Threads of blues and greys swirl on the rug beneath Dream's legs. From the end of his socks to where George's chest-drawn knees begin, cat hair blankets carpet, and pillows stolen from the couches for cushioning dot the floor. He breathes out; the footrest to the lounge chair behind him digs into his back.

"Explain it," Dream says, eyes tracing his drained face from feet away. "One more time."

George swallows and wipes his rosied nose with a tissue rescued from the coffee table. Sides of the cardboard held in his lap have ducks and flowers dotting down the edges; Dream isn't sure when he'd handed him the box, sometime after they'd stopped standing together, stopped holding each other, sank to the floor instead of the couches and began to talk. All he really remembers is hearing the strained confession of "June, June, June," and pulling George in tighter until any traces of hiccuped breaths were subdued for good.

"Okay," George mutters. He clears the sound of muddied tar from his throat. "So, you and I had just finished getting tickets for this trip. My whole time on holiday I was... excited, and when my mum saw that, she and my grandparents convinced me to try for a visa." He sniffs. "Wanted to talk to you about it before I applied, but by the time I got back—you know."

Dream's jaw tightens. Static between them lingers too unsettled to air out his guilt, and he urges it down with a silent nod for George to continue.

"I wasn't sure if I should still apply for a while, but—" George's voice strains where ebbing tears had interrupted him the first go around. "But I missed you. I knew the process would take a long time, too, and there'd be a lot of steps involved, so I figured I'd start anyway. You seemed so busy working all on your own, I felt helpless without something to focus on. I don't know."

Dream's features slip into softness, and his fingertips twitch with the urge to move across the rug and gently take George's hand. Silence continues in their shared immobility.

"So," Dream assists, "you applied anyway."

George exhales shakily. "Yeah. I did. I thought it'd be accepted by the time I got here, and I've been calling home every day, but the embassy hasn't sent us anything."

"Why didn't you want me to know?"

He didn't have it in him to ask questions the first time George talked through the process, listening carefully instead to dates, deadlines, hard to swallow confessions and lengthy pauses where they both had to recollect their spilling thoughts. The fragility of George's features and shock resounding in his own head had kept his interrogation at bay, and his words land unexpectedly.

George's tone changes. "I already told you why."

"It was a little hard to understand you before," Dream says carefully, and a blunt beat of silence follows. "Please, George."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay." George wrings his hands together in his lap, eyes busied with the tightening grip. "The main reason I didn't mention it to you, Dream, was because things were so fragile with us already. We weren't talking, nothing made sense, and if I told you too soon just for it to get denied two months later, I..."

George lets his words trail as his brow pinches together sharply. Inklings of surprise trickle in Dream's head at the surreality of witnessing his unfiltered emotion, saturating the glassy sheen of his eyes, the slight puffiness to his cheeks, and reddened skin under sticky tracks of dried tears. The sight topples his piling concerns.

You're used to this, he thinks, and he forces a harsh swallow down his throat. Crying because of me. 

A slight tremor forms in the press of George's lips, and his heart climbs high in his ears. He knows he won't be able to think if George tears up again.

"I couldn't do it," George whispers finally. "I couldn't break your heart twice."

Dust mingles with the stagnant air as a restricted breath escapes him. The cavern of his chest tightens in a growing ache, enclosing around thoughts of protection and being protected; a wounded bird cradled in George's hands. Something stained lingers in the half-full sink.

He can't bring himself to care for it when George's eyes distract him, lift towards him in the shallow silence, a dark stare pained with unwavering intent. Candor looks beautiful on him. Speechless and loving, Dream gazes back.

"This isn't a no," the strong, familiar hearth in him resounds, "it's a 'not yet.'"

He clears his throat. "And... and Nick," he says dumbly, "I mean—does he—"

"He doesn't know," George answers. "Clearly he would've told you right away. Asked too many questions. I couldn't risk that happening."

"...So you carried it all on your own?" he breathes.

George tips his head. "I had to."

Empty leagues of carpet sway against George's stoicism, and his chest tips forward in disbelief. His knees lower down, socks dragging the distance, and he casts with force, "You don't."

George leans back against the dark sectional, wide blinking eyes taking hold of his face. "Are..." His voice trails. "You're okay with all of this?"

"Of course I am." Confusion churns in Dream's chest, and his skin warms under the careful scrutiny of George's gaze. "George, of course I'm okay with this. What—what makes you think I wouldn't be?"

"Sorry," George breathes out, lowering his forehead into a supporting palm. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Pale fingers press to his temples in a half-cover over his eyes, and Dream's chest tightens further without sight of his face. The slope of his shoulders and sigh leaking from them offers only visible shame, threaded embarrassment he's seen before, and realization sinks again.

You're used to believing I don't want you.

"Is that another reason why you didn't tell me?"

George's hand slowly drops down. "What do you mean?"

"Earlier, you said 'the main reason,'" Dream points out cautiously, and he searches his face. "Did you really think I wouldn't want this? For you to live with me?"

"Dream." An exhale blows from George's nose, and muscles on the edge of his jaw shift before he continues to speak. "I... I've seen you fall in and out of crushes before, okay? Out of relationships, before. I know how big your heart can be, and I know how you burn out—I don't mean that in a bad way, really, I'm not trying to—" He cuts himself off and a swallow is pressed from his lips. "I just didn't think... with me... it was going to last."

Dream's molars slot and clamp together with unspeakable ferocity, summer heat and summer showers blending the edges of his brain, George's voice in the corners of each memory, his laughter, his blush, his touch in dreams; fleeting words on the phone.

It did. It did. It did.

He moves to place himself in front of George and forces his attention to flit back up. "I hoped so badly that it would," George utters in a shared breath of Dream rasping, "It will."

Autumn sits beyond their shared carpet and lamp glow, a breeze on wet window panes after hours of cold rain, reflecting back on the darks of George's eyes as Dream gets lost in the closeness of him.

"I've been so worried you wouldn't feel the same way about me still," George says bluntly, chest shifting shallow. "I thought maybe you were getting over me while I was working on this stupid visa, and—and it wasn't until I got here, and saw everything in person that you started proving me so, so wrong."

"Oh my god," Dream mutters. "You could've just called me."

"I... I did," George says quietly. "I called you, and I just ended up pushing us further apart, again."

