Work Text:
melancholy [noun]
mel • an • choly
a feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause
Hurling, swirling winds hurry through the city streets, bouncing off callous buildings that look like they have no end past where they plunge into murky clouds. The sky looks bruised, painted with a pallet of browns and blues and splotches of indigo and auburn reds. Restlessly, it moves and changes as gusts of wind drag it along, casting a sense of trouble over the afternoon.
Even in the quiet part of town where the buildings are softer and further from the clouds, the turbulent storm ushers everyone inside. Chilled drops of rain drum rhythmically on the windows of Dream and George’s apartment, accompanying the howling wind in a sort of off-key choir.
Inside their home, though, it is all warm; heated floors, warm sweaters, and golden lights dimmed down for the evening. It is quiet too, save for that pitter-patter on the glass and the occasional clink of ceramics in their little kitchen.
Dream is leaning against the sink, drying dishes from the hearty dinner George had made for them earlier. He made that spicy oven-baked pasta dish that his ‘mum’ had served during Christmas last year when the pair flew over to England to visit.
She passed on the recipe to them with a proud smile and they have cooked it up on any cold or sad day ever since. Today was a bit of both; brisk and wistful in that autumn way.
“A day for The pasta. ” George decided after Dream woke up and confessed he was feeling blue.
A flash of lightning strikes in the far distance, highlighting the room for a split second. Dream places the last plate in the cupboard before flicking off the light in the kitchen. With slumped shoulders, he shuffles tired feet through to the cozy living room to seek comfort where he knows best.
“Hi.” George looks up from where he is sitting on the couch with his MacBook resting in his lap, open to his editing software. Dream fakes a pout and walks over without a word, crawling onto his boyfriend on the couch, and shoving the laptop out of the way to make space for his head.
“What are you doing?” George scoffs above him with slight exasperation, tangling his hands in blond curls instinctively. Dream just closes his eyes and snuggles closer into the soft fabric of George’s knitted jumper.
“I wanna lay here,” he mumbles with the sort of stubborn tone his voice only takes on when he’s overtired at night.
George looks down at the blond, a lovesick smile on his lips. “But I’m editing, Dream.” He doesn’t even try to sound convincing; he knew there would be no more editing today the moment Dream walked in with that little pout. All George wants is to hold him close and make it all better.
“And?” Dream challenges.
“And you’re in the way,” the brunet smiles.
With that, the boy in his lap moves so his face is showing, green eyes meeting darker ones in a silent plea. George tilts his head and pretends to give in (as if he could ever say no to Dream).
“Fine.” He sighs, rolling his eyes with great exaggeration. “You can stay.”
Dream smiles before cuddling close once again. He wraps his arms around George’s waist tightly, locking one hand with the other between the brunet’s back and the couch cushion. His cheeky smile widens as he rubs his face into his boyfriend’s sweater-covered belly like Patches does when she wants attention.
“I love when you’re in this mood.” George laughs softly, twirling and weaving his fingers through Dream’s hair in the way he knows the blond loves.
“What mood?” The words come out slurred from how relaxed Dream is.
The brunet traces a thumb across closed eyelids and along smooth cheekbones. Up close like this, George can see every little freckle on his boyfriend’s face. “All clingy and cute,” he explains quietly. He leans in closer and whispers, “Little baby.”
Dream’s eyes flutter open and his dotted skin takes on a pinker tone. “You’re baby.” He counters sweetly before attempting to hide his face again. George holds his face in place by squeezing his cheeks with one hand, chuckling at the scrunched-up look it gives him.
“God-” He starts, overcome by adoration for the boy in his lap. “I just wanna squish you.” And he does, squeezing Dream’s cheeks a few times until they both start laughing so much he has to let go.
A tired smile stays on the blond’s lips and he just lets himself look at George for a while. Look at his pretty eyes and long eyelashes and the way his hair gets curlier now after a long day.
George puts a finger to his lips and kisses it, then he presses the finger to Dream’s smile. He would kiss him for real, but their position makes it impossible to reach all the way. Besides, it’s almost lovelier this way.
Dream holds his finger in place, leaving it there while he gets comfy and closes his eyes again. George can guess what the boy is planning, but he really does not fancy a night on the couch.
“Don’t fall asleep on me.” He warns jokingly, wiggling his finger slightly where it is trapped against warm lips.
Dream just sighs contentedly. “No promises.”
Night on the couch it is .