Helium

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/30023571.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Relationship: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Character: Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging
RPF), Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Pining, Angst and Fluff and Smut, First Meetings, Flirting,
Boundaries, Romantic Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added,
florida time, the boys are dummies, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Series: Part 2 of Dreamland
Stats: Published: 2021-03-14 Updated: 2021-05-30 Chapters: 7/? Words:
57281

Helium
by tbhyourelame

Summary

After years of online calls, late night texting, and out of sync sleep schedules, Sapnap and
George finally visit Florida. Dream's aspiration to truly know himself is met with the return
of missed chances, and uncertainty. Placed in the dead center of his humid, overwhelming
life, he and George are bound to confront the inevitable.

“Has it rained?” George asks suddenly.

Dream’s thoughts snap away from the drifting green and cloudless sky, returning to earth
once more. His lips part in silence.

George’s voice was soft when he'd uttered the words, and for a reason he cannot place,
Dream finds himself glancing to the back of Sapnap’s head before responding,
“Since...summer?”
 Brotherhood
Chapter Notes

Welcome back to the series, quick reminders before we get started!

PLEASE READ:

Please, do NOT mention this work in CC's streams, donations, chats, or comment
sections. This extends beyond those mentioned in the fic, and to CC's of any kind,
including the musicians/band. Though this work falls safely under boundaries that
have been publicly stated, I do not in any way encourage the conversation of this
material anywhere that could bring discomfort to other groups. If it is kept within the
community, then I'll happily keep progressing the story. I can assure that this time
around I won't hesitate to discontinue, should circumstances fall to that.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Purple and blue lights wash over wooden floors, where colorful bowling balls slip and roll until
colliding with pins. Neon strips outline the separation of lanes. Beneath the seventies-style synth
that floats from ceiling speakers, glowing screens and bright banners capture families' scores,
upcoming events, and Dream’s desperation to even the board with a perfect strike.

Ten-pins crash in far corners of the wide alley. The slick bottom of shoes clack lightly on the
polished ground.

Dream stares down the green sphere as it glides on the wood, and to his horror, curves left. His
head tilts in disappointment as it misses the mark entirely, and drops into the gutter.

“There we go!” Sapnap calls from behind him, and he groans. “You sure you don’t want the
bumpers on?”

Dream hovers by the dispenser as he waits for the ball to return. “Can the next one be our try-hard
game?”

“No way. You can’t keep saying that every time you screw up.”

They’d arrived at the buzzing alley to seriously settle days of competitive banter, but wound up
doing the opposite. The first hoard of rounds are marked by a series of red fouls—Sapnap and
Dream kept sneaking shoes over the boundary line during each other’s turns, cackling at the loud
alarms and shoving each other away. Quickly after, the games delved into inventing the most
ridiculous methods possible to hit even a singular pin.

In their real games, Sapnap has been winning with little mercy.

Dream’s second try leaves his fingers with grace, light glinting off the shiny surface, and barrels
into three pins before disappearing behind the lane.

“This shouldn’t count,” he argues feebly, for what may be the third time in the past hour.

Sapnap huffs. “You’re such a baby.”

Dream sulks back to their table, and eyes the greasy pizza and fries dwindling before them. “Stop
calling me that.”

He aimlessly bats away balled up napkins on the cluttered surface.

Lounging in the plastic swivel-chair, Sapnap grins up at him with a dixie cup pressed to his lips.
“Since I’m destroying you, I think I can call you whatever I want.”

Dream spares a glance up at the bright-colored scoreboard, where several large X’s stand next to
the name ‘shitnap,’ while he has close to none.

He lowers himself into the chair opposite while Sapnap presses on the controller screen. “When
did you get so good at bowling? I crushed you last time we were here.”

He makes an empty-grabbing motion towards the soda pitcher.

Sapnap nudges the container towards him. “That was like, five years ago.” He smiles again,
wickedly. “People change.”

Dream narrows his eyes at him. “Why are you so—” He looks at the scoreboard again. “Oh my
god, can you stop changing my name, please?”

Sapnap giggles with indifference.

“It’s your turn,” Dream complains. “Go already.”

Sapnap gracefully exits his seat, grabs his sparkly, pink bowling-ball off of the rack, and
approaches their lane.

Dream leans towards the table’s monitor and hastily deletes ‘parrot boy’ from the scoreboard.

Moments later, he hears a crash, and his eyes leap past Sapnap’s shoulders to see four pins fall into
the dark backdrop. The white fabric of Sapnap’s t-shirt glows blue under the faint blacklights.
When he tosses Dream a smile, his teeth are illuminated too.

As he comes back to retrieve his ball, the music overhead dies, then repeats again.

“Did we really have to come on retro night?” Sapnap asks, heaving the rounded, pink beauty to his
chest.

Dream smiles. “Retro night is the best, dude.”

Sapnap disagrees, then sinks his second attempt down the lane. It skims the left hand pin, they
watch it wobble—but the cluster remains unflinchingly upright.

Dream cheers, Sapnap swears about his lost spare, and they both fall silent when a nearby family
casts them yet another disapproving look. After an awkward exchange, Dream meets his eyes, and
they burst into laughter again.

They’ve been coasting in each other’s company for six, sunny days. Their time has been filled with
stupid jokes and late night burger runs and loud, chaotic streaming. Patches has slowly warmed up
to the new company; during Dream’s daily search to collect her before breakfast, he found her this
morning curled up on the foot of Sapnap’s bed. After Sapnap made one too many jokes about
stealing her affection, Dream tried to pass off the job of feeding her since she “clearly loves her
Sappy-poo so much.”
Sapnap ensured he’d only make her meals, if Dream made all of his. Dream refused.

With both the easy-going and irritating moments, seeing Sapnap has been a breath of fresh air.
From the moment Dream nearly had the life squeezed out of him in the airport terminal, to the
second he tries to nudge Sapnap’s chair from beneath him at the bowling table—he’s felt
grounded.

“Leave my seat alone,” Sapnap complains, shoving away Dream’s red and green shoes.

As he slumps into his chair, Dream studies their feet underneath the table. “I think I kinda like
these.”

Sapnap looks down. “The shoes?”

“Yeah,” Dream says. “They’re cool.”

“Are you gonna steal from the bowling alley?”

Dream frowns. “Stop trying to make me do that.”

“Come on, dude,” Sapnap says, “up your shoe game. Twitter will finally stop roasting you.”

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Dream muses.

“Don’t be humble. They simp when you breathe.”

Dream grins, pulling out his phone. “Oh, you think so?”

They’ve been documenting snippets of their time together whenever it naturally surfaces. He’s
always disliked how the clicking shutter of his camera removes him from the present moment, and
jails him in a paradox of his own making. He yearns to capture the world around him, yet in doing
so, is removed from the present and concerned with future memories he has yet to create.

He’s been trying, lately, to forgive himself for only existing in the here, and now. Most of his
camera roll was only sent to George, anyway.

His immersion in his digital world has been on a steady decline. For the curious hearts of his
viewers, though, he’s posted a few clips and snapshots here and there. Sapnap’s been idly slipping
onto his phone more than Dream would've expected him to.

He kicks his feet up on the nearby chair, shifting his ankles to display the leather shoes.

“Okay, well, if you’re showing off—” Sapnap shoves his blue and black pair onto the seat as well.
“Get mine in there, too.”

Dream takes the photo, laughing. “Your feet are tiny.” He earns a kicks to his calf. “What should I
caption it?”

“How about, ‘matching shoes with my boo,’” Sapnap suggests.

“Fuck off.”

“Let me write it.” Sapnap nudges him, then draws his feet away. “Please.”

“No,” Dream says.

Sapnap pauses, and carefully adds, “I’ll help you clean, later.”

Dream hands him his phone immediately. As Sapnap begins to type away on the Twitter screen, he
says, “I hope you know I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Sapnap waves a hand dismissively. He giggles. “Okay, okay. I tweeted it.”

He extends it back to Dream, who grabs it quickly to assess the damage of Sapnap’s free speech.

On top of the photo of their ridiculous footwear, it reads:

Hey @GeorgeNotFound do you like my shoes? :)

He chucks a wad of napkins across the table. “Sapnap!”

The numbers on the tweet climb exponentially, while Sapnap suffers from a fit of laughter. A few
stray napkins find their way back into Dream’s lap.

“Please don’t give me another thing to worry about,” Dream says, tossing his phone onto the table.

“I won’t, I won't.” Sapnap’s amusement fades into light seriousness. “I swear.”

Dream’s phone hums before them. He leans over it to read the notification on his screen. “Oh my
god.” His fingers quickly begin to tap away. “He replied.”

Sapnap scoots up in his chair eagerly. “What’d he say?”

Dream skims over the response, then laughs, then reads it again. A muted feeling settles in his
chest, controlled and temperate. “He said, ‘ha-ha, who’s that girl next to you.’”

“My feet are not that small,” Sapnap retorts in disdain. “You're just a giant. I hate him so much.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dream says fondly, watching as Sapnap rapidly types a response to appear in their
thread.

The tweet is something along the lines of how Sapnap usually expresses his excitement for
meeting George—related to some sort of height-checking or violence when he finally flies in.
Dream hardly bats an eye at it now.

Their banter dies into mindlessly munching on food. Dream hums to the faint disco tunes that cozy
their silence.

“So,” Sapnap muffles through a mouthful, tossing pizza crust onto the center tin. “Tomorrow’s the
day.”

Dream nods solemnly. “It is.”

“How you feelin’?”

“Alright,” Dream says. His fingers pass through his hair, briefly. “Excited, I guess.”

Sapnap peers at him quietly.

“Maybe I should be more nervous,” Dream continues, “but I don’t know. When we’ve talked, it’s
been fine.”
“In person is different, though,” Sapnap points out cautiously.

Dream gestures between them. “Not really.”

Sapnap burps. “True.”

“I don’t know,” Dream repeats, hands fiddling with a napkin and folding it repeatedly. “In my
session yesterday, he said I seemed genuinely ready to see George. He said, ‘you sound like you’re
ready.’ I’m kinda riding off that.”

Sapnap’s eyebrows raise. “Well, that’s good.” After a moment, he asks, “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“You said he thinks you’re ready,” Sapnap clarifies. “What do you think? Are you ready?”

“I…” The easy words of affirmation weigh heavily in his mouth, unspeakable. His brows pinch
together. “I guess I’m not sure. It’s not like I can afford to be anything but ready, because it’s going
to happen no matter what. But we...we’re friends, y’know? That always comes first.”

“Sure,” Sapnap says.

They regard each other for a tense second.

“Can we come back to this later?” Dream asks gently.

Sapnap nods.

Lights flash from a cartoony animation dancing across a nearby scoreboard. When families in
nearby lanes knock down a plethora of pins, the sound is sharp, but satisfying.

“You think once a week is working?” Sapnap asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” Dream says lightly. “Might bump it down to twice a month, soon.”

Sapnap chuckles.

“What?”

He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, as if to keep the words from slipping out. “Dunno, man.”

“Come on.” Dream smiles. “Say it.”

Sapnap huffs. “You really want me to?”

“Go for it,” he assures.

Sapnap’s eyes raise to lock dead on Dream, as he says, “You’re like, speed-running therapy.”

Dream begins to laugh abruptly, before he can stop himself. “Oh my god. Shut up.” Sapnap’s nose
and eyes scrunch up with deep amusement, his smile contagious. “I’m not, you idiot—I’m actually
making progress—”

“How many pearls do you have so far?” Sapnap interrupts.

“How many—you’re so annoying, it’s not even funny.”

Sapnap refuses to let up. “Did you find the stronghold yet?”

“I hate you,” Dream says, but his face is plastered with a dopey grin.

It’s easy. It’s everything.

They settle again, and slip into an air of ease that is gentle, and contemplative.

Sapnap clears his throat. “Really though, Dream,” he says, “I know sometimes you don’t want me
to talk about this stuff, but...you seem really happy.” Dream pulls a dubious face, to which Sapnap
quickly backpedals. “Okay, well, happy and complicated. You’re always complicated.”

“Thank you,” Dream says, “Sapnap.”

“Shut up. Just...it’s like, before, you were happy because you were supposed to be. But now you’re
starting to be happy because you are.” He meets Dream’s eyes earnestly. “It’s pretty fucking
awesome to see that.”

Shock skitters through Dream’s bones. He’s still getting used to the lightness in his lungs.

“Thanks,” he breathes, “I...I really appreciate that. I—” He laughs shortly. “I don’t really know
what to say. Give me a second.”

As they pause, a voice crackles through the speakers overhead that asks for the owner of a wallet
left in the colorful arcade. Sapnap and Dream had considered buying tickets to waste time there for
a while, but once they saw a hoard of elementary schoolers running around the fluorescent
machines, they backed off.

They’ve clearly outgrown their younger selves, who spent four hours losing money and beating
high scores until their eyes went dry, and Dream’s mother dragged them away.

Well, almost outgrown. They did stay up playing Minecraft till five in the morning the night
before.

“I do all of this work,” Dream starts slowly, “you know—the stuff we’ve talked about. Routines
and the journaling and shit.”

Sapnap nods curtly.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with myself recently and it’s—it’s easy to think I’m doing okay, all on my
own," he continues. "But it’s kind of hard to trust. So...having someone else point that out, that I
could be on the right path, is really something.” He smiles. “Really. Thank you.”

“You’re adorable,” Sapnap says, swiftly shattering any traces of solemnity rising between them.

Dream scoffs, and then they bicker, and then return to bowl the rest of their game.

Eventually, they part ways from the noisy alley and sigh in relief as the synth-music is lifted from
their ears. The sun has hardly dipped below the horizon, dark shadows of cars in the parking lot
contrasting the dimming, orange sky.

Sapnap asks for the keys. Dream rolls his eyes.

He’s given the aux instead.

After hours of muffled music and squeaking bowling shoes, it’s pleasant to hear Sapnap’s playlists
crackle through the speakers and blanket their ride home. He muses to Dream about how he and
Karl pour over their Spotify creations religiously every few weeks, and Dream patiently reminds
him he’s been told this before.

Darkness has nearly settled when they park outside Dream’s house. He has a faint thought that calls
quietly when his keys jingle against the front door, and Sapnap waits for it to swing open.

Next time we come home, his mind whispers, George will be here, too.

They enter the house and are greeted with the mess they’ve created over the past week. Old
wrappers, dirty dishes, pizza boxes—all cluttering the open surfaces and suddenly more noticeable
than Dream had cared for when they’d left. It reeks, a miniscule amount, of old food.

As Dream nudges aside old energy drinks to empty his pockets on the kitchen island, Sapnap
quickly skirts to the living room.

“Hey,” Dream says sharply. “No. You said you’d help me clean.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Sapnap calls, as Dream watches him disappear over the pony-walled
counter.

After grabbing a trash bag for ‘cleanup duty,’ Dream makes his way out of the kitchen in tired
pursuit. “Don’t make me do this again.”

“Don’t make me clean,” Sapnap’s muffled voice floats from where he’s sunken into the couch.

Dream sighs at the fluff of Sapnap’s hair he can make out from beyond the tall cushions. A gentle
clack of keys signals that his guard is down.

“Any last words?” Dream asks, rhetorically.

“Hold on, I’m texting—”

His hands find the backside of the couch as he leaps over it with practiced ease, landing heavily on
Sapnap’s chest and crashing their bodies together.

A deflated wheeze leaves Sapnap’s lungs.

“You said you’d help,” Dream repeats, hopping slightly to elicit another pained breath from below
him. “You pinky-promised.”

“I didn’t,” Sapnap forces out, but his hand claps Dream’s back as a sign of resignation.

He grins as he rises to his feet, sparing a glance down at Sapnap who doubles over dramatically in
a fit of coughs.

“I think,” he rasps, “you broke a rib.”

Dream starts to pick up the trash strewn on the coffee table before them. “You’re fine.”

With one last unnecessary cough, Sapnap slowly sits up. “Where do I even start?”

Dream gestures to the garbage in his hands. “Here. Or we could start upstairs, if that’s easier.”

Sapnap rubs his chest. “I don’t have to clean my room for him.”
Dream busies himself by stacking cups and stuffing them with old napkins.

“And his room is definitely fine,” Sapnap continues, trying and failing to catch Dream’s eye.
“You’ve checked on it, like, five times—”

“Shut up,” Dream mumbles.

“It’s okay if everything isn’t picture perfect. He’s just a guy.”

The thin, white trash bag in Dream’s hands clings with static as he opens it. His hands move with
seemingly automated motion, intensely focused with shoving contents inside and brushing
leftovers from the table.

Briskly, he says, “I know.”

“He’s not gonna care if there’s crumbs, or dust—dude, slow down.” Sapnap takes the bag away
from Dream’s grip. “And sit for a second.”

He looks at his empty hands, then the concern knitting Sapnap’s brow, and lowers himself to the
couch.

Sapnap slowly hands the trash back to him. “Take it easy. Alright?”

“Sorry, I just—this helps me feel in control,” he mutters. The plastic is warm when it returns to his
fingers.

“Okay,” Sapnap says, “we’ll get to cleaning in a second, then. What’s going on?”

“The house is filthy.”

“Clay.”

He exhales, long and slow. “I guess,” he says, “I’m more nervous than I thought.”

“Do you want to, um—what’s that thing you said?” Sapnap asks in a jumble. “After we got
Quiznos.”

Under tall, fluorescent street-lamps, they’d reclined in Dream’s car with warm sandwiches in hand.
The slow moving darkness of the night caused them to sink. They chatted, through mouthfuls of
food, about why the still air and empty spaces of parking lots elicit such conversations.

Sapnap noted Dream’s words seem to weigh in his mouth with more kindness than they used to.

Dream chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed the taste of sourdough down his tongue. He explained
a token of advice he’d been given, for whenever he feels he can barely speak at all:

Talk it dead. Talk through it until I can’t talk anymore. Till my words are gone, and there’s nothing
left to say—only then should I retreat to silence.

“Talk it dead,” Dream recites.

Sapnap leans back into the couch cushions. “Right. Hit me.”

“What...what if it’s a trick?” he questions, his voice small.

“I’m not tricking you—”

“No, not you—me,” Dream says, exasperated. “What if I really am faking it? I know I feel better
than I used to, and you think I seem better than I used to, but what if it’s all...pseudo progress. Fake
healing. Fake everything.”

Sapnap frowns slowly.

“George…” Dream’s tone softens. “George has a way of knocking me down when I least expect it.
In ways I never know are possible.” His palm rubs against the back of his neck, in an attempt to
soothe the tension threaded there. “I feel like I’ve been rising, somehow. Getting somewhere, in
this little bubble we’ve created.” He meets Sapnap’s eyes, unwavering. “It’s gotta pop eventually.”

The quiet between them is reflective; Dream listening to the echo of his words ring, Sapnap
collecting his own. The trash bag in his hand droops Dream’s wrist down to the floor.

“I mean...if it pops,” Sapnap says, “then it pops.”

Dream stares at him.

“You guys have been sitting on this thing for a while. I think...I think it’s going to be better if we
go into it expecting something to change.” Sapnap’s eyes break away. “George didn’t agree to
come, thinking that everything will stay the same. He’s not stupid.”

“You think I’m stupid?” Dream asks lightly.

Sapnap sighs. “No, Dream. I don’t.”

His gaze drops to trace stray knots on the carpet.

It’s hard, sometimes, to forget the nights he’s called Sapnap over the past few months, and received
no answer. It was worse when he picked up, when it meant Dream had to say what his heart was
threatening to spill.

The loneliness was raw. The loneliness has been grounding. He’d looped and fallen several times,
scuffed himself with dirt. Slowly, in Dr. Lauren’s office the next week, he’d put his pieces back
together.

He meets Sapnap’s eyes again. He’s told him this.

They study each other for a moment, before Sapnap asks, “You ready to get started?”

Dream nods.

They delve into decluttering and collecting items, fussing over cleaning supplies. Dream makes too
many jabs about his friend’s poor tidying skills. Sapnap lets it slip that his mother visits to clean
his house once a month, and Dream hardly lets him live it down.

“Are you serious? When was the last time you vacuumed your own apartment?” Dream questions,
while plugging in the purple and white machine.

Sapnap shrugs, fluffing pillows. “I dunno. Probably around the time I moved out, so, ten months
ago? Maybe a year.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

He scoffs. “I live like, a few blocks away. And I take her out to dinner and stuff after. It’s not that
big of a deal.” Sapnap turns to look at the contraption in Dream’s hands. “That’s an ugly fucking
vacuum, dude.”

Dream extends the plastic handle towards him. “You wanna help?”

“No,” Sapnap dismisses quickly. “Suck it up on your own.”

Dream rolls his eyes and flicks the on switch, accustomed to the rumble that stirs against his palm.
He’s fallen into a manageable routine of chores around the house; dusting, sweeping, even
repainting the empty office he intends to move his setup into. Sapnap’s arrival and contagious
habit of being a mild slob lured Dream away from that abruptly.

While he runs the vacuum over the carpet, Sapnap fusses with their boxy speaker in the kitchen.

“Do you want to connect?” Sapnap asks, setting it on the marbled counter. “My phone is dead.”

“Play whatever.” Dream opens his phone and tosses it to Sapnap, his eyebrows shooting up with
worry as it’s nearly fumbled against the tile floor.

“What are you in the mood for?”

Dream nudges a toy of Patches’ away from the vacuum’s bristles. “Just go to my Spotify, I don’t
care.”

Music begins to fall from the speaker, snippets of songs off of Dream’s likes that Sapnap skips
through with disinterest. He settles on a private playlist of Dream’s, and they continue working.
The loud melodies play while they clean and pass jokes, eventually moving to the kitchen, where
Sapnap attends more to playing ‘DJ’ instead of wiping down the counters.

Dream has already stolen the dormant, damp rag from Sapnap’s grasp when a familiar song trickles
into the air around them.

Road shimmer, wigglin’ the vision…

He waves a dismissive hand without batting an eye. “Skip it, skip it.”

Sapnap skips it.

A different one comes on, strong with bass and rhythmic drums.

“I like this one,” Sapnap muses.

Dream hums along lightly. “Didn’t you play this, like, four times after my stream the other day?”

“I didn’t,” Sapnap says.

Dream glances at him, because he did.

The curiosity is swept away alongside the sauce stains on the marble. Dream tosses the wet cloth to
Sapnap, grinning at the grey splotch it leaves on his shoulder.

A collection of upbeat, ‘happy hormone’ songs filter through the vibrant kitchen. Dishes are
stacked; trash is collected. Older music that they both attribute to their parent’s influence brings
laughter between them, and it carries through the house, down the hall, to the laundry room where
Sapnap finally starts a load.

The vibrations from the speaker swirls around Dream’s head, as they dance, and head-bang
ridiculously, and slide on the slick floor in socks.

“Can he do it, ladies and gentlemen? Redemption, after hours of wiping the floor with his face for
my victory—”

“Move your feet,” Dream complains. Music thumps heavily from behind him.

Sapnap steps back from the triangular arrangement of empty soda cans and water bottles on the
floor. “He lines up for the shot.”

Dream dramatically mimics his bowling stance, palms cupping the dusty tennis ball they’d found
under a table in the foyer.

“Grand prize of six thousand dollars if he makes this, folks,” Sapnap says gravely, and the corners
of Dream’s mouth twitch upwards.

He breaks his concentration on the faux pins to glance at Sapnap. “Really?”

He watches as Sapnap’s hands dive into the pocket of his sweats, grasping around sporadically.
“Uh, more like…” He tugs out a few coins, and stray bills wrapped around an old receipt. “Two
dollars and six cents.”

“Big money,” Dream breathes. His fingers curl around the ball.

Sapnap nods. “The biggest.”

The fuzzy green rolls down his palm as he releases it, watching it bounce and glide across the
narrow hall.

It barrels into the plastic bottles, sending them rattling against the wooden floor. Triumph tips them
all onto their sides—except one that remains upright.

Sapnap nudges it over with a light kick. Dream whoops.

“Give me,” Dream says, “my money.” He’s handed the payment and the receipt, unfolding the
inked purchases on the paper. He frowns. “Did we really buy that many beef sticks?”

“Yeah, dude.” Sapnap bends to rearrange the bottles back into the proper lineup. “You farted up a
storm.”

Dream rolls his eyes, and they fall back into homemade bowling and singing along to whatever
spills from the speaker.

Their tunes are interrupted as a brief ping echoes through the house from the speaker. Dream slides
and nearly loses his footing as he grabs his phone from the counter.

Sapnap continues to loudly serenade him in the distance.

Breathless from a poor rendition of a low-toned rap verse, Dream unlocks his screen to view the
text.

His heart rate quickly flutters to an impossible height.

Tomorrow at eleven, George sent.

The grin that blooms across Dream’s face is impossibly bright, warming his cheeks and squeezing
 his eyes. His teeth sink into his lower lip to keep himself at bay.

The older texts above his message detail the light-hearted conversation about bowling they’d
shared from hours earlier, until Sapnap won his first strike, and Dream absently forgot to respond.

George has been reaching out to Dream more frequently in the past week. He’ll curiously prod
about Sapnap’s trip, the September weather, and any other casual topic they choose to settle on.

Dream can’t help but feel that it’s a choice, still, for their conversations to be casual. Nearly two
months of repression and filtering hasn’t pushed them to bland disinterest. He can’t help but feel as
if there’s a reserved charge waiting beneath the surface, weighed down by the two words they’d
agreed upon in summer.

He calls it wishful thinking. Yesterday, his therapist called it hope.

After taking a moment to calm the excitement rattling in his fingers, Dream types back.

Tomorrow at eleven, he repeats.

Once shut off, the phone is pulled to his chest, and rests against his sternum lightly. He takes in a
deep breath.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

His smile is nearly painful.

As he and Sapnap continue to clean and putter around the house, he thinks about the small message
that sits beneath his text for the rest of the night.

The small receipt, that says: Read at 9:09pm.

Chapter End Notes

Hi hi everyone :D Hope you're all doing well, it's been a minute! I've been busy and
was waiting for the right time to begin uploading again, but finally felt life has calmed
enough to hop back in there.

I had a lot of fun with this beginning sequence, since I very much enjoy writing these
two. I thought about focusing on their week alone for longer than just one chapter, but
I felt like they deserved a bit of privacy, lol. George will be joining 'em soon :)

The pacing of this work is going to be pretty slow, and most likely uploads will be as
well. Long haul and all that <3 I'm thinking maybe two-ish weeks per chapter, but it
may change circumstantially. Still getting a feel for a lot of things, the rating may not
stay the same as well, but yeah hopefully this will be a more relaxing go-around for all
of us :) Love you sm and ty for reading!
 Here
Chapter Summary

With George's flight to Orlando finally inbound, Dream is once again forced to
confront his feelings.

Chapter Notes

Important:

Please, do NOT mention this work in CC's streams, donations, chats, or comment
sections. This extends beyond those mentioned in the fic, and to CC's of any kind,
including the musicians/band. Though this work falls safely under boundaries that
have been publicly stated, I do not in any way encourage the conversation of this
material anywhere that could bring discomfort to other groups.

Plenty of authors beside me work just as hard, and pour hours of creativity into their
writing. They do not deserve comments comparing fics to each other, nor do those
'critiques' compliment any parties involved. Please spread positivity and kindness, and
discourage anyone who aims to put other writers down.<3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The green lanyard wrapped around Dream’s fingers unravels quickly as he twirls his palm. Metal
rattles against metal, keys cutting through the air, spinning in wide motion. Rings and the dangling
blob figurine he’d been sent months prior bounce off the back of his knuckles.

“We’re going to be late,” he repeats. He glances at the time on his phone, again.

“He’s late to everything, so it’s fine,” Sapnap’s voice carries through the muffled wall.

Dream snaps the keys into his hand, then lets them drop again. “Are you being slow on purpose?”

“Yes,” Sapnap says, as he rounds the corner.

He's wearing one of the nicer button downs they'd purchased since their 'boys trip' to the mall,
which ate up most of their time on his third day in town. The maroon material and unkempt collar
clash with his board-shorts. The sight alone proves Dream's suspicions that yes, of course, he'd
spent far more energy picking out his own outfit than Sapnap would bother to in his lifetime. In the
five minutes he'd spent fussing with his hair in the mirror, Sapnap was probably able to dress
himself haphazardly without a second thought.

Dream glances down at his soft blue shirt and over-washed jeans with trickling doubt.

"Here's your smoothie, by the way," Sapnap interrupts his thoughts, extending a dark thermos in
his hands. “You’re welcome.”
Dream frowns. “Oh.” He must have absently left it on the kitchen counter in his rush to exit.
“Thanks.”

Sapnap steps past him through the open entrance, tugging down a pair of sunglasses buried in his
hair at the first attack of light. Dream squints at the brightness as he locks the front door behind
them.

He pauses. “Are those mine?”

Sapnap nudges the brown frames slightly down the bridge of his nose, and peers at Dream over the
top of the lenses. “They look better on me.”

Dream reaches out and shoves the sunglasses back up onto his face abruptly, pushing the plastic
into the space between Sapnap's brows. He grins around the metal straw between his teeth when
Sapnap angrily bats his hand away.

He draws a sip from the smoothie as they make their way down the driveway to his car. “I put in
way too much peanut butter,” he mumbles.

“I told you.” Sapnap falls silent for a moment when tugging on the passenger handle, before
noting, “Y'know, you’re looking a little…” He hesitates. “You good?”

Dream doesn’t respond, and instead slopes into the driver’s seat, closing the door with a slam that
shakes the frame.

“Or are you bad?” Sapnap half-concludes as he eases himself into the car. Dream sighs, and he
persists, “Which is it, Dream? Good, bad...or ugly?”

“You’re not going to make me rewatch that movie,” Dream says. He sets his disappointment of a
smoothie in the center cup-holder.

They’ve held a series of televised-centric nights that glue them to his living room couch, talking
incessantly over important lines and hushing each other at exciting scenes. Bowls of chips and
splattering salsa had brought them to the very heart of Sapnap’s wish to ‘fuck off like a cowboy
and ride into the sunset.’ Apparently, Dream doesn’t respect the cinematic art that is ‘The Good,
the Bad, and the Ugly.’

“You didn’t even watch it,” Sapnap defends quickly. “You spent the entire time complaining about
guns.”

He shoves his keys into the ignition. “Because it’s over three hours, Sapnap. None of your precious
‘spaghetti westerns’ deserve to eat up that much of my time.”

“Take that back.” He can feel Sapnap’s temper simmer next to him. “Right now.”

“No,” Dream says, lips quirking into a light smile.

Sapnap lifts his sunglasses to peer at his expression. “Okay, you’re smiling. So you’re good,
right?”

The grin slides off his face as they return to his blatant workaround of the question. Turning his
keys and shuddering the car from its slumber, he mutters, “I hate how calm you are.”

Sapnap’s seat-belt whirs, and metal clicks into place. “Is that a no?”
“Are you nervous?” Dream presses hopefully, glancing at the rearview mirror before reaching to
adjust it slightly.

“Well, yeah,” Sapnap says. “Of course I am.”

He shifts the car into reverse, and begins to pull out of the driveway. His hand rests on the back of
Sapnap’s chair as he asks, “About what?”

His answer is vague. “A lot of things.”

Dream smiles. “Then tell me.”

Sapnap sighs, then begins to explain minor grievances that weigh on him about upcoming work,
home issues, and his excitement that muddles with anxiety surrounding meeting friends in real life.
He notes how he often is caught between shyness, or being too bold, and at times it becomes hard
for him to tell if he's acting true to himself. Both he and Dream acknowledge the unique quality of
their own friendship, and the casualty that comes with it. His voice tips into an absent ramble that
puts them at ease until they fall silent.

Dream drums his fingers on the steering wheel, attention flitting between signs and flashes of palm
trees that pass them by. Sapnap mindlessly taps away on his phone.

“Can you play some music?” he asks, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

Sapnap connects to the aux wordlessly.

A relieved exhale pushes the smell of dusty vents from Dream's nose when songs fill the quiet car.
His eyes sweep over the sunny, flat roads as he drifts back to his texts with George.

Late last night, George had sent: Airport is stuffy. Dislike very much.

Dream had grinned from his shell of sheets and covers, and typed back, Not too busy, I hope?

Just boarded, George said. Guy next to me smells like cologne.

On a scale from a light spritz to full on bottle-dumping, Dream proposed, how much cologne are
we talking about?

Quickly, George responded, Like he bathed in a channel of palm oil.

Dream’s amusement tumbled clumsily into high nerves when George texted again.

Taking off, it read. See u in nine hours.

His pulse pressed sporadically against the lining of his skull; throat tight. He’d wanted to send it,
the words that have lived in him since summer, but knew the text wasn’t worth the trouble of
fighting George’s airplane mode.

His head voiced it instead, repeating on every downbeat of his heart: See you then.

See you soon, he thinks as another playlist of Sapnap’s begins to decline. Very soon.

Multiple chimes interrupt the music coming from the car’s busted speakers, bringing Dream back
down to the converging lanes in front of him. The notifications from Sapnap’s phone blink through
the chorus of a song.
Dream glances at him. “Noisy ringer you’ve got there.”

“Sorry,” Sapnap mumbles, switching his phone into complete silence.

Dream knows George is surely landing any minute now. His hands knead the steering leather,
caught in repetition. He knows he’s almost here, touching down in Florida, swept by humid air and
shifting palm trees. He wonders if his hair will be riddled with static from hours of pressing against
the plane seat, or if he slept through the sunrise above the clouds.