His slowing heart connects sparse memories, and his head slips back to August; their tense phone call, the low darkness of pushing and being pushed away, quiet words pleading, "Can you stay, can we talk, can we pretend this phone call didn't happen? "

"I'm sorry, Dream. I still don't know why I did that." Pale hands folded in George's lap slip together in a solitary clasp, subduing a light tremble Dream hadn't caught before as he continues, "I guess the interview wore me down that day, and I shouldn't have taken that stress out on—"

"The interview?" he questions, and George glances at him; they'd glazed over it briefly during his explanation of the visa timeline before, the last component to the application before submitting it for review. "That night you called me was the same day you had your interview?"

You just wanted to be close to me, his thoughts tumble rapidly, and I didn't let you. I didn't know, and I blamed you, I didn't know, and I hurt you, I didn't know, and I—

"It was never your responsibility," George whispers. "I wish I could've told you sooner. I'm so sorry."

"Stop. Stop saying that." Dream's voice slips from him with strain. "You shouldn't be the one apologizing right now, I—"

"It doesn't feel fair to come to you without a concrete answer," George interrupts desperately, and his eyes drop to the floor as his face complicates again. "I thought it would be easier if nothing changed until I knew about the visa, and I—I can't even think about if it doesn't get approved—and now you have to worry about it too—"

"Jesus, so what if I have to worry?" His hand drops to cover George's knuckles in an open offer. "I'll worry with you."

"Come on, Dream," George breathes out. "What if it gets denied?"

"We don't know that it will," he says firmly. "We can't know that, not until we hear back from them, but now that you told me, and now that I know, we can wait for the news together. Because that's what this is now, okay?"

George's face tips up at him with large, earnest eyes. He hesitantly slots their fingers in sync as he repeats, "Together."

A rush filters through him. "Yeah."

"Okay," George says softly.

Their connected points of diminished distance are warm; Dream's knee brushing his thigh, exhales tumbling to exposed forearms, George's palm radiating under the gentle squeeze it's given. Simplicity settles in the yearning silence, forgiving the dryness of their throats after too many hours of talking, and yelling, and falling back to whispers again.

"What about after we find out? What then?"

"I'm not... sure," Dream answers. "I guess anything can happen."

"...Doesn't that scare you?"

He frowns lightly, rotating George's wrist to brush a thumb in the center of his palm. "I'm not supposed to be afraid of things that are out of my control." His touch lingers, presses down, and he admits, "But yeah, it does. It's scary. Maybe when we find out it'll be bad news, and maybe it'll be really, really good. I mean, you could live here."

"Maybe," George says.

"Maybe," Dream agrees, cheeks warming faintly. "Maybe I'll—I'll get to see you every day. Hug you in the mornings, and... teach you how to drive." George huffs lightly, and he lets the sound amplify the growing hope in his heart. "We can go anywhere you want. Explore the whole country, or just stay here, inside. Patches would probably like that option the most."

"Maybe she'd sleep in my bed instead of yours," George contributes tentatively, and a warm smile blooms on Dream's face.

Maybe, his head offers, we could share.

He quickly tosses the wayward thought away. "She definitely will if you start to feed her. She'll also never let you sleep in past ten again."

"I'm up early here anyways," George says, his words wandering. "You're noisy when you go in to brush your teeth."

Dream's face runs hot. "You can take the bedroom with the half bathroom, then. Problem solved."

"Attach tin cans to a string and talk to you from down the hall," he mutters dryly, and Dream sees the corners of his mouth tugging up.

"Sure thing, genius. Whatever you want." He tilts their palms together, pressing light fingertips to the blunt edges of George's nails. "I'll make sure you love America, George. Scout's honor."

George flicks his gaze down as he falls silent, observing their lowering hands until they rest on the slant of his knee.

Dream's smile fades. "Unless... that isn't what you want?"

"No, it is—I'm not—" George sighs. "I just haven't considered the possibility of this in a while. Letting myself think that way again after so much stress is... difficult."

"Oh."

"Hey, don't—you really don't need to think anything of it, okay?" George's eyebrows pinch, and he brushes the pad of his thumb down Dream's palm. "They're my expectations. I'm meant to deal with them on my own."

Dream stares candidly at the gliding touch exploring the dips and crevices of his hand, slow in its travels, forgiving in its wake. His face sinks slightly.

"On your own," he echoes, and his voice grows quiet. "I don't want these huge decisions to keep happening without me."

George silently squeezes his hand; he squeezes back. "Is..." George clears his throat gently. "Is that everything?"

Dream lets out a slow sigh.

The idea of a visa born months ago, the beginning of an application in hazy July. His head rolls over the roots and dirt of George's decision again, and again, and again. A feared game of waiting since early August. Over two months of secrecy, alone and unsure and afraid.

He falls back to George's patient face again as he sits before him, ankles crossed and chest shifting in even breaths as Dream searches for his answer.

How did this silence not eat you alive?

A nervous flutter passes through his chest.

How long have you wanted me more than I've ever known?

The thought expands larger than he can carry and manifests in a helpless parting of his lips.

Dream releases George's fingers and slides warm palms over his jaw, pulling his face in until his lips connect to the skin of his forehead. His mouth presses firm above George's brow, thin strands of hair caught somewhere between his chapped lips, and George's light flinch before easing into the embrace.

Dream's heart hammers as he says, "Thank you, so much."

"Wh—what?" George breathes against his face. "Dream, you don't have to—"

"Thank you for the visa, for applying, for everything, thank you—"

"Stop saying that," George interrupts, pulling back. "It's just an application."

He tsks. "No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"It's not," Dream insists firmly, dropping his gaze down to search George's face. "You haven't wanted to get your hopes up about it, that's fine. I get it. But mine—mine are up, George. They're way up, because I can see how huge this is, and I know, for you, it must've been so—so—"

He kisses his forehead again.

"Oh my—you're such a dork," George dismisses, pushing him off with a stern expression despite the press in his lips. "Seriously, Dream, is that everything?" His tone softens. "Are we done?"

Heart pressing keen to the bones in his chest, Dream says, "I think we are."

A deep breath flees George's throat and lands on Dream's collarbone as his head dips forward, the brunt of his face disappearing, and a weight slumps on the curve of his shoulder. Dream blinks down at the dark threads of hair crowding his view, and he carefully lifts his hand to rest on the back of George's neck.

"Today has been the most exhausting day," George mumbles.

"Yeah," he says faintly, fingers curving over skin and the bristling end of George's hairline. "I'm exhausted, too."

He feels George sigh against the warm cotton of his shirt, dried since the earlier drenching, still carrying a faded scent of rain. His quick glance at the large windows lining the room confirms the sun has left them, hours of talking stealing the last shreds of light from an overcast sky. He opens his mouth to voice a timid offer of heading to bed, ending their tumultuous day for good, but a sudden mumble on his shoulder stalls his tongue.

