Tw: swearing, weapons
George's mouth goes dry and he almost takes an instinctive step back at the look in Dream's eyes. At the clench of his jaw and the way his fingers are curled into loose fists.
Everything about him looks like a predator and George clearly remembers the last time he saw Dream like this. The kiss that had happened after. Warmth churns in his stomach and he can't look away.
Dream takes a step toward him, slow and intimidating. "Is that any way to treat your boyfriend, George?"
George scoffs, but it sounds hollow. "What are you talking about, idiot? I was just teaching your precious Lil Nas X how to fight. It's not my fault you were in my way."
"That's not what you said before. You called me your 'practice dummy'.
"Same difference."
"Is that all I am to you?" Dream asks, taking another step so that he's towering over him. George has to tip his head back to meet his eyes, his heart in his throat, his hands hidden in his sleeves. "I thought you loved me, George."
"I said I liked you, idiot" George corrects, feeling pink brush over his cheeks. Even with a knife still in his hands, he feels helpless as Dream backs him up against the wall of the cafeteria. His thoughts puddle and blood rushes through him as Dream leans down so that they're face-to-face, his eyes dark and liquid.
"I meant what I said earlier, George," Dream says, his breath warm against George's lips. "About you with a knife..."
That was hot, George.
The words come back to him in a rush of heat and George's breath hitches despite himself. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but Dream leans closer to him, their lips an inch away from brushing and his mind goes blank.
He smells vanilla and warmth and a million other distracting scents. Dream smirks, brushes their lips together in a ghost of a kiss and - before George can even process what just happened - he pulls away, eyes simmering.
George doesn't know if he wants to lean forward or pull away, but his eyes are locked on Dream's, his skin hot, his lips burning.
Until the tense silence is interrupted by a loud, annoying voice. "Are you guys having a staring contest or something?"
George nearly jumps out of his skin while Dream looks annoyingly unbothered. Quackity's standing there, eyebrows raised so high they're half-hidden by his beanie. He's holding his broomstick in one hand and a knife in the other; carrying it as gingerly as he would a bomb.
"What do you want, idiot?" George asks, trying to regain his composure. Something infinitely more difficult with Dream's eyes still on him. "We're trying to train."
"You call that training?"
"Yes," George replies, even as his cheeks feel warm. "What's your excuse? Knife-throwing too difficult for you?"
Quackity looks offended. "I'll have you know, I can throw knives just as well as you. Better, actually."
"Let's see it," Dream interrupts, raising a brow. He flips a knife out of his belt and hands it to Quackity, who takes a step back.
"A magician never reveals his secrets," he says in a posh accent.
"What does that even mean?" George asks and Quackity mumbles something under his breath. "Why are you even here?"
"Cause we're gonna do a contest," Quackity announces. "Techno wants to see who's the best at throwing knives."
George and Dream exchange a look. "Okay?" George says, just as Dream says, "Should be easy enough."
"Hurry up then," Quackity says, turning his back on them and heading to where Techno is gathering the others.
George goes to follow but a hand on his arm stops him.
"We're not done here, George," Dream says, his voice like a soft growl, sending shivers through George.
"Whatever," George mutters to hide the tremble in his voice. He starts to walk away, but Dream won't let go of his arm. "Let go of me, idiot."
"Let's make a bet," Dream murmurs, sidling closer until he's pressed against George's side. "When I win, I want a prize. Like last time."
George huffs out a laugh, even as he remembers the last prize. "And when I win, I want you to admit I'm better than you at fighting."
"Deal," Dream says easily. "Good luck, George."
He lets go of George's arm. But not before another part of him presses against George's hip, hard as a rock. When it brushes against him, George can't help the gasp that leaves his lips, the way his face feels like it's flaming. His shoots Dream a wide-eyed look, wondering what just happened, if he imagined it. But Dream just walks away, joining Techno and the others by one of the targets.
It takes everything in George to pretend he's not reeling as he joins the others too. He stays quiet, only because he's not sure if he can talk or what will come out if he does.
"Took you guys long enough," Techno says conversationally when everyone's there. "Any idea where Karl and Sapnap went?"
That shake George out of his stupor enough to look around and notice that his friends are missing.
But Bad steps in first. "I'm sure they're fine. Don't worry about them."
George raises an eyebrow and even Techno looks curious. Quackity frowns, grumbling something that George doesn't catch. He wonders if they're thinking the same thing. George can only think of a handful of reasons why Sapnap and Karl would want to be alone, and all of them remind him of his conversation with Dream.
"Alright," Techno says. "I'm guessing Quackity already told you guys what we're doing.
