Archive of Our Own

Dream has a problem.

“I have a problem.”

George looks up from his textbook. “What?”

“I got the part,” Dream says with far less excitement than you'd expect from someone who’s just been cast in anything. He lets his backpack slide off his shoulders and fall to the floor before he kicks off his shoes.

“Cinderella’s prince? How is that a problem? Congrats, idiot,” George laughs, closing his textbook after dog-earing the page he was on.

George isn’t getting it. Dream sighs dramatically as he walks further into their shared apartment. He throws his jacket over the back of a chair and sinks into the couch next to George, who moves his feet to avoid getting crushed under Dream’s weight.

“I have a kissing scene. Multiple, in fact,” Dream explains. “And… I've never kissed anyone.”

“You haven’t?” George giggles.

Dream glares at him for a few moments before he averts his gaze. “No. I have not, asshole,” he mutters.

“Dream,” he says, putting his hands up in defence. “I just thought a guy like you had girls all over him in high school.”

Dream narrows his eyes at his friend. “I did,” he confirms.

George raises his eyebrows expectantly. “Exactly. So?”

“Well- I’m not into girls.”

“You’re not?”

“What?” Dream scoffs. “Was the massive fucking Harry Styles cardboard cutout in my room not like… a hint?”

“Everyone thinks Harry Styles is hot. I’m straight and I’d easily go on a date with him.”

Dream doesn’t reply, because he knows George is lying. At least about the straight stuff. ‘Cause George is never home. He’s always at someone's place, whether it be a guy or a girl or whoever. Dream has seen the phone calls, the texts, the fucking iPhone reminders and calendar notifications. Meeting Wil. Diner w. Sarah. Luke’s place.

Dream doesn't know why George lies about it, not when he's just come out to him like this.

“Dream?” George prompts. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Dream replies, realising he had gone quiet. “Just… stressed? I don’t know. It’s such a non-problem! Wow, I got the part, Cinderella’s prince! I get to- to kiss pretty girls, or whatever. Wah-wah. Poor Dream, he’s a kiss virgin!”

“A kiss virgin?” George sputters incredulously. “I’m guessing you’re more than a kiss virgin, theatre kid.”

“Who the hell are you calling a theatre kid? You’re literally in the production,” Dream exclaims. He gets off the couch to start pacing, hands on his hips. Quietly, he follows up with, “this endless slander…”

George laughs loudly. “I do sound stuff! Microphones! That’s cool stuff!”

“Oh yeah, George! Because shoving your freezing cold hands down people's pants to mic them up is so cool,” Dream says, rolling his eyes. He keeps pacing the length of their tiny living room.

“Shoving my hands down–excuse me?” his friend scoffs from the couch. “When I get to set up your mic I’ll stick my hands in the freezer first, and you’ll see how cold my hands can get. Dickface.”

Dream groans loudly, throwing his hands up. “You’re pissing me off, George!”

“Stop pacing!” he shoots back. “You’re making me dizzy!”

Despite the anger boiling beneath Dream’s skin, he stops and turns expectantly to look at George. “Pissing me off,” he says again, just to rub it in.

“Dream.”

He deflates like a flat tire, shoulders slumping and head hanging as he sinks into the couch once again. “I’m not pissed off at you. I’m stressed.”

“Because you have to kiss a girl?” George asks.

“Because I have to kiss anyone,” Dream contradicts. He silently wishes the couch cushions would swallow him and pull him into some disgusting couch-from-Facebook-Marketplace universe. Anything would be better than sitting next to your absurdly attractive friend and roommate who seems to get laid nine times a week, is apparently a pathological liar and geeks out over microphones and those mixer tables or whatever (Dream has no clue what the sound people do up in their little sweaty booth).

“So go out and get kissed. Practice before you have to do it with anyone in rehearsal,” George says after a moment – as if it’s just that simple.

“Who the fuck would I practice with?” Dream asks him.

“Sapnap?”

Sapnap has been Dream's best friend since high school. Sapnap has a boyfriend, who Dream assumes would not be too happy to watch him smack lips with another dude.

“No.”

“Karl, then.”

Karl is Sapnap’s boyfriend.

“You’re literally just fucking with me,” Dream says, a death glare following his curt words.

George shrugs. “Maybe if you hadn’t been busy starring in overly ambitious high school productions of Heathers, you would have gotten to kiss someone.”

“Do I have to remind you that I’m gay, George? You think I would have had a bigger chance finding another gay guy in Florida if I was on the football team?” George opens his mouth to reply. “Don’t fucking answer that. It was a rhetorical question.”

George makes a face. “Was it? Was it really?”

“Yes, it was. And I'm not asking Karl or Sapnap to practice kissing with me,” Dream sighs deeply. Honestly, what the hell is George thinking? Well, he’s not thinking, Dream concludes. He’s joking, because life seems to just be a big fucking joke to him.

“They could do it together.” A big joke, everything is a big joke to him. Nothing can ever just be serious, and as much as Dream truly loves George - they are pretty much best friends, after all - he's getting sick of his constant nonchalance. It’s frustrating - asking for help from someone who you’re sure cares, but doesn’t really know how to show it.

Dream looks at him. “It’s not really a couples activity.”

“Maybe they’re into it,” George supplies, grinning.

“I doubt it,” Dream scoffs in reply.

“Okay, Punz then.”

Dream lets out one loud, resounding ‘hah’ and says, “I’m not fucking kissing Punz.”

“Wow, picky. Beggars can’t be choosers, Dream. Ask your co-stars then. Cinderella and the Baker's wife.”

“Iris and Olivia? They’re gay.”

“Oh my god,” George groans, head falling back in a display of exasperation. “Is this a production of Into the Woods or a pride parade?”

Dream rolls his eyes. “George this is fucking drama school,” he says.

“Straight people can do acting too,” George shrugs. “Look at… fucking… Tom Hardy, or something.”

“That is such an incredibly bad example you have no idea,” Dream laughs. It trails off awkwardly when he notices George just staring at him with a blank expression.

The room falls into silence.

Outside the sun is just setting, and the leaves shift in the early-September wind. It’s late, auditions had been running over and the casting people - Dream isn’t exactly sure who they all were - wanted to give people their roles the same day as the auditions. Stupid, frankly. But the auditions themselves had already been delayed by almost a month, and they needed to start working. So it has been a long day, a tiring day. And while it had been exciting to hear them call out his name, followed by ’will play Cinderella's prince’, the instant dread that had filled him when he went through the part in his head was not something he wishes to experience ever again.

Next to him on the couch, George shifts suddenly.

“I’ll teach you.”

“Huh,” Dream says. It’s a choked and pitiful little sound.

“I’ll teach you to kiss, if you want.”

I'm straight. Sure.

“Will you?” Dream asks. He tries to make it sound sarcastic, but he fails miserably, and the words tumble out too fast, too genuine.

“Yeah. Why not?” George answers with a shrug. “I’m straight so it’s not like I’ll catch feelings, and neither will you because I’ll castrate you if you fall in love with me and ruin our friendship.”

“Uh. Okay. Thank you.”

-

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting face to face in Dream’s bed.

George is texting someone. Loudly. Not only is his keyboard sound on, but Dream can also hear his thumbs hitting the screen. The look on his face says anger and annoyance: furrowed brows, down-turned lips and flushed cheeks. Dream assumes whoever he was supposed to meet tonight isn’t taking George cancelling too well. Honestly, Dream had been surprised when George offered to cancel his nightly plans for him. They were friends, sure, but who chooses teaching your friend how to kiss over full-on sex?