What am I supposed to say to him?

He swipes a strand from where it tickles his eyebrows.

What is he supposed to say to me?

He checks the clock; they’re making good time. He should feel steadier, and shouldn’t let the
whispers of worry and hesitation grow in the back-burning of his head. He’s worked for this; he’s
ready for this.

Right?

A few, gentle notes of a song slip subtly into the air, lost in the rush coming from the vents and
hum of the road beneath his tires. Dream absently nudges the volume upwards to listen, before
returning his hand to the wheel.

9:09

You gonna call it or am I?

One more time

This puppy love is out of line

His eyes slowly widen at the road before him. Sapnap reclines in the passenger seat, adjusting the
sunglasses up away from his face, contently unaware.

One more slide

And then we’re back to real life.

Dream’s heart begins to pound; his breath escapes him. The lyrics unfold, and unopen in him,
again. Again. Again.

He’s lifted into the memory of hearing the first song under the clouds of his bathroom steam. He
catches wind of George’s laugh, and breezes by his whispers. He remembers the late night calls
that he misses from deep earth; their fighting, their crying, their silence. The ample wounds and
pain that split them both, wide open.

The way they left it all. Waiting, and collecting dust.

I guess I want you more than I thought I did.

“Dream?” Sapnap questions sharply. The turn signal clicks on the dash in faded matching of the
song’s beat.

Now that I know that part of you’s not part of this.

The car pulls to the side of the road, stopping quickly to not bump the dormant vehicle curbed
before them. Grass and green bend in the windshield. Whizzing traffic complains with loud horns
at Dream’s sudden parking.

“Why are we—”

“Stop,” Dream says, hands gripping the wheel. “Stop talking.”

Sapnap turns fully in his seat at the bluntness in Dream’s tone. His eyes dump worry upon him.

Wordlessly, they sit in the rumbling car as Dream lets every line of the song sink in him. Time
fades away as the soft words and hollow memories tangle in his head with bliss. Yet the growing
fear in him knows he’s minutes away from seeing George, after everything.

His heart aches, after everything.

He leans away from the wheel, hands loosely sliding down and falling into his lap. He huffs as his
back collides with the warm seat.

The music shifts into a gentle rhythm, carrying a pensive air that trickles light into his mind; the
lines have melted away into dream-like bliss. He feels it envelop him, a simultaneous shroud of
sorrow and forgiving promises.

“What song is this?” he asks.

Sapnap silently holds out his phone screen.

Helium, Dream reads.

His head tips up, eyes tracing over the grey interior and sunshader above. Blood rushes in his ears.
He can feel his pulse fluttering on the slope of his neck.

“Sapnap,” he says.

“...Yeah?”

“You know I’m not over him.”

The sounds sway; the confession lingers. He stares at the ceiling.

Several beats of the song pass, before Sapnap murmurs, “I know.”

Dream’s eyes shut. “I’m supposed to have let it go.” His voice falters, “That’s what I promised.
That’s what I said.”

“Well...you’ve been trying—”

“I have,” Dream cuts in, weighted by his heavy breath.

“And working on stuff,” Sapnap continues. His voice is calm; patient. “You said the other day you
felt more in control, right?”

“I don’t know,” Dream mumbles quickly.

“What don’t you know?”

His eyes snap open to meet with Sapnap’s dark, concerned gaze. “I don’t fucking know. I don’t
know what’s happening to me right now. Everything came rushing back, and now—now I’m
supposed to go see him? To see him? And then you’re gonna leave, and he’s going to be here, and
I’m supposed to be—” Whatever you want, I’ll do it. I’ll stick around. I won’t do anything to make
you uncomfortable.

Yours, I’m yours. I want to be yours.

“How am I supposed to do this?” he asks softly.

“I thought,” Sapnap says slowly, “you were feeling better?”

“I—” Dream starts, then clenches his jaw. “I am. I know I am.”

Sapnap reaches over, and turns off the ignition. The twist of keys kills the hum of the car and last
notes of music. “What...what would your guy say, if he was here instead of me?”

“My what?”

“Your therapist. The guy—I dunno,” Sapnap says. “Lady-name. Laura.” Lauren.

Dream takes the bundle of lanyard and keychain as it’s dropped into his palm, and squeezes it.
“He’d...he’d probably say it makes sense, that I’m having another one of these reactions.” He turns
the metal teeth over between his warm fingers. “That I could be self sabotaging, again.”

“Are you?” Sapnap asks gently.

“No,” Dream says, then exhales slowly. “Maybe. God, Sap.” A wry, bittersweet grin cuts across
his face. “How am I supposed to look at him and not just fall apart?”

Sapnap stares at him. His voice is hard. “You’re friends first.”

“What if I can’t be a friend, first?”

“You can.” Sapnap nudges Dream’s head with a light shove, drawing his hand back as Dream
pushes it away. “I get that today is a lot for us. I’m sure he’s just as worried as you are," he says.
“But when it comes down to it, you’re a good guy. I know you know that. You’re just scaring
yourself right now.”

Dream huffs. He passively runs his hands over the steering wheel.

The fear that tangles in his stomach with high, slanted excitement must be as confusing for Sapnap
as it is for himself. He finds it difficult to expect anyone else to understand his tumultuous heart;
often enough, he feels like he’s the only person who’s been down on their luck and forced to feel
this way.

He's right, he thinks. I know better.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is just...overwhelming. It’s been a minute since I’ve felt like this.” He
hooks his thumbs into the bottom of the wheel, letting his palms hang. “It’s funny how familiar it
is.”

His disheveled state now reminds him of his early days of healing, before the hurt began to
subside. He wonders if it appears that way to Sapnap as well, who is undoubtedly studying him
with caution.
“I was up so late last night,” he muses, “trying to avoid this.” He wants to laugh, but knows his
passenger would disapprove. “It makes sense it’d come back to me now. Do you know how
important sleep is, for stuff like this?”

“No,” Sapnap says.

Dream clears his throat. “It matters way more than you’d think. It’s better to consistently get, like,
a couple of hours every night than fluctuate day to day. It took me a while to realize how my
moods are all wrapped up in it.”

“Kinda bad that our schedules are a total mess, then,” Sapnap mutters.

“No kidding." Dream huffs. "Like, I didn’t sleep well at all, and now we’re on the side of the
goddamn road.” He catches the amusement that flickers across Sapnap’s face, and it warms him.
“Oh, you liked that?”

Sapnap smiles lightly. “You suck.” He glances to the sidewalk next to them. “Come on. Who does
this?”

Dream passes his eyes over the sunshine that glints off of car frames, and glares from his side
mirrors. “Can we...can we switch?” He unbuckles himself with a light click. “I don’t want to be
behind the wheel right now.”

Sapnap’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, sure.”

Knots of tension leave Dream’s body when he steps out of the car, careful to avoid passing traffic.
The outside air immediately brings temperate heat against his skin. He draws in a breath, and can
nearly taste water droplets on his tongue. Glancing back inside, he sees Sapnap awkwardly
clambering over the center console.

He smiles.

Once he’s skirted around the burning hood and reseated himself in shotgun, a breath of relief
escapes his lips.

“Better?” Sapnap asks.

Dream nods. “Not good for me to drive, when I feel like this. It’s way too dangerous.”

He tries to not linger too much on Sapnap’s unspoken surprise. They sit in comfortable silence for
several minutes, only interrupted by the sound of adjustments changing on the driver’s chair.

Quietly, Dream says, “I’m terrified of screwing everything up.”

A pause passes that creeps into the frames of his recently cleaned windows, long enough to make
him question if he’d truly said the words at all. Without the air conditioning on, heat begins to
radiate from the dark dashboard.

When Sapnap speaks up, it startles him. “I think we all are,” he mutters, “when it comes to the
people we care about.”

Dream turns his head to look at him, cheek brushing the fabric of the chair. Cautiously, he asks,
“Have you ever screwed up?”

The wheel slides into its readjusted height. “I...take my time with things that are important to me,”
he answers.

Dream sighs. “So no.”

“No,” Sapnap says. “Not really.”

He tosses the keys into Sapnap’s lap. “When did you grow a pair?”

Sapnap rolls his eyes. “Whenever you lost yours, probably.”

“Dickhead.” Dream relaxes into the seat, wiping the grin from his face as he studies the side of his
car he rarely sits in. “Do you think he knows that I...that I’m…” A mess. An idiot. Still me. He
shifts visibly at the discomfort of avoiding the wrong words. “I’m not going to be completely
different than who I was over the summer? That I’m still that person who sent the cringiest text of
my life?”

Sapnap frowns. “I dunno.” After a moment, he adds, “If he doesn’t know that by now, then he has
to learn eventually.”

Dream’s words fall soft, and tired. “What if it pushes him away again?”

Sapnap says nothing. A tense beat passes between them before he finally replies, “I don’t know
how to answer that.”

“Sorry, that’s alright, I just—” Dream exhales, raising the tips of his fingers to soothe the bridge of
his nose at his oversharing. “That’s perfectly okay. Thank you for—for everything. You’re so
patient with me, all the time, and...and it’s helped more than you know to have you here.” A smile
ghosts by his lips. “I’m kind of glad, so far, that you booked the tickets wrong.”

“Ah,” Sapnap says, embarrassed. “Me too.” He sounds vaguely guilty, still, whenever the mistake
is talked about. He spent the better part of his first day in Florida apologizing profusely for it, with
the soft-toned manner that Dream only hears when he knows he’s speaking from the heart.

They sit in silence as it settles on them that this is all they have; all they’re given. The road, and
their combined anxiousness, and the inevitability of George, waiting at the airport for their arrival.
They’re not ready, but they have to be.

Dream sits up in the passenger chair. “Alright.”

He slides his seatbelt into place.

“Alright?” Sapnap reaches for the ignition.

Dream looks at him, and says, “Please don’t crash my car.”

As the keys twist and the vehicle stutters back into life, their eyes collide with blue numbers on the
digital clock.

In unison, they mutter, “Oh, fuck.”

Dream’s strangled breath pitches the words in his throat awkwardly, “We’re late.”

“We’re fine.” Sapnap quickly tugs on the gearshift, and glances over his shoulder.

“Oh my god.” Dream hastily pulls out his phone, only to fumble it between the seat and center
console when the car lurches back onto the road. “Dude!”
“Call George,” Sapnap orders.

Dream scowls, cramming his hand below the chair. “I’m trying.”

“Did you seriously drop your phone?”

His fingertips skim the sleek device nestled on the car floor, before he’s able to tug it back into his
grasp. “You’re driving like an idiot.”

“Tell me where to go.” Sapnap recklessly merges into a less crowded lane, forcing Dream to wince.
“I’m just winging it, here.”

Dream waves flippantly at the road ahead of them. “Keep going that way.”

He feels Sapnap begin to seethe. Again, he says, “Call him.”

The nerves in Dream’s chest gather in a suffocating bundle, as he clumsily opens George’s contact.
The numbers on the stereo and speedometer mock him silently.

He hesitates.

“Dream!” Sapnap shouts.

He presses the call icon. As it rings, he switches the audio to speakerphone.

George picks up within seconds.

Immediately, Dream begins to ramble, “George, hey, I’m so sorry I know you’re probably
wondering where we are, but we’re running late and—”

“Oh no!” George says brightly. “Late for what?”

The warmth in his tone causes Dream’s words to abruptly halt, and die on his tongue. In only an
instance of hearing George’s voice, he can feel the air in his lungs again. The drumming in his
ribcage slows.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, we’re...getting someone from the airport right now.”

Dream can make out slight chatter in the background as George asks, “Are you?”

The corners of his mouth twitch at the playful twinge in George’s voice. “Yeah. His flight landed
already, and we were supposed to be there at eleven.”

“That’s funny,” George says, “because I was just on a plane.”

“Oh really?” Dream smiles. “No wonder you sound like that.”

“Like what?”

His amusement grows. “Like you were just on a plane.”

George hums, and the phone static frays the vibrating edges. “You know my voice that well?”

“I think I do,” Dream says.

Sapnap smacks his shoulder sharply, before returning his hand to the wheel. “Fucking tell him
what’s going on.”
“Right, right, sorry.” Dream rubs his arm as he straightens up in his seat. “We ran into some
trouble for a bit, but we’re almost there and should be pulling up soon. Which baggage claim are
you near?” He pauses. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright, I promise. I’m still waiting for my luggage,” George explains. “I think I can see a sign
outside the windows that says ‘B.’”

“Gotcha.” Dream tilts the phone in his palm away from his mouth, and points to green road signs
ahead. “So that’s the opposite side of where I got you. Do you see that up there? Go to the right.”

“There’s like three lanes, dude,” Sapnap says. “Which one?”

“The middle one.” Dream shifts back into the call. “Sorry. Sapnap is driving.”

Audibly stunned, George questions, “Why?”

“Getting ready to run you over,” Sapnap projects louder than necessary for the speaker to catch.

“Oh god,” says George’s tinny voice, causing them both to grin. “What does your car look like,
though? I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

Sapnap leans towards Dream’s phone. “It’s stupid and green.”

“Dark green,” Dream corrects. “Wait, you’re not gonna be able to—okay. I’ll send you a picture.”

Light clicks and arrows appear on the car’s dashboard as Dream scrolls through his camera roll.

He frowns. “Why are you signaling? Don’t go that way, go straight.”

Sapnap stubbornly readjusts the controls near the steering wheel. “These roads are confusing,
Dream.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re acting like you just got your license,” Dream says.

“Fuck off.”

He sends the first picture of his car’s boxy exterior he can find into their text thread, and George’s
light laughter floats through the phone.

“Did you get the photo?” he asks. It’s several days old, from when Dream’s mother had asked if
the frame needed a cleaning, in relation to a coupon she’d saved for a local car-wash. Dream had
responded with the quick image of Sapnap, face pinched in defense under the bright sun, spraying
the hood with a hose.

“I did,” George says. “Thank you. Nice crocs, Sapnap.”

“Those weren’t mine,” Sapnap defends hurriedly. “Dream owns way more pairs than you’d think.”

“No way.”

“Yes way,” Dream mutters.

Sapnap grins at his clear humiliation. “They’re even bigger in person. Clown shoes.”

“Can’t wait to see them, then,” George says, and the finality causes a shift to occur in the air of
their call.
Beneath sunny blue, the airport appears in the broad capture of Dream's windshield. Planes pass
overhead; excitement bubbles between them.

“George,” Dream says, “George. How was your flight?”

“Dream,” George replies, “my flight was good.”

He can’t help the smile that warms on his face. “George, how was the—”

“Can you stop that and give me directions?” Sapnap interrupts.

Dream tosses him an annoyed glance, but relents. “Do you see his airline up there? That should be
close enough.” As Sapnap draws near, Dream scans the crowded sidewalk. “Are you outside?”

They park parallel to the curb of the carpool lane. An elderly man passes by wearing a red, white,
and blue tank that is saturated with unappealing sweat stains. Dream winces, and snaps his
attention away to the trunk of the car in front of them. He hates Labor day weekend rush. He and
Sapnap had made a point to do entirely un-patriotic activities for the past few days, minus
attending the barbecue where his siblings annihilated them in a hot-dog eating contest.

“Almost,” George says. “I still don't have my bags. I swear it’s taking longer than customs did.”

“I didn’t have to go through customs,” Sapnap inputs with a hint of vanity.

George huffs. “I should’ve tried to bring one of my knives. Just for you.”

“And get arrested?” Dream questions. His eyes flit over the people passing on the sidewalk, and
the glass entrance to the terminal that he catches glimpses of between bags and shoulders.

“Worth it,” George says, then his voice pitches, “Oh wait! I think I see my stuff.”

“Awesome, well we’re—” Drivers press angrily on their horns around them, the busy airport
collecting noisily beyond Dream’s car doors. “Jesus, people are pissy today.”

“Why is that lady flipping me off?” Sapnap mumbles softly.

Dream tosses a similar gesture back with ease. “They’re real sticklers about keeping this lane
moving. They don’t like when people park for this long.”

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I’m almost—” George begins, but Dream quickly stops him.

“Don’t be. Stuff just tends to move too fast, here.” He retracts his seatbelt from where it crosses
over his chest, without pausing to think. “Sap, I’m gonna get out and find him. Can you take the
car around?”

“I dont know where the fuck ‘around’ is,” Sapnap says.

Dream is already halfway out the door. “It’s easy, you can follow the signs.”

“What signs?”

Dream points. “Right there, oh my god, it’ll just be a few minutes. Follow the loop and go.”

He slams the door shut and watches through narrowed eyes the temerity with which Sapnap tears
away. He prays his car returns in one piece.
He switches his phone off of speaker mode and draws it to his ear. “Sorry about that, George.
Where did you say you were?”

He glances at the blue and white signs hanging above him, head swiveling to scan the crowd of
busy bodies and airport musk.

“George?” he repeats.

“Sorry, sorry,” George says. “I just got my bags. Where are you?”

Dream pushes past strangers, making his way towards the large glass doors that slide open before
travelers. A grin lifts on his face as realization sets in.

“I’m nearby,” he utters vaguely.

He hears George scoff. “Oh, god. You’re not seriously going to do that thing, are you?”

“What thing?” Dream feigns.

“Don’t be dumb. You want to see me first, and then like, giving me a heart attack or something,”
George says. The playful scenario Dream has joked about one too many times weighs with
irritation on his tone. He’s been repeating it for years; it’s only fair to live up to George’s
expectations.

“I bet,” Dream muses, “I can find you, before you find me.”

“That’s not fair,” George says flatly. “You have an advantage.”

His heart races as his eyes dance over the tops of heads in the crowd. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

A beat of silence passes. “I could just yell your name and see who looks at me,” George considers.

The automated doors glide open as he steps inside, squinting at the bright fluorescents. Cool
billows of an air-conditioned breeze race to greet his frontside, only to be lost in the immediate
humidity outdoors.

“Do it, then,” Dream says. Hoards of strangers spread sparse across the tile floor, moseying by
dormant carousels, tugging their bags to and fro. He’s always liked airports; a unique collection of
people and converging lives, they seem to be full of possibility.

“Nevermind,” George mumbles through the phone. “That would be really weird.”

Dream grins. Hovering near the door and ignoring people that nudge his shoulders as they slip by,
he says, “I knew you wouldn’t have the balls to do it.”

“Says the guy who is hiding from me right now.” The background noise on George’s end is
suddenly accompanied with the occasional honk, and rush of a nearby car.

When did George go outside? His brows pinch together as his eyes pass over the terminal. I came
in through the only exit.

“I’m not hiding,” Dream starts defensively, turning to leave the baggage claim again, “I’m—”

The glass doors part before him noiselessly. His heart drops into his stomach.
“Dream?” George questions. “Hello? What—did the call fail?” Dream sees him pull his phone
from his ear, to glance at the screen, then return it to his face. “Why’d you…” His voice tapers off
as his eyes rapidly search their surroundings.

Immersed in the crowd of busy bodies, rushing strangers, squeaking luggage wheels—George
stands wrapped in confusion. Dream's mind snags onto pieces of him; dark sweats, an off-purple
shirt, rolled up sleeves to expose the pale skin of his forearms. His knuckles are curled around his
off-blue luggage. A grey neck pillow hangs lazily from his bag.

Dream can see his furrowed gaze search the crowd, and see his chest shift when he breathes.

He’s real. He’s here.

“You,” Dream’s words escape him in a battered breath, “walked past me.”

When he’d stood in the terminal entrance, his gaze slipped through him like a ghost, and George
glided out onto the sidewalk with nothing more than a slight bump of elbows.

We passed each other. We missed each other.

George turns, and turns, face pinched in sharp thought and confusion. Faces interrupt and swarm
the sidewalk between them, and Dream loses him in a sea of blurred color. He blinks, eyes flitting
through the bustle, nearly swearing he’d imagined the faraway silhouette as strangers block his
vision—until he sees George again.

Still lost; still waiting.

He’s here.

A smile spreads across Dream’s face as happiness, immeasurable happiness, swells in his lion-
heart.

He pockets his phone, and yells, “George!”

He watches the way George’s head snaps to look at him, surprise leaping across his face when the
realization collides amid the sea of madness.

Dream waves dramatically, pushing past strangers whose eyes cut to him with irritation. The wide
swings of his arm are threatening to heads at elbow-height, but care escapes him as George raises a
slow hand in return.

The expression spread across George’s features, curious and disbelieving, blooms the closer Dream
gets. His fingers slide carelessly away from his luggage, as he steps forward to defeat the distance
halfway, moving like a floating bird in search of an anchor.

Dream is laughing when he finally reaches him. George is beaming when he finally reaches him.

The second Dream meets his gaze from arms-length away, colors in his world saturate with
impossible warmth. Blobs of passing strangers dance in the edges of his vision like refracted
sunbeams. George’s eyes are rich, dark, and bold like the rest of him.

Yet his smile is soft.

“Hi,” Dream says, as his chest rises and falls rapidly.

George’s smile grows. He breathes, “Hi.”

Loosed by unthinking joy, Dream closes the distance and tugs George into a tight embrace. His
frame engulfs him, melding them together as George instantly returns the clasp around his middle
with gripping excitement.

He feels George’s face press into his chest, his brown hair barely brushing on the dip of
collarbones. Dream’s forearms are locked around his small back, trembling. His cheek lowers
down to press against George’s head.

“Oh my god,” George muffles into Dream’s shirt. The warmth of his breath soaks into the cotton.

Dream’s arm’s squeeze around him. “Oh my god.”

George’s fingers dig into his back. “Oh my god.”

Dream chuckles, biting back the urge to repeat it again. Shaky tears spring into the corners of his
vision.

“Dream,” George says, his voice breaking.

Dream’s heart pounds, the rhythm emanating from deep in his core. Close in his arms, tight to his
chest, George breathes into him.

His eyes flutter shut. This is too good to be dreaming.

“I…” Dream feels his tongue slipping nervously, “I feel like I haven’t seen you all summer.”

George laughs. He laughs. Dream feels it rattle through the thin frame pinned to his chest, and
jostle his forearms against George’s back. The addictive sound winds itself into Dream’s throat as
giddy giggles begin to escape him.

George’s hands grow lax and slip from his shoulder blades. Dream pulls back, their touch severing
completely as his palms slide into his jeans.

“Um, how—how was your—” he tries, smiling and stuttering as George laughs at him again.
Amusement leaves his lungs in sporadic bursts.

George’s eyes openly rake across his face, dappled with light as he dawns a studious expression.
Before Dream can recover from the feel of his skin under George’s gaze, he’s pulled forward
again.

George’s arms wrap tight around his waist, bones cutting into his t-shirt. The unexpected hug
startles Dream, and his hands float in suspended caution until they slowly return to wrap around his
low shoulders. Warmth filters between every inch of touch they share.

He’s sure George can hear the racing of his heart as he splays a palm to the back of his dark hair.

“How was your flight?” he manages to ask, chin bumping George’s head.

His hand shifts over the soft strands as George pulls back slightly. His eyes tip up at Dream.

“You already asked me that,” he says.

Dream notes how George hadn’t parted as far back as he’d done before. He glances rapidly across
George’s face, freckles, and slope of his cheekbones. This close, he can nearly place the aroma of
his shampoo in the tangle of humid air.
“Did I?” he murmurs, hand lingering on the back of George’s head. “Well, maybe your answer
changed in the past five minutes.”

George’s mouth parts to respond, but he hesitates and draws his brows together with a guarded
expression. The thick breeze and airport noise seem to rush them at once.

Dream separates from him immediately. Enough space is placed between them to balance their
clipped breathing, and ease the sharp nerves that had suddenly collided. When George’s shoulders
lose their tense stature, he knows the movement was the right idea.

“I can never sleep on planes,” George answers finally.

Dream’s eyebrows raise. “I thought you could fall asleep anywhere.”

George huffs lightly. “Definitely not on a flight to come see you guys.” He moves back to re-grasp
his forgotten luggage on the sidewalk.

“Or with your over-cologned seat mate,” Dream tries, smiling at the way George’s cheeks lift
because of it. “How was that after nine hours?”

His words are trembling at the edges, he knows, the excitement and surrealism slipping from every
syllable. They've hardly talked over the phone in weeks, and now it's in person and completely
terrifying. His pulse stutters as George’s gaze flicks up to meet his own again.

“Awful,” George says brightly.

“Well.” Dream can’t tear his eyes away. “I hope it was worth it.”

George smiles. “We’ll see about that.”

Dream’s mind is left in fuzzy wandering after their last hug, and he refrains from pulling him in
again. He blinks, and George is still standing before him, undoubtedly tired but radiant in every
sense of the word.

“It is really, really good to see you,” Dream confesses. He’d feel rude for staring if George wasn’t
doing the same.

“Yeah,” George says, “you too.”

Dream’s cheeks warm as he remembers, faintly, George is seeing his full face for the first time
after years of calls, texts, half-assed photos and endless bickering. “Right.”

“Right,” George echoes, grinning. “Are you being shy?”

“How am I—fuck off.” He nudges George’s shin lightly with the tip of his shoe. “You’re the one
who passed me. You walked right by, like you didn’t even know who I was.”

“I didn’t pass you,” George defends sharply, “you passed me. You’re the one who should’ve seen
me first.”

“Okay, maybe, maybe—but it was hard for me to recognize the top of your head,” Dream says,
because it’s true. George is entirely below his eye level.

George’s grin is wiped from his face. “You can’t see the top of my head.”

“Yes I can,” Dream gloats. “Sapnap might be able to, too.”

George’s knuckles shove his shoulder. “Don’t joke about that, oh my god.”

He laughs, hand raising to gently cover the place where George’s fingers had been. “It’s the
inevitable, George. He’s gonna be here any minute now.” He watches what seems like confusion
knit across George’s face. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” George dismisses.

Dream’s pulse quickens. “Did I say something?”

“It’s nothing.” George tugs his suitcase in front of his feet, and briefly glances to the road. “I just
haven’t heard you say my name in person, like this.”

He smiles bashfully. “George,” he says.

George’s eyes snap back to him. “It’s weird,” he breathes, but the corners of his mouth twitch
upward. “This is weird.”

“It is weird,” Dream agrees. He extends his hand, and George lets him take the bags from his grip
as they move towards the curb.

“I’m going to say this now,” George says, regarding Dream’s face with caution. “This is gonna
take some time to get used to.”

Dream laughs. “Don’t worry,” he soothes, playful until his voice softens involuntarily, “we have all
the time in the world.”

George smiles in gentle surprise. When he looks as though he’s about to respond, an aggressive
flurry of honking interrupts them.

The sound smothers the beeping and chatter that had faded from Dream’s attention during their
conversation, and the familiarity of the putrid noise makes his grin return. He’s sat in enough hours
of bullet-sweating traffic to know his own horn by heart.

“I think,” George says as Dream turns to look at the carpool lane, “I see your car.”

Windows down, music pounding from the shoddy speakers, Sapnap slams his palm into the
steering wheel repeatedly as he slides into an opening. His hand disappears below Dream’s line of
sight presumably to the gear shift, as he aggressively locks the wheels in place.

He spills out of the car, and hastily tugs up his sunglasses to yell, “Georgie!”

Dream lifts George’s suitcase, and steps back as Sapnap comes rushing towards them. George
glances at him in the microseconds before he’s attacked in an overwhelming bear hug, and the
brief flash of surprise in his eyes stores itself in Dream’s memory immediately.

Such a small act of communication that he’d caught, that he’d recognized. His smile lifts with the
bottom of George’s shoes as Sapnap heaves them from the ground. George’s constricted hand pats
Sapnap’s back until he’s set down.

“I found you,” Sapnap chokes out as he steps back. “Dude. Dude. How the fuck are you doing?
How was the flight? Did you read that thing I sent you—”

They dive into rapid greetings that are wired with loving excitement. Dream observes their meeting
with an amused smile, relishing every look that skitters his way when George’s eyes slide off of
Sapnap.

It feels like a beginning; it feels like a secret.

“Dream,” Sapnap says, breathless from his rambling, “come on.” His arm is slung with ease
around George’s shoulders, until George reaches to nudge it off. “Who is taller?”

They stare at Dream expectantly. He shifts George’s luggage in his hands.

“I…” He glances between them, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don’t think I should answer
that.”

Sapnap clutches the car’s lanyard in his hands. “Dream.”

He leans forward to rip the keys from his grip. “We really should head out, I don’t wanna get
yelled at.”

Sapnap complains instantly.

Dream tosses a quick look at George, paired with a slight smirk, and his heart skips when George
rolls his eyes. Wordless, and effortless, their secret grows.

His face is warm when he slings George’s luggage into the trunk. The bags are accompanied by a
small tag, scribbled with George’s name and number in neat handwriting. Dream studies it for a
moment, lingering on the scrawl with a smile.

He feels the frame shudder as the others slam the passenger doors shut. His fingers stall, curved
over the warm paint of the compartment’s opening. The light sting against his skin pushes him to
let out a deep breath.

I can do this.

He closes the trunk, and hurries to the driver’s seat.

“—While you on the other hand probably fit perfectly in those narrow rows—” Sapnap is saying
from shotgun as Dream clambers behind the wheel.

“That’s not what I said,” George defends. “You aren’t some kind of giant—”

“Come on, man. Don’t even try—”

“Sapnap,” Dream says, “he just got here. Let him breathe.” He quickly revs the engine back into
life, checking the lights on the dashboard before turning around in his seat. He smiles. “Hi,
George.”

“Hello,” George echoes with amusement.

“Hi,” Sapnap says, “you shortstack—“

Dream rolls his eyes. “Welcome to Florida.”

George glances momentarily at the hand Dream has hooked on the shoulder of the driver's seat,
before it returns to the wheel. “Thanks for having me. Pleasure to be here.”

“Expect to see all of the greatest tourist destinations on your visit,” Dream says warmly, fingers
gliding over the wheel as he begins to pull away from the curb.
“Dream’s weird fridge,” Sapnap contributes solemnly. He pivots towards George. “It talks.”

“Sapnap’s fat ass,” Dream counters.

“Right,” George says. “I’ve already seen one of those things.”

“His massive backyard. So much grass.”

“Oh, that one was actually kind of nice,” Dream notes. “Thank you.” He waves with sickening
sweetness to a nearby foot-traffic worker who seems displeased at their slowness.

Sapnap hums, continuing, “Patches’ litter box.”

“...Aw?” George questions. “Do you spend a lot of time looking at that, Sapnap?”

Dream laughs shortly. As they exit the airport lanes, warm air slips through the unrolled windows
and brushes over the blonde hair on his arms. Sunlight skips across his dash.

“You’ll see some rainbows if it storms,” Sapnap says. “So colorful, y’know? Oh wait.” Dream
doesn’t need to look to know his grin is sharp.

“Are we,” Dream interrupts, before they can get lost in an insult-war, “in the mood to stop
somewhere?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I could eat,” George pipes from the backseat. “My flight only had
aubergine lasagna.”

Dream smothers a sharp huff. Years ago, George told him how he’d been forced to eat an eggplant
dish his ‘chef’ of a sister poorly crafted, and was riddled with food poisoning for days. Ever since,
he’s despised it.

“Ah,” Sapnap drawls, “eggplants.”

“Sapnap, please.” George’s complaint is laced with a smile. “The pact.”

Dream frowns for a moment, then amused recognition spreads across his face. “Jesus, I totally
forgot about that.”

Somewhere in the confusing muddle of summer, they’d created a pact to not bother George, which
was solidified with ‘verbal signatures.’

Despite hardly ever referring to food when on the topic of George’s hatred for the purple fruit,
Sapnap mutters, “I didn’t think vegetable jokes would count as breaking it.”

“Not a vegetable,” Dream and George say in repetitive unison.

Dream has to bite back a grin. “You didn’t answer me, though. Food?”

“Hm. I’d probably get something to go,” Sapnap offers.

Dream nods. “Alright, then.” He skims the nearby road signs, navigating back to the freeway.
“Pick a letter, George.”

Sapnap pulls out his phone, and reaches for the charging cord.

George says, “What?”

 “Just pick a letter,” Sapnap repeats.

“Um.” George hesitates. “Z?”

“Bold choice,” Dream says as Sapnap tsks. “Sapnap, please list all our options of restaurants that
start with ‘Z’ on the route home.”

Sapnap begins to type away. “On it.”

He hears George laugh lightly, and as a various string of food-stop names rises over the low music,
Dream’s attention breaks from the road.

He lifts his gaze from concrete and green to see George, in the rearview mirror, seated in the
backseat of his car as if he’s always been there. His head is turned to the side, flickering eyes dark
against the light grey of the seat cushions, contentment settled across his face.

Dream thinks of the countless hours he’s spent driving and wishing he could witness this very
moment; George turning away from the window to look forward, and his eyes leaping to meet
Dream’s in the reflection.

Warmth blooms in his chest. Dream smiles.

George’s calm features break into a friendly grin, and he raises a hand to give a half-wave.

Their eyes separate, and they collectively begin to discuss the ethics of getting breakfast food past
twelve o’clock in the afternoon. As green exit signs slide by overhead, and yellow dashes race
under the car’s tires, Dream knows he’s not concentrating on the road, anymore.

He glances at George in the mirror again.

Not at all.

