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behind closed doors

Summary:

“I said yes,” he interrupts. “That we’re... together. I told him we’re together.”

George raises his eyebrows. “You did what?”

George and Dream are friends with benefits, but when people find out, they pretend they're in a relationship to cushion the blow on their reputations.

Notes:

definitely meant to have this out weeks ago, see y'all in another month lolll

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

August 28
11:23 P.M.

“Hey.”

George lifts his head from the pillow he’d shoved it into five minutes ago when hours of studying finally got to him— he never wants to see a history textbook again— and he turns to glance over his shoulder. “Hey.”

Dream stands in the doorway, locking the door behind him, and he must’ve had a long practice, because he looks about ready to collapse.

He makes his way across the room in heavy strides to stand over George, and he crosses his arms. They lock eyes, and Dream’s immediately dart away.

He rocks back on his heels for a second before saying, “So, uh. Ethan asked about us earlier.”

George’s brow furrows. “Yeah? What about?”

“If we were together.”

George plops his face back onto the pillow, keeping Dream in his peripheral as he smushes his cheek into soft fabric with a halfhearted shrug.

He doesn’t know Ethan well— he’s heard Dream mention him maybe once or twice, and he’s pretty sure he talked to him once at one of Dream’s games. He can’t imagine why he’d be asking about them.

Or why Dream would care.

“So? People assume we’re dating all the time. We’re practically halfway there, anyway.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that.” Dream motions for him to scoot over, and the bed dips down as he sits next to his head. “He said he saw us going back to my place after the game last night.”

He does a double take at that, eyes widening as last night registers in his mind.

Last night marked an odd sort of liminal space in their friendship, floating somewhere in between what they’ve been doing and where they’d promised not to go.

They’d been careful up until last night, hiding behind late night calls and early morning rendezvous. Hiding sex behind viable excuses, ones that were easy to brush off after the fact, pretend like it’s never anything but impulsive.

But Dream had won his first game of the season, and everyone seemed caught up in their own business, and before they knew it, they were stumbling back to Dream’s apartment with open laughs and roaming hands.

He remembers belt loops wrapped snug around his fingers, his back pressed against a cold door, fumbling fingers at the zipper of his jeans before they even made it inside.

And now, he remembers how badly they must’ve exposed themselves.

Even if it was just to one person.

Because one person turns into two, and two turns into three, and three turns into five hundred, and he would rather die.

“Oh.”

“Not that it’s a problem,” Dream says quickly. He pulls his legs into himself, sounding a little unsure. “It’s not. I didn’t really tell him anything.”

“Isn’t it? You said we could keep this private,” George frowns, raising up to rest his weight on one elbow as he uses his other hand to gesture between them at this.

Dream lets out a small laugh, though it sounds a little pained, and devoid of any actual humor. “I think you might hate what I’m about to say.”

“Oh, my God—”

“I said yes,” he interrupts. “That we’re... together. I told him we’re together.”

He raises his eyebrows at him. “You did what?”

“I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, looking down at his lap. He shrugs. “At the time it felt more embarrassing to say that no, we’re not together, actually, you’re just a casual hookup. And, I don’t know, I don’t want that reputation. So I told him we’re dating.”

The last part comes out a little quieter than the rest. At least he has the decency to sound embarrassed.

“You’d rather date me than have people know we’re fucking?”

His eyes flick back up, brow pinching before he dissolves into a blank stare. “Yes.”

George makes a face at him. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, but he can’t help the small smile starting to make its way onto his face.

“Help me out here, George,” Dream says, and he sees him bite back a smile of his own, “my whole team knows. I can’t tell them I lied. That’s, like, a hundred times worse.”

“A hundred times worse than hooking up with me.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes.”

George huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes. “Fine.” He lets his head fall back into the pillow, muffling his next words. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“Thank you, George, you absolute sweetheart.” He can hear the smile in Dream’s voice. “You won’t regret it.”

“Yes I will.”

“Okay, well, whatever. Come here, I have an idea.”

Reluctantly, George gets up and moves to sit up next to him, draping one leg over his lap and resting his head on his shoulder as he fishes his phone out of his pocket.

He watches him open the camera, and gives him a lost look when he sticks his hand palm-up in front of them.

Dream rolls his eyes. “Hold it, dummy,” he says, raising his hand further up.

George realizes where this is going as he looks between the phone and Dream’s hand. “No, that’s so... cringe.”

“Cringe?” Dream repeats with a laugh. “You’re cringe. Just hold my hand.”

He doesn’t. “What can you do for me in return?”

With a scoff and an exasperated roll of his eyes, Dream takes it upon himself to carefully slide his own hand beneath George’s where it rests on his knee.

“This,” he says flatly, and the warm slide of Dream’s textured palm against his own is enough to spark a brief moment of I’m going to regret this.

It feels different, somehow, than all the other times he’s felt the slide of Dream’s hands against his. It feels different against their knees than it does stretched above his head, landing on wrinkled bedsheets that haven’t been washed in far too long.

He flexes his fingers, curling them around the back of Dream’s hand, but doesn’t move to pull away as he snaps the picture with a satisfied smile.

“Not good enough. You owe me.”

If he hears him, Dream makes no acknowledgement, instead navigating through his phone to open a new post on Instagram. He selects the picture of their joined hands and turns to look down at George.

“What should we caption it?”

George lets his eyes fall closed, hand loosening in Dream’s grip, but neither lets go. “I hate my fake boyfriend.”

He scoffs. “No you don’t, you love me.”

“I fake love you,” George offers back, as a happy medium.

A happy medium he knows Dream won’t take.

Unsurprisingly, Dream lets go of his hand to snake his arms around his waist, shrugging his head off his shoulder and turning him to meet his eyes. “You real love me.”

“I’m pretending to real love you,” he deadpans. He tilts his chin up to get closer to Dream and says, “Which is why you should give me something in return. I’m doing you a favor.”

“That’s not how favors work.”

“I swear, I’ll leave.”

“Fine, you want something?” Dream dips his head down to drag his lips across George’s neck when he gives a small nod in response. “Come up with a caption and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He presses a careful thumb into the dip of his hip, and that does it— it’s enough for George to rack his mind, running through all the cheesy couple captions he’s seen before heaving a sigh and deciding all of them suck.

“No caption. Too cheesy, it’s not us,” George murmurs, dropping his forehead onto his shoulder. “Just tag me.”

Dream falls silent, hooking his chin over George’s shoulder and pushing his arms further around his waist. “Done,” he says after a second, and George hears the soft thud of his phone falling to the bed next to them as he turns his face to rest in the crook of his neck.

He peppers light kisses across his neck and over his Adam’s apple. When he gets no reaction, he nips at his collarbone, moving his hands to squeeze his hips and earning a gentle hum from George.

“We should talk about how—” George starts, but cuts himself off with a stifled gasp when Dream starts to mouth along his neck.

He lets his eyes flutter closed as he flattens his tongue against his skin and sucks, just soft enough to border leaving a mark, but they fly back open almost immediately when he feels him pull away, a stupid knowing grin plastered across his face.

“I’m listening,” he says, eyes flicking innocently between George’s, and he tilts his head.

Evil.

George scoffs. “You’re actually the worst.”

He clicks his tongue and slips a hand under the hem of his shirt. “I can stop.”

“Don’t.” He brings a hand up to thread through messy blond hair, pressing into the back of Dream’s head impatiently.

Dream smiles. “Keep talking, then.”

He tries, and fails, as Dream reburies his face into his neck and starts to work at the sensitive skin just below his jaw. They’d agreed before starting anything that any kind of visible marks were off the table, but for a split second, he almost finds himself wishing he would disregard their original rules and leave something memorable.

He doesn’t, and he won’t, and George tries desperately to will away the sudden swell deep in his stomach.

“We should talk about boundaries,” he manages out. He fists his free hand into the fabric of Dream’s shirt. Dream gives a non-committal hum. “What do we do?”

“Not much.” He shrugs, though it doesn’t come across that well when their bodies are pressed so closely together. He lifts his face to meet George’s eyes again. “Everyone already thinks we have a thing, don’t they? We just need to make it seem more... wholesome, I guess.”

“What, so, like, extra coupley stuff?” George scrunches his nose. “What are you gonna do, take me on dates?”

Dream stares down at him. “Yes. Yeah, because that’s what people who are dating do.”

He tries to imagine going out with Dream, sitting in a small coffee shop with cramped seating and giggling laughter dripping with a gross amount of lovesickness. Holding hands and sharing drinks, being that one insufferable couple everyone hates because they envy— it seems wildly out of reach, for some reason.

Not that... not that they don’t already do that. But it would be different.

It’s the context that matters.

“Okay, fine,” he huffs. “When do we break up?”

A small frown twitches at the corner of Dream’s lips. George can’t tell if it’s a playful one, or not. “Why do we have to break up?”

George gives him an incredulous look that can’t even begin to match his thoughts, because he had to strain to hear the joke in Dream’s voice. New territory meant to be harmless fun bleeds into uncertainty for a brief second before the frown disappears, and Dream matches his look, teasing, and George feels a little stupid.

