"Would you want to come to Florida?" Dream asks.
It's not as though they've never spoken of it before, because they had—in slow-moving voice calls when no one else was awake, mid-game when Dream's adrenaline was coursing strong, hard nights when he offered George a place of refuge from certain familial problems.
It's existed as a fallback, an inevitable accumulation of their years of friendship. Yet it remained, still, devoid of follow through. Dream hopes George takes him seriously.
"...To Florida?" George echoes in timid surprise. "Like, visit you?"
"Yeah," Dream responds, "we've always talked about it. Why not do it soon?"
"O-oh. Well, of course I want to, it's just," George hesitates. "A lot to consider."
A frown tugs at the corners of Dream's mouth. He didn't expect that answer. "It doesn't have to be soon, if that helps...I have spare bedrooms and plenty of space. Or you could stay in a hotel, I don't know."
George's voice is quiet. "Thank you for the offer, Dream. I'll think about it."
His heart sinks. Chills breakout across his skin, and he draws his knees towards his chest.
He remembers sitting in the same spot on his bathroom floor days before, wet droplets slipping down his neck while the haunting song reverberated in his skull. In some way, he feels just as barren and vulnerable in George's silence as he had when wrapped in only his cotton towel.
He's cried here before, laying on the cold ground with silent tears and balled up toilet paper. He's celebrated, too, when he'd first moved into the house and needed a moment away from his visiting mother and sister.
Being confined by the white walls and grey cabinets brings out raw emotions that he either loves, or destroys.
"I'm not trying to overstep, it seems like you're uncomfortable right now," Dream begins slowly, "but I have to know. In the past, you've been excited about coming to see me. Is...is there a reason you aren't now?"
The lights overhead dim momentarily, then brighten again. Dream pinches his brows together in confusion.
"Why did you have to ask that," George says in one breath, but it's mostly to himself. Dream's lips part in rebuttal, and George continues, "it's not personal, Dream. Please drop it."
Sour pinpricks collect in his stomach. He knows George's voice too well. "Are you lying to me?"
"I'm not."
He feels sick. "George."
"I don't know if I have enough money, or what my family plans look like—it's not about you," George nearly pleads.
"Is that really true?" Dream asks.
George's presence is stifled by sharp silence.
Dream's words are small. "Why don't you want to see me?"
"I want to," George assures fervently, "that's the problem. I want to see you so much that I'm..." his voice dwindles, "...scared what will happen when I do."
The wind outside roars past his window, and the air is taken from Dream's lungs. Into the stuffy room wafts the faint smell of storm.
"Scared," Dream reiterates in gentle disbelief, "of what?"
"I don't know how to explain it," George mutters.
Dream wraps an arm around his knees. "Try. Please."
George takes a breath. "I'm not good at this—talking about how I feel. Okay?"
Dream's heart softens. "I know."
"You say whatever you're feeling, all of the time, like you don't know or care about what it'll make you look like. It's ridiculous, I mean, who does that?"
Gently, he repeats, "I know."
"I've known you for so long, and you're a great friend and I—," George pauses. "I care about you, because it's worked, online. It's always been online. Who's to say the second we meet in person, we won't have anything to talk about? Or, we meet and everything goes so well that...it's over?"
Dream clenches his jaw.
"That anticipated moment is over. Everything we've talked about for the last few years just...passes, and the expectations are gone," George continues, "and you stop talking to me."
"I wouldn't," Dream dictates calmly.
"You don't know that."
"I do," he swears, "I don't care whatever happens." If you somehow want me. "I'm not going anywhere." If you don't. "I'm here."
George sighs. "I appreciate your confidence, but still. Everything is going to be different than what we expect it to be."
Recognition clicks in Dream's brain. He'd shared a similar conversation with George years ago, and learned that George considers his life a careful balance between expectations, and reality. When the expectations fall through, and he's left with sheer disappointment, it's crippling.
"Are you worried it won't live up to your expectations?" Dream prods.
"No," George says. "I'm afraid it will."
