Chapter Text
“I feel like I could just sit on the floor with you,” George says one day. “And do nothing,” he tacks on.
Dream looks up from where he lounges on the other couch, scrolling on his phone and taking dumb pictures—adjacent to George. “The floor?” he questions.
“Yeah.” George nods. He doesn’t make eye contact with Dream as he speaks. His hands scrunch up the hem of his shorts, picking at loose threads that he’s too lazy to cut. “Makes us at the same level.”
Dream laughs a little. “Well, not exactly the same level.” He puts a hand over his head and motions to their height difference.
“Obviously.” George rolls his eyes.
He’s scarily aware of how the top of his hair just barely grazes Dream’s nose. For the first couple of days that he lived in Florida, his eyes ached just a little from having to look up all the time. It sounds dramatic, but Dream always found his way right next to George, meaning he had to tilt his chin up too just to match his gaze.
“But, that’s also not the whole reason,” George continues, despite his head not knowing where his mouth is going with this. He’s never usually this honest.
A pause. Dream seems to be waiting for him to finish. But when it’s clear that the brunet has nothing more to say, Dream asks: “Have you done that before?”
It’s innocent. Utterly innocent and free and in this moment, the world outside of the living room does not exist. The careful words they’re both choosing lets them both know that their minds are only here. This somewhat meaningless exchange nevertheless holds so much substance that it deserves some thought.
George shakes his head. “No.”
“Have you thought about it?”
George delays his answer as best as he can, in vain-laced fear of how much it might embarrass him. “With you, or with just anybody?”
Dream tilts his head to the side, like he knows what game they're playing. His lack of response is still enough to bridge the gap in their conversation.
George brushes his hair out of his eyes. If he ever does get brave enough to really look at the blond, he’d like to see him fully. “I’ve thought about it with you,” he admits.
I hadn’t thought about half the things that I think about now, after I met you.
“We’d do nothing though, right?” Dream lays further down on the couch, as if preparing himself to think heavily on this.
“Yeah, like. We'd just sit on the floor. Probably not on our phones or watching tv.” George forms the idea in his head as he speaks. “We wouldn’t even have to talk, really.”
Sometimes we might lean into each other. Sometimes we might sit criss-cross-apple-sauce to relive our childhoods. Sometimes our knees might touch and you poke at mine because you think it’s weird how bony it is. Sometimes we might cry. Sometimes we might wish it could be like that all the time.
“That doesn’t sound like something normal friends do,” Dream notes—not judging, but observing. “Does that even count as socializing?”
George ignores the question. “We’re not normal friends.” He says it annoyingly, like these words could never describe them, never bind them. But then his voice suddenly becomes weaker and he only slightly regrets acting tougher than he really feels. “Maybe… maybe I just want a person to not be a person around. I don’t know. I just think it would be nice to sit next to someone with all of this big furniture around, and it’s like we’re small. Small and tiny, little things. We wouldn’t matter for a moment. And everything would be quiet and– and stationary and bigger than us. Just enough that we’re not being crushed.”
George is throwing out his thoughts without holding anything back. He doesn't even know what half of his words mean, but the light at the end of the tunnel is clear. It’s always clear.
“I want to be like that with you,” he says.
Dream is staring in the corner of his eye. He doesn’t say anything.
“But it’s not because you get me—whatever that means,” George clarifies. “I don’t think you understand me perfectly or that you’re the only one who really knows me. I feel like that's more my mum.” His face scrunches for a second, and he thinks about how when he was a teenager, he would have never admitted that. He still might not admit that to her face, and he realizes that that’s exactly what he’s getting at.
“I just feel like we could sit on the floor, close and compact, and I could say anything to you. And the world could never turn ugly just because you know my deepest secrets.”
It feels like heavy gusts of wind are pounding against the brunet's chest. Something catches in his throat and he finds it difficult to swallow it down. George counts every second that passes by before Dream replies. He gets to twenty-three.