"I want it, too, you know."

Dream pauses. "Want what?"

"That thing you said earlier. To—to see you every morning, and all."

His face warms into a gentle smile. "Oh."

"Shut up."

"I didn't even say anything."

"I can hear you grinning," George mutters against his shirt. "I don't even need to look up."

He bites back a light chuckle. "You can't blame me, George, it's nice to hear you say it." George huffs before falling quiet, and Dream pushes, "Is... is there anything else you want?"

"I don't know," George says. "No."

"Come on." Dream slides restless fingers to toy lightly with the base of his hair. "After three months of sitting on this thing, nothing else comes to mind?"

His hand slows to a stall on the back of George's head at his continued silence, and he carefully guides George's head up. Dream meets his eyes again and wanders into the beauty of their brown. Hours before, fury flooded them, and only a soft semblance of guarded shadows hangs from the weight of his brow, curl of his lashes; slight tensing above his cheeks. A slow-lifting, determined squeeze takes hold of Dream's heart in his ribs; he has yet to see a coveted emotion settled in George's gaze. He hasn't seen hope.

"I..." George gazes at him through the warming air and breathes, "I want to kiss you again."

Dream's eyes widen. "What?"

"I mean—no—why did I say that?" George leans back in a similar startle, words tumbling rapidly as he pulls Dream's hands down, "I don't know where that came from. I'm sorry. Nevermind."

"No, no, no, hold on," Dream says quickly, tongue uselessly numb behind his unclenching jaw. "Just go back for a second, I wasn't—"

"Forget about it, Dream. Please."

Drawing in a silent inhale through his nose to temper the race in his chest, he watches George avoid his overt attention again. "Obviously it came from somewhere," he says. "I'm not gonna drop it."

George's eyes swing towards him, then plunge to their laps before the glinting bridge can linger. "That just—" His jaw tenses, and the light tint blooming on his face muddles Dream's churning chest further. "That was embarrassing, okay? I'm embarrassed."

"...In front of me?" he questions wildly and receives a weighted look. "Alright. Okay, George. Um, god, what was—" His gaze arcs high over George's dark hair to scrape the ceiling above in recollection, cheeks growing warmer as he clears his throat. "I had another—another dream where I got to see you, I'm beginning to think they're nightmares, I'm beginning to think you're haunting—"

"Oh god—"

"Haunting me," he continues, face hot as his voice strains, "I'm reaching, and I can't stop reaching—"

"I get it, I get it," George assures in a hush. "Please. You don't need to keep going."

"Just... don't feel embarrassed about telling me stuff like that," he says faintly. "Especially if it has to do with wanting to kiss me, god, I can't tell you much I—I mean, I always want to, well, I've wanted to ever since the minute I saw you at the airport, really, you and your suitcase and you looked so—" He huffs shortly as George's eyes snap up. "That's not—okay. Nevermind."

The steady thumping in his chest slows as his thoughts even out.

"You surprised me, that's all," he says softly. "Is kissing... something you're okay with, now?"

George's brows pinch together slowly. "Maybe... maybe it is."

Maybe, maybe.

He tries to keep his head from darting back to dripping rain, damp bench-slats, warm lips and hot breath on the curve of his chin where George's fingers drawled with grace. Regretless guilt lowers Dream's gaze briefly to his mouth, and he hopes his own is being remembered, too.

"Maybe this isn't just seven days anymore," George adds, quieter, and his pulse heightens.

Dream reaches to touch his jaw. "Maybe we could find out how you feel."

A light swallow bobs in George's throat, and he brushes a brazen thumb over the rise and fall. He watches George part his lips, swipe over dry peaks to leave a thin glistening on the curve, letting each movement sink in consideration before faint words slip from them.

"Maybe we should," George says.

An exhale blows out of Dream's chest. "Okay," he says, fingers brushing up to George's cheekbone and dragging a pink blush in tow. "Okay. I'll do it again, then. I'll do it right this time."

"Right?" George echoes, eyes slipping down.

"Softly," he says, leaning and leaning until his breaths begin to drift back. "Slowly."

Warm lips hover and shift in a light brush of his name. "Dream."

"Close your eyes."

"This feels dumb," George whispers.

Dream smiles, and the tip of George's nose nudges the lines on his cheek. "That's okay," he murmurs. "Can I kiss you?"

"Obviously."

"George."

"Yes," he says, "yes, just, please, please..." His voice fades to a gentle exhale as Dream presses his lips down to the corner of his mouth, and then withdraws. "Hey."

Dream's jaw tips, drifts, and he kisses the other side with a scarce catch of George's lips, chapped crevices on his mouth brushing the warm skin of his cheek. His hands guide George's face back to center in a hovering brush near the bridge of his nose, and a pause of filtered, cyclical, fleeting breaths is shared between them.

George tilts his forehead up to carefully meet Dream's own. "I..." He clears his throat quietly and whispers, "I've wanted this for so long, you know."

Heat flushes on Dream's cheekbones and spreads through his skull until the warmth finally guides his eyes shut; ears red, bloodstream red, palms a cupping tremble on the sides of George's face. With a careful pull, he closes the gap from George's mouth, and the noise in his head subsides. Gentle, brushing lips rekiss after hours of separation, softly remembering years spent sharing two halves of the same dream.

The room is noiseless beyond them, no trace of interruption as long, clean fingers touch down on Dream's chest. He slows in consideration, the familiar hands spreading on his collarbones have pushed him away before, and he begins to withdraw tentatively. George's fingers twist into fabric folds on his chest, and he pulls Dream closer.

Coiled heat escapes his throat in a low breath. Warm lips part timidly against his own, dry mouths and shaky exhales meeting in daring tilt to their world, hovering atop of a precipice of change. George's jaw slackens in his hands and foundations crumble as Dream falls through. He releases tension wired in the cage of his teeth as his tongue slips into George's mouth. A slow, bathing warmth rises to meet him.

Pads of his thumbs press onto George's cheekbones, hands trembling still; George is held between them, his taste is on his lips, and Dream's eyelids grow heavy. Every soft slew and warm upstroke against his open mouth forces his pulse to stutter. A breathless burn builds in his lungs, air decreasing between them, but pinpricks of embers entice him to kiss deeper, and George kisses back, and deeper, and back, and softer, and back until a ragged breath splits them down the middle.

Saliva cools on the curve of his bottom lip, and George's pants blow hot against it. Dream lets his chest heave, head lost in a dizzied, ringing hum, and frizzy carpet burns against his heated limbs.