Words in response rise and then die on Dream's tongue, weighted by loss and confusion. He hopes that George doesn't expect poorly of him; what he looks like, or who he is in real life.
He hears a gentle patter pick up just beyond the clear curtain, and he lifts his head to survey the open window. The sky outside is darkened by tumbling clouds.
"George," he hushes, slowly rising to his feet as a feeling of child-like wonder swells in his chest, "George."
"What?" George asks, tired.
Once he's standing, he can see through the misted screen. His words come out in a whisper, "it's raining."
"Uh—"
"It's raining!" He clutches his phone to his ear as he scrambles out of the bathroom. "Oh my god, I didn't even notice—it's a break, it's a break!"
His feet carry him down the hall, passing under the skylight that is dappled with water splotches. His socks slide on the wooden floor.
"A break?" George says for clarification, and Dream can hear a faint trace of amusement in his voice.
"In the heat wave," Dream rasps, grinning when the sliding glass doors to his backyard come into view. The grass is drenched a vibrant green, bushes and palm trees whipping in the wind, and his concrete patio is stained dark grey. "When it's broken, it'll go down. The heat will go down."
He hears George laugh lightly. "I don't think I've ever heard someone this excited about rain."
"I've been miserable here, you don't even know," Dream rambles, pressing a palm against the cool glass, "day in day out, sweating bullets, the AC guy is booked for another week—and god, at the beach today it was horrible, I nearly roasted out there—"
"The beach?" George interrupts.
Dream falters.
"The one you told me about?"
"Yes." He hadn't intended to keep it from George, but for whatever reason, it feels terribly private. "That's why I was in Miami."
"But...you hate the beach."
"I—I do," he says carefully, "sort of. Lately I've just been...lost, I guess. That nightmare thing with you really shook me, and brought up a lot of stuff I didn't know I'd been holding on to."
"Oh," George's voices with concern. "Like what?"
Dream's hand slowly falls from the transparent door. He stares out into the yard, and watches the rain.
"Like my dad," he confesses, words coming from a deep hollow in his heart. "He...used to take my family there all the time, when I was little. He called it a 'lagoon of love,' or something like that—and it would make my mom laugh. I remember that so clearly. His hand on her shoulder, and her laughing." Tension rises in his jaw; around his temples. Thunder cracks in the sky outside. "When he left, she didn't laugh for a while. And—and we never went back."
He opens the door, and the sound of the drizzling shower doubles in his ears. Temperate air gently graces his frontside. It's the coldest he's felt in eons.
"Not too long after, I started having those nightmares. I guess it did something to me," Dream says, "tore me in half."
After a moment, George speaks. "How come you've never mentioned it?"
"I think I'm scared of getting too close to you," he says. I think I've recently figured out why.
The rain falls steadily.
"Me too," George says. His voice is latent with what sounds like relief. Part of Dream's anguish settles.
"Visit me," he offers again. "That's as close as we can get."
George huffs. "I can't tell if you're self destructive or just a really good friend."
He smiles, "what if I'm both?"
"Then my mum was right about you," George says, "you're trouble."
Dream's face grows unexpectedly warm. "You talk to your mom about me?"
"Yeah," George mumbles, "I talk to her about the important stuff."
His stomach flutters. "I'm important stuff?"
"You are."
Dream steps outside, protected by the overhang. Splashes of water lightly spritz his socks. "I really don't think anything will change if we meet in person, you know." He hopes, faintly, that he doesn't sound desperate. "Important stuff sticks around."
"How can you be so sure?"
His heart thumps. "Because I care about you a lot more than you think. Even if things somehow do change, I'm never going to stop wanting to talk to you."
"I don't get it," George breathes, "why you stay stuff like that to me, and not Sapnap, or anyone else."
"You're different," Dream murmurs. I don't dream about them. I don't obsess over them.
He extends a hand out beyond the awning. Between brief moments of humid air, cold raindrops land on his skin.
From the silence, he catches George softly saying, "I can hear the rain."
