Archive of Our Own

George had never really thought about his love language before.

Things like that were small to him, stupid in the sense that people would only have a single way to express how they felt. He could imagine the multiple different ways that his parents had shown their redamancy, and he could recall the same ways that he loved in relationships previously—they were just… ways to express your feelings.

Love languages were, in short, silly to him. They didn’t make sense because to him, love was rolled into one cavernous emotion.

He was never brave enough to bridge that gap.

They didn’t make sense, that is, not until he started seeing them in Dream.

The first time it happened, George had mentioned his belongings in passing. It was a small conversation, nothing different from the multitudes that they had had on the couches of their living room, and especially not one with results that captured George’s attention like this had.

He was talking about his assignments. Nothing big, and nothing out of the blue. He’s a university student—they both are, and assignments are just things that come up to bother them in their small lives. There was nothing that he thought was so important that Dream would really notice.

But, Dream tends to surprise him.

“I just think I need new pens, or something,” George had said, and Dream had nodded in that soft way of his and smiled as George kept complaining. “My outline is trash, my black gel pen just died and I’m pretty sure my table mate is cheating off me in statistics. It’s all so stupid.”

“Well,” Dream had replied, and got up from his side of the couch to walk around George and towards the door. George watches him go, almost forlorn like Dream leaving would just be another inconvenience to add to his list. “I would love to stay and listen more, but I have class soon. Let me know how writing goes, okay?”

George had waved him off, all scowls as he turned back to his computer on his lap and tried to make something out of the messy outline he created hours ago. The assignment wasn’t even hard, but nothing was working out the way he had wanted it to and Dream’s flippant attitude wasn’t helping.

He just wanted to take a break, but breaks were all he had ever given himself and he was running out of time. Maybe the slight promise of Dream’s eventual return motivated him, but even then George was down and grumpy and just wanted to curl up in his bed to sleep; he wondered if he was edging on the side of a headache as well, and that had just made everything so much worse.

George had sighed, and looked back between his outline and laptop screen. Maybe he could get some work done.

That brought him to the present.

Now.

The time when Dream was supposed to be getting out of classes and taking the short walk back to their house.

George frowns and checks the time on his phone again. It’s a little after three, and just over ten minutes from where Dream would have been let out of his own calculus lecture—it’s not like the blond to take his time strolling home, and not after such a taxing class. Dream usually gets back from calculus within the ten minute range, flops facedown on his bed and promises that he’s going to drop the class and ace the next test all in the same breath.

Sometimes he even brings George back a drink from the convenience store nearby, but George would have gotten a text about cherry flavoured slushies and sweetened candy if that was the case.

It’s a little odd that he isn’t back by now, but George brushes it off and directs his burning gaze back to his laptop. He’s made a little progress, working on securing his outline and adding major points where he can. Essay’s are no fun to him, but the literature course is a mandatory credit and he does actually want his degree.

George laces his fingers and stretches out his arms, yawning at the soothing motion and glancing at the front door once again.

God, he’s so clingy. Dream’s been gone for at most two hours, and he’s already looking for him?

“Whatever,” George mutters, and tries to place his focus back on his assignment. The blinking cue mocks him for his behaviour, and he pushes the thought from his mind. “He can do what he wants.”

I’m not clingy.

The text on the screen seems to float around as George stares at it, teasing him with incomprehensible words and things that he wrote that don’t make any sense. He sighs, serpentine frustration welling in his chest, and all his motivation from before is washed down a metaphorical drain of despair.

He doesn’t want to do any of it. He wants to take a nap, maybe, and wait for Dream to get back so that he can complain some more.

Maybe he just wants Dream home. The blond has a comforting presence, something that George feels happy around and he’s in just enough of a bad mood to want that same comfort now. Dream is soothing in all the ways that warm blankets are, and familiar like he was the main character in a favoured movie. It’s a little silly to think of like that, but George knows his friend relies on him just as much.

They find mutual comfort in each other. It’s nothing that strange.

George glances over his shoulder, and shoots a forlorn stare at the length of the couch. It is just past three, he could take a short nap and get up later…

It takes less than a second for him to push his laptop to the middle of the coffee table and snatch his phone off the surface, all before he curls up to the side with a throw pillow and the soft blanket he uses when they have movie nights. Dream would be proud of him, he hopes as he falls down onto the softness and pulls the blanket up under his arm, that he did some of his work and is trying to take care of himself.

He also hopes Dream remembered his own key, because George isn’t getting up to let him in.

Almost as though it was summoned, his phone buzzes beside his face. George glares at the screen, still bright in the fading lights of the living room, and blinks at the message that appears on the front.

From: dream

     hey, i might be a little late cuz i got held up with stuff

     make sure u work on ur assignment !!!!!!!!!

George smiles softly, close to rolling his eyes as he types out the smallest message in reply. He wonders what Dream could have been doing, but all of his curiosity is pushed aside by the warm feeling he has when he realizes Dream had the foresight to text him.

He likes that Dream does that for him. It’s nice, in it’s own little way of communication, and George is rarely left out of the loop. It helps his own nerves, and he knows that it helps Dream in some roundabout way that everyone is comfortable.

Dream likes taking care of people. It’s always been in his personality to do so, and George just happens to be the best person to take care of.

(He’s a bit of a mess, to be honest. School is hard, okay?)

The brunet spares one last look at his phone, all before he lets it fall back onto the cushions and rolls over to see if he can catch a few hours of blessed sleep.

It comes easy, he finds, and before he knows it he’s off in the world of dreamless sleep and warmth.

And, when he wakes up to softer lights and Dream’s concentrated face staring at his own textbook, legs crossed on a cushion on the opposite couch, George can see the plastic bag that’s been dropped on the floor and tucked to the side. He recognizes that bag, he thinks, but as sleep pulls him back under, George really couldn’t care that much about it.

He’s pretty sure it’s that one store a little bit away, though, the one that carries the kind of pen he likes.

But, he can’t be sure. Maybe it’s just a coincidence.

———

As it turns out, it was actually his pens.

George didn’t know what to say to that, except a stilted thank you and a bashful smile at the overjoyed look on Dream’s face. He seemed genuinely happy to know that he had gotten the right ones, and George was honestly ecstatic that he had a new pack of pens and the company of Dream rolled into one.

It was a good evening, and the good evening led into a better morning.

George had slept well overnight, nearly unbothered by the nap he had taken earlier in the day and loving the way his back cracks when he steps out into the hallway. Dream’s door is open and a quick peek inside tells him the blond is already up—if that wasn’t enough, the smell of bacon and something else cooking in the kitchen would be plenty of an indication. He can hear the washing machine, he thinks, and maybe the low timbre of Dream’s humming like it was his own song.

“Good morning,” George says, gravel on his tongue as he pads out into the kitchen. Dream is standing there, just as he thought, wielding a spatula like George had scared him. The brunet just yawns and rubs at his eye, sitting down clumsily at the island and staring with a sleep-addled brain at what his housemate is doing. “What’re you making?”

Dream motions with his hand. “Breakfast.”

“I can see that. What exactly are we eating today?”