"Oh," George says as Dream's thumb trembles in a trace over his flushed lips, "my god."

Dream lets out a wordless breath in agreement. His grazing hand drifts up and cards fingers through the thick locks of George's hair, and a heavy exhale blows down from George's nose against his upper lip. Silence fights to relax them both; his jaw dropping to combat his labored speechlessness, George's mouth tipping up in a subtle inclination at the shift.

Dream's heart seizes. "God," he rasps aimlessly. "This is real."

A weak huff leaves George's mouth, breath hot on his chin. After a passing beat of recovering breaths, he huffs again.

"Are you—" The corners of Dream's mouth twitch up as George breaks into faint, clipping puffs. "Are you laughing?"

Wrists hanging from his grip on Dream's shirt, George passes breathy jostles between the bridge of his forearms. "N—no."

"You are." Dream leans back as suppressed laughter creeps into his own chest. "Why—why are you laughing?"

"I don't know," George says, voice pitching and drawing a chuckle from Dream's lungs. "Why are you?"

Thick air clouding around them disperses briefly into shared laughter, subsiding as George leans his face heavy into Dream's supporting hands. His head and heart are warmed at the weighted tilt entrusted in his palms.

"We're really tired, aren't we?" Dream says breathlessly.

"Really, really tired."

"This is—" He chuckles as George smiles again, eyes falling fondly to try and catch it. "This is a little too much right now, isn't it?"

George nods slightly, head bobbing in Dream's palms and delivering the motion to the fluff of his hair. Dream sinks his teeth into his cheek at the urge to tip his jaw and kiss the breath from his lips again.

"Alright," Dream breathes. "Okay. We can—we can stop." He pulls back slowly to see George's face in full, and the drum between his ears grows louder and louder, blinding his thoughts and numbing his tongue until he blurts, "Do you want tea?"

A dazed smile rises across the sheen of George's lips. "...What?"

"Some—some tea," he stumbles. "Cause then we're still here, but not just sitting here, because sitting here I feel like we'll just—and I'll keep wanting to—"

"Um, sure," George interrupts lightly. "I guess tea sounds good."

He lets go of a tight inhale. "Okay. Okay, great."

"What uh, what kinds do you have?"

Dream clears his throat, parting their hands with a lingering squeeze. "I'll have to check. My mom did stock us up when I told her what days you'd be in town, though." He hears George scoff and smiles. "You have a lot of options to choose from."

"She's way too nice to me," George says.

"She's perfectly nice enough. So, do you want..." Dream's eyes scan over their surrounding space, and he quickly grabs the blue-inked list discarded ages ago on the coffee table. "Mint, or—" He scans down the page with familiarity. "Earl grey?"

When he looks back towards George, the pale curve of his cheekbones are dusted with a prominent blush. "Mint is fine," he answers faintly. 

A flicker jumps in his chest and his eyes drop to George's mouth. Focus. He ignores the freshly burned memories still buzzing on his tongue, and he rises off the rug. Focus on the stupid tea.

"Mint it is, then."

He wills himself to leave George in the living room, busying his hands and brain with the cluttered herb assortment in the far kitchen cabinets. Fumbling fingers retract the mint box, green leaves illustrated beneath his shaky thumbs as he realizes how drained his body has become.

A harsh swallow presses down from his mouth, strangely cold in the absence of George's hushed breathing into it. He hunts for the electric kettle and prays it'll work after months of disuse.

Months, he thinks. You could stay here for months. His head teeters on the idea as he plucks ceramic mugs from a high shelf. After that, maybe more. Maybe a long time. Maybe.

He brings the empty kettle towards the tap as he mindlessly flips on the faucet. Water spits down in a splutter into a half-full basin, and his eyes collide with a soaked tangle of hoodie fabric still resting in the sink.

Forgetfulness drags through him. Stained and idle, George's jacket floats, and Dream lifts his gaze over the pony-wall towards his seated stature. He's finally moved to rest on the couch's sectional instead of the floor nearby, and Dream's list is held studiously in his careful hands.

He watches while tap water trickles into the sink. An earlier ghost of George he'd known would've disappeared into fog at the sight of such a vulnerable, humiliating list. Before he can consider glancing away, Dream sees what his eyes stayed in wonder for as the page flips in George's hands. Shielded from the angle of staring at his back, he catches the side of George's face lifting in a private smile.

His heart soars higher than neon. Filling up the water, setting it to boil, Dream decides to deal with the hoodie in silent adoration, too.

-

(12:26 AM) Hi.

Dream's back rises off of his bed, phone lifted from his mattress and into his palms before his eyes can recover from the harsh glow. He glances at the wood of his door, closed an hour deep after their goodnights resonated from a dim hall to part for good, and he types out a response with rapid thumbs.

(12:27 AM) George

(12:29 AM ) You seem surprised

(12:30 AM ) thought you were sleeping

(12:31 AM ) I've been trying to

He blows out a breath and leans back into clean covers and sheets, batting away the light flick of a cattail Patches settles on his face. George had been on the brink of deep exhaustion when they'd reluctantly left the living room, returning pillows, refolding lists, offering to help put mugs in the dishwasher and check on the hoodie with a yawn between his words. Ever since he sent George upstairs and was isolated in the laundry room, a steady thrum of rain clothes in the dryer resonates in his mind; how could someone sleep after kissing him like that?

(12:32 AM) is something stopping you?

He doesn't get a reply for a moment, and his tiredness flees him for tilting curiosity.

(12:34 AM) Just wanna talk to you

A wide smile takes over Dream's features.

(12:35 AM) come into my room and we can talk all you want

(12:36 AM) Ur dumb

(12:37 AM) it was worth a shot

(12:39 AM) I'd call you but I'm a little too tired to speak

(12:40 AM) same

(12:41 AM) my throat feels like I've been yelling all day

Dream hesitates as the light swoosh of his message sends through, and he leans onto his side as his eyes drift up towards his street-facing window. Drawn curtains and blinds give hints of the same streetlamps' glow they'd wandered beneath the night prior, a hazy orange reminder of his own lack of sleep and toils of their day. His phone has been full of small texts from Sapnap reporting his boarding, take-off, landing, bathroom breaks scattered between, and he replied to them only moments ago when the world relaxed with him into his mattress.

His chest grows tight as he considers their drive home from the airport; their arrival after the clinic. He elects to send another message before George has replied.

(12:43 AM) I'm sorry by the way. really don't like when I get like that

(12:44 AM) ? Like what

(12:45 AM) raising my voice at you

Hovering bubbles of contemplating silence stare back from his screen, and he breathes out a deeply-hooked exhale. A quiet meow resounds from the nearby pool of fluff in response.