Chapter End Notes

it has been a long time comin', but this chapter is finally here! tha boys are all together,
and so it begins :) I really did enjoy writing this one, tried to stick to realism with a bit
of playfulness since meeting an online friend for the first time is a super unique
experience. I uploaded this a lot quicker than I thought I would, but again, 1-2 weeks
is what I'm hoping to aim for! thank you for all the love on the first upload, it has been
very chill and nice to see you again <3

I appreciate the support so much, and once again would like to ask that you keep
discussions of this work w/in the community. happy reading :)
 Doorways
Chapter Summary

With nerves running high, Dream and Sapnap make an effort to entertain their new
guest.

Chapter Notes

This is a long chapter that I highly considered cutting down, but didn't have the heart
to leave anything out. I felt that if any one should be so detailed, it deserves to be this
one :) Bear with me, and enjoy!

Please, do NOT mention this work in CC's streams, donations, chats, or comment
sections. This extends beyond those mentioned in the fic, and to CC's of any kind,
including the musicians/band. Though this work falls safely under boundaries that
have been publicly stated, I do not in any way encourage the conversation of this
material anywhere that could bring discomfort to other groups.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

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.

Chapter End Notes

thank you for reading! though it seemed like many were concerned about a car crash
(?) after the end of last chapter, that definitely won't be happening in this story lol. this
one marks the longest installation by far, which I hope to attribute to my growth
throughout this entire process before anything else :) it's a lot like seeing someone
after you haven't, for a while - so much to think, say, and feel. they're all here, they're
all nervous, and that's bound to make time move a little slow. I felt like he'd count
every second they're all together on their first day, and wanted to portray that here.
absolute dorks.

next chapter should pick up the pace for sure. hope you're all doing well, thank you
for the patience and support :) long haul gang, i love u sm <3
 Eggshells
Chapter Summary

The trio takes on grocery shopping.

Chapter Notes

Please, do NOT mention this work in CC's streams, donations, chats, or comment
sections. This extends beyond those mentioned in the fic, and to CC's of any kind,
including the musicians/band. Though this work falls safely under boundaries that
have been publicly stated, I do not in any way encourage the conversation of this
material anywhere that could bring discomfort to other groups.

TLDR; Don't be dummies <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“I won’t make a smoothie,” Dream says softly, glancing down at the kitchen floor. “I promise.”

Large, green eyes peer up at him with curiosity, and Patches meows in what he hopes is
forgiveness. Even the implication of him pulling the blender onto the counter sends her running
into the next room in fear of the noisy machine. During their morning routines, he patiently waits
for her to finish breakfast and depart doors down, before pouring frozen fruits into the mixer.

His nerves drove him out of bed particularly early today, after responding to George’s aimless text
in the late-night. When he let Patches out of Sapnap’s room, the lilac morning had barely begun to
descend from the hall skylight. They’ve been happily existing in each other’s company as sun
creeps into the kitchen, making breakfast and having their usual one-sided conversations.

Having abandoned her half-eaten bowl of kibble, Patches bats at his ankles again in a ploy for
attention. He smiles.

“You wanna see what I’m cookin’?” he asks, hands leaving the skillet to scoop her from the
ground.

Her small frame and soft fur meld with ease into his palms, and he holds her to his chest as they
both survey the eggs frying in the pan. He watches her smell the steam rising from the yellowed
blobs, and lightly scratches her head.

“What do you say, little lady—” He props her up on his shoulder as he reaches to turn off the dial
on the stovetop. “Should I put in more salt?”

She mewls almost inaudibly at being spoken to, and he nods in feigned agreement. His hand
returns to cup her thin back, humming idly as he pets down her spine. Her tail flicks against his
arm.
“I could give you some eggies,” he muses sweetly, swaying them to and fro as she nudges his face.
“But I don’t wanna upset your tummy.”

He’s about to reach for the skillet and slide the eggs onto a nearby plate when he feels her freeze in
his arms. Her small limbs tense, paws shoving into his chest without warning. After a moment of
juggling the wriggly cat, he leans her away from his shoulder to study her wide eyes.

He frowns, fingers soothing the fluff below her ears. “What’s wrong, baby?” he murmurs.

“I think she’s scared of me,” a voice says from behind them, and Dream jumps at the sound.

He frantically cups Patches to his chest, and turns around as they both relax from the sudden
tightening of his grasp. He’s as wide-eyed as she when they both see George has joined them,
hovering in the doorway across the wide expanse of Dream’s marbled counter.

“Oh!” Dream greets, steadying the sudden spike in his heart rate. “Hi, George.”

His hair is soft and combed, his pajamas are loose-fitting and dark. Though his jet lag is slightly
visible under his eyes when he blinks heavy, his voice is warm. “Hi, Dream.”

Patches’ claws lightly sink into the white fabric on his chest. He knows what George’s voice
sounds like, in the morning, after years of early calls and sleepy mumbling. To see the slight flush
on his cheeks, the vague bleariness in his wandering eyes—Dream can’t believe how long he’s
been robbed of such a beautifully mundane sight.

“You’re awake and in my kitchen,” he says.

George gives him a smile. “I am both of those things.”

Dream glances back at the stove. “I didn’t know when you’d be up, so I was just cooking for
myself.” His eyes return to George in an instant. “I can make you something though, if you’d
like.”

George shakes his head, moving closer to the counter. “I’m not all that hungry just yet, but thanks.”

“Are you sure?” he pushes, “I can easily—”

His attention snaps down to Patches when George tugs a chair tucked below the center island, as
she flinches once again in his arms. The threat of George, it seems, radiates even from plenty of
feet away.

“Hey, hey,” Dream mutters, relaxing his hold to ease the small bundle of fur in his palms. “It’s
alright, honey. Just relax.”

Patches seems to keep a wary eye on the stranger at their counter, while she lets Dream hook his
touch under her shoulders. She’s lifted into the air until her paws stretch out above him in
resignation.

“There you go.” Dream’s nose scrunches when a pawful of pink toes is squished against his face.
As he lowers her with a fond grin, he assures, “Don’t be scared. George is nice, I swear.”

He spares a quick look to see George watching the spectacle with an amused expression. His face
warms.

“Very cute,” George says, and the ambiguity of who the statement is directed towards is sure to
haunt Dream for millenia.

He clears his throat. “Do you want to pet her?”

“You think she’ll let me?” George questions, hopeful.

Dream shifts Patches in his arms. “Maybe.”

He readjusts his hands so she can easily leap away if need be, and makes his way around the large
counter. George rises from the low-backed chair he’s sunken into, and waits patiently as they
approach. Focusing on the warmth of fur in his hands instead of the nerves in his chest, distance
decreases between them.

The whites of his socks leave inches of sleek floorboards before George’s small feet. Dream is
close enough to peer down at the light spatter of freckles that rise just above the scoop of his shirt,
without meaning to. He carefully leans Patches lower to accommodate for the difference in height.

His eyes linger on George’s face, before falling to the warm cat in his arms.

“Slowly,” Dream says, voice low, “lift your hand. She seems pretty curious today, so you should
be fine.”

He tips Patches’ head towards George, who follows his instructions with deep concentration. His
wrist rises; his fingers reach. When the foreign touch lowers and connects with her mottled fur,
Dream notices they’re both holding their breath.

George exhales, and the billow of soft air glides across Dream’s forearms. He pets down the space
between Patches’ ears; she doesn’t stir. Patient, and cautious, the house seems to be locked in a
standstill with nothing moving besides George’s slender hand down her back.

“See?” Dream breathes, as George’s fingernails accidentally graze his chest. “He’s not so bad.”

Softly, George greets, “Hi, Patches.”

When she meows quietly in return, Dream has to cast his eyes up to the high ceiling before his
heart melts. Her approval matters far more than he’d anticipated. When his gaze floats back down,
he steals a glance at George’s expression, as he pets Patches with a keen fondness he’s never seen
before.

She shifts in Dream’s arms, and George is quick to draw his hand away at the first sign of
discomfort. His curious eyes leap between Dream and Patches, seemingly apologetic for alarming
her.

“She probably just wants to get down,” Dream explains, the warmth in his voice hushed, and
fleeting.

George relaxes visibly. “Ah, okay.”

Dream leans over to let her step out of his arms, and onto the cool counter. She stretches on the
stone in a theatrical manner, paws splayed out, before laying down in front of George’s chair.

Free from her distracting adorability, Dream returns to the stove. He scrapes his scrambled
breakfast onto a plate of sausage links, the cold ceramic combating how warm his hands had
grown in proximity to George. The task of handling his food seems more pressing now, with the
obvious surveillance he can feel on the back of his head. He plucks bread from the toaster, and
resists the urge to adjust messy strands of his hair.

“I think she likes me,” George pipes up from behind him.

He glances over his shoulder to see Patches sitting on the counter, as George runs careful fingers
over her back. She seems content in his company, unmoving and purring lightly.

Dream turns back to his plate, smiling. “Of course she does.”

“Of course?” George echoes hesitantly.

Thankful that he’s facing away from the island, Dream winces at the transparency in his own
voice. His head aches with the amount of responses his intrepid tongue wants to say. Everyone
likes you, or, what’s not to like? Or, she has the same taste as me.

“I told you she’s sweet,” he settles on casually.

His heart thumps in the silence that follows. In his hands, the toast is warm, the knife is cold; the
butter spreads with ease.

“So how did you sleep?” he asks.

“Very well, thank you,” George answers.

The sound lingers in the kitchen’s ambiance. Their joint politeness is abnormal, to say the least,
and Dream despises it. Reserved greetings and shallow words that he’s learned to have patience for
are nearly even worse in person. He isn’t sure how to navigate what would shatter the brittle ice
between them; he isn’t sure if George wants to shatter it at all.

“Is Sapnap up?” George asks after a moment of nonresponse.

“No, not yet.” Dream glances at the digital numbers on the oven’s clock. “He probably will be in
about an hour or so.”

“Oh,” George says. “Alright.”

Dream’s fingers glide idly over the sun-spotted countertop, as he tugs open the silverware drawer
in search of utensils. His busy hands rattle unnecessarily through several before drawing one from
the compartment. Immediately, he begins to fiddle with the metal, and winces as the reflected light
from the window briefly pierces his eyes.

“How was your week together?” George asks, and Dream feels a smile tug on his features.

The question is nice, and amicable, but what he hones in on is George’s strange persistence to fill
their silence. He turns with the plate cupped in his large palm, and sinks the prongs of his fork into
the mess of steaming eggs.

“It’s been really fun,” he answers earnestly. “We actually managed to cram a lot into it, so it passed
by super quickly.” He blows on a clump of egg, before musing, “Though I do wish he brought his
setup, or something, cause he kept complaining about using his laptop the whole time.”

He chews contemplatively, and sends a silent thought of approval Patches’ way. The smell is rich,
the sun from the sink’s window is warm on his back, and it hadn’t needed more salt afterall.

“That’s not really what I meant,” George says, and Dream’s absent-mindedness is cut to shreds
with one sharp glance upward.
George’s brows are drawn together; guarded and wary. His hand has withdrawn from Patches’
belly, and rests in a loose fist on the speckled countertop. The only clue Dream is given to know
George isn’t upset is the gentle rise and fall of his small shoulders.

He lowers his fork to rest on the lip of the plate. “What did you mean?”

“You know,” George says, and his eyes briefly skitter away from Dream’s face to return moments
later.

Nervousness? Dream feels his pulse race at the revelation. Is he nervous?

“How is it, having him here?” George continues gently, blinking slow. “How...have you been?”

Dream’s breath catches in his chest. Quietly, he says, “Oh.”

He carefully rests his plate on the counter beside him. The seconds that pass weigh on him heavily,
as they stare at each other from across the empty kitchen. His hands find the marble on either side
of him for support.

His heart thumps as he gazes at George. “You...want to talk about it?”

You want to do this, now?

“Sure.” George’s voice is soft, and his brows tip up slightly. “Why not?”

Dream’s throat tightens. He clears it quickly, and lets his eyes fall away as he wipes his palms on
his sweats.

“Okay,” he says. He attention wanders over George’s expression as it opens, slightly. “Um, okay.”

Where do I start?

“Well, yeah, Sapnap has really helped me out,” Dream chooses cautiously. “More than I thought
he would, he...he’s always there even when I don’t ask him to, y’know?” He lets out a huff. “I
think it’s been a lot healthier between us, lately. Much less dependent, I guess, even though I’m
more present than I used to be.”

George nods. After a moment, he pushes, “And you?”

Dream regards him with wide eyes. “I uh—I’ve been good. Really.” He takes in a breath, and
swallows away any lingering unease. “This kind of stuff is never linear, but...I feel like I can
always tell when the weight of my life is tipping upwards.”

Or, he thinks, when it’s tipping towards you.

“So yeah,” he continues, repeating, “good. I’ve been good. I mean, as good as I can be.”

They let the sincerity of his words float, dipping through stray sunbeams and the egg-scented air.
In a farther room of the first floor, Dream can hear when the air conditioning kicks into life. A chill
is quick to invade the sharp corners and dark cabinets of the kitchen.

Dream meets his eye again, and dares to ask, “What about you? How have you been?”

The question is soft, and the answer is surprisingly simple.

“As good as I can be,” George says.

Dream lets out a sigh.

He’d expected as much. After all, George once responded ‘yikes’ to a long-winded rant about an
unfortunate roadkill accident, which had left Dream feeling morally inept. He knows better than to
mistake George’s simplicity for apathy.

Yet as he readies himself to move past it, his head stalls. He thinks of the beige walls and maroon
couches, the tissues on Dr. Lauren’s table and the blurred image of the ticking clock.

Honest, he thinks. Be honest. I know how.

He draws his hands away from the counters, and wrings his fingers together in front of him. His
eyes dart away from George’s face.

Quietly, he asks, “Do you think you could give me a little more than that, George?”

He hears a short exhale, and his gaze leaps to George’s expression. Slight shock seems to be
tugging at his eyebrows and lashes, fraying the curtain of complacency he’s hid himself behind.

“We haven’t spoken in a while,” Dream continues. His voice, though firm, doesn’t dare increase in
volume. “And the last time we really talked, you...you seemed very overwhelmed, and upset with
me.”

George blinks. “Because I was.”

I think it's too much, he remembers George whispering. I think it might be too much.

“I know, trust me.” Dream’s laced fingers tighten, and he feels his appetite slipping the more he
hacks at the frost between them. “Are you still?”

You're too much, I need space, I need time; Dream remembers George saying that, too.

“No,” George answers flatly.

Dream’s nails dig crescents into his knuckles. “Well good,” he breathes. “That’s good.”

Stubborn as always; distant as always. Dream lets himself wait a few hopeful seconds, before
ultimately giving up the moment he knows he won’t be forcing anymore words out of George. He
glances to the counter at his side, and the plate of food he’ll drive himself to eat, no matter how
uninviting it may seem.

Careful to keep any signs of tiredness from his all too readable voice, Dream mutters, “I’m glad to
hear that.”

A beat of tense silence passes. His eyes pass over his breakfast, watching the fork as if he expects
it to move on its own, while knowing George is watching him.

“I...I didn’t mean to upset you, by asking,” George says quietly.

Dream’s eyes flutter shut. He’d steeled his voice so George wouldn’t pick up on his frustration, but
had forgotten how he can’t simply hide behind his Discord icon, anymore.

He lets out a breath, then tries to say, “George—”

“You asked me, um,” George interrupts with strength, but tapers when Dream’s eyes are on him
again. “You asked how I’ve been. And I...I’ve been…” He clears his throat. “I’ve been taking a lot
of pictures lately. A lot of them.”

“You…” Dream slowly frowns in confusion. “What?”

“I don’t mean like stupid photos on my phone,” George continues hurriedly, glancing anywhere but
Dream’s face. “I bought a really nice camera after doing a ton of research, and got in touch with an
old professor of mine, and have been meeting with her sometimes to—to discuss them." His voice
lightens. "And learn how to get better.”

Dream stares at him with flooded disbelief.

Photographs?

He thinks of all the hours he’s spent listening to George muse over videos, editing, lighting and
composition and lenses. He remembers chatting with him as a teenager when George was in
university; how excited he’d been by the professors film-related course, and studying outside of
STEM, for once. It falls into place alongside his other unveiled mysteries seamlessly.

Dream gives him a curious smile. Softly, he asks, “Really?”

He can’t convince himself the light dusting of pink that settles on George’s cheeks isn’t real.

“Yeah, it’s...it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but for some reason I didn’t let myself,” he
explains, and it doesn’t look as though he’s fighting his apparent anxiousness anymore. “I thought
it’d be a waste of time, or I wouldn’t be any good, and now I’ve been outside a lot more and
actually enjoying it and—” A short breath escapes his lips, and his bright eyes meet Dream
halfway. “It sounds dumb. I know it sounds dumb, but I’m reconnecting with this thing I never
thought I’d go back to.”

Dream doesn’t know if this is where he’s supposed to speak, to be supportive, and utter words of
encouragement or praise like he knows George appreciates. He leans into his speechlessness.

After a quiet moment, to his soaring heart’s approval, George speaks up again.

“It has to do with thinking a little less,” he says, reaching to resume gliding a hand through Patches’
fur, “and feeling more.”

A stunned beat falls over them. He imagines George, with a dark camera and soft cloths, carefully
wiping away dust and storing it in a long-strapped bag he undoubtedly keeps clean. Does he pull
his knees to his chest, when sitting in his desk-chair, downloading programs and editing
photographs late at night? What does the world look like, through his lens?

“You do think a lot,” Dream says, warm with encouragement.

George’s eyes flick up to meet him. “I do.”

He seems uneasy at the privacy of what he’d detailed to Dream, as if he’s never spoken of it to
anyone else until their kitchen morning. It’s hardly an answer to the question of ‘how have you
been’ at first glance, but he’d offered a part of himself up. He’d tried, and it’s more than either of
them have done in weeks.

Dream gives him a reassuring smile. “Busy brain.”

“I have the busy brain?” George echoes, but he’s beginning to smile through his words.
“George,” Dream says, “when have I ever had a thought in my life?”

George pretends to consider it, before uttering, “True.”

Dream laughs, and the sound makes George’s smile grow into a grin. His eyes pass over the whites
of his teeth, the shine in his eyes, and he swears for a moment they’re studying each other with the
same curiosity and admiration. He’s never felt closer to someone than on calls with George
thousands of miles away, and as warm morning slips into day, he wonders how he still feels so
close to him from across the wide, wide room.

“So,” Dream says finally, grabbing his plate and leaning on the island before him. “What in the
world do you take photos of?”

“Buy them.”

Dream turns his attention away from the shelf of aluminum cans, to see Sapnap holding a large box
of goldfish between his palms. Curled on his face is a daring grin, as if they don’t already have two
boxes of the orange crackers sitting in the pantry at home. It’s the same as the last time Dream
dragged him to the store of white fluorescents and green banners; he picks out the produce, asks
Sapnap for input, and is met with proposals for crap-food as always.

“No,” Dream says.

Sapnap shakes the rattling snack in a flash of orange and white, irritatingly close to Dream’s ear.
“Buy them.”

“You’re so annoying, no,” he dismisses, nudging the box away.

He takes their squeaking shopping cart out of Sapnap’s way to prevent him from dropping the item
inside. Lifting his eyes to scan the stretch of reflective linoleum, he frowns.

“Where did George go?” he asks.

Sapnap shrugs. “Last I saw he was in the frozen food section.” He drops a can of baked beans into
the cart as they slowly travel down the row. “I think.”

Dream stops. “You lost him?”

“Relax, Dad,” he drawls, readjusting the black ball-cap that hugs his dark hair. “We’re in a grocery
store, not some giant theme park.”

Dream stares at him. “I told you,” he says slowly, “it’s okay to admit you want to go to Disney,
Sap. I can easily figure out—”

“I don’t want to go to Disney,” Sapnap says quickly. “Stop asking me about it.”

Dream scoffs. “Okay, then stop bringing it up.”

“What?” He turns his back to Dream, as if his denial is indiscernible. “How am I bringing it up?”

Dream rolls his eyes. “Just this morning, you made that joke about the waffles—”

“They looked like mouse ears on his plate,” he defends. “I was making an observation—”
“And the other day with the, ‘roller coasters are so much fun, Clay, don’t you think?’” Dream
mimics, in a tone that more closely resembles Sapnap’s voice cracks at age thirteen.

“I didn’t say it like that,” Sapnap complains, “and I was just asking if you liked them, that’s all.”

His gaze narrows. Sapnap doesn’t need to ask his opinions on them; the first time they’d met was at
the yawning entrance to Universal as middle schoolers. Sapnap’s family had flown to Florida for a
summer vacation, and coordinated with Dream’s mother to schedule a surprise for them both. They
spent the awkward but entirely memorable day together, in the company of siblings and churros
and hot sun. They’d been scared shitless, then, to ride anything that went upside down.

Dream’s interrogatory expression softens after a beat of silence. “I can get tickets, like, tomorrow,”
he says. “All you have to do is ask—”

As they reach the end of the row, a slender hand grabs onto the front of the cart and halts their
snails-pace immediately.

“Can you believe,” George interrupts, “they sell thirty-two packs of turkey burgers?” He holds up
the meat encased in plastic. “Who would ever need this many?”

An earnest smile leaps onto Dream’s face at the sight of him.

After their warm morning of catching up and what felt like pulling teeth to make George talk about
his camera-hobby, Dream felt a grocery run should be in order. Sapnap came downstairs, corralled
George into making fun of Dream’s overly detailed food list, and their day commenced.

Sparsely populated aisles, the faint smell of misted produce; their overseas visitor has embodied
wonder from the moment they stepped into the store full of foreign foods.

“You picked the good kind, George,” he observes warmly. “Nice job.”

George brightens, and tosses the patties to Sapnap, who reads over the ingredients.

“Oh my,” he praises, “originally seasoned.” His brows tip up in an obvious mimicry of Dream’s
buttery approval.

George smiles quizzically. He turns away, without catching the pointed glare Dream tosses at
Sapnap. The burgers are dropped into the cart, Dream reaches to neatly rearrange them into the
corner between shiny cans and sesame buns, and they move onto the next aisle.

“What else did you find?” Dream asks, watching with amusement as George scrutinizes the
products lining the shelves.

“So much food in bulk,” he says, “and oh! Oh my god.” George hurries ahead of them, and plucks
an item from the shelf. “What the hell is this?”

He extends his arm forward, presenting the squeezable bottle of cheese with disgusted intrigue.
Dream gags.

“Okay, nobody actually eats that,” Sapnap says.

George tips it back and forth in suggestion. “Maybe we should try it.”

Dream winces. “No way. I have bad memories of cheese-whiz.”

The yellow abomination is returned to the shelf at once, nestled next to various dips and aerosol
cans under the same brand.

“You ate a lot of weird food when you were younger,” George muses.

“I turned out fine,” Dream says defensively.

George gives him a concerned once-over. “Uh-huh.”

Dream can’t help but smile at the back of George’s head as he wanders down the aisle. With the
shopping cart rolling slow in his hands, the distance between them increases, and Sapnap lags to
join him. They watch as George obliviously leaves them behind.

An unexpected blow lands on Dream’s shoulder. “Stop smiling like that,” Sapnap reprimands.
“You look weird.”

Dream’s fingers raise to knead the sore muscle on his arm. “Ouchie,” he says.

Sapnap jabs at him again without pause.

“Don’t touch me,” Dream scolds, reaching out to flick the bill of Sapnap’s hat and grinning when
he blinks rapidly because of it. “You flinched.”

“Wee, waa, ‘don’t touch me,’” Sapnap mocks, shoving a hand into Dream’s face, smushing against
his cheek and stubbled jaw.

“Oh, gross.” Dream pushes his fingers away, voice pitching. “When was the last time you washed
your hands, man?”

“Right after I got done banging your—”

Dream hooks his arm easily around Sapnap’s neck, roughly bending his shoulders down as he
knocks off his hat to make a mess of his hair. “You’ve met her, you can’t say that—”

Sapnap’s fingers bat helplessly at Dream’s arms. “Ow, ow, let go of me.”

“Fuckin’ shortie,” Dream says through a sharp smile, successfully turning his dark locks into a
static frenzy. “Cut your hair.”

“Cut your hair,” Sapnap spits, before a harsh elbow sinks into Dream’s stomach and tears a puff of
air from his ribs.

He lets go of Sapnap, clutching his gut while he doubles over in recovery. He coughs heavily, and
rasps, “You bastard.”

Sapnap sinks to the floor in panting triumph, and leans his head against the shelf behind. Bottles
rattle, he runs a hand through his hair self-consciously, and retrieves his ball-cap from the tile
floor.

They both ignore the elderly stranger who stares at them from the end of the row, before leaving
the scene with disapproval.

George re-enters the aisle to see Dream with his hands on his knees, chest rising and falling while
Sapnap huffs occasionally at the dust they’d both inhaled. The cart is corner-first into a display of
chips, with a few bags accidentally scattered on the floor in their scuffle.

“Uh,” George says. “You alright?”

Sapnap gives him a brief nod as he gets to his feet, and retrieves the cart. Dream straightens up,
sees George’s confused expression, and the absurdly large pack of ramen in his hands.

He points at the noodles. “Don’t buy those.”

George studies the brand, then looks up at Dream as he comes closer. “Why not?”

“That kind is disgusting, George,” he says. He mindlessly claps a hand on his small shoulder as he
passes by, used to the physicality after the last scramble of minutes. “They’ll make your guts fall
right out of you.”

It isn’t until he’s at the end of the aisle, surveying the wide expanse of the back of the store, when
he realizes his hand is tingling where it’d collided with George’s collarbone. He briefly flexes his
fingers; his palm had cupped so easily over his shoulder, touched so briefly to the warmth radiating
from his jacket.

He turns back just in time to see George glance at his hand, then to his face.

George smiles, and echoes, “They’ll...what?”

Dream clears his throat, and curls one palm in a vertical ‘o’ shape, while gesturing vaguely beneath
the tube his fingers created. “Right out,” he repeats.

“Is that…is that meant to be someone shitting?”

A pained look crosses Dream’s face. “Yeah.”

George studies him with a scrupulous look, that only wavers with an amused twitch of his flat
mouth. “Let’s see it again, then,” he says, nodding to Dream’s hands. “Come on.”

“You’re an idiot,” Dream dismisses.

Sapnap bumps George with the shopping cart, tearing his attention away. “He’s right, though.” He
pulls a face at the low-quality ramen in George’s grip. “Go put ‘em back.”

George grumbles a low-breathed remark that neither of them catch, and as he leaves, Sapnap
dumps the responsibility of the cart back onto Dream.

As he walks past him, he says, “You suck at flirting.”

“What?” Dream whips his head to stare wildly at the back of Sapnap’s shoulders, as they rise and
fall with candid laughter. “What?”

Eventually, once rejoined with George again, Dream scrutinizes their cart of accumulated goods.
His elbows are leaned into the handlebar, pushing the cart along lazily as they meander down the
aisle. The list has long since been scratched off, although Dream keeps insisting they’re missing
something and Sapnap is sent wandering to find it.

“We need to get some real food, next time,” Dream mutters, glancing down at the looming
purchases. “This is all crap.”

“American crap,” George corrects. He’s trailing in front of him, idly nudging small bottles and
bright boxes on the shelf that draw his attention.
“You’re telling me you can’t get, what is this—” Dream reaches into the organized pile, and
withdraws a boxed item. “‘Yummy dino-buddy’ nuggets in England?”

George sends a disappointed frown over his shoulder. “The dinosaurs are born and raised in
Florida, Dream.”

“Oh,” Dream says, voice heavy with false seriousness, “my bad. I don’t visit the swamps.” He
reslots the box into their organized collection of junk. “I honestly didn’t think I could get more
concerned about your diet than I already was. But this is a new level, for sure.”

George rolls his eyes. “Right. I forgot you’ve been on a health-craze, recently.” When Dream
doesn’t respond, he turns around and clarifies, “Sapnap told me about it a little while ago.”

Dream exhales. “‘Course he did.”

George peers at him, briefly. “You have a really expressive face, did you know that?”

“What?”

“Like that right there, yeah.” George smiles. “I wasn’t expecting it.” After a pause, he adds, “Heart
on your sleeve, and all that.”

Though his stature is relaxed, slumped over the cart and languidly nudging it along, his pulse
drums heavy in his chest. “What, did you think I’d be some stone-faced, unreadable guy?”

George shrugs. “Maybe.”

Dream’s eyes scrape the banners swaying in the air-conditioned breeze overhead, the bright lights
glinting off the sleek surfaces and rebounding on tile floor. The fluorescents wash over the bomber
jacket George had insisted on bringing, which he smugly reminded Dream of when the refrigerated
aisle brought chills to his exposed forearms. With his clean hair, squeaky shoes, and curious hands,
he seems strangely at ease in exploring the casual store from Dream’s corner of the world.

“I thought you’d be a lot more—” George starts, then cuts off abruptly.

Dream perks up. “A lot more what?”

“Nothing.” George tugs an unnecessary bottle of hot sauce from the shelf, and tosses it in the cart.
“It’s not important.”

Dream pulls out the plastic container, and returns it to the row once he’s reaches its spot of
absence. “Georgie,” he pushes, “tell me.”

George says nothing.

“Oh, come on.” Dream stops the cart. “You know that is going to drive me nuts.”

Once the subtle squeaking of running wheels has come to a halt, George turns around. He lowers a
hand to clasp at the metal grate on the front end of the shopping cart.

“We’re on a time crunch,” George says, even though they’re not. He tugs on the wired basket;
Dream grips the sides so it doesn’t move.

Dream gives him the most patient, irritatingly positive smile he can manage. Though charming, his
grin is clear; he’s not going to let this go.
George rolls his eyes. “Fine. I thought you’d be more—” He flails his hands vaguely in the air, in
no discernible pattern.

Dream lets go of the cart, and he imitates it. “What does this mean?”

“More—more close, in my face,” George stammers. “I don’t know!”

His amused expression spreads, and his voice is saturated with blatant confidence, as he repeats,
“In your face.”

“More annoying,” George says sharply.

Dream smiles. “Uh-huh.”

Painfully bright under dangling lamps, crowded by long rows of assorted food—their conversation
is nearly nonsensical. George glances down at where the metal bars bite into his pale fingers. At
the opposite end of the cart, separated by an unspoken barrier, Dream does the same.

Nearly.

“Does it upset you that I’m not more...annoying?” he asks.

George quickly lets go of the cart. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t say that at all.”

“Okay.” Dream swallows, hoping his pinched brows and terse lips don’t betray him. “Because I
can be, if you want me to.”

I can be close. I can be touchy.

George’s eyes lift to meet his. Though the casualty of their gaze in the midst of the grocery aisle
shouldn’t hold weight, it does.

“I’m not…” Dream trails, searching George’s face. “I’m not going to mess this up.”

He watches George’s eyes widen when the word ‘this’ leaves his mouth. They’ve hardly
acknowledged ‘this,’ them, the force that seems to squeeze the air out of his lungs and give him life
to breathe at the same time.

Slowly, George says, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Dream is sure his expression breaks open at the immediate sting of George’s words. His throat
tightens; his eyes narrow. George from their soft morning in the kitchen is suddenly lost before him
now, the change occurring so rapidly he’d almost missed it. His face is blank in what Dream
realizes is a ploy; hollow, self-protective, and dishonest.

“Yes you do,” Dream counters. The edge in his tone causes George’s expression to solidify further.

He turns away from Dream. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Dream leans off of the cart, hands falling to grip the place where his lax elbows had rested prior.
The plastic, cold in his fingers, creaks slightly.

“You wanted to this morning,” he says, low.

“Yeah, because we were in your house, not the middle of the grocery store.” George halts to face
him again, with a half-whisper, “Not exactly the best place to ambush me, Dream.”
Dream stares at him wildly. “I didn’t ambush you. You brought up your expectations, not me.” His
voice grows tight. “Are you seriously still going to act like this?”

George’s cold anger is evident. His reiteration is terrifyingly quiet. “Like what?”

The closeness that’s been growing from the moment they embraced at the airport terminal spirals,
quickly, into their sleeping conflict. Dream draws in a steadying inhale, and chases what’s been
started.

“Like I’m—I’m this stumbling idiot who forces you into every bad situation,” he says. “It’s
exhausting, and doesn't make me feel good about myself, and—” He runs a trembling hand
through his hair. “It’d be nice if you took some responsibility, for once. That’s all.”

“Where is this coming from?” George questions, voice pitching with strain.

“Where is it—oh my god,” Dream breathes. He steps around the side of the cart, and a foot closer
to George’s rigid stance in the aisle. “Really? You can’t think of any reason I might feel this way?”

Dream searches his face desperately for any sign of life. He wants to reach out, and his chest aches.

George’s voice, though flat, almost seems like an invitation for Dream to step closer. “No.”

His hand finds the side of the cart for support, as he peers down at him.

“How about when you called me, George?” he asks in a murmur. “What happened then?”

George’s defense slips immediately. His clenched jaw falls open as his lips part helplessly, and his
gaze drops to the floor.

“We said we wouldn’t talk about that.”

Dream’s grip on the metal bars tightens at the defeat in George’s voice.

It must have been in late July, or early August. On an offline call with a hoard of friends, quick jabs
devolved into blunt insults and jokes taken too far. Many members were tired, tensions were high,
and all it took was one comment from George for the hounds to be sicced on Dream.

He left the call, seething and wounded. Yet what genuinely hurt him wasn’t the tough night with
friends that was patched with a couple messages the morning after—it was when his phone started
to ring. It was when he picked up.

“George,” he’d said. The dark of his room amplified the hollowness in his voice. “What are you
doing?”