"Can you? Is it loud?"
"No, it's nice. I haven't had rain in a while."
They both calm into quiet comfort, and listen. Dream peers up at the darkening grey clouds in concern of nearby power lines. Perhaps he should step inside, locate his flashlights and prepare Patches for her least favorite time of year.
"Clay," George timidly speaks up, "can you describe it to me?"
He blows out a hot, shaky breath. He'd do anything George asked him to with that tenderness in his voice.
"It's a light downpour at the moment," he explains in a low tone, "but it's getting heavier. There's puddles forming on my lawn...everything is green, and soaked. And beautiful." He tips his chin skyward. "When I look up, I can see the rain coming down in these small grey dots. Did you ever try to catch them on your tongue, when you were a kid?"
"Yeah," George whispers.
For some reason, it sends chills down the back of Dream's neck. "The sky looks different, trying to catch them. The storm above me is moving so quickly; I can see the wind in the clouds." He inhales. "I can smell the ocean, too."
"Are you cold?"
"No," he murmurs, "it's very humid here. Keeps me warm." He wipes his hand on his shirt. "Tropical storms are something else. I wish you could see it for yourself."
It'd be beyond comforting to have George stand and watch the rain with him. Maybe he'd let me wrap my arms around his waist, he thinks forlornly, and hold him close, for a while.
"I wish I could too," George says. After a beat, he adds, "maybe it'll rain when I come see you."
Dream's eyes widen. "Wh—what? What?" His pulse begins to race. "When you—what?"
"I think I'm going to visit," George promises, "you've convinced me."
"I have?" Dream repeats, shrill with excitement.
George laughs faintly. "Yes, dummy."
"Oh my god," rattling exhilaration skitters across his skin, "George, oh my god. I'm going to see you?"
"You're going to see me," George echoes warmly.
Dream runs a hand through his hair. "In real life, in Florida?"
"Yes, Dream. But I—I sort of have one condition, to make it less stressful for me," George says.
"Of course, yes, what is it?" Dream asks, heart hammering in his chest.
"I'd like Sapnap to be there, too."
-
"Oh hell yeah, dude, I'd love to go," Sapnap says. "When were you guys thinking?"
Dream adjusts the mic on his headset and shifts in his chair. "Probably in like two months or so? Not sure about dates yet."
"Yeah, I'm going to be busy for a bit so that's why we aren't doing it sooner," George explains.
Dream had been pulled from his wonder of the refreshing storm at George's persistence that they join a call with Sapnap. He was warmed by the eagerness George showed after he'd recovered from his initial anxieties about visiting.
"That could work, I'll have to double check when my—uh—friend is coming in town this fall," Sapnap replies, "other than that I think I'm good."
Dream presses his lips together in suspicion. He tabs out of the server to privately message him: friend?
Yes, Sapnap replies, plain and simple.
He isn't upset over the addition of Sapnap as he expected himself to be. His presence releases tension from Dream's gut—it may be easier for him to avoid how George makes him feel if Sapnap can be his buffer.
Dream hums. "Alright. Cool. You guys can stay at my house when you come, so don't worry about reserving a hotel or anything."
"Are you going to get your air conditioning fixed?" Sapnap asks.
Dream laughs. "Yes, yes, I promise. I'm not trying to boil you alive."
"Aw," George says, "we won't get to see a sweaty Dream?"
Dream rolls his eyes. "Sorry, sweetie, but no. I can send you pictures right now if you want."
"Shut the fuck up," George exasperates immediately.
Sapnap cackles. "I can send some too."
"Do it, Sapnap. I dare you."
"It's a trap," Dream says hurriedly, "George screenshots things for blackmail. Don't do it."
"That's evil," Sapnap says, "what did he screenshot?"
Dream blushes. "Nothing—"
"Nothing," George hurries.
Their call falls silent.
"...I can't wait to see you idiots interact in person," Sapnap says.
