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This is, quite possibly, the happiest Dream has ever felt.
This time last year he was throwing his phone across the room and praying that it would just end. A month ago he’d been hiding under his covers while Sapnap laughed with his friends just down the hall. Last week he was speeding to the airport and drafting tweet after tweet that couldn’t begin to say all that he meant.
Today, he’s sprawled out on the couch with a movie that nobody’s paying any attention to playing in the background. In the chair to his right is Sapnap, fidgeting with the edge of a blanket that had been bought only days ago. Between them — head resting against a stray cushion and body curling up like the purring cat at his side — lies George.
He’s waited so long for something like this, and now he has it practically sitting in the palm of his hand. It’s overwhelming, but in the best kind of way. George and Sapnap are lost in their own conversation, something Dream hasn’t made the effort to tune into. He doesn’t feel like he has to hold on to every last word, because this isn’t going anywhere, and that’s just the truth.
Words make their way to Dream’s ears, as is their nature, and he thinks nothing of it until Sapnap and George are looking at him expectantly, and a “right, Dream?” is lost somewhere in the midst of it all, so he’s left to raise his eyebrows and hope his best friends can understand what he’s saying silently.
“Sapnap said I’m much more touchy than he thought I would be,” George says without missing a beat, “but I think he’s exaggerating. He wants you to back him up, even though I know you won’t because he’s completely and totally wrong, right?”
Dream hums to himself in feigned contemplation, but he’s already stuck his flag in the mud on this meaningless battleground before George is halfway done explaining.
“I don’t know George, you are pretty clingy in person.”
In his peripheral vision, Sapnap pumps his fist in victory and sticks his tongue out at George, because that’s just how he is with these kind of things, and a feeling of contentment settles deep within Dream’s bones as he watches his friends argue in a language composed entirely of dramatized faces and obscene gestures.
Patches is thoroughly annoyed by now, there’s no doubt about it, and she makes it known by vacating George and meandering up to where Dream has spread himself across the couch. George pouts, Dream smirks, and Sapnap says something witty about even Patches agreeing with him.
“It’s not my fault she likes me more,” Dream offers up, though his taunting tone prompts more action than his apologetic words should allot. “You’re too suffocating for her, always picking her up and forcing her to cuddle. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was plotting your murder, actually.”
George scoffs, teeth biting into the barely-visible skin stretched across his lips and eyes narrowing in the faint light of the television. “Okay, fine, pick your cat over me. I don’t care. Have fun telling Twitter that I’m moving back to the UK and leaving the Dream Team, effective immediately.”
“George,” Dream whines, drawing out the end of his name and batting his eyelashes in a manner that’s supposed to be some semblance of convincing, “you wouldn’t.”
Always adamant, George’s nose remains upturned and his head shakes no. Dream is determined not to lose, even if he’s fighting over something that doesn’t mean anything at all — but this is George so everything means something, somehow — and so he refuses to back down, nodding and affirming that he’s right, because he is.
“You wouldn’t, for me,” he says, and he’s laying it on so thick now that he nearly gags on his own words as they leave his mouth, but Dream is nothing if not a winner and damn it, he’s going to win this no matter what it takes. He would probably get down on his knees and beg just to make a point, he thinks, and he’s halfway to actually doing it before Sapnap intervenes and spares him the humiliation.
“I cannot believe you two are making me third wheel right now.”
George is the first to object, but Dream is close behind, with both of them raising their voices in protest before being abruptly cut off.
“Don’t even try to tell me I’m wrong, you’re literally proving my point right now.” Sapnap gestures to the way they’ve both sat up from comfortable positions of lounging and, as if they’re puppets attached to the same string, have one hand raised in an identical fashion. “I thought you had ‘no plans to date,’ but I guess Dream is just a liar and also dating George.”
In a moment where he’s expected to have something to respond with, some way to shut Sapnap up and disprove his point in one fell swoop, Dream is uncharacteristically tight-lipped. He doesn’t mean for it to happen, not exactly, but the jokes he’s heard for years don’t quite register like they used to. He chalks it up to the obvious change in scenario, the fact that it’s in real life instead of through stream-quality mics or phones buried in heaps of blankets, and he allows himself to take the faltering in stride. He’s just lucky that George has something to say, or else their playful banter could’ve quickly become awkward stillness in the air.
“You’re just jealous,” George says without any real bite, though it doesn’t take much for Sapnap to clamp down on the hook placed so clearly in front of him.
“Oh, so you’re admitting I’m right? DNF is real, and you and Dream are purposefully making me third wheel because you hate me?”
This opens up the door for Dream to re-incorporate himself into the conversation, and he kind of feels like if he doesn’t take a step through then it’ll generate a whole new set of questions that nobody wants to ask. “So what? What if we were?”