“Uh—” Dream turns to the side, giving George a better view of the stove and the things that he has on the immediate menu. From his first glance, George can see that it’s all things that he likes, and he hums happily when Dream lists them off to further his confirmations. “Eggs and bacon, and I have hash browns in this one. The shredded kind. Yeah.”

George rests his chin on his hands, balancing his elbows on the island counter and blinking sleepily at Dream. He still isn’t fully awake, but there’s something about the serenity of the mornings he spends with Dream that makes him get up. It could be the promise that Dream will treat him softly, or it could be his own confusing desire to be around the other in all his aspects.

Both. Maybe it’s both.

“What made you want to get up and make food today?” George’s voice is soft, quiet so as not to disturb the peace that’s been created in the morning. One of Dream’s shoulders lifts as he speaks, but George continues in the blank spaces Dream doesn’t yet fill. “You could have slept in and I could have made breakfast. You don’t have classes today, Dream.”

Dream hums and faces back towards the stove, poking at the pans on the burners and rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Dunno, just felt like doing something nice for you. That assignment is stressing you out, I can tell.”

“I guess so. Thank you.”

An easy silence fills the small kitchen, and George watches with a pleasant expression as Dream moves around it with the fluidity and comfort of a homeowner. He likes living here, sharing the rent and being close to the university they both attend. It’s a nice place, he thinks, with the eggshell blue walls and the grey furniture that Patches likes to shed on; George enjoys his time here, and he hopes that Dream does as well.

“Do you want your bacon super crispy?”

The question shakes him from the sleepy haze he had drifted into, and George looks up to meet Dream’s soft eyes with a smile.

“Somewhere between soft and crispy. You’re good at cooking, and you know what I like.”

Dream’s face lights up in quiet happiness as he turns back around, and George can see the way he rocks on his feet like he can’t contain the emotions. His elbow moves as he cooks, and George lets himself take in the view of his hoodie and the broad shoulders it covers. He’s tall, George knows this, but it always becomes more obvious in moments like this.

Time seems to slow down, and George just likes to exist in the syrupy flow where he can.

The tips of Dream’s ears are pink.

Blowing under a sweet breeze, blinds in the living room are drawn to let in the light of the dawn.

And, George feels tingly down to his toes the longer he watches his best friend.

Food sizzles as Dream moves it around, quiet under the cool tones of the morning and the sun that creeps in through their kitchen windows. George is sure that Patches is around somewhere, either sleeping on the couch or still curled up at the foot of Dream’s bed; as much as he adores the feline, she will always be Dream’s cat.

George’s eyes drift lower. Dream is wearing gray shorts, curled at the ends and pilling on the sides. It’s about where his knuckles would sit if he had his arms down, large hands dangling beside his hips and wrapping around the spatula, fingers brushing George’s hair teasingly, and—

Dream turns around and George’s gaze snaps back up—he’s already holding a plate with breakfast on it, and George can only sit back on his stool with a smile as the blond sets it down in front of him.

He feels warm. It must just be the stove.

“Eat up,” Dream says, and George is reaching for the fork across the counter as he moves back to get his own food. “You still have to finish that assignment today, and we don’t have class until way later. Maybe you can finish it today and I can proofread it for later.”

George shrugs as he starts eating, not bothering with a verbal response as Dream sets his own plate down and leans against the counter. His hip presses into the side and Dream reaches for the cups of water that he’s apparently already retrieved.

He seems super prepared, for some reason, and George laughs to himself softly as he tries to think of any occasion.

“You’re being oddly nice.”

“Am I?” Dream’s glass taps against the counter as he places it down. “I just felt like doing something to help you out, y’know?”

George nods dopily, satisfaction threading through his nerves at the good food and the warmth that it brings. “It’s working. I said that you’re a good cook.”

Dream’s smile is radiant. “Thank you. You’re in an oddly good mood this morning.”

George shrugs, not really knowing how to answer that but not wanting to leave him with nothing in return. Dream seems to accept it, though, laughing quietly at the turn of his own words, and they pick at their food in comfortable silence with the sound of the washing machine running somewhere down the hallway.

It’s nice, George finds, and he finds himself pleased down to the pit of his stomach as he cleans off the rest of his plate.

“Lemme know when you’re done with your laundry,” he says, standing up to walk around the counter and placing his dish in the sink for later. “I think I left mine by the dryer last night.”

Dream nods slowly, apparently not paying full attention, but as George reaches over the counter for his empty glass the blond seems to perk up again.

“Oh, uh, it’s not mine. I just put yours in to wash cuz’ it was empty and the hamper was there.”

“Oh.” George blinks, a different kind of gratitude welling under his clothing as he takes in the reddened tips of Dream’s ears and the almost sheepish way that he’s standing. He looks as though he’s worried that George will get—what, angry? As if he would. “Thank you for that. You didn’t need to.”

Dream’s shoulders seem to relax at the thanks, falling down from where they had creeped around his ears in his mild embarrassment. He doesn’t look at George, but there’s a content shine to his eyes as he finishes off his own food. “I wanted to.”

And George feels… oddly touched by that. Odd, he muses, because that seems to be the word of the morning; Dream’s behaviour, his actions and the things that he does for George simply because he wants to are all things that aren’t expected but the longer George thinks about it, the nicer it feels. He likes it. He appreciates it.

George sets a hand on Dream’s back, fingers light over his shirt and catching the blond’s attention. He smiles, and George grins back softly.

“Thank you, Dream.”

Dream’s cheeks darken to match his ears. George thinks that it looks cute, but that really isn’t anything new. He’s always had a liking for Dream, but with all the things that he just did today — and days in the past — it makes him notice it a little more. It makes him want a little more.

“Of course, George. I like doing stuff for you.” The last part is mumbled, and it spreads the flush on Dream’s cheeks to George’s like a wildfire, all heat and flame that makes his stomach tingle.

George doesn’t know what to do with that. “Does that mean you’ll do my paper for me?”

“What?” Dream’s laugh is glorious, made of light tones and things that remind George of what he likes the most. “No way! Go work on it, idiot, and I’ll proofread it before you hand it in.”

George dodges a flailing hand, giggling himself as Dream basically shoos him away from the kitchen and back down the hallway. He feels as though it’s a game, with Dream pushing on his shoulders and shoving him gently over the floor and urging him with gentle fingers to backs and prodding jokes that make him want to curl in Dream’s valence. His hands are always so soft, and George laughs the entire way to his bedroom where Dream leans against the doorframe.

His eyes catch on Dream’s stance, but it’s quickly distracted with the blond speaking.

“Let me know if you need help, okay? I can even bring you snacks.”

George snorts at that, moving to open and turn on his laptop with a kind of motivation only found after good food and better company. “Snacks? You really are a chef.”

“You know it, baby,” Dream winks as he speaks, and George can feel the way his face flares with the heat he craves so badly. “Work on your essay. I’ll check on you in a bit to make you take a break.”

“Make me?” George questions, but as his laptop comes to life under his hands and his attention is drawn, he barely registers Dream slipping away from the room. He does, however, lean back in his seat and cup his hands to send his voice down the hallway. “Thank you Dream!”

“No problem!”