“Hey, are you okay?” George asked immediately, rushing, “They shouldn’t have said those things
at all, and I didn’t mean to encourage them. I’m really sorry.”

Against the warm screen, he muttered, “It’s alright. I’ll be fine.”

“Really, I just—I didn’t expect everyone to be yelling, and it got way out of hand, and I—”

“I said I’ll be fine,” Dream interrupted sharply. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, voice angry,
and tentative, and tired. “Talk to you tomorrow. Okay?”

A beat of silence passed through the phone line. He considered hanging up, then, safe in the quiet
and promise of sleep. He should’ve listened to himself, he should’ve hung up.
“Can...can you stay on, for a bit?” George asked softly. “Can we just...talk?”

His chest began to burn. “George.”

In the night, the whispers seemed so fragile, so inviting—almost like they could pretend he was
there beside him. “Please, Dream.”

“Stop,” he warned. “Stop that.”

“I just want to hear your voice,” George pleaded, his voice small enough to disappear.

“Don’t say that,” he let out in a heavy breath, head tipping back to collide with his chair cushion.
“What is wrong with you?”

“...I’m sorry.”

He listened to the quiet panting that fell on both sides of the line, chest heavy with a pained warmth
that only George could elicit. The darkness and muddled words embraced their call like an old
friend, and his eyes screwed shut.

“You know I miss you,” Dream murmured, with audible strain. “You know I can’t—can’t—” His
ears rang with the sound of George’s breath clipping. “Fuck, George, why are you doing this to
me?”

Instead of an answer, he said, “I sh-should go."

“You should.”

Dream pulled the phone from his ear, waiting to hear the final chime that signaled the call was
over. Yet George lingered, and it kept him from reaching to press the red button himself. An
unspoken comfort lay in the quiet; reveling in each other’s presence during a summer drought.

The seconds of silence grew, and grew, until George finally asked, quietly, “Can we not talk about
this? Can we pretend this phone call didn’t happen?”

“Okay, George,” Dream muttered, defeated and empty. “Whatever you want.”

They disconnected without any trace of amicable goodbyes.

Now, plenty of ugly nights and long weeks later, he steps closer to George in the grocery aisle as an
unconcerned passerby skirts around their cart and conflict. He looms over him, wishing he could
melt the bristling anger from his brown eyes, and wishing he had it in himself to be angry, too.

“You called me,” Dream recounts, even though he can tell George remembers it as vividly as he.
“You talked to me.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath. “Then you got mad at me the next
morning, and iced me out.”

He remembers that string of texts he'd woken up to; how George's confrontation bordered on
hostility. Dream let himself be chewed out, because nothing was worth losing the Florida visit the
three of them had scarcely slotted into their tumultuous lives. It is so much easier to tiptoe around
eggshells online. It is so much harder to ignore, in person, the memory of George's voice in the
dead of night.

“Because you let it happen,” George says, but he looks more vulnerable than before.

Dream stares down at him. “So it’s all on my shoulders,” he reiterates flatly. “It’s all my
 responsibility, now?”

“Yes,” George spits, his sharpness startling them both. He meets Dream's gaze, unwavering, and
recollects himself with a deep breath. “Yes. Because you made it your responsibility, when you
sent me that text.”

Chapter End Notes

hi hi y'all! I feel like I haven't posted a chapter with a non-resolution ending in a while
lol so this is a little funny. the poor boys couldn't keep their dormant issues all shut up
for too long. what's better than some good ol' hashing it out in the grocery aisle? I did
consider excluding the phone-call dialogue, but loved it too much to keep it out of the
scene. lemme know your thoughts :)

I wanted to upload before stuff got super busy for me, not sure when the next will
come but I promise it'll be worth the wait! slow burn keeps burnin'. hope you're doing
well, even if I don't have time to respond I still see most of your comments so thank
you for the love and thoughtful support<3
 Firefly
Chapter Summary

Dream deals with the turnover of their day. Night brings possible amends.

Chapter Notes

Hi hi :)

Please, as per usual, don't spread this work without my permission, or spam chats,
CC's notifs, comment sections, videos etc. with mentions of it. This makes me and
plenty of other people in the community very uncomfortable, and I'd hate to have to
stop writing because of any inconsiderate acts that could have been easily avoided.

Important TW for this chapter // brief, non-graphic mentions of suicidal ideation and
emotional self harm (around 5k word mark). It is in the context of Dream's interior
issues and past behavior. Please keep it in mind if you are someone who is sensitive to
this material <3

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Yes. Because you made it your responsibility, when you sent me that text.”

Dream’s body leans away from George before he’s aware of its movement; bated breath locked in
his chest, the sole of his shoe dragging backwards on linoleum, lips parting in a wordless recoil.
His face is hot with shame.

The text.

George said it as if he wouldn’t remember, as if they hadn’t picked it apart piece by piece over the
phone, and Dream hadn’t apologized enough times, or spent weeks trying to make up for it.

It’s harsh to bring it up now. He knows George knows it, as his cold expression changes to a fresh
face of regret for his own words. George’s mouth opens, the words sink, and Dream sees it again;
the strange, softened look of an apology that writes itself across his face. It’s not nearly enough to
make him forget the accusation lingering in the air.

Neither of them reach to take it back, and it strikes Dream again in a wound half-healed.

You can’t unwrite it, Clay. His chest aches in recollection. Do you want to be stuck in the past, or
do you want to move forward?

“That—” George’s voice wavers. “That came out wrong.”

Dream stares at him, and utters, “Did it.”

“Hey Dream,” Sapnap’s loud greeting tears into their aisle without warning, “have we tried this
kind—”

Their attention races to see him as he halts, several feet away, with a carton of juice in his hands
and eyes growing wide. Dream swears he is best friends with an over-observant sponge of a man,
because Sapnap seems to soak up the high-strung discomfort in the air immediately.

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I was just—sorry.”

He sways the carton in his hands awkwardly, eyes jumping between Dream and George. The juice
sloshes against the paperboard.

For a moment, no one speaks. Dream has to remind himself they’re here, in the grocery store, not in
a place for reactions and impulsivity.

“Again with the orange juice,” he observes stiffly. “Why do you keep buying that if you don’t
drink it?”

Sapnap frowns. “I do drink it.”

“No you don’t. I drink it.”

“I’ll drink some of it,” George offers. He’s still speaking quietly.

Sapnap gestures dramatically to him, and crosses between them to place it in the cart. “This is
definitely the last thing we needed.”

He seems to be the only one moving, when he pulls his phone from his pocket to check the time.
George is averting Dream’s eyes; Dream is still reeling from the emotional upchuck they’d thrown
in each other’s faces.

“...We can go now,” Sapnap clarifies slowly.

“Fine by me,” George mutters. His voice sounds empty, any trace of irritation having vanished
entirely by the time he tucks his hands into his jacket pockets.

My responsibility, Dream thinks, as he rearranges the juice and glances over their food one last
time. My text. My destruction. My fault.

He mumbles an agreement to finally check out.

When they move to the register, Sapnap tosses a quick, concerned look his way—all pinched
brows and not-so-subtle glancing towards George—and he can only shake his head dismissively in
return. His thoughts are still buzzing between their unexpected outburst and the fluorescent lights.

It’s not all mine, though. Right? He side-eyes George, who is entirely rapt in whatever magazine
Sapnap is making him look at, and frowns. I know that. He has to know that.

Entirely mute, he tries to focus on bagging groceries. The beeping from the checkout piles up,
boxes and chilled plastic slide into reusable bags, and he tears the receipt from the machine with
more force than is needed.

He’s always been bad at picking fights. Jumping first, spilling too much, only to recount and
rethink later. He knows how to be careful when they’re dealing with life from a distance, but in this
suffocating proximity and grocery aisles of lives they don’t share, his heart wants to start fires to
feel warm.
George has always been good at making him feel cold.

He feels his chest tighten. Quick fights, and angry whispers—is this the only way they know how
to talk to each other, now? What happened to June?

I ruined it, he reminds himself, and a scowl crosses his features. No. No. I'm past this, don’t go
back.

He avoids meeting George’s eyes as they’re hauling bags into the trunk of the car.

Pricks of guilt give way to low fury. I didn’t pick this one all on my own.

When settling into the driver’s seat, the passenger door shuts, and he’s surprised to see George has
placed himself there.

Sapnap raps his knuckles against the glass from outside. “I don’t think so, Georgie.”

“You had it on the way here,” George defends.

Dream slides his buckle into place, and refuses to glance to his right. Why does he want to sit next
to me?

“Nuh-uh,” Sapnap muffles through the glass.

“Yeah-huh.”

Dream twists the keys in the ignition, and raises his voice to ask, “Do you want the gelato we just
bought to melt?” He locks the doors. “Get in the car.”

Sapnap relents, and falls back to tug on the door-handle to the backseat. The tell-tale thump of his
pull being unsuccessful makes Dream smile down at the gearshift, as he eases off the parking
brake.

“Ha-ha,” Sapnap says, repeatedly yanking on the locked door. “Open up.”

George laughs quietly, Dream bats amused eyes at an irritated Sapnap crouched by the car’s
window, and releases the locks. He can pretend in the small shuffle of George’s seat and light
bickering when Sapnap gets in that this is normal, it’s the three of them, a casual afternoon in a
September that doesn’t hurt at all.

Then George asks if he can plug in his phone, and Dream says ‘yes,’ and his knuckles nudge
George’s fingertips when he hands him the cord.

The smile falls from his face.

Because George’s hands are cold, like his expression and voice had been in the store. He doesn’t
seem to notice, connects his device, tosses a remark back to Sapnap—and Dream watches him
operate like a terrifying machine. He seems fine, awkward and calm as always, but fine.

Why. Dream switches to reverse, and navigates out of the parking lot. Why is he so good at hiding?

“Mind if I play some music?” George asks, scrolling through his phone continuously.

Has he always been this good?

“Go ahead,” Dream mutters.

He focuses intently on the road before them. Often enough, he despises his own attention to detail.
If he could be ignorant of George’s chameleon-like behavior, perhaps he wouldn’t have to pick up
on every slight shift and sound that sits at the edge of his vision.

“I added a couple things to that playlist you sent me,” George says, the words angled to land
behind his shoulder. “It was already good, though.”

“Thank you very much,” Sapnap gloats. “Do you want to play your songs now? Let me judge
‘em.”

George rests his phone in the cupholder. “That’s the plan.”

So light, so easy.

You looked right through me, George told him, once.

Dream’s grip tightens on the wheel. Because you didn’t want to be seen, George. You never do.

“Oh,” Sapnap says suddenly, “hey. Maybe you should skip this one.”

Dream’s attention refocuses, and he hears the notes suddenly falling from the speakers and
unwinding in the space around his head. He hadn’t even noticed when Helium started playing.

His eyes jump to the rear view mirror, where Sapnap is already glancing at him anxiously.

George picks up his phone, and frowns in confusion. “Why?”

“I hate it,” Sapnap lies quickly. “It sucks. Turn it off.”

Dream gives him a look. “He doesn’t hate it. You don’t have to pause it, George. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t bother listening to the lyrics this time as they pass him by. He thinks of the tires, the
crunch of loose asphalt on the road; where the bottom of his shoe rests on the gas pedal.

“All good?” Sapnap asks.

Dream counts the blue signs he can see beyond the windshield. Certain names help him mentally
check the route home. After a moment, he nods, and Sapnap visibly relaxes.

“What’s that about?” George questions, and Dream can see him looking between the two of them
in his peripheral.

“It’s nothing,” Sapnap says, at the same time that Dream mutters, “Forget about it.”

George pauses the music. “What’s wrong with the song?”

“I don’t know, George.” Dream’s voice hardens. “Maybe you should’ve been there.”

The sharp words shove them immediately into silence, filled only by backseat typing that Dream
knows is Sapnap frantically burying himself in his phone. He feels the twinge of guilt for his lack
of filter, a second too late.

George sinks back into his seat. He pauses, then states, “You’re mad.”

Dream’s gaze narrows at the road. “A little.”

“Okay,” George says quietly.

His fingers relax on the steering wheel unexpectedly. He isn’t sure what he thought George would
say—an empty apology, maybe something defensive—but the one-worded acknowledgement takes
him by surprise. He’s not happy with how they left things, George knows this, and their current
car-ride is not the time to solve it.

“...Do I want to know what happened in there?” Sapnap asks.

George is seemingly waiting for Dream to explain, but no answer comes. The silence continues
without mercy.

“Right.” Sapnap lets out a heavy sigh, followed by a flurry of typing. His ringer seems purposefully
noisy when a gentle sound signifies a text has been sent.

Dream feels a buzz in his pocket, at the same time a notification from George’s phone chimes
through the car speakers.

“Um.” George lifts the charger cord, and peers at his screen. “Why did you—”

“Out loud,” Sapnap orders.

“You actually want me to read it?”

Dream peers briefly at the open group chat on George’s phone. “What’s it say?”

George clears his throat. “‘Y’all being so awkward in here it’s like...like someone shit their pants?”
He looks up, then continues, “And we’re pretending the entire car doesn’t fucking stink.”

“Amen,” Sapnap says.

Dream scowls at him through the rear-view. “What the hell?” He can’t help the slight amusement
that breaks through on his face. “What is wrong with you?”

Sapnap’s dark eyebrows raise, then he returns to more aggressive typing. Another message pings
both of their phones again.

The car rolls to a stop at the sunny intersection. Red lights and Florida license plates unattach from
Dream’s view as George holds out his bright screen, and he turns his head to see.

“He sent us another one,” George says.

Dream squints, and mumbles over the words in monotone, “‘You’re still being awkward can you
please play some music or something I’m trying my best here you both annoy me so much—’” A
short bark of laughter escapes him before he can stop it. “Okay, okay, we get it. Jeez.”

George resumes the music, and after a brief pause, he skips to a different song. Though Dream had
mostly ignored it, he feels slight relief at the change of pace.

“You could just use your words, Sapnap.” George almost sounds apologetic.

Sapnap scoffs. “Says you.” Then, he points out, “Green.”

Dream refocuses on the road to accelerate. He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket again, and he
rolls his eyes. “No need to keep sending stuff, dude.”
“Huh?” Sapnap shows his empty hands. “That wasn’t me.”

Dream frowns, and reaches down to shuffle his phone out of his pocket. He briefly glances at the
notification.

“It’s from Karl,” he notes, before passing it to anxious hands extending from the passenger seat.
He’s been hounded by George for texting and driving plenty of times before, and isn’t eager to hear
it in person.

Sapnap leans forward to the center console. “What?”

“It’s a photo,” George explains, unlocking Dream’s phone.

His eyes dance between the road and the sight of George’s fingertips gliding across his messages.
“Did you just guess my passcode?”

George shakes his head dismissively. “You gave it to me forever ago, remember?” Dream rapidly
loses his train of thought in recollection, and George guides him, “You said there was no harm in
telling me, because I was all the way in England. Dummy.”

Dream’s face warms as the memory resurfaces; You want to hack my phone? He thinks they were
tangled between digital screens, laughter, late hours on call. You’ll have to come down here and do
it yourself.

“So you memorized it?” Dream asks, unsure as to why his heartbeat grows heavy.

Sapnap nudges George’s shoulder. “What did Karl send?”

“I didn’t memorize it, I just remember stuff about you,” George corrects absently. “It looks like a
screenshot of your texts, Sap.”

Sapnap groans. “Oh god, I thought he was kidding about doing that—”

Dream quickly leaves behind the confused elation that’d been rising in his chest, and grins. “Read
it.”

“George,” Sapnap says, “do not read it.”

George giggles. “What a nice contact name for you. So many emojis.”

“Oh, come on. You have to read it.” Dream earns a stubborn kick to the back of his seat, as if
Sapnap can feel him thinking about the list.

“It just says something about us being in our divorce arc,” George explains vaguely, but he’s
smiling down at the screen. “How come you never respond to me with such long messages?”

“You are so stupid,” Sapnap says.

“Oh yeah?” George turns in his chair. “You sure you don’t want a booster seat back there?”

Dream huffs in light amusement. He does feel guilty for making Sapnap live-comment his
discomfort, but he isn’t in the position to be to be taking care of everything. Despite what George
may have convinced himself, it isn’t all his responsibility. He doesn’t like the sound of a ‘divorce-
arc,’ though, and tries to lift his head away from it.

The bickering that has been started helps Dream ease into a smile. “You would look pretty funny in
a car seat,” he admits, and Sapnap scowls.

“You’re just saying that because you’re a simp.”

“That’s not what those texts looked like,” George fires quickly, and Sapnap’s irritation is pulled off
of Dream in an instant.

“You know what, George?” His voice is firm, but Dream can hear the sarcastic smile rising on his
face. “I can read, too. How about I expose some of our messages?”

Dream’s eyebrows raise with intrigue. “Oh?”

“You don’t have anything good,” George says dismissively, his usual confidence strong enough to
call anyone on their bluff.

Sapnap sits up at the challenge, phone clutched in his hand. “You sure about that?”

“You’re an idiot,” George replies.

“Oh, man, okay.” Sapnap leans on the partition between the front seats. “Let’s talk about what
George sent me yesterday, then.”

A theatrical pause blankets the car. Dream turns off the clicking turn signals on the dash, George is
poised in stubborn disinterest, and Sapnap clears his throat.

“He said, ‘what the fuck,’” Sapnap begins. “Next text, ‘you’re dead to me—’”

Dream smiles, because George immediately breaks, turning in his chair and rushing, “Wait, wait,
hold on—”

Sapnap refuses. “Then, and I quote—”

“Sapnap,” George pleads.

“‘Why didn’t you tell me—'' Sapnap's voice tapers off into ecstatic giggles, as George’s fist
collides with his raised forearm. “He’s this hot?’”

The sound tears itself from Dream’s throat before he can attempt to process it, “What?”

Eyes wide, his cheeks warm; the flush carries down Dream’s neck and heats where his palms grasp
the wheel. He dares to slide his gaze to the passenger seat.

George’s face is in his palm, elbow leaned on the car door, with his fingers pressing into his
temples. The top half of his face is covered, but the hint of blush on his cheekbones is poorly
hidden. Beneath small wisps of dark hair, his ears are glowing pink.

A wave of roaring triumph crashes in Dream’s chest.

As if he can sense it, George mutters, “Oh my god.”

Sapnap’s laughter from behind them is loud, and overpowering, drawing Dream away from his
initial surprise. His head spins, as an all too prideful smile spreads across his features.

“Oh really, George?” he manages to ask.

George releases his face from his hand, but immediately groans at the grin Dream tosses his way.
“It was a joke.”

Dream’s heart pounds. “Yeah,” he says, “sure.”

A joke.

George’s glare is pointedly soulless, but Dream doesn’t care. He’s laughing when Sapnap manages
to wheeze out a ‘great joke, George’ and doesn’t stop laughing when George attempts to deliver a
self-saving tangent.

He really should consider himself a bad person for enjoying how George flails. It’s a shame, really,
that it’s far more fun to revel in his own vanity.

The rest of the car ride follows in suit; Sapnap and Dream taking any opportunity to make jabs at
George’s humiliation, George hardly speaking but letting them nag him nonetheless. By the time
they’re unpacking groceries in the kitchen and passing light jokes, the surrounding air has lowered
them back to steady ground.

Dream has almost forgotten the contents of their morning, despite the dull gnawing on his stomach.

He’s able to focus on shuffling items into the fridge, tossing out the old carton of juice and refilling
its place on a purposefully low shelf. George is lining a tin-foil baking pan with their ‘lunch
nuggets,’ while Sapnap disrupts the organized pantry with new food.

He’s humming softly to himself, when he hears George say, “Dream.”

He looks back over his shoulder, and ceases humming entirely. George has his eyes fixed down on
the countertop, superfluous in his curling of tin foil over the pan’s edges.

His voice is low. “I am sorry for what happened at the store.”

The refrigerator door slowly glides shut, the magnetic pull leaving Dream’s palm silently. He steps
closer to the marble island, and leans down to rest his forearms upon it.

In the quiet pause that follows, he gives George a chance to say more. Nothing comes, and he knits
his brows together.

“I need you to look at me,” he murmurs.

George’s eyes raise towards him in an instant. His face is open, painfully so.

“I’m trying to be better, George,” Dream says. He lets every word sink, careful and raw. “I can’t do
that if you keep acting like my past mistakes are all that I am.”

George gazes at him, his dark eyes searching Dream’s face. After a moment, he nods slowly.

The small gesture blooms faint relief in Dream’s lungs. He’s listening. He hears me.

Dream leans off of the counter, George pushes a frozen nugget out of line on the pan, and they
don’t say anything more.

We’re still not okay.

Dream passes by him on the way to check the pantry. Before he can tell himself not to, he reaches
down over George’s shoulder, and nudges the dinosaur back into place.
But we’re getting somewhere.

As he leaves, he convinces himself he sees George smile.

Always, always getting somewhere.

Steam collects on the line of his brow. Dream tips his head back, eyes lifting to the white ceilings
as warm mist coats his throat. The shower stream drums heavy on the center of his chest.

After the groceries were dealt with and pits were subtly-smelled, Dream figured he needed some
time alone—to clean and recoup. When he gave Sapnap and George the quick announcement, they
almost seemed relieved to have a bit of down time as well.

He collects shampoo in his palm, and rakes sudsy hands through his hair.

The screenshot read aloud in the car is still fresh on his mind. He glanced over it when waiting for
hot water; Sapnap had been texting Karl during the ride after all, and George definitely left out
pieces to spare their feelings.

Oh god it just got worse, Sapnap sent. Please save me.

Are they in their divorce arc? Karl asked.

Among other things, Sapnap replied, Yeah, mimicking my parents arc.

Dream’s knuckles drag through tangles, and he sighs. The warm steam overhead clouds him.

He’s not stupid. Sapnap is too good at mediating for a reason, and Karl’s screenshot feels like a
purposeful reminder of that.

In fact, he’d responded to Karl himself; I know and I’m working on it.

Karl reacted to the text with a heart, as much simplicity and ease as always, and said, You dummy.

The humid air accumulating around him begins to lightly dizzy his lungs. Warm water stings his
skin. He tips his head forward, slowly, and shuts his eyes as the stream begins to sift through his
hair.

It’s the middle of the day, he thinks. I talked with George this morning. I fought with George in the
grocery store.

He begins to wander in a list. He touched George’s shoulder, they bought the kind of seaweed
snack that a high-school sweetheart of his used to eat all the time, the lady next to them in checkout
had a feather barrette in her hair. He should get Patches some more cat toys. She seemed happy in
the morning light, with George petting her.

He blinks, and runoff clings to his lashes. His mind comes back down.

He doesn’t know where he stands with George. The more distance that is placed between him and
his actions in the grocery aisle, he confronts that he shouldn’t have pushed so much. No matter if
what George said hurt him or not, that was not what their trip to the store was about—or their entire
trip, for that matter.

Friends first, Dream reminds himself.

Soap suds slide down between his shoulder blades. His fingers gently soothe more away from his
scalp.

Friends.

He thinks about the coldness that slowly thawed on George’s face, and how his cheeks flushed
when he’d put an edge to his voice. With every inch that Dream had closed between them, he
watched his shoulders shift with hypnotic, inaudible breaths. He’d looked so small, with Dream’s
broad frame towering above him, yet in his eyes was an almost defiant stoicism.

He breathes out, and water droplets spit from his lips.

George’s eyes were soft when they’d first met. His blush in the car when Sapnap read his
confession was soft, too.

He finds himself trying to picture George texting that—was it on the way back from the airport, or
at lunch, or during the tour? His nervous glancing, from Dream’s face to his phone, rapidly typing
out, Why didn’t you tell me that he’s—

No. Dream’s breath locks in his chest. I’m not doing that. I’m not gonna go there.

He turns the temperature dial until cool water flows from the showerhead. Once his skin becomes
numb, he’s able to continue in shivering peace.

By the time he tugs on fresh clothes and wanders back downstairs, he seems to have lost his
friends. He admittedly took longer than was necessary in his time alone, and returns to a deserted
main floor.

Empty kitchen, quiet rooms—it’s only once he sees his car keys still sitting on the countertop that
he relaxes fully. The only cohabitant he notices is Patches, waiting by the sliding glass door.

He crouches to scratch her back, and she begins to purr.

“Hiya, sweetie,” he says. “Do you know where they went?”

She meows quietly. He lifts his attention to the backyard, as she idly rubs her face against his knee.

“Ah.” He rises to his feet, keeping Patches inside with a nudge of his ankle, and slides the door
shut behind him. “What are you doing?”

Sapnap looks up from where he’s directing George, a large blanket held in their palms and
spreading out across the green grass. He takes two steps to his left, then sets his corner of the quilt
down.

“We are going to have a picnic,” Sapnap answers simply.

“A dinner-picnic,” George corrects. He sits on the blanket, and sets down their plate of cooked
nuggets.

Dream smiles quizzically. “What’s the distinction?”

“A picnic is for early morning to precisely two o’clock,” George says, while Sapnap nods in grave
agreement, “and a dinner starts at four. We’ll be eating in the middle, so it’s both.”

Dream glances at the sky, and hums contemplatively. “But it’s only one forty-five.”
Sapnap pulls out his phone, then stares at Dream. “Did you just read...the sun?”

“Let’s say I did, Sapnap,” Dream contests against the absurd stare coming his way. “What then?”

Sapnap pauses, and studies Dream’s grin. “You checked the time before you came out here,” he
grumbles.

George laughs. Dream’s chest flickers with a small lick of pride.

“It’s going to take us longer than twenty minutes to get it all set up,” George explains.

Dream lowers himself down to the quilt, and George extends a dinosaur-shaped nugget to him. He
takes it, and bites off the head from its body.

“What’s on the menu?” he asks through a mouthful.

“Everything,” Sapnap says.

Dream squints up at him, his silhouette darkened by the aforementioned sun behind his shoulders.
“Everything? Like, from the store?”

Sapnap nods.

“Oh god,” Dream mutters.

“It’ll be our American feast,” George says. “Like Thanksgiving.”

Dream huffs. “You know how much time and energy goes into a Thanksgiving meal?”

With a hand raised over his mouth as he chews, George shakes his head. “You’re not going to be
making it. We are.”

Dream stares. “No.”

“Yes,” Sapnap says.

“No way,” Dream insists. “You’re not cooking for me. It’s basically our first dinner together, here,
in my house—”

“Exactly,” George interrupts, and Sapnap tries, “That’s why we—”

He raises his hands dismissively. “You’re the guests, not the other way around. I’ll make whatever
crap burgers you want, so long as you don’t lift a finger—”

“Where was this energy when you made me clean the house two days ago?” Sapnap’s voice
pitches, as he plops down in the space next to him.

Dream rolls his eyes. “Okay, picking up your trash is different—”

“Dream,” George says, and his attention shifts immediately. Seated on the blanket stolen from
Dream’s garage, with a plate his older sister once chipped in his lap, he offers an incredibly soft
smile. “Let us do this, yeah?”

Dream feels his heartbeat slow in his chest. The blue sky stretches above them. As he looks at
George, he wonders if fireflies will come out during dusk.
“Okay,” he breathes.

“Great!” Sapnap ruffles Dream’s damp hair in an unexpected assault, which he allows defeatedly.
“Now you’ll have to be our guest.” He clears his throat. “Y’know, put our service to the test.”

A quiet beat passes. Dream studies the look on Sapnap’s face, and sighs.

George wipes the crumbs off of his hands. “Should we get started?”

“Sapnap,” Dream utters.

Sapnap begins to mumble, “Don’t start this again—”

“Just say the words out loud.” He reaches, and sympathetically pats his back. “Admit it.”

They watch with quiet respect as Sapnap reaches right, and ceremoniously steals the rest of
Dream's nugget from his hand. As always, he is overwhelmingly dramatic, and unpredictably soft.
Dream is far too aware that Sapnap knows the words to every Disney song Karl and Quackity elicit
from him, but is hesitant to ever bring it up outside of his warm bubble of safety.

With profound anxiousness, Sapnap confesses, “I want to go to Disney World.”

Dream lets out an exhilarated shout immediately. “There it is! Let’s go!” Laughter flies between
them, and it floats ease in the afternoon air. “Proud of you, buddy.”

A quiet pause passes, in which Dream waits for Sapnap to speak, who is fidgeting relentlessly.
George seems to be watching their exchange from a distance.

“So,” Sapnap says. “Can we go to Disney World?”

Dream smiles. “Make me a powerpoint presentation, and I’ll consider it.”

George laughs quietly, and he feels successful, again. He dismisses it with a firm clearing of his
throat.

“You suck,” Sapnap grumbles in response, as he angrily bites into his chicken dinosaur.

They succeed in crafting a dinner of unholy standards in no time. Sloppy burgers, messy baked
beans, and bowls of various chips and candies that George insists they keep out on the blanket for
‘dessert.’ It’s a terrifying sight, but Dream allows it for the grins it brings to his guests’ faces.

They don’t talk about anything other than light jokes, planning for streams, or tweeting images of
George trying Triscuits for the first time. It feels good to be rooted in their little moment, and not
wander beyond the blanket and balled up napkins in the grass.

No fireflies visit them come nightfall. It’s likely their season is long gone, or local birds teamed
with light pollution to drive them away—but Dream can’t help tracing his eyes in the fading blue
overhead to try and find them.

George catches one of his glances upwards, and asks, “Are you looking for something?”

Dream’s gaze comes back down. “Fireflies,” he admits.

“Oh.” George tilts his head back, casting his dark eyes up to the sky. He seems hopeful as he
searches for a hint of glowing bodies.
“Lightning bugs,” Sapnap corrects.

Dream looks away from the sharp edge of George’s jaw, to glare at him. “You sound like my
cousins.”

Sapnap narrows his eyes back. “Compare me to those Sooners again, and we’re gonna have a
problem.”

“Go back to Texas,” Dream says, “you absolute freak.”

He scoffs. “Just say you’re afraid of lightning and go.”

George chuckles softly.

Dream grins. “What’s so funny, George?”

After a moment, George looks away from the sky, and offers, “Glow-worms.”

“No way,” Sapnap says. “You don’t call them that. That’s not real.”

George only continues to laugh, which makes Dream break into a light fit, and Sapnap is roped in
last of all. They quickly grow breathless as the outburst builds, and builds.

“That’s so gross,” Sapnap forces out, and Dream wheezes in agreement.

After years of digital calls, their laughter piles together in the space that is tangible, reachable, and
rooted in the smell of cooked burgers and humid swamp. It’s not clipped by poor audio or metallic
microphones. Dream can see it in the way that they smile, eyes gleaming bright, the familiarity is
what brings them home.

In the midst of it all, Dream manages to declare between breaths, “Tomorrow. Let’s go tomorrow.”

“Wh-what?” Sapnap asks through a grin.

“Disney,” Dream says, and the look that crosses Sapnap’s face immediately launches them into
another wave of laughter.

“What?”

George is giggling, and when Dream gestures to him wordlessly, he nods in affirmation. “Sure,
yeah. Tomorrow.”

Sapnap lets out a whoop in celebration, loud enough to make George flinch. Sentences and the
prospect of eating food are lost entirely to their ridiculous, stomach-clenching joy. The laughter
sprinkles through to the end of their night, when dishes are cleaned and blankets folded. By the
time darkness creeps in, they’ve stopped searching for fireflies.

Summer is coming to a close. The equinox is looming. Dream swears somewhere between long
journals and sleepless nights, fall has promised to be kind.

The second night George is in Florida, Dream has a nightmare.

He wakes up with his own hand on his throat.

The pads of his fingers are warm over his skin, pulse, rush of blood that buzzes in his ears. His
chest heaves, and his ribs rise against the length of his forearm. Once staggered breaths snap him
upright, his hand rips away.

Awake, he tells himself, thoughts swirled in dizzying motion of covers being kicked off. You’re
awake.

Carpet snags beneath his feet. The cool metal of his door handle stings his palm.

I’m awake.

He yanks open his bedroom and spills into the hall. He can’t hear the sound of his own feet. He
thinks he feels a terrified Patches run past his calves, but doesn’t look down as he rapidly descends
the stairs.

Water. His throat burns with every dry heave of his chest. Breathe.

He could be coughing when he reaches the kitchen, or crying when his hands grip the granite sink.
All it takes is one swipe of the back of his hand to his cheeks to realize, as his knuckles come off
dry, that the feeling of tears is in his head.

I have these dreams, he remembers saying to his therapist, during one of the earlier sessions when
he’d been too terrified to reach for the center tissues. These nightmares.

His skull aches. The scene of the beach flashes behind his eyes, again.

What are they about, Clay?

He hangs his head, sweat drenched in a line down his back, turning soft cotton to dark grey. The
bulk of his shoulders rises and falls as he reaches for deep, anchoring puffs of air.

What are they about?

The water, the sand, himself in the woods and a mask made of blood. With his hands wringing
together on that low-seated couch, he answered:

Suicide.

His eyes screw shut. The moonlight spilling from the window before him is lost in the immediate
darkness.

Why do you dream of hurting yourself? he was asked.

His hands release the counter, and shove open the faucet until cold water spills from its curved,
metallic neck.

I don’t know, Dream said.

Does it make you feel better, to hurt yourself?

His shaking palms cup under the chilling stream, filling to the brim and spilling over the sides. He
splashes his face, the shock loosening his jaw, and gasps as droplets slide down his skin.

I don’t know, he repeated.