(12:47 AM) You don't really do that, Dream. Your words just get very sharp, and you stare a lot.

(12:48 AM) oh

(12:48 AM) is the staring a bad thing?

(12:49 AM) I don't think so

(12:50 AM) Sometimes it just feels like you're seeing everything about me all at once.

A light warmth tints on his cheeks, jaw pressed to the slant of his pillow. His eyes pass over the message again in selfish gratitude of being observed and existing to George, and he pushes the momentum in his chest further into the night.

(12:51 AM) maybe that's just what I look like when I'm trying not to kiss you

(12:52 AM) I'm familiar with that look

His heart picks up and he swallows faintly.

(12:53 AM) you know

(12:54 AM) nothing has to change now that it's just us. things can stay how they've been this past week if you want

(12:55 AM) You're funny.

(12:56 AM) I'm being serious

He deletes a furthering reply when George begins to type again.

(12:58 AM) You have no idea how I feel about you, do you?

(12:59 AM) I applied for a visa. I came here. I want things to change

Dream stares at his phone until the slight tremor in his hands urges him to offer a response. Warmth rises in his gut and he leans onto his stomach, intensely focused down at the rectangle of possibility in his hands. His glow reflects on the wood of his headboard.

(1:01 AM) can u say that into a voice memo for me real quick

(1:02 AM) Lmao fuck off

Dream huffs in amusement. His phone buzzes again and slices through his growing fondness as his eyes drop down.

A small, dashed indicator of a voice memo has appeared in their text thread. Eyes wide, he presses play, and George's recorded voice emits from his speakers.

"Go to fucking sleep."

He laughs sharply, head wandering to a sleep-deprived George in the bed opposite the hall, lost in covers as he curses into the device with knowing indifference.

I have missed this so much, Dream types, and he deletes it before his fingers hit send. Words spring into his head and he passes his tongue over the back of his molars in consideration before continuing.

(1:04 AM) that's kinda hot when you swear

His own joke makes him scoff, shutting off his phone in a nervous tap on the rounded corner in waiting for a dismissive reply. Vibration skitters through his index fingers.

(1:05 AM) Says you.

"Oh." His voice slips breathlessly, and his empty room offers nothing but the sound of his own flooding heartbeat back.

(1:06 AM) give me something to curse about and I'll record it for you

(1:07 AM) What exactly are you asking for?

"Oh," Dream repeats weakly. A spurred warmth spreads to his face and is poorly barred by a nervous swallow, his disbelief ebbing in daring surprise.

(1:08 AM) anything you'll give me

His response feels safe, tentative and testing, and he wills himself to watch the unchanging ceiling of his room. The less expectations he has, the less the fall will be, George isn't an idiot, it's been a long day, they're both at the brink of extreme exhaustion and he'll simply go to sleep if he doesn't get a—

Goog has sent you a snapchat.

He opens the notification hastily, and the red square expands into an image.

It isn't much of anything he hasn't seen before, a half-shot of George's neck and jaw with covers and pillows in view, tinged with collarbones reminding him of something he already knows George prefers to sleep without. Yet the sight trapped in the cold, unfeeling dimension of his screen is different after knowing how pale it compares to the warm skin and curved muscle he's witnessed up close in person, with wandering eyes or soft caresses or fleeting lips. His eyes bore at the image as the reminder rewires him; he's kissed the throat he's gazing at, touched George's jaw and felt the hot push and pull from the mouth just out of frame.

He's almost sure that's why it was sent, to remember the kitchen counter; confront a type of truth he's supposed to know but somehow can't believe.

The nearly forgotten caption at the bottom reads, "Hi from across the hall" above a local filter with Orlando's name in bold. He smiles unexpectedly when he sees the colored letters and navigates back to their text messages with temperance in mind.

He records brief seconds of a short audio message and sends it through. Moments later, a flurry of responses hit against white background.

(1:14 AM) I'm laughign so hard rn

(1:14 AM) Dream

(1:15 AM) What the hell was that

He grins.

(1:16 AM) what else did u expect from me

(1:17 AM) I literally don't even know

(1:18 AM) Definitely not you BARKING at me

(1:19 AM) You're so fucking weird

His head drops into a faceful of pillow fluff as his breathy laughter rebounds, warmed and comforted in confidence. Neither of them type for a stretching moment of regaining scattered wits until Dream finally collects himself.

(1:20 AM) sorry Georgie

(1:21 AM) had to let out my pent up feelings somehow

(1:22 AM) I'm gonna soundboard it

Calm anchors in the depths of him at the ease of sharing the night together, even if only through fleeting messages. His face rests comfortably pink on the prop of his forearm, and pricks of relief consume him from the inside out.

His thumbs hit record for another voice message, and he decides to send it through instead of backing away this time around.

George kept two audio messages from you.

(1:25 AM) Cute

(1:26 AM) I've really missed this, too.

Dream's eyes droop happily, and he reacts to George's message with a heart. Tiredness fully creeps in as he gives into it voluntarily, knowing he'll see him in the morning, and knowing he'll have plenty more chances to truly wish him goodnight.

-

Bristles of Dream's toothbrush glide over his molars, taste of mint spreading on his gums in a click of plastic against clean enamel. The urge to hum stirs low in his throat, but he keeps it to a minimum in preservation of the morning's silence; faucet left nonrunning, bathroom door ajar.

His bleary eyes return to himself in the dimly lit mirror, blinking until the image turns clear; sunken circles and unshaved shadows are poised with ease despite his early rise. Dream tips his head closer to the glass and brushes a thumb across his coarse jaw, tongue clicking in disapproval at the protruding stubble.

Bright bulbs flick on above his head, and his toothbrush nearly slips from his mouth.

"Oh!" The lift in George's voice sounds from the pushed open doorway. "Sorry, I—I didn't know you were in here."

The change in illumination intrudes brighter than the window's glow he'd been basking in, and Dream's vision adjusts alongside the spike in his pulse. Hand floating near the switch as he blinks back, George seems rested in the threshold, face calm and colored above fitting pajamas. With a mouthful of foaming toothpaste, Dream gestures back in vague greeting.

"Finally," George muses, tinged with amusement. "You're a mime."

Dream rolls his eyes and continues to brush noisily.

A softened smile rises on George's face. "What's that? You have something to say?"

He bends over and spits a pool of white into the sink. With a free tongue, he turns back to George and says, "You look very handsome this morning."

"You're an idiot."