George settles back into his chair as Dream’s reply fades from his room, but he doesn’t feel alone with the open door and the sound of dishes clicking somewhere in the distance. His fingers fall over his keyboard, floating and pressing down with the precision you find with complete concentration, and George sinks into it with a content sigh and the sound of the washing machine down the hallway.

———

“I don’t really feel like going out.”

The words don’t come as a massive surprise, but George is a little shocked at his own bluntness. Dream is too, if the way that he quickly turns around from the bathroom mirror is any indication.

There’s a puzzled look on his face, highlighted by the way his arms are raised to fiddle with his hair and the way that he’s got a slight tinge of highlighter on his cheekbones. Dream looks good, George admits with a carmine flooded heart, and he looks amazing standing in their bathroom getting ready to go to a party.

A party that they were both invited to.

And, a party that George doesn’t want to go to anymore.

He was excited about it throughout the entire evening. Sapanp had texted him about it, with plenty of exclamation marks attached and a time and location and telling him to bring Dream along for the ride. It was supposed to be decently large, made up of their friends and mutual acquaintances to make sure that it was a comfortable place—George had made sure that he had nothing on his schedule, and Dream had helped him pick out an outfit.

George was nearly ready to go, sitting on his bed and playing on his phone whilst he waited for Dream to get dressed and done. He was just sitting there, and then some sense of… unease, perhaps he could say, came over him. It was odd, and odd enough that he put his phone down and tried to determine the source of the emotion like there was a reason.

He couldn’t find one, but all he knew at that point was that he wasn’t in the mood to go out and pretend that he was truly feeling okay.

Fast forward to now.

The present.

Him standing in the hallway of their little house, leaning against the open bathroom door and telling Dream that he doesn’t want to go out in so few words.

Dream blinks at him, and his arms lower. He doesn’t look put out, but George takes his brief silence as time to ramble more.

“I don’t know why, but I just kinda feel like—well, like not going out. I don’t know, it’s weird.” George rubs at his arms as though he was cold, casting his gaze towards the floor so he doesn't have to stare at Dream as he basically ruins their plans for the night. “Sorry, I just won’t be coming with you. I’ll make sure to lock the door and stuff—”

“George,” Dream interrupts, not unkindly.

George looks up from the floor.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t worry about it. We can just stay in tonight.”

George nods dopily, almost ready to turn around to change, but— “Wait, what? Dream, you can still go. I don’t want to wreck your evening because I felt anxious—”

Dream leans his hip against the bathroom counter, one of his hands flat on the surface as he looks at George; he doesn’t carry any dishonesty in his stance, and there’s a smile on his face that makes George want to believe that he isn’t even upset about it.

“I didn’t exactly want to go anyways. Sapnap texted you first, so I was coming to—y’know, support you.” Dream’s head tilts as he glances back at the mirror, and his free hand comes up to mess with his hair again. “My hair isn't agreeing with me tonight anyways. We could watch a movie instead, yeah?”

George stares at him, mouth dropped open with the fluid change in his demeanor. He looks at his open bedroom door, and then back to Dream.

“Okay… can I change first?”

“Of course. I’ll get the snacks, do you want to text Sapnap and tell him we aren’t coming?”

“Sure,” George says carefully, still not completely convinced that it isn’t some cruel trick and Dream is doing this out of pity. “Are you positive that you don’t want to go?”

Dream smiles at him, lit up by the bulbs in the bathroom and his own comforting aura. “I’m sure. I would rather stay here with you anyways, idiot.”

And it’s not that much of a confession, not when George may have already suspected it somewhere deep in his chest, but it makes him warm to hear the confirmation out loud. He nods again, this time more firm and accompanied by his own growing grin and lighter feeling.

“Okay. Thank you. I’m gonna change, okay?”

“Okay, George,” Dream responds with a chuckle, and George finally turns away to walk back to his bedroom—Dream’s laughter seems to follow him, and he finds his cheeks hot as he pulls off the shirt he had been planning to wear in exchange for an oversized and soft one. He probably snatched it from Dream’s closet long ago, but the slight scent of their shared laundry detergent and Dream’s cologne hasn’t yet faded.

Something in his chest has settled. He doesn’t feel completely alright yet — sudden bouts of anxiety will do that — but he does feel much better regarding the outlook of his evening.

If Dream had wanted to go to the party, George would have probably curled up in his bed with blankets and a hoodie from Dream’s closet. Now, however, he’s walking back out to the living room with said blankets in his hands and a light smile on his face.

Dream is in the kitchen, head ducked into the pantry to find something for them to eat, and George unceremoniously drops his armful of fabric onto the couch. He kicks a pillow to the side to make more room in the middle, subconsciously placing the blankets so that he and Dream will end up sharing them, and making sure that the coffee table is close enough to rest their feet on.

They watch movies together a lot. Sue him.

“Do you want chips or something else?” Dream calls from the kitchen.

George snorts as he turns the television on. “You mean crisps?”

“What-ever. Choose a snack, Georgie.”

“Chips are fine,” George responds, and reaches for the pillow he discarded so he has something to wrap his arms around. “What do you want to watch?”

Dream’s footsteps echo as he nears, and George looks up to see him cradling a few juice boxes and two bags of chips in his arms. He lets them fall on the coffee table George pulled closer, and looks up with a grin that makes George’s knees weak.

“Up to you,” he says, and George frowns as he glances back towards the open Netflix screen. “We could start a series or something. Make a date out of it.”

The wording nearly makes him stumble. “A date?”

Dream shrugs, falling back on the sofa with a quiet oof and getting comfortable. He doesn’t even look bothered by his statement, and George wonders for a second if he heard it all wrong. “Yeah, like we could just watch it together on certain days. People do that all the time, don’t they?”

Oh. So not a date, just a date. Between friends.

“I guess so,” George says, and drops the remote on Dream’s lap after a few seconds of consideration. “I don’t know what to choose, you pick.”

“But I always pick.”

“And I always like what you choose, so it’s a win-win either way,” George explains, sitting down beside Dream and tugging the blankets back from him. “Share these, you idiot.”

Dream lifts his leg and the blankets come free, and George curls himself under one as the blond scrolls through their options. He seems to be set on the series thing, and George finds that he doesn’t mind—in all honesty, the idea of starting and ending a series with Dream is actually really nice. It could be fun, and he relaxes on the couch to watch Dream’s decisions.

A show is selected. George hardly pays attention to the title, knowing that if he has questions, Dream will answer them later on.

And then they just… watch the show.

There’s no expectancy to talk and George doesn’t feel miffed in the silence, and while the space between their shoulders is electrified George feels plenty comfortable where he is now. He could move closer, but he’s tuning into the episode on the screen now and his focus is drawn.

Dream seems to be doing the same, and they have the same reactions to reveals and events in the growing plotline. George snickers at some stupid punchine and Dream sits with a juice box straw between his lips, hardly drinking with his eyes glued to the screen.

Time slides by unashamedly, and George floats along with it as they binge episode after episode. They get caught up in it, bickering over potential scenes and the way they think background relationships will go, and how the main characters totally shouldn’t have done that. George laughs when Dream makes stupid impressions of the antagonist, and they nearly dump the chips when Dream’s hand snakes over to poke George in the side during a tense moment.

