They settled on a low-ceilinged hoagie restaurant, small enough to not threaten them with being recognized, but large enough for Dream to easily stretch out in the warm booth. Their post-airport lunch is light and leisurely; warm foods, trivial chatter, recounting of inside jokes to blanket traces of subtle unease.
Certain pauses in conversation carry a half-given beat of awkwardness, of clumsiness, as they collectively learn how to exist in the same space together. Sapnap falls silent when soft chuckles die down, and Dream can tell he's nervous. George idly rearranges the napkin and utensils before him, and Dream guesses that means he's nervous, too.
A lot could weigh on this, they know. Yet with the way that George smiles when Sapnap teases Dream, or how they begin what could be a week-long fight over who has the rights to his car's passenger seat, Dream feels they'll fall into comfort in no time.
Maroon leather slides against his back as he reclines in his seat, dragging a napkin over his mouth. George picks at his fries from across the table. Despite 'not being hungry yet,' Sapnap snags a few stray seasoned wedges, his elbows nudging Dream on the retrieval.
"I'd say this meal is pretty American," George says.
"They are greasy," Dream agrees, staring down at the half-eaten lump of bread and meat on his plate. "Still good, though. Are there any foods here that you've thought about wanting to try?"
George shrugs.
"We could go to that one Mexi place," Sapnap says.
Dream tips his head at him in confusion, until Sapnap vaguely gestures with his hands a large, burrito shape. "Oh."
George's dark eyes lift from his meal to meet Dream's gaze. "Up to our host."
He smiles. "Up to our guest."
"Don't lie," George says, "I know you have some kind of itinerary. I can feel it."
"True," Sapnap inputs before Dream can argue against it.
"Not an itinerary." He leans forward, and spitefully steals fries from George's basket. "It's just like, a list we jotted down of stuff to do while you're here. If you want to, I mean. They're just suggestions."
George's eyebrows raise. "A list?"
Instead of only hearing the warm amusement lying beneath the surface of George's voice, Dream witnesses it happen. The way it shines in his eyes; curls his taut mouth together.
"A list," Dream repeats in confirmation. He nervously chews the fries, and raises a palm over his mouth as he muffles, "It's probably in Sapnap's room, somewhere."
George grins. "It's handwritten?"
"I dunno why you sound so surprised," Sapnap says. "Dream makes 'em all the time."
"I did not know that." George looks at him, head tilting in an unspoken question.
"It's a good way to pass the time," Dream answers. Hesitance trickles into the soft syllables of his reply, and he smooths his thumb over the folded creases he's made on the napkin in his lap.
George smiles, quizzically. "Why handwritten, though? I use my notes app for everything."
Dream glances at him. Tracing graphite over soft lines on paper gives his world order, and traps his words in safety. What he chooses to sink into the ringed notepad of his groceries or pages of his journal is controlled; secluded.
In short, 'accidents' are harder to send.
"Writing stuff down helps me organize my thoughts a bit more," he says, keeping his tone even to not bait anymore interrogation. When he sees that George seems satisfied with his explanation, he looks away.
"I like the lists," Sapnap says. "They're cute." He turns to nudge up the bottom hem of Dream's shirt, fingers jabbing into his lower back.
Dream leans forward slightly in confusion. "What are you—"
His leather wallet slides from the back pocket of his jeans, and is flopped heavily onto the table next to napkins and sugar packets. He rolls his eyes.
Dream told him where he stored the small notes in confidence, and knew he was only waiting for the perfect moment to rifle through them. As he watches Sapnap flip open the wallet, and extract several folded pieces of paper stashed between credit cards and coupons—he feels inklings of regret for telling him at all.
Sapnap passes one to George, who takes it gingerly.
"You," Dream says to them both as Sapnap opens one, "are so annoying."
"It's funny," Sapnap coos, then clears his throat. "This list is called, 'Yellow.'"
"Of course you keep them in your wallet," George mutters.
Dream feels his face warm at his tone. It's a sound that borders on fondness from a summer past, but he quickly forgets to respond when Sapnap speaks.
"Pencil, school bus," Sapnap reads from the white paper in his hands, "fire hydrant. Buggy at house across the street." He looks up. "Dream, is this just a—"
"List of yellow stuff I saw one week," Dream concludes, defensive.
George laughs. "Why?"
