Breathlessly, George asks, "did you?"
Rain drums heavily on Dream's roof. His nerves are sheathed now by the comforting mask of darkness, and his faceless confidence grows with every inhale.
Shameful desire creeps from its hiding place in the crevices of his heart.
I can look at you. He sinks deeper. I can know you.
"I—I did," Dream answers, "I don't get to see you that way, normally."
George's voice is careful, lightly tugging on the strings of Dream's restraint. "What way?"
He can see it all so clearly in his head—the vine of wick curling through his thoughts, winding deeper, waiting to be hit with one spark that ignites a network of gasoline, and burns him and George alive.
He softly heats his words. "Up close," they hover over the fuel, "so private." His chest tightens, and the flames tilt threateningly towards doom. "Just for me."
George's eyes flutter. "Oh."
Observations in the chat trickle in slowly, one by one, then become a unified confusion: is he blushing? George is blushing?
"Yeah, are you blushing?" Dream mirrors in amusement. Red undertones in his own face are masked by glowing, yellow-orange light. The scent of melting wax settles on his upper lip.
George takes a deep breath of sobriety, and returns to the game. "I'm not red, chat. It's warm in here."
A prideful smile sneaks onto Dream's face. "You seem to do that a lot, when I talk to you."
George ignores him.
"Why is that, George? Do I make you uncomfortable?" His voice intentionally slows to a gentle rumble, "or do I make you feel something?"
The movement Dream witnesses is glorious.
George subtly lolls his head to the side as an inhale drags his bottom lip between his teeth, radiating heat and a sudden restlessness Dream has never seen before.
His stomach drops.
"Is that it?" he says quietly, "my voice?"
George nods slightly. A rush of air leaves Dream's lungs.
Insatiable warmth braids tension into the sinews of his muscles. "But people can see you, now. A lot of them."
"You think I don't know that," George mutters.
Dream touches a hand to the flaring pulse on his throat. "Makes me wonder what you'd be like when the camera isn't on you." His skin hums. "Or if I was with you."
The game on the screen pauses. "Shut up."
Dream refuses. "Maybe we could do more than just talk."
George covers his face with a hand, elbow propped on his desk. The chat is tangled by questions and alarm—what is Dream saying? What's going on?
"Are you a physical person? I don't think I've ever asked," Dream says, trying to bait away George's shyness, "with friends and stuff—are you affectionate?"
"I don't know," George muffles from behind his palm, "sometimes."
Dream feels his heart leap unexpectedly. "Would you...with me?"
George shows no hesitation. "Yes."
A tingling sensation rushes down Dream's neck and chest with a dangerous thrill.
"Good," he murmurs, "I like that."
George sinks back into his chair as a nervous smile peeks out under his fingers. He asks, "what about you?"
"Oh, I'm very touchy," Dream assures, "I've been told plenty of times. I don't really notice it, unless I—" he wavers, "unless I want it, enough." His breath hitches. "With you, I'd want it enough."
A soft noise of surprise escape's George's mouth instantly. His hand falls from his face. The warmth in his deep, brown eyes lulls Dream into believing he's enjoying this—it's real.
Dream's tone becomes a quiet rumble, "I wish I could feel you."
George's breath deepens.
"In my hands." Dream watches George's jaw incline. "Warm, and real."
George glowers at his monitor, gaze lidded with dark shadows against his bright cheeks. His voice trembles. "Stop screwing with me."
Fire drips down Dream's spine. "I'm not."
"You always do this."
"I don't get how you're this stubborn," Dream says, the frustration of hot days and endless nights sharpening his tongue, "after everything—you still don't believe you can be wanted?"
"Dream," George warns.
"No. Why not? You're fucking amazing, George."
George scoffs, and turns his head away from the camera.
Dream sits up abruptly. "What do you need to hear? That you're smart—"
"Oh my god—"
"And impressive," he fumes, "and attractive—"
"Dream."
"What?" He exasperates. "Come on. You know I'm an honest person. You know it's true, don't give me that."
George is silent for a moment. Then, he shakes his head, and picks up his phone.
"I'm gonna hang up," he says.
Dream can see the trail of ashes he's already left behind, and the simmering pool of gasoline he's nearly reached. He's torn himself apart enough already.
He's ready to let it burn.
"You need to be kissed, George," he murmurs, throat raw, "so hard that you can't remember your name—maybe then you'll understand what I mean."
The phone slips from George's hand and clatters against his desk. He's stunned to silence; mouth attempting to pass over invisible words.
The fire in Dream's heart roars.
The chat runs rampant.
