Dreamnotfound oneshots

Is what I'll do

And, with that, George slipped from his grasp and the room. It wasn't long before he heard the sound of water running. Nor was it long before he pushed himself up on trembling arms, heady with nausea. Though still cold and hollow, he felt warmer than before and certainly more moveable.

By the time he'd pried himself from his bed and onto weakened legs, stumbling to pick up the first set of clean clothes that he could find, George had finished running the bath. Dream made his way over heavily, never wanting to waste George's time or effort. George smiled, ever kind, when Dream reached the bathroom and carefully pulled the hoodie from over Dream's arm.

At Dream's confused look, George decided to explain. "My mum would always put my hoodie in the tumble drier before I wore it when I had a bad day - it makes it warm and soft." The memory was something George held close to his heart. Dream nodded, watching as George walked from the room with his green hoodie held delicately, as though it were something endlessly precious.

As much as Dream forbid himself from thinking about it, what he and George had going wasn't friends. It hadn't been since that tense moment beneath the streetlights of a London road whose name had long since left Dream, steps away from his hotel, when they'd gotten so very painfully close to finally closing that gap between them. 

They'd stared wordlessly, neither wanting to be the one to end the day with a goodbye, illuminated only by the warm yellow of the lamp above. Dream wasn't even all that certain of what had happened, wanting not to dwell on it for fear of losing what little sanity he had left. Somebody had glanced, eyes flickering down, and then someone had leant - that's the extent of what Dream had let himself remember. It had ended with the barest graze of lips, the clicking creak of a door opening and then a quick, flushed goodbye. 

The next day, they acted as though nothing had happened. The only indication Dream had that it wasn't some cruel memory of a fantasy was the underlying tension that now sat comfortably along their shoulders.

So Dream was equally very surprised and not really that surprised at all when George returned to the bathroom, finally having the courtesy to look nervous and bashful. He wasn't exactly sure how to word his offer, still not certain at all of the extent of Dream's own feelings for him nor how something like this may effect the fragile mental state that he was in. He attempted instead to communicate what he wished to say wordlessly.

What George attempted to extend to Dream was kind and warm and chaste. It was shy and so terrifyingly intimate that Dream really didn't blame his friend (could they really call each other that anymore?) for not being able to say the words. He instead nodded softly, cheeks a wonderful cherry red, and waited for George to turn away.

George perched himself on the end of the bathtub, vigilantly watching the wall in order to give Dream his privacy. At two tentative taps to the back of his hand, he turned back around to face Dream's back. Despite their childish nervousness at Dream's state of undress, the silence that lingered was neither tense nor suffocating.

George rolled up his hoodie sleeves and placed shaking hands onto Dream's broad shoulders, pushing ever softly until he could softly cup water in hand and pour it over dirty blond hair. Once it was all adequately soaked, he slow pushed Dream back up into sitting and reached for the shampoos, picking out a scent he'd distinctly remembered from the very first time he'd been in Dream's arms. He worked deft fingers through Dream's hair in long, gentle movements, carefully lathering it completely and massaging against Dream's scalp.