Dream tracks the growing tint on his cheekbones as he moves into the bathroom, rinsing off the brush blindly with restless fingers. The drain gurgles, George touches a hand lightly on his lower back to step around him, and his hips press against the sink.

"How'd you sleep?" George asks.

He drops his eyes to avoid seeing warmth bloom on his own face at the fleeting, insignificant touch. "Fine, Patches woke me up just a little bit ago. You?"

The drawer glides open to his left as a travel bag of toiletries is rescued from the wooden space. "I slept really well, actually."

Dream's hands slow in their storing away of his toothbrush, and he lifts his gaze gently towards George in the mirror. Though downcast and busied with the ceramic counter, yesterday lingers in the weight of his dark eyes. George never links "sleep" and "well" together in the same turn of phrase; the six years Dream's tossed the question his way through texts or group calls or concerned one-on-ones, his answers are always one worded and wry.

He's being honest.

Dream considers, then reaches and slings an arm over George's shoulders to pull him into his side. Fondness blooms in his chest despite George's stiffness under the motion, and he murmurs to the top of his hair, "I'm glad to hear that."

Warm against the coursing beats held in Dream's ribcage; warmer when he links his fingers with the hand draped over his shoulder, George mumbles, "Why are you so obsessed with kissing my head?"

"It's not my fault you're the perfect height for it," Dream argues, and George huffs.

"Yeah, and you're the perfect height for—" His voice cuts off sharply.

Dream's head turns. "What?"

"Nothing."

Their locked hands quickly slip apart, and Dream pulls his arm down with a widening smile. "For what?"

"Move out of the way so I can brush my teeth."

He steps back, and George slides into the space he'd occupied. Dream glances towards the door in candid hesitation.

"That doesn't mean you have to leave," George mutters before his parting lips can offer.

"Are you sure? If you want some privacy, I can—"

"I don't want you to go."

Suppressing the beginnings of a keen response from the uptick in his chest, Dream eases to lean against the wall. His view of the stretch of George's back is entrancing enough, shoulder blades shifting beneath a shirt too large, yet held in the mirror opposite his reflecting image expands. With smooth movements; neat follow through, George's fingers touch toiletries, the faucet, a hand towel hanging off the wall in rhythmic ease. He's always considered his bathroom a particularly private space, and sharing it with George over the past week has been sharing with a cleanly ghost. Yet George exists before him in the same mirror he's stared at, cried in, wished to break or begrudgingly cleaned.

I've missed you from this bathroom, he thinks. I've called you, thought of you, taken pictures for you—all from here, before.

"Are you just going to silently spy on me while I do this?" George interrupts lightly, a loaded toothbrush held in front of his chest.

"I don't have anything to say," Dream murmurs. "I'm just happy."

George's eyes flick up in the mirror. "You're not going to start barking at me again, are you?"

A sharp laugh leaves his lips. "I'm—I'm gonna keep giving you my undivided attention, if that's what you're asking."

He smiles at him, George returns it with a slight shake of his head, and their contentment of shared silences accumulates in soft brushing and light breathing under the bathroom lights. Quietness turns to hums, fostering jokes in an attempt to make George laugh, a spray of spit hitting the sink's curve only once successfully. A razor is withdrawn from the organized travel bag, and Dream ends up sitting, then lying, on the bathroom rug while George carves away at his jaw.

"So Dream," George says finally, and his eyes detach from drawing over the white ceiling.

"So George."

George taps the razor's edge against ceramic, and a rush of water follows. "What is our plan for the day?"

"Well." Muscles in his abdomen tense as his back rises off the mat, and he watches attentively as George passes over the last streak on his neck. "The weather is supposed to be pretty overcast for most of the afternoon, which is fine, but downtown isn't the most fun if it rains. Same goes for putt-putt. Or that gator place Sapnap was telling you about—"

"Threatening me with," George corrects in a mutter.

"There's a list of outdoor stuff like that we can do when it's sunnier," Dream continues. "Our best option is probably the aquarium. I haven't been in a few years, the drive is nice, my sister loves it there and it's—it's up to you, really." He clears his throat. "Whatever you want to do."

George's face tips up as he peers into the mirror. "Do you really want to risk going out?" he asks. "There's a good chance we could get recognized, again."

"I mean, yeah, but..." Dream lets his voice trail, and his cheeks grow warm. "I want to show you everything."

George lowers a fluffed towel from his jaw silently, and he turns to meet Dream's upward gaze. His pulse ticks heavy in his ears under the reception of long, lingering seconds.

"They're going to know what I look like when you move here, anyway," Dream blurts, and he sees George's face soften.

"If I move here," George says gently, "we will have plenty of time."

Heat creeps over the bridge of his nose, and his head cools in recollection of the blurry morning before their kiss on top of the world; sweet pancakes and hot cocoa, George nodding off in his passenger seat on the drive home, glimpses of his lived-in town flashing through glass beyond the dark of his hair.

Time.

"Besides, we can easily figure out how to stay unnoticed in the meantime," George continues. "I guess I can wear a mask at the aquarium and let people think I have a cold."

His palms push off of cold linoleum until his standing gaze sweeps over George's head in the reflection, but George's attention is gone from him again, refocusing on cleaning scarce traces of shaving cream from the counter.

"All you have to do is keep your voice down—"

Doubled in the mirror and twice-questioned in his mind, his arms wrap forward around George's frame in a loose-hanging hold; fingertips on the curve of his shoulder, and a forearm crossing his middle. George jumps slightly, but warm shoulders melt back into his chest with a slow, sinking exhale.

"So I can't talk to you," Dream mumbles, strands of George's hair catching on the side of his cheek. "And you can't kiss me? That sucks."

"I... I probably wouldn't do that in public, anyway," George says, hands slipping from the counter's edge.

"M'kay." He lowers his chin to George's shoulder and pulls him closer with a squeeze. "You have before though, to be fair."

George's lashes nearly touch in a heavy blink downward as he breathes, "Dream."

His pulse rises sharply with his gaze, and he finds George seemingly transfixed by their reflection. Gingerly placed hands are swallowed in fabric as Dream's chest looms, George's eyes drift slowly, the image in unfeeling glass giving reason to the persistent thump of his heart against sharp shoulder blades. Embers skitter down to his stomach, and he begins to memorize the disappearance of George's collarbone and shoulder beneath his spreading palm before he blinks himself back down.

"Is this too much?" Dream asks quietly.