“You good?” Dream asks carefully. He’s sweating. The small bedroom seems smaller than usual: he feels like he’s in that trash compactor in Star Wars, walls closing in and promising a painful death. He tries to subtly wipe his clammy palms on his thighs, but George’s eyes flicker away from his phone to follow the motion before going back to his texting.

“I’m good,” he replies. “Stop being so nervous, it’s just a kiss.”

To someone who has sex, like, five times a day, it might be just a kiss–but to Dream it’s so much more. It’s like the moon landing. Kind of. A small step for humanity but a huge step for Dream, or whatever Neil Armstrong said.

He doesn’t tell George any of that, obviously. He just nods slowly.

Finally, George turns his phone off and throws it next to him carelessly. “Okay. Sorry, we’re good now.”

“They weren’t… happy?” Dream asks, trying to make conversation.

George scoffs. “No. But I’ve never cancelled on Julie before. She’s a spoiled fucking brat, honestly. So I’m glad to get out of it.”

Dream clenches his jaw to stop it from falling to the fucking floor. Through the fucking floor. What kind of things are George into?

“So, kissing,” his friend continues. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s all just nothing. “Have you really never ever done it? Not even in a game of spin the bottle?”

“Amanda Ryans kissed my cheek at homecoming,” Dream says. The memory is still fresh. For some reason. He doesn’t even like girls.

“We did not go to the same high school, Dream. No clue who Amanda Ryans is.”

“She won homecoming queen,” Dream supplies.

“Oh, so it was a pity kiss?”

“It was a thank you for helping me with my English homework kiss,” he mutters, arms crossed.

“That’s almost worse,” George says with a small laugh. “Damn, Dream. Didn’t you say the girls were all over you?”

Dream fixes George with a sour glare. “Amanda Ryans asked me out six times before she asked me to help with her homework, Melissa Cartwright made up a rumour that we had sex, and I was Penny Holland’s fake boyfriend for like nine separate, consecutive family holidays.“

The stories were endless. The girls in his year, and the girls in the years above and below, had always been swarming him; it sounded like a brag, but it was more of an inconvenience if anything. Dream knew he was attractive, sure–blond, wavy hair, strong jawline, green eyes, tall, reasonably well built (Erin Matthews had called him a smoke show, once)--but it was still annoying. He wasn’t into them, and he never would be, yet there seemed to be this notion that one of them would be the one to fix him.

“And you never kissed Penny Holland?” George asks.

“Her family is religious. We weren’t allowed to be alone in the same room,” Dream explains. Penny had probably been his favourite out of all the girls that clung to him. She was nice.

“Alright then,” George scoffs. “Shall we just get started or do you need some… coaching? Do you know what you’re supposed to do?”

Dream rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen people kiss before, I think I know what I’m supposed to do,” he mutters.

George adjusts himself, moving closer. “Have you never kissed anyone on stage either?”

“George, just… drop it. No, I’ve never kissed anyone ever and I’m a loser and virgin and a theatre kid. Drop it and kiss me.”

So George kisses him.

It’s quick and nothing, Dream barely feels it. But holy shit, he just lost his kiss virginity.

“Oh my god,” he says out loud into the space between them. “You just took my kiss virginity.”

“Your–Jesus, you’re such a loser,” George scoffs. He places a hand on Dream’s chest and pushes him back. “Congrats. You’ve been kissed.”

“Again. More,” Dream says, almost pleading.

He watches as George rolls his eyes, feels as his fingers grip onto his shirt and pulls him back in, hears his own shocked gasp as he falls forward. George catches him. With his lips. Well, with his hands, but Dream is more focused on the fact that their lips are touching again.

George is almost laying down, only propped up on one bent arm while the other one is slung around Dream’s neck. Meanwhile, Dream is trying his hardest to not collapse and force them both flat. His arms tremble dangerously in mix of surprise from the sudden shift and absolute terror at the thought of messing up where they rest on either side of George. This kiss is deeper, much, much deeper. Dream can feel this one, and it’s wet and terrifying and warm and George tastes like that shitty Monster flavour he likes.

Someone makes a noise. Dream assumes it’s him, because George pulls back immediately. He stares up at Dream with a blank expression and wet lips. Jesus, Dream can’t stop staring at his lips. Soft and pink and wet and so soft and they kinda tasted like what a pretty painting looks like, but Dream isn’t sure it’s George, it might just be the excitement coursing through his veins and rolling up his spine.

“No moaning,” George mumbles. “That’s weird. And gay.”

“I am gay,” Dream supplies unhelpfully.

All George does is roll his eyes.

“That was so cool,” Dream says.

Which is apparently the wrong thing to say, because George bursts into frankly hysterical laughter. He falls onto the bed, face screwed up tightly as he laughs. Dream scoffs at him and sits back on his heels, crossing his arms.

“That was so cool!” George cries breathlessly, barely getting words out between his giggles. “You fucking loser! We didn’t even kiss with tongue!”

“It was my second kiss ever!” Dream exclaims in defence of himself. “You don’t climb Mount Everest after walking up a hill!”

His poor attempt at defending himself only makes George cackle harder. So Dream lets him get it all out. He watches him patiently as his laughter slowly dies out and he’s left chuckling quietly, hands clutching his stomach.

George is pretty when he’s laughing, Dream realises. He’s always pretty. He’s pretty. He’s not hot, per say. Not right now, at least. He’s pretty. And he’s definitely not straight.

“Damn, thank you for that, Dream. I haven’t laughed that hard in years,” George grins.

“You’re welcome,” Dream scoffs softly. “Can we kiss again?”

“Nah, I have to go. Julie might be a spoiled brat but she needs me to help her, so I have to go,” George says, but he at least had the decency to look apologetic. He grabs his phone and slides off the bed.

“Julie, huh? Known her for long?” Dream asks, trying to keep disappointment out of his voice. He leans against the wall, watching George as he pockets his phone and adjusts his clothes in front of Dream’s full length mirror.

“Yeah, since she was a freshman,” he replies, running a hand through his hair.

Dream blinks “In high school?”

“Obviously?” George snorts. “I won’t be late, probably.”

And then he’s gone. A few moments after he’s out of Dream’s room, he hears the front door close.

So George is sleeping with a girl he’s known since he was a freshman in high school? Damn. Were they friends? Neighbours? Had they been dating at some point? Maybe it’s because Dream is a loser, like George has said, but he doesn’t understand how a friendship becomes something like that. Something more, but not something all.

Friends with benefits, he guesses.

How do you do that?

Does he want to do that?

Probably not… Not with George, at least.

-

Days pass before they kiss again.

It happens much like the first one. Dream stumbles through the door, coming from the first day of rehearsals. He sinks into the couch next to George who alternates between texting and listening to Dream whine about how everyone’s annoying and no one listens and everyone probably hates him and, worst of all, how the director wants to start with all kiss, fight and dance scenes to get them out of the way.

“You’re really not painting this production in a good light,” George snorts once Dream is done rambling. “I was looking forward to getting started on the tech shit, but now I don’t know.”

Dream whines and sinks deeper into the couch cushions. Once again he wishes they would swallow him whole. “I have to kiss both Iris and Olivia tomorrow.”