"Lemons. Lemonade. School bus, again," Sapnap continues. "Envelope. Another bus. Sun—the sun, dude?"
"Yellow is a nice color," Dream answers weakly. They're only mindless lists he makes to anchor down his racing thoughts. He knows they don't mean much; he could toss them in the trash without a care once completed. Yet as he watches George carefully unfold brittle paper, he can't help but wonder if there could be one in the stacked pile that he doesn't want them to see.
"Why are there so many?" George asks. He peers down at the page in hand. "This says, 'Susnap.'"
Sapnap frowns, refolding the list of yellows. "What? What's it say?"
Dream feels himself grin with recollection. "Ah."
"Pink hoodie," George reads, "orange juice. Phone charger, and then in parenthesis, 'broken' with a question mark. Nail polish, bubblegum—"
"Dream," Sapnap says sharply, leaning forward to yank the paper from George's grasp. He balls it up in his palm, while Dream chuckles at him lightly.
"I don't get it."
"Me neither, George." Dream begins to slip a few lists back into his wallet. "I don't remember what that one was about."
Sapnap shoves his heel into Dream's shin below the table. The smile on his face is unflinching, and he's glad his initial embarrassment turned into this.
"Bread," Sapnap says as he opens another. "Butter. Fried egg, salami, mayo and mustard—okay. The rest of this is boring. You're boring."
Dream rolls his eyes. He remembers that one; he'd been trapped in a heated 'Geoguessr' call with Wilbur and a few friends, irritated that he somehow guessed Italy wrong, and starving for a breakfast he'd neglected to make beforehand. Seething, he'd scribbled down the ingredients, until his anger was reduced to hunger pains only.
His gaze snags on a dog-eared list now resting atop the pile, worn and blue ink seeping fuzzied shapes from the inside. His eyes widen with recollection as George reaches for it.
Not that one.
"I think," he says, quickly grabbing it before either of his friends can, "that's enough, for now. You've made your point."
George notices his haste. He peers at Dream curiously, but says nothing, as Sapnap deviates from the wallet and ropes them into another conversation. The weighty shade of his eyes carries a slight glint from the fluorescents overhead.
It'll take time to get used to, he'd muttered when surrounded by the airport hum.
Dream hasn't agreed with anything more in his life. Throughout the duration of their drive and bickering over parking and assessment of tables and menus, seeing George has been surreal. Webcams and digital selfies are nothing compared to what lays before him now. Some moments feel like he's always only known George in person, and others as though he's meeting him for the first time.
He longs to have answers that wouldn't be right to ask for over greasy buns and fizzing soda cups. Answers for questions like; Did you miss me? Are you surprised? Do I look like you thought I would?
"Why do you keep staring at me?" Dream asks, and his jaw clenches once he realizes what's left his lips.
You idiot, he thinks, and George quickly looks away, you giant idiot.
"Sorry," George voices in an embarrassed hush, and Dream has to keep himself from wincing.
"Does he look like you thought he would?" Sapnap questions, and Dream's eyes slide sharply to see him innocently sipping from his glass.
Why would he ask—"Sapnap, don't make him—"
"Sort of," George chimes, and Dream is rushed into silence.
He nervously glances back to see George looking at him, studying him, with the same expression he had standing on the terminal sidewalk. His attention lifts to Dream's eyes.
"I think I underestimated you," George says, and it sounds like the words are for him, only.
His chest tightens. "That's a bad habit of yours."
George blinks, but his gaze is unflinching. "I know," he says.
Dream's eyebrows raise. "You know?"
"Can you pass the ketchup?" Sapnap asks.
Dream's heart pounds, George's eyes slip away, and he blindly passes the red, glassy bottle to his right.
-
"Okay, George," Dream says, shutting his car door once they've returned to his neighborhood. He exhales shortly. "This is my—"
"No way," George interrupts, as he slides out of the backseat. "You're joking."
Standing at the foot of his concrete driveway, the three peer up at Dream's house. Clouds pass sparse on the blue sky behind the roof. Palm trees in his yard sway idly.
He side-eyes the white arches and dark shingles he's become indifferent towards. "I am not joking."
Sapnap heaves George's suitcase in his hands. "Tell me I was wrong. I dare you."
"Wrong about what?" Dream steps forward, forcing George to stir to life next to him, and follow.