He clears his throat. Dream raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well, I mean.” A loose grin graces Dream’s lips as he bumps George with his knee. “We’ve already committed. It would be stupid to just back out.

He’s joking, but George is trying so hard to take the conversation somewhere at least marginally more serious, which is proving really hard to do with Dream’s hands roaming his waist and their faces just an inch too close.

Somehow, no matter how hard he wills himself against it, Dream’s stupid face and stupid voice and the stupid freckles he has to hold himself back from reaching out to trace every time he sees him because that’s not a friendly thing to do and he’s not sure what would happen if he crossed some unspoken line— somehow, he always ends up giving in.

“I’ll give it a month,” he says, about a second too late to be an appropriately timed response. He’s given up on the boundary talk altogether. “You won’t last.”

Dream barks out a laugh. “I won’t last? That’s funny because last time I checked, you’re the one who—”

“No,” George says, a bit frantic. Honestly not willing to hear the rest of what he has to say, he removes himself from Dream’s lap in a hurry. “You are insufferable.”

“Oh, come on, George.” Dream is still talking through stifled laughs from his spot on the bed, turning to face him. “I can’t date someone with no sense of humor.”

“Neither can I,” he deadpans, avoiding eye contact as he makes his way to the other side of the room and crouches above a pile of dirty laundry tossed carelessly on his floor.

“Ouch,” Dream says, and he’s sure he’s on the bed behind him right now clutching dramatically at his heart in his dumb little wounded routine he’s seen a million times. Sometimes it’s cute. Sometimes it’s annoying. Right now, it’s teetering on the border and falling really fucking fast into annoying territory. “You’re so mean to me— what the hell are you doing?”

George lets out an exasperated groan and drops the dirty shorts he’d been holding up. “Looking for my phone, I thought it was over here.”

He can almost hear the scrunch of Dream’s nose. “Why’s it all the way over there?”

“I threw it over here earlier while I was studying so I couldn’t distract myself.”

“You texted me an hour ago,” he points out, ever-helpful. George kind of wants to turn around and punch him. Or kiss him.

He doesn’t do either of those things. Just falls on his ass and says, “I didn’t say it was an effective method, I said that I did it.”

Dream doesn’t say anything for a second, then he hears the bed creak, and padded footsteps behind him. He watches as he crouches in front of him and reaches into the other side of the laundry pile, pulling out his missing phone on the first try.

Because of course he does.

George takes it with a pointed roll of his eyes and a mumbled, “Thanks.”

Dream beams, shuffling forward on his knees to sit between his parted legs. “You gonna come back to bed with me, or are you gonna sit down here on your phone on the floor like an idiot?”

Shrugging, George offers nothing but a dismissive hum in response, like he isn’t already halfway on his way to dragging them both back up to the bed. He lets Dream take his face in his hands, leaning into calloused fingertips, but refuses to fall forward into the gentle tugs. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Will you tell me that you’ll actually listen to me when I ask you something?”

Dream softens, just barely, but the shine in his eyes gives him away entirely. “Yeah, of course.”

“Say it,” George says, unsatisfied.

“Tell me what you need. I’m listening, George.”

He’d be lying if he said the soft tell me what you need didn’t have his stomach flipping over itself, torn between muddled feelings. His eyes fall shut in an attempt to stay focused.

“This is no strings attached, right?”

Dream, obviously taken aback for a brief moment, loosens his grip on George’s face, then tightens it, then loosens it again. His grin falters with the pinch of his brow, and regret sears through George.

“What?”

“Like, if we pretend to date, and we do all those stupid couple things, it won’t be weird when it’s over? We won’t, like, have problems.”

He can practically hear the gears turning in Dream’s head, confusion coupled with newfound concern. He gets it. It was a weird question. He knows they’re no strings attached.

He thumbs along his jaw, coaxing his eyes open. It’s too soft. He’s not sure he likes it.

He’ll have to get used to it, though, now.

“What are you asking?”

“When we break up,” George sighs, abandoning subtlety when he settles a light hand on Dream’s thigh, “are we going to stop this too?”

“Oh,” Dream says, and blinks. “No.”

George lets a grin slip onto his face, teasing. “No?”

“Well, that would be dumb.” He moves forward, so minutely it shouldn’t even be noticeable, but their hips brush and it sends shivers skating down George’s arms. “You think I’d give this up? You’re too good.”

An all too familiar burning heat pushes its way into George’s face, dusting his cheeks with what he knows must be a bright red at the gentle praise he so easily pushes into his words. “Good?” he questions, though it comes out lacking any of the original taunt he’d intended it with.

“Good,” Dream repeats, eyes dropping down to stare at parted lips. “You’re too good to give up, idiot.”

He takes in a sharp breath. “What if I wanted to give this up?”

Like he has any intention to.

Dream’s gaze flickers up and down, and then he’s pushing forward and he’s kissing him, and George can’t help the way he melts into it. Before he even has time to get his hands on Dream, or process much of anything, he’s being pulled up and back onto the bed.

He ends up on top of Dream, sitting between open thighs as he trails open-mouthed kisses down to the collar of his shirt, revelling in the arch of his back and the slide of his leg against his hip. He pulls back, far enough to catch the part of Dream’s lips before it melts into an easy smile.

“You can.”

Toying with the hem of his shirt, George scoffs, and delves his hands under, pushing his shirt with him as he trails carefully up the expanse of heated skin. He shakes his head and leans down, catches the blooming taste of salt when he presses his lips to his stomach, chases after it like he needs it.

“That would be dumb.”

————

September 3
10:56 P.M.

Football games have never really been George’s scene— locker rooms even less— but he’s doing this for Dream, for support, and also because he somehow managed to sleepily agree to a dumb idea.

Usually he limits himself to one game a season. He never sticks to that limit, because when Dream asks, he folds, but he likes to try anyway.

He feels wildly out of place in the sweaty, crowded locker room, sitting on the bench in front of Dream’s locker while he watches him pull his jersey over his head, and even more so when he gets stuck sitting alone on the worn bench near the goalpost.

He doesn’t know anything about football. He mostly just tries to gauge how he should react based on the short glimpses he gets of Dream’s face throughout the games.

It’s a chilly night, surprisingly enough, and he hadn’t expected the wind to pick up so badly after the sun went down. He didn’t bring a jacket, so he ends up hugging his legs and rubbing down goosebumps while he tries to keep his focus on number 22.

The flex of Dream’s shoulders when he throws and catches and tackles, the quick smiles he flashes him between quarters, the roar of the crowd behind him when excitement runs high.

He can’t help the wide smile on his face, no matter how much he hates being at these things.

They’re nearing the end of the last quarter now, and there’s really no way they’ll lose— the score was neck and neck much earlier in the game, but Dream’s team had pushed ahead quickly.

A sudden tap on his shoulder startles him, and he looks back to see Sapnap standing there, holding up the hotdog and slushie he’d left ten minutes ago to get.

“Snack lines were long as hell,” he says, before George gets a chance to ask him about it. “Mind if I sit?”

“You took too long, dumbass.” He scoots over, making room for him to sit with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Game’s almost over.”

Sapnap plops himself down on the bench, glancing at George with a dismissive tilt of his head. “That was kind of the point.”

George lets out an outright laugh at that. “You’re a horrible friend.”

“A horrible friend wouldn’t have gotten you a soft pretzel,” he grins.

Setting the unnecessary amount of food in his arms down into the empty space between them, he offers him a soft pretzel on a soggy paper plate, and George kind of wants to gag just looking at it.

He scrunches his nose and side eyes him. Sapnap shrugs.

“Suit yourself.” He tears a piece off and pops it into his mouth. “Who’s winning?”

George opens his mouth to answer, but any words are drowned out by a sudden uproar from the crowd behind them. He turns his attention back to the field just in time to see Dream stumble to a stop just past his celebrating team, catching George’s eye as he takes his helmet off to catch his breath.

He beams George’s way, and it can only mean they won, especially when he ignores calls of support to jog over and hover in front of George, bouncing on his heels while he waits for him to stand up and meet him halfway.

He can feel Sapnap’s confused stare on his back, but it doesn’t matter when he reaches him and Dream is taking George’s face in his hands and whispering something and kissing him, hard.

He pushes up onto his tiptoes and goes to rest an arm around his neck, breaking away to laugh softly into his neck when his hand hits the hard plastic of his shoulder pad.

“Hi,” he whispers.

“Thanks,” Dream whispers back, squeezing tired arms around him.

He pulls his head back to look up at him. “For what?”

Dream shrugs. “Coming to watch? Letting me do that? I don’t know.”

“It was fun. You played well.” George drops back to rest his feet flat on the ground. He grins. “Looked good.”

“Oh, did I?” he teases, dorky smile adorning his words. Regrettably, he untangles his arms from George’s and takes a step back. “Are you cool waiting here while I run and change?”

“Yeah, fine.” His hand slips down to grip his bicep with feigned disgust. “Take a shower, too. You smell like a rabid raccoon.”