Water thrums against the base of the sink.

Do these thoughts follow you, Dr. Lauren questioned, carefully, outside of your dreams?

He splashes his face again. His fingers press flat to the soft shell of his closed eyes, and he drags
his touch down until he’s pulling at his cheeks.

No, no, of course not. He’d been so sure, then, until the walls of the room seemed to inch closer,
and the carpet started to breathe. Not...physically, at least.

The questions kept coming, and coming, pushing him further into the space he loathed to go.
Answers were drawn out of him like the disgusting bugs and beetles he’d seen the purple martins
cough up for their young.

How do you harm yourself?

Not eating, Dream said. Not sleeping. Shutting myself off from everyone who cares about me. Lying
to my Mom and telling her I’m too sick to take my sister to her swim meets. Rereading my old
messages with George, to justify why I hate myself all over again.

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, and furiously wipes the water from his face. The fabric is
wrinkled and damp when it returns to his chest. His fingers refuse to unclench from the grey cloth,
harsh knuckles pressing into his sternum.

He can’t stop remembering the conversation. He hasn’t been back there since he started to explain
it all, and thought he was free. Better. Moving forward and not residing in a place meant for
reflection.

His beach had fireflies, tonight. They floated above the lagoon like stars caught in a shimmering
trap. Yet they were static, unmoving, and radiated light that reminded him of long-gone jellyfish
from the lifeless water.

With the other you, the one who comes from the woods...how do you feel about him?

He’d huffed at his doctor’s caution. I’m terrified of him.

Is he scared of you?

Yes, Dream answered, then his voice quieted. Probably.

Have you ever tried speaking to him?

No. His own words ring through his ears, refracting and resounding. All he knows is violence.

He thinks of the encounter he’d just had, in the same space that has wounded him time and time
again. He lifts his eyes to the window and catches his own faint image in the illuminated glass.

If it’s only violence, he thinks, eyes flitting over himself and the moon over his backyard, then what
the hell was that?

“No, stop that,” he breathes, hand curling into the sink as the other clutches his chest. “I’m better.”
His throat tightens. His whisper is painful, and breaks, “I’m better.”

“Dream?”

All the air rushes out of his lungs at once. He freezes before the window sill, and the muscles in
his arms burn. He can hear hesitant footsteps approaching from the other side of the room.
His eyes glide shut.

Not now, he tries to say, but is unable to let out a sound. Not like this. Please, not like this.

“Are you alright?” George asks softly, his voice drawing closer. His steps grow louder as water
continues to rush down the sink.

Don’t look. Don’t move. Maybe he’ll go, just tell him to go.

A tentative hand settles on Dream’s shoulder, and his eyes snap open.

George’s touch stays there, curling over his shoulder blade, fingertips brushing the bone that gives
way to his taut bicep. It has no intention to leave—squeezes gently, even—no matter how much
surprised silence Dream lets sink between them.

George reached for him. George reached.

“I…” Dream croaks, but his voice falls flat.

He can see George’s other hand slowly move in his peripheral, and fill an empty cup with the
runoff from the faucet. The handle returns to its regular place with a slight squeak.

George extends the glass of water towards Dream. After a pause, his fingers slide away from the
cloth on his chest, and he takes it.

He’d forgotten the reason he aimed for the kitchen sink in the first place, and the moment cold
liquid reaches his lips, he caves. He gulps it down until the feeling of silt leaves his aching throat.

The glass is refilled before his hands know what they’re doing. He chugs it again.

George flinches at the sharp sound of the cup returning to the countertop. The light jump of
fingers, briefly jittering against his shoulder blade, shoves Dream back down to the space between
them.

He prays George doesn’t find his words just as abrasive, when he rasps out, “Thank you.”

“What happened?” George asks.

“Don’t. You don’t have to...to…” Post-sleep, Dream’s voice scrapes low in the night air. “I’m
alright.”

George’s thumb brushes soothingly on the thin fabric of his shoulder. It drags right, ever so
slightly, and returns back to its original place. “You’re not.”

Dream exhales heavily. “I am.”

“Clay.”

His shoulders drop, slightly. “It’s nothing, I...I just had a bad dream,” he confesses. “That’s all.”

“Oh.” The concerned grip on his shoulder tightens, briefly. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Dream lets a short breath pass through his lips. “I don’t want to keep you up, I
—”

George’s hand slips down Dream’s spine as he withdraws from his shoulder, fingers grazing over
the length of his back before disconnecting completely. Chills break out on Dream’s forearms at
the light, simmering drag.

His eyes slide away from the window to stare, openly.

“Is there anything I can do?” George pushes, before he can dare to comment on it.

George looks familiar, washed in subtle moonlight, talking softly and lingering before Dream’s
eyes in a way that makes him forget his panic. He wants to pass over him like he would in a dream,
to study and appreciate the high rise of his cheekbones, or dark accent of his hair.

Yet his gaze drops to the splattered sink, and he traces patterns in the splotchy steel.

“Go back to sleep, George,” he mutters tiredly.

Without hesitation, George says, “You know I wasn’t sleeping.”

He slowly lets go of the wet granite, and looks over his shoulder. “That is a strange thing to say to
me.”

Turning his back towards the window, he leans against the edge of the counter. It bites into the
cloth of his boxers as he wipes them with wet fingers.

“It’s the truth,” George replies.

Dream raises his dried hands before him to crack his knuckles. Tension from gripping the sink is
released in loud pops against his palms. He soothes his thumbs over aching joints, then draws his
hands into fists.

“Why are you awake?” he asks dismissively, studying the tremble in his own fingers when he
uncurls them.

From the corner of his eye, he catches George watching. His heart drops in candid darkness.

Dream gives him a look of caution.

“Why,” he murmurs, repeating, “are you awake, George?”

“It’s the jetlag,” George says, but his arms fold gently over his chest. “My clock is all over the
place.”

He studies the way George has his hip leaned against the counter, his pale hands lax on his biceps,
cozied in pajamas and rooted to the spot. Dream wants him to leave as much as he wants him to
stay.

“Jetlag,” he echoes, and George says nothing. “That’s what you’re going with?”

George’s mouth draws into a thin line. “I don’t think we should talk about me, right now.”

Dream’s brows raise. Maybe George has forgotten how he gets, at night; bitter and bold.

Oh, he thinks, tipping his head, I’ll remind him. “I thought you preferred talking about our shit in
the kitchen.”

He sees George’s face break open, as the steady breathing of his chest briefly seizes. Dream’s
heart begins to pound. The thrill and fear that’d left him on the cold beach returns tenfold.
“I still remember what you dream about,” George says, quiet and slow.

“And?”

“I don’t…” He glances away from Dream’s face. “I don’t want to make you more upset than you
already are.”

A short huff leaves Dream before he can stop it. “What makes you think I’m upset?”

George frowns at his obvious deflection. “You’ve been upset all day.”

“Oh,” Dream says, “have I?”

He hates that his head is crowded with this; thoughts of wanting to pull him closer, of wanting to
push him away, how much he loves to fight because at least it makes them feel. He wants George
to get angry, again. He wants an excuse to fall apart.

George watches him for a careful moment. Quietly, he says, “Please don’t try to fall apart because
of me.”

Dream’s breathing slows to a halt. He forgets the arid clutter weighing on his brain, and his gaze
grows gentle. He searches George’s face rapidly.

“Stop that,” he breathes. “Stop knowing me.”

George gives him a sad smile. “I can’t.”

Dream feels his body turning towards him, and squeezes the counter to keep himself there. “I…”
He hangs his head. “I think you should go back upstairs.”

“Dream—”

“No, look, I get you feel bad about…” Dream sighs. “Whatever. But I just feel like we’re going to
fight if you stay and I...I shouldn’t do that, right now. That’s dumb. And I’m tired.”

Silence creeps into their conversation, slow and suffocating. From the corner of his eye, he sees
George turn away so his back is to the window, too.

“What if…” George draws a hand to his face, and squeezes at his temples as he did in the car.
“What if we didn’t fight?”

Softly, he questions, “What?”

“I...I don’t think I have the explanations you want from me, right now,” George murmurs, “and
I’m not sure when I will.” He sighs, and his voice softens. “But I’m still your friend, and I’m here
for you. Okay?”

Dream studies the way George is guarding his eyes, with his head tipped down to the floor. He
wants to gently take George’s wrist, draw his hand away, and make him feel safe enough to look.

“You can talk to me,” George mutters.

“What can I say?” Dream asks, quietly. His heart pounds in his skull. “What...what am I supposed
to say, around you?”

George’s hand slowly falls down, and lightly clenches the cloth on his own chest. “Whatever you
want.”’

“That is not true,” Dream says, words rushing from his mouth before he has a chance to catch
them. His face warms, and he attempts to rephrase, “We—we have to be mindful. That’s what we
agreed, right?”

“I know,” George says lightly. “But ‘mindful’ doesn’t have to be...so quiet, I guess.”

A confused frown tugs on Dream’s features. “You’re saying I should talk more? About what?”

“You could tell me about your nightmare,” George offers.

He blinks away the thought of the beach, and swallows dryly. “...Why?”

“I don’t know.”

They both have their eyes fixed ahead, to the counter or cold floor or pale cabinets. The only
warmth that has remained from their morning is trapped between Dream’s palms, and the counter
behind them.

“Maybe...maybe it’ll feel like normal,” George says.

“Oh.” Dream feels the pull of an unexpected, small smile. “Talking about my psycho-dreams is our
normal?”

George looks at him. “It used to be.”

The moonlight on his back cools his skin, and heat escapes where his bare feet are touching the
floor. Dream thinks of their morning, how they’d started, and where they’re ending. George asking
him how he’d been, George shutting off in the grocery store, his pink face in the car; his generosity
at dinner.

He draws in a deep breath. I trust him. As soon as it surfaces, he challenges his own thought, Why?

“After everything,” he says, “you stay up. You haunt my kitchen. And now you want to listen to
me?”

George nods curtly.

He huffs. “I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t understand me, either,” George says.

Dream feels the subtle warmth radiating in his cheeks, and studies the lines on the cold floor. They
stand for a moment in uninterrupted company, both breathing quietly, not concerned with time or
the presence of tomorrow. His world zeroes in on their quiet, loaded kitchen.

“I haven’t had one in a while,” Dream murmurs. “I almost forgot what it was like to be there.”

He sees George’s head turn in the side of his vision, but no words are said.

“Sometimes, I get them constantly,” he continues. “Y’know, days on end, multiple a night. Or,
they don’t come at all, and I’m able to dream like normal." He shifts his hands against the counter,
trying to ease his shoulders. "I didn’t have one for a few weeks, and I started to think...maybe. Just
maybe, this time around, they’ll be gone for good.”
“I’m...sorry,” George says. “How bad was it?”

Dream lifts his eyes, and stares dead at the island before him. “It was different. This one was
different.”

The white beach, the dark lagoon, looming woods that make no sound unless he is there to hear it.

“Everything was the same as it had been when I left,” he says. “And I guess I’d lost, last time. My
brain kept the score.”

“You woke up by the water?”

He remembers. Dream nods slowly, his jaw tight. From one, brief conversation months ago—
George still remembers.

“I waited for him to come like I normally do. I waited, and waited, but...he didn’t show.” Dream’s
voice drops. “I should’ve been relieved that he was gone, George, I should’ve been happy, but—
but I had this pit in my stomach. Like I was missing something.”

He remembers rising from his crouch in the sand, turning his masked face towards the space
twenty meters behind, and moving away from the water.

“I walked towards the forest,” he whispers. “I went there to find him, and as I came closer, he...he
was standing in there. Just a silhouette, just a shadow.”

“Dream,” George says, softly.

He can feel the shakiness of his own voice growing. “He didn’t chase me, and I didn’t run. I just
stood there, staring at him—at me. Staring at me.” He pauses, and carefully clears the threat of
oncoming tears from his throat. “Have you ever been so afraid of something, so goddamn terrified
that—that you want to give in? You want to let it happen?”

His chest rises and falls rapidly, as his nails dig into the underside of the counter’s edge.

“Yes,” George breathes, and Dream’s eyes flick sharply to his left.

Confusion muddles inside of his chest.

We’re...we’re standing close, aren’t we? Dream feels the warm brush of George's elbow against his
forearm. Aren’t we?

“I felt that pull,” he says slowly, “to let it. He wasn’t attacking me, and I didn’t have to defend
myself. I was...safe. So I raised my hand.” He lifts his palm in a slow greeting, and his fingers
slowly close in recollection. “And he mimicked me. Without missing a beat, he did the same exact
thing. It was like looking at a fucked up, funhouse mirror.”

Several seconds pass where George lets him recollect himself, beforing asking, “What then?”

“I tried to talk to him, and my voice echoed. But he started moving, or I did, I’m not sure who
really...” Dream frowns, then carefully cups a hand under his own jaw. “Like this. It felt necessary
to hold here, like my face would slip off if I let go. That’s when I—we—reached for the mask.” His
other hand rises, suspended in the dark air, fingers outstretched towards the bridge of his nose. “I
watched him slowly bring his hand up, and up, and when I was inches away from feeling it beneath
my fingertips, I—”
His hands slip from his face, and fall to his sides. The back of his wrists hit the counter.

“I woke up,” he says. "My hand was still holding my jaw."

The final note rings clear through the kitchen and flattens them into a silence, long and pensive,
broken only by his soft breathing and thump of his heart. His head aches. He can’t stop wondering
what would’ve been beneath that mask, had he been able to pull it off.

George clears his throat. “What does all of that mean, to you?”

He presses his lips together to hide a sardonic smirk. “Since when do dreams have to mean
anything?”

George gives him a look. He smiles.

“Although that sounds terrifying...I think it’s for the best that you had one again,” George mutters.
“Even though you didn’t want to.”

“What makes you say that?”

He raises a brow. “Not getting murdered there for the first time ever is probably a good thing.”

“Well…” Dream clears his throat. He thinks of George, by the side of the lapping lagoon, and his
face grows hot. “Not the first time, actually.”

“Oh?” George frowns, then his eyes widen in realization. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” His hand detaches from the counter to awkwardly scratch the back of his head. “I guess it
kinda makes sense that I’d have another dream...when you’re...” He gestures vaguely to him, and
doesn’t know where to place his hand afterwards.

“So I’m the common denominator?” George jokes, but it lands in a space too soft; too careful.

Dream feels a response rise on the tip of his tongue. He’s never told him what really happened in
that dream, and no matter how much he wants to, he bites it back.

“George,” he mutters instead, “what are you doing here?”

“When I said I wanted to help, I meant it—”

“No,” Dream says. “No. In Florida, George.” His voice falls hushed, and tired. “Why are you
here?”

“I thought we weren’t fighting,” he responds carefully.

Dream stares at him. “Are we?” He gets no answer. “Okay, if you keep doing that, maybe we will
be.”

George huffs, and leans off of the counter. “I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say.”

“It can’t be worse than not knowing,” he pushes, exasperation hangs off of every syllable. “You’ve
been trying to make it up to me all day, I get that, but this will do it. Talk to me.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” George hushes.

His chest aches. “Why did you agree to come?”

“Because I missed you,” George lets out, words falling faster than he can catch, “I missed you, and
wanted to meet you, and now that I’m here—” His words give way to an abrupt, shaky exhale.

“...Now that you’re here?” Dream echoes, his voice soft with surprise. He missed me. The words
falling from George's mouth fills him with such a sad, lonely joy. Was it the same way I missed
him?

“Now that I’m here,” George continues quietly, “I still miss you.”

Still. Dream’s head spins. Still?

“Wh—what does that…” he trails off, because George’s hand lightly settles on his wrist.

His gaze falls towards it immediately. George’s fingers are tentative when they brush against bone;
chilled when they shift against his warm skin.

“You’re so far away,” George says softly, “and I know that’s because of me. But you’re...you’re
not being you.”

Dream’s fingers twitch against the counter, and brush the underside of George’s forearm. He curls
his fingertips into his palm so it doesn’t happen again.

“Dream.” George’s grasp squeezes, pale fingers snaking up his arm, bold and chilling. “It’s okay.
I’m okay.”

His eyes raise to meet his dark brown gaze. His heart pounds in his chest. “You’re confusing me,
again.”

“If you want to—to be more you, then you can. I’m okay.” George’s face is earnest, brows pinched
together in hope of being understood. “Be more you.”

Dream’s lips part as his breath leaves him.

I thought you'd be more: in my face, annoying, touchy, close, he pieces George’s words together as
they collect with gentle realization. I thought you’d be more you.

He reaches for George’s shoulder. Easy. Every inch of his palm that curves over thin collarbone is
warm. Careful.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, and he draws George to his chest as he wraps his arms around him.

He isn’t sure if this is what George wanted; if this is what they should do. His hold is open, and
warm, and gentle. His mind once again rewires at how small George is, fitting under his chin
effortlessly, swallowed and paralyzed by his tall frame.

“I…I shouldn’t have forced you to talk like that, in public,” Dream murmurs. “I know better.”

George slowly stirs to life in his arms, hands creeping around Dream’s torso, and hugs him back.

Their first embrace was in front of an entire terminal, busy with a faint hum of planes in the sky
above. This one is for them, only, made of shifting hands and the quiet kitchen and moonlight.
George’s head rests against Dream’s sternum, as they breathe, warm and steady.

“It’s alright,” George whispers, weakly.

Dream lowers his cheek to the top of his hair. “It’s not.”
“I deserved it. I was a dick.”

He laughs gently, and feels George smile against his chest at the sound. “Okay, maybe.”

His amusement subsides, and he lets his attention focus on the warmth pressing from his ribs to his
thighs. He feels the urge to say more, ask more, and talk it dead—but they’ve talked for years
already. After endless conversations, he can swipe a thumb across the small of George’s back, or
brush idly through his dark hair. So long as he’s careful, and smart, they can have this.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you,” Dream mutters, even though he doesn’t have to.

George’s lashes flutter against his t-shirt. His fingers trail lightly over Dream’s back, tracing where
muscle dips to the line of his spine, in a way that is sure to live in his head forever.

“Only took you two days to break the pact,” George says, voice tinged with light amusement.

Dream smiles. “No, did I really?”

George’s head pulls away from his chest, making Dream’s hand slip to the base of his neck. “You
definitely did,” he says, labored with sarcastic hurt.

“Darn.” He sighs dramatically. “What’s my punishment, again?”

George’s hands fall to rest on Dream’s lower back. “Sapnap said a kiss-wiss,” he recalls with
contempt. His face of disgust quickly melts to a grin when Dream laughs.

“Got it.” Caught up in theatrics, he tugs George close to his chest, and jokes, “So are you asking
me to kiss you, George?”

Any trace of a smile quickly falls from George’s face, replaced by wide eyes and locked breathing
before Dream realizes a change occurred. He freezes as his words echo back to him, glancing
down.

George is staring up at him, terrified.

Shit.

Drawn in by the semblance of normality, his tongue slipped, and the joke didn’t land. His heart
pounds in erratic, untamable beats, repeating over and over again: take it back, take it back, take it
back.

“I…” Dream begins, but George isn’t looking away from him.

George brought it up. He knew, he remembered, and he brought it up. The longer it hangs in the
air, the longer their hands linger, and they don’t let go.

Dream could keep them stuck here, forever, in the panicked growing of shallow breaths, unsure
where to step or how to press undo. Chest against chest, thighs brushing George’s pajamas, his
palm dares to spread against the small of George’s spine.

Maybe he meant for it to come out wrong, as a forlorn wish, tangled in confession. Maybe he
should follow it; become it.

Be more you.

He doesn’t think when he begins to pull George closer, warm palm cupping the back of his head.
 He doesn’t breathe when his determined movements are met with pliancy, and George’s jaw tips
up.

This, Dream’s mind calls faintly as it floats away, this is me.

He dips down, close enough until he can feel his breath rebound, and softly kisses George’s
forehead. Warmth presses between his lips and smooth skin, filling him with an impossible rush.
His brows draw together in deep strain.

George’s breath hitches. “Dr-Dream,” he whispers, hands curling into the fabric on his back.

Dream carefully pulls his mouth away from the warmth of George’s face. The tip of George's nose
brushes against his cheek; he can feel his exhales hot on his neck.

His heart is in his throat. George clings to him unmoving, with his eyes screwed shut.

Dream’s lips part, and he murmurs, “Goodnight, George.”

The warmth slips from his palms as he slides his hands away, and leaves George at the kitchen
sink.

Chapter End Notes

ayooooooo!!

I guess long chapters are just a thing for this story now lol. the final scene has been in
my head for a while, and I spent a lot of time writing and rewriting, trying to get the
tone of their interactions right without moving too slow or advancing too far. their
characterization ended up making me feel nostalgic for their softer scenes in heat
waves, so I took that as a good sign :) feels like a weight off of dream's chest, and
mine. hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!

thank you for all the love and patience, it means a lot to me just how many of you
leave such nice comments, and are so forgiving about my timeline :) it's super
comforting, and I appreciate that so much! updates will stay around every two weeks,
but life does sometimes get in the way <3
 Water
Chapter Summary

A change in weather means a change of plans.

Chapter Notes

Please, as per usual, don't spread this work without my permission, or spam chats,
CC's notifs, comment sections, videos etc. with mentions of it. Also, I discourage any
reuploads of this work onto other sites, I haven't given anyone permission to do so
(unless translated versions). I ask that if you're someone who is intentionally stealing
my work and posting it elsewhere...please, at the least, use the right italicization where
this version does...like c'mon lol it's not that hard

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It’s raining on the day they’re meant to go to Disney.

Gentle thrumming on the roof gutter, a slight chill to the morning air; Dream’s eyes slowly open to
the sight of a pale window marred only by faded, white curtains. The sound of rain trickles down
his spine, and settles low in his lungs with a contented sigh.

He lightly nudges the cloth away from the windowsill to study drops rolling down the glass. The
sky beyond is a muted gray. Downpour continues in a steady rhythm.

He smiles, and sinks back into his pillows. The house is entirely quiet. Patches seems to be the
only warm, breathing thing besides himself, curled up to his side restfully.

Careful to not disturb her, he reaches for the nightstand and pulls his phone from the drawer. The
time says eleven, and he guesses it means morning. The tiredness heavy on his eyelids and dryness
in his throat does argue that perhaps, maybe, he slept all day and woke during wet nightfall.

Several notifications lay bright on his cold screen.

Weather is shit, man, Sapnap sent a few hours prior, with a preview of the day’s forecast attached.
Can we try for tomorrow?

Dream studies it with a frown. Busy thunderstorms, nothing too serious, but likely not ideal for his
friend’s return to the theme park. It’s rained at Disney before when he was a kid, and though most
of the magic of the place is often lost on him, something about the colored lights reflected in
puddles and slick metal on coaster seats can feel dreamlike. He’s not sure Sapnap would agree.

He glances at the other series of messages waiting for him, all from George.

His phone flattens against his chest immediately.

George.
He stares at the ceiling with wide eyes, tracing over white paint and slices of the fan as though he
can see George's face in the moonlight beyond it. His thick, sleep-ridden brain works through its
stupor to relive the kitchen, the hands on his back, and the feel of George’s breath on his throat.

Right.

His eyes flutter shut. Fingernails on his spine, the soft declaration of a wordless kiss—he could
have left them in ruin. He’d passed out promptly after returning to his room, and didn’t dream
again for the rest of the night. It’s as though he put everything he had into the confession of his
nightmare; the tenderness of that embrace. Still drained, he nervously tilts his phone back into
view.

Shortly after Sapnap’s text, George sent: Not sure if you’re up yet, but I think our plans are tanked.
Any ideas?

From what Dream can tell, the tone is casual. Casualty is a yellow light, with George, and Dream
happens to be quite fond of that color. His eyes fall to the blue messages beneath it, that suddenly
become much more indecipherable.

You’re still not up so I hope you’re sleeping well, it says. I know I didn’t.

He sits up in bed. White fluff of covers on his chest accidentally fall over Patches’ head, and he
quickly hushes an apology while he pulls them off.

He reads it, and rereads it, and draws in a light inhale. Easy, and careful, he muses to himself. Be
easy, be careful, be more...

Dream dares to type back, Why is that?

The response is immediate.

You kissed me, George texts. Then, he adds, Dumbass.

A surprised smile leaps across Dream’s face, eyebrows raising with a flush to his cheeks. Against
the cold sheath of outside rain, nestled under the cocoon of covers, his heart begins to pound.

His expression softens as he realizes how normal it feels to be texting George first thing in the
morning, again.

I didn’t KISS kiss you, he corrects boldly. Even the sight of George’s quick bubble appearing and
reappearing makes Dream’s head slightly dizzy.

He half expects his phone to remain dormant, and grins when it buzzes again.

Ok and?

He laughs, gently. His mind slips back to the careful worry in George’s voice that soothed him, the
secure feeling of holding him in privacy, and faint relief spreads through his core. He hoped and
prayed he didn’t overstep, and for once, he’s actually right.

And you’re a wuss, Dream replies.

Stop texting and come downstairs.

Dream relaxes further into his pillows and blankets. No. Don’t feel like it.
He definitely wakes Patches when he nearly jumps out of his skin, because his phone starts to ring
unexpectedly. The vibrations cut across the sweet silence that had settled in his room, and he stares
at George’s contact like he’s never seen it before.

That’s not true, though. He has seen it before. In fact, the last time he truly saw it in the solitude of
his room, with the promise of unfiltered, one-on-one conversation, was the call that had ended in
them swearing to never talk about it again. The memory of it rushes him regrettably.

He lets the phone ring in his hesitation.

Patches lifts her head to look at him, as though she can feel the jumpy change in his chest; in the
entire house.

He picks up.

“Dream,” George says, “you’re not being a very good host.”

“Good morning to you too,” he greets calmly. He lays a palm on his chest, to soothe the nerves
bundled there. George’s voice is amicable, readable—signs of heading for clear water. He’s missed
the rain.

I missed you, his mind echoes George's words back to him, I still miss you.

A sigh passes through the phone. “We want to watch a movie and can’t find the remote.”

Dream stretches out his back languidly, and rubs his eyes. “I sometimes leave it on the top of the
fridge,” he muses. “Get a stool and check there.”

There’s a stiff pause. He smiles.

“All right,” George says, accompanied by faint shuffling on his end of the line.

Dream frowns in suspicion, and pulls the screen away from the side of his face. He strains his ears
to listen to his creaky house. After a few seconds, he catches it—faint footsteps from below.

“Are you coming up the stairs?” he asks.

“No.” The footsteps grow louder, then Dream deciphers that it is two pairs, one much lighter and
the other quite obvious after a week of hearing their stomping around.

“What the hell are you two doing?” he mumbles. A knock raps happily on his door not a moment
later.

“Room service,” Sapnap’s voice muffles from the hall.

Dream rolls his eyes, and tips the phone towards his mouth. “Let me put some pants on.” He
disconnects the call.

He swings his legs over the bed, slipping his feet from the cozy burrow of covers to the cold air.
Lazy fingertips connect with a pair of sweats he’d discarded to the floor. Just as he’s seated on the
edge of the bed, tugging them halfway up to his knees, the door swings open.

He doesn’t need to look up as he finishes getting dressed, shuffling the waistband against the cloth
of his boxers. “You could’ve waited like, two more seconds, Sap.”

“But then I’d miss those sexy, sexy thighs.”

Dream huffs in amusement at his response, and glances up. Behind Sapnap is George, waiting in
the hall, who gives him a light wave the second their eyes meet. His heart skips.

Go back to sleep, George.

Why are you in Florida, George?

Are you asking me to kiss you, George?

Goodnight, he’d said, lips on his forehead, exhales on his jaw. Goodnight, George.

“Is he acting like this because of the rain?” Dream asks, studying his face.

George nods. “More or less. He’s very sad.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Sapnap says. He begins to walk forward into the room,
and Dream shifts back to rest on his bed. “It’s raining on Disney day, Clay.”

He raises his eyebrows. “We can still go, you know. A little water never hurt anybody.”

“I know.” Sapnap sighs, as he flops down onto Dream’s blankets. “But we should wait for when
it’s sunny—oh, hi Patches. Did you know she was in here?”

Dream shrugs.

“I think I agree with waiting for sun,” George says, as he leans against the doorframe. Only the tips
of his toes seem to enter Dream’s room.

That’s strange. He wasn’t so hesitant, before.

“Your socks don’t match,” Dream observes.

George glances down at them, and sways on his feet idly. “They don’t.”

He looks away, then stretches a leg beneath the covers to kick Sapnap lightly. “So why are you
here? To complain?”

“We need you to reach the top of the fridge,” Sapnap says from the covers, an arm stretched out to
pet the purring kitty between them.

Dream stares at them. “That’s not going to make me get out of bed.” He tugs open the curtains,
then falls back against his headboard with a satisfied huff. “Do you see this? This is lazy day
weather.”

“Good weather for a movie,” George contests.

“What is it you guys want to watch?”

Sapnap points to George accusingly. “D’you know he’s never seen any Ghibli films?”

“I know,” Dream says, at the same moment George answers, “He knows.”

Dream smiles at him. George smiles back, softly.

“Great,” Sapnap continues, “so we’re in agreement, then. Downstairs?” George nods, and Sapnap
turns towards Dream. “Downstairs?”
He groans. “The TV is so far away, and my bed is so warm,” he complains tiredly. “Can we think
of something else?”

Sapnap sits up. “Well what do you suggest?”

Dream shrugs, then mindlessly gestures to his setup across the room. “My monitors are right there,
I guess. Sometimes I watch stuff from bed.” He glances down at the space Sapnap takes up.
“Should be enough room.”

Sapnap grins. “Are you asking us to cuddle, bro?”

Dream kicks him again. “I’m just saying we have better options. I could...use my VPN to stream it,
probably, and then we’d all get what we want.”

Sapnap clears his throat contemplatively, then turns to George. The moment of silence that falls
over Dream’s pale, rain-washed room is timid. He pinches the bridge of his nose, feels looming
trickles of exhaustion, and sighs.

“I feel like,” he starts slowly, “we’ve been going nonstop since George got here. I think it’s been a
lot, and I had a rough night’s sleep, so I just want to relax, today. I can leave bed if you’d like, but I
really, really don’t want to.” He looks up, earnestly. “How do you guys feel?”

“I feel like you’ve had too much therapy,” Sapnap says.

“Are you trying to get kicked again?”

Sapnap raises his hands in defense. The air once again returns to tense quiet, as Dream waits, and
listens to the rain. He passes over George; he’s wearing the same pajamas he had on the night
before. Did he really not sleep much?

George’s eyes slowly lift off the carpet to gaze back, and he blinks. “...Should we bring extra
blankets?”

Dream nods in relief.

“And pillows?” Sapnap asks.

He nods again, comforted by their easy-going smiles and wordless change of manner. They’re
quick to spring to action and chatter about what they need. They dip out of his room while he’s in
the middle of directing them, and he’s cut off by their bickering of the worst kind of snacks to spill
on his bed.

He lets out a huff, and turns to the remaining company. Settling a gentle hand on Patches’ back, he
murmurs, “You might have to move, sweetheart.”

She stays put. His bed is a decent size for a guy his height, but doubled with two more guests and
an easily startled cat may be pushing the limits. Still, he holds her to his chest lovingly until
Sapnap returns.

A brown, folded blanket is thrown at his face. Dream bats it away to protect Patches.

“Gimme,” Sapnap says.

Dream scowls, but slowly extends her out for Sapnap to hold. He begins to coo ‘good-mornings’ at
her immediately while clambering into Dream’s bed.
“Things seem better today,” Sapnap notes offhandedly, settling against the wall beneath the
window. He tugs lightly on the curtains, and tosses Dream a look.

“Things are better today,” Dream says quietly. Sort of, he thinks, so he adds, “Sort of.”

“How come?”

Dream leans to lightly scratch Patches’ head, and glances at the wariness on Sapnap’s face. “It’s
alright, Sapnap,” he says carefully. “You can relax. It’s...it’s not yours, okay?” He sinks back away
from him. “It’s mine, and his.”

“Oh,” Sapnap says. He sounds relieved. “Okay.”

Before Dream can comment further, George enters with a large armful of pillows and blankets that
nearly swallow him whole. It's considerably more than Sapnap had bothered to grab.

“I have to ask, once again,” George says, dumping the pile before them. “Why is it so cold in this
house?”

Dream reaches to grasp at a new quilt. “Keeps my brain sharp, I dunno.”

George stands at the foot of his bed, watching them spread out and rearrange the added comfort.
Pillows are slotted behind their backs, thin blankets unfolded, far more than necessary but Dream
appreciates the effort.

“Where’d you get half of these?” Sapnap questions.

“Um, the linen closet by the washroom.” George looks at them hesitantly. “Should I not have?”

“You’re fine,” Dream says, then pauses. “Well? You want us to pat the space so you know where
to sit, George?”

Sapnap gestures to the blankets between them enthusiastically. “C’mere Gogy! C’mon!”

Dream laughs, mimicking, “It’s an easy jump, you can make it!”

“I will go downstairs and watch by myself,” George says flatly. Their laughter continues as they
pat the bed, and he turns to go.

“Hey, hey,” Dream says quickly, bending forward to grasp his elbow. “I don’t think so.”

George’s wide eyes shoot back to stare at him, and he shakes his head in warning. “Don’t,” he says
gravely, “don’t—”

Dream grins, and pulls him backwards onto the bed with ease. George falls between him and
Sapnap on a mound of fluffy blankets, fraying his hair, as a light huff escapes his lungs upon
landing.