"Um—I—um, sorry, guys," George stammers finally, "I have to end the stream. Sorry." He sits up, and moves his hands back to his setup. His fingers shake. "So sorry. Bye."
The Twitch app turns black, and the chat freezes indefinitely.
Dream waits in tense quiet for the thin red bar atop his screen to disappear—for George to hangup. That was too far, he knows, and George is surely bound to leave the moment he's officially offline—
"Oh my fucking god!" George explodes unexpectedly, voice tattered with fury, "fuck you, oh my god."
Taken aback by the sudden shift in demeanor, Dream fights the smile climbing onto his face. "What did I—"
"Fuck off, don't even try," George says, "you're terrible. You're really, really terrible. I was streaming, you asshole, the whole time, and you thought—"
"George, George, calm down," Dream says, stifling his laugh.
"You thought it'd be so, so funny to talk to me like that. You're a psychopath. You're insane. I hate you."
Dream adjusts the volume on his earbuds. "You don't."
"I don't," George admits, "but you're still awful—why would you say that?" His voice pitches. "Why would you say that?"
"I lack a lot of self control."
"Okay, obviously," George says, "I knew that—but what the fuck, Dream?"
His eyebrows raise. "You seem angry."
"Do I?" George shrills, "do I? You just flirted with me while hundreds of people watched!"
Dream's amusement falters. They don't use that word. "Flirted?"
George scoffs. "Don't act dumb."
He rests his phone on his chest. "I'm not."
"You're a genius, Dream, how else would you know exactly what to say to get me—" George cuts himself off sharply.
Dream's breath is hot. "To get you what?"
"You know," George says, low.
Chills break out on Dream's skin. "Tell me."
"No."
His heart hammers. "Say it."
"Why do you care, Dream?" George presses, "there's no stream on anymore. Your stupid show is over."
Dream feels gentle flames licking wounds in his chest. "I couldn't give a shit about the stream."
Dream understands he's pushed George farther than before, crossed the line and torched their unspoken rules.
George is bound to snap. He has to.
"So you just wanted to watch," George mutters finally, "as you turned me on?"
Dream's body becomes weightless in seconds. His face burns as his skin becomes a collective map of energy—longing to be touched, to feel warmth, to feel him.
He brushes his fingers across his neck. Oh.
The concept of sentences fails him, "yes."
"That's cruel," George says.
"I—" Dream's breath catches. He thinks of George's flushed cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell, his chin tilting as he listened attentively. Fuck.
"Can you imagine if I did that to you?" George's voice flows through Dream's earbuds with titillating gentleness.
Dream's hands clench his sheets.
"If I told you I wanted to feel you," George reiterates, "and that you need to be kissed—would that seem fair?"
"No," Dream manages to say, "you don't know what I look like."
"Hearing you is enough."
Dream sees stars. "H—how can that be enough?"
How can this be real?
"I don't think you know yourself, Dream," George says. After a moment, he quietly adds, "your voice sounds like fire. It burns."
His head spins. "I burn you?"
"You melt me," George murmurs.
Lightning flashes outside of Dream's window, bright and furious. The walls tremble.
"I saw that," Dream says, "I saw the way your face turned red and how you—you sank, when I said that..."
"...I need to forget my own name," George fills in as though the words are seared into his memory.
"I'm—" Dream pinches his brows together. An apology doesn't feel right. His voice comes out low, "I'm a mess."
"Oh yeah?" George says, "prove it."
Dream lifts his phone from his chest. Unsteady, warm breaths pass by his lips as he inclines the camera, and places an arm over his eyes.
A flash emits in the darkness. Patches jumps off his bed.
He uncovers his face.
Even with nearly half of his features hidden, his cheeks are glowing red, and his jaw glimmers with light traces of sweat. The muscled shape of his shoulders and peeking chest hair are captured by his fitted, dark grey shirt. His disheveled hair has clearly been tugged on.
He sends it. George opens it.
"Jesus," George breathes, "christ."
"All you ever have to do is ask," Dream says faintly.
There's a beat of nervous silence. "You look like you could crush me."
Dream smiles. "Well, you are kind of small."
"Can I...can I keep this?" George asks.
"Of course," Dream says immediately. His heart races uncontrollably against his ribcage. "You're making quite the collection."
The notification of a screenshot delivers. "I mean, yeah, you're hot."
An incorrigible noise leaves Dream's throat.
He claps a hand over his mouth.
"What was that?" George says, followed by a light chuckle.
"You—that—um, fuck ," Dream splutters. "Shut up, shut up."
"Oh my god," George laughs, "you're so soft."