George forgets about his previous ailments, and he forgets about how he was nervous that Dream was going to be upset that he didn’t want to go to the party. In retrospect, it was a little stupid of him to believe that Dream would leave him alone anywhere after he expressed his feelings.

As the episode ends and Dream nearly lunges for the remote to play the next one, George can’t shake the warmth blossoming in his chest and he can’t shake that one little thought that swirls around his head.

Oh, so this is what love feels like.

———

George didn’t know if his day could get any worse, but maybe the world just had it out for him particularly on an unassuming Thursday.

He couldn’t even pinpoint where it had started: it could have been the way he woke up with a sore neck, or how none of his clothes felt right and his skin was itchy all day, or it could have been the massive fucking fail of a grade that he got on his assignment.

Well, not a fail, but a bad mark he wasn’t expecting to be handed. For all his hard work and the encouragement that Dream had given him on it, it was almost shocking to see the low grade and amount of red markings on a simple paper that he should have easily passed.

You could call that the peak of his downfall.

He had classes all day with the reveal of his grade right in the middle, and as the hours dragged on they seemed to pull at his mood with sharp fingers and jabbing words. George’s exhaustion crept up as his tolerance for people and the general world plummeted, and by the time he was let out of his statistics class with his cheating table mate, he just wanted to go home.

Then, he missed his bus.

Not a bad thing, but definitely enough to bring a frustrated sting to his eyes.

He walked home, head down and hands in his pockets with the rotating thought in his head to hold it together until he crossed some threshold of safety.

It was just a bottled up mess and he’s done with it, honestly. George kicks at a stone and sends it skittering away, wishing that he could do that with the sinking feeling in his chest and the mark on the paper that’s shoved to the bottom of his bag. He wonders if a papercut would sting more, but then again it’s not like his disappointment is something he can fix with running water and a bandaid.

Would be nice if he could, though.

The sidewalk melts to his front steps, and then George is digging in his bag for his keys. He pushes his hand down to the seams of his bag, dragging his nails over the loose strings and wishing that the jagged metal was closer than it seems.

George leans his shoulder against the side of the door, all in the entryway of his house and closes his eyes for a split second. He has a growing headache but his keys are in his palm, so at least he can—

He pulls his hand out of his bag, and the edge of the house key snags on the handle of his bag. The ring falls to the ground right in front of his feet, clattering with their presence and driving a stake deeper into George’s bleeding heart.

His head tips back and he looks at the overhead porch light. There are not tears gathering in his eyes. No way. He’s not crying.

It takes all of his willpower to stoop down and get his keys, and by the time he has the metal in the lock and turning it, George can feel the pressure in his throat and just the plummet of his heart as the door opens. Dream’s shoes are on the floor, but he can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that his housemate is home.

Fuck, Dream.

He’s going to ask George how his day went. Dream is going to ask him in peach lettering and golden energy, and George doesn’t want to lash out at Dream by accident but he also doesn’t want to talk to him and tell him how much of a shit day he had.

Dream doesn’t deserve that.

George drops his bag at the door, scowling at the dull sound it makes and not bothering to bend down to take his shoes off. His shoulders are slumped with his exhaustion and he doesn’t feel like talking or doing anything for the rest of the day. He just wants his bed and maybe a pint of ice cream, and then perhaps he can slowly introduce the guilty pleasure of Dream’s company.

“George?”

Or not.

“By the door,” George calls, working his jacket off his shoulders. He hands it up, letting his eyes rest on the covered hook for a few moments longer than he typically would. All his options for talking to Dream roll around in his head, battered black and blue by his rising annoyance and hating himself for wanting to snap at Dream’s approaching footsteps. “Sorry, I’m just—”

Dream’s head pokes around the corner—the gray hood of his sweater is hooked on his head and his hands are deep in the front pocket, and there’s a certain tinge of concern to his eyes that makes George want to bawl. The blond gives him a once over, from George’s abandoned bag to the red rims of his eyes, and then finally the way that he keeps picking at the skin around his nails.

“You okay?” It’s soft. More gentle than George feels he deserves.

George’s mouth tightens. “Had a bad day. Nothing that I can do about it, or you for that matter.” His tone is sharp. He doesn’t mean for it to be, and the chilling stab in his chest makes him regret his entire sentence as he looks back to Dream. His brows pull down as he pushes his tongue to the inside of his cheek, like he could put a stop to the words gathering behind his teeth. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Dream responds, leaning his shoulder against the wall and just… staring at George. “Did you wanna talk about it?”

George shrugs lightly, turning to the side so that he can pick up his bag and get the papers that are the bane of his poor existence out. They rustle as he pushes them at Dream, and the blond blinks at the markings just as George had when he first received them.

“Not really. I’m gonna go and shower or something, just—yeah. I’m gonna go.”

He can feel the tears building in his eyes, all salt and stinging over his eyelashes as he pushes past Dream and ignores the call of his name as he goes. George doesn’t even bother with going to his bedroom for alternative clothing first and heads directly to the bathroom with the promise of cool tile and a safe kind of privacy.

George leans his head back against the door as he closes it, pushing his weight on the flat surface and staring at the ceiling as though the detailing had a power to stop him from crying.

There’s no point in him showering. He knows the water is just going to make him break down more—there’s a reason sugar dissolves, and even without the sweet touch of happiness George feels plenty unstable in the small bathroom already.

Maybe he just wanted an escape from Dream.

He didn’t want to see the look on the others face when he registered the mark, and George didn’t want to stay around long enough to listen to the placating words that would fall from his tongue.

Dream would tell him that it’s okay, that he can do better next time.

George doesn’t want to hear that right now.

He doesn’t know what he even wants to hear, but the running water and the music that he plays from a random shuffle on his phone seem like a decent option.

But, as soon as he starts the shower, his music grates against his ears and he immediately turns it off.

This is stupid.

Steam fills the bathroom, pushing down and stifling the frustration that drips from his bones and replacing it with a numb feeling that he embraces. It’s a distraction, something mundane that’s pulling his focus to anything but the fear of disappointment he’s going to walk out all over again.

He knows what Dream is going to say, and George doesn’t want to face the fact that he could have let Dream down.

It was his assignment, but Dream had helped him with quite a bit of the work. He had proofread and urged George to do it, and all of the nights of Dream listening to George’s points and ideas had been all for naught with streaks of red ink and nausea.

Water rushes down his chest and shoulders as he steps under the spray, and he wishes that he could wash off the weary demeanor with the swirl of the drain.

George sighs, blowing water off his lips and turning around in the shower so he can actually reach the shampoos. His hand reaches for his own, but something in him hesitates, just a little, and just long enough for him to change the path of his fingers from his own soap to Dream’s.

Dream has this sweet shampoo, a peppermint kind with the hint of eucalyptus in the background. George likes it because it’s not exactly strong, but all the little whiffs he catches are when Dream is close by.

Now, as he rubs white bubbles into his hair and swallows down against the hitches in his breathing, he wishes that he hadn’t brushed off Dream’s offer to talk about his day.