He peers up at Dream stubbornly through the staticky, brunet mess. “You happy, now?”

Dream’s fingers are slow to unwrap from his arm. He realizes, faintly, he’d tugged George onto his
bed, and now George’s back is on his mattress, and George’s dark eyes are gazing up at him softly,
as the sound of rain slowly closes in around them.

“Very,” he says.
“Now who’s gonna put the stuff on the computer?” Sapnap asks, helpfully.

Dream’s eyes jump to his setup, then to Sapnap, who shares a look in the brief beat of silence.

Immediately, they push George away again.

“Atta boy, there you go,” Dream encourages.

Sapnap chuckles, insincerely. “Sorry.”

“What happened to me being privileged as a guest?” George grumbles, as sock-covered feet push
on his back until he’s standing off the bed.

“That only lasts for two business days,” Dream says. As George approaches his setup that he’d left
running, he directs, “You should be able to just—” George’s quick fingers fly over his keyboard,
and the dark monitors blink to his desktop backgrounds. “Did you just guess my computer
passcode? I know for a fact I didn’t give you that one.”

George straightens up, and looks back at him. “How is your memory this bad? I literally was on
call when I told you what to set it as.”

It takes Dream a moment, but then he remembers. “Oh god, you’re right.”

“You seriously never changed it?” George asks, amused.

“Oh wait, wait,” Sapnap says, laughing lightly. “Is it still the—”

“Pissbaby ninety-seven,” George recites. He and Sapnap delve into a fit of soft giggles, while
Dream rolls his eyes.

“I don’t even think about it, it’s just muscle memory,” he defends. “Plus, if I remember correctly,
that was your passcode before it was mine, George.”

George stops laughing immediately. “Shut up.”

“You had matching passwords?” Sapnap forces out.

They’re quick to turn on Sapnap when given the opportunity, and between Dream’s haphazard
directions of George setting up the movie, the banter makes him feel a bit better. He finally slides
out of bed, and excuses himself to the restroom.

The smell of rain washes in from the window screen. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light, finding
comfort in the cold blues and whites that cover himself and the mirror. He eyes the outside storm;
it seems calm, and nourishing, a heavy fall that is sure to leave large puddles on the road and dark
mud lapping the back patio.

He breathes it in. He brushes his teeth, spits into the sink, idly ruffles his hair—and breathes it out.

Once back in his room, he hears Sapnap saying, “—Should be good? Check the sound.”

Faint noises float through his speakers. George is standing at his setup still, crouching as his eyes
flit over the screens.

“Is it working?” Dream asks.

George frowns at the monitors. “Yeah, but it’s still pretty quiet.”
“Let me see.” Dream takes a step closer, and mindlessly rests a hand on George’s lower back as he
politely moves him out of the way. “Oh, it’s outputting in the wrong place. Deselect the first
option and go for the second.”

He’s not aware of his own touch, the shift of George’s spine beneath his light palm, until George
murmurs, “This one?”

The sound begins to play.

“Yeah.” Dream glances back to Sapnap, who is candidly staring right at the hand lingering on
George’s back.

His eyes lift to Dream with a bright, happy question in the raise of his dark brows.

Dream glares back. “Can you hear it alright?” he asks, words firm and pointedly spaced to make
him stop beaming like that.

“Loud and clear,” Sapnap says.

Dream carefully removes his fingers and pushes his gaming chair out of the way. “So which one
did you pick?”

George clicks the full screen option, and his idle monitors flick into the swirling screensaver. The
cartoon of a young child atop a jellyfish, drifting in the ocean, appears with delight. Dream smiles
fondly at the sight of her reddish hair.

“Oh, good,” he says. “This one is—”

“Perfect for rainy days,” George finishes. He gives Dream a quiet glance, and somehow, it feels
like his hand is still on his back. “I remember.”

His tired, loving heart glows in the silence of that glance and the weight of that reminder. It’s hard
to believe sometimes when looking at George just how much of his life has been tangled up with
him, even though it hasn’t been long. Even though it could’ve been yesterday when he first saw
George’s username on his blocky, pixelated screen.

As they resettle to watch the film, Dream feels that he’s going to love the rain, and the story, and
the feel of reclining back in his bed with his best friends nearby even more than he thought he
would before.

The movie starts, familiar scenes and bright colors cross his screen. Breathing oceans and sea life
and a house on a hill; he wishes he could make it his own. Characters appear with strange magic,
and the three are quick to make pointed ‘that’s you’s or ‘that’s us’s at whatever amusing creatures
they see. George’s thin arms are pressed between Dream and Sapnap, his knees occasionally nudge
theirs while adjusting blankets, but the space doesn’t feel crowded. It’s nice to be so close, though
it does tire Dream to keep glancing to his right.

Between comforters, drumming rainfall, and Patches’ purring, the movie continues with matching
ease. Dream leans further into the pillows.

He yawns. After a moment, he yawns again.

George glances at him. “You gonna sleep?” he asks, amused.

“No,” Dream defends poorly.

Blankets warm up to his chest; he slips down deeper into their embrace. He blinks at the
comforting animations as musing comments are made to his right. The sight of steaming drinks,
and noodles with ham, make his eyes grow heavy.

As his back sinks into the mattress, his mind slowly drifts up and away from the plot all together.
A sigh escapes his lips.

He can feel Sapnap and George looking at him, with light snickers.

“Shuddup,” he mutters, before finally giving in and closing his eyes for good.

He falls asleep, around noon on the day he should be scared half to death on a rollercoaster, feeling
safer than he has for a long, long time.

Dream stirs back into consciousness twice; once while the low hum of the movie is still playing
through the room, and once when all noise is gone.

His face shifts against the pillows beneath him, relaxed exhales gliding from his nose over his
mouth and soft cotton. Eyes still shut, he leans into the feeling of something dragging over his
scalp, massaging and assuaging his sleepiness.

He comes to gradually. After a moment, he realizes fingers are soothing him to the peaceful
inbetween. They graze through his hair, dipping into locks, to draw light circles and repeat again.
Cozied in darkness, he focuses on their gentle rhythm.

Warmth slips down his spine. Comforted, like a content child, he lets the light petting continue
with closed eyes. Over the low hum of the movie, he gains the awareness that Sapnap and George
are talking.

“—Nightmare,” George’s faraway voice says. More mumbling ensues. “...Alright, though.”

The fingertips in his hair drag down to the base of his neck, combing gently. Nails scratch through
blondish locks, spreading light tingles over his scalp. He gets lost in the softness of their caressing.

“I mean I’m sure…and then...” Sapnap’s reply is hard to catch, and Dream’s half-mind strains to
follow along. “—If that makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

Dream adjusts his head slightly to try and hear better, and the touch on his scalp quickly recedes.
He forces his face to not frown at the loss, keeping his features still. After a silent period of
breathing calm and even, he feels the fingers return. They rake tentatively through his hair, and
twirl every so often.

“—had a good cry,” George is whispering, softly. “I mean, it hurt, and it sucked, but it was a good
one.”

“Those are always nice, in a weird way,” Sapnap says.

George hums, then says something Dream can’t hear. Whether their conversation is caught in
silence, or abandoned for observation of the colorful film that flashes faintly beyond Dream’s
eyelids, he doesn’t know.
Sapnap’s voice, low and stern, falls quietly. “—Lucky he’s so kind, George.”

“I know.”

Dream’s mind is slowly lowered back to peaceful mush. The hand in his hair slows, but doesn’t
leave, and he finds a comforting peace in its presence. Words slip by him as he fades once more.

“You know that…” Sapnap says, the middles all lost to his sleepiness. “—With you, and he’s not
going to stop.”

Too quiet to remember, he hears George say, “Neither will I.”

He doesn’t dream the second time he sleeps, either. Only darkness, and a hint of murmured voices,
and the feel of a warm palm pulling away from his skull.

It is still raining when he wakes. He’s alone in his room, the monitors are blank, and the door to
the hall is yawning wide open. All the extra blankets have been neatly folded on his bed, and
Patches is nowhere in sight. He feels a pang once he realizes he missed most of the movie.

He’s sluggish when he sways to his feet. He smacks his tongue slowly at the feel of its weighted
dryness, and opens the low mini-fridge across the room, to see an array of empty glass bottles.

A warm sigh escapes him at the reminder. He had to guzzle water from the kitchen sink the night
before precisely because he forgot to refill his supply.

Noisily clacking the bottles together in his hands, Dream makes his way downstairs. Again, George
and Sapnap are nowhere in sight once he reaches the cold floor. Late afternoon looks the same as
morning had been, perhaps with a deeper shade of gray.

Dream busies himself with refilling a few bottles, storing them in the kitchen fridge, frowning at
residue left inside the base of others. He hesitantly approaches the sink, and cleans the glass with
water gliding over sudsy fingers.

He hears faint laughter, and lifts his eyes towards the backyard. In the open jacuzzi he can scarcely
view from the sliding window, a head of dark hair peeks out of the side.

Oh.

He tugs the glass open, and faint mist floats through the screen. “Hello?”

Sapnap glances over his shoulder, squinting, until he sees the window and smiles. “Goodmorning!
It’s fine if we use this in the rain, right?”

We, he thinks, even though he can’t see George from the limited kitchen view. So they’re both out
there.

Dream gives him a thumbs up, and Sapnap returns it. It’s been a while since anyone has used it
besides him, and he wonders if they’d found the right beach towels before getting in.

His hands stall when he shuts off the faucet. Wait.

“You coming?” Sapnap asks from the yard.

In my hot tub, in a swimsuit. His mind short circuits. George.

“Uh—I’ll be out in a second,” he calls, hoping his voice doesn’t fracture on delivery. He slides the
window shut with a bang.

Oh god.

His mind can’t seem to conjure anything else as he hurries back to his room, changes into board
shorts, and briefly fusses over himself in the mirror. He’s practically skipping when he returns back
downstairs with towels he’d grabbed from the hall.

He takes in a calming breath, and slides open the backdoor. The drizzle outside is light, falling in
spatters in warm air, but the drops themselves feel cold as he steps out from beneath the overhang.
Humid green and marshy browns stand out as he swipes his eyes over the yard.

He makes his way to the hot tub, stepping on stone slats and avoiding muddy puddles. Flowers his
sisters had planted wilt beautifully beneath weighted raindrops.

“Ayo,” Sapnap greets. “Oh cool, I was wondering where you kept those.”

Dream lowers the towels to rest on the rising steps, the wood drenched dark with hours of
downpour.

“How is it?” Dream asks, fixed on the light blue water. He dips his hand in, and his fingertips
immediately jump.

“Eh.”

“It’s nice,” George answers, and Dream finally lets himself look at him. His smile is soft like his
voice, seemingly at ease with damp hair resting against his forehead, and drops of rainwater on his
bare skin.

Dream’s chest grows tight. He doesn’t let himself linger, and is quick to glance away.

“We couldn’t figure out how to turn the jets on,” Sapnap says dejectedly.

“Oh.” Dream frowns, stepping up onto the platform to crouch by the controls. He absently tugs off
his shirt, and wipes down the buttons. “Shit, these are so annoying.” After a moment of pressing, a
light beep chimes, and bubbles break the surface. “Ah. There we go.”

“Bless,” Sapnap says, relaxing neck-deep with his back towards Dream.

Dream surveys the flowing jets, then follows the pull of George’s stare on him. His wide eyes flit
up to Dream’s face slowly, then drop away at the realization of being recognized.

A subtle pink rests on George’s cheeks that definitely wasn’t there before.

Oh god. Dream’s heart pounds as he slowly moves next to Sapnap, and lowers himself into the
frothy water. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

If it’s easy to bait away in the lonely warmth of his showers, it should be fine to dismiss here, with
heat stinging his skin and a grey sky hanging above them. Water licks up to his chest as he sinks
into the deepest corner of the tub. The bubbly surface rises, and spills over the edges slightly to
splash the concrete slab below.

“Your legs are so annoying,” Sapnap grumbles, as Dream stretches out into the middle.

“Sorry,” he says, absently nudging calves and ankles beneath the swirling foam. He hooks his arms
over the edge, careful to keep his fingertips dangling close to himself in the water. “Have you been
out here for long?”

Bubbles slip and glide over his torso. Raindrops disappear in the turbulent surface.

“About fifteen minutes, or so,” George says, and he glances to his left.

Slim collarbones rising from glimmering water, a pale throat misted by rain. His hair is darkened
by the storm, eyes enough to match, hanging at the corner of Dream’s vision until he blinks
sharply. Dream’s attention dances back to palm trees; the leaves glistening beneath heavy clouds.

“You missed the movie,” Sapnap notes.

Dream looks at him. “I know, sorry ‘bout that. I feel bad for sleeping the entire day away.”

Sapnap waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. We got our Ghibli and you got some
rest.” His voice is easy, leaves no room for doubt, and it helps Dream ease further into the tub.

“It was a really cute film,” George says. “I liked it.”

A warm smile passes over Dream’s face. “Good, that’s good. We’ll have to watch some more of
them, then.”

“Anyway.” Sapnap clears his throat, and turns towards George in a quick slide to what seems like a
previous conversation. “I’d only try it if you made it from scratch.”

George pulls a face. “You’re acting like it's so complicated.”

“It seems complicated,” Sapnap insists. “‘Honey-milk?’ Sure.”

Dream cups and pours bubbles into the tub as they talk. He idly reaches to switch on the low,
illuminating lights on the floor of the jacuzzi and interior walls. Red gleams from the water on his
chest, then fades to orange, then green. He looks to his left, again. George is pretty in green.

“You’re abominable,” George says flatly.

“I’m not a snowman.”

“What?” George’s voice is sharp, and Dream glances up to Sapnap’s face. He knows too well the
twinge in tone that means they are, at last, getting annoyed with each other.

“I’m not,” Sapnap repeats, “a snowman.”

“Okay!” Dream sits up. “Did you guys think of any plans for later? Post-hot tub?”

A pause settles, where they simmer in a silence filled with hissing jets. Steam floats from the
surface into the humid air; Dream can feel it in his nose on every inhale.

“George was thinking about streaming,” Sapnap says finally.

“From my setup like you did?” Dream asks, and he nods. “Probably for the best. They’ve been
hounding us for content.”

“Certainly hope they don’t expect a facecam,” George mutters.

Dream smiles. “Something wrong with my face, George?”

He gets a huff in return, and nothing more. George doesn’t seem to be looking at him either.

“They died at the thing I tweeted earlier,” Sapnap says, and George laughs immediately.

“Oh no.” Dream worries his wet fingertips on the side of his cheek, pressing beneath bone. “What
was it?”

“You making out with your pillow.”

His jaw falls open. “Dude.”

“Don’t listen to him. It was actually just you all—” George mimics him sleeping, hands pressed to
his cheek. “Y’know. Napping next to Patches. We made sure your face wasn’t in it, though.”

“Good,” Dream mutters in relief as they laugh at him. “So you stole my hair reveal?”

“Sorta.”

He can only imagine what he’d looked like, half buried in mounds of blankets and pillows, only his
shoulders and back of his head in view. Maybe it would’ve been nice if someone else captured his
face, and presented it for the world to see. Then he’d be free from the responsibility—the
impossibility—of doing it. Even staring at a blatant reflection, he can’t reach his own face and
remove the mask.

His jaw tightens at the thought of the nightmare.

Sapnap nudges him. “You look weird. Did that actually bother you?”

He quickly clears his head, and lets his expression relax. “No, no, I’m fine.” His voice is low
enough to match the way he’d spoken of the dream in the kitchen, last night.

George’s eyes meet his quickly enough to be mistaken for worry. Strong, and dark, his gaze lingers
when Dream fails to let it hold.

“If you want to see it I can get my phone,” George offers.

“See what?”

“The tweet.”

Dream tips his head dismissively. “I can look at it later.”

He trusts Sapnap enough, after laying out some guidelines his first week here of what can and can’t
be posted. He also has ammunition from ajar bathroom doors and unfortunate timing, if push
comes to shove. Just in case.

George rises and begins to move across the hot tub anyway.

“George, don’t. I told you not to get your—” Dream leans back quickly as he draws closer.

“Calm down, I’m just going to the toilet.” He steps on the seat between Sapnap and Dream, and
carefully gets out. Water races down the slope of his bare spine, trickling over soaked shorts, and
drops holes in the jacuzzi foam below. “Crybaby.”

Dream lets his eyes slide recklessly, until George’s pale skin and lean arms disappear beneath a
colorful towel.
He gets a faceful of water as George walks away. “God—what the—” His spluttering is cut off by
another wave stinging his nose. He shoves a cupped palm Sapnap’s way in retaliation. “What the
hell? Screw you.”

“I don’t wanna see that,” Sapnap whispers, shrill.

Dream sends a smack of chlorinated wash to him again. “See what?”

“Don’t check him out in front of me, you fucking moron.”

“I wasn’t—” His wide eyes snap up to Sapnap, who wipes the water from his cheeks like it has the
plague. “Was I?”

Sapnap groans. “Oh my god. I hate you, I really hate you. I will go home early—”

“Sapnap.”

“He didn’t notice! He didn’t notice,” he rushes, and Dream visibly relaxes. “You’re fine, take a
breath, count to ten, or whatever.” He sends another light splash to assault Dream’s nose.

Dream glares at him, heart still pounding, and sneezes.

“Good,” Sapnap says, triumphantly. He sneezes again. “Okay I get it, you can shut up now.”

“Sorry,” Dream forces out nasally, and clears his throat. “I’m sensitive to chlorine.”

“Of course you are.”

They briefly pause in the dripping of tub water from already damp hair, and the wind picks up.
Speckles of rain bring chills to Dream’s shoulders, and he slowly drops his arms in. Magenta lights
dance between them.

“So,” Sapnap says. “You feeling up for a stream, later?”

A sigh escapes him. “Yeah. It’ll be nice to share this with them.” He sinks until his neck is gently
lapped by gurgling water. “But honestly...sometimes I don’t want to. They pick up on the smallest
stuff, you know? Down to the changes in my voice and—” He frowns. “I don’t know.”

“It’s like it hits too close to home,” Sapnap muses.

“Yeah, that’s a good way to put it.”

After a moment, Sapnap asks, “Did I tell you the other day I saw a drawing that looked exactly like
you?”

Dream grins. “No, seriously?”

“Yeah, if I remember to, I'll send it later.”

“Crazy,” he says.

“Crazy,” Sapnap agrees. He pulls his hands from the water, and studies them. “Jesus, I’m getting
all pruney.” He splays his hands out to show Dream his wrinkled fingertips.

“Gross. Have you really been in here that long?”

Sapnap wipes his palms together. “Yeah. George took his time joining me.”

“What?” Dream sits up, slowly, the top of his chest rising above the surface and resting on the cool
plastic behind. “What was he doing?”

Sapnap shrugs. “Cleaning, I think. I’m surprised he didn’t wake you up. Seemed like he wanted
to.”

It’s embarrassing to consider how he’d probably looked, snoring and drooling on his pillows. His
face warms at the thought of George sticking around, folding blankets on the bed; carefully
drawing the blinds. He imagines George’s hand, cautiously wrapping over his shoulder despite
Sapnap's warnings, and nudging him lightly to see if he’ll stir.

It’s far too domestic. He ducks his head, and rapidly studies the moving water.

“Alright,” Sapnap says, sitting up straight. “I’m getting a headache.”

Dream peers up at him as he clambers out. “Oh, hey, could you fix up some pasta while you’re in
there? Pretty please?”

Beyond a face-full of a towel, Sapnap muffles, “What? Why?”

“Because I’m hungry and you love me,” he tries.

Sapnap pulls down the fuzzy cloth, and stares at him.

“Because I’m hungry,” Dream attempts again, “and I know you’re gonna join a call with someone
who has a good meat sauce recipe.” He smiles, sickly sweet.

The towel bunched at Sapnap's chest is tugged over his head, a multicolored cape to combat the
rain. He scowls at Dream from beneath it, and mutters, “I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you!” he calls, as Sapnap leaves him behind in the jacuzzi with an obscene parting gesture.

He relaxes back into solitude happily at the thought of buttered noodles and steaming sauce. Water
rushes over his skin from the steady stream of jets, unwinding tension left in his gut and shoulders.
Tiny bubbles cling to his knees below the surface.

It must be calm below, free from the darkening sky, and instead submerged in neon colors. Dream
glances around his empty yard, then begins to sink down slowly.

His eyes screw shut as water rises over his lips, and nose, until he’s submerged his entire head
beneath the foam. The drowning roar of the jets fills his ears immediately. Heat stings his nostrils
and flushes over his cheekbones.

He leans into the weightlessness, hair floating amidst crossing purples and blues.

I could stay for a while, he thinks. Stay, stay, stay.

Dizziness begins to grow in his lungs, and he can feel the chlorine seeping damage to his sinuses.
A sharp tap raps on top of his skull.

He breaches the surface immediately, sitting up and wiping his eyes.

“What are you doing?” George’s voice asks him, and as Dream blinks droplets away, he sees him
slowly sitting on the edge of the hot tub. He’s only slightly unreadable, features drawn together in a
light frown.

Dream’s face still buzzes from where the bubbles had grazed him. He reaches to shut off the jets,
and the water slowly calms down with a hiss. “You’ve never done that before?”

George raises his eyebrows. “Tried to drown?”

“That’s not what I—” He pauses once he identifies the slight smirk on George’s face. “Okay. Stop
making fun of me.”

George leans off of the exterior, away from Dream. “Where’s Sap?”

Making pasta, hopefully. “He tapped out.”

“Ah,” George says.

Dream pushes his wet hair off of his forehead. He tries not to think about the details of their attire,
or their new seclusion, and instead squeezes droplets from his scalp.

A breeze shifts over them, and George shivers slightly.

“You can get back in, you know,” Dream says casually.

“I know.”

A beat passes. He stares at George, while George stares at the water. “What’s the hesitation for?”

“My hands and feet are freezing,” George mutters. “It’s gonna burn so bad when I get back in.”

Dream rolls his eyes. “And I’m the crybaby. They can’t be that bad.” He immediately jumps at the
feel of ice cold knuckles pressing to his jaw. “Oh my—you—you feel like a dead person.” Once it
leaves, his cheek burns where the touch had been. “God, okay. I can see why you’re worried.”

George seems satisfied at that. “Told you.”

Dream politely relocates himself to the other corner of the tub, and George carefully gets back in.
He’s thoroughly amused by the series of dramatic winces that cross his face.

Eventually, George relaxes with a light sigh, and Dream has to look away. Although being alone
with him feels better after last night, he isn’t sure how to talk without being noticed. Darkness
creeps above them, the glowing lights continue to shine beneath unobstructed water.

He brushes a few sudden, large raindrops off his shoulder, and glances at the sky.

“Did it sound like a storm?” George asks suddenly.

He glances back down. “Did what?”

“The jets, under the water,” he clarifies. “Did it sound like thunder?”

Dream pauses, then holds a hand over a steady geyser on the surface, feeling it push against his
palm. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” He isn’t sure how to feel about the expression he keeps
seeing on George’s face, one of study, or learning, or searching. “Why?”

“It just...reminds me of covering your ears under the shower stream, and listening to it. Sounds a
lot like thunder and rain.”
Dream presses his lips together in a light smile. “I used to do that as a kid all the time.”

“Me too.” A comfortable silence settles, until George muses, “It was heavier before you woke up. I
think I saw lightning, too.”

Dream leans his head back to chase after the spots of light marbled in the moving clouds. “That’s a
shame. I would’ve liked to see it.” He continues to look up, and murmurs, “You...should’ve used
your camera for me.”

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Knowing that it’s held somewhere in George’s room
upstairs, with a gallery full of photos from his world, carves him with endless curiosity. He asked
what George takes pictures of, and watched him pause, lift his eyes carefully, and say; Things that
matter.

George huffs. “No way. Sapnap doesn’t know about that.”

Dream’s brows knit together. “How come?”

“Are you kidding?” The amused disbelief in George’s voice makes him tip his head back down.
“He’d roast the shit out of me.”

Dream tsks. “No he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I promise you,” George insists, laughing lightly, “I’m very careful about what I do and don’t
tell him. He definitely would.”

Rain patters lightly on Dream’s skull, solace from the hot steam that rises off his upper body.
“Were you...worried I would?” he asks.

“Of course not,” George says easily. His fingertips glide lightly on the surface, creating small
swirls and bubbles. “You’re you.”

Dream carefully follows the motion of his hands, the idle grace of slender bone, wrists saturated
blue from the changing lights below. His heart begins to pound, and he swears if the drizzle
disappeared, George would be able to hear it.

“Were you touching my hair earlier?” he asks quietly.

George’s startled eyes jump to meet him. From the opposite corner of the too wide tub, Dream
expects him to flinch or look away. His lips part, the seconds grow, but his gaze doesn’t leave.

“A little,” George says.

A faint exhale escapes Dream. He hadn’t imagined it after all; George’s gentle touch, fingers
drifting over his scalp, swaying him in and out of a sleepy daze. Softly, he asks, “Why?”

“You...you had this look on your face when you were sleeping. Like you were hurt,” George
explains, and his voice sounds far away. “I was worried you might be having a bad dream again, or
something.” His hands trail in the water before him. “It went away when I started, so I just...kept.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Dream lightly drags his fingers through his wet hair, elbow lifting from the water, and George
watches him. “It felt...nice,” he confesses. “I’ve always found it really peaceful when people play
with my hair. I don’t know why.”

“Something about trust, probably,” George offers.

Dream looks at him. “Yeah.”

He briefly studies George’s hair, how the dark ends are curling slightly from the moisture. It’s a
funny thing to trust someone with, a head in their hands, vulnerable to their pain or benevolence.

I’ve thought about his hair before, he considers, then bites the inside of his cheek. Not now, not
now.

“Did you hear what we were talking about?” George asks timidly.

“Not really. Just voices.” Dream pauses. “Why? What were you talking about?” He’s immediately
confused by the guilt that assumes George’s features; eyes falling away, lips drawing thin.

“Last night, and stuff.”

Oh.

George glances at him, then begins to rush, “It’s just that he kept asking so I figured—”

“It’s uh, it’s alright.” Dream clears his throat uneasily. “It’s not like it was a secret, or anything.”

George nods; they fall silent. The heavy weight of their gaze begs to differ. Why does it feel like
one?

“Look, about that,” Dream says, slowly. “I’m not the best at picking up on these things, so please
correct me, but I...I feel like it’s safe to assume stuff is okay, today. After last night.” Dream
studies his face, carefully. “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“Oh, you did,” George says bluntly.

Dream’s stomach flips with unease. “Shit. Um, I’m really sorry I—”

“No, no, Dream, it’s a good thing,” George corrects quickly. “Sorry, I should’ve explained—”

”How is that a good thing?” he asks, winded. He can feel his pulse fluttering fearfully on his throat.

George lets out a huff, and sinks back into the corner of the tub. “Sometimes I need to be scared. It
knocks me out of my own head, a bit.”

Dream leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Cold air graces his collarbones as the rest of
him glows turquoise in the water. “I get that,” he says firmly, “I get that, I do. But it’s happened
before where I scare you, and—and everything changes.”

George looks up at him. Refracted shreds of light dance under his chin and cheekbones. “Are you
talking about the…” He doesn’t finish. The text.

Dream mutters out a quiet, ‘yeah.’ In the tense pause that follows, the jacuzzi feels like it's losing
heat. He wishes for rain, more rain, enough to slip off his face and spatter the surface of the tub
and force him to reach for something else for warmth.

“I...have something to say about that, if you want to hear it,” George speaks up, quietly.
Dream’s face hardens. “I’m not really in the mood to get told off, again.”

“No, it’s not that I—” George’s sincere tone retreats, and he’s back to avoiding Dream’s gaze and
tracing the water. “Right. You’re right. Not a good day for it, nevermind.”

Shit. Dream’s eyes flutter shut with immediate regret, so he doesn’t have to see the guarded look
that undoubtedly raises across George’s face. He was just about to talk to me.

He hopes he doesn’t further regret when he rubs at his temples, and says, “Actually. Just, lay it on
me.”

“...Are you sure?”

Dream almost smiles at the timidness in his voice. “I can take it,” he assures, eyeing George with a
sigh. “I’m sure.”

“Okay. If you’re sure,” George says. His gaze cuts to Dream briefly, then darts away. “I know this
is stupid. Can you not look at me?”

“You want me to...look away?” Dream questions, and George gives him a nervous nod.

He wants to know if George’s eyes are often closed when they’re on the phone together, if he asks
this of anyone when he wants to speak, or if it’s unique to them only—like most things.

Instead, he says, “Okay.” He tips his head back against the cushion dramatically, and squints up at
the light raindrops falling from the sky. “Tell me again why you hate me, George.”

He’s immediately scolded. “Stop that, you know I don’t.”

Dream focuses on the droplets illuminated faintly by the faraway patio lights. Mist collects on his
skin, and he wonders if it’s all in his head, or if George’s voice has always been softer in the rain.
“I know,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I think it’d be easier if you did.”

“That’s never going to happen.” George’s sternness fades, and he draws in a light breath. They
both seem to brace themselves for impact, when he says, “You know I...I got that text when I was
in the car, with my family.”

Dream exhales, but says nothing. Guilt coats him with familiarity.

“I didn’t know how to process it. As I reread it over the past few weeks, the rest of our summer, I
think...I wasn’t able to understand it at the time. Or understand you.” His voice is slow, each word
seemingly chosen with care. “It feels wrong to keep talking about old things that we’ve already—”
George cuts himself off unexpectedly, with a sigh. “The most recent time I reread it was probably,
I don’t know, the day before I came here.”

“So that’s why you brought it up,” Dream says, face on fire. He’d meant it as a question, but it
comes out too low to be lifted.

“I guess it was still on my mind,” George admits. “I didn’t realize I was still angry that...that you’d
wanted to throw everything away, just because we couldn’t have this.”

This. Dream’s eyes widen. His ears ring, and his heart pounds. This, this, this.

He wants to celebrate the acknowledgement of such a simple word, but knows his hope is rash, and
short-sighted. George said it so quietly, tacked it on like he knew it’d have meaning, and couldn’t
give it more than a soft breath.

George’s voice grows low. “I felt like less of a person, Dream.”

His throat tightens. “George—”

“Just, listen,” he says; quick, but not cruel. “That wasn’t because of you. I made myself less of a
person. I...I do that, a lot. Let people make me small, and sometimes they don’t even know that it’s
happening.” He hears the smile that settles in George’s words, and knows it is sad. “You didn’t
know. You never did, and that’s not your fault.”

Dream tilts his head back down, but keeps his vision closed in darkness. The pain in his chest
slowly takes his breath away. “I wasn’t…” he trails off shakily. His brows slowly draw together. “I
wasn’t going to toss it all away. As much as I thought I wanted to, I didn’t have it in me.”

Believe me, he wants to say. Please, believe me.

“I’m learning that, now,” George replies softly. Dream’s eyes slowly open; George is already
looking at him. “My bad habit might be worse than we thought.”

Dream’s heart yearns as he searches the gentle sorrow on George’s face. Rain on his hair, the
downward slope of his shoulders, light ripples in the water between them. No one else gets to see
this side of him, do they?

“Underestimating me?” Dream teases, lightly.

“Misunderstanding you,” George corrects. His words are warm, but rest on the curve of his mouth
with meaning. “You know...I’m still surprised by how much you’ve changed, Clay. I’m really,
really proud of you.”

Dream’s face melts into an overwhelming blush. His brows raise and draw together, eyes wide and
soft as he gazes at George candidly. “You...are?”

The longer their contact holds, the more the heat in him spreads from his cheeks to his neck to his
chest. Oh, he thinks, god.

“Of course I am,” George says gently. He huffs. “It...it kind of reminds me of how you were six
years ago. So cautious before you really knew me.”

He’s heard those words leave George’s mouth in this manner before, ‘six years,' like a definitive
timestamp that implies a ‘before’ and an ‘after.’ Six years since the first time they exchanged
contacts, six years since Dream heard his voice for the first time; six years since his life changed
for good with George finally in it.

“Because you’re intimidating,” Dream answers honestly.

George stares at him. “You’re like, a foot taller than me. And annoyingly nice, and way too
perceptive, and way too smart.” His stare eases into a gaze unexpectedly, and Dream’s breath locks
in his chest. “You...you used to message me constantly, you know? All the time.”

All the time, until terribly hot weather and terribly warm thoughts, and radio silence that has been
good for them, but hurts. Hearing George’s light laughter in a call and knowing he wasn’t the one
to have caused it, seeing him chat on other’s streams and avoiding game nights entirely. Messaging
him about stupid things, meaningless things, just to appreciate the read receipts that showed he is
still real, still watching.
This is going to hurt, isn’t it?

It has, he wants to tell his former self. It does. It will.

His voice is hollow. “I just wanted to be close to you, George. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

George’s expression becomes complicated; unreadable. Yet when he speaks, Dream can hear the
exhaustion, lack of sleep, and hatred of their distance. “I’m tired of this, Dream. I really am. Even
when we weren’t talking, that felt like fighting, too.”

He doesn’t know what to do, or feel, or say—so he gives George a small smile. “I like fighting
with you.”

George lets out a long exhale. “Oh, I know you do.”

Dream’s expression briefly lifts into a grin. A contemplative pause passes over them, where
George’s eyes tip up to the dark sky, and Dream’s trace where his dark brows give way to curved
lashes.