“So?” George asks, looking up from his phone for barely a second. “You’re not a kiss virgin anymore.”

“But you said it yourself! We didn’t even kiss with tongue! A-and with Olivia, the baker’s wife, I have a fucking fade to black sex scene!”

“You want me to kiss you with tongue?” George asks bluntly. He pockets his phone and moves so he’s kneeling next to Dream on the couch.

“I-I guess,” Dream says - uncertain. He doesn’t really want George to kiss him with tongue, but George is all he can get. For now at least. There’s a little voice inside of Dream that tells
him that this can be it… When George deems him done and ready and a God of kissing, he can head out to a bar and find a guy willing to take his real virginity.

Dream, a virgin no more. He can almost hear George laugh at that.

“So enthusiastic,” George mutters, soft, cold hands slowly reaching out to cup Dream’s face. “Just follow my lead.”

-

Kissing with tongue is fucking amazing.

-

A week later, Dream gets home before George. It’s not unusual by any means. George is almost never home, after all.

As Dream sheds his jacket and shoes he wonders if it’s tiring to constantly have sex. Is a man’s stamina really that strong? Christ, maybe George should be in the Guinness Book of World Records or something. Most Sex Had Daily for, like, a long time.

They’ve been roommates since their freshman year. George had seemed so small then. Terrified, sitting in silence on his empty bed while Dream and his mom moved him in. It wasn’t until two weeks had gone by that George said more than five words to him. A month later, they had been thick as thieves and that scared little guy had become a fucking menace. They had decided to move out of the dorms and into a real apartment after their first summer break.

Now they’re juniors, living it up in their tiny apartment where the heating sometimes stops working and the ceiling bubbles up during warm days.

Dream trudges into their living room and falls face down onto the couch with a loud groan. He considers napping, decides against it when he remembers the essay he has to write.

In the end he moves to his bed and naps anyway; laptop open on the mattress next to him, displaying an empty Google Doc.

He sleeps until George barges into his room an unknown amount of time later, waking him up and scaring him half to death. The sudden entrance forces an embarrassing noise out of Dream as he tries to gather his senses, his brain slowed down by the nap, his vision blurry.

“Jesus, George!” he yells, unsteadily propping himself up on his elbows to look at George who stands in the doorway, looking an awful lot like a creepy serial killer (as opposed to non-creepy serial killers). He’s still wearing his coat, too cold for the current weather, underneath it he’s probably soaked from the rain. He’s also wearing his fucking shoes.

Dream almost gasps out loud at the audacity. “You’re wearing shoes in my room! You’re gonna ruin the carpet, dumbass!”

“How did you know you liked guys?” George asks, words tumbling out in a rush.

“Excuse me?” he asks incredulously, suddenly wide awake. Honestly, Dream isn’t sure if he actually heard George right. For a guy so dead set on being straight–despite sleeping with guys, judging by the names in his contact list–he sure is sounding confused.

“Sorry, I… No, it’s nothing.”

And then George is gone and the door to his room is closed.

The walls in their shitty apartment are thin; Dream hears him head back to the entryway. He listens for the front door to see if George is leaving again. But there’s nothing, so maybe he’s staying for once.

Dream seems to be proven correct when his door is once more opened and George is once more standing in the doorway, staring at him. This time he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that Dream swears is his.

“Do you wanna make out?” George asks. Nonchalant. Because everything is a joke and nothing matters to George. It’s truly getting exhausting.

“Uhm.”

They haven’t kissed since that time with tongue, which hadn’t ended too well. George had yelled stop suddenly and left the room, leaving Dream behind to feel confused, kind of turned on and very proud of himself. The kissing scenes he did the next day had gone fine, no complaints from either girl. And despite George running away, kissing with tongue was fucking amazing.

So, obviously, despite the loud, nagging thought that George could very well be using him to experiment with his sexuality, he says, “Yeah, sure.”

George hums, crosses the room and climbs on top of him.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Their position–George, basically in his lap–forces Dream to look up for their eyes to meet. Which is weird, because George is shorter, and Dream likes that. He likes teasing George about it, likes coming up behind him and resting his chin on the top of George’s head, likes pulling him in front of a mirror and giggling at the difference between them. So it’s strange. It’s strange, looking up at George.

Dream just doesn’t know if it’s a good or a bad strange. Not yet.

“Dream?” George prompts. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Dream mumbles. “Anything is fine. Where do I–where do I put my hands?”

George smiles a little. It’s shy - so unusual for him. “Anywhere is fine.”

The milliseconds it takes for George to lean in is awful. It’s embarrassing how much Dream wants it, and how those milliseconds, those insignificant few moments, feels like years. It’s like George is moving in slow motion, teasing and taunting him.

So Dream meets him halfway.

George lets out a surprised gasp, fingers tightening where they’ve grabbed onto the fabric of Dream’s loose t-shirt.

Why is it so fucking good?

Why is kissing George so good? It’s not like Dream has anything to compare it to, really. Kissing Iris and Olivia is nothing like kissing George because George is a guy and Dream is gay and he likes guys. There is, of course, the fact that George probably has a shit-fucking ton of experience, judging by how often he gets laid. So maybe it’s just that. Maybe it’s not George, maybe it’s just that he’s a guy. A guy who’s good at kissing.

It barely starts before it ends, but this time it's Dream who cuts it short. He pulls back, just slightly, enough for their lips to part but still so close that he can feel George’s breath on his face, can smell the spearmint gum he probably chewed on the way home.

“George,” he mumbles into the space between them. He makes the mistake of meeting George’s eyes, so wide and so dark and so sad. So lost. So desperate.

“What, loser? Too much for you?” George asks quietly. Dream feels every word against his upper lip, but they lack their usual bite. It’s uncomfortable, it’s new. It’s new and therefore it’s uncomfortable.

“Why did you want to kiss me?” Dream peers up at him, avoiding his eyes.

He feels George shrug. “Why not? Do you want to keep going or what?”

“Not really,” Dream admits.

“That’s okay.” George climbs off him immediately, retracting like he just burnt himself on the stove. “I mean, I guess you’re done with this practising shit anyway, right? You did the kisses with Iris and Olivia, and it went fine, and you don’t really need me anymore.”

“I guess so,” Dream says with a shrug. “Who did you see today? Before you got home?”

“Uh, William,” George answers.

William. Why is George even questioning if he likes guys when he’s having sex with guys. Clearly, he fucking likes guys because he’s fucking guys. Dream fights the urge to tell him exactly that, fights the urge to call him an attention seeking little idiot who should just accept that he’s not straight and move on and happily keep sleeping with every second person he runs into.

“But yeah! You’re totally a-a, uh, kissing school graduate now! We should celebrate!” George continues when Dream doesn’t reply.

Strangely enough, despite the fact that George had just annoyed the shit out of him, Dream says, “I don’t know if I’m that good yet. I mean… I don’t know if I should be a graduate, like, now.”

George snorts, a smile breaking out on his lips. Dream prefers him like that. Smiling.

“Alright, idiot. Another term, then,” George says softly.

-

They don’t kiss for months after that.

They don’t even talk about it. Honestly, they don’t really talk at all.

Exam season hits them like a freight train. George is never home, and his phone never stops vibrating. Dream watches him from the couch, sat at the dinner table typing out an essay and texting at the same time. He looks awful all the time, wears the same outfit days in a row.