“Yeah Sapnap, what if it is real?” George questions, following Dream’s lead. It’s like they’ve had years to develop this naturally effortless timing, and while they technically have, Dream thinks he’s still allowed to marvel at the ease with which they’ve implemented it in a setting that isn’t dependent on harsh blue light. “Doesn’t that make you a homophobe for hating us, then? What about that? You’re literally canceled, oh my god. I can’t believe you. Sapnap, you actually need to address this or we’re kicking you out. Isn’t that right, Dream?”
“Mhm, for sure,” Dream agrees halfheartedly. This isn’t an avenue of conversation he’s remarkably comfortable venturing down when he can’t just mute his mic or hide his facial expressions, but giving up that information willingly is not something he’s comfortable with either, so this uncharacteristic passiveness begins to familiarize itself with Dream’s psyche bit by bit.
It reminds him a bit of speedruns. In the moment, when you’re in a bit of a bind — and sure you could dodge the Iron Golem you didn’t mean to hit or box yourself in until the Piglins forget that you’re there, but it’s so early into the run and it would be so much easier to just not — so you lift your hands up in the air like there’s not a thing in the world you could do but let the red overlay shine on your face and accept your fate far before it’s set in stone. That’s what he’s doing right now, letting the things that will happen, happen, without any kind of interference. Sometimes the Iron Golem gets stuck outside of a doorway, and it can’t come after you after all.
Sapnap isn’t one to let silence linger, not when there’s electricity in the air like George has ensured. “The funny thing is, I’m only like ninety percent sure you guys are kidding.”
“What do you mean by that?” George questions, quirking an eyebrow and dampening his tone dramatically, because all of a sudden this isn’t just a group of friends fucking around with a pointless movie playing in the background.
Dream reaches for the remote and, decisively, hits the off button.
The darkness comes quickly and uncontested, washing over them like a wave engulfing already damp sand. The tide had been steadily rising, so it really shouldn’t be a surprise that the water’s here now.
“I don’t know,” Sapnap says, but it isn’t enough of an answer, so he’s met with absolutely zero response. “You know how you guys are. It’s hard to explain, but you get it right?”
“Explain it then. It’s not like we’re on stream and have to filter shit.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a thread explaining your reasoning,” Dream tacks on, and it’s a welcome reminder to all three of them that they’re in safety. These are the people that they’ve entrusted with damn near everything, that they’ve forayed into the unknown with time and time again, so this shouldn't be daunting in the slightest.
Sapnap chuckles, a warm familiarity in the bleak midnight. “I don’t know, you two have just always been, like, weirdly close. Like, sometimes you’ll do the exact same thing and you won’t even notice it, but I do because it’s obvious and I have to sit there for a second and convince myself that I’m not making it up because it happens so often, yaknow?”
He’s not so convinced, though, so Dream starts to form a question before George interrupts. “Name one time that’s happened in the la—”
“—within like—”
“ —week.”
“—a week.”
And, as if the evidence couldn’t get any more damning, the pair let out identical sighs of exasperation.
“See? You’re literally proving my point right now,” Sapnap says, excited because it’s not often that Dream and George give in as easily as they’ve been forced to right now.
“But it’s not just that. That was just an example. Like— Oh! Remember how we were talking about George being clingy?” They both nod. “Well, he’s like way more touchy with Dream than he is with me. When we first got home from the airport,” he says, this time facing George’s shaded outline, “you wouldn’t let go of Dream for like, hours, and at first I was like ‘okay, whatever, you’ve been waiting for this for a while’, but you just keep being all handsy with him and then whenever Dream isn’t available you come and find me. That’s like, some solid DNF proof right there.”
George’s shoulders are slumped, but Dream can’t tell if they’re that way because he’s tired or if there’s something else stirring beneath the surface. Usually he would rely on George’s face to tell him — he’s always been so expressive that it’s like reading 40 point font to Dream — but that’s shrouded in shadows, so he’s left in the dark in a way he’s not used to.
“I— okay, but that’s just because he’s tall, not because he’s Dream,” he says, and suddenly Dream is paying much closer attention to this conversation than he was before.
“What does that mean?” he asks, prompting George to elaborate without putting himself in a vulnerable position. There are aspects of himself he would very much not like to unpack at the current moment, despite how topical they may be, so the questioning moving in any direction that isn’t his is a personal victory.
Sapnap leans back, trying to obscure the fact that he’s listening intently. He’s failing very miserably, but Dream and George are kind enough to ignore him and let George respond. “I’m just touch starved or something, and it’s a known fact that being cuddled is far superior to actually doing the work cuddling.”
“Okay, so you’re into being dominated. What do I have to do with this?”
He says it to provoke a reaction, testing the waters in a sense, and Dream can swear that the littlest bit of a blush is visible on George’s cheeks despite the darkness. Success.