"You were right," George says.
He regards them with narrowed eyes. "Right about what?"
"That it looks like a middle aged mom would live here," Sapnap gives in, tossing Dream a sharp smile. George nods as though the observation should've been clear immediately.
"Well, I mean—" Dream tries, yet stops short in his own defense. Slight embarrassment squeezes in his chest as they make their way to his front door.
"Please, Dream," George says, and although Dream doesn't need to look to see his grin, he does anyway. His eyes are bright and the amusement folds across his face with grace. "Continue."
"I guess you're not wrong," he carries on slowly, "since almost all of my neighbors are in their forties—"
"Oh my god," George says. "You really do live in suburbia."
Dream rolls his eyes. "You live on the same property as your mother, George."
"Shit." Sapnap's laugh earns a glare of betrayal. "Sorry, man, that's a K.O."
George shakes his head in slight disapproval as Dream turns back to the door.
"My plan is to do it all backwards," Dream says. He slides his key into the lock. "Big ol' family house now, and then move to a city apartment when I'm like, sixty-five and having pains using the stairs."
Sapnap pushes on the door once the metal clicks open. "Move to Houston."
Dream steps to the side as he holds the entrance for them. "No."
Arm stretched through the threshold, his palm presses flat against the wood. Sapnap tugs George's luggage inside, narrowly avoiding Dream's knees as the bag sways intentionally in his grip.
His attention falls on George, who's feet are on his doormat, head under the overhang, hands within reaching distance—and eyes fixed on Dream.
A silent breath catches in his throat. "Um," he says. "Welcome, George."
"I'm gonna dump this upstairs," Sapnap says, dragging the suitcase away.
When George moves inside, his steps are hesitant, eyes rapidly leaping from wall to wall. "I can't believe I'm actually...here," he says.
Dream's gaze slips over the back of his dark hair; his thin shoulders in the tinted-purple crewneck. The height of the ceiling in the foyer doubles when George moves deeper beneath it.
Me neither, Dream wants to say. He glides the door shut behind them.
"Well," he mutters, and George turns back to face him, "you better believe it."
His eyes fall to George's smile as it lifts across his pale features. It's a brief, impulsive flicker that sends his heart into the stratosphere the moment he realizes what he's doing.
He clears his throat. "So, I could just show you where you're sleeping, or...we could take a look around, if you want."
"Are you offering me a tour?"
Dream grins. "Yes."
George laughs gently. "Then yes," he says.
When Dream steps past him to dramatically place himself in the center of the opening hall, he notices how George's attention fails to wander anywhere but his face. He spreads his arms wide, palms up.
"Let's begin," he utters. George's eyes squeeze with amusement at his ridiculousness, so he clears his throat for emphasis. "I have to ask that you refrain from touching anything we come across in our tour. I know you'll be tempted to—" George scoffs, and Dream can hardly talk through his smile. "But everything here is very fragile. And worth millions."
"Even the 'welcome to Gatorville sign?'" George asks, pointing firmly to the tacky green and orange sign Dream had grabbed from a thrift store several years back.
"Millions," he repeats. He turns to step down the hall. "And no flash photography, please."
"Okay," George says, pulling out his phone, and clicking his camera shutter at the 'expensive' decoration.
Dream stops abruptly when he sees the flash ricochet across the glossy walls. He stares at George with a wavering expression of feigned disapproval.
The look is returned to Dream, dark brown and defiant.
Very slowly, George turns the phone tilted up in his palm threateningly towards Dream, whose face breaks into a smile immediately.
"You're such an idiot," he says in a rush, defeated as he quickly turns to avoid George's hypothetical photo.
"Camera shy."
"Whatever." He cranes his neck towards the direction of the stairs, and cups his hands over his mouth. "Sapnap!"
After a few seconds, they hear Sapnap yell back, "What?"
"We're giving George a tour!" Dream shouts.
A series of intentionally heavy footsteps ensue. After only a week, Dream can distinguish with ease when Sapnap leaps lightly from the stairs, and collides with the hardwood landing.
"I was looking for the kitty-cat," he says, once rejoined with them in the hall. Patches and Dream are one in the same; they love Sapnap, but aren't fond of his noisy feet.
"I'm sure she's around here somewhere." Dream glances at George. "She's a little skittish, at first."
Like you.