Dream isn’t even sure if he sleeps. Well, he sleeps around still, clearly, since he’s never fucking home.

There’s the constant, nagging feeling that George is avoiding him. That the plea to continue their dumb kissing practice was too much. But honestly, no one becomes an expert at something after doing it, like, two times! There are no complaints from anyone during rehearsal, though, so maybe Dream is just a quick study. Or maybe kissing isn’t as difficult as he’d imagined.

Christmas comes and goes. They go their separate ways after sharing an awkward hug and locking up their apartment. Dream spends almost the entire break dreading, not necessarily the start of the term, but the start of tech rehearsals. Because tech rehearsals means the tech people and the tech people means the sound guys and the sound guys means George.

Dream dreads seeing George and it’s both surprising and expected and it hurts a bit, but it also feels deserved. Because it’s almost getting ridiculous, the way George prioritises having sex over college, over his friendship with Dream. So isn’t it more than right for Dream to dread it? He vows to let George feel that dread when they meet again; maybe then he’ll see that what he’s doing is dumb.

No one needs sex that much, and George needs to start focusing on his friends again. On himself.

(At least that’s what Dream thinks.)

-

Despite getting back to campus the same day, they don’t see each other until two days later when rehearsals start back up - this time with the whole crew.

Dream enters the theatre, Olivia in tow, basically hanging off his arm. She’s nice enough so he allows it, but he’s starting to suspect that she’s imagining some strange romance between them outside of the play. Dream honestly thought she was a lesbian.

He spots George immediately, eyes drawn to him like a magnet, and it feels dumb, but he sees the way George turns away from whoever he’s talking with to look right back at Dream. It feels less dumb then, when they’re staring at each other from across the huge theatre… Until George seems to snap out of it and turn back in a hurry.

“Dream?” Olivia prompts, tugging on him. “Is everything alright?”

Dream hums, nodding dismissively. “Yeah… Do you know if we’re getting mics today?”

“Oh, yes!” Olivia grins. “This afternoon, yeah, after lunch. I’m so excited. This is when it gets real, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” he agrees. With his eyes still fixed on George, he says, “This is when it gets real.”

“Why did you say it like that?” she asks with a snort.

Dream looks at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Like you were staring into a camera, waiting for it to cut to black or something!” she laughs.

Embarrassing. Dream can feel his face heat up, can see himself turn a humiliating shade of red. “Just preparing,” he mumbles, eyes downturned.

“Hey now,” she says, tugging on his arm. “It’s good to know you’re always ready for the stage, superstar.”

For the rest of morning rehearsals, Dream is a mess. He forgets his lines, stumbles over his own feet during fight scenes, almost drops Iris during their dance. He can tell that the director is getting tired of him, that the rest of the cast is as well. The theatre stinks of annoyed amateurs, whispering about Dream’s sudden loss of ability to just exist without messing up.

And it’s all George’s fault.

He’s sitting in the fifth row, talking quietly to one of the guys doing the lights - Tristan or something equally pretentious. Tristan and George slept together; Dream has seen his name in George’s calendar at least a thousand times. Is that what they’re whispering about, he wonders. Which is stupid because when he’s thinking about George’s sex life, he’s not focused on what’s going on on stage and he’s fucking up.

When he yells ‘line’ for the fifth time in one scene, the director has clearly had enough.

“Alright!” she calls. “I think we’ve had enough of this, let’s break for an early lunch. Well done everyone, really. I just have a few notes for a few people, so if Jack, Iris and Lola could come see me right away. And you too, Dream.”

He groans quietly.

“You okay, dude?”

Dream looks up and nods at Karl, dressed up for his role as the baker. “Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t know what’s going on with me today.”

“We can all see you staring at George, you know,” Karl says quietly. “Did something happen between you?”

“We’re not fighting,” Dream frowns.

Karl rolls his eyes. “Literally not at all what I asked.”

Dream arches an eyebrow at him. “We would tell you if we started dating, Karl.”

“Has George finally realised he’s not straight at least?”

“I honestly haven’t talked to him properly in months,” he confesses. “He’s been… busy.”

“Oh yeah,” Karl nods. “Has to be exhausting.”

Dream eyes widen. Karl knows? Does everyone know? “So you know about… you know…”

Karl looks at him with a deep frown. “Yes? Why’d you say it like that? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“N-no, I guess not,” Dream blinks. “Uh… I should go talk to Jane…”

He leaves Karl without another word, crossing the stage and jumping off the edge to approach the director – Jane.

So Karl knows that George is sleeping around, which definitely means that Sapnap knows. Dream supposes that George doesn’t really try to hide it, he just doesn’t explicitly say what he’s doing. But it’s so obvious! Why else would he constantly be away, constantly texting people and setting up new meetings? Perhaps everyone knows what George is doing… and perhaps Karl is right. Well, he is. Having sex is nothing to be ashamed of, not at all! But why does Dream’s brain make such a big deal of it?

The director watches him as he gets closer, slowly raising an eyebrow as the distance between them gets smaller and smaller. When Dream finally sinks into the chair next to hers she clicks her tongue.

“Hello, your highness,” she greets sarcastically. “What’s up with you today?”

“I don’t know, Jane,” Dream mutters. “Just… out of it. I’m really sorry, honestly.”

“I know you are, because usually you’re more strict than my stage manager! Keeping everyone in line and never letting anyone have a little fun.” Jane gives him a soft smile. “It’s okay to have bad days, Dream. I just wanted to make sure everything is alright.”

“It is, promise. I’ll be back and better than ever for this afternoon,” he says, looking at her.

She nods. “I’m sure you will. Now go eat something, go giggle about mics with the rest of them!”

Dream thanks her quietly before heading backstage to change out of his costume for lunch. He takes his time, much to the costume team's dismay. They flock around him with hangers impatiently as he slowly undresses. Dream thinks he even hears one of them make an annoyed groan-y noise. He ignores them.

Once he’s back in sweatpants and a t-shirt, he grabs his food from the little kitchenette at the back of the theatre and heads over to join Karl and Sapnap - sitting in a corner, eating.

“Hello,” he greets before he sits down on the floor with them.

Karl grins at him, mouth full of food.

“Hey, dude,” Sapnap says. “What have you done with George?”

Dream frowns as he removes the lid to the tupperware containing his packed lunch of cold pasta and chicken. “Done with him?” he asks.

“He’s always hovering around you, isn’t he? But now he’s not, now he’s over there with Quackity and Wilbur,” Sapnap says, nodding his head in George’s direction.

Dream looks over his shoulder to where George is standing on stage, pointing at the different lights and speakers while both Quackity and Wilbur take notes.

“I assume they have crew things to talk about,” he shrugs, looking back at Karl and Sapnap. “Quackity is on lights and Wilbur’s on music, I’m sure they have lots of shit to go over.”

Sapnap hums. “Alright,” he says, a hint of sarcasm tinting his words.

“How’s rigging going?” Dream asks, desperate to steer the conversation away from George.

His friend takes the bait easily, diving into a long drawn out monologue about the sets and the rigging and the stage manager being unclear and the backstage crew – Punz especially – being little bitches. Dream understands maybe half of what he’s saying, but it passes the time well enough, and way before Sapnap seems to be reaching a conclusion to his complaining, the director calls that they’ve got five until mic check.

“Finally,” Karl giggles while they're all packing up their things and getting up, popping joints be damned.