“You’re actually an idiot,” he giggles.
Sapnap says, “you’re not denying it, though,” and he seems in no way serious, but there’s something letting Dream know that he may actually be onto something. That, though, is far too close to the unnamed thing that Dream is actively trying to avoid talking about, so in an act of mercy to both himself and George, he takes it as the joke that they’re pretending it is.
“But like, actually,” George continues, “you’re here, you’re convenient, and you’re not shorter than me like Sapnap is, so you’re just the best choice.”
Sapnap, of course, significantly objects to this statement, and that little bit of momentum is just the thing they needed to steer the conversation back to its playful origins and away from feelings that are much more real when they’re spoken out loud. A genuine debate devolves into petty insults, and Dream decides that it’s the perfect time to dismiss himself to his room with a yawn and will himself to fall asleep without thinking of anything of any importance at all.
Dream would be a liar if he claimed that his actions don’t carry a different weight than they used to.
He makes breakfast for all three of them in the morning. It’s something simple, just bacon and eggs, but George and Sapnap act like he’s blessed them beyond words for some reason. When he hands George a plate full of food, their fingers brush ever so slightly and send jolts of electricity up his arm and straight into his beating heart. For just a moment their eyes lock onto each others’ with an intensity that Dream can’t quite put words to. Sapnap must be feeling generous, because he chooses then to stuff his mouth full of food and spare them all the embarrassment of pointing out the tension palpable in the air.
They haven’t ever been awkward before, and it rattles Dream to his very core. Something, however insignificantly small it may seem, has wedged itself between the formerly inseparable. He wants to blame it on the change in scenery, the fact that George only just touched down in Florida, but he’s reached his limit on the number of lies that he can comfortably tell himself.
The truth of it all is that Sapnap had a point. Neither wants to acknowledge it, but they act differently around each other than they do with anyone else. It’s an unforgiving bit of honesty, and only thinking about it makes Dream’s pulse throb uncontrollably. Over the internet, there were excuses. Now he and George are living together, and it’s only been amplified it to a point of undeniable objectiveness.
George swallows, clears his throat, and Dream has never found it easier to focus. He can see Sapnap’s eyes tracking him in his periphery. He has to know, right? Nobody knows Dream better than him — bar George — and as subtle as he tries to be, he can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t enough.
Does that mean George knows too?
No. He can’t. That would ruin everything.
For years they’ve talked about things being like they are now — all three of them living together in one house, best friends for as long as they can remember — and now they have it. Sapnap dropped out of college and left his family behind. George hopped on a plane across the Atlantic for a man whose face he’d never seen. They both put so much on the line to be here, and Dream refuses to be the reason it’s all for naught.
“Do you have any hot sauce?” George asks, looking at Dream.
“Why are you asking Dream?” Sapnap responds. “He’s terrified of seasoning, there’s no way he would willingly buy a bottle of hot sauce.”
“I am not terrified of seasoning,” Dream says, rasing his voice indignantly, “I just have sensitive taste buds. It’s very different.”
Sapnap nods, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows with a hum. He needs to make it abundantly clear that he’s not buying a single word that comes from Dream’s mouth.
George, from his place beside Dream, leans in until the space between their shoulders is microscopic. “Is he being mean to you?” he asks, exaggerating the pout of his lips and concern-furrowed brows to a point of near ridiculousness. They’re so close now. Dream can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to inch forward and press his lips against George’s. He has never wanted to kiss someone as much as he wants to kiss George right now.
Dream grits his teeth and leans away. “It’s fine, Sapnap’s right.” His chest burns like it always seems to do when George gets close. He’s starting to get used to the pain. “I don’t know where the hot sauce is, but he probably does. You should just ask him.”
“I— okay, sure.”
Before he can say anything else, Sapnap responds. “In the pantry, middle left shelf. Should be next to some spices in little jars.”
George nods, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up. Once his back is turned, Sapnap stares at Dream with a clear question imbedded in his gaze. Dream shakes his head slightly, hoping Sapnap will get the message and leave him alone. Before, he would have taken George’s clear offer to gang up on Sapnap. He can’t explain himself — not honestly, anyways — with George walking back to the table with a red bottle in his grasp.
“So, Sapnap, when do you leave for Karl’s?” George asks, sitting down.
“Tomorrow morning,” he replies, face softening like it does whenever he talks about Karl. Dream needs to remember to ask him about that. “I’m gonna get up super early so I can be there before dinner, I think. That way we can chill for a bit before we stream. Oh, I almost forgot! George, he told me to tell you…”
Despite his best efforts, that thing Dream has been ignoring just won’t stop rearing its ugly head. He’s never struggled to understand himself before, and it’s difficult to convince himself that he doesn’t know why his heart has picked up in pace recently. He doesn’t want to feel so nervous all the time — stomach twisting in upon itself constantly — but Dream can’t exactly stop it either.