Dream can't fully wrap his mind around it. He's met Sapnap before, and it was an exciting and humorous few days—but seeing George, being able to talk to him and laugh with him and touch him—
"What kind of stuff is there to do there?" George asks.
Me. "Um, movies, bars, swimming," Dream says, "I can figure out some plans for us."
"Clubbing?" Sapnap inputs.
Dream chuckles. "I mean, yeah, if you want to."
"I'd rather not," George says.
"Too spicy for George."
"Whatever, Sapnap," George scolds, "really, though, how hot is it going to be?"
"It'll be starting to cool off," Dream supplies weakly. "It's fairly warm year-round, the coldest it gets in the winter is like, mid 60's. But you guys will get some of the stormy season."
"Cool," Sapnap says, "hurricanes."
"Not cool," Dream corrects, "people can die."
Sapnap makes a wincing sound. "Cooler than tornadoes."
"American weather is terrifying," George says faintly.
"Uh-meri-cun weath-a is terra-fying," Sapnap poorly imitates. Dream snickers.
"Don't worry, Georgie, we can keep you safe," he coos with a mimicked accent.
"Maybe I shouldn't buy a ticket."
"Noo," Sapnap says through breathy laughs, "we'll make a pact, okay? Dream and I will make a pact to not bother you."
Dream raises his eyebrows. "We will?"
"Yes, Clay, come on," Sapnap says. "Verbally sign the pact."
Dream sighs. "I give you my verbal signature."
"Good, thank you," George says, "what happens if you break the pact?"
"Then we give you a smoochie," Sapnap answers.
Dream grins.
"A smoochie," George repeats, sounding exhausted.
"I'm okay with that," Dream says light-heartedly. "A little peck."
"A kiss wiss," Sapnap continues.
"Fine," George mutters in defeat, "consider the pact sealed, just stop being annoying. Should we tell the subs, or keep it a secret?"
"Maybe once we've bought tickets," Sapnap says. "They're gonna freak out."
"Oh yeah, were you able to get a nonstop flight to Florida when you went last time? Or is there somewhere else you went through?" George asks.
Sapnap begins to explain his experience flying to George, and their words slide away from Dream's attention as he politely tunes them out.
He turns in his chair to gaze out of his window; the blinds have been pulled up so he could watch the rain. It's falling steadily now, and the wind has subsided, allowing rhythmic drops to descend from the gutter.
He wonders if the bird's nest will survive the storm. The hatchlings were probably old enough to fly by now, so they could relocate to a safe place.
He frowns. Maybe he should do something about that.
"What do you think, Dream?" George asks.
He stares blankly at the storm clouds. "Hm?"
"I asked what you think," George repeats.
"About what? Sorry, I wasn't listening."
"Joining Karl's stream," Sapnap clarifies. "He's live right now and texted me to get on the server."
Dream sighs, rotating to face his glowing screen, "alright."
When they've connected onto the game, Karl's sunny voice brightens their call immensely. He and Sapnap bicker, decide to build a treehouse, and begin referring to each other with only architecture-related pseudonyms.
George offers to build a neighboring treehouse with Dream. They wander through the jungle biome until finding a tree tall enough to work on. After a few minutes, George starts a stream too.
At times, Karl and Sapnap's dynamic reminds Dream of an earlier period in his friendship with George when they'd first been getting to know each other. The warmth, curiosity, and coyness—they're nearly tangible when learning about a new friend. He recalls being timid to not offend George, navigating his sense of humor and personality with care.
Dream glances across his screen, where George is placing wooden planks to raise the walls.
Even in the beginning, did he hold the gentle admiration for George that he is consumed by now? His memories of George have always been like his dream; soaked in honey and glittering gold.
Maybe it didn't come from nowhere.
"What are you thinking about?" George asks.
Dream refocuses on the game. "When we first met, actually."
Karl awws. "Tell us, Dream, was it in the Nickelodeon hot tub?"
He chuckles. "I wish."
"Oh, George just rolled his eyes at you, I saw it on his stream," Sapnap says.