"Don't take it personally," Sapnap says in agreement. "She didn't let me hold her till like, my third day."
George makes a comment about what 'holding' means to a guy who gave him such a life-threatening hug at the airport. Sapnap responds with something Dream asks him not to repeat, to no avail, and he's forced to let them bicker.
The tour marches on through the kitchen and living room. Sapnap dutifully agrees to help Dream as a 'guide,' and they spend most of their time entertaining George with lame jokes and talking over each other's words. Sapnap demonstrates the talking fridge; George makes comments on the cabinets, and couches. When George glides his fingertips over the cool countertops, the tension seems to be leaving his shoulders and slipping from his face. Abundant smiles and quips lift from his mouth.
Dream keeps himself focused, gesturing to vague pieces of furniture and trying whatever he can to hear George's laugh echo off his walls. His heart thumps in a relentless, rapid pace against his ribs at the sight of George here, in his house, stepping over cushions and touching the screen door that he'd imagined he would hundreds of times. He'd certainly never imagined George would be this polite; noting the cleanliness, and dropping light compliments.
When they reach the backyard and stand on the concrete patio, a much needed breath of fresh air washes over them all. Sapnap, barefoot, points at plants and makes up useless facts as they wander about Dream's 'garden.'
Hands in his pockets, Dream falls into quiet contentment as he lags behind them.
"The hot tub is over there," Sapnap says, extending an arm in the direction of the covered jacuzzi.
Dream had texted George about it last spring when he first purchased it, but has narrowly mentioned it since then. He's unsure why the confession of using it despite the heat of the summer would've felt too close to home. His longing for warmth, though dormant, is embarrassing.
"Maybe if it cools off enough, we can use it," Dream muses absently. His attention floats back to where George steps out into his yard.
The green world softens around him. Grass blades rise low on his ankles, and bend in the same breeze that ruffles gently through his hair. A light sweat graces his skin, from the hours of the stuffy plane no doubt, and the strange humidity Dream knows George is unfamiliar with. Dark browns against sunny blue; the clouds drift closer to him in similar longing.
He wonders what George looked like, standing on his grandparents farm all those weeks ago. How many minutes did it take the rain to shrink him, down to bones, and shivering skin? How many years did it take Dream to do the same?
"Has it rained?" George asks suddenly.
Dream's thoughts snap back down to earth once more. His lips part in silence.
George's voice was soft when he uttered the words, and for a reason he cannot place, Dream finds himself glancing at the back of Sapnap's head before responding, "Since...summer?"
He recalls how quiet George's whispers had been when they'd spoken of rain over the phone, cozied in faint drizzle and the smell of oncoming storm. Though he's tried to forget, he can't release the memory of downpour turning into lightning and thunder; a mimicry of his own destruction.
George says nothing.
"Yeah, it has," he continues. "Nothing that strong though, yet."
He nervously loops his fingers together behind his back. He hopes his answer satisfied George, because he can't tell if he'd even listened to the words at all.
That is, until he watches as George's eyes slip back over to the patio and overhang that Dream had extended a warm palm from, in June. His pulse jumps.
Is he thinking about that call, too?
"Forecast said it might in a couple of days," Sapnap says.
Dream blinks. "You...check the forecast?"
"You don't?"
Dream huffs, sparing a glance up at the sunny sky. "We really haven't needed to."
Mud squishes beneath the soles of George's shoes, and he sways his weight to carefully wipe off the dirt on dry grass. "Why's that?"
"It's been the same every day since I got here," Sapnap offers.
"The weather is pretty mellow," Dream agrees. "I think we're due for another bad storm soon, though." His mind wanders into memories of power-less nights as a kid, howling rain and tipping trees. "Those are the ones carried in from the sea. They flood some homes, steal electricity," his voice falls before he can steel himself for the sound of it, "and then they leave."
George's eyes flick to him immediately. "Like hurricanes?" he asks.
From across the Atlantic, you've torn through Orlando before.
Will you do it again?
"Yeah." Dream forces himself to look away. "Like hurricanes."
Will I let you?
He doesn't like the way Sapnap's gaze catches his when George hums, and turns away. He doesn't like how it reminds him of the sound of the phone ringing, and ringing, and ringing.
They drift past the talk of weather, and the tour continues.