To say that this has been building for a while would be an understatement. It wasn’t clear to him at the time, but when he looks back Dream can pinpoint moment after moment that should have keyed him in to how he felt much earlier.
1. He taught himself to code just to impress an older boy who he had never properly met before, and when that didn’t work he only taught himself more and more, until he was the one running servers behind the scenes.
2. After weeks of carefully weighing his options, Dream quit his job just to see if he could make it as a content creator. The first thing he did was ask George to follow him to the top.
3. When other people started to say things, ask questions, and even write thousands of words about an imaginary relationship with his best friend, he wasn’t outraged. No, he was more intrigued than anything else.
4. Sapnap started to connect with friends, and Dream decided that he wouldn’t meet anyone before he met George. People were confused, but he couldn’t understand what was odd about waiting like he was.
And that’s not even the half of it, honestly. It’s at this exact moment in time, at 11:53 pm on a Wednesday night, that Dream voices the thing that’s been haunting him for the better half of a decade. His words, barely even a whisper, have never felt as loud as they do right now.
“I’m in love with him.”
The realization comes with a lot of overwhelming feelings, but the only one that matters to Dream is mourning. He’s mournful for a lot of things: his ignorance, his friendship, and his impending heartbreak. But, most of all, he mourns for George.
There was once a time where Dream could walk though his house — make breakfast at 3pm and watch football until sunset — and become completely caught up in the small moments of happiness. He didn’t have to overanalyze where his hand fell on the cushions or how long he let his gaze linger in places it shouldn't. None of those things mattered before, but he’s fallen so far from where he once stood. Now his hands are unrelentingly restless and every syllable that he utters is picked apart until he’s certain none of it reveals the most delicate parts of himself.
If George knows, he hates Dream for it in every waking moment. This ruins everything that they had planned out. How can he live with his best friend for years and know that it will never be the same as it was before Dream fucked it all up? Because, realistically, he’s going to fuck this one up. It’s not pessimism if all the evidence supports his conclusion. He’s cracking after two weeks, so he knows he’ll be nothing more than dust by two years.
If George doesn’t though, isn’t that even worse? He sees Dream’s behavior change overnight and is forced to assume that he’s to blame, because he is. Living with that level of guilt — the idea that you’ve ruined your best friendship and you can’t fix it — would that not be enough to kill a man? Dream certainly feels like he’s dying.
But he can’t say anything. Of course he can’t. The truth is that he’s afraid to lose what he has.
Would it be worth it, voicing his feelings before they eat him alive and he’s just a shell of himself, even if it meant changing everything? He understands that — realistically — George probably doesn’t reciprocate his affection. Still, the shimmer of polished hope gleams faintly in the darkest corners of his mind.
Losing George would be losing everything, but is that not what’s happening when he stays silent and lets the wedge between them grow until it can’t be ignored?
Sapnap is gone, so Dream is editing today. It’s nothing overwhelmingly challenging, just a Minecraft but… video, and yet he can’t bring himself to do anything more than loop the same clip over and over until it’s nothing more than background noise. He’s distracted, and it’s all George’s fault. There’s room for nothing other than cold fingers and unyielding eyes in his brain.
It’s ridiculous that one fleeting touch affects him like this, right? He shouldn’t feel nervous thinking about his friend’s — his best friend’s — hand brushing up against his. He and Sapnap have accidentally brushed hands hundreds of times, and not once has he thought about it for more than a second after the fact. This is one of those things that he doesn’t like to admit to anyone, not even himself, but it feels almost inevitable that he will for some reason.
And, speaking of the devil, the door to Dream’s room swings open to reveal George. Without a second of hesitation, he walks in and plops himself on the ground next to Dream’s chair. He can feel the hairs of his leg stand on end each time George exhales, that’s how dangerously close he is to Dream. Before he can allow himself to become recaptured by introspection, he clears his throat and pulls the headphones from his ears.
“Hello?”
George is unphased. “Dream. Hi.”
“Do you—” Dream starts, interrupting himself, “sorry, did you need me?”
He looks up from his position on the floor and bats his lashes in a way that Dream can only describe as sinful. “Hm?”
“Is there a reason you’re sitting on my floor right now?” Dream asks, powering through his distraction and rephrasing himself.
“I’m bored.”
“And?”
George scoffs, like Dream is somehow ridiculous for asking him a question. “And you’re not boring. Entertain me.”
“I’m editing right now,” he says, gesturing to his headphones.
“So?”
“So what? I’m editing your video, the one from last September,” Dream says, as if he’s proving a point. Surely George would want his own