Dream kicks the stifling covers away. "You can't just drop that on me."
"You're joking, right?"
Dream huffs stubbornly, but hope flutters in his stomach. Did he mean it? Did he really?
"You send me a photo like that and can't handle me pointing out the obvious," George says.
"The obvious," Dream repeats faintly. He feels like he's going to pass out.
"You said it yourself," George says, "how it's different to see me up close. And private."
Dream can hardly believe what he'd let himself speak earlier. "And just for me."
"...That'd be nice, wouldn't it?"
Dream feels red hot blood drain from his face, failing to fight the dark path it flows to instead. "If you were mine?"
George's breath hitches. "Maybe."
"You," Dream's voice is barely audible, the air in his lungs stolen by the floating static, "can't just say that. To me."
"Why not?" George says softly.
Dream's eyes screw shut. He clasps desperately for composure— the moldy mug of tea in his kitchen sink, the faint sting of his sunburn, the worry of his powerless house.
The putrid smell of mold. The sink. The smell. Pinning George against his kitchen counter; hands digging into hips, nails crawling up spines, warm mouths on flesh.
Get out of my head.
His sun-torched skin, irritated and pained. He thinks of George's soft, careful fingers soothing the redness away with cool gel—chills dripping down his neck, tender touches, slow kisses.
Don't go there. Stay here. Come on, idiot.
His broken air conditioning. No electricity. Lightless. Having George in his bedroom, between the cotton sheets and outside rain. He'd devour him whole.
"I—I can't talk anymore," Dream voices finally, throat tight, "my—my head is just..."
"Oh," George says, "...alright."
Dream lightly runs a hand down his lower abdomen, fingers brushing against a stiffness that makes him wince. Please don't hate me.
"It's been a long day," George supplies comfortingly.
He stares into the black void of his room. "It has." How much does George understand of this, of him?
"Goodbye, Dream."
"Bye," he breathes.
The call disconnects. He can't think when he stumbles out of bed, knocks a flashlight over, bumps the door frame on the way out.
Somehow, he makes it back to his holy cathedral of cathartic emotions—the chilling bathroom.
He shines the light from his phone at himself in the mirror.
George texts him, sleep well you demon.
A shaky smile forms on Dream's face. He snaps a photo of his blurry reflection in the dark bathroom and captions it: goodnight.
George responds with a photo immediately, a quick selfie aimed at his jaw and neck. The loose scoop of his shirt exposes the pale skin of his collarbones. Goodnight.
Dream presses two warm fingers against his lips. It feels like danger.
He screenshots it.
George rapidly responds, ugh. Go to bed.
Dream leans against the marbled sink. He sends a photo of his outstretched hand. Okay.
Wait, George types after opening it, hold on.
Dream bites his lip, amusement tangling with arousal. He'd hung up, was going to grab tissues from the bathroom, and peacefully put himself to sleep—but George sends him another photo.
It's of his own hand this time, grasping his blue and white sheets, wrists slender and fingers long.
Dream wants to bring them to his mouth. He wants to taste them.
Probably smaller than yours, George texts separately.
His chest heaves. Easier to hold down.
He thinks of the heat wave, he thinks of the song.
You can't fight it
You can't breathe
You say something so loving...
George types, I think you'd leave bruises.
Dream clenches his jaw, replying: they'd look good on you.
Further, and further, he walks through hell with a hand over his eyes.
...I don't wanna be alone
You know it hurts me too
What would happen, if he looked back? Lost his patience?
You seem like a gentle giant, George replies.
Dream huffs. Maybe I am.
George continues, some of the things you say make me doubt that.
When you visit, Dream says, maybe we can find out.
George doesn't respond for a long, tense moment. When he finally does, it's a simple: okay Dream. Then, he sends, night.
Dream laughs shortly—none of this makes sense, he's delirious from lack of sleep, and dizzy from emotional whiplash.
He shuts down his phone and plunges himself into darkness. The dead hollow of night carries him back to his bed, whispering in his ears with sweet toxicity, mingling his pulsing want.
He kicks off his sweats, and collapses into a puddle of pillows and fabric.
I can't fight it.
He settles a hand atop his boxers. His eyes flutter shut.
Fuck you, George, he thinks, and gives in.
-
Bright, beautiful morning rips Dream from his sleep painfully. White flashes of sun glare at him through the open blinds, heating up his barren chest as though the blue sky has never seen rain.
He rolls onto his stomach in protest. Blearily, he blinks at the lotion and tissues on his nightstand.