-
"I understand you worship your air-conditioning," George mutters, his shoes squeaking against the hardwood steps, "but this is a bit brisk, Dream."
Dream scowls as they reach the top of the stairs. "What do you mean? You've been here for two seconds."
"It's cold," George says, and his voice echoes down the hallway.
"See?" Sapnap's fingers lightly connect with Dream's shoulder. "I'm not crazy."
Dream swats him away. "You're such a baby."
"George agrees with me, dude. George." Sapnap nudges him again.
"I do agree," George assists. "Unfortunately."
"You're both babies." Dream stops abruptly to force Sapnap to collide with his back. He grins, before he's shoved forward.
"Get off me."
Dream points at the series of doors down his maze of halls. "Here is your room, George. That's the bathroom. Down there is—"
"My room," Sapnap says.
"Yes," Dream confirms. "Other bathroom is in there, too. There's another room downstairs by the office, but—" He gestures lazily, before reaching to connect with the handle to George's door. "This one's bigger."
It swings open. He's careful to hover outside when George moves into the spare bedroom that he's fussed over one too many times. It doesn't hold much other than the bed, a dresser, and a half-open closet with board games and clutter stacked on the floor.
"My bags made it," George says.
His luggage is at the foot of his bed, organized and intact. Folded towels and extra blanketing lay neatly on the white duvet. Dream's teeth sink into the interior of his cheek, realizing how obvious he'd placed care into the makeup of the room.
"I almost expected them to be ransacked," George mutters. He raises his voice. "Thank you, Sapnap."
"Yup." Sapnap's response is quickly followed by the telling slam of the bathroom door. He'd been complaining about needing a break for the past ten minutes, and as a result, was grilled for the unprofessionalism of his requests.
"Not fit to be a tour guide," Dream calls, smiling when he hears a very faint 'fuck you' from down the hall. His eyes wander over the off-white walls, his sister's framed photography on the dresser—anything but George, and his suitcase, and his shoes as he slips them off his feet.
"Didn't wanna track dirt in here," George says. He nudges his absurdly white shoes in a neat line near his bags. "It's so clean."
Dream hums in response. The familiarity nags at him.
"Did you vacuum—" George begins to ask, but Dream clears his throat. "Oh, sorry."
"What? Oh, no, I wasn't—I didn't mean to interrupt," Dream rushes.
"Then why did you—" George imitates the deep cough, poorly, "huh-hem."
"I didn't huh-hem, I was just getting spit out of my throat."
"Sounds like what you do when you have something to say," George muses, moving back to the door. He's several strides away when Dream finally looks down at him, again. "So?"
"I don't," Dream says quickly. "I don't have anything to say, I'm just—just nervous."
God.
"You're nervous," George repeats. He steps into the hall as Dream sways away from him.
"I am."
George smiles. "That's dumb."
Dream's gaze is soft. His voice is warm. "It is."
White rays fall from the skylight near the stairs, fuzzy on the walls and in the air between them. Dream can hear the beat of his heart, and the light shuffle of George's socks on the wood floor as he passes down the hall in exploration.
Dream follows him.
George stops in front of Dream's bedroom door. "You didn't tell me what this one is."
"That's mine," Dream explains vaguely, and the second the words leave his mouth, George's palm is on the brass handle and pushing inside. "Oh—" The wood glides open easily as George enters. "You really don't have to—"
He's not sure what it is about the still air that seeps into their clothes in warm greeting, but it slows them both. Time sinks into molasses; dust carries from the sheer curtains. George's steps gradually decline until he's standing still, in the heart of it all.
His room has been a space of constant change in the recent weeks. Dream has rearranged his dark dresser and expensive setup, cleaned out old shelves and torn doors off of his closet. The surfaces are decluttered, more foam panels cover the walls, and sticky-notes cling to his monitors. He's been determined to redefine what this place of comfort truly means to him.
"Yours," George echoes with curiosity. He turns, and his eyes slowly flick over the furniture and broad walls.
Dream leans against the door frame, wood digging into the muscle of his shoulder. His hands idly find his pockets again, as he asks, "What do you think?"
"What do I think," George repeats in a drawl, and Dream bites back a smile. "Hmm."
"Do you like it?" he asks. Though playful, the question gnaws at his ribs.