“That… none of that even sounds real, George.” His green eyes are blown wide, like doors upon doors are opening for the very first time. “That’s– that’s like, above human.”
The brunet scoffs, but it’s shaky. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
A laugh breaks out of Dream. “No, no– that’s not what I mean. I mean like, I don’t even know– I’ve never imagined anything close to that level of– of just being with somebody. I might– I–” He doesn’t seem to be able to bear the intensity of what George has just laid out.
“Maybe it’s too human,” George supposes, however, unregretful of spilling his truth. “Maybe people aren’t built for what we’re reaching.”
Dream still looks like he’s picking himself up. “We could try it, though.”
George properly glances up for the first time throughout the whole interaction. “Yeah?’
“Yeah.”
They share a look. The promise of what is to come settles in their chests, and George doesn’t think anyone has ever seen what he sees when he looks into Dream’s eyes.
Your breathing is my mantra.
That’s how George feels after just a handful of times sitting on the carpet—barely saying a word—with Dream.
It’s nice, just as he thought it would be.
They don’t turn any lights on, preferring natural sunlight to stream through the windows and beam into their skin. They disregard all technology—even Dream’s sleep ring because he kept twisting and twisting it and George thought he might twist his finger off.
Silence sits in clouds around them, filling the air and dousing them with its tranquility. George has never known peace until now. He likes to close his eyes sometimes and imagine that they are at the bottom of the ocean, surrounded by the darkest depths of the universe, yet still basking in the light of the other.
They always sit very close and face each other so that they never have to strain their necks to look at the other, with their legs out and bent where they can rest their elbows and heads on top, if they ever grow too heavy.
George is happy with this supposed seating plan. He finds that he likes to look at Dream a lot; his long eyelashes are golden when the sunlight hits them just right; his stubble grows steadily and carefully. George has wanted to run his hand over it on more than one occasion.
But Dream isn’t blind to the way he so openly stares. One day, a little while after they had gotten up from the floor to go about the rest of their business, Dream joked that George asked to do all this just to have an excuse to look at him without shame. George merely smiled, and said Imagine that.
That was the only time they mentioned it outside of the actual occurrences. It was exhilarating, almost. George felt a buzz in his stomach at how secretive it all was, like they were sneaking around.
Sometimes, when he’d lay in bed, he thought of it as scandalous. George would roll onto his side under the covers, and think of how intimate these moments feel, despite the lack of touching or raw words. He feels cut open and exposed—left for dead on the living room floor—all from the burning presence of Dream choosing to sit next to him.
And their hands would brush only rarely, limbs growing restless and needing to move. His stomach always fills with fireflies and he can't help but gasp each time they collide. They have never been closer than they are in these moments, and their fingers brushing is just another reminder. Every graze tugs George right back into his dreams, where they touch more freely, reach out more purposefully. Everything makes sense there—the purple haze somehow makes things clearer. Dream is Georges and George is Dreams.
The brunet is also delighted to find that he was right about the whole thing making them feel small. They sit, bundled and quiet, for almost an hour most times. And all throughout, George breathes like he’s on his back, floating down a calm stream with his hand linked in Dream’s. He knows that without the blond there, he might feel too small—like the walls were closing in on him. But really, it just feels like living.
George finds that he’s grown a little addicted. Dream’s been spoiling him with these moments, obliging as soon as he feels pale hands wrap around his wrist and guide them to their spot. As soon as they’d settle, George would release his grip and press his palm to his chest as if the sensation of holding Dream might stay with him for a little longer.
He’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed to intentionally touch during their moments together. When George originally proposed it, he’d just mentioned sitting. There’s this lingering fear in mind, that if he touches him, brushes against him, holds him, Dream might think it was too far.
“I never thought I could have this,” George blurted out one afternoon.
Dream looks up from staring at the carpet, almost startled by the sudden outburst. They don’t usually speak.
“Have what?” the blond asked.
