way Dream crawls over him to get off the bed, walking over to his dresser. "You can borrow my clothes."

His hair is wildly messy, and George looks at it with a smile from his spot on the bed. "Pants?" He asks, turning his legs so that he can sit on the edge of the bed. George ends up wearing Dream's hoodies frequently, out of convenience, but pants are a little harder to pull off with their size difference.

"I can probably find something small," Dream says, pushing to the bottom of his drawers. 

George can't believe this is real. They just made out and now Dream is carding through clothes to let him wear out on a 'date'.

Dream finds something, tossing a pair back to him. "How are those?" George stands, holding them up to his legs to see. "You can just pick out a hoodie."

"I think they're good," George says, and then suddenly he feels different about changing in the same room as him. Which is weird because they've done it plenty of times before, with boxers on, and that's all this is now. George just slipping his pants off and putting a new pair on; he's literally done this dozens of times in front of the taller boy, but now the context feels different. 

Dream must feel the same because he's filing through the top of the pile of pants he wears frequently, putting all his attention forward and taking way longer than he needs to, not so much as a glance backward. He thinks that as soon as he walks into the closet to get a hoodie, Dream is going to change his own.

So George quick-changes and then moves into the closet, and he's right, because he can hear Dream changing into cargo pants almost as soon as he crosses the threshold. Something about it makes him feel stupidly excited, but it's most definitely just him acting like a fucking teenager.

He picks out a hoodie and moves back into the room so he can put it on in front of a mirror. He slips it over his head, sticks his arms through, and then pulls the collar down to look at the darkening mark on his neck. Something about it makes his heart start beating fast all over again, pressing his fingers into it and watching the way the color relaxes and comes back. It's not severe, but it's a good size, and George thinks it looks perfect against his pale skin.

Dream is throwing a hoodie over his own head, glancing over at him. George can see his smirk from the corner of his eye, and if George is right and Dream does like doing it, it's really good news, because he kind of likes it too.

Dream moves to stand behind him, looking in the mirror to run his hands through his very disheveled hair, trying to calm it. George watches, leaning back and putting some of his weight against him. He likes the way Dream doesn't budge, standing solidly. When Dream feels content enough about his hair, he puts a hand on George's chin, tilting his head to the side so he can lean around and press a kiss against his lips. George did not think the feeling of floating would return, but it does, and George wonders how many times they'll kiss before George gets used to it and that feeling will stop. He almost doesn't want it to.

Then, Dream fixes the collar of his hoodie on George, making sure it rests correctly over his skin, before he holds George's shoulders, tilting his weight forward and holding him there until he knows George isn't pushing his weight back and won't fall when they move. George, with effort, uses his legs to hold himself up again, and Dream smiles at him. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he says, still looking at him through the reflection. Dream's shoulders start at George's ears, almost an entire head taller than him. Dream's body is spilling out from behind him and the brunet doesn't really know how he's ever stood next to him without thinking about it so in-depth before. He doesn't make an effort to move to the door, stepping back a little bit until his back is touching Dream's chest again. The taller gets the hint, putting arms over his shoulders and tugging him in. 

"What?" Dream asks, taking in the way his eyes are traveling across every inch of them. George shrugs, letting his head tilt back against his shoulder, the side of his head touching Dream's cheek. 

"I don't know how . . ." George hesitates, face pinching, and Dream knows he's lost the George that talks freely and initiates contact. Which is fine; Dream will do all of it. He doesn't mind. "I don't know how to like, pretend that didn't happen."

"Huh?"

"I don't know how I'm going to be around you in front of other people. Like, in public. Especially when, like, at cons and stuff, where everybody is watching."

They meet eyes and George's breath kind of stops in his chest. How did he handle this for so many months straight? Standing next to Dream and not losing his fucking mind. Now that he has him, he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

"I'm sure it'll get easier," Dream says. "To be fair, it can't get much worse than me touching your waist on camera at that first Twitchcon."

George smiles. They have never spoken about that. Yesterday's George would have been freaking out at the idea of Dream even mentioning it. "I fucking hate you," he says, even though there's a dumb smile on his face. "Months ago."