“Mic check is literally so boring,” Sapnap groans. “It’s just everyone walking across the stage and counting out loud one at a time until George or whoever is happy. It takes forever.”

“You don’t get it! You’re crew,” Karl says with a slight shake of his head. “If you were cast you’d get how exciting it is.”

Dream snorts at the idea. “Sapnap? On stage?”

“Hey!” Karl berates. He giggles and wraps an arm around his boyfriend's waist, pulling him close. “Sapnap is a very talented actor… I told him to audition for the wolf, actually. I think he would have been amazing.”

“Karl,” Sapnap warns quietly, panicked eyes widening slightly.

“Why the wolf? Like, of all the characters?” Dream asks, still in doubt.

“Oh, you know,” Karl smirks, shrugging. “It’s just a little something we like to act out in our own time! Sapnap… a big, bad wolf! And me, a helpless-“

“That’s super enough, Karl,” Sapnap interrupts. “Let’s just go before you’re both late.”

He pulls Karl towards the stage and Dream hurries after them, more confused than ever.

“I don’t get it,” he complains.

Sapnap ignores him, he doesn’t even turn back to see if Dream is following. But Karl, he turns to look over his shoulder and shoots Dream a wink.

A wink that nudges the penny hard enough to make it drop.

Sex. Karl was talking about sex. Not just normal sex, but weird sex where Sapnap pretends to be a wolf of some sort and Karl… Maybe Dream should be happy he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Maybe Dream should work on changing the way he views anything remotely sexual, because he can hear George calling him a virgin loud and clear in his head.

Speaking of George… he’s sitting on the edge of the stage, grinning widely at the approaching trio.

“Ready for mic check? Karl, Dream?” he asks, so casually, as if it isn’t the first time he’s speaking to Dream in almost a month.

“Yes!” Karl answers, almost bouncing in his spot. “Who’s helping me? Do you know?”

George nods. “Yeah, it’s Becca,” he says. Then he turns to Dream, and his eyes practically scream mischief. “I’m helping you, Dream.”

“Cool! Well, see you guys later!” Karl disappears backstage after pressing a quick kiss to Sapnap’s cheek.

Sapnap looks between Dream and George, and probably sensing the tension he just says, “Uh, later,” before he also disappears backstage.

For the first time since before exams, Dream and George are alone. They’ve barely done more than cross paths, sleep schedules messed up and out of sync, classes starting when the others ends. They might be in public, but it’s still just the two of them.

“How was Christmas?” Dream asks. It’s all he can think to say despite the bubbling volcano of questions inside of him.

“Enlightening,” George replies. Vague. Always so vague and nonchalant and uncaring. Annoying.

“Alright…” Dream hums. “Mic check, then?”

“Yep,” George makes sure to pop the p. “Let’s go backstage.”

Dream watches as he gets up and heads for the changing rooms. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to George, before following him.

The lights are on, and the usually dark backstage area is a mess under the bright lights. Dream keeps his eyes on his own feet, careful to not trip over any wires. Or any people. The area is crowded, way more crowded than usual as people drift around, helping each other with their mics and picking up batteries and getting tape and- Dream honestly isn’t sure. But there’s a lot of people and a lot of skin on display and- why is George taking him into the dressing room?

“Why are we going into the dressing room?”

George looks over his shoulder. “Privacy.”

“Privacy?” Dream looks up from his feet to meet George’s gaze, but he’s already turned away. What on earth would they need privacy for?

Nevertheless, he follows George into the room and lets him close the door behind them.

“Shirt off,” he says the second the door clicks shut.

“Shirt off?” Dream questions. “Why?”

“Because it’s way easier and because I’ve literally seen you in nothing but underwear, Dream,” George says with a small laugh. He holds up the microphone he’s about to put on Dream, giving it a little shake. “So shirt off.”

Dream grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it off easily before throwing it onto a chair. “Shirt off,” he says. “Now?”

“Good. Now just turn around for me,” George instructs, not even looking at Dream. Instead, he’s fiddling with the microphone pack, but Dream isn’t sure what he’s doing.

Dream is also not sure why George’s curt good felt… Why it felt, why it made Dream feel anything at all. It’s just a word.

Wordlessly, he turns around.

George must finish what he was doing, because he says, “Good. Thank you, Dream.”

“No problem.” Dream isn’t sure why his words sounded wobbly, almost unsteady, either.

“Putting my hands on you now, sorry if they’re a bit cold.” George’s voice, on the other hand, is steady as ever. It’s lower than usual and it stirs a strange mix of feelings in the pit of Dream’s stomach. Because Dream might be a loser, and a virgin and a whatever, but sometimes when he’s bored he watches porn, and this, whatever George is doing right now, feels just like the beginning of a fucking porno.

“What did you mean when you said Christmas was enlightening?” Dream asks, forcing his words to be steady, even as George’s hands graze his lower back.

He hears the rustle of fabric as George shrugs in response. “Not much, really. Realised a few things, met some new people,” he says, voice still so fucking low. Almost… No. Dream shouldn’t think about George like that.

A shiver runs up his spine despite his self-admonishing. He’s not sure if it’s George or if it’s his cold hands – that aren’t even that cold – that sets off the spark.

“What did you realise?” Dream pushes. He can feel his breath getting quicker, he prays George can’t.

“Nothing that concerns you, really,” George replies. “Well, maybe. But it’s nothing worth sharing. Okay, I need to wrap my arms around you to put on the belt for the mic. Can you raise them for me?”

“Raise what?”

“Your arms, idiot.”

“Oh, yeah – sure. Sorry.” Dream quickly raises his arms.

“Great, thank you,” George says before he reaches around Dream, easily fasting the soft, white belt around his waist. “Alright. You can put them down.”

Dream lets his arms fall back down. “Your hands aren’t that cold,” he says.

“I rubbed them for like five minutes before seeing you,” George admits. “Didn’t want you to be… uncomfortable.”

“Thanks,” Dream mumbles. “George… are we okay?”

He feels the belt get heavier on his waist as George slides the microphone pack into the little pocket, the pocket that George has put just left of Dream’s spine… Exactly where he prefers to have it.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” George asks quietly. He adjusts the pack slightly. “Have I done something?”

“No… Not at all, I just – I missed you.”

“You missed me?”

Hands holding a wire, hands that are suddenly much clammier, travel the length of his back too slowly to be efficient.

When did the room get so hot?

“I did.”

The hands stop by his shoulder blades. “Did you?”

“I just said I did, didn’t I?” Dream glances over his shoulder at George. “Did you miss me?”

“I guess so,” he replies softly, pressing a small piece of tape to Dream’s back to make the microphone wire stick. The microphone itself gets slung gently over Dream’s shoulder. “Turn around now, please.”

Turn around? Dream would rather not, not right now when there’s a tension in the room that Dream can’t read at all. Not when George’s voice sounds so different to how it’s ever sounded before.

But George is stubborn. “Turn around,” he repeats.

Dream has no choice but to obey. He turns easily, and suddenly they’re face to face.

George just smiles at him. “Good.”

Something makes a breathy noise. Someone. No one comments on it.

“So, have you gotten your first real kiss yet?” George asks as he grabs the microphone and puts it over Dream’s ear. Usually, Dream does this part himself. He lets George do it anyway.

“What do you mean?” he asks just as George sticks the wire to his neck with a piece of tape.

“You know, one that isn’t with me or for the play.”