Dream rolls his eyes, falling into a backward walk toward the locker rooms. “You’re so mean. I’m not showering for you.”

“Shower,” George calls after him, and he can only hope he caught it before turning around and taking off.

Then, with a start, he remembers Sapnap, who’s still standing behind him, half-eaten pretzel in hand with a furrowed brow and an incredulous frown.

Opening his mouth, he gestures with his plate between George and Dream’s disappearing figure a few times before saying, “Are you kidding me? What was that?”

George winces. “What was what?”

“What was what— that, that thing you just did, what—” He trails off with a scoff and a shake of his head, looking entirely disbelieving, and George can’t say he blames him. “Are you two, like, a thing now?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs.

Maybe if he acts nonchalant enough about it, he can get out of here quicker.

“No you’re not.”

George huffs out a laugh, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. He needs to get better at this. “We are.”

“Since when?”

“Couple months ago,” he says, figuring it’s a safe bet. Dream would probably say the same.

“Couple months,” Sapnap says, looking entirely unimpressed. He takes another bite of his pretzel, probably too big, and spends at least a minute chewing before continuing on. “You’re telling me you got your shit together a couple months ago and no one knew?”

“Yes?”

“There’s no way. You’re lying. I would’ve heard about it from both of you the second it happened,” he scoffs.

George rolls his eyes, trying to subtly fish his phone out of his pocket and escape this suddenly awkward conversation. He doesn’t even bother to ask what he meant by that.

“You know what, you moron? Go finish your stupid snackbar food. This is why I didn’t tell you.”

Sapnap scoffs, playful, though he’s still eyeing him somewhat seriously. “Rude.” He darts his tongue out to catch some of the salt off the top of the pretzel and takes a step backwards. “I will, but not because you told me to.”

“Sure,” George says, dripping with sarcasm, and watches Sapnap disappear into a group of people before turning back around and heaving a sigh of relief.

He turns his phone on.

g: where are you

The response is almost instantaneous.

idiot: it’s been five minutes
idiot: clingy

He rolls his eyes at his phone.

g: wtf

idiot: admit it you miss me

g: no
g: sapnap is just being annoying

idiot: aw
idiot: what’s wrong
idiot: can’t handle being bothered without someone there to protect you :(

g: you are so annoying
g: come back

idiot: you miss me

g: come baaackk

idiot: admit ittttt

George almost scoffs out loud, repressing the urge to roll his eyes again as he gathers the bag he’d carelessly slung onto the ground hours ago. He watches Dream’s typing bubble pop up and down for a bit too long as he pulls his shirt sleeves down over his hands and shivers.

When the bubble disappears for good and he’s getting ready to resign himself to being abandoned, he feels hands grab unexpectedly at his waist from behind, and jumps so hard his phone falls to the ground.

A warm laugh, and then, “Did I scare you?”

Picking up the fallen phone and turning around, George crosses his arms and looks up at Dream. “You’re actually a moron.”

Dream puts on a playful pout, and he nearly caves right then and there.

He doesn’t, though, and instead looks him up and down as he takes in the state of his clothes, wrinkled and damp from being stuffed in his bag all day, and his distinct after-game smell.

“I did shower, before you ask,” he says, grinning.

“No you didn’t.” George wrinkles his nose. “Did you use soap?”

Dream purses his lips. “Okay, well. No. But I’ll take another shower when I get home, I just wanted to see you.”

“You’re disgusting,” George laughs, shoving at his chest and shaking his head. “Stay away from me until you’ve properly showered.”

“But I wanna be with you longer,” he groans, stepping back into George’s personal space and slipping his arms around his neck.

“You can’t, I told you. I have to study tonight.” He makes no move to pry him off. He figures he doesn’t have to, not yet.

“So, take me with you. I’ll shower at your place. Help you study.”

With a pointed look, he smiles and says, “We both know that if you come over I won’t get any studying done.”

Dream knocks their foreheads together and sighs. “Please?”

“Do you want me to fail?”

“A little,” he mumbles, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If it means you’ll stay with me longer.”

George curls a soft hand around his elbow. His stomach flutters nicely. “You’re horrible.”

“Is that a yes?” Dream moves one of the arms around his shoulder up to rest on the side of his face, toying with a strand of loose hair before tucking it behind his ear.

George opens his mouth to say no, but before he can, he feels a tug on the shoulder still occupied by Dream’s arm, and his bag slips off.

He watches, annoyed, as Dream slings it over his own shoulder and takes a step back.

“Dream, give me my bag back.”

He sidesteps him. “Or what?”

“Or nothing, just give it—” He grabs at it and stumbles forward when Dream takes off running toward the parking lot. “Give it back, you— you idiot!”

With a roll of his eyes and a heavy sigh, he starts after him, knowing there’s no way he’ll beat him to wherever he’s going.

Sure enough, when he reaches Dream’s car, out of breath and significantly annoyed, Dream is already there, holding the passenger door open.

He leans against the side of the car to catch his breath and sees his bag sitting on the seat. Side-eyeing Dream, he says, “You’re going to be the reason I die one day.”

He smiles down at him, fond. “You’re so dramatic. Get in the car.”

“Can’t,” George shakes his head. He gestures vaguely across the parking lot. “My car is here, I drove.”

“Then drive yours and meet me there,” he says, because of course he does.

Silently, George mourns his grades on the walk back to his car.

The drive back is quiet, and despite his outspoken annoyance, he’s maybe just a little bit happy that Dream is as clingy as he is. Even if he’s distracting.

He pulls up to his apartment to see Dream’s car already parked down the street, and when he walks into the house he’s greeted by the monotonous sound of water hitting the shower wall.

“Hey, since when do you have a key to my apartment?” he calls out, locking the door.

He gets no response.

With a resigned sigh, he settles onto his bed and gets to work making a headstart on his typed essay, falling into a steady rhythm and focusing to the sound of gentle hums through the wall between them.

He’s nearly two paragraphs away from finishing when the bathroom door clicks open. He glances up, muttering a distracted hi, and if he lingers on the sight of a v-line peeking over the top of loose sweats, that’s between him and himself.

“Hey.” Dream tries to catch his eye as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way over his head, raising an eyebrow. “You studying?”

George’s face flushes warm, and he has half a mind to duck his head back into his laptop. “Sort of. Writing. I’m almost done, though, so if you could...”

He trails off, knowing Dream won’t take the hint to go away, and really, he doesn’t want him to.

He just wants to say he tried.

“Don’t make me go” Dream whines, climbing onto the bed and pushing the laptop from his lap. Cute. “Just take a break. I’ll pay you back.”

He can’t hide the grin that slips onto his face when Dream slots his own legs around his thighs, letting him tug him closer by the hips. He knocks their foreheads together and hums.

“You’ll pay me back?” George murmurs, tightening his grip. “What if I don’t want to right now?”

Dream frowns. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

The way he squirms under his touch, color rushing to his cheeks no matter how used to this they get— George doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

“Yeah? Then how?”

He slips cold hands under his shirt and up his sides as he falls into his chest, burying his face in the fabric of his hoodie and dropping a light kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“Just like this. Wanna be close.”

He caves. Detaches a hand from his waist, ignoring the sound of protest, and shuts his laptop. “Fuck you.”

“Thought you didn’t want to,” Dream says back, muffled, and he thinks he can feel the curve of his smile against his chest.

He roll his eyes, stupid and fond and smiling like an idiot, and pulls Dream down with him as he rests his head on the pillows.

“C’mere.”

————

September 4
7:13 A.M.

It’s early.

It’s early, and it’s not even bright out enough yet to see anything out the library windows. It’s cold and early and George hates it.

He’s never been much of a morning person— he actually specifically scheduled his classes around sleeping, making sure he’ll never have to be up and about before ten in the morning.

And yet here he is, sitting half asleep at a dirty library table with textbooks and loose paper strewn all over.

He’s not even sure where his work ends and someone else’s starts.

Dream makes it a little bit more bearable, though, despite the fact that he’s the sole reason George was up both so late and so early. He’s kept him going with coffee runs and quick kisses to the top of his head.

It’s nice.

He’s just reaching his breaking point, fully ready to start screaming at inanimate lines of code like they’ve personally wronged him, when he hears the familiar sound of the library doors swinging open, and despite it, his shoulders relax.

He doesn’t turn around to check, though. He keeps his focus on bright white lines that have burned themselves into the back of his eyelids by now.

A soft hey from behind him finally tears him away from his work, drawn out by the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder and the smell of a chilled danish from the campus coffee shop.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tilting his head back to lock tired eyes with Dream.

Dream leans over him to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. He tries not to let his eyes slip closed, out of fear of accidentally dozing off. “Hey, baby. Are you hungry?”

The casual pet name sends blood rushing warm to the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks, and it’s nice— they’ve slipped their way into daily conversation within the past few days, starting out as an attempt to keep up their facade and quickly deteriorating into a comfortable routine.

He takes the paper bag from his outstretched hand gratefully. “You need to stop bringing me snacks,” he shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Library has a no food policy.”

“C’mon, George, you’d starve without me.” Dream wraps soft arms around his neck and rests a cheek on his shoulder. “Admit it, me and my snacks are keeping you sane.”