He could have just… talked. All without the expectation to make sense or have a sentence stuttered to completion. Dream would have taken it all, sat them down on the couch and rubbed his fingers over George’s knuckles until he felt like he deflated his words and there was nothing more to give.

George tips his head back under the water and exhales deeply as the soap runs over his shoulders.

He wants to be around Dream, and while he isn’t in the mood to talk, perhaps he could have distracted himself with the warmth of Dream’s words and not the water that isn’t cutting it at the moment.

The realization isn’t shattering, but it does make him feel a bit more comfortable than he thought it would. Dream is home, and as soon as George finishes his shower, he could go see him.

He could.

The thought sticks for the rest of the time George stays under the showerhead, soaking up the pounding water and the way it drips off his fingers and tip of his nose. He takes longer than he should drying off, and when he stares at his reddened eyes in the mirror, George pretends that he has some kind of pep talk to give himself before walking out into the cooler air of the hallway. The towel around his waist is thin, but he manages to make it to his bedroom without running into Dream.

George could hear him though, somewhere in the living room and probably waiting for him to finish up. He was probably puttering around, busying his hands with things until George stepped out and was finally calm in a sense to explain how his day went.

Dream knows him a little too well, and George feels a sense of security that it’s him.

He takes a few minutes in his room, not bothering with the light and massaging his temples as he hunts for something soft to slip into. Clothing holds its own safety for him, and as his eyes land on dark fabric George doesn’t hesitate to close his fingers around it.

The hoodie covers most of his body, from his shoulders to the hem of the shorts that he eventually pulls on. It’s fuzzy on the inside, buffered from wear and wash and carrying the slight scent that he’s come to associate with Dream, and George sighs with newfound content as he finally reaches some sense of relaxation.

Their hallway is empty as he walks out, but it doesn’t take him long to find Dream sitting on the couch—he’s not looking in George’s direction and the television volume is low, but as George approaches and takes a seat on the cushion beside Dream, he can feel that gentle gaze shift to him. Dream’s hand is laid across the back of the couch, and George leans back so he can feel it just against the back of his neck.

They don’t move.

Water drips from a strand of hair that he missed while drying.

Dream’s hand inches down to rub a circle into George’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

George shrugs lightly.

“Had a bad day. Things just got worse as it went on.”

The blond hums, and the couch dips between them as he inches a little closer. George doesn’t lean into the invitation, not quite like he wants to, but he does tip his head in Dream’s direction and watch colors swirl on the screen ahead without really processing them.

“I failed my assignment, basically. That started it, and then stuff kept happening like it was some stupid plan,” George seethes quietly, the angers of the day falling off him with every venting word and curdling in Dream’s silence. “Everything got to be too much. It sucked. I hate today.”

Dream doesn’t say anything, and George pulls one of his knees up to his chest to wrap his arms around it. Someone on the television runs across the screen, and George closes his eyes to combat the burning that’s returned to them.

“I just feel like I messed it all up. I could have done it so much better.”

“The assignment?” Dream’s words are careful, soothing as they slide over George’s cheeks and redden them with their presence. He sniffles, embarrassment welling in the pits of his stomach and clenching his jaw in lieu of a real answer. “Oh, George…”

For some reason, the knowledge that Dream knows why he’s so upset makes everything worse. He can’t stop the way that the tear slips over his cheek, showcasing his prolonged breakdown and the frustrations that have manifested. George wipes hastily at his face, wishing that he could just sink into the couch and disappear; he’s not embarrassed to be crying in front of Dream, but the situation is stupid and everything is stupid—

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Dream breathes, the hand on the spine of the couch sliding off and curling around George’s shoulders. He means well, George knows this, but the extra pressure feels like razor blades on his skin and it makes him tingle in ways that make him want to sob. A stifled hiccup forces its way up his throat as he leans away, and Dream’s arm immediately withdraws. “Shit…”

George is sorry. He doesn’t want to push Dream away.

He turns his face away, glaring through blurred vision at the wall and hoping to some god that Dream just drops it.

The couch shifts and George wonders if this is Dream giving up.

“George, hey, look at me?”

He doesn’t want to. George sniffs and cringes at the wet sound. This is so stupid.

“I think you did your best, George. You worked hard on that assignment, and it’s not your fault that it wasn’t outlined when you got it.”

George’s brows pull down. He spares a glance to the side, but he’s surprised to find Dream crouching on the floor in front of him instead of walking away, leaving him to his own breakdown and tears and is now looking up at him with an earnest expression.

The brunet scowls. He blinks away the haze in his eyes like it would make a difference.

“I failed the assignment, Dream. I literally messed it up—”

“One assignment doesn’t define your entire grade, George,” Dream offers, and George closes his mouth as Dream shuffles a bit closer on the floor. His knees press to the couch beside George’s, and one of his hands holds the cushion beside his thigh. “Okay, you messed up on this one. That doesn’t mean you’re going to mess up the next one, or the one after that, right?”

George licks his lips and rubs his face. It feels tight already. “But—”

“You aren’t going to mess up the next one, George,” Dream smiles, his fingers trailing up higher to land on George’s knee, setting them down with a tenderness that can only belong to Dream. “I know that you’re upset about this, and you have every right to be upset about it. I’m here if you need me, okay?”

Dream’s palm is warm against his kneecap. George sniffs again, watching as Dream’s thumb circles gently on the inside of the bone, and he pretends that he can steal the heat from it as his own.

“Okay,” George whispers, and Dream’s hand never stops moving. “Thank you, Dream.”

“No problem.” Dream’s voice is soft, and George wipes his cheeks again with his sweatshirt. “Can I get you anything?”

George shakes his head, smiling briefly as Dream’s concerned tone floats over him. “I’m okay, I think. Just upset.”

The blond hums, and as he gets up from the floor to sit back beside George, his hand gently slides up the side of his leg. It makes the skin there tingle, this time with a good anticipation and the clench of George’s stomach does nothing to rival it. He feels hot now, and the way his eyes catch on Dream’s large hand make him want it to slip higher, intertwine with his own fingers, brush over his cheek—

“Well, let’s just stay here for a little. I’ll choose something and you can like—I don’t know, nap?”

The end of his sentence is a light question, and George shrugs one shoulder like he’s going to refuse it. He inches closer to Dream, holding his breath as he lays his head on his shoulder and watches the rolling screen in front of them, focusing on the way Dream’s hand floats over his thigh and how he seems unaware of where to put it.

George swallows as he takes it, fulfilling his own selfish thoughts as their fingers lace on Dream’s leg.

Dream’s shoulder bounces gently, and George relaxes into the movement as Dream laughs low in his chest. It settles, and then it’s just George’s stinging eyes and the click of the remote in Dream’s hand.

He can feel Dream’s thumb over the side of his hand, and he can feel the breath from Dream’s lips rustle his hair when the blond turns his head to whisper: “You’re alright, George. Just sleep for a little bit, sweetheart.”

George nods, rubbing his face against the sleeve and arch of Dream’s side, slurring out what he thinks is an answer but also not caring enough to make sure. He melts into the warmth, still floating from the comforting words that graced him moments before and the pure serenity that they brought.