“No,” Dream admits easily.

George hums. “Do you want tape on your cheek too or do you think you’ll be good?”

Usually, Dream hates having tape on his cheek. It’s sticky and annoying and it hurts so much to remove. He tells George to add it.

His slender fingers gently move across his cheek. With one hand he pushes the microphone against Dream’s cheek, with the other he adds the tape.

He lingers. Nails scrape against warm skin. Dream feels himself blush.

“George,” he says. It’s quiet, but George flinches and it’s like the tension just breaks. It crumbles pathetically as George takes a step back.

“We’re all done. Put your shirt on, join the others, and we’ll get your levels set up as quickly as possible.”

And then, just like that, George leaves.

-

Dream has a problem. Again.

“I have a problem.”

George looks up from his phone. “Again?” he asks, already bored.

“This time it’s an actual problem,” Dream promises. He kicks his shoes off and throws his jacket onto the floor carelessly before trudging over to the couch where George is sitting.

“What?” George asks. His phone buzzes and he turns his attention to the notification - whatever it was.

“Punz kinda asked me out.”

The couch, the whole building, basically moves with how quickly George looks up at Dream. “Punz asked you out?” he asks.

Dream turns to look at him, brows furrowed. George seems way more surprised that Dream has been asked on a date, not so much about the fact that it was Punz - one of their closest friends. Well, George really doesn’t look surprised at all. He looks almost… angry.

“Yes,” Dream says carefully. “He approached me today in the library and just asked if I wanted to go out sometime. I said yes, because he’s my friend. Then he said… you know, ‘good! It’s a date’, or whatever. So now I have a date with Punz.”

“Cancel it.”

“Why?” Dream asks, confusion lacing tight around his words. “I mean, he’s hot and maybe this is my chance to… go all the way. I might have lost my kiss virginity but I still have my- my ass-dick virginity left.”

“Your ass-dick virginity?” George scoffs. “Jesus, Dream. It’s Punz. You said it yourself when we did the whole practice kissing thing… you don’t want to kiss Punz.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind,” Dream shrugs.

George’s phone buzzes again. “I have to go,” he mutters, quickly getting up.

“Hey! Can’t- can’t whoever you’re meeting wait like five minutes? Or can you cancel? Just today?” Dream says, borderline begging George to stay home with him.

“They fucking pay me, Dream,” George spits. “I would love to cancel and sit here and gush about having sex with Punz, but this is my fucking job, and I can’t keep prioritising your sex life over my income.”

“Your- what? They pay you?” Dream exclaims, following George as he moves to the entryway.

“Of course they fucking pay me,” George replies through clenched teeth as he puts on his boots and coat. “It’s a job.”

“I-I thought it was… voluntary, that you did it… for free? Because you liked it?”

“I would never put up with that fucking shit and those fucking people for free, Dream. Jesus.” George wraps a scarf around his neck and picks up his backpack. With one hand on the door handle, he turns to look at Dream and says, “Bye.”

Then he’s gone and Dream is left behind and he’s confused. He’s going insane, losing his mind. George is an escort. He’s not fucking half the campus, he’s fucking clients because he’s an escort. And Karl knows that, and probably Sapnap too. Jesus christ. Maybe George is fucking half the campus, because half the campus consists of his clients. Dream can’t feel his toes. Or fingers. Or anything else below his shoulders. One of his closest friends, his roommate, is an escort. An angry escort who doesn’t like that Dream is going on a date with Punz.

A date with Punz… Why wasn’t George happy with that? He’d been bullying Dream about his status as a virgin for almost three years now, and he literally suggested Punz when Dream needed someone to practice kissing with!

Dream’s brain is making loops and turns, crashing into itself and just driving him further off the deep end. He’s confused and lost and a bit sad and kind of angry, but most of all he’s confused.

Because George is an escort who has sex with men, he agreed to help Dream learn how to kiss, then he disappeared off the face of the earth to focus on- on what? Sucking dick? Then he comes back and talks about Christmas being enlightening and a week later he gets upset about a date between Dream and Punz. Not… not upset. Jealous. George was jealous.

George is totally gay and totally jealous about Dream’s date with Punz.

How long has George liked Punz?

Sure, Dream’s seen the two of them giggling backstage, maybe some of those hours spent away from the apartment was spent with Punz? When he thinks about it, he’s never once seen Punz’ name in George’s phone… So maybe that’s why George is so upset now? So angry and jealous. Maybe he thought he had something real with Punz and now Punz has gone and asked out Dream? That probably hurts, yeah.

Hurts George, not Dream.

Dream isn’t sure why there’s a little nagging pain in his own chest at the thought of George going out with Punz, at the thought of George sleeping around because it’s his job. But what kind of pain is his pain?

He’s angry at George, first of all. Angry because of his fucking audacity to get all bothered at the thought of Dream and Punz dating. But anger isn’t really pain, though; not the simmering, slowly growing kind of anger that Dream is feeling.

Maybe he feels hurt and in pain because he feels betrayed. ‘Cause why did George tell Karl about his job and not Dream? Why did he just leave him to figure that out on his own? Did he think Dream would judge him for it? Did he just not trust Dream enough?

So maybe it isn’t anger, maybe it isn’t betrayal. Maybe it’s disappointment. Disappointment in himself for not being a friend George felt he could rely on.

No.

Dream isn’t angry, or betrayed, or disappointed. He’s in pain. His chest is pulling in on itself, like it’s trying to implode and take Dream with it. There’s a bitter taste on his tongue he hasn’t felt since Peter Martin got the lead in whatever play they did for his senior year of high school. His blood isn’t really boiling, instead his whole body feels like it’s curdling, like his cells are splitting from each other because something’s wrong: it’s too hot, too cold, there’s too much going on in the metaphorical pot that is Dream’s head.

Dream is jealous.

He’s jealous because despite everything he likes George, and he’s a little bit angry because George likes Punz. George took Dream’s first kiss and then disappears to go have sex with strangers for money and then when Dream finally has him back home, when Dream finally has a shot at a real relationship and a real first kiss, then George wants to take that too.

Wait.

Rewind.

He’s jealous because despite everything he likes George.

Dream is dramatic, he’s a theatre kid and theatre kids are genetically dramatic, so he replays that single line of his inner monologue, rewinds time like it’s an old VHS tape.

Amidst all the mess in his head there’s a single clarity, one lit up sign in the middle of a dark forest.

He likes George. He likes George. He’d like to kiss George, often and deeply, like that one time they kissed with tongue…

But George doesn’t want to kiss him back, because he’s just realised he’s gay and now he wants to kiss Punz, not only Punz but a thousand other guys! Because he’s a fucking escort!

And just like that Dream is angry, and this time it is anger he’s feeling. His blood boils under hot skin, the fabric of the couch against his bare arms feels unbearable, the fridge is buzzing louder than ever and the lights are so bright, too fucking bright.

Dream isn’t sure when he stands up, he’s not sure how long he paces the length of their living room, he’s not sure when his feet start hurting or when he starts crying or when he stops to angrily take off his socks and throw them at the wall. He’s not sure when he turns the light off or when he falls into the couch again but suddenly the door opens and George is home and Dream might honestly throw up on the fucking carpet they splurged on together because George is home and he just had sex for money and he wants to go on a date with Punz.

“Dream?”

He’s not worth the reply, Dream decides.