“Without you I wouldn’t be here in the first place,” George says pointedly.

“And I said I was sorry.”

“You’re—”

But, technically, you chose to stay up with me. So it’s kind of your fault.”

George scoffs. “You’re an idiot. I was gonna ask you to stay with me, but maybe you should stay gone. Let me work.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Dream says, and makes no move to let go.

Neither does George. “Probably.”

With a quick (gross) kiss to his cheek and a squeeze of his arms, Dream lets him go and pulls up the chair next to him. He draws his legs close to himself, sitting criss-cross in the uncomfortable wooden library chair and silently eyeing George.

An odd, unfamiliar feeling nestles itself deep into the barren corners of his heart, sitting here in Dream’s clothes, in Dream’s presence, with Dream’s eyes taking him apart.

It’s a hard feeling to grasp.

“So,” Dream says suddenly, drawing out the o as he leans back in his chair, using the edge of the table as leverage. George’s hand shoots out to stop him before he can knock everything over. “I have a question.”

George sighs. “Of course you do.”

“Sapnap.”

He turns back to his laptop, absently tapping at the backspace key to erase lines of code he hasn’t been able to find a mistake in. Might as well start from scratch, now. “What about him?”

“You told him about us?”

He rolls his eyes. “Dream, he saw us. The whole school saw us after what you pulled.”

Dream makes a small noise of protest. “Hey, you agreed to ‘what I pulled.’” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him making finger quotes in the air. “He asked what’s up with us.”

“Did he?”

“He did. I think he’s onto us.”

George rewrites a line word for word. “Is he, now?”

“Yeah, and I’m— wait, are you listening to me?”

Dream sits forward in his seat and snaps his fingers in front of George’s face— annoying— to get his attention. It earns him a gentle smack to the back of the head.

“Yes, I’m listening. And working.” He pointedly taps a random key. “I’m multitasking.”

“You’re terrible at it,” Dream teases.

George kind of wants to hit him. In the mouth. With his mouth.

Aggressively.

“What do you want me to do, then?” He asks, pushing his laptop partially closed once he accepts that he won’t be getting any real work done.

“Well, what is up with us?” Dream asks, tilting his head with raised eyebrows. George isn’t sure he likes where this is going.

“We’re dating, totally in love, very happy and in a loving relationship,” he deadpans.

The words leave a sour taste in his mouth.

He gives him an odd look before pursing his lips and nodding. “Yeah, exactly. So he needs to believe it.”

“I feel like you’re taking this more seriously than it should be.”

“I... feel like I’m not.”

“Honestly, he’s Sapnap. I think we can just be honest with him, he won’t tell anyone.”

“But he’s gonna make fun—” Dream’s phone vibrates from where he’d tossed it on the table before sitting down, shaking the loose papers George has strewn about. He glances down at it and hums. “Speak of the devil.”

George raises an eyebrow. “He’s calling?”

Nodding, Dream picks the phone up and swipes across the screen to answer his call, holding it up between them and turning the volume down low.

“Hey, Sap. You’re on speaker.”

“Hi,” George adds, leaning closer to the phone than necessary.

“Was that George? What’s George doing up this early?” He seems to pause to consider for a moment, then says, “What’s George doing with you?”

“Studying. We were up late, I stayed over at his,” Dream says, shrugging helplessly when George makes a face up at him.

A few long seconds of uncomfortable silence stretch over the line.

“Of course you did.”

George frowns, eyes flicking back to the phone. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve just been staying over a lot lately. At night. Not that I’m judging you, it’s great. Good for you two for finally getting some, you know?”

Dream scoffs. “You’re a dumbass. We were actually just talking about our date tonight.”

He avoids looking at George. George stares pointedly at him. Our date? he mouths, bewildered.

Dream side-eyes him.

“Sounds fun,” Sapnap says, sounding completely uninterested. “Be safe, and whatever. Tell me all about it.” He pauses. “Don’t. Do not tell me all about it. Dream, this literally isn’t why I called you, would you take me off speaker?”

“Sure.” Dream shoots George a quick shrug, then switches the phone off speaker and lifts it to his ear. “What do you want?” His face twists. “You’re looking for what? What are you doing in my house?”

What’s he saying? George mouths. Dream holds up a finger.

“I have some in my top drawer. What do you need it for? No, the one to the left. I don’t know, Sap, try going more left. Who?” He turns to look at George with wide eyes, that turn into a silent pout. “No, yeah, I won’t say anything. Promise. I’m not pinky promising you, Sapnap. Okay— George, say bye.”

“Uh, bye?” Dream hangs up, pocketing his phone, and George pulls his knee up to his chest. “What’d he say?”

Dream shakes his head with an exaggerated frown. “Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

George gives him a dead stare. When the corner of Dream’s mouth quirks up, he realizes it probably isn’t that intimidating paired with drooping eyes and still-tired words. “You’re really gonna keep a pinky promise?”

Dream smiles and crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. “No, you moron. I just have more important things to think about.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Would you let me take you on a real date?”

Out of all the things he could’ve said, he wasn’t expecting that.

“Um,” he splutters, taken a bit aback. “A real date?”

“Well, not, like, a real real date, obviously. But a date. For a realistic story and dating experience and stuff, you know?”

“I don’t know if that’s necessary.”

Dream throws his hands up in the air. “No, but it’s fun.”

He can’t help but bite back the beginning of a smile. “Okay, fine. Take me on a date.”

“Yeah?” Dream’s eyes light up, and he sits up a little straighter.

George’s heart twists, and it feels like some kind of warning, and he completely ignores it, because it’s been doing that a lot lately.

He knows he’ll regret it somehow. That’s future George’s problem.

He nods, once. “Yeah, why not?” He opens his laptop again and pushes it Dream’s way. “But you have to finish my work for me.”

Dream lets out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back with a sigh. It earns them some annoyed looks from the few other students strewn about the library.

“Fine,” he says after a few seconds, and slides the laptop around to face him.

George can’t believe that worked.

“So when are we going on this date of yours?” he asks, scooting his chair closer to Dream’s so he can lay his head on his shoulder and rest his eyes.

He’s pretty sure Dream tries to shrug, then realizes it’s a bad idea and offers a low hum instead. “I’ll pick you up tonight, if you want.”

“Do you already have something in mind?”

“Maybe,” he smiles. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“I hate surprises.”

“Sure, but you love mine.”

He’s right. “No, I don’t. You’re horrible at planning things.”

“We don’t have to go.” It’s a taunt.

“No, I wanna go.” He nudges his shoulder with his nose, drawing a sort of scoffing laugh from Dream. “Pick me up tonight.”

————

September 4
6:24 P.M.

He’s not sure why he cares so much.

It’s not even a real date, and he’s been standing in front of his closet for the better part of an hour, sorting through old hoodies and too-large shirts, half of which he’s pretty sure are Dream’s. Apparently, this is all he owns.

It doesn’t help that Dream refuses to give him any direction, staying adamant that he won’t tell him where they’re going. He’s not sure whether he’s supposed to dress nicely or not.

He sincerely hopes not.

Eventually he ends up changing back into what he’s been wearing all day, after several outfits he thought would look good ended up looking extremely fucking stupid instead. It’s fine. It’s not like it matters. It’s not a real date, and it’s not like he’s gonna notice, and even if it was, he—

A loud knock on his front door startles him out of his train of thought. He jumps, taking one last look in the mirror— eyebags, he has eyebags— before shaking his head with a sense of finality and leaving the bathroom.

He spares a quick glance out the peephole to see Dream standing on his doorstep, hands in his pockets and draped in the loose material of a shirt George’s never seen before. The flickering porch light casts soft shadows along his face, dancing across well-memorized freckles and a defined cupid’s bow. He needs to get that fixed.

Dream reaches for the doorbell. He needs to answer the door.

He takes a breath. Opens the door. “I thought you had a key.”

Dream’s hand freezes in midair, obviously startled, and it takes him a second to drop it. “I do,” he says, amused. “But it’s not proper etiquette to barge into your boyfriend’s apartment.”

“Then why do you do it constantly?” George deadpans, snatching a jacket off the back of his couch before stepping out onto the porch next to Dream.

“Because you’re not my boyfriend,” he says easily, as if George could’ve forgotten that somehow.

He huffs out a laugh. “Obviously.”

He turns the key in the lock behind him, jiggling the doorknob to make sure it’s locked before turning to Dream with a tight-lipped smile.

“Don’t make this awkward.”

“Too late. It’s inherently awkward.”

“Well, at least act like a normal person.” Dream opens the passenger door for George, who hops in without arguing. “I wanna have fun with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” George sighs, eyes following Dream as he slides into his own seat and starts the car. “It’s just—”

“If you say awkward, George, I swear.”

“Weird,” he finishes with a satisfied smile.

Dream scoffs and rolls his eyes, making sure George sees, and then they’re pulling out and on their way to wherever Dream has planned.

It’s painfully quiet, so George reaches out and hits a button on the radio. It buzzes to life, a few low notes playing from the speakers, before he recognizes the tune and scrunches his nose.