A groan escapes his throat as he buries his face in the soft, white pillow. The quiet cotton muffles his shame. He wonders if this could be the place he spends the rest of his life—never returning to the light of day.
Patches meow at him loudly.
He sits up, hair fluffed from the static of his mattress, and looks at her.
"What," he says.
She peers at him expectantly.
"Hungry?" He asks, and she immediately exits the room. He sighs.
Pulling himself out of bed, he winces at the dried sweat and traces of irresponsibility on his dirty clothes. He hastily sweeps the trash from his nightstand into a nearby bin he'd been too defeated to reach last night.
He changes clothes.
God, he thinks, tugging on a white tank that smells of lavender detergent, last night.
He leaves his room to follow Patches to the kitchen. If he thinks about it too much, he'll worsen the dull ache penetrating his temples.
He runs a hand over the pale paint in his hallway till he reaches the light switch. His feet scuff to a stop. The plastic is cool and slick beneath his fingers.
He flicks the switch.
The dangling bulbs overhead illuminate his tousled state with a fluorescent glow. At least, he thinks, the lights are back on.
He can make himself some breakfast, finally—lazily microwave a burrito or pizza slice to keep his limbs moving. Once he reaches the kitchen, however, and gives Patches a meal to munch on happily, hunger eludes him.
Maybe this is bad. Not eating, not sleeping.
He runs a hand over his face. No wonder his friends are worried.
Just as his eyes pass over the dishes he has yet to wash in the sink, the landline phone begins to ring from it's receiver. The incoming call blinks red.
He frowns, and picks up. "Mom?"
"Nope," Sapnap says.
"Why," Dream sits onto the speckled countertop, "are you calling my house?"
"You weren't picking up."
"I was asleep," Dream snaps. "How did you even get this number?"
"Your sister gave it to me for emergencies, jeez. How late were you up with George?" Sapnap asks.
Dream bites back a remark, rubbing his jaw tiredly. "I don't even know, dude. Time stopped existing after a while."
"Well, I don't mean to alarm you," Sapnap says cautiously, "but Twitter is kind of going nuts right now. The moderators are a little pissed."
"I don't have my phone on me. What are they saying?"
"Half of them think you and George hate each other because of last night," Sapnap explains.
Dream scowls. "And the other?"
"Yeah, they...think some stuff is happening."
Dream's heart skips, mumbling, "why should I care."
"Because they're trying to cancel you," Sapnap says.
He rolls his eyes. Nearly every week. "Make George call them off."
"He—he did," Sapnap says, "he said everything is fine, but that he also isn't going to be posting for a while because of personal reasons."
Dream tenses immediately. "Wait, what?"
"I'm not really sure what he means, he hasn't answered me yet," Sapnap continues.
He slowly slides off of the frigid marble. "He's going to stop streaming?"
Sapnap hums slightly. "Like a hiatus, I don't know—just look at the tweet."
Dream quickly leaves Patches alone and navigates to fetch his phone. "I—I didn't think anything that bad had happened that he'd..." guilt begins to steal air from his lungs, "god, did I do something? Fuck, Sapnap—"
"Don't freak out, man, it's fine," he assures, "just talk to him first. You're fine."
He finds his phone wrapped in the fabric of his sweats from yesterday, tossed onto the floor with disdain. When the screen brightens, it's flooded with notifications.
He opens George's tweet.
Hey all, Dream and I are fine I promise we didn't fight yesterday lol. Glad I could address that because I'm going to take a break from streaming/being online for personal reasons. Thx for your support :)
"I don't know what to make of this," Dream says, "he doesn't seem upset or anything."
"Exactly."
"So I should just ask him," Dream reasons.
"Yes."
He hesitates. "But what if you—"
"No," Sapnap says.
Dream sits on his unmade bed. "Fine."
He texts George, you're stopping streaming? After a second, he adds, also good morning.
Sapnap says, "I swear to god, if he answers you after hours of ignoring me—"
Dream hurriedly interrupts, "he just did."
Mornin. Let me call and talk to you about it.
"What'd he say?" Sapnap asks.
"Let me call and talk to you about it," Dream repeats. He stares at it. "What do you think that means?"
"Oh my god, you're so stupid," Sapnap says, and promptly hangs up.
Dream mumbles a few self-protective jabs as sets his home phone on his nightstand. What did Sapnap know about feeling this way for a best friend, anyway?
Ready whenever you are, he replies to George, sinking from his mattress to the floor.
George calls.
"Dream," George greets.
Nerves cut his friendliness in half. "Hello."
They fall quiet. Dream's hand locates frizzy grooves in the brown carpet beneath him, and begins to thumb over them absently.