“Dream, is everything alright?” George pushes. The lights flick on as George appears in the living room, still wearing his shoes and his coat. “You’ve been crying, what happened?”

The concern in his voice is sickening. The wide eyes and furrowed eyebrows and downturned lips. Dream wants to punch him. Not really. He’s not sure what he wants.

“Come on, talk to me...” George begs softly. He sinks to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, smiling a little as he pushes a hand through Dream’s hair. “What’s up?”

Dream shifts, meets George’s eyes. “How was it?” he asks, voice hoarse from crying.

“What do you mean?” George mumbles.

“Your job,” Dream spits.

George flinches, retracting his hand. “I-It was okay. Boring. Why? Honestly, Dream, what’s wrong? Did I do something?”

“When were you gonna tell me?” Dream asks, sitting up slowly enough to keep eye contact. “Were you ever?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you’re a fucking sex worker?”

The truth is out, and George’s eyes are bigger than UFO’s and he’s standing up and he’s opening and closing his mouth and Dream almost laughs in his face.

“Yeah! I know your fucking secret!” Dream exclaims. “I know Karl knows! Why didn’t you tell me? Did you think I’d judge you? Do you have that little fucking faith in me, George? I’m your friend!”

“Dream-“

“No! It’s my fucking turn to talk! I’m not–I don’t fucking care that you’re an escort or whatever! I’m upset that you lied to me! Or–like, didn’t tell me! A-and then–God, George–I’ve been, I’ve been–I don’t know. Okay. Punz. You like Punz! But I’m the one he asked on a date and I’m going on the date! I don’t care if you want him, I-I…” he trails off. “I’m sorry, okay? But I’m going on the date.”

The fridge buzzes and an ambulance drives by, sirens blaring loudly and painting the room red and blue for a few split seconds. It's warm and stuffy and freezing cold at the same time, and Dream fights the urge to just storm away and leave George standing there, gaping like a fish.

“I’m a tutor, Dream. And I do not want to go on a date with Punz, Jesus.”

Dream looks at him. “You’re a what?”

“I’m a tutor. I tutor high schoolers. You thought–you thought I was an escort?” George asks incredulously. “What the fuck? How is that the first place your mind goes?”

A tutor makes sense, yeah. Hm. Dream forgot those were a thing.

“I forgot tutors existed.”

“You're insane,” George scoffs. “Go on that date with Punz, I won’t stop you. I-I’ll be happy for you, or whatever.”

Dream peers up at him from where he’s still sitting on the couch. “Will you? Be happy for me, I mean.”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“I don’t like… Punz…”

“What?” George frowns. “He’s cool, isn’t he?”

“Why did you get so upset earlier?”

“When?”

“When I told you Punz asked me out.”

George goes still. “I wasn’t upset.”

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You totally were.”

“I fucking totally was not, idiot.”

“You almost cried.”

George scoffs, looks away for barely a second. “I don’t cry.”

“If I asked you to kiss me-“

“I’d say yes.”

Dreams breath hitches. It’s about as loud as a high-speed train derailing, and that’s kind of how it feels too. “Would you?”

“Ask me.” He says it like a dare; like they’re just two amongst many, sitting in a circle on the floor, lights off and curtains closed. Like they’re twelve and playing truth or dare while bad pop plays in the background and one of those spinning disco lamps paints the room in every colour imaginable.

And if Dream was twelve, playing truth or dare with his friends, he would have laughed it off and then gone home to cry. But Dream isn’t twelve, he’s a grown adult and he’s maybe a bit in love but he’s definitely about to lose his kiss-virginity for real this time.

“Will you kiss me, George?”

“Yes, you fucking idiot loser. Of course I’ll kiss you.”

The room falls silent, suddenly blanketed by a thickness you could have sliced with a knife. They sit barely even millimetres apart, eyes locked together - wordlessly saying something new. But not a scary new. A comfortable new that Dream wants to explore further.

“Well?” George whispers softly. “Kiss me, dumbass.”

Dream inhales. Exhales. The world spins no faster, the moon shines no brighter. He musters the courage, gathers every brave cell in his body, and lunges forward. He grabs George’s wrist and pulls.

They meet somewhere halfway.

It feels like diving off a cliff.

And it’s kind of like riding a bike. Or watching a movie, or laughing, eating. Smiling.

Every thought – every moment – has placed Dream right here, right now.

His lips mould into George’s and rivers of tension flow from his body. Cages of butterflies, entire zoo’s, flood his stomach as he slides a trembling hand onto George’s thigh. Dream catches himself urging, almost pulling, the smaller frame in front of him closer, closing any space between them.

The world around them warps into bursts of warmth; clouds of desperation suffocating tangled lips and spattered breathing.

This, Dream thinks, this is all I wanted.

George’s fingers card through golden locks, split and messed up by Dream’s earlier spiral. Their lips fight feverishly for some semblance of dominance. It’s a battle Dream is more than happy to lose. The sound of his pulse vibrates recklessly in his ears as his brain begins to cry for oxygen. He makes a soft noise, and George seems to understand, seems to agree. His lips slot perfectly against Dream’s before they break apart, a single string of saliva still connecting their red, kiss swollen lips.

Dream tries to savour the kiss. What if it’s their last? Who knows if it even meant anything to George? From experience, Dream knows that very little actually truly matters to him. He jokes about everything, laughs at his own pain instead of talking it out.

George licks his lips. The string of salvia falls against Dream’s chin, wet and kinda gross and awesome. “I…” His lack of words makes a failed attempt to fill the quiet.

“I…Uh, yeah.” Dream nods and looks down as he tries to catch his breath. He isn’t sure if that just happened, if it really just happened. If he kissed George. If he kissed George. If he- He’s not sure, but he is scared. He’s terrified of somehow fucking it all up before it’s properly begun.

“I wasn’t mad over Punz, Dream. I-I don’t want Punz,” George mumbles, shaking his head. Slowly he reaches out, gently finger running down Dream’s face. “It’s you. I want… you.”

“What?” Maybe Dream fell asleep then, maybe this is all, well, a dream.

“I shoul– I’m sorry. Was that wei-”

Dream hates the sound of George’s voice sometimes. He hates when George gets confused and stressed and worried because it’s so unlike him. He refuses to listen to it, refuses to give him another chance to speak, he refuses to overthink again.

So he clings to George, holds him close and prays that he will stop overthinking and let himself go.

Growing up a gay guy in Florida, Dream didn’t really dare to dream. He never let himself consider the feeling of craving someone’s lips. All he ever got was the movies, always so idealised and different from what he was actually experiencing. So it’s hard now, to describe the warmth he feels inside, the deep yearning to be closer, to dig a hole in George’s chest and disappear inside.

He lets his actions scream the words his crowded brain can’t form; he allows his hand to dance gently down George’s back, tracing over every knob of his spine with his fingertips. He feels the chills that litter George’s arms once he stops, laying his hand just above the hem of his jeans.

“Dream?” George mumbles. “I want you.”

“You do?” Dream says, words breathy as tired lungs fight for the strength to form a coherent sentence.

“No, I’m making out with you because I wanna date Punz,” he scoffs. “Yes, idiot, I want you.”

Dream grins. “Hey, you could just be using me for practice.”

“Aren't you the one who begged me for another term of kissing school?”

“Maybe. Kiss me again and tell me if I’ve improved?”

George says nothing, just smiles softly, dark eyes flickering over Dream’s face.