George looks at the space around them, and between them. “This kind of easiness with somebody,” he says and then starts to pick at his fingers, as if he talks this way all the time, as if he bleeds so clearly outside of this room too.
Dream watches George’s hands treat themselves harshly. “Neither have I.” He doesn’t usually confess like this either. The blond is more in tune with his feelings than George is, but never before like this.
George feels as though they are vines growing around the same tree, intertwining and fixating themselves in place so that the only way to go down would be to go down together.
The brunet continues to pick at his skin, and curiosity rumbles in his head. “Do you ever want to talk when we’re here? You know you can say anything.”
A boyish grin worms its way onto Dream’s face. “Anything?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” George rolls his eyes. “Anything with substance.”
Dream laughs and ducks his head. “Yeah, I know.”
George glances up at the blond. “Do you want to say stuff?” he asks tentatively.
Something stirs his stomach. This almost feels like unknown territory. One wrong step, and the floor will break away.
“Yeah.” Dream looks back to George’s hands which are still fumbling with one another. He looks like he’s a bit nervous to say any more. His mouth opens and closes, his eyes blink to and away from the brunet.
George nudges his foot to the blond’s leg—a silent prompt. Tentative green eyes meet curious brown ones, and George can see the walls breaking down.
Dream clears his throat. “I actually–well, I know I joked that you stare at me a lot when we do this. And I mean, it’s not like it’s a secret or anything that I stare at you too.” George blushes. “But most of the time… I just wanna tell you that I think you’re pretty.”
The carpet beneath him gets swept away and George’s heart is tumbling. Heat runs down his face like liquid, and his fingers completely halt. “Oh.”
Dream’s legs bounce and he places his palms on the ground as if he’s ready to shift closer or further at any second. “Is that okay?” he asks, unsure what to do with the smoldering boy he’s left in his wake.
“Yes.” George can hear blood in his ears. “Yeah, it’s really good.”
Really good. Jesus christ, his brain is toast. He wants to smack his head against the floor and groan at his stupidity. What idiot says really good after the guy you’re obsessed with admits he wants to call you pretty–
“Okay,” Dream says, smiling big. Like, the teeth-showing and lip-stretching kind of smiling.
“Okay good,” Dream says. He then drops his head onto his knees, brings his arms around his legs, and faces down to his own lap. He looks like a ball of everything sweet and bright, squeezing tight as if it’s the only way to keep him from bursting.
George feels giddy from his head down to his toes. He hides his own smile in his hands, and tries not to melt on the spot.
They sit for a little while longer than typical, without saying another word. The entire time, George doesn’t even think about what he usually does. Reflections on life and the future are the last things on his mind. The only things he sees are ankles that press into his hips and lips that look bitten from trying to hold back a smile.
George finds that he’s getting greedy.
He has his moments with Dream: quiet, free, and tender. There are barriers surrounding them whenever they take refuge in the living room. The air changes as if it knows the fragility of the words and gazes that pass through it.
They whisper little things to each other now—all previous notions of staying silent have been tossed out the window, along with their lack of touching. George tells Dream that his hair looks soft enough to sleep on, and Dream grabs his hand to let him run his fingers through it. Dream tells George that he’s scared the brunet will break in his hold, and George intertwines their fingers and squeezes to show that they are stronger together.
But sometimes, George almost thinks it’s not enough.
Lately, the only thing he’s begun to think about was how much he craved to just crawl inside the warm shell of Dream’s body, tuck himself in, and never leave. He doesn’t think he’s gone more than a minute without staring at Dream for the past few times they’ve spent time together, wishing with his whole chest that he could climb into the blond’s own—if only for a second.
Obviously, George knows it’s not possible. They’re only human, after all. They have limits. They have inabilities.
George hates this fact. He starts to let this feeling bleed onto his face, uncaring if Dream sees it or not. He wants him to, in fact. Maybe he might understand. Maybe he’s the only one who could understand.