He didn’t know that he could be soothed by something as simple as words, but here he is and he’s here to stay.

———

“Do you want to watch a movie with me again?”

The question comes late at night, probably too late for them to be awake, but George doesn’t want to go to bed and apparently neither does Dream. He doesn’t want to sleep yet, not when they just got home from that new restaurant close by, and not when Dream’s eyes never left George’s face all night, and not when his hands guided George down the street with gentle pressure on his back.

He doesn’t want to sleep, simply because he couldn’t bear waking up from the dream that his evening was.

“Sure,” he whispers, afraid to break the serenity that they’ve achieved. Dream’s eyes are dark—they didn’t turn the lights on, nothing more than the bulb over the stove and it hums with all the desire that George feels. They’ve already changed into leisure clothing and George can still smell Dream’s cologne on the hoodie that he snatched from the blond. “What do you want to watch?”

Dream shrugs, coming around the side of the couch where George is already sitting. His body is close, George realizes, when Dream leans against the back of the couch and he can already feel the warmth that floats around Dream like a permanent aura. He likes it, and subconsciously he slides closer.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll choose something random, I guess.”

George wonders if Dream is trying to preserve their atmosphere. He hopes he is, and he hopes that he wants it to never end just as desperately.

The remote in Dream’s hand is set down within moments, and as the reflection of the television flashes over them in shades of blue and light, George shifts on the couch to find a better sitting position.

He pulls his knees up. He puts them down.

George leans farther to the side, but the arm digs into his waist uncomfortably and he huffs quietly in distaste.

He’s just about to curl to the side when—

“C’mere.”

George looks over.

Dream’s arm is out in a simple invitation, wide and creating the perfect space for George to crawl into if he so wanted to.

The blond’s eyes aren’t directed at him, but George can see the tight set to his jaw and the way that his fingers curl and relax in the empty air. George can see the rise and fall of his ribcage, and he wonders if Dream’s heart is running just as fast as George’s thoughts.

Dream is nervous.

He can’t stop his smile as he slips under Dream’s arm, carefully fitting his shoulder to his side and inhaling the source of the cologne and safety that he’s craved all night. George pulls his legs up to the side, leaning heavily down into Dream and Dream just takes it, adjusting the slightest to his weight and shifting enough that his hand lays down over the line of George’s shoulders.

And, just to make everything so much sweeter, they both sigh at the same time.

George quickly loses track of the movie. It’s something they’ve both seen before, probably a time when they were sitting on this exact couch but nowhere near the closeness that he’s been blessed with now. He doesn’t want to pay attention, not as Dream’s fingers slip under the loose neckline of his hoodie, skirting over his bare shoulder and tracing the line of his arm like it was something he wanted to memorize.

He wonders if Dream can feel the goosebumps that rise there—it isn’t because Dream’s hand is cold.

No, it’s never been cold. Not around Dream, not with the flare of safety that he carries, soothing George and guiding him at the same time. He doesn’t feel unstable here, not curled into a scarlet line of comfort and not as the ribcage pressed to his shudders lightly with the laughs Dream releases.

George has never been safe like this in his life.

He hums quietly, hiding his smile in the side of his hood and sinking deeper into Dream; he smells nice, and George quickly finds himself sliding farther and farther into sleep. The lure is too great to ignore, and time slides around him in a cradle that would never let him fall to harm off the edge.

Somewhere in the thick dredges of it, he can feel Dream’s fingers slip through his like a promise.

“George,” comes a soft rumble, but George keeps his eyes closed. “Baby, the movie is over. Let’s get you into bed.”

George makes a soft sound, unbothered by the hands that pull at him and the cold space that Dream’s absence leaves on his skin. He feels himself being nudged up, and carefully he withdraws himself from the mellow state of exhaustion to try and focus on the directions given.

He turns his head, blinking up at Dream with fuzzy eyes. “Wh’t?”

Dream’s smile is carefully illuminated by the rolling credits on their television. “You fell asleep, silly.” His voice is merely a whisper, brushed over George’s lips with all the love he wants from him. “It’s time to go to bed, c’mon.”

“Oh,” George sighs, sinking into the warm space that Dream leaves behind when he stands up. He gazes at him, unable to hide the smitten expression upon his face as Dream smiles down at him. “I slept through the movie.”

“You did. That’s okay, we can just watch it over again another time.”

It’s still a promise.

“Okay,” George mumbles, and only when Dream wraps his palms around his forearms and tugs him up with a fragile strength does he find the energy to really pay attention, to consider his surroundings and where Dream is leading him, and— “My bedsheets are in the wash. I totally forgot.”

Dream’s stance falters, halfway down the hallway and standing beside the door that would take them to the laundry room. There’s no sound of a running washing machine, and there’s a stagnant hush to the air that reminds George he was supposed to change the laundry when they got back from dinner. Neither of them did it.

The hallway is dark; Dream didn’t turn the light on, but as he reaches over to nudge his own bedroom door open, George can see the moonlight wafting over his duvet in an honest invitation.

“You can take my bed, George. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Dream’s palm slides down to curl over the side of George's waist. He wishes that it would dip under the hem, tease him with the same gentleness that he did to his collarbone less than an hour ago.

George wants a lot of things.

He wonders if Dream wants them too.

“I don’t want you to do that,” he murmurs, and Dream’s fingers splay over his clothed hip. “That’s not exactly fair to you.”

Dream’s voice comes out just as quiet. “I don’t mind. You’re basically asleep on your feet, George, just get into bed—”

“Come with me?”

The question doesn’t break the glass like he thought it would. It’s still intact, still cupped around them in a snowglobe of perfection and keeping the outside elements away, safe and curled around the inside of a sphere and the dangers of his heart. He doesn’t want it to break, not yet, and as he raises his hand to trace Dream’s wrist, he hopes that he handles it just as carefully.

“In—in bed with you?” Dream questions, halted like he could barely believe that he was included in George’s heart. “Are you sure?”

George lifts one shoulder, almost swaying in place at his forged confidence. “It’s big enough for the both of us, yeah?”

Dream’s eyes dance from the open door back to him again. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“Then…” George trails off, boldly rubbing a circle to Dream’s wrist, “Will you come to bed?”

The nod he gets in return speaks multitudes in Dream’s silence. There’s no awkwardness, not as George crawls under the moonlight covers and settles against bed sheets that are too familiar to him, and there’s no stiffness in the way he leaves room for Dream. Lunar whispers keep his attention on Dream as he moves around the room, shedding his shirt in the dark and not replacing it; George’s breath catches in his chest as Dream moves past the window, drawing it with his own celestial touch and leaving them in remote darkness.

He wonders what it’s like to taste pure moondust. George has a feeling that — as Dream’s knee presses to the bed and it dips under his weight — he’s about to find out.

Dream lowers his head to the pillow beside George’s. His eyes quickly adjust to the dark of the room, aided only slightly by the cracked door for Patches later on, and George swallows his nerves as Dream’s gaze locks on his.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Dream whispers, quiet enough that George has to strain to hear them and soft enough that he wants to decorate the sky with them. “Are you comfy?”