Meanwhile, one of Dream’s hands climbs further up George’s thigh until he’s holding his waist, the other tugs loosely on the fabric of his shirt.

It’s kinda unbelievable; George in his lap, smiling widely, pearly white framed by rosy cheeks. He’s pretty, he always is, but more so now when he’s breathing heavily, when his lips are pink and puffy and wet, when he’s Dream’s.

“Can I take your shirt off?” Dream mumbles.

George tilts his head to the side. “How far do you want to go?”

Dream peers up at him. “As far as you’ll let me.”

“As far as I’ll let you?” George asks, a smirk tugging at his pink lips.

“I’m at your mercy,” Dream hums. “Do whatever you want to me. I’ll be good.”

George quirks an eyebrow, huffs out a laugh. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Dream whispers, “‘cause I’m yours.”

-

Months go by.

The play premiers and Dream is a hit and he swears he can see George crying up in the sound booth despite the bright lights. They leave each other flowers, and Dream makes sure to applaud extra hard when they thank the sound crew during curtain call.

Once the theatre has emptied out except for the cast and crew, getting unready to get ready for the cast party, George pulls Dream into the dark sound booth at the back of the theatre and congratulates him with way more than just words. Absolutely no one thinks they’re being subtle, based on the looks on their friends' faces when they return, flushed and rumpled.

They move in a big group, the whole production, walking the short distance between the theatre and the campus Denny’s. Olivia keeps close the whole time, sidling up to Dream and practically hanging on his arm, letting him drag her along. George walks on the other side of him, glaring daggers at her. Dream tries to not let it get to him. But it kinda is. George is, well, he’s hot when he’s jealous.

Denny’s smells like sweat, hangovers, and slightly burnt pancakes, and literally everyone else already there groans when the huge group of theatre kids push in. They’ve probably seen the videos online, and they’re probably preparing for the worst.

Olivia claims the seat to Dream’s left and keeps him occupied the whole evening, leaving George to grumble in silent anger next to him. Honestly, Dream wouldn’t have guessed that George would be… possessive.

But. It is kinda hot.

He doesn’t want his boyfriend’s (how insane is that?) night to be a sad pitiful ball of misery and jealousy, though, so the second Olivia leaves to go to the bathroom, he turns his attention straight (gay) to George.

“Having fun?” George mutters. He rolls a blueberry across his plate with his fork.

“Super,” Dream snorts. He bumps their shoulders together. “Stop being jealous and have fun. Please?”

George turns his head to look at him. “She’s annoying.”

“Yeah. So think about how dumb she is going after a gay guy in a relationship,” Dream suggests.

“That’s borderline bullying.” George arches an eyebrow.

“And?”

“True…” he hums. “Okay, fine. But when I burst out laughing because she starts flirting for real, it’s on you.”

Dream snorts.

All too soon, Olivia is back and she’s definitely wearing more lipstick. George stifles a laugh.

“Oh, George, you’re here,” Olivia says, words strained. “How did you like the show?”

“It was good,” George replies, remnants of laughter mixing between his words. “You were- you were great, Olivia.”

She brightens immediately, a big grin overtaking her features. “You think so?”

George hums. “Best baker’s wife I’ve ever seen, truly. Your voice cracks during that one song-“

“Voice cracks?”

“Yeah-uh, oh! During “Moment in the Woods”! Wow.”

The Denny's they’re in suddenly somehow feels more clammy and gross. Dream tugs at his shirt collar.

Olivia blinks.

George continues. “I'm assuming they were planned? Quackity said they probably weren’t, but I mean… you’re Oliva Parks, right?”

“I-I am… They… I mean, yeah. They were planned,” Olivia croaks. She looks between Dream and George. “Dream, can I talk to you?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dream says, resisting the urge to make any kind of reaction to the stunned look on Olivia’s face. Honestly, Dream had no idea George could be such a bitch. Again. Hot.

“Like, outside?”

“Oh…”

George doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Olivia stands up. “Do you have a car?”

“I do,” George answers. “Why?”

“I- Can I borrow your car keys?”

“No, Olivia Parks, you cannot. But I can go with you.”

She narrows her eyes at George. “Fine. Come with us then.”

They leave the diner in silence, Olivia in the lead.

“Should we text Karl where we’re going in case she kidnaps us?” George whispers.

Dream looks down at him. “You’re insane. She’s not gonna kidnap us.”

George hums. “Wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Where are you parked?” Olivia asks.

“Oh, the theatre.”

“The theatre? That’s so far away!” she groans.

“It’s not that far,” George says. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, rocks back onto his heels.

Dream hums. While Olivia is pacing, looking at something on her phone, he leans down and whispers, “Can we have sex later?”

George turns to look at him. “You do realise Olivia is about to confess her love for you, right?”

“What?”

“Okay! Ugh, we’ll do it here!” Olivia says. “George, you can go back inside.”

“No, I- I think I’ll stay,” he says with a smile.

“I insist,” she pushes through gritted teeth.

“So do I.”

Olivia scoffs. “Fine.”

“You wanted to talk?” Dream prompts. His palms feel sweaty, despite the late-night April breeze. Olivia is clearly preparing something; she’s smoothing out her blouse, searching for something on her phone, clearing her throat. Dream has half a mind to just walk away already, especially if what George just said is true. Sure, he kind of knows Olivia has a thing for him, but he definitely knows that she knows that he and George are dating… Jesus, the whole cast and crew know.

“I- I don’t know how else to say this, Dream. But I feel like we really connected during this musical, you know? A-and so I want to sing you a song from my favourite musical… Actually, the characters kind of remind me of us and I hope you’ll join me because it’s a duet! And- and so is love,” she says. She fumbles with her phone for a short second before the beginning of fucking Seventeen from Heathers starts playing through her shitty phone speakers.

Next to him, Dream feels George stiffen. “Did she just compare you to two crazy people?” he mumbles.

Dream isn’t sure. Frankly, he’s not sure this is real at all. Maybe he fainted and died. Or just fainted and this is some horrible dream.

“We’re not even seventeen,” he adds uselessly.

Oliva sings without a care in the world. Loud and clear and relatively pitchy, she sings Seventeen in a Denny’s parking lot to a gay guy she kissed on stage. Dream wants nothing more than to sink through the cracked asphalt and through all the dirt and rock and tectonic plates and straight to the core so he can get melted by the earth's burning hot core. Dying would be better than this.

“What do you think happens if we just walk away?”

“She’s serenading me, we can’t just walk away,” Dream says through gritted teeth.

So, George does the next worst thing.

“Olivia! Please! Just–stop!”

It takes her more than a few seconds to realise what George just said and pause the song. “What?” she sneers. “What’s your damage, George?”

“She just quoted Heathers at you,” Dream murmurs.

George ignores him. “Olivia. You’re serenading my fucking boyfriend!”

“Your what? Aren’t you straight?” Olivia cries.

“Would I have a boyfriend if I was?” George cackles. “Oh my god, okay, well. We’re leaving now. Thanks for the song.”

Dream clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, Olivia… See you tomorrow for show number two, eh?”

“Come on idiot, we’re going home,” George scoffs, grabbing his hand.

Dream smiles, holding George's hand tightly. "I'm always home with you."

"That's so fucking corny," George says, stopping to pull Dream close. "Kiss me right now."

“She’ll see,” Dream chuckles.

“Exactly. I gotta show her you’re mine.”