"How did you sleep," Dream asks slowly.
"Fine," George says, "how about you?"
He glances at the crumpled pair of boxers several feet from him. "Fine."
"Thats good."
"Yeah," he mutters, pulling tufts from the rug.
"So," George says, "they think we hate each other."
A wave of relief rushes through Dream's bloodstream. "Yeah, okay, what's up with that?"
"I don't really know—I think I got short with you on stream, but honestly, I don't really remember," George admits.
Dream smiles. "They should've heard you the moment you logged off. You were a sailor."
"Yeah yeah," George dismisses, "they should've heard you."
"You're the one who took me off speaker."
"Because you started throwing pick up lines at me," George says with fervor.
"I'd do it again," Dream says, chuckling lightly, "god. It really went downhill after that, huh?"
"Yeah," George agrees, "it did."
Dream feels his face warm as they grow silent. He'd forever be at the whim of his unmanageable tongue.
He clears his throat, "I think I make your streams more interesting."
"I'll ban you from them," George warns.
"Yeah right," Dream says playfully, but it fades as he quietly prods, "so...how come you're taking a break? If you still want to talk about it."
"Oh, yeah," he hears George shuffle, "it's nothing too serious, really. I mean, it's sort of sad but I'm fine." He pauses, "this might be hard to explain."
"No worries," Dream says, "take your time." Timid fear tangles in his gut.
"My mum told me this morning that we're visiting my grandparents for a week," George explains, "they aren't sick, or anything—but that's the point. We haven't been to see them in a while, and she said it might be good to—to go while they're really, still here." His voice fades. "I don't even want to think about when they're not."
Dream's voice drops to a worried murmur, "I'm really sorry to hear that, George."
"There's nothing to be sorry about, it's going to be a happy vacation. Really."
"I'll still be here if you need anything," Dream says reflexively.
"Thank you, but," George hesitates, "that's the thing. They're my grandparents who live a few hours north of here."
"Wait," Dream furrows his brow, "the ones that live on the..."
"Farm," George finishes.
A hollow, putrid feeling claws its way into Dream's chest. "With no internet."
"Yeah."
The gravity of his world tilts, and all he can mutter is, "oh."
George's voice is soft, "I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he repeats. This shouldn't matter, so much. "What...what time?"
"Um, early morning, I think."
A week without hearing George's lips pass gently over words on the opposite end of their phone line, not texting him the moment he wakes up and before he falls asleep. Days, and nights, of emptily staring at the offline status next to George's name.
Why does it hurt?
"I'll miss you," Dream confesses, and his lungs seize at his own temerity. Is there a chance that somehow, in the quiet strain of George's tone, the threads of pain extend to him, too?
After a moment of shocked silence, George breathes, "I'll miss you, too."
Self-righteous waves of sorrow crash into Dream as he exhales. Vindication, bubbling elation that he's wanted, he's worthy to be missed, battles with the sinking stones of despair.
Whatever happened the night before, it had to have meant something. It teeters on the tip of Dream's tongue, a concept he desperately wants to clutch but cannot reach. The dark words and subtle slips of frustration brought them close, didn't it? Closer to something that now is being taken away by the harsh morning light.
Dream's lips part, then close. How the fuck am I supposed to do this?
"God," George says suddenly, "I don't know why this sucks so much."
Dream's heart pangs. "I know, right?"
George mutters, "I didn't mean to make this call such a downer. I'm sorry."
"It's fine," Dream tries, "I'll still be here when you get back."
"Right. It's just a week."
"Just a week," Dream says, and somehow, it makes him feel lighter.
"Okay, yeah," George clears his throat, "yeah. Not too bad."
"Plus you'll get to see family," Dream points out.
George huffs. "That's not something I'm normally excited about."
Dream reclines his head to gaze at his dormant ceiling fan. "Well, let's think of something else for you to look forward to, then. Something sunny."
George doesn't miss a beat. "Like you?"
A bashful smile blooms across Dream's features immediately, and a warm laugh escapes his lips. "Yeah, like me."
They dive into investigating online, checking travel loads and refreshing pages of scheduled dates. Marking off which days George has booked, when Dream has to celebrate his sister's birthday, eyeing the weather projection for the month of August, and September.
Dream asks Sapnap to join their call, but he's unable to communicate beyond texts. They resort to putting unsteady faith in his skills to click on links and read their messages.
After an hour and a half of bickering, planning, and giddy excitement—it's official.
Two plane tickets to Florida are purchased.
(NOT MY WORK CREDITS TO TBHYOURELAME ON AO3)