George nods, cheek rubbing against the pillow that smells like Dream. He doesn’t know if he can speak without pouring everything out, words on the tip of his tongue and threatening to fall if he breathed the wrong way. Dream is looking at him like it would be okay, though, and George doesn’t know what he’s allowed to take.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Dream shifts closer on the bed.

“For what?” comes the reply, and George hopes that his answer is calmer than his heart.

“Everything. You do so much for me, Dream.” George pulls his hands up, tucking one under his chin and leaving the other palm up on the bed sheets. An invitation. “I don’t know how to thank you for all of it.”

Dream smiles at that, just a hint of movement across his face and matching to the soft look in his eyes. “You don’t have to thank me. I told you, I like doing those things.”

“And I like when you do them,” George murmurs. He feels vulnerable, even wrapped in Dream’s blankets and Dream’s gaze. He’s safe.

But, he isn’t safe from his own feelings.

“I don’t know how to give back to you, Dream,” he says, voice wavering as something akin to desperation squeezes at his throat. His fingers curl to his palm, a self comfort that briefly draws Dream’s gaze to his hand before his eyes are back on him. “I want to give back to you, but I don’t know how.”

He nearly breaks when Dream takes his hand. His palm presses to George’s, fingers lacing and spreading his apart so that Dream’s can fit perfectly to them. It feels easy, comfortable, like a piece he didn’t know he was missing, and George sighs at the sight and feeling of it.

“It’s okay,” Dream says, and curls their hands towards him so George can feel the warmth of his words against his knuckles. It’s worth watching when Dream lays a soft kiss to his fingers, careful like he thought George was about to break in front of him. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” George insists, closer on the mattress and closer under the blanket that they share, close enough that his knees bump Dream’s and he can feel the warmth of his body like a long line against his front. “I want to. I want to love you like you love me.”

And his voice finally breaks. It’s small, just towards the end of his sentence and insignificant enough that if Dream was any farther away, perhaps he wouldn’t have heard it, but he knows Dream did. He knows that Dream can see him and he knows that Dream feels the same, because if he didn’t he wouldn’t be pulling George closer.

Dream tugs him forward gently and George goes willingly, tipping his face up to breathe the same air as Dream and finally tangling their legs in his bed like he wanted. He still smells the same and he still feels safe, and George still loves him in all the ways he can’t explain.

“You don’t need to do anything, George, but—” Dream swallows quickly, throat clicking and his tongue coming out to wet his lips. “If you want to, just love me like you always have. I love the way you love me.”

“Yeah?” George’s heart hurts. “Even if I can’t do it like you can?”

“Even if you can’t do it like I can,” Dream breathes, and George quickly nods with tears in his eyes. “Oh, baby, what’s wrong?”

George shrugs one shoulder, sniffling as Dream detaches their hands so he can wrap his arm around him. The brunet buries his face in Dream’s chest, adoring the way Dream places his chin over his head and the way that he searches for his hand again. George loves it all.

“I just want to be able to tell you in more than one way, I guess.”

Dream’s chest bounces on a small laugh, but George knows he’s not the butt of the joke. He traces his fingers over Dream’s collarbone, connecting freckles like constellations as he finds the rest of his thoughts.

“It’s hard for me. But I really do mean it. All of it.”

Dream hums.

“And I just want to tell you…”

George inhales shakily, his heart beating in his throat and blood rushed through his ears.

“That I love you.”

Dream’s arm squeezes around him. George swears that the skin under his fingers warms with the confession.

He feels like he could walk on clouds.

“I love you too,” Dream whispers to his hair, and George can’t stop the wet laugh that bubbles in his chest. There’s tears on his cheeks and his calf is hooked around Dream’s, and he’s positive that Dream is just as emotional if the way his sternum hitches is any indication, and Dream— “I love you. So much.”

“I love you,” George laughs, a reply and a release of feelings that had been gathering over the past month. He feels happy, and the more he says it the more he feels like it’s okay that he can’t express it the same way that Dream can. The more he says it, he knows that it’s honest. “I love you, Clay. I love you.”

Dream chuckles at that, the vehement way that he speaks, and George pulls back from his chest so that he can look at damp eyes and shining adoration—Dream looks at him like he’s the only thing that he could ever want, and George gazes at him as though he’s the only thing he’s ever needed.

“I love you,” George whispers, a last time to finalize his confession as he stares Dream in his eyes. “And I love the ways you love me.”

“Yeah?” Dream says it like it’s a question, something that he was unsure of, and George nods slowly like he could change it all with a single movement. Maybe it works, because the pools in Dream’s eyes spill over in a single trail down his cheek, breaking George’s heart and putting it back together all in one. “I’m happy.”

George lifts his hand and wipes the tear away, brushing his thumb against Dream’s cheek and smiling at the warmth that he can feel in his palm. Dream just raises their hands against, eyes closing like he can’t take it as he holds his lips against their knuckles. He doesn’t kiss them, not really, but he just exhales against George’s fingers like he’s found his own sense of safety.

“I’m happy too,” George says, and Dream’s eyes flutter open to find him again. “You make me happy, Dream.”

“That’s all I want to do,” the blond responds, and George’s mouth goes dry as a viridian gaze drops to his mouth. Dream’s breathing turns shaky, and George sees the way his eyes flicker back up.

George nods again; he feels like there’s nothing else has to say, not with everything out in the open. There isn’t anything left for him to say, except—

“Please kiss me,” George pleads, and Dream’s eyes fall again. “Please, just kiss me—”

He doesn’t know if he pulls Dream to him or the alternative, but George decides that it doesn’t matter as Dream’s lips fall on his and it doesn’t matter as Dream kisses him like he’s everything he needs. George gasps against Dream’s mouth, his nose pressed to his cheek and his eyes burning with how hard he squeezes them shut, and his fingers curl around the collar of Dream’s shirt like he was about to pull away.

George’s lips tingle with the pressure, electricity running through his veins as Dream’s mouth slides against his. He can’t keep his hands still, not as Dream splays his own fingers against his lower back and pulls until there’s no space between them. He can hardly breathe through it, and his heart is dripping with the same kind of love he’s always felt.

Dream kisses him hard.

Dream kisses him breathless.

And, Dream kisses him like he’ll never let go.

They pull away on a soft sound, and George exhales lightly in the space between their lips. He can still taste Dream, even more when his tongue darts out to chase the feeling of his mouth.

Their eyes meet, and George lifts his chin to capture him all over again.

George kisses him until their lips are swollen, and when they’ve rolled over so he can let his weight fall onto Dream’s chest, only then do they separate with a final aching touch. He knows it’s not really the end, and isn’t the crescendo of things that they had been building up to for so long.

Tomorrow exists, and George almost can’t wait to wake up wrapped in safe arms and a loving heart.

———

George had never really thought about his love language before.

He didn’t have a reason to, not when there wasn’t someone in his life that he truly wanted to show he loved in more ways than one. Love was simple to him: you tell them, you verbalize it, and somehow you show them that you care.

There’s always more than one way to show love—he learned that from Dream, and he wonders how long they went before he picked up on behaviors so familiar to him now.