Dark eyes snap to meet him. "Not at all." Warm fingertips begin to trace the length of Dream's forearms, and the vibration of George clearing his throat startles his pounding chest. "No, not at all, this—this is... you're so..." George's palms travel over blond hairs and wide wrists until the peaks of Dream's knuckles are covered by his guiding touch.

Oh.

Dream stalls the breath in his throat, and his reckless hands stir to gentle life, a palm rising on the side of George's ribs as the other brushes fingertips towards the knit of his collar. Under every inch of soft fabric and warm body gained by the sprawl, he feels George's exhales grow deeper against him. A brazen smile lifts from his lips, oozing with a nostalgic shade of glory.

"You really like this," he murmurs. "Don't you?"

George's grip on the back of his hands tightens wordlessly, and his teeth sink into his cheek. Dream lifts knuckles to skim the smooth, shaven edge of his jaw, fixated on the motion in the mirror and drinking in each visible shift in George's expression.

"George," he says softly; a flush deepens on pale cheekbones. "I can see it on your face. Admit it for me."

George sinks back further into him, and a sharp exhale scrapes past his teeth. His forearm locks against George's stomach slightly, heart in his ears, and his eyes flick up.

"I think you might be enjoying it more than I am," George observes, and the sight of his poorly suppressed smile turns the burn on Dream's face into a scorching wasteland.

He swallows. "Maybe—maybe you're right, but in my defense, you're not the one facing—" His words catch in his throat as George turns around in his arms, close to his chest with a bump against thighs, piercing his inhales with a scent of fresh mint and clean lotion. Dream pinches his eyebrows together, and he feels George's light laughter. "Okay. Okay, just, hold on."

"You still want to go to the aquarium now?"

"Shut the fuck up, George," he breathes out. "Why do you have to smell so good?"

"Is that a no?" George's jaw tips up with the brightened gleam in his eyes. "You were so excited about it a second ago, but I have to admit, now it seems like—"

Palms on his back and nails curling in, Dream pulls him into a kiss, flush to the counter and soft on his lips. George's breathy hum of surprise hits his mouth and heat floods down his throat, tipping further into a mess of sliding hands with molasses sprawl. The solid press of George against his chest and hips overcasts his thoughts in an immediate, consuming urge; stay here, with me, insi—

Dream pulls back from the warmth of George's mouth wistfully, and he pants out, "Wait, wait. Aquarium."

"Wh..." George's shallow exhales beat against his neck. "What?"

Dazed fingers trace his gray-cotton ribs, shuddering lightly over bone. His nose bumps the bridge of George's nose, and he swallows with difficulty. "We—we should probably go now, I mean," he rasps, and his lidded gaze drops down to find dark eyes glued to the smear on his lips. "Before we can't. Right?"

"...Right."

The seconds tumble and Dream doesn't breathe, lungs plagued by the humidity of an inverse forecast; a day with crowding heat and dripping kisses and the softness of George's tongue, relearning tastes from yesterday, learning if teeth can bite or lips can pull and how to guide more than quiet breaths from his throat. Not a glance of the blue-tanked aquarium passes through his mind. 

"Dream?" George interrupts, his voice dropping low. "Can... can we please just do this all day?"

Dream exhales into a wide smile, and he glides warm hands up to George's jaw. "Thank god, yes, yeah, of course we can."

George pulls back briefly to meet his eye. "Tomorrow we are leaving this house."

"Oh, one-hundred percent, we will," Dream swears; he kisses him again in chaste temptation, and his heart skips at the tenderness of George's immediate sigh. "Tomorrow I'll take you out, we'll see some fish and get some food, maybe we'll eat some fish, actually, how's that for romantic—"

George smothers the grin from his lips, and his mouth tastes like toothpaste.

-

Dark shadows loom in a sprawl over Dream's unspinning ceiling fan; breezeless night beads on his neck and drips down his spine. Seated on the edge of his bed, his bouncing knee sends an endless jostle up his elbow to the cold phone screen pressed against his cheek.

The device rings out a stretching, repetitive chime in his ear, his teeth hold onto the edge of his thumbnail, and the outgoing call hits a full voicemail box barrier. His phone flashes back to Patches' face behind an overlay of apps, numbers hovering above her wide pupils.

3:17 A.M.

He blows out a shallow breath from his throat, and he hits the option to try again. A call casts out, the tethered line bobs, and he hears the receiver click as the connection tugs through.

"Hel—"

"George applied for a visa and he kissed me," Dream breathes out.

After a stretch of tense, unforgiving silence, Sapnap says, "George what?"

"He kissed me on top of the parking garage, and then again yesterday, and a lot of times today, we had a really long fight and I almost killed a bird but now I think we're kind of—"

"A visa?" Sapnap interrupts in a whisper-shout. "To live in Florida?"

"Yes." He rises off the bed and steps onto the pale hue of his carpet. "I promised him I wouldn't say anything when you were here but I just kissed—said goodnight to him in the hall, and I asked if I could talk to you about it now and he was like, 'if that's what you need to feel okay with all of this, then sure,' so here I am, telling you, and—"

"Okay, Jesus, that's great news," Sapnap mutters. "Holy fuck, you're making my head hurt, when... when is he going to move in?"

"Well." Dream's eyes swing towards the ceiling, and he clears his throat. "We don't know for sure, yet. The application hasn't been approved."

"What? Dream, why didn't you start with that—"

His shoulders pinch with the rise in his tone. "I know, I know, but it's only a matter of time," he insists. "He's a little apprehensive about it still, so maybe don't ask him unless he brings it up, okay? I promised I'd handle you for him, if you have any questions just... ask me instead."

A tapering exhale flees his chest, and his eyes grow easy on the open window. Warm air floats through the screen in a silent billow of his curtain, the folding ghost giving glimpses of a net blue crossed by stars and a hanging moon. The emptiness of his room glows back, stark in solitude after hours of having George by his side; even Patches' usual purring is kept walls away in the vacant bedroom. He studies the door briefly, wondering if George has fallen asleep by now, and realizes the humming silence on the phone line.

He glances at the ongoing seconds on the screen. "Sapnap? You still there?"

"Uh, yeah, totally," Sapnap responds. "Look, the visa is super cool, I'm super happy for you guys, but right now isn't really a—" Static shifts, and his voice drops to a whisper. "A good time."

His eyebrows knit together, and his eyes narrow at the darkened wall. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing, dude—"

"Then why are you talking like that?"

On the opposite end of the call, he catches a faint voice mumbling, "S'that Dream?"

The audio is plunged into sudden muffling, and his ears strain to discern hushed whispers, shifting fabric, settled by Sapnap speaking soft phrases of "fine" and "back to sleep."