“Oh, ew, I hate this song.”

He moves to turn it back off, but Dream is quick to grab at his wrist, driving with one hand on the wheel while his other struggles to keep George away from the radio.

“I like this song, leave it on.”

“You do not, you just want to annoy me,” he argues, twisting his wrist in a futile attempt to escape Dream’s grasp.

Dream spares him a disbelieving glance. “George.” He slides their fingers together, intertwining them carefully, and George’s hand goes limp. He holds his breath as Dream traces absent lines along the back of his hand as he drives. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Silence settles over the car again, this time blanketing the quiet sound of the song playing in sync with the buzz of the car’s engine, and it’s worse this time. Tense. He’s hyperfocused on everything, on warm skin pressed into his own in a way that’s different than what he’s used to.

Things are weird. Tonight is weird, so he turns to Dream for a sense of comfort and familiarity, and finds instead that he can’t stop noticing things.

He’s taking him in like he’s experiencing him for the first time.

The first thing he notices is that he smells better than usual. Not that he usually smells bad, but he’s pretty sure he’s wearing cologne or something, and it kind of makes George want to stay as close to him as possible.

He looks about the same as usual. More or less.

When he really looks, though, it looks like he put more effort into his hair, and for the first time in he can’t remember how long, his clothes aren’t insanely wrinkled. He looks nice. He does, somehow, even in just his stupid long sleeved shirt and whatever sweats he pulled out of the top of his drawer.

He looks good in stripes. Looks good in that mossy green color George knows he loves to wear, but can’t quite see. He looks— he looks good. He always looks good. Doesn’t matter how he looks. George could stare for hours and keep finding something new to catch his interest.

His heart swells, and it’s almost as if he’s proud, but he’s not proud because there’s nothing to be proud of. He just looks at Dream, and he feels happy. For Dream, and for himself, and oh, my god, that’s love.

He's in love with Dream.

And there could not have been a worse time for him to realize this, sitting in his car on the way to a date, a fake date, that will undoubtedly end awkwardly now because of him and wow, he is properly freaking out.

He thinks his ears are burning. Are his ears burning? His face is probably red.

He turns to stare out the window.

Dream squeezes his hand. He squeezes back, and he’s going to combust.

He busies himself with studying the passing buildings that slowly become less and less familiar as they drive. They fall into a route he doesn’t recognize, with buildings he’s never visited and roads he doesn’t know the name of, and he realizes he doesn’t get out much.

Maybe he should.

He probably should.

Ten, maybe twenty minutes into the drive, when he’s somewhat steadied his racing heart and shoved the flush away from his skin, Dream parks the car, tucked away in a shaded corner of the parking lot.

When Dream opens his door for him with a polite smile, it starts to feel too much like a real date.

“Where are we?” he asks as he hops out of the car, if only to fill the gaping silence.

“Okay, well, before I tell you, promise you won’t make fun of it.”

He follows Dream up the sidewalk toward the entrance of a bland looking building, flinching away when their knuckles graze against each other, and pretends not to notice the immediate draw of his brow. “Well, that’s reassuring.”

“You— shut up,” Dream mumbles, shaking his head to hide a grin George can hear in his voice anyway. “I just thought it’d be fun. It’s, uh... laser tag.”

He barely has time to react before he’s pushed gently through swinging doors and into the lobby of what is, definitely, a laser tag arena. It’s loud— that’s the first thing he notices.

The second thing he notices is the hand pressed flat on the small of his back.

He leans away from it, hoping this time it’s subtle enough to avoid notice.

“Yeah,” he says, absentmindedly. “I mean, it doesn’t sound not fun. I just haven’t done it since I was, like, ten.”

They reach the front counter. Dream rolls his eyes. “You’re such a little shit, I promise you’ll have fun. If you totally hate it, we can leave and just go hang out.”

“Sure.”

George folds his arms into his chest as he watches Dream pay, and they’re led into the back of the building, through a door and into a dark room with a few others spread out in different corners.

He’s surprised laser tag is this popular, to be honest.

They have to endure a safety briefing before they can go in, and at some point, he vaguely registers the curl of an arm around his waist and low whispers in his ear. He’s not really sure what Dream’s saying.

He hates this. Hates the way closeness clouds his mind in a way differently than before, leaves him laden with dread and worry for what may slip out.

He shimmies out of his grip. This time, Dream definitely notices, and while everyone else is choosing vests and getting equipped, he pulls him aside.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks, voice hushed and laced with some level of upset. George wants to wipe it away, to feel miraculously better about his newfound position if only to make Dream happy again. To make this feel normal.

Instead, he shrugs, folding further in on himself. “I was fine earlier. Maybe not so much now.”

“Okay, do you wanna go? You can stay with me, if you want.”

“I think that’d make it worse,” he says gently. “I mean, not— I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“So you want... space?”

“Maybe? I know this was supposed to be a fun date, I’m sorry, my head is just somewhere else.”

“Okay, hon, that’s fine.” He must see the way George’s face begs to twist at the name, because he backtracks. “Okay. We’ll just play against each other, no pressure, and you can come and find me if you need me.”

George blows a slow sigh out of puffed-out cheeks. “Thanks.”

They have to hastily throw on their vests to make it in on time, earning a judgemental glance from the employee waiting for them at the door. He’s too preoccupied to pay it any mind.

They make it in just before the buzzer rings out through the arena, loud and intrusive, signalling the beginning of the game.

They take off in separate directions.

George spends a few minutes scoping out the area, ducking occasionally behind walls and attempting (and failing) to shoot anyone he stumbles across. Being alone in a laser tag arena is really boring, to be fucking honest.

Bright flashing lights, loud, constant beeping sounds, too-colorful walls, complete strangers— he manages to rack up a few points, but he’s not really sure how the point system on the back of the gun works, or why it keeps disabling on its own.

Laser tag is a lot less fun without someone else to play it with. Without Dream.

(Or maybe it’s just boring in general.)

He caves barely five minutes in and sets off to find Dream.

He finds him quickly, tucked away in a far corner away from people and the heart of the game— it’s not where he’d expected him to be. He’d pegged him as more competitive, the type to be in the thick of it all until the very last second. To win.

He realizes quickly, though, that he’s not alone. He’s with someone, and he’s smiling at them, and his hand is pulling his phone from his pocket.

He considers leaving them alone, but strings of jealousy gather tense in the air, and he finds that he can’t turn away.

Against his better judgement, he shoots at the back of Dream’s vest, dropping the gun to hang freely on the wire that connects it and stuffing his hands deep in his pockets as Dream whirls around at the tinny sound of his vest informing him he’s just lost.

“I totally hate this,” he says. Dream almost laughs at that, smile parting to make way for the barely visible roam of his eyes along George’s face.

“You wanna leave?”

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh, uh-huh. Come on, dummy,” he rolls his eyes, hooking him by the elbow and dragging him toward the exit door with a short wave and a called-out bye, it was nice meeting you to whoever he’d been talking to before.

He’s led back through the lobby and into an empty bathroom after shedding their vests and guns, and Dream makes sure the door clicks shut behind them before spinning to face George and catching his eye.

“You wanna talk to me about what’s up?” he asks, crossing his arms.

He ignores the question entirely. “Was that someone you know?”

The question obviously catches Dream off guard. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Um, no. We just met and kind of hit it off, I guess. Why?”

“You hit it off?” The flatness in his voice takes even himself by surprise, bleeding true of the mess of feelings he’s lugging around.

“Yeah.” Dream narrows his eyes. “Am I not allowed to have friends now? What’s happening?”

“No, of course you’re allowed to have friends. There’s nothing wrong with that,” he says, honestly, but pointlessly. “Were you getting their number just to be friends?”

Dream hesitates. “Probably. I guess. I don’t— they were attractive. Am I not supposed to find other people attractive?”

“I don’t care if you find people attractive, Dream. I do too. But, just— were you going to—”

Realization dawns on his face, slow and certain. He takes a careful step forward. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” It’s barely convincing.

“George,” Dream says. His tone eases cautiously into one that demands focus, asks for truth. “Do you want to be exclusive?”

Yes. No. Maybe. “No, of course not, you can do whatever you want.”

Closer, he steps closer. Settles a gingered hand on his waist, relaxing when he meets no resistance this time. “I know. I’m asking you what you want.”

“It’s your life.”

“And you’re in my life, George, you— we can be exclusive. I want to be exclusive.”

George hesitates, stumbling over his word choice and the growing closeness between them. “Are you sure?”

Dream smiles down at him, moving his free hand to cup his face. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just sex.” His grip slips from jaw to chin and he uses it to shake his face gently from side to side. George stifles a much needed laugh. “I kind of just figured we were anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did you? You just assumed?”

“Oh, you’re an idiot—”

“Rather bold of you, Dream.” He pushes into his touch for the first time all night, hoping to flow with the feelings that come with it, rather than against them. He hopes maybe it’ll work better. “Just assuming I’m all for you.”

“Well, aren’t you?” Dream tightens his grip.