However, George wants to be able to show love back. He knows that he isn’t as good at words or doing small tasks like Dream is, and he’s especially bad at giving gifts when it comes down to a deadline. George is sure that Dream loves the time that they spend together, but sometimes he wonders if he could do just a little more, just so that it all is so present in Dream’s mind.

He doesn’t have a plan. George doesn’t make plans.

George does, however, know how to make Dream happy.

It starts with something small. He gets Dream the earrings he had been eyeing the last time they were in the mall. They weren’t expensive, but Dream had just brushed off his fascination with them as ‘something shiny’ and they left it at that.

George had gone back while Dream was in class and bought the silver stud set, accompanied by a dangle earring with a little lightning bolt on it. He had hidden it in his pocket, feeling especially giddy about the entire thing until he couldn’t keep the secret any longer.

…If any longer was simply the time between him buying the jewelry and Dream coming home, then yeah, he totally waited a long time.

His anxious wait was worth the way Dream’s face had lit up upon seeing the earrings, and it was worth the way Dream swept him into a hug like it was a silver band encrusted with a diamond and not simple sterling silver.

Dream was happy. George was ecstatic.

He tried to keep it more subtle after that, looking up ways that he could show love and hiding his phone screen from Dream’s curious eyes. The last thing he wanted was for his boyfriend to see the frankly embarrassing amount of Google pages he had saved, all talking about ways to express love and things that you could do for a loved one.

Luckily, Dream didn’t think much of it when George said he was looking for things to get him for Christmas. He’s not a good liar, but George is decent at deflecting.

And then he started it all over again.

Small things, things that went right under Dream’s radar as simple George-like behaviour, and things that even gave George a sense of happiness when he realized what he was doing was making Dream’s life easier.

It was silly, in some way, because Dream’s attentiveness for him never stopped and George’s was in full upswing.

They would do the dishes together. It was domestic, mundane enough that it made George feel like he could walk across clouds, and when Dream would lean over to kiss him with a soapy palm to his cheek and smiles that tasted like honey, he would never take back all his acts of kindness for this.

George would do something for Dream, and Dream would do something for him back. It was a simple push and pull, a rhythm that was known only to their hearts and a melody that made George want to dance and sway under its gentle influence. They had found something that worked, and George loved the way that they worked.

He just had one little problem.

“George?”

It wasn’t a big problem, not really, but he was still a bit bothered. Well, not bothered—maybe… perplexed? Intrigued? Something that piqued his curiosity and was making him think.

“Uh, George?”

He was just having a little bit of difficulty—

“George! Hello?”

George blinks, eyes catching on the way Dream’s hand waves in front of his face. “What?”

“Babe, I’ve been calling your name for like—five minutes,” Dream says, his tone light but brows pulled together in slight concern. “You okay?”

“Uh…” George looks down at his textbook and the schoolwork he’s basically abandoned, and back up at his worried boyfriend. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

Dream’s concern melts away, leaving amusement in its place. “If you say so. You looked really concentrated, is something up?”

“Not really. Thanks, though.”

The blond hums and the subject is verbally dropped, but it still nags at George’s mind and makes him sigh softly.

Ever since that night when they confessed, he hasn’t been able to say it first again.

The big three.

I love you.

He’s thought it plenty of times and he’s expressed it through ways that he learned, but every time that he goes to say it out loud George chokes up and he’s back to square one. George wants to say it out loud, and he wants to see the same look on Dream’s face that night when they laid in bed together. He wants to let Dream know, not through gifts or acts of service but simply his honesty.

George turns over a page in his textbook.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous about it. It’s just… words.

It doesn’t make sense.

George glances up at Dream.

He’s got the tip of a pen in his mouth, poking at his lip and exposing just the gleaming side of pastel canines, and his brows are furrowed in deep concentration. Dream’s shirt is slightly wrinkled, probably snatched from an unfolded laundry basket and he’s got melted ice swirling in a half-finished coffee from two hours ago. It’s probably leaving rings of condensation beside his papers, but as Dream hums to himself and lowers his pen to scribble incomprehensible math problems, George knows that he doesn’t even notice.

Dream’s hands are gentle where he leans his elbow on the table, holding the curve of his jaw as he works away at his homework. He purses his lips as he reaches for his calculator, and his eyes light up as he finds some corresponding answer.

Their feet bump every few seconds under the table, and George unconsciously mirrors his position as he admires his boyfriend.

He’s beautiful. George doesn’t have any other way to describe it.

He wants to adore him, spend time together in the most mundane ways, and show him redamancy how Dream taught him—yes, he thinks of their love that way. Perhaps he could have done it on his own, but he never knew if it was safe to take that leap across the cavern. George’s fear would have kept him from jumping, but Dream coaxed him with soft words and softer intentions and now—

There’s nothing holding him back from just telling him.

George doesn’t do plans. He doesn’t understand love languages and he doesn’t see the appeal in only expressing adoration through categorized tests. His kind of love is honest, and he doesn’t know why he’s… afraid? Nervous?

It shouldn’t matter.

He’s overthinking this.

He can love in the ways that he wants to, and it doesn’t matter that it isn’t a standardized way of doing it. Sure, he could put it under some title as affirmation, but it doesn’t feel like it. To him, it just feels like… love.

To him, he’s just in love.

George tilts his head, eyes travelling over Dream from the slouch of his shoulders to the concentration threaded in his brow. “Dream?”

His boyfriend doesn’t look up from his paper, but his hand stills. “Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Dream’s head snaps up.

George’s cheek is squished against his hand, and while the pace of his heart picks up like a hundred horses, he doesn’t look away from viridescent wonder. He feels happy, and his face warms as Dream seems to process what he just said.

It takes a second, but George watches in glorious rapture as Dream laughs softly and ducks his head, ears turning red at the sudden confession and hands fumbling on previously steady actions. George simply watches, and with only that sentence in mind he knows that it doesn’t matter if he can’t love the same way as Dream. It doesn’t matter.

“I love you, too,” Dream whispers, and underneath the table, their ankles lock together. In a library meant to be quiet, the sound of his voice is thunderous against George’s ears, and he would gladly play it over again until it was the last thing he heard.

So no, George had never really thought about his love language before. He still thought they were a bit silly, and he also thought that they were the best things that he could ever experience. He’s always been a little biased, of course, but it hardly matters when it ends with Dream’s fingers tangled with his and a loving gaze set to his heart.

Love is an honest thing, he’s found, and together as a pair, they are plenty able to express it through creation. Dream’s love is obvious, robust and enveloping when it comes to George, and he will never run out of ways to say I love you. He would give George the sun if it was able to be packaged in his palm, and Dream would thank him for simply existing.

George gazes at his boyfriend, warmth buzzing over his skin as Dream’s attention returns to his schoolwork. He doesn’t quite do the same, not as he admires the colour over his cheeks and the way Dream’s shoulders bounce on hidden laughter.

Yeah, Dream has always been the more obvious of the two. Love languages suit him, and he manages to fulfill every single one like he was put in George’s life to adore.

And, if he were ever to wonder about George?

His lips pull up into a soft smile.

Well, George would never be tired of loving Dream.

———

Redamancy: a noun, and the act of loving in return.