Dream smirks. "What do you want me to do, ground him?" He hears a faint feedback echo from his mic.
"You went a little roboty there, what'd you say?" Karl asks.
"Nothing, nevermind," Dream says, and he hears the others laugh.
"You're cutting out," George assists.
"Am I?" Dream catches a glimpse of his window; it has grown darker outside, but the wind is ripping bark from nearby palm trees. "It must be the storm."
"He's really not speaking English right now," Karl mutters.
Sapnap clears his throat. "Yeah maybe he should leave and rejoin? I don't know."
"I don't think that will work," Dream says. If it's an issue due to the weather, he's powerless.
Thunder rumbles overhead.
"I think he said he doesn't think rejoining will work," George reiterates.
"Dream, maybe you—"
His monitor turns black. He taps on the keys and clicks incessantly, but amounts to nothing.
"Shit," he mutters, narrowing his eyes in the dark to locate a hefty flashlight he'd placed on his desk earlier. He fumbles over the desk until his fingertips connect with the rubber handle.
Yellow light spills from his hands, illuminating his inactive keyboard and computer setup. Looming shadows draw long across his walls as he quickly glances at the wires beneath his desk—normal.
He swears again. The power is out.
Moving out of his room swiftly, he calls out to Patches, scanning the hallway and open doors with the circular spotlight. She hates the storms, he knows, and the pitch black house. His voice echoes off of the high ceilings.
Curled up by the bathroom entrance, she blinks into the hovering bright beam he's pointed at her.
"Hi honey," he says tenderly, scooping her into his arms. She trembles slightly. "You're okay, come with me."
He takes her to his bedroom and lets her nest into his pillows and blankets. With the window blinds drawn, the last traces of daylight give her a faded blue wash.
His phone buzzes repetitively on the bed where he'd tossed it earlier. He ignores it for now, and closes Patches in his room while he grabs the box of candles and lanterns in his garage.
Despite the loud gusts of wind and occasional flashes of lightning, this is still better than a brownout.
After lighting a few candles and perching them around his room, he settles. His phone has an influx of notifications from Karl, Sapnap, and George asking where he went.
My power went out, he texts George.
Immediately his phone starts to ring. He picks up.
"Are you okay?" George asks the second his call goes through.
"I'm fine, a powerline must have been knocked over or something," Dream says, "it's dark."
"Do you have any idea when it'll come back on?"
Dream fights a fond smile—George sounds worried. "These don't last too long in my neighborhood, so probably tomorrow. Sorry about our treehouse."
"That's okay, Karl and Sapnap said they'd help finish it."
"Are you still talking to them?" Dream asks. Patches curls into his side silently.
"In game, but I left the call so I could talk to you."
"How sweet," he says, "I bet those two are happy to have some alone time together."
George laughs. "I'm still streaming, Dream."
He connects the call to his headset. "Oops." Navigating to the Twitch app on his phone, he clicks on George's live.
George's perspective in Minecraft loads onto Dream's screen, and his eyes instinctively drift to the self-camera in the corner while he talks, "so what are you gonna add to the—"
His tongue goes numb.
George is wearing the hoodie that he'd sent a photo in earlier, and his headset has been pulled down around his neck. The navy blue colors bring out the darkness in his hair, and eyes—but his face is beaming bright.
The fantasy returns to Dream's mind in flashes—George's jaw in his hands, the baleful brown eyes, his fingers gently parting George's lips. I thought, he clenches his hand, that this was over.
"You cut out for a second," George voices and Dream watches his mouth move as he tilts the phone in his hand. "What'd you want to say?"
"You look good in that hoodie," Dream utters suddenly. He clamps his lips shut.
George's eyes flutter in surprise, and a smile breaks out across his face. "Thank you."
Dream's chest blooms with warmth at the sight of his bashfulness. "You're welcome." Since he is on speaker, the chat erupts with panic and praise. "What else are you going to do for the treehouse?"
"Um," George gently bites away his smile, "I'm not sure. Sapnap wants me to make a bridge to their house."