“There has to be something about this weather,” George muses suddenly.

“Hm?”

“It always makes me—” He glances back at Dream, and pauses. “Feel more like myself, I guess.”
He lingers a moment longer, before the thoughtfulness in his manner is quickly exchanged for
panic. “God, okay, I just said a lot of things and am now beginning to realize that. Could you like, I
don’t know, change the subject or say something—”

Dream laughs immediately, and it swiftly eases any of their remaining discomfort. “Aww,” he
says, “Georgie.” The eye roll he receives makes him sweeten his voice even more. “George,
George, thank you so much for talking to me, I really appreciate it—”

Water sloshes against the sides as Dream moves to sit by him, and George leans away. “Stop. Stop
it.”

“You have such a way with words when you’re all gooey,” Dream gushes, stretching an arm over
the side and to pull him close. “So poetic and heartfelt, my hero—”

The base of George’s palms bat as his bare chest defensively. “I will—” George laughs, fighting
for breath and space. “Leave your soggy arse out here if you don’t—”

Dream blocks his attack in an easy grasp, and their words suddenly fall short. His fingers slowly
leave George’s knuckles, as their hands fall back into the surface, centimeters away in tepid water.

“Really,” Dream says, earnest and warm. “You have no idea how much of a relief it is to—to talk
to you again. To have you here. I know I can be…” He glances down at the distance he’d somehow
closed between them, then back up. “A lot. And I know it’s not easy. But I’m glad to see you’re
trying.”

His shoulder and forearm are warm where they rest against George’s upper back. When he exhales,
the proximity makes George’s dark lashes shudder. It reminds him of their closeness in the
kitchen; the feel of his jaw tipping up.

Breathlessly, Dream murmurs, “Thank you for trying.”

“It’s the least I can do,” George whispers.

Even though it's only a drizzle, even though it’s hardly collecting on their hair and rolling down
their skin, Dream says, “You look so at home in the rain.”

“Really?”

He can feel where George’s thigh presses into his own, where their calves brush in stagnant water.
He nods, unable to form words at the size of George’s eyes as they gaze up at him.

“So do you,” George says. Then, he squints in overt analysis. “Minus the hair.”

A breath of fake offense leaves Dream’s chest. “What’s wrong with my hair?” He reaches up to
push at his damp locks, probably leaving them worse off and poking out at odd angles.

George laughs gently. “It looks kind of funny, like that,” he says apologetically, but his eyes are
bright.

“Like this?” Dream runs both hands through his hair, leaving it a messy scramble, just to hear
George laugh again. He returns to rest an arm on the edge around George, and neither of them
move to take it away.

“Yeah. Exactly.” George pauses, sweeping over his hairline, then continues to giggle. His shoulder
lightly bumps Dream’s chest.

Dream raises his eyebrows. “You really think it’s that funny?” He only gets a nod in return;
George’s smile squeezing his eyes in quiet laughs. “Okay, then.”

He cups a palm below the surface, and quickly dumps it over George’s head. Water splats on his
nearly dried hair, flattening it against his skull as it races over his face. Dream laughs at the way
his shoulders bunch up defensively because of it.

“Much better,” he says gleefully. “You look like Patches after a bath.”

George blows out of his mouth, and drops of water spray across Dream’s face. “You suck. Fix it.”

“Okay, okay, fine.” Dream reaches up, and pushes the wet hair off of George’s forehead. “You’re
lucky I’m good at this, just have to…” The backs of his fingernails dip into his hairline, and rake
over his scalp gratuitously. Slick hair rises with a bold, dark style that he’s never seen on George
before. His breath catches, and his hand lingers, combing gently with restraint.

He clears his throat. “There,” he says, weakly.

“Does it look stupid?” George asks. His voice sounds different.

Dream’s hand brushes the hair behind his ear, and withdraws. The back of his knuckles
accidentally brush George’s neck.

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” he questions.

If there is any danger in the low hint to his voice, George notices it, and doesn’t say a word.
“Sure,” he breathes.

Dream takes it in, the pushed-up frenzy of his incredibly soft hair, the faint glow on his
cheekbones and dark contrast of his eyes. Dream’s heart beats heavily in his ribcage, he could be
so close to skimming fingertips over George’s own. His chest is warm, too warm, and his jaw
 grows slack.

“I think it looks good,” he murmurs, meeting George’s eyes. “Really, really good.”

George’s reaction is minuscule, easy for anyone to miss, but Dream prepared himself to detect it.
His lashes flick up in a subtle, surprised jump, lips parting aimlessly, and a slight raise of his
collarbones that could mean he’s held his breath.

“Thank you,” George says.

Dream’s favorite sight once again blooms across George’s face, and he smiles. “You’re blushing,”
he comments.

George raises his hand to press fingertips lightly to his cheek. “Am I?” he asks, dazedly.

Dream looks down at him through lidded eyes, his voice a warm rumble. “Mhm.”

George stares back defensively, but his lips are pressed together in a poor attempt to hide a smile.
“I am warm,” he says flatly.

Dream grins. His heart pounds. “Uh-huh.”

“I am going to get out,” George insists, pointedly slow to try and knock away Dream’s happiness.

“Okay,” Dream says simply. He lets George lean away from him and start to rise out of the hot tub.
A light, sweet laugh escapes his lips.

George splashes him, the motion sudden but gentle, before exiting the tub for good and hauling a
towel in tow. Dream watches him leave, water drips down his brows and from the tip of his nose,
but he makes no effort to wipe it away.

His smile continues, and he raises a warm hand to cover it. He hopes it keeps raining for a while,
washing over his house and filling up gutters and making a mess of his uneven lawn. It’s strange to
have the feeling, a persistent glow in his chest, that tells him he’ll never be able to watch the movie
or sit in his tub or listen to thunder without thinking of George in the same, fond heartbeat.

He hears a heavy tap on glass, and lifts his eyes to the light spilling from the kitchen window.
Sapnap is wearing an apron he didn’t even know he owned, holding up a bowl of the promised
pasta, and threatening to tip it into the sink.

“Alright!” he yells with a dismissive wave, breaking off into laughter. “Alright, I’ll be right in.”

Chapter End Notes

this has by far been one of my favorites to write. really comforting and easygoing, get
a little bit more about george's character my beloved, and so much rain imagery which
I don't think I can ever get bored of describing. very fond of them all and happy with
how this turned out! :D

I do want to be honest with you all, it's been difficult for me to stay motivated for this
story and I just wanted to be upfront about that. I'm going on a chapter by chapter
basis, not sure if I'll continue all the way to the end, but want you to know I'm trying to
stick with this commitment :) I appreciate all the love and support so much, and I
didn't want to suddenly stop uploading in the future without y'all knowing why.
haven't made any decisions yet and I think stuff may just be moving much slower than
it already is. hopefully see you in another two weeks or so <3 !!
 Shutter
Chapter Summary

A Disney trip is in order, with an unexpected addition to Dream's day.

Chapter Notes

Hi all! Same boundaries about CC's and mentions as usual, be nice and be smart and
enjoy the story :) This is a long one. Happy Disney.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The steady rumble of the engine thrums beneath Dream’s shoes. Parked under bright sun in his
driveway, he nudges at the console controls while the air-conditioning refuses to show mercy.
Light sweat graces his jaw, touched by a warm breeze, as the open windows do little to relieve the
heat.

“I’m forgetting something,” he mumbles again. “I am. I know I am.”

“What is taking George so long?” Sapnap asks, sliding down in the passenger seat. Another pair of
sunglasses rests over the bridge of his nose, tinted brown; definitely stolen.

Dream sighs. “Dunno.”

“What’d he say when you told him we’d be waiting?”

“Just that he’d be right out,” Dream says, readjusting the ball cap curving over his head. His hair is
warm beneath the dark canvas. He doesn’t blame George for taking his time inside the cold,
refrigerator of a house. “He did seem kind of distracted, though.”

“You think he's nervous?" Sapnap questions, and Dream nods. “Why?”

Dream shrugs, holding a hand over the vents to feel them offer up a chill. “It might have to do with
me asking about his—”

The word “camera” is caught right before it slips from Dream’s mouth. Last night after bowls of
spaghetti and hours of streaming, George made an offhand comment that he wanted to bring it with
them today. When knocking lightly on his door to tell him they’re ready to leave, Dream curiously
brought it up again.

Sapnap is still unaware of its existence.

“His what?” Sapnap pushes, having caught Dream’s hesitation immediately. “What does he have?”

Dream hopes one day to be a smarter man, and stop shoving himself in unnecessary dilemmas. He
squints at Sapnap as though it’ll minimize it. Answering him could smoothly avoid any issues of
George being offended, or kickstart a day of harsh teasing. Perhaps Sapnap is more sensible than
George gives him credit for.

“Sapnap,” Dream says slowly, “hey.”

His eyebrows raise, and he sits up attentively. “Oh, okay.”

“I need you to be really serious with me for a second. I’m going to tell you something that is very
important to George, and you have to listen carefully. Okay?”

“Um.” Sapnap regards him warily, pushing the sunglasses out of his face. “Sure.”

Dream purses his lips contemplatively, then continues. “Long story short, George has this special
camera that he likes to take pictures on and he might be bringing it with—okay. No, no. Get that
look off of your face.” He snaps his fingers at Sapnap sharply to dissuade his growing grin. “He’s
sensitive about it. Look at me. You have to be nice.”

“He takes pictures?” Sapnap repeats gleefully, his breath dissipating into a laugh.

Dream shoves at his shoulder, which only makes his condition worse. “Stop. Stop getting ideas.”

“Dream.” Sapnap’s voice drops gravely. “Come on. That’s fucking hilarious, you can’t expect me
not to—”

They both pause at the sound of the front door slamming shut. Sapnap’s eyes leap to meet his,
mouth widening in an overwhelmed stutter of what to say first. Dream angrily steals the sunglasses
off his head.

“Not a word,” he threatens in a hiss, pointing the plastic spokes towards Sapnap’s eyeballs. “I’ll
kill you. I’ll kill you dead.”

Sapnap pulls a face at the seriousness in his tone, but leaves him a haze of whether he’ll listen or
not. George approaches the car, and Dream tosses him a smile, peacefully withdrawing the glasses
to rest in his collar.

“We ready?” George asks, sliding into the backseat.

The strap of his camera bag is slung across his chest, and he pulls the bulky base into his lap
protectively. Black fabric and dark leather, held carefully in George’s hands with a promise of
fragility, it seems undoubtedly special. Dream doesn’t understand why he’d brought it to Florida in
the first place.

He can feel Sapnap's curiosity, too, and prepares an apology for spilling the secret.

“That depends, George,” Sapnap says as Dream holds his breath. “Are you ready for the best day
of your life?”

His eyes jump towards him in relief. The menacing grin has fallen away from his face, meaning he
could be intentionally nice, or biding his innocence for a later attack. Dream finds the ambiguity
scarily similar to that of his younger sister.

“I’m not sure about this being the 'best' day,” George responds vaguely.

Sapnap clears his throat. “Sorry, I think I misheard that. Can you try again?”

The gearshift stings the concave of Dream’s palm as he slides it into reverse. He turns around and
grows wary at the sight of George’s sharp grin.
“I said,” George continues, “that today is going to stink.”

“I will crawl back there and strangle you.”

“Easy,” Dream says sharply, gaze passing between Sapnap and the rearview. “C’mon, guys.
What’d we agree on?”

Their stream the day before had been hectic. Though they’d been careful to not mention their plans,
tossing in valid excuses to throw viewers off the scent, the bickering grew out of hand. It was
Quackity’s fault, with all of his “mickey mouse streamer” jokes that made George laugh too hard.

Once fully disconnected, the three set loose boundaries in hopes of keeping peace for the following
day.

“No bitching at Disney,” Sapnap recounts. “But we’re not there yet. We’re on route.”

“En route,” Dream corrects as he pulls out onto the road. Sparse puddles from yesterday’s rain
splash under his tires. “Still counts, though. George?”

“What he said.”

“George.”

“Ugh, fine.” George reclines dramatically in the middle seat, lips pressed together in a light smile.
“Best behavior for Disney, or whatever.”

Dream nods in satisfaction. “For Disney,” he emphasizes to make Sapnap grin.

“Yee fuckin’ haw,” Sapnap says.

Disney music that would get them banned on Twitch begins to play from Sapnap’s phone, stereo
trickling to life. Excitement for their outing drifts in with the oncoming air-conditioning.

Dream has never been one for Disney, or theme parks, or anything hot and overcrowded and sticky.
Yet when his eyes slide to see Sapnap’s enthusiastic smile, sudden words of admission rise to his
tongue. Meeting him for the first time on Main Street, joking awkwardly under the hot sun, and
swearing to come back when they’re old enough to buy beer—it’s the only trip to the park that he’s
truly enjoyed.

The words feel too heavy to pass on now. Instead, he lands a hand on Sapnap’s shoulder and gives
it a hearty shake.

The ride continues with stifling warmth. Sidewalks are speckled from traces of morning drizzle,
and the roads have usual midday traffic. Sapnap clings to the aux in the passenger seat, George
reaches for a chance to add to the queue, and Dream’s phone starts to ring.

He glances habitually at George in the backseat. “That’s… strange.”

“Your girlfriend?” Sapnap jokes.

“What? No, it’s just—” Dream slides his buzzing phone out of his pocket, and hands it to Sapnap.
“My do-not-disturb is on today. Who’s it?”

The jingling tone continues patiently, as Sapnap dials down the music to a low murmur. “Your
mama.”
“Hah, seriously—wait. Seriously?” Dream slows as they pull up to an intersection, nodding when
Sapnap tips it in question. The speaker clicks as it’s held close to Dream’s face. “Hi, Mom. What’s
up?”

“Hey honey,” she greets. “We just went by the house and you weren’t home so I wanted to give
you a call. Are you going to be back soon?”

He eyes the car riding his bumper in the rearview. “Uh, no, actually. We’ve got a big day planned.
Why?”

There’s a brief pause over the line. A honk resounds behind him.

“It’s the eleventh, Clay,” she says lightly.

“The… the—oh.” Dream’s eyes widen as the stoplight flicks green. He eases off the brake pedal,
distractedly glancing from the dashboard’s clock to the road. “Shit. I mean, shoot. Is she there with
you?”

“Yes,” his younger sister’s voice pipes up through the speaker. “I can hear you.”

Dream’s chest tightens. “Oh god. Hey, this must have completely slipped my mind with the guys
coming in town and all. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says.

“It’s not. What—what can I do now?” he asks. “What is your guys’ plan?”

“Well, I have work in a bit but could maybe see if—” He hears his mother’s voice withdraw, and
mutter away from the phone line. “Would you be fine coming in with me for the day?”

The eleventh. He recalls seeing the date from his mother’s calendar sandwiched between his own
events, and curses himself for letting it slip him by.

“No, no, she doesn’t have to do that,” he rushes. “We’re going to Disney, Mom. And we—we were
just talking about how we accidentally got extra tickets.” He waves for the other two in the car to
speak up, head scrambling to smooth over the damage of his mistake.

“Hi!” Sapnap says into his palm.

Leaning forward to lodge his shoulders between their seats, George greets, “Hello.”

“Does she want to join us?” Dream asks quickly.

“Oh!” A pause of murmurs passes, then his mother affirms, “That would be great. She’d love to.”

“You sure it’s alright?” his sister questions.

“Yes, definitely,” Dream says vehemently, while a chorus of staggered “yeses” chime up behind
him. “You caught us on our way there now. Where are you, Mom?”

“We just stopped for gas near the plaza. Do you want to meet us here?”

He scans the road signs overhead; they’re not too far for this to work smoothly. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll
be there in like, five-ish. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect,” his mother says breezily, the audible shift making him relax. “We’ll see you
then.”

“Seeya. Buh-bye.”

Once the call is hung up for him, Dream blows out a steadying breath to recalculate their plan for
the day. Guilt claws unhappily in his chest. He looks at his passengers briefly before accelerating
on the road.

“Okay. So, I completely forgot my sister was supposed to come hangout with me today. My mom
has a big work thing and kind of hates leaving her alone, so—god.” Dream leans a heavy elbow on
the divider between the three of them, and kneads at his jaw with his free hand. “I knew it. I knew I
was forgetting something. I should’ve double checked, I’m such an—”

George’s knuckles press intentionally to the back of his bicep. Above the firm chill of an index
finger, dipping below the fabric of Dream’s sleeve, a thumb brushes across his tan skin. The touch
is quiet in its familiarity.

He relaxes his arm into it, briefly, before he feels George's hand withdraw.

“I guess she’ll be joining us, if that’s okay,” Dream finishes, keeping his eyes on the streets. His
bicep feels bare. Why did George do that?

“Awesome,” Sapnap says simply, reaching to nudge the music dial back up. “Clay Jr. is cool.”

“She doesn’t like you calling her that.”

“Lil’ Sap,” he tries.

“Even worse.”

“I’m meeting your sister?” George interrupts suddenly.

The constriction in Dream’s throat squeezes his words dry, and he swallows. “Uh, yeah. You
finally are.”

George’s voice grows quieter. “And your mum?”

Music thumps in the blown speakers around them. Sunshine skips across the settled dust on his
dash. He has a strange memory of being driven to an appointment by his mother as a teenager, and
staring at the light soaking the windshield. Desperate to fill the silent void of their ride, he’d
muttered: I recently made a new friend, you know.

“Yeah,” Dream repeats, breathing out the words carefully. “You will.”

The parking lot of the gas station is sparsely filled by the time they arrive. Dream scans the cars
until he sees one he recognizes, and pulls into a nearby spot. The market windows, cluttered with
posters and colorful ads, reflect his bumper back at them.

“Oh, there.” He waves at his sister, waiting in the passenger seat of his mother’s car. He frowns
once he realizes she’s alone, and she points inside wordlessly. “Ah.”

Sapnap dips his head to look at Dream as he begins to leave the car. “Should we get out?”

Dream nervously glances between them and the sight of his sister approaching. “Yeah, sure.
Okay.”

He never intended for the meeting to appear so out of place, without plan and without warning. It’s
not like George hasn’t spoken with his family before, entertained his sister on calls when he’s run
off to the restroom, or exchanged words with his mother in easy pastime. Family and friends have
long since been synonymous to them all.

Yet George knows everything he’s spilled about his family, years of growing away and moving
closer, what has hurt him and what has stayed. The opposite is also true: his mother knows the
other end of that “everything,” too. Here, his life could be collapsing under the weight of love on
all sides.

Dream steps out in front of his car; his sister stops on the sidewalk before him.

“Hey dummy,” she says.

“Hi dummy,” he apologizes.

Her light eyes narrow as she squints at him. “Why Disney?”

Dream gestures over his shoulder to Sapnap, who is chatting with George on the other side of the
car. “Idiot’s fault.”

She grins in approval. They both look back when George’s voice carries over the frame, and her
face lights up. “Is that George?”

He opens his mouth to try for a response, but is cut off at the sight of his mother pushing past the
gas station doors and coming towards them with a similar smile. Once close, she hands his sister a
bag of seasoned pistachios.

“Here, sweetie. They didn’t have much else.”

“This is my lunch?” she questions dejectedly.

The cheap snack is passed to Dream for his judgement, and he glances over it. “I made some
sandwiches for us this morning. You can just have mine.”

His mom gives him a look. He wants to tell her to not worry, and holds back from repeating words
that have failed a myriad of apologies before. They’re closer now, he knows that. In some ways, it
makes casual talk more exhausting than it used to be.

“Would you mind getting some slushies?” he directs towards his sister, tugging out his wallet to
thumb through some money. “Two big ones.”

She takes the cash. “What flavor?”

“Dunno. All of ‘em.”

She leaves him with a handful of pistachios and the weight of his mother’s silence. Muffled
engines hum in her absence. The asphalt smells like gasoline.

“Extra Disney tickets, hm?” his mom prods finally.

Dream raises his eyebrows. “I have extra tickets, if Marcus isn’t in town for your work-thing
today.”
“How did...” She trails off contemplatively, and shakes her head. “Again with that damn—”

“Calendar, yeah,” Dream finishes with a grin. “Kick me off the Cloud share if you don’t want me
being nosey.” His smile eases away as faint exhaustion settles on her face. “Come on, though,
Mom. Odds are she already knows about him.”

“I know, I know. Today is just… always too soon.” His mother sighs, the light breath settling the
air between them as Dream leans back on his car door. “Thank you for including her so last minute.
It means a lot.”

“Are you kidding? Sapnap hasn’t shut up about hanging out with her since last weekend,” he says
easily. “Plus, she’s saving me from going on any rides.”

“I’m glad that works out in your favor, then.” She tips her head to look over the car, and clears her
throat, voice falling low. “So, should I introduce myself? Or are we waiting for you?”

He’s brought back down to the reality of their lot, the presence of a cross-Atlantic stranger waiting
feet away, and his face grows hot. “Ah, right.”

The bag of pistachios is absently passed between his palms, shells rolling together noisily. He
clears his throat in a poor attempt to dislodge his hitched breath. His mom settles a hand over his,
and his fingers still.

“Right,” he repeats. As they turn towards his friends’ direction, he quickly mutters, “Before I do,
he um—he likes his space. Okay?”

She raises her eyebrows at him, and slowly mouths a dramatic “okay.”

They make their way to the other side of the car. Cheap plastic crinkles in his grip as he tries to get
their collective attention.

“Hey,” he says, and two pairs of eyes swivel to meet him. He gestures with his free hand. “Mom,
this is George. George, this is my mother.” George doesn’t hesitate to offer a light nod. “And Sap
—you know.”

Was I breathing, when I said that? He watches carefully as the sight unfolds. Am I breathing now?

“Of course.” His mom pulls Sapnap into a greeting hug with ease. “Hi, Nicky.”

He pats her back briefly before pulling away. “Hello, ma’am. How are you?”

“Oh fine, just fine. Glad you’re getting him out of the house.” She turns to face George with a soft
smile. “George, honey, so good to see you. How was the flight in?”

George is quick to extend a handshake, and Sapnap shares a glance with Dream. The offer is far
more formal than they’ve witnessed from him before; they’re bound to hassle him for it later.

“It was wonderful, thank you,” George replies, giving her the well-mannered tone that Dream has
only heard when ordering food on calls together. He remembers hugging George at the airport,
seeing his authentic smile for the first time, and asking him the same question.

"Awful," he’d answered, like it was meant to be theirs, only.

Unaware of the surreality of George’s composure, his mother nods pleasantly. “And they’ve been
taking good care of you, I hope?”
“Yes, of course. It’s been great.”

“Well good, good,” she says, voice all shades of calm. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Dream looks between them restlessly. Something yellow in his chest continues to swell, pressing
against his ribs, threatening to burst without warning. He knows Sapnap’s eyes are on him.

His mother tuts lightly. “I honestly feel that I’ve heard so much about you, George. I can’t believe
we haven't met before properly.”

“Me as well,” George says earnestly. “Though I did promise you I’d apologize the first time we’d
meet, so: I’m very sorry.”

She tips her head at him quizzically. “Oh? You’ll have to remind me what for.”

“Keeping him up so late when your house was trying to sleep, ma’am.”

She immediately laughs in recollection, and Dream is glued incredulously to the whites of her teeth
and shine in her eyes. People aren’t able to make his mother laugh so easily.

“I must be mistaken,” she says warmly. “I can’t imagine my Clay was yelling all that time at
someone so polite.”

“It’s an act, Mom,” Dream intrudes, eyes flicking to George. He gives him a playful smile. “Don’t
believe a word he says.”

Sapnap claps a hand on George’s shoulder. “I can vouch for that.”

“Are you trying to make me look bad?” George questions with feigned embarrassment, lifting
Sapnap’s fingers off of him and letting his wrist drop.

Laughter is elicited from his mother again, and Dream’s head declutters at the jovial sound of it.
Ease slips through his core, letting him chuckle softly, as he gazes at the contained charm of
George’s smile. The only hint of nervousness he detects is the light interlocking of George’s hands,
a silent palm clasped tightly over pale knuckles.

A chime carries from the gas station doors, and Dream turns to see his sister pushing her way
through them. The slushie cups in her hands are monstrous.

“Well look, George, you’re going to be in town for a bit, yes?” his mother asks.

Dream sharply glances back.

“Yeah.” George clears his throat quickly, and speaks up, “Yes. About another week and a half.”

“If you get the chance, why don’t you come by for dinner?”

Dream’s jaw falls open. “Mom,” he tries, but her small hand gently connects with his arm.

“Don’t feel the need to say yes, you can think about it and let me know.” She waits until he gives
her a hesitant nod, then pats his shoulder.

They haven’t acknowledged an ounce of it, yet—Sapnap’s inevitable departure in three days time,
and the solitude that Dream and George will have no choice but to wade in. How will they survive
long days and quiet nights, unscathed? Where will they be at the end of it? It sets off a faint panic
in Dream that he doesn’t dare put into words.
“Alright. You boys be good.” She nudges the hair on his sister’s head as she greets them. “And you
call me if you have any trouble, okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” his sister says, but lets her adjust stray strands anyway.

“I can keep you updated on our plans later. We’d be happy to drive her home,” Dream offers. It’s a
bit of a way to his family’s house, but one he’s more than willing to cover to amend his
forgetfulness.

“I’ll let you know.” His mother aims to press a kiss to his cheek, and he leans down habitually to
let her. “Have fun today.”

They give her a disorganized jumble of parting words, and once she’s gone, Dream realizes his
friends watched the fiasco with transparent amusement. He hastily wipes his cheek with the back of
his hand.

“So your whole family’s that touchy?” George questions.

“Big time,” Sapnap says.

Dream’s sister extends a slushie cup to him. “Yep.”

“Oh, thanks.” Dream exchanges the pistachios for the drink, and doesn’t bother asking for the
change. Condensation drops on the exterior, chilling his fingertips.

His sister’s gaze settles back on George silently. George returns the stare, with unsure glances to
Dream and Sapnap.

“You’re GeorgeNotFound,” she says.

“You’re… Clay’s sister,” he jokes vaguely, to successfully make Dream smile.

“I think you should call me Nancy.”

George blinks at her. “I know that’s not your name.” The other cold slushie in her hand is held out
towards him anyway, and he takes it gingerly. “Oh, okay. Thank you, ‘Nancy.’”

“How come I don’t get one?” Sapnap asks.

She shrugs.

Dream takes a sip from the plastic straw, and silently hands Sapnap the cup to share. Cold ice cools
from the backs of his teeth down the length of his throat, settling calmly over any coals in his
stomach that have been stirred by his mother’s presence. The chaotic blend of sugary flavors may
be a mistake.

George hands the slushie back to his sister. “Nice to meet you.”

Dream’s keys jingle when he tugs the lanyard from his pocket. His heart has refused to cease
pounding inside of his chest. By all means, they’d successfully averted any type of crises from such
a slapdash introduction.

“Yeah,” he hears his sister say, as they gravitate back to the car. “My brother won’t shut up about
you.”

-
From labyrinths of hot parking lots, to fussing over directions, tickets, proper application of
sunscreen—Dream does not consider this to be the happiest place on Earth. He’s been under duress
since they spilled out of the car, and raided his scattered trunk of old hats and sunglasses for
“identity protection.” As usual, Sapnap and his sister quickly teamed against him, dragging them
from the yawning mouth of the park to an abundance of rides. It’s been several years since he last
set foot on the curving roads, probably in hand with someone he doesn’t speak to anymore, and his
hesitance is evident.

Lands he hardly remembers the names of are explored with determined enthusiasm. He observes
the bright surroundings contentedly, waiting outside lines with other tired parents. Occasionally,
he’ll listen to his friends’ complaints, and join them on any attractions that don’t lift him too far off
the ground.

George has taken it upon himself to keep Dream idle company. He lags back when the others’
energy is too much, or disappears with them to eagerly join a ride. Once outside of a noisy fast-
track lane, George hesitates on his departure, and pulls the strap of his camera bag over his head.

“Keep it safe?” he asks, extending it to Dream carefully.

Dream is instantly much happier to be the designated pack mule, as he answers, “Of course.”

When the three are finished and chatting about where to go next, Dream leans back under an
awning in his precious stretch of shade. His palm is settled protectively over the base of the camera
bag. He feels a lick of pride when George doesn’t ask for it back.

Even though it was passed off with casualty, carrying such a prized object is personal, like they
trust each other more than friends should. Then again, Sapnap did make Dream hold his half-eaten
sandwich, so he reigns in his optimism.

At the excited mentions of teacups, he lifts his aviators to rub at his eyes. His stomach aches at the
idea, but he pulls the map from the side pouch on his bag anyway to chart the course.

“Just give us the map,” Sapnap says.

Dream holds it away from his grabby hands, again. “Hey, hey. Back off. You’re gonna rip it.”

“You suck as the map guide,” his sister agrees, slipping it out of his fingers in the prime of his
distraction. “George wants the teacups, too. Don’t you, George?”

George looks away from a nearby pretzel stand, and back to their group. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Dream tugs his shades back down. “You don’t have to agree with everything she says.”

“Yes he does.” His sister’s attention drops downward as Sapnap huddles over the map in her hands.
They begin to craft an unorganized plan without mercy for Dream’s sigh.

George peers up at him in further question, from beneath the floppy bucket hat he’d been forced to
wear. His cheeks have a slight rosiness under the soft luster of lotion.

Cute.

“You don’t,” Dream reassures quietly, and George shrugs.

“There’s no harm in it.”

The map is shoved between them abruptly. “Dream, look,” Sapnap says, pointing towards a corner
of colorful streets. “This is where we first met.”

Dream looks down with a nostalgic smile. “Star it. We can send my Mom a picture of us there, on
our way out.”

He leans off his backrest and turns his bag towards Sapnap, feeling as he hunts for a loose pen in
the outer pocket.

“I remember that,” his sister says.

Sapnap holds the map up to Dream’s shoulder, and scribbles on the sleek surface. “No you don’t.
You weren’t born yet.”

“What? Yes I was.”

Dream refocuses on George as they delve into further bickering behind him. They begin to step
away from his shady solace, back to the river of traveling tourists, but George doesn’t move.
Dream follows the direction of his gaze to the nearby food stand.

“Do you want a pretzel?” he asks.

“Huh? Oh, no, I was just—” George’s mouth presses together, and he exhales lightly. “Kind of.”

Dream taps the brim of his dark hat fondly. “C’mon.”

He keeps an eye on the wandering map fiends while buying from the vendor. Wrapped in the
famous logo and bread twisted to mimic it, he hands George the warm pretzel. The savory scent of
it floats into the humid air between them.

“Thank you,” George mutters.

“No problem.”

They continue walking, trailing behind their company, shoes scuffing slow on the spotted concrete.
George’s camera bag sways against Dream’s hip, and he uses a mindful hand to steady it from
jostling too much.

“So,” he says. “Thoughts on the park so far?”

George hums, swallowing a bite of the dough. “It’s big.”

He laughs. “It is, it is.” Dream pauses, eyes dancing over the tops of strangers’ heads lazily. “Let
me know if you want to bring home any more Disney shit, by the way. Some ears, or a t-shirt, or a
tutu—”

“The pretzel is fine,” George insists fervently, smothering his smile with another mouthful.

“You sure? Cause that’s what I’m here for. To buy stuff, and nothing else.” Dream grins as his
patronage earns an amused scoff. “I have to be good to you. Mom’s orders.”

“Sapnap seems very happy about that,” George dismisses.

Dream loops his thumb in the strap of his bag, keeping his elbow close to not nudge the set of
small shoulders next to him. “He definitely does.”
They stroll together idly, turning when his sister turns, and surveying the people that pass them by.
The dark ball cap on Dream’s head grows hot from the beating sun, and though he was teased
relentlessly for it, he does feel that wearing it hides his face well enough. They’ve successfully
avoided being recognized so far.

“She’s really nice, your mum,” George says suddenly.

“Yeh.” A piece of the pretzel is torn off and extended to Dream, and he takes it gratefully. “She
seemed happy to meet you.”

George turns his head quickly. “Oh, did she?”

Dream side-eyes his valiance, suppressing a smile as he chews. “Mhm.”

“Huh.” George begins to wander paces in front of him, cupping the pretzel to his chest. “It feels
like your family knows a lot about me, Dream.”

The threat of spinning teacups is less dizzying than this. Strange momentum twirls the nerves in
Dream’s chest, to leave his brain in a scramble of George’s doing.

“If I recall correctly, yours knows a lot about me, too.” His voice oozes with a warm confidence
that George either grins at, or despises. “Isn’t that right?”

His heart flops helplessly when George tosses a smile over his shoulder. “Right.”

Dream’s awareness is brought to the difference in their strides, as George slows to walk next to
him again. His shoes are clean and crisp as usual, but half the size of Dream’s. He fights the urge
to smile as he studies it.

“Should we take her up on her offer?” George asks.

Dream’s eyes flick up beneath the dark cover of his sunglasses. His gaze steels ahead into
Sapnap’s back, which is undeserving of the interest, despite the hoodie he’d stubbornly brought
now tied around his waist.

He likes the way that George says “we.” If he’s not careful, he knows he’ll get addicted to that
feeling.

“About dinner?” he clarifies aimlessly, wiping at the light sheen of sweat coating the back of his
neck. “It’s up to you.”

“Do you think it was rude of me to not say yes right away?” George asks, with enough moderation
to make Dream’s chest grow warm.

“No, George.”

After a moment, George mutters, “I have another question.”

“What is your other question?”