Months ago, they could have been doing this. They could have been doing this for so long, now.

"I know," Dream says, chuckling, pressing a kiss onto his head. "At least we got here eventually. Come on, let's go."

George sighs when he pulls away because until they get back and have the time to lock themselves in a room again, they're back to standing awkward distances apart and trying not to look at each other the wrong way. Now, at least, they won't be hiding it from each other, just everybody else.

George follows him out of the room and down the stairs. Some of their guests are awake with tired looks on their faces; others are still curled up and sleeping. Dream stands behind the couch, and everybody turns their attention to them. George's only thought is that they must know. George's hair is a mess, he probably looks happier than he's ever been in his life, they both came downstairs at the same time, they're standing closer than usual, and George is literally wearing his clothes. Still, Dream does exactly as he said — tells everybody they have some stuff to do — and exactly as they expected, nobody says a combative word; just DNF are going on a date, not surprising. But they're not serious, and both of them side-eye each other. 

Sapnap moves out of the kitchen with his hungover face very apparent, his eyes barely half-open, and a hand running over his stomach. "Where y`guys going?"

George blinks at him as he comes closer. "None of your business," he says, intentionally annoying but also in an attempt to hide away. Sapnap scoffs and latches onto George's side to annoy him. It makes the brunet groan, pulling away and accidentally stepping back into Dream.

Large hands grab his waist, keeping him steady, and Sapnap laughs at the way George stumbled back. Hidden behind the couch, George mindlessly reaches a hand back to grab Dream's forearm, turning a little and making fleeting eye contact with him. His cheeks are hot immediately, and he looks back to Sapnap with wide eyes, knowing nothing about this exchange has been secretive.

Sapnap stares at him for a second, and then at Dream, and back at George. And then he's laughing.

"Stop," George says, tightly, glancing around the room and finding almost everybody to be in their own worlds and conversations, too hungover to bother perceiving whatever is going on with the three buffoons nearby.

Sapnap doesn't stop, giggling more as he pushes George back and into Dream's body. George falls into his chest, but they stay upright with Dream's hands breaking most of the momentum.

"Sapnap," George huffs, grabbing onto the back of their couch at the fear of falling. 

"Shut up, you are welcome, George," he says, pressing a finger into his chest. He laughs as George rolls his eyes, pulling it away as he steps back and looks at both of them. "Have fun on your date." 

Dream laughs quietly behind him, but George is still unamused, turning and walking towards the door. He tugs it open with force, walking outside and waiting for Dream with arms crossed over his chest. He comes out, laughing at George's red face, shutting the door and poking George's cheek with a grin.

Dream gets in the driver's side of his Tesla, as George gets in what's basically considered his spot in the passenger seat. It had always been like that, but the sentiment means a little more now. Dream hands him his phone to queue songs, and tells him to put a place into their navigation where he wants to go for breakfast. Passenger princess, through and through.

As they start driving, listening to songs that George would never admit he put on because they reminded him of Dream, the brunet feels like he's withdrawing from Dream's touch already. He chews on his lip, watching the world zip by through the car's windows as they drive past it, trying to tell himself that he's being unreasonable. Eventually, he glances at the arm Dream has resting on the center console and is amazed by how fast his brain is putting together a plan to get his hand on his leg. He checks his posture, casually adjusting so that his leg is closer to the center.

Dream glances over about five minutes later and laughs quietly out of his nose. George never sits like that. Usually, his legs are crossed, or pressed together at an angle, or even crisscrossed on the seat with his shoes off. Knowingly, he reaches over, setting his hand on his leg and tugging it over so that he can put the palm of his hand against his inner thigh. He squeezes once and then looks over at the brunet. "Happy?"

He looks out the window, silently nodding, clicking his tongue softly.

Even though Dream is staring directly at him, he says a quiet "My eyes are on the road, so."

"Yes, dickhead."

Dream laughs, squeezing again as he actually does put his eyes on the road, a smile making a home on his face.