They've spoken in their separation, but any conversation shared prior pales in comparison to this. Brief moments of lingering after group streams or quick calls for editing questions are nothing like this; George in his room, talking to him alone, words wary but warm.
"You could use a few more decorations," George says dismissively.
He lets out a forlorn sigh. "I know. I've been moving most of my old stuff to the fan-mail room, or for the office space, whenever I finish that up."
His heart pounds as silence settles calmly over them again.
"It's very...you," George murmurs, moving away from the center of the wide room.
Dream watches as he meanders carefully. "What do you mean?"
The black frame of his desk chair turns when George nudges it idly with his fingers. He looks impossibly small next to the mesh seat, in a room with ceilings Dream hasn't considered particularly tall until now.
"I don't know." George hovers over his desk, observing the knick-knacks scattered there. "It seems like you only keep the stuff you really need." His mouth presses together in a light smile. "Like this...snow globe?"
Dream's gaze falls to the small, rounded object perched near his keyboard. The base is a brightly-colored scene of the ocean floor, with kelp and sand protruding with a physical texture that his thumbs are familiar with. Inside the glass is a dolphin, perched on a crashing wave.
"Yeah," Dream says. "I set it down there once and just...never took it off. When I'm at my desk for a while, it's fun to—" He makes a tipping motion with a half-cupped palm. George smiles at him, and his heart thumps in his chest. "You can, uh, pick it up if you'd like."
George carefully takes the transparent sphere in hand, and mimics Dream's movement. The glass turns, bubbles running along the curved interior. Flakes of white and glittering blue cascade over the animal's fins.
"Where did you get it?" George asks.
"It was a gift," he says warmly. "My sister bought it at the aquarium for my birthday, last month. She said she was torn between that one and a jellyfish."
"That's very sweet." George carefully returns the snow globe to the desk. "Did you spend it with your family like usual?"
Dream's lips part, before he utters, "Yeah, I did."
He knows me, he reminds himself. Of course, he knows me.
George nudges something else on the desk. "And what about this?"
Dream cranes his neck to see. George holds up the accordion-style tower of sticky notes that criss cross as they descend from his palm.
"I get bored," he answers defensively. He'd crafted the paper construction nights prior, when he'd considered the possibility of this moment between them. He'd planned to keep his door shut tight, and not allow it to happen at all. Out of sight, out of mind.
Yet George has always had a gift for surprises.
He carries on moseying over the contents of Dream's room, picking objects in a shy manner and asking questions that are curious, and patient. When small stories fall from Dream's mouth to answer, he listens dutifully.
After a certain beat, Dream sheepishly glances up. "Sorry, I've told you this one before."
"That's alright," George says, and waits for him to continue.
Dream's heart refuses to cease racing, with George in the center of his room, the center of his world. It wracks at his nerves and threatens to reveal the furious fondness he's successfully keeping at bay; biting back smiles, fighting a flush.
He realizes he wasn't ready for the unexpected intimacy of this part of their 'tour.' It feels like an invitation to the core of his heart, and almost knowingly, George enters with care. His movements are cautious as he explores the room, and he seems to only touch items after Dream states it's okay.
"It's very you," George repeats, with more confidence than before.
Through the mirror hanging opposite of the doorway, Dream watches as George turns to meet his eyes in the reflection.
"Nothing flashy, very clean," he says pointedly, and Dream feels his face warm at his smile. "It feels honest."
Behind smudges and a thin layer of dust, George's echoed image pushes Dream into silence. His gaze slides away from the glass trap and to the real George's back, as he begins to read the post-it notes stuck to the base of his mirror.
Dream wonders, ruefully, what is honest about the way he's refused to move from the doorway, and enclose them in a small room together. Or about the leftover note, on the side of his mirror, words underlined three times that say, 'don't call him.'
As though pulled by Dream's thoughts, George raises a hand towards the yellowed slip, and gently runs a thumb over the curled paper edge. His brows draw together as his touch falls away.
Dream's heart pounds.
George turns, and lifts his eyes to look at him. The deep-set brown and rigid lines on his slim face are tinted with what could be sorrow; what could be an apology.
Dream doesn't know, yet, if this is what gentle remorse looks like on George's face. All he can be sure of is that he's never seen this before, not from streams or video calls or messages late at night.
"I'm glad to have you here," Dream says, the words quiet and slow, because he has nothing but truth to give.