“Why are you looking at me like you want to bite me?”
George blinks. He lets his face relax from scrunched up eyebrows and down-turned lips. “I’m mad,” he says, wrapping his arms around his bent legs.
A worried expression waves across Dream’s face. “At me?”
“At everyone.” The brunet sighs.
“What’d we do?” Confusion stands out in Dream’s tone.
George looks at his eyes, looks at how they flit across his own features. He wishes he could see past them. He wishes he could dive into the very essence of Dream’s being and build a home in it. “We’re too physical,” he says, factual and annoyed. “Too solid. I want to like–” George reaches out and splays a hand across Dream’s chest “–go in there.”
Pink rises to Dream’s cheek. “My heart?”
George shakes his head. “No like– all the way inside. Like when I open my eyes… everything is you.”
He already sees Dream in the sound of ocean waves, in the claps of thunder. But he wants to feel it too. He wants to feel like rainwater and petals fall under his feet and curve to his touch because somebody out there loves him.
Dream looks down at George’s own chest, like he’s picturing it as well. “And you’re mad at people because we can’t do that?”
George lets his hand drop. “Yeah.”
“Well.” Dream stops him and grabs his hand to pull George closer. “We can do something close.” He squeezes the wrist in his grip.
Breath gets punched out of the brunet's lungs and is replaced with purple smoke, filling his body and bleeding out from his mouth, and George knows there has never been anybody quite like them.
He’s suddenly moving faster than he has in his whole entire life. He climbs right into Dream’s lap before either of them even have time to process. A small little gasp comes from Dream’s lips, and George feels it flutter the tops of his hair as he settles back into Dream’s chest and pulls both of their arms around him. He wants to push hard against their skin, wants to press heavy enough that it’ll break away and allow for him to sneak inside, but he supposes this will have to do.
Dream’s breath is shaky—the rise and fall of the pattern stutter against his back. George wishes he could feel each and every inhale and exhale be absorbed into him. He reaches behind him and rubs a hand against Dream’s neck, pulling his head down further to rest his chin on his shoulder.
Dream complies easily, molding to fit perfectly around him in every possible way. It almost feels enough, and for a moment, George is on cloud nine.
“This working?” Dream mumbles into his shirt and digs his thumbs into George’s waist.
Every piece of the brunet feels alive. He feels rejuvenated, like he could run for miles and miles. But of course, he’s not going to. He doesn’t think he’d trade this for the world.
“Yeah.” He leans impossibly closer.
Dream hums, like this makes him happy. He made George content. And this makes him happy.
“I wish humans could do that too,” Dream admits. “Like, I could take care of you so much better from beneath your ribs. I could know just what you need.” He emphasizes this by grazing just under George’s rib cage.
For a moment, George hopes the bones would collapse just so Dream might prove his words and mend him back together. You’re what I need. You’re what I need. You’re what I need.
George starts to feel lonely again, so he buries himself deeper into Dream’s hold. He opens his mouth to speak, to say that he already takes care of him better than anyone else when–
His stomach rumbles. He doesn’t think he ate much today. George’s face flushes at the loud noise.
Dream places a hand on his abdomen. “You hungry?”
George thinks about it. He is a little hungry, but is it really worth Dream’s arms falling away and having to leave this calming warmth? His skin tingles where they meet—sparkling and glowing and something like he’s never felt before.
His stomach growls again before he can make up his mind. Dream laughs lightly, and their bubble is sadly broken. The blond squeezes George’s body once before picking him up by his waist and depositing him on the carpet space next to him.
“I’ll make you something,” Dream says, ruffling his hair as he walks away.
Pink blooms on George’s face at the brief contact and words fail him.
Dream is thoughtful.
He already knew that about him.
Dream is always trying to do what everyone wants, give them whatever they ask for. He bends over backwards to deliver, and he does so with a smile on his face because helping makes him happy.
But George is starting to realize that all he wants is Dream himself, and he thinks that this might be love.