"Is..." His pulse beats heavy as his eyes grow wide. "Is somebody with you?"

"I'll call you back tomorrow, okay?" Sapnap hurries.

"Oh my god." Dream's voice raises with a grin. "Somebody's with you."

"Dream, I swear to god, I am hanging up now and you're gonna leave it—"

"Put me on speaker," he demands, fingers tightening over the phone as he paces deeper into his room. "Click it right now, I'm begging you, who—whoever is there, take his phone and click the—"

"Tell him to go away," the voice emits again, and Dream's footsteps die. Tinny words echo into black silence, trapped between his ear and synthetic glass with clarity.

I knew it.

Subdued huffs and words prod through the background, and he catches Sapnap murmuring, "—course he heard that, dummy. What do you... you wanna say hi, now?" The volume shifts as Sapnap's voice hardens. "Dream. Don't be weird."

Dream holds his breath in his throat, and he listens intently to the shuffle and pass of the phone until his greeting arrives.

"Hello, parrot boy."

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

Dream pinches the bridge of his nose, and he mutters, "Hi, Karl."

The most telltale giggle in the world filters back.

His lips twitch into a smile, and he clears his throat in a weak cacophony. "So," he says. "Tasted any orange juice, lately?"

"Dream."

"You know what, I think I have, actually," Karl muses. "Awesome brand from someone called 'your mother'—oh c'mon, Nick." His voice slips farther away. "Give it back—"

"I hate you," Sapnap fumes directly into the mic, and Dream tips the speakers from his ear with a grin. "You have ten seconds. Say goodbye."

"Bye-bye!" Karl's voice calls.

"I'm so sorry for finding out this way even though I kind of already knew," Dream rushes, voice pitching louder at the sound of Sapnap's groan. "I love you! I appreciate you! I'm so proud of—"

The audio dies in an abrupt click. He smiles dazedly and tosses his phone to the edge of his bed, a list unfolding in his mind—once crumpled in the booth of a diner, each line bulleted by weeks of observation and months of suspicion—and satisfaction flickers through his chest.

"I'm a genius," Dream mutters.

His room responds with silent indifference. He scowls, eyes drifting back to the closed door.

I have to tell George.

He leaves his bed and mind behind for the cold handle of his door, and dusty darkness of the hall splits open before him in a blink. With each step through the haze of late-night air, an unfamiliar dread accumulates in his stomach.

I can't not tell him.

George's door approaches him swiftly and his hand lifts to knock, but the fierce tension in him doubles, spreading in a crawl from his abdomen to his throat. The soft mumbles and shift of blankets he'd listened to on call echo in his ears, chased by his rationalization; tonight is surely the first of Karl's stay in Texas, a trip likely planned for ages similar to his own September, and they all had stayed up late on the first day of George's visit, too.

Back to sleep, Dream mulls over Sapnap's barely audible words again, teeth shifting in a light clench. I woke them up, together. They went to sleep together.

He scrapes his eyes down George's door, and his knuckles rap absently against the hard, closed off wood. The veil of trepidation is lifted from him swiftly as envy grabs him by the jaw.

Why can't I have that with you?

"Oh." Dream's ankles shift in a half-step backwards. "Wait, this... this is..." His head turns in gravitation back to his room, busy journal pages, remembering the written exercises to think, Clay, look at the impulse, see if it has value, or if it's just a—

"Dream?" George's voice mumbles from nearby, and his eyes swing back.

Bad idea.

"George," he breathes.

Fuck.

The entrance to his room is partially open, and dark grooves on the wooden door cut off in sharp contrast to George's face of ivory, paleness descending down his neck, the muscled slope of his shoulders, bare collarbones and chest and stomach half-filtered by shadows until meeting the waistband of his sweats. Behind a slight rub from slow-moving knuckles, his bleary eyes don't seem to catch Dream's open stare.

"Is—" George yawns and covers it with the back of his hand before blinking dazedly, continuing in a low-voiced rasp, "Is everything okay?"

His teeth find the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, everything's fine. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, I just..." He gestures uselessly over his shoulder with the point of his thumb, fingernails curling into his palm. "I had this weird phone call with Sapnap, and uh..."

The bush of George's brows knit slightly above squinting eyes, and Dream wades into the stare. His pounding heart courses with their day in its entirety; kissing George by the bathroom sink and again into the rumbling dryer, hugging him before the fridge, being pulled down to the couch, laughing until his inhales stung, and eventually exchanging simple 'goodnight's in the same, dark doorway.

George tips his head in patient waiting, and the words tumble from Dream's mouth.

"Do you wanna sleep in my room tonight?"

His own eyes widen as the question slips out, and George's alertness shifts visibly before him. Night air draws into his chest, dense with swirling fear of returning to his room alone; pushing George farther away than across the hall. Lingering untouched between them, the offer hangs in honesty, and Dream doesn't try to withdraw it.

"In your bed?" George asks slowly.

He swallows. "Yes."

"With you?"

"Yes."

George blinks at him. "I'll go grab my stuff."

"Really?" he exhales, head tipping through the doorway as George steps back into the room. "Are—are you sure?"

"Yes," George tosses simply over his bare shoulder, plucking a pool of pink fabric from the floor. Lean muscles shift in a rise of sparsely freckled skin on either side of his spine, blades and bone disappearing as fabric cascades from the back of his neck. His exposed forearms reach into the bed's disturbed blanket mound, and he withdraws a pillow and phone before wandering back towards Dream.

He leans back breathlessly as George slips by, and his hand jolts when warm, firm fingers wrap over his wrist. He's tugged down the hall with gliding, floaty steps, sliding their hands together, and George glances back with a soft-lipped smile the same shade as the t-shirt hanging from his frame.

"You are the prettiest person I've ever met," Dream says softly.

"Oh my god." George's eyes skip forward as they breach the bedroom's threshold, and he mutters, "Please don't watch me sleep."

Dream grins at him lightly and gives his hand a squeeze; George passes it back, he squeezes again. Their fingers slip apart with ease as George tosses his pillow to the bed, and the pastel stretch of his back flops down in a flattening of creased covers after it. Dream's gaze rakes over the blanketed sight, and chords of his heartbeat begin to crescendo in his ears.

"...Dream."

He lowers in a soft sink to the edge of the bed. "Right. Sorry."

Shifting towards the window's glow, George huffs in amusement. "What the hell did Sapnap say to you?"

His eyes swing right. A curious smile springs across George's face, cheek turning against the pillow, and he gazes up.

"George," Dream says warmly, flopping down on his back to join him. "You are never going to believe what happened."