Karl sends a message into the in-game chat: make a hot tub.
"He's so obsessed with that," Dream complains.
I'm jealous, Karl types.
Dream laughs faintly. "What, are you trying to see me in swim trunks?"
"Hey, hey," George says quickly, "keep it PG, or I'll hang up."
The chat is instantly flooded with hundreds of protests.
"Don't upset your viewers," Dream teases, "chat knows you love me too much."
George pulls a face. "You're stupid."
Sapnap says, stop flirting and get back to the treehouse bitch.
"I'm not," George says, exasperated. He begins to collect more jungle wood. "If I actually was flirting I think Dream wouldn't know how to handle it."
His face flushes. "That's not true." So, so true.
Karl texts: best pickup line, go.
George huffs. "We are not doing that. Do it on your stream, Karl, leave me out of it."
"Excuse me, George," Dream says politely with a grin, "do you have an extra heart? I think mine's been stolen."
George makes a noise in protest. "That one is just stupid. Did you look it up or did you have it locked in your brain?"
Dream pauses. "Which one is more cringe?"
"I don't even know."
Are you an aspirin? Sapnap contributes, cause I'd like to take you every four to six hours.
"Even worse," George says.
Dream chuckles. "Four to six hours? That's kind of a low libido."
Sapnap shoots, what's yours like dreamy? Dream rolls his eyes at the sense of humor Karl elicits from him.
"Yeah Dream, since you have so many opinions," George plays along, "tell us."
He raises his eyebrows. "You wanna talk about my libido now too?"
"Oh stop, I'm carrying on with the conversation," George defends, "I'm being polite. I'm catering to charity."
"If I'm a charity," Dream says brazenly, "please donate yourself to me."
George hesitates. "I can't tell if that's a line or just you being you. This is becoming too inappropriate, I'm sorry, stream."
Dream laughs. "Getting frustrated?"
"I'm getting angry," George pointedly corrects.
"Aw," Dream says sympathetically, "take a break, then. Let me calm you down. Let me—let me uh," he wheezes, "let me kiss your forehead."
"Dream!" George yells. "That is it." He shuffles to press buttons on his phone, and pulls his headphones on. "I'm taking away your talking privileges."
Goodbye my love :(, Karl sends.
"Darn," Dream protests feebly as George sets down his phone. "Forgive me."
"Don't even," George says, but Dream sees him cracking a smile.
"So they can't hear me?"
"No."
He hums. "Just us now."
George narrows his eyes. "I can't keep talking to just you. It's rude to those watching."
"End the stream," Dream jokes, but his voice falls unexpectedly low, "I don't want you talking to anybody else."
George bites his lip, and nervously tugs on the collar of his sweatshirt. "Why—why's that?"
Dream can't take his eyes away from the screen. "I don't know." When George doesn't respond, he adds, "maybe I'm selfish."
He sees the corners of George's mouth twitch slightly.
Dream scoffs. "Are you really gonna try to ignore me? I can see your face, you're like a statue."
"Mhm," George mumbles dismissively. Composure on camera is easily one of the first tenets that George lives by. He's always mindful of what his audience does or doesn't see.
Dream wonders how much it would take to unravel that.
"So, what if I keep talking to you," Dream pushes, "and say whatever I want?"
George quickly suppresses a smile—but Dream still catches it.
"I can see you smiling, dummy," he says, voice softening, "it's cute."
George feverishly breaks several blocks on his screen.
Orange shadows dance on his walls from the candles across the room. "I like being able to see it. To see you."
Dream thinks of the limitless power that he has in this situation—only George can hear him, but finally, he will be able to understand what's been missing from their texts and calls this whole time. An unexpected hunger stokes the fire in his chest.
He murmurs, "I liked it in that photo you sent earlier, too."
A light pink bloom brushes across George's cheeks immediately.
Dream's eyes widen.
Breathlessly, George asks, "did you?"
(NOT MY WORK CREDITS TO TBHYOURELAME ON AO3)