“Maybe,” George says flippantly, relaxing his stance against the cold bathroom wall. “Maybe you should prove it.”

“How do I do that, hm?”

George tilts his chin up to catch his lips, drawing him down into a kiss with his fingers hooking into the pockets of his sweats.

He waits a second before murmuring, “Is it bad if I want you to leave marks?”

He doesn’t know what comes over him. Something possessive. Whatever it is knocks Dream off guard, catching him wide-eyed and frozen. “Fuck, George, really? I mean—” He gives a small shake of his head as his eyes dart from George’s face down to his chest, lingering on exposed skin. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, sure.” He tips his head back. “People’ll know I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” Dream repeats, dumbfounded. “Jesus. How long have you been thinking about this?”

George doesn’t answer, only tips his head back further in silent invitation, trying to calm the way his breath catches in his chest when Dream slips his hand from his cheek to the back of his head, threading through his hair to hold him steady as he trails fleeting kisses down the side of his neck.

“George, how long have you been thinking about this?” He asks again, persistent, latching onto the base of his throat and working lips, tongue, teeth.

George's own lips part of their own volition. “A while,” he confesses. “Thought about it every time you touched me, for a while.”

Dream bites down, surely leaving a dent in the shape of his teeth, and it’s so much and not enough. “So how come you never asked?”

“Scared.”

A smile against his skin. Hands bracket the sides of his hips, firm, bordering rough. “Scared of what?”

“Don’t know.” He does. “Wanted it, you, though, so bad.”

Dream rolls supple skin between his teeth, working it raw and revelling in George’s subtle squirms beneath the cool air he blows over it.

He draws back to stare at it, running a curious finger over it. He presses down unexpectedly enough to draw a light hiss from George's throat.

George’s head is swimming, and shivers wrack the base of his spine.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Dream whispers.

He presses his hips with purpose into the thigh now slotted between his legs. “Show me?”

Without a second thought, Dream drops gently to his knees. He uses both hands to wrap around George’s hips, pressing them flush to the wall, pulling lightly on the front of his shorts as his nose pushes the hem above his knee. He drops a kiss to the inside of his thigh, maintaining eye contact.

As the hand on his shorts falls lower, and he feels painfully known in this stupid laser tag bathroom, George lets his eyes fall closed.

————

September 7
1:43 A.M.

No, we haven’t talked in, like, three days.”

“George, honestly, what is up with you guys?”

He’s sitting in bed with his curtains drawn and his sheets bunched around his waist, the light from his phone far too bright in the otherwise dark room.

Sapnap has been sitting on a FaceTime call with him for the better part of an hour, keeping him company after he’d called him with their mutual inability to sleep.

George pushes his back further down the headboard, sinking deeper into the pile of fluffed up pillows he’s gathered over the last hour. “If I tell you, you can’t tell Dream.”

“Promise,” Sapnap hums. “What’s up, dude?”

“Well,” George starts, then falls silent. He turns the phone away from his face, leaving the camera facing his broken ceiling light as he carefully considers his next words. “We aren’t dating.”

He thinks he hears a laugh escape through the other line, but it’s stifled just as quickly as it slips out. “Well, duh.”

“Duh?” George repeats flatly.

“Duh. I knew that. Why’d you guys lie to me about it, though?”

“We just figured it was easier to make it believable if everyone thought it was true. Especially you, I guess, since you’re our best friend.”

“Sure, but why’d you need people to believe that?”

He shrugs, shoulders pushing up into his pillows and bunching them further under his head. “Someone on the football team found out about us and Dream didn’t want to be seen as someone who sleeps around? So he asked me to just pretend to be with him long enough to get them off his back.”

A few seconds of silence pass before they’re interrupted by a sharp intake of breath and quiet shuffling. Sapnap’s face comes back into frame. He’s frowning. “George, that is complete bullshit.”

“What?”

He sighs. “Nothing. So how come this is a problem?”

“I kind of like him,” he mumbles under his breath.

Sapnap gives him a weird look. “What?”

Taking a steadying breath, he picks the phone up, bringing his face back into frame to (sort of) meet Sapnap’s eyes.

“Because I like him, moron. And the other day he offered to be exclusive and it was just... too much.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “What are you gonna do about it?”

George picks absentmindedly at the loose strings on his comforter. “I'm not sure,” he says honestly. “We’re gonna break up soon, I think, but even that’s tricky.”

“You guys are so weird,” he sighs. “How?”

“Because obviously I don't want to stop,” he says, and gestures vaguely with his hand. “Everything. But it’s probably the best idea.”

“I don't know. I wouldn’t be totally sure.” Sapnap purses his lips for a brief moment of consideration. “I'm not gonna speak for him, because that’s not my place and honestly, I'm not even sure what he’s got going on, but George?”

“Hm?”

“He might like you too.”

He scrunches his nose. “He doesn’t.”

He watches Sapnap sit up in bed, taking his phone with him, loud scuffling covering any other sound from the speakers as he drags it through scratchy sheets. (George has slept in Sapnap’s bed exactly one time, and he never will again, because his thread count is somehow lower than his grades.) He manages to prop his phone up in front of him after a few failed attempts, and rests his chin on his knee.

After a few seconds pass, he says, “I'm sorry, George. That kind of sucks.”

“It does,” he agrees, though it’s a bit of an understatement. “It’s fine. I just need to get over it.”

“If that’s what you think is best.” Sapnap smiles at him. “Whatever. I’m giving you a huge virtual hug right now. I’d do it for real, but I’m not driving over there in the middle of the night.”

“You live across the street from me.”

“Exactly, too far.”

George scrunches his face in faux annoyance. “You’re—”

A loud ding cuts him off, and at the top of the screen sits a notification that reads, hi.

His lips part of their own accord as he stares at it until it disappears, brow furrowing as his eyes dart between the time and the name at the top of the screen. Sapnap hums, bringing him out of his own head.

“Dream?” he asks, simply. George nods. “You should talk to him.”

“I don’t want to hang up on you, though,” George says, but although he feels a little guilty, his finger is already hovering over the red end call button.

“Fine.”

Before he knows it, he’s listening to a dial tone and left in stunned silence, alone in his room as he stares blankly at his contacts list.

Sapnap hung up on him.

Rude.

Before he can psych himself out, he presses his thumb to Dream’s contact and lifts the phone to his ear.

After barely half a ring, he picks up. “George?”

“Hi,” George croaks, unsure of what else to say. Hearing his voice is both relieving and gut-wrenching. It’s confusing.

This shouldn’t be that big of a deal.

“Hi.” He hears shuffling on the other end of the line, a creak and the faint sound of scratches against stubble, and wonders whether Dream’s been awake for long. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No, you’re good. What’s up?”

A beat passes, and he says, “Could you come over, maybe?”

“Could I come over?” George repeats. A quiet exhale filters through poor audio. He tilts his head back, knocking it against the headboard with a suppressed sigh. “Depends. Why?”

“I need you,” Dream says, like a quiet admission. Now, George recognizes the strain in his voice as want, not fatigue, something he’s grown intimately familiar with in far too short an amount of time.

He thinks he tacks on a quiet please at the end, and he wishes he didn’t know what he’s come to know now, because he loves him like this. Late at night, when they’re both quiet and loose-lipped and wrapped in the false protection of darkness.

Like they don’t always remember it the next day; like it doesn’t stick with him, hovering over him during every friendly interaction and soft touch.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Dream, you know I normally would.”

“But you don’t want to tonight?”

Despite the contrast with his words, he slips out of bed, kicking the sheets haphazardly aside before his feet hit the ground. He pads across the room, opening his dresser drawer, and tucks the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he grabs a pair of socks to pull on.

“I do. I want to.”

“But... you can’t? Are you busy?” Dream asks, confusion evident between hushed tones.

He stops next to the mirror hung up on the hallway wall, eyes catching on the darkened junction of his neck. He presses a cold hand to sensitive skin, resolve wavering in the dull pain that blooms.

He backtracks. Maybe he thinks a distraction is what he needs, maybe being tired has made him stupid— so he shakes it off, padding down the hallway and to the front door, where his own shoes and a pair of too-large beat up Converse sit.

He kicks the Converse aside and bends down to slip on his shoes. “No, not busy, I’m sorry. Just half asleep.” Technically, it’s not a lie. “Can I come over?”

“Well, I mean— I want you to, but you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to, Dream. I want to.” Keys jingle in the lock as he struggles to turn it. “I can be there in five?”

“Yeah,” Dream says around what sounds like a hesitant smile. “I’ll see you.”

It takes him less than five minutes to get there.

When he reaches the door, he hesitates, finger hovering above the doorbell for a few moments too long before he shakes off the lingering warning in the back of his head and pushes down.

Dream opens the door almost immediately, face melting into an easy smile when he sees George. He steps forward, suddenly draped in the buzzing yellow porch light, and George wants to reach out and get his hands on him, so he does.

Cold hands settle on plaid-covered hips, tugging them closer. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Dream mumbles, taking his face in his hands and pulling him into a too-quick kiss. “You coming in?”

George rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

He stands on his tiptoes to meet in the middle, slotting their lips together and their bodies flush as he pushes them slowly into the apartment. He kicks the door shut behind him, and slips his hands from his hips to the curve of his thighs, giving a small squeeze to coax a huff of laughter from Dream.

A shiver makes its way down his spine when he retaliates by doing the same.

The back of his legs hit the bed and he lets himself fall, pulling Dream with him. He wastes no time wrapping eager legs around his waist, trying to close every possible bit of distance between them to distract from the slide of his hands beneath his shirt.

Dream nips at his bottom lip, drawing it with him as he pulls back. George chases after, but gets nothing but a quick peck and a small smile.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, moving to pepper kisses along a keened jaw. “I wanna take my time with you, love.”

His heart skips a beat, and jumps into his throat.

Warm fingers graze his stomach in the wake of a mouth that leaves faint bruises, and belatedly, he realizes that coming here was probably (definitely) a bad idea. His stomach curls in on itself at fleeting touches meant for love rather than exploration, and maybe it’s what he wants, but it’s not what he has.

“Dream,” he groans, moving his hips. Dream holds them down. He whacks him with the side of his foot. “Dream.”

He stops and glances up through his lashes to look at him. Pretty. “You okay?”

“I'm fine, just— stop being so soft.”

Frowning, Dream lifts his head further, propping himself up on his elbows. “What?”

“Gentle. Stop being so gentle.”

“I'm always gentle with you, I want to be.”

Despite his protests, he reluctantly takes his touch away, and for the first time, George doesn’t chase it. He just lays there, unmoving, watching the ceiling and wondering how he fucking got here. (He knows how he got here, and it was literally his own fault.)

“I know that came out of nowhere. I’m sorry. I, uh, never minded it, but...”

Dream’s quiet for a moment, contemplative. Cautiously, he asks, “Is this more of an in-the-moment thing or is this a real problem?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay.”

George heaves a deep sigh. “I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“This?” he says hoarsely, like he expects the next words that come out of George’s mouth, and maybe he does.

“Us. Not— not us, but— us, if we keep doing this.”

“Us?”

George nods.

“Yeah.”

“So you think we should be just friends.” It’s a statement, not a question.

After a second passes, George pushes himself onto his elbows and lets his shirt fall back down. “Aren’t we already?”

“I don't know,” Dream whispers. George winces. That's bad.

His voice comes out just as quiet. “Then you’re an idiot.”

He pretends not to see the minute hurt that flashes across his face; ignores the itch to reach out and do nothing but hold his face in his hands and kiss him senseless.

That’s bad, and he needs to end things. Needs to just rip the bandaid off— it’s what’s best for both of them. He'd rather have a friendship than nothing at all, and he knows it’ll crash and burn sooner or later.

Dream beats him to it.

“I think we should break up, then. End everything at once.”

He’s not sure if he’s ready for that. To lose every last bit of closeness all at once, to lose every excuse and opportunity to love him quietly, but it’s not like he can say no.

He swallows, and drops his head back onto his bed, no longer trusting himself when burning pressure builds its way up behind his eyes and nose. “I think that’d be best.”

Dream finally slides off his lap and settles onto the bed next to him, putting a dip in the mattress beside him that jostles his head. Neither of them says anything for a while, and the silence is bordering painfully awkward, but he’s not ready to leave yet. Won’t be ready to leave for a while, he thinks.

Unexpectedly, Dream speaks up. “Did you come over here just to break up with me?”

“No,” George mumbles, startled by the break in silence. “I came over here to do the opposite.”

“Okay.” Another beat passes. “Are you gonna leave?”

“Uh,” George blanks, “no.”

He can nearly hear the draw of Dream’s brow in his voice, uncertainty invading his every move. “Do you wanna... watch a movie?”

He almost says yes before catching himself, instead choosing to shake his head. “I'm really tired. I'd rather just sleep.”

“Okay, I'll just... yeah,” Dream says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

George nods, watching him step off the bed, and turns on his side. He curls into himself, not bothering to crawl beneath the blankets, instead busying himself with the sounds of dream shuffling around behind him. The pillows and throw blanket he knows are arranged into a makeshift bed on the floor are a blaring finality.

————

September 14
3:22 P.M.

It's been a week. A week of no talking, no touching, no looking, and George has heard it’s easy to get over someone when you aren’t around them, but he thinks this is harder.

They’re supposed to break up today.

The only text he’s gotten from Dream in seven days, a time and a place, and a small note he’d hardly bothered to read, because there can’t be much else to say. They’ll meet up at the party, pretend they’re still together— pretend they’re still pretending they’re together— and they’ll argue, and they’ll leave without each other.

Easy.

Easy, easy, easy.

Five hours.

Five hours to kill.

He spends the first hour and a half face down on his floor in dead silence. (He should’ve invested in Spotify Duo. Instead, he gets stuck sitting on his phone, watching song after song pop up from Dream’s playlist.)

The second hour he ends up tossing his phone deep into his closet, and regretting it when he realizes twenty minutes into cooking pancakes that he forgot the recipe. He doesn’t go back for it. The pancakes end up somehow both soggy and flaky.

The third hour gets lost somewhere to sleep, and the fourth is filled rereading the last few messages between them like he’ll find something new between the lines. (Hi. Party tonight. Break up. See you.)

He spends the fifth hour staring intently at the door, and still jumps when a quiet knock rings through the apartment.

When he opens it, he’s greeted by Dream, standing on his doorstep with his attention fully directed at the blank welcome mat he’d tossed there ages ago.

He waves a hand in front of his face. “Dream?”

Dream startles slightly, glancing up at George to hold his gaze for hardly a second before focusing on a spot just barely to the left of him. “Hi.”

“Hello,” George says, uncertainly.

“Are you, uh,” he gestures vaguely behind him, “you ready to go?”

“No.” He follows after Dream anyway, careful to stay half a step behind him on the short walk to his car, but it doesn’t last long before Dream slows his steps to fall into stride with George.

He bumps their hips together softly, and it’s the most normal interaction they’ve had in weeks. “Hey, thanks for doing this. I know you don’t love parties.”

“Yeah, well. Anything for you.”

“Ah,” Dream falters. He clears his throat. “Oh.”

George opens his mouth to say something else, maybe sorry, maybe a repetitive oh, but he’s saved from any further embarrassment when Dream disappears around the side of the car.

The drive there is dead silent, interrupted only by the occasional offhanded comment or quiet sigh. It’s horrible, and it’s not them. George has no idea how to fix it. He wishes he did.

The walk up to the house is worse, he thinks, when they finally get there and find a parking spot down the street. When Dream slots their hands together and pretends it’s still natural, and when George leans into his side and pretends it’s for warmth.

Inside, it’s loud, and crowded, and hot— everything you’d expect a party to be, really. Filled with sweaty bodies he has no desire to be around, especially when he knows exactly none of them.

He wouldn’t be opposed to a few drinks, though.

Dream wraps an arm around his waist, easy and casual, and turns in to face him in a sort of shield against the blaring music.

He leans close to George’s ear, raising his voice to be heard (which, in his opinion, isn’t entirely necessary). “We’ll just stay for a bit, say hi to a couple people, maybe dance together, and then we can—”

“I’m not dancing,” George immediately interrupts.

He thinks he hears Dream stifle a laugh. “We’ll see about that.”

Scoffing, he ducks out of his hold. “When do I get to break up with you?”

Dream shoots him a dangerous grin. “You already did.”

He frowns.

Dream simply moves on, either blissfully unaware or skillfully ignorant of the discomfort blanketing this entire night.

He introduces him to a few of his friends on their way to the kitchen, none of which he remembers the names of (and gets far too many friendly pat-on-the-backs from), but at some point, one of them absentmindedly hands him a nearly empty drink in the middle of a heated conversation about fantasy football.

He rolls his eyes and jabs Dream in the side to get his attention.

Trash can, he mouths, and gestures to his left. Dream offers nothing but a distracted nod before turning back to his teammate— who he thinks is named Tyler— so he turns on his heel and starts off in search of the kitchen.

As he’s tossing the cup in a garbage can tucked into the kitchen corner, his eyes catch on a stack of solo cups on the counter, and he watches a few people come and go before crossing the room to take his own.

After a moment of debate, he decides against pouring himself a drink, instead heading to the sink and filling the cup with water.

He’s lifting it to his lips to take a sip when he feels a tap ghost over his shoulder, and he stiffens.

“George?”

He glances over to see someone standing behind him, with brown hair that curls close to his head and too-sharp features, watching over his shoulder. He looks vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it if he tried.

“Uh, hi? Do I know you?” he asks, taking a small sip from his cup and setting it down on the counter beside him.

The stranger smiles at him, wide and easy. “Ethan. We have an English class together? I’ve sat next to you a few times,” he says, and tilts his head with poorly faked disappointment. “Don’t tell me you don't remember me.”

He does remember him, now. They’d gotten stuck working on an advanced project together, and he hadn’t been too bad. He was easy enough to work with, but wildly uninteresting.

He remembers thinking he was kind of cute, at the beginning of the semester. He doesn’t see it now.