Somehow, George's expression softens. "Thank you," he murmurs, "Clay."
Dream's jaw tightens as the name leaves his lips. In all their years of digital connection, George has only muttered it when hidden from view. Faceless, like Dream has been, as if there was a confession there he didn't want him to see.
Yet he stands now, paces away across the room, finally out of the computer screens he was trapped in for so long. His voice matches his eyes, and Dream feels he may understand what it could be.
A door shuts loudly down the hall, and Dream sharply looks away. He can't afford to fall prey to his own wishful thinking.
"I just took," Sapnap says, laying a sudden hand on Dream's shoulder, "the biggest shit of my life."
Dream turns to cease blocking the doorway, and sighs. "Congratulations."
They're drawn out into the hallway when rejoined with Sapnap again. George slips from the room, and the only trace he'd been there is a figurine or two out of place. Dream carefully shuts his door behind them.
-
Once the showcasing of Dream's house has finally drawn to a close, they consider what to do with the rest of their day. George hesitantly points out that he took a red-eye flight, and is fairly drained because of it. They make a communal decision to do nothing, and as Sapnap puts it, 'chill with the boys.'
They sit in the living room and talk for hours, sometimes pulling out phones and sharing photos or humorous posts they've seen. It feels exactly like their mindless Teamspeak calls, where they chat and laugh and poke fun but end up not really discussing much of anything. Except now, when Dream poses a question that makes them sit in a contemplative pause, he can see the furrowing features on their faces, and catch small moments of George communicating silently to Sapnap like a pair of twisted twins.
"Do you private message each other when we're all on call together?" Dream asks curiously.
"Yeah," George answers, as Sapnap says, "All the time."
He rolls his eyes, and resumes searching for whatever photo he'd promised to share with George. Shortly after, Sapnap confirms that the right time has finally come to confront his leftovers from their lunch hours earlier.
As they migrate to the dining room, George clears his throat. "Dream."
Dream pulls a chair from the table, and lowers into it. "Yeah?"
George raises a palm to knead the back of his neck, hovering in the doorway. "Um, do you think I could take a shower? I kind of hate having the airport-stink on me, for this long."
Dream finds himself smiling at his hesitancy. "Yeah, of course. The one in the hall is better than Sap's, but the handle is kind of weird. The temperatures are switched, for some reason."
"Why," George says slowly, "wouldn't you get that fixed?"
Dream shrugs. "There should be some towels on your bed, so you're good to go." His voice softens, playfully, "You know you don't have to get permission to shower, right?"
"I know," George rushes. "I know that, I'm just..."
"Nervous?" Dream echoes.
"No." His expression is flat, but inklings of amusement trickle through. "Why would I be nervous, Dream?"
His eyebrows raise. "Why would you be nervous, George?"
He is met with silence, a warm glower, until Sapnap walks up behind George with a warm plate of food.
"'Scuse me," he says.
George steps to the side.
As Sapnap passes by him to tug out a chair from the table, Dream gives George an expectant look that says, Go.
The moment he has disappeared from the entryway and they can hear his light feet traveling up the stairs, Dream deflates in a face-first slump onto the table. He buries his head in his forearms, trapping himself in darkness and warm rebounding of his own breath. His hands sprawl against the wood tiredly.
A sigh, from deep in the rise and fall of his ribs, escapes him.
Sapnap wordlessly pats his back. Dream makes a feeble grunt in return.
"So," he says between bites. "How's it."
"This is a lot," Dream muffles. "Going from not really talking, to this."
"Yeah."
After a quiet pause, his hand is taken in Sapnap's and pried open. A warm, greasy parcel of food is set into his limp fingers.
He slowly lifts his head, and looks at the french fry. "Bless you," he says.
They continue to eat in comfortable silence.
When George returns from his shower, his hair is damp and frayed fuzzy at the edges. His clothes are clean, he smiles with ease, and yawns several times when responding to Sapnap's question concerning a movie for them to watch. If Dream harbors fond feelings for any of it, he doesn't let himself think or speak on it at all.
The rest of their night moves in slow grace, lost in casualty of couch cushions and disappearing sun. They turn on the television and berate Dream for the series of pre-recorded football games that hog his DVR. Though collectively tired, they combat the pull of sleep until words slur and eyes grow heavy. Sapnap begins to nod off with his head tilted against the back of the couch.