“Did you, like, ask her to not hug me, or something?”

Dream tips his nose down, and peers at George over the top of his sunglasses. “Did you want her to
hug you?” He pauses, letting his dark eyes fall away dismissively. “She would have if I didn’t, to
be fair. You don’t have to be so worried.”
“I’m not—” George breathes, then takes a mournful bite of his pretzel. Muffled, he continues, “I
just want the people in your life to like me, s’all.”

The confession rekindles a smothered warmth inside of him, and his smile lights at the sudden
oxygen. He bumps George’s arm playfully, sending a jostle through his shoulders. “Sapnap likes
you. My sister likes you.”

George nudges him back dismissively. “You know who I’m talking about.”

“Who, Patches?” he teases. “Cause you definitely have her approval already.”

“Stop being dumb. Your mum is different.”

Dream grins again at the soft clip of his accent. “Why, though? It’s not like you’re my—”

The words scrape his ears as they collide with sharp silence. Dream catches his obvious trajectory
with the back of his teeth, lips enclosed around his exhale, attempting to swallow it whole.

Boyfriend.

He can feel how abruptly George’s open presence abandons him. From the halt in his breath to the
stillness of his hands, Dream knows George heard the ghosted term fall. He doesn’t dare turn his
head.

“I… I know that,” George says, tersely. “I know.”

His side-glances rap against Dream’s skin, blistering him in silence. The horrors of the theme park
reverberate in Dream’s ears with a nauseating hum.

“I know,” George repeats.

“I’m sorry. That came out weird.” Dream wants to wince at the sound of his own voice; how it
lingers, unanswered. He tugs off his sunglasses to confront him in an unobstructed view. “George
—”

“No, let’s—” George avoids his eyes rapidly. “Let’s not. Not today. Yeah?”

A terrifying conglomerate of fear and regret cements in Dream’s throat. His vision is blinded by the
repetition of colorful logos, cheerful slogans, and caricatures all iterating a message that mocks
him. He promised to keep the peace and harmony of this place, and with hours of walking and
rides left before them, he knows he can’t bring himself to break it.

“...Okay,” he says.

George attempts to flash him a reassuring smile, but Dream sees how it never quite reaches his
eyes.

The teacups only make him feel worse. Dream should’ve expected pure violence once his sister
and Sapnap got hold of the center wheel, but his faith in their benevolence is his downfall. They
laugh at his misery. He threatens to get sick. All of his pleas are lost to their endless cackling, and
his brain rots as the spinning continues.

Somewhere in the midst of the torture, their laughter and smiles make it worthwhile. He neglects to
join them again, or on the next few rides, instead focusing on recovering from the nausea.
On their way to the next destination, George rejoins him in the back of the group. Dream stays
uncomfortably silent in his surprise as a temperate breeze washes over them. The scent of nearby
water and sweet foods is carried with it.

“So.” George’s cheek turns as he looks up at Dream, and asks, “Thoughts on the park?”

Dream meets his eye timidly. He’s been watching George interact with his sister, and joke with
Sapnap, but seeing him brush off their altercation is more frightening than he expected.

Yet George gazes at him, inviting and genuine as he waits. Dream presses his lips together in a
grateful smile.

“I think it’s going to kill me,” he admits.

“Hm.” George furrows his brow light-heartedly. “Would it be such a bad way to go?”

Dream lets out a forlorn sigh. “Only if I could go visit the—”

“Epcot ball, we get it,” George interrupts, and chuckles softly. “Why do you keep saying that?
What is it with that place?”

Dream turns to him. “The history, George. The culture. Think of all the pretty pictures you could
take if we went there.”

George huffs. “You’re so weird. You talk about my camera more than I do.”

“Well, it has been hanging off my back all day,” Dream says. He sees George’s face fall lightly.
“Which is fine, more than fine. Really, I—I like carrying it. Makes me feel important.”

His honesty earns a laugh. Dream forces his eyes to drift away from George as his face grows
warm.

“I have been wondering," Dream prods, curiously, "why did you bring it along if you’ve hardly
touched it?” He sees Sapnap and his sister at a booth on the side of the walkway, talking and
pointing to stuffed animals hanging on the wall. As George opens his mouth, he suddenly
interrupts, “You know what, sorry, hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

Dream quickly slings his backpack around to the front of his chest, and draws out his wallet as he
approaches them. He smiles politely at the uniformed workers behind the counter.

“Hi!” he says happily. “Can I get that one, and the one next to it, please?”

Sapnap rapidly turns to look at him. “Dream—”

“Thank you.” Dream exchanges his card towards an employee, while the other takes down the
requested merchandise. He has the animals in his hold and is passing them to Sapnap before he can
get a word in edgewise.

“Dude,” Sapnap says finally, arms full of the bombarded gifts.

His sister takes the one she’d been eyeing, reluctantly. “It’s easier if you just let him do this,” she
mutters, but is unable to hide her smile. “Thanks, Clay.”

Dream nods as he puts his wallet in his bag, and retreats back to George, who hasn’t moved in the
duration of his absence.
“Sorry about that. What were we—your camera, right?” he questions. “How come you brought it
here?”

George studies him, silently, and he feels a nervous flicker in his chest. “Just in case,” George says
gently.

A quizzical smile settles on Dream’s face. “In case of what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

George’s eyes are on him and show no sign of drifting away. It floods Dream with a torrent of
confused adrenaline. Shouldn’t he be angrier, not letting Dream’s arm brush his, choosing to walk
far away from him, and speaking colder than he is now?

“You might be the most cryptic person I’ve ever met,” Dream confesses.

George looks at him with a light smirk. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good,” he breathes quickly. A quiet pause rests in the air, and he reiterates, “Always good.”

“Always is a big word,” George says.

Dream smiles. “I’m a big-word kind of guy.”

The eye roll Dream receives makes his pulse flutter in his chest. What is this? he wants to ask. Is
this old, or is it new?

Rocks coated with shades of orange rise in front of them as they continue to wander forwards,
talking sweetly or not talking at all. The flow of George’s voice waxing and waning in sync with
his own, so seamlessly, makes Dream’s heart continue to pound. His sister falls back to slide
between them eventually, linking her elbow with Dream’s, but George inducts her to their
conversation with ease. He tells her stories and asks questions like he's always known her, and
always been there.

Dream's distaste for Disney melts, slowly, in the caverns of his heart.

His sister skips forward when a tall, rushing mountain comes into view, guarded by rails and
crowded lines waiting for the watery ride. She stands next to Sapnap at the base of it, and they
bump the fists of their stuffed animals together excitedly. Dream bought them a matching pair of
the creature “Stitch,” one pink, and one blue. He’s amused to see who will end up with magentas
and lilacs in hand at the end of the day.

He opens his mouth to comment on it to George, but is shushed before he can get a word out.
Frowning, he attempts again, “What—”

“Just—quiet, be quiet,” George rushes under his breath, glancing rapidly from where the two stand
meters away. His hands quickly reach around Dream’s waist, knuckles grazing his tense abdomen,
and leaving a careless trail of firing nerves behind.

He unzips the bag at Dream’s hip.

Dream’s lips part silently as the sleek camera is pulled into daylight. He watches George’s nimble
fingers fly over the controls, his movements practiced and graceful, as he uncaps the lens and lifts
it up.
His dark brows are pinched together. The roar of the roller coaster's splash descends around them,
tangled with thrilling cheers, and the sound of Sapnap whooping happily.

The shutter of George's camera slices cleanly through the noise.

By the time Dream cares to look where the photo is aimed, he sees his sister and Sapnap drenched
from the spray of the ride. They’re laughing, clothes spattered in dark splotches, shaking droplets
from their shoes and reveling in the magic that embraces them.

“Oh,” Dream says. He turns back towards George, who immediately tilts the screen of his camera
out of view. “What, I don’t get to see?”

George’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Nope.”

In his hands, the shiny box gleams with secrecy against the center of his chest. George recaps it
with mindful fingers; Dream gazes down at him warmly.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Lemme see it.”

“No.”

Dream tilts his head in disdain. George mimics him, and he feels a hitch of surprise at how
animated he's been today.

“You’ll have to hand the camera back to me, you know,” he barters. “Seeing as I have the bag and
all.”

George's pale jaw tips up in defiance, and Dream lets his eyes slip openly over the curves on his
face. The shadow of his bucket hat falls midway down his nose. Above a lightly stubbled chin, his
soft mouth is quirked playfully.

“What if I just hold on to it?” George tests. “Then what?”

Dream dares to reach for George's neck and adjust a twist in his camera strap. George's eyes drop to
follow every inch of the motion as Dream's hand smooths the fabric on his collarbone.

“I could just steal it from you,” Dream pretends.

George nudges his fingers away with the back of his hand. “You won’t.”

“I won’t.”

A sharp patter of footsteps causes him to finally tear his eyes off George, and he’s greeted with a
wet hug from his giggling sister. He accepts the change of temperature wholeheartedly.

“We have to go on,” she muffles gleefully into his chest.

He pushes her damp hair away, studying the dark stain it leaves behind. “You guys are more than
welcome to. I have towels in the car.”

“No,” she says, as Sapnap joins her side. “We have to go on. All of us. Including you.”

Dream laughs shortly. “Funny. You’re a comedian.”

“Dream,” Sapnap pleads. “Just this once, come on.”

“‘Just this once?’” he echoes, eyes leaping from their abysmal smiles to the steep drop of the
coaster behind them. “What about the teacups? Or the pirate-thing? Or the carpets—”

“Those are mild. Itty-bitty-baby rides. They don’t count.”

“Exactly,” he drawls, shaking his head as Sapnap opens his mouth again. “That’s my limit. I
cannot do that.”

His stomach plummets as they watch another group descend the rushing slope. He does not
understand how they’re laughing as their screams dissipate in a spray of white water.

“But George said he’d only go on if you did,” his sister says.

He watches George’s brows draw together. “I did?” His sister nudges him. “Oh. I mean, yes,
Nancy, I did.”

Dream stares at them blankly.

“Do I...” The volume of George’s voice drops in an attempt for secrecy. “Do I have to get wet,
though?”

Dream grins at his sister’s irritated groan. “This isn’t going to work,” he says, retracting the stuffed
animals from their hands. “Go have fun. I’ll keep these dry.”

He ignores the guilty pang at how dramatically sad the two of them look, and refuses to budge.
Wrapping the fuzzy gifts in his arms, he musters up a soothing smile, as the prospect of him
joining them begins to retreat.

“It doesn’t seem like that bad of a drop, actually,” George muses.

Dream’s eyes jump sharply towards him. Intense horror begins to twist in his gut at the way
George is studying the ride with quiet intrigue.

“No,” he rasps.

George smiles as he looks back at him. “It looks kind of fun.”

“It is,” Sapnap encourages quickly. “Very fun, totally worth it.”

The three of them dare to turn their gazes on Dream. His eyes widen, as he flicks from face to face,
getting the faint feeling that he should cherish these last moments of his life. George meets his
growing panic with an apologetic look.

“We should give it a try,” he says lightly, floating with enough soft curiosity to make Dream’s face
fall. George could’ve whispered, “you’re going,” and it would have evoked the same, visceral
fear.

“Don’t do this to me,” Dream warns. “Please, George.”

“Hear him out,” his sister says while Sapnap begins to laugh.

“Stop enabling him,” Dream demands callously. “As a matter of fact, stop enabling each other. I
will take us out of this park right now if you don’t—”

“Are you still afraid of heights?” George questions suddenly.

Dream narrows his eyes. “I… am.”

“It’s only the one fall, Dream,” he says. “Just once, and then that’s it. Right?”

George takes a light step forward. Dream leans back. He’s unsure what he finds so intimidating
about a trio of short instigators, who he could tip like bowling pins with an easy nudge.

Dream's voice is low. “You don’t get it.”

“Why not?” George asks, as though they’re alone in an empty park, standing and waiting for rain.

Dream exhales lightly. “Let’s say I do go on. It’s just one drop for you guys, sure, but I’ll be sitting
there absolutely losing it. I could pass out. And when the drop comes, I’d probably pass out
again.” His voice pitches with strain. “Maybe I’d start bawling, too. Does that sound like fun? You
guys want to see me literally become an infant again?”

He hears his sister giggle, but George’s gaze softens without warning. “I don’t think you would,”
he says.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Dream rushes wildly. “Cut it out. There’s nothing you can say that
would make me get on that thing.”

A tense silence settles over them. His breath slowly calms down from tightened breaths he wasn’t
aware had formed in his ranting, and he meets George’s dark gaze.

“What if I offered you a deal?” George asks hesitantly.

Dream glances at the other two, then back down. “A deal?”

George reaches up, and pulls Dream’s head down by a palm on the back of his neck. His body
bends forward rapidly before he can process the distance decreasing. Eyes wide, knuckles pushed
against George’s sternum, he feels his breath warm on his ear.

Quietly, George proposes, “What if I show you the picture I took?”

The air in Dream’s lungs rushes out at once, gliding over George’s shoulder. “Wh—what?”

“Go on it with us,” he whispers, “and I’ll show you the camera.”

The nerves below his hairline sing with every fleeting moment that George’s fingers press against
them. Dream’s gaze floats up warily to his sister, whose attention is quickly snagged by Sapnap
gesturing elsewhere. He lets himself ease back to George, resisting the urge to drop his hands and
pull him in by his waist.

“You’re joking,” Dream mutters, as George’s touch slips away. “Why would you just for this—this
stupid ride?”

George leans back, and pulls his camera strap over his head. He lowers it back into the bag while
he speaks carefully.

“I want to make the most of my time here,” he says lightly, then pauses. “The most of my time
with… with you. If that means helping you branch out a little more, then—” His eyes slowly lift to
Dream, and he blinks. “I’m willing to try that, too.”

“You’ll show me the photo,” Dream says flatly. His heart is in his throat.
“I will.”

He shakes his head the moment George smiles. “I don’t believe you. I’m not going to go on that
thing and lose a—a canon life, just for you to laugh it off and not show me.” His voice grows
quiet. “What if you’re lying?”

As though simplicity is enough to unwrite any traces of fear between them, George mutters, “Trust
me.”

Dream’s head echoes back memories of soft words over the phone line, light fingers sifting gently
through his hair, the feel of gazing up into a steady downpour of rain.

Trust.

The sounds of the park fade around him as he considers what George’s offer means. He thinks of
the way George holds his camera, protectively, right over his heart. A vulnerable exchange of a
photo for fear will break them both open. How could Dream ever refuse?

“I really, really hate you," Dream says hoarsely.

The nervous tangle in his gut briefly vanishes when George gives him a smile. “I’m okay with
that."

At the first sign of success, Sapnap grabs them by the elbows and tugs them towards the ride.

Dream is shown two pictures for the price of one.

The first he can hardly process, with his throat screamed raw and hands trembling as he stumbles to
the nearest bench. Sapnap shoves a printed image taken mid-ride under his nose, and claps his back
as cackles unfold around him. Crowded in a log-shaped coffin, descending to their doom, the
grainy film immortalizes his sister and Sapnap's grins.

Dream stares at the himself in the photograph.

He knows he’d been babbling like a maniac, sitting next to George and panicking up until the
moment the final drop tore the life from his lungs. He’s still dripping with water and sweat from
the consequences of the ride. What he didn’t know was that he’d buried his face into George’s
shoulder, interlocking their knuckles in a terrified grip, while George's free palm pulled his head
closer in comfort.

It's the first photo of the two of them to exist, and it looks like this?

Dream tries to makes sense of it during his recovery. George's thoughtfulness for his fears is
nothing new. He must've been too surprised to shake Dream off, letting him latch onto his hand
mid-ride, but ultimately uncomfortable about it. Yet the smile on George's face in the frame makes
Dream taste hope. He swallows, and doesn't catch the usual guilt that comes after it.

Head on fire, he asks George to see the second photo.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” George postpones, politely. “Just wait until you can see
straight.”

After twenty minutes of walking in damp clothes and another five slumped on a bench, Dream is
finally shown the camera. His sister and Sapnap have run off to ride the glamorous Space
Mountain, and on the third time around, George declines their invitation. The day has been wearing
on them enough to hint at it drawing to a close as the sun lowers in the sky with similar exhaustion.

“How are you feeling?” George asks as he carefully sits down next to him.

Purple and blue lights glow and bounce off their metallic surroundings. Families pass by them with
murmured plans of an oncoming fireworks show. Dream’s bench has become his place of
admittance, made of dark green wire as he finally sinks into himself.

“I have a headache,” he mutters.

A pause settles over them. George silently pulls his camera from the bag and switches the screen to
display his gallery.

“We had a deal,” he says hesitantly, holding it towards Dream. “It’ll look better once I go in and
tweak some things, I know the lighting isn’t great and I probably should’ve focused it more, so I’m
sorry if it’s—”

Dream’s racing thoughts slow to a gentle lull as he locks onto the image. “George.”

“...Yeah?”

His eyes trace over every inch of the beautiful, captured moment. It’s of Sapnap and his sister by
the edge of the same coaster that nearly killed him, yet they’re caught in a glistening spray of
falling water. Smiles fold across their faces so vividly he can hear the high shrieks of their laughter.
The fluffy animals he’d bought them are held, defensively, to their chests or mid-air to block the
oncoming wave.

They’re swimming in joy. If Dream didn’t know better, he’d mistake them for family.

Slowly, chest heavy with feelings he cannot name, he looks up. “You should never apologize
before showing me something that you care about. This is incredible.”

George’s eyes are wide under the praise, reiterating Dream’s memory of their time in the hot tub. A
light smile lifts across his face. “Really?”

“I was right there, right next to you, and I didn’t catch a second of this.” Dream lets out a huff of
astonishment. “I mean, how did you know when it was the right time? It passed me by but you—
you saved this for me. Forever.”

“It’s just a picture,” George dismisses under his breath.

Dream smiles. “Bullshit. This is worth a thousand rides on that splashy-mountain nightmare.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it,” Dream says, his voice firm with admiration.

He watches as the camera is tucked away quietly. George unknowingly rolls his wrist once it’s
free, curling fingers into his palm and flexing them as though they hold a hidden ache. Dream
thinks of the on-ride photo stored neatly in his backpack, and though he can’t remember much
beyond the feel of a small hand in his, he frowns.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.

“What?” George stops stretching out his fingers to regard him. “Oh, from squeezing my—no. I’m
okay.”

His eyes trace over his thin knuckles with uncertainty. “You’re not just saying that, right? You’d let
me know?”

“I…” George lets out a short breath. “I guess it did hurt a little, at first.” When he sees Dream
blanch, he quickly adds, “It went away immediately, though. Oh my god, what are you—stop, I
don’t need painkillers. I promise I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” Dream pushes, slow to return the bottle to the first-aid kit. George gives him a
look. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

His fingers twitch nervously where they rest on the space between them. In the silence, his growing
aspiration tells him that if he did try, maybe George would let him search for invisible wounds on
his palms. Dream carefully pulls his hands together to stay controlled in his lap.

“Actually, George, I am sorry,” he finds himself saying, and pauses for his mind to catch up to his
mouth. “For… for what I said earlier. Or what I didn’t say. I know you probably don’t want to hear
it because we’re trying not to argue on ‘Disney day,’ but—it’s true. It was dumb of me to joke
about that. I’m sorry.”

Without pause, George mutters, “It’s okay.”

Dream’s lips part at him in silence. Inches away from each other on an uncomfortable bench,
numbed after a day of strange conversations and timid smiles, he still doesn’t understand George.

He tries and fails to be soothed by George’s acceptance of his apology. The light breath he draws
in is saturated with humid air.

“I honestly don’t understand why you’re not more upset with me,” he says.

“I’m used to it.”

Dream stares at him sharply. “What?”

George finally looks at him, eyes caught in mild surprise as he rephrases, “I—I mean that you’ve
said things like that to me for a while, Dream.” His voice drops quietly. “So I’m used to it.”

The tired nonchalance of his words strikes Dream across the face as a well-earned slap. Years of
unrequited yearning have done this to George. Even now, after the acknowledgement of their
mutuality, Dream still finds a way to unearth his old wounds. How many times has he made jokes
that hurt, without realizing? At what point did George try to move on?

“Shit,” is all Dream can say. His breath is low; his eyes fall with it.

He hears George huff lightly beside him.

A long stretch of silence sits on their shoulders that they don’t try to fill. It feels like a shared
recognition; the present is all that matters, now. Meeting Dream’s family, adventuring busy theme
parks, making excuses to stand closer or reach for each other’s hands.

“We,” George had said. Dream wants more than anything to believe in the possibility.

We walked side by side all day. We shared a sandwich that I packed for him. Dream glances
towards George on the bench, heart beating loud and slow. We always end up waiting like this. On
the phone, in the hot tub, in the kitchen.

We always end up here.

“Can I ask you something?” George questions, and Dream nods. “Why… Why do you dislike this
place so much?”

A drawn out sigh leaves his lips in response.

George frowns. “You seem like you really enjoy it sometimes. Then it goes away, whenever you’re
reminded where you are.”

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” Dream says. “I was never really a Disney kid, I guess, so I don’t
get all excited about it like they do.”

“Didn’t you come here a lot, though?”

“Yeah. Mostly before my sister was born, but like I said, I didn’t get much out of it.” A smile
passes across Dream's face before he can help it. “Well, I mean, it was kind of nice when I was too
young to go on all the big rides.”

“That’s a weird thing to be fond of,” George muses.

“Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses. “I just wasn’t forced to do anything I didn't want to. I could wait at the
bottom with my mom, eating ice cream, while everyone else went on ahead.” His smile begins to
soften. “I… I remember this one time, my older sister somehow convinced her to go on a ride, and
my dad stayed with me instead.”

George turns to face him, and Dream’s eyes drop down to his lap.

“He uh, he didn’t really know what to do, y’know?” Dream chuckles lightly, fingers braiding
together on his thighs. “We were never all that close. But… he bought me this stupid balloon. Like
that’d make everything magically better, and I’d fall in love with Disney right there, on the spot.”
He pauses as the words fade out, letting the low swoop in his stomach rise up between his ribs.
“He had this huge smile on his face when he handed it to me, though, and for a moment, it
worked.”

Dream can faintly hear the park chatter in his memory; see the warm expression of someone bound
to be a stranger. His chest aches with the slow realization as he sinks into the tar of old scars.

“He never really looked at me like that again.”

Dream's fingertips are wrapped tight over his knuckles, and he unclenches them once aware of the
strain. The feeling collects in his chest, too; steady breaths ease it away.

“Why did you agree to bring us here?” George asks quietly.

Dream looks at the glinted concern in his eyes, and smiles dryly. “Gotta rewrite the old to work on
the new, right?”

His eyebrows raise. “Is that really your rhetoric?”

“It could be.”

Silence becomes of them again as any worries from George’s gaze are left unsaid. Dream is
beginning to grow fond of it. They stare at the space-themed constructions around them, and his
eyes snag on a small puddle somehow leftover from yesterday’s rain. The endless sun and hours of
heat hadn't evaporated it away.

George hops off the bench suddenly. Dream looks at him.

“Can we go on a walk?” he asks.

Dream gives him a soft smile, and eases onto his feet. His legs no longer feel like they’re fresh off
the boat, having finally recovered from the uneasy coaster ride. Their quiet stroll stabilizes
lingering paranoia as he walks, heel to toe, in rhythm.

“Is this their last ride?” George asks eventually.

Dream nods. “I think I’m going to break the news when they’re done.”

“Sapnap seems pretty beat. I’m sure he’s—oh, there we go.”

Dream glances around their empty surroundings at George’s sudden pause. “Where are they?”

His question is ignored. George tugs his wallet from his pocket, and pulls out U.S. dollars.

“What? What are you doing?” Dream asks, before his eyes finally land on the employee
surrounded by inflated mouse ears, attached to a hoard of strings. George meanders his way
towards her, leaving Dream no choice but to follow.

He lays a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “What,” he repeats, “are you doing.”

George shrugs him off. “Buying you a balloon.”

“No, you’re not.” Dream reaches for his wallet when George starts to walk again. “I’m serious,
George, no.”

To his surprise, George listens. His money is tucked back and out of sight before Dream has the
chance to catch up to the motions. Halted in his path to the waiting worker, he looks up at Dream
with an even smile, making his breath halt.

“Fine,” George says. “Then buy me one.”

Dream scoffs. “What?”

“I want a balloon,” George insists.

“No you don’t.”

His face draws together in a familiar, stubborn ploy. “Yes, I do.”

Dream studies his expression with exhaustion, and relents. He unburies his card from his backpack
to politely greet the balloon-holder. He chooses a blue one that's easy on the eyes, encased in a
clear shell. It’s the darkest out of all the options, but faint sunlight and shapes dance through the
plastic as he hands it to George.

“Thank you,” George chirps. Not a moment after they’ve stepped away, he shoves his closed hand
towards Dream.

“Wh—”
“Can you hold this for me?” he asks. He waves the string in front of him with a satisfied smile, and
Dream stares at him in defeat.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, taking the balloon from George’s hand.

George laughs as he begins to sulk to their bench, walking backwards to keep ogling at the
defeated look on Dream’s face. “You’re so easy,” he teases. “I didn’t even have to try.”

Dream tugs down the balloon, and thumps it airily against George’s nose. “Shut up.”

George bats it away with a hollow noise as his palm collides with the rubber. Dream bumps it
again on top of his head, and giggles.

“I will pop it,” George complains.

“Bummer,” Dream says warmly, tucking the balloon under his chin as he gazes down. He sees
George’s mouth open and stall as a curious light crosses his face.

He reaches down to his bag on Dream’s hip. “I have an idea.”

The weight of the camera leaves the shoulder strap, and Dream’s hand tightens on the plastic
string. He quickly glances at George’s concentrated expression, the idea of another photo making
his chest stir with curiosity, until the lens is tipped towards him.

His heart pounds heavily. “George?”

The hand on the balloon string is nudged towards his torso; George's fingertips are cold on his
knuckles.

“Hold it in front of your head,” George directs gently.

Dream listens, and hesitantly hides himself behind the colored ears. He can hardly see beyond the
blue nylon, but he feels George’s camera on him, and doesn’t remember how to blink.

The exposure wracks inside of him with uncertainty. He thinks of himself, frozen in a piece of
George’s life, to be taken across thousands of miles when the trip is finally over. His facelessness
is bound to live forever.

Even though he can’t see it, George says, “Smile.”

Even though he’ll never know, Dream does.

The click of the camera follows not a moment later. Dream slowly lowers the balloon, and sees
George studying his screen with a grin. The sky behind him is fading pink, silhouetting him with
tangerine, and Dream wishes he was bold enough to take a photo, too. He knows better than to ask
to see it.

“Is there a reason you don’t want my face in it?” Dream jokes, desperate to understand, but it falls
flat when he watches George’s face falter.

His mouth slowly closes from its amused smile. A complicated look writes across the pull of his
brows as he swallows, and Dream watches the movement bob in his pale throat. George’s eyes
float past his shoulder.

“I think I see your sister,” he says, and shuts off the camera for good.
-

The sun has gone by the time Dream’s car pulls up to his family’s residence. After voting to leave
the park and arranging phone calls with his mother, they decided to take his sister home. The drive
is long, and dark, but calming in its familiarity. They lean into leather seats with sweat-dried skin
as yawns become a common passing.

The car frame rumbles as they pull up to the curb. Dream’s mother left the porch lights on, and he
can see moonlight shimmering on the lake beyond it.

“I’m uh, I’m going to walk her in,” Dream says, voice low from the warm silence. His sister’s hair
glows yellow as she passes the headlights of his car.

He doesn’t ask his friends to come with him.

Dream joins his sister on their path to the front door, and she doesn’t say a word besides lightly
nudging him to trek in the grass. She’s used to his hovering. He tries to ignore the small nagging in
his gut, telling him he doesn’t call enough, or should take her out to lunch more often.

She steps up onto the front patio and mumbles a parting “seeya.”

“Next time you can stay the night,” Dream says.

She shrugs. “Maybe when the season is over.”

“Good luck with practice tomorrow.” He smiles lightly at her eye-roll.

In a light, arid tone of their mother, she mocks, “‘Bright and early.’”

“Bright and early, that’s right,” he agrees through a chuckle, reaching to sling his arm around her
shoulder.

She leans into his side as they hug, and the blue-colored Stitch is sandwiched between them.
“Thanks for today. T’was fun.”

He lets his forearm slide away from her shoulders. “Text me, okay?” A faint pang carries its way
through his chest; no matter how much they’ve grown over the years, bumming knees and
comparing heights, she still is so small.

She stalls with her hand on the brass doorknob, and lets her fingers slide away. “Hey, Clay?”

“Yeah?”

Her mouth is open in a silent stutter, before finally she says, “I really like George.”

He grins immediately. “That’s good. I’m glad you do.”

She nods with finality and glances away, so he steps off the patio. He can see George and Sapnap
through the windows of his car, waiting behind the idle glow of their phone screens. The night air
is warm on his throat.

“I, um. I didn’t know.” The quiet strength in her voice causes him to turn back.

He meets her gaze halfway, brows drawing together in concern. “Know… what?”

“That you like him, too.”

Dream’s face heats up as they regard each other from several feet of silence away. Their world of
grass and concrete seems noiseless besides the faint hum of bugs in the night.

“Oh,” he manages to say.

“But like I said, I think he’s nice. And funny. And kinda weird.” She seems to be looking
anywhere but his face, and for once, he’s grateful. “He is cool.”

“Cool.” Dream winces at the soft break in his voice.

She clears her throat in pity at the sound. “Are… are you guys, like—”

“No," he rushes, eyes wide with surprise. "I mean, nope. No. We're just—friends."

The word feels wrong in his mouth, like embers of truth desperately coated with sand. Yet it isn't a
lie, they aren't more than friends. They're not supposed to be.

He watches his sister frown. “Oh.”

Dream tries to not think about her confusion at his answer, after she’d been with them all day, and
came to a wildly different conclusion. He wishes he was unfeeling enough to blame it on her
naivety. They are quiet for a moment more.

“I’m going to go now,” he says.

She smiles at him dryly as he retreats down the yard. “Don’t crash.”

His head is still buzzing from the sight of the porch lights during the drive home. The warm
ambiance illuminated his sister’s face; how her mouth formed around George’s name as it fell with
quiet approval.

Her words continue to echo in his head. Dream finds himself again wishing he could see through
the eyes of someone other than himself. He is painfully aware that his own expressions and words
make his heart obvious—but what was it his sister noticed about George that implies the same
affection? Is she right? Was it real?

Did I miss it?

Traffic lights glide over the windshield as he pulls up to a vacant intersection. Red flicks for the
opposite, empty lanes. The cold weight of his phone rests against his thigh, recently disconnected
by Sapnap from the charging port. As he accelerates again, it mindlessly slips to the side, and
clatters below his seat.

“Nice going,” Sapnap mutters against the passenger door, face glowing white from his own
screen.

Dream lifts his eyes to the mirror. “George, can you reach it?”

“Uh, yeah.” George ducks down briefly in the dark of the car.

The sleek device is passed over the left side of Dream’s seat and the corner nudges his shoulder.
He overestimates the distance when he reaches to retrieve it, fingers settling over George’s
knuckles, and stalling at the mistake.

The contact lingers for longer than it has to. His retreat is curiously slow, testing the passing
seconds, and he feels George’s fingers jump slightly to graze his. The touch severs as Dream pulls
 his phone back in front of him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, but the nerves on his hands are burning bright.

George says nothing. The car ride continues in silence, save Sapnap’s music and distracted huffs at
his phone in the corner. Dream counts the passing dashes on the road and tries not to think.

He fails.

Their day replays continuously in his tumbling mind; glances, touches, and secrets that fill a hope
too warm to be alive in autumn. He squints at the fuzzy lights on the road as if they hold his
memories. In the sharp, gleaming refractions, he dares to imagine straying outside of the lines
they've created. He dares to imagine that given the opportunity, George would follow him.

Music floats between enclosed windows in their liminal space as he chases a small inkling of an
idea.

Dream wraps a large palm firmly on the steering wheel, holding it steady, and lets his other hand
fall away. He holds his breath between the beats of a song.

Asphalt crunches beneath his tires. The beams from his headlights only illuminate so far into the
darkness.

He slides his forearm between his chair and the car door as he slowly reaches behind his seat.
Close enough to seal the offer in secrecy, but obvious enough for George’s eyes, he cranes his
hand.

Danger climbs in the black silence; street lamps glow on his open fingers. His hand waits for any
sign of life.

Reach back, he wishes, eyes lost on the road. Please, reach back.

After a moment, his headrest tilts forward with the pressure of George leaning against it. He hears
a low exhale whisper from behind him.

George’s fingers are gentle, and slow, when they quietly slide into his.

Chapter End Notes

okay to be real I don't really like disney, and writing a chapter about it was tough so I
am relieved for it to be completed :) this shift in the story really does feel like a weight
off of my shoulders, probably because of the length of this upload as well since it
unsettles me to realize just how much I've written, but hopefully the payoff is worth it!
I had a lot of fun with this chapter. holdin' hands on a late night drive sounds like
progress to me folks. big thanks to the beta reader for this chapter, zach :) and to ari
for all the detailed disney info lol

on another note, I can't thank you enough for all the supportive comments I've
received. you all gave me such great advice and comfort that really helped a lot with
continuing to this upload. my approach is still relatively the same, chapter by chapter
basis, but I'm gonna try to tough it out <3 love you all
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