“Right. Sorry.” He tries his best to look it. “You’re the one who, uh... yeah. I remember you.”

Great going, really eloquent. Convincing.

Ethan doesn’t seem to be bothered, taking it in stride and stepping closer as he gestures to their side with a pocketed hand. “Are you here with Dream, or are you two...”

He takes another cautious sip of water before saying anything. “Yeah, he’s off talking to someone. I don’t know.”

“What kind of boyfriend would leave you alone at a party?” Then, as an afterthought, he tacks on a quick, “No offense.”

George frowns at him, shifting his weight from foot to foot and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “He didn't leave me alone, I just came to get a drink.”

“And he didn’t come with you?”

“I can take care of myself, thanks,” George says, annoyance creeping its way into his voice.

Ethan just shrugs, turning to open the fridge and grab a bottled water off the top shelf as he talks. “I'm just saying you could do better. That’s all.”

“Could I?” George deadpans. He spins back around to face him, cracking open the water.

He raises a eyebrow. “You deserve better than someone who makes you look like you’re having a miserable night.”

“No offense,” George mimics, crossing his arms defensively as he leans his hip against the counter, “but what makes you so sure it’s his fault?”

Ethan opens his mouth to reply, but stops short when his eyes seem to catch on something behind George.

He gets no warning before heavy arms are draped over his shoulders, drawing his balance backward, and hot breath is skating along the shell of his ear.

“George, can I steal you for a minute?”

Instead of answering, he instinctively shrugs Dream off and puts a step of distance between them, only realizing his mistake when he hears an amused hum from Ethan.

He smiles over his drink. “Trouble in paradise?”

Dream’s eyes dart over to where he stands, like he just noticed his presence, and his face darkens.

“You wish.”

George looks back and forth between them, trying to place the tension drawn taut in the air. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything, though, because Ethan simply caps his water and rips off the paper label.

He rummages around in his pocket for a few seconds before pulling a pen, and scribbles something out on the back before folding it in half and offering it out to George.

“My number, if you ever wanna talk,” he says, smiling with an exaggerated wink when George takes it between two fingers.

His gaze trails after him for a second as he leaves, before looking down at the paper in his hand and gingerly pocketing it.

Dream scowls down at his pocket like it’s personally wronged him. “What did he want?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” George shakes his head.

“Well, I am.”

Ignoring him, he asks, “When are we gonna do this?”

Dream's face drops. He leaves a tentative touch on George's elbow before it disappears and comes back harder, a much firmer grip holding him in place. “George, I don't want to break up.”

He freezes, and reboots, then reboots again. The words don’t process for another solid five seconds, but when they finally do, he looks up at him incredulously. “What?”

“I don't want to break up,” Dream repeats, slowly.

George shakes off his grip and crosses his arms. “I do.”

I don’t. Please don’t make this harder than it is.

“I want something else.”

Please, Dream. I'm trying to break up with you. Let me end things with you,” he pleads.

“Why? Why does it matter so much?”

“It didn't matter, Dream, that’s the thing.” It mattered too much, it mattered way too much. “We weren’t anything.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“How is that not what you think?”

“I don’t want to be a quick fuck, George, I never—”

“You’re the one who suggested it! You told me you wanted it, I never would have asked you to do anything—”

“Just let me talk,” Dream interrupts, grasping gently at the fabric of George’s shirt. “Please.”

“Why,” and fuck, his voice breaks, and his heart lurches in his chest at the subtle change in Dream’s expression, “should I?”

“Because.” Dream sighs, stepping closer and eyeing where he has his shirt bunched up in his hand. “If you hate me after this, you don’t have to say anything about it ever again, but George? I need to say it.”

George frowns. “You think I could hate you?”

Distracted eyes meet his own for a split second before falling down his face, settling into a position he knows far too well and yet he has no time to prepare before Dream utters a small yes, and then he’s kissing him.

Hands cling to his cheeks and foreheads and noses press together, and when they pull apart, they can do nothing but stand, stilled by surprise and hesitance, breathing each other’s air.

Dream is the first to break the silence, much faster than he’d expected. “I’m sorry.”

George worries his bottom lip between his teeth, standing with baited breath as he replays the last ten seconds over and over, then lets it all out in one big sigh. “Don’t be.”

Dream’s eyebrows dip low against his forehead. “Don’t be?”

“Tell me what you want,” he says, and then he’s holding his breath again.

He wants him to want everything he does. He’s scared— terrified— he won’t. Terrified he’s reading everything wrong, always.

Terrified he just took a risk he wasn’t meant to take.

But he realizes that maybe Dream is taking a risk, too, when he says, “I want you to kiss me just to kiss me.”

“Just to kiss you?”

“Please.” It’s weak, nervous. “I know it’s not what you want, but I need it.”

He knocks their foreheads together once. It’s actually a little grounding. “I want whatever you want, Dream. I want you to be happy, I just want to have you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs against him. “It gives me hope when you say those things.”

His heart pounds at the base of his throat, threatening to leap out and run rampant around this stranger’s kitchen; to put itself on display beneath suspiciously vulnerable fluorescent lighting.

He pushes it down. “Hope for what?”

“God, George,” Dream sighs. “Don’t.”

“Hope for what, Dream?”

Silence.

Dead silence.

“You,” he says, finally. He squeezes his eyes shut. Then, it’s like a floodgate’s opened, because he starts talking and he doesn’t stop. “I want to be with you and I know you don’t feel the same way but I really didn’t want to lose you yet which is why I told Ethan we were together, and I know it fucked a lot up and it was stupid and—”

“Dream.”

Dream stops short and cracks his eyes open to look down at George, whose eyes widen and throat closes at the sight of unshed tears shining in vulnerable eyes.

He realizes now that he has no idea what to say.

He just needed him to stop, hated hearing the choked up quality of his voice.

He makes a last minute decision.

“What?” Dream asks, after a few long seconds of tense silence.

George reaches up to thumb along Dream’s cheek, stance softening when he hesitantly leans into it, looking unsure.

He cups his jaw and draws him close enough to brush their lips together. “Come here.”

He waits for Dream to close the gap, lets him choose where to go from here, and when he does, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

He kisses him, so gently, so intimately, and for the first time it doesn’t feel anywhere near wrong.

Dream seems to freeze up for a few seconds before he comes to life against him, wrapping arms around his middle and pulling him closer, closer, closer. It should be nothing special, he should be used to this by now, but god, it feels like everything’s finally clicked into place and it’s warm and, not to be forward, but Dream feels like home.

He pulls back when Dream leaves three taps at his hip, albeit reluctantly, and eyelashes drag along cheeks as they meet eyes.

“I am so in love with you,” Dream whispers, eyes flicking between George’s like he can’t make up his mind.

He can’t help the dumb smile that tugs on the corners of his lips. “I love you too, you’re such an idiot.”

“You do?” He sounds like he’s in disbelief. George can’t say he blames him.

Obviously. I didn't tell you because I thought you’d think it was, like, weird or... something,” he says, and shakes his head. “You think I kiss all my friends like that?”

Dream gives him a sheepish grin. “I don’t know, maybe. I didn’t want to take that risk.”

“You’re lucky I’m a risk taker then,” George says, rolling his eyes in faux annoyance.

“Hey, you are not.” Dream pinches his hip, and he yelps. “If I didn’t just pour my heart out here we would’ve gotten nowhere.”

“Not true, I would’ve confessed. At some point.”

He receives a blank stare in return.

“You are such a little liar.”

Letting his touch fall from Dream’s face and crossing his arms (and pretending he doesn’t already miss the touch), he grins and says, “You can’t call your boyfriend a liar, that’s so rude.”

Dream raises his eyebrows and gives a slow nod. “Oh, so you’re my boyfriend now? That’s really forward of you, George. Wow.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren’t you the one who said you don’t want to break up?”

He purses his lips. “Uh.”

“Yeah. Uh huh. Checkmate,” George nods, his disbelieving smile now turned smug.

“Don’t checkmate me, idiot.” Dream squeezes the arms still draped around his waist. “Maybe if you had the balls to actually ask me out like a normal person...”

You asked me—”

“Shh.” Dream’s shushes are spoken through quiet giggles. He brings one hand up to tap below George’s chin, thumb settling against his bottom lip. “We’re both stupid.”

“You’re calling me stupid?” George says, but it comes out with none of the tease he’d said it with as he fixes his gaze on soft freckled cheeks inching closer by the second.

He goes cross-eyed trying to count each and every one of them, and they fall closed just before their lips connect. They never do, though, Dream instead choosing to drag his lip down with his thumb and let it go, pulling back in one swift movement and leaving him with an upsetting lack of touch.

He cracks open an annoyed eye.

Dream hooks a thumb over his shoulder, eyes too fond and smile too soft. “Let’s leave. Right now.”

“Right now?” A laugh bubbles past George’s lips.

“I just wanna be with you. At home.”

“At home,” he repeats. “You’re cute.”

Dream rolls his eyes, tugging on his arm impatiently. “And you’re an idiot. Come on.

Notes:

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