"Is he..." George's voice trails off, the low mumble from the television filling his silence. He's peering at Sapnap with an amused smirk.
Arm slung on the back of the sofa, Dream glances down at where Sapnap's head rests against the crook of his elbow. His chest rises and falls with a slow, tell-tale rhythm, eyes shut and dark brows relaxed in deep sleep.
"This is what happens when he stays up all night on his phone," he mutters, careful to not wake him.
George huffs quietly. "You're starting to sound like a worried father."
"I'm starting to feel like one."
George's laugh is gentle, and Dream's eyes drift off of Sapnap to settle on him. Leagues away across the leather couch, the pale blues from the television wash over his tired smile. Cozied darkness of the night baits Dream's breath away.
"Are you tired?" he asks, his voice far too soft for the jokes they'd shared before.
George glances up at him, and hesitantly answers, "...A little, yeah."
Dream nods. "Right. Me too."
The next episode on the screen begins to play, and he eyes the remote resting on the coffee table. Soft sounds from the speakers drift over the colorful buttons nestled in the plastic. It'd be easy, he knows, to lean forward and power down the entertainment before them with a simple click. He doesn't make a move to grab it; George doesn't make a move to leave.
He watches George's heavy eyes blink at the television, and can't help but indulge the small flicker of warmth in his chest. For a moment, he imagines staying here till dawn; dozing off, waking with stiff necks and aching spines, cleaning the living room in the half-morning light. He knows George prefers sunrise over sunsets, and wonders if Florida would showcase beautiful pinks and oranges from its eastern sea.
Then Sapnap stirs next to him, face turning and sinking into his shoulder with a sleepy huff. Even with his nose face-first in Dream's armpit, he doesn't wake.
Dream rolls his eyes. He glances up to see if George has fallen asleep too, only to find he's already looking their way.
"Should we call it?" George asks, eyes dancing between Dream and the tired boy leaned into his side.
"Yeah," Dream says. "I think we should."
After they've shaken Sapnap awake to part for the night, and a blend of careful or groggy 'goodnight's are tossed between them, Dream finally sinks into his tightly made bed.
He wraps himself deep in covers and sheets, hums into the welcome of his cold pillowcase, but rest escapes him. His eyes become lost in the light glinting off of the bedroom window. With tired hands, he tugs the thin curtains shut, and his stare slides back to the wood of his door.
Sleeping across the hall, George is here. Doors down, Sapnap is presumably doing the same. They're all together for the first time in years of wishing, and joking, and working for it.
The surreality is not lost on him. It feels as though the moment he retreated to his room, and final silence echoed through his house, that this is all that's left; him, his beating heart, the closed window and closed door. It could have never happened, he could have never gone to the airport, or held George in his arms, and will wake up tomorrow to feed Patches without bumping into his lifelong friends in the hallway.
The night is the same as it was before, when George wasn't here. It's as quiet as it was over a week ago, when Sapnap hadn't arrived yet, either.
I expected everything to change, he thinks, as he rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. Yet nothing has. Not yet.
Stored in the drawer of his nightstand, his phone rumbles against the near-empty wood. The rattling sound breaks the quiet of the night, and he frowns. Very few notifications are permitted to surpass his 'do not disturb' boundaries.
He languidly rolls over, and tugs the compartment open. Withdrawing the device, his eyes skim over the glowing message on the screen.
George, who should be asleep, texted him.
His pulse quickens, and he swipes to open their conversation. The bright colors and dark letters make him squint, washing his features pale as he observes the message that reads:
Your house is cool.
A bashful smile leaps across Dream's face in seconds. His eyes lift to glance at his shut door again, as though he can somehow see George huddled in the guest bed beyond it. He should find it ridiculous, really, that George is lying awake so late in the night, and wanted to reach out about such an unimportant observation.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard while a flurry of possible responses flood his mind, and he feels the comforting pull of triviality. He wants to talk to him about today, what it was like for them to truly meet for the first time, and how he too longs to retreat back towards their online messages to make sense of it. Yet they're both tired, both uneasy, and simplicity is best.
Thanks, he types back, knowing he'll get no response, knowing he'll fall asleep with a dizzied smile at the very thought of George's lingering presence, I bought it myself.
Art by : @Theresssa1 on twitter
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