And he explains the rules. Each of them will throw three knives at the target, and whoever gets closest to the center wins.
"Wins what?" Quackity questions and Bad and Skeppy nod in agreement.
"What do you want to win?" Techno asks like the thought hasn't even crossed his mind.
Quackity puts up a hand, pausing the conversation, before him, Bad, and Skeppy bunch up into a huddle filled with whispers.
"Are we just not part of this?" Techno wonders and Montero looks like he wants to agree.
Quackity, Bad, and Skeppy break apart from their huddle, nodding in agreement. Quackity turns back to Techno like the spokesperson for their group.
"We want money," Quackity announces like it's some big important thing.
There's a moment of silence before George breaks it. "What do you mean, money? It's an apocalypse."
Quackity glares, and Bad says, "What's your point?"
"Oh my God, wait," Skeppy says, eyes widening. "What about a concert?"
"What?" Bad asks as everyone turns to him.
"Hear me out," Skeppy says, excitedly. "Whoever wins gets a personal concert from Montero!"
To his credit, Montero looks embarrassed as Bad rolls his eyes. But Dream and Quackity have suddenly perked up.
"That sounds like a good idea," Dream says quickly. "If Montero's okay with it..."
And suddenly, George has never been more determined to win something in his life, if only so that Dream won't win.
Montero agrees grudgingly and everyone gets into a line with Techno randomly picking the order. There's excitement buzzing in the air, but George is more focused than anything. He almost wishes Karl and Sapnap would come back, so that there would be more competition. Right now, George and Bad are pretty much the only ones standing in the way of Dream getting a personal concert from Montero.
Skeppy goes first, swinging his arm widly, his excitement getting the best of him. He misses all of his shots, groaning and burying his head in his hands.
"Oh no," Bad says, but he doesn't sound all that upset. "I'm sure you'll do better next time, Skeppy."
"Why didn't you train me better?" Skeppy whines, shoving a finger at Bad's chest. "I could have gotten a concert from Lil Nas X!"
"I'm right here, you know," Montero says, good-naturedly.
The next one to go is Quackity, and George has to stifle his laughter more than once as his shots go wide. After his last miss, Quackity tosses his broomstick to the ground, stamping on it. "I fucking hate this!"
When Bad steps up to the line, George expects him to get every bullseye. But, to George's shock, Bad throws his knives lazily, still managing the inner rings even without trying. When he's done, he walks back to Skeppy's side, looking pleased with himself.
"As long as Skeppy didn't get it, I'm happy," he mutters to George as he passes. "I'm sure you get it."
George does. More than ever when he steps up to the line, readying his aim. He's overly aware of Dream behind him, overly aware that, if he messes up, Dream's already won.
"Good luck, asshole," Quackity calls from the sidelines.
"Did you just say something nice to me?" George asks, shooting him a smirk. But the smirk fades when Dream says, "No pressure, George," from behind him.
His words come back to him, their nearness, the tension, and George's concentration wavers.
"Dumbass," he mutters and Dream lets out a quiet laugh as George takes his aim again.
His first shot hits the bullseye and he lets out a sigh of relief. Dream fades out of his mind as concentration takes over, his mind narrowing to the target. With his second bullseye, he hears Techno give a low, impressed whistle.
Until Dream's scent wraps around him, and George feels a hand brush his waist. He doesn't give Dream the satisfaction of turning around, even as Dream whispers, "Last shot, George. Don't mess this up."
"Stop cheating," George says, and throws his last knife.
It misses the bullseye, hitting one of the inner rings instead.
"Let's go!" Dream shouts. "You missed, idiot."
"I got two out of three," George says, glaring at him. "Good luck getting that."
Dream smiles. "Thank you," he says, and dread fills George's stomach as he walks away to watch Dream's throws.
Dream takes his time, pushing his hair back from his forehead and George's breath quickens despite himself. Especially when Dream throws his knife, the muscles of his forearms - exposed by his rolled up sleeves - golden and shifting.
George almost forgets to feel disappointed when his knife hits the bullseye.
He catches sight of Montero, his eyes glued to Dream, watching every movement in a kind of impressed trance. Jealousy hardens George's heart and he scoffs quietly.
"What's your problem?" Quackity mutters to him. "You jealous or something?"
"None of your business," George replies, too focused on Dream to formulate a better comeback.
With Dream's second bullseye, George's heart sinks another fraction. He glares hard at Dream, who turns toward him like he can feel it. A smirk plays at his lips and for a moment, George forgets how to breath.
With a last curl of his lips for George's benefit, Dream launches his last knife.
The blade sinks hilt-deep into the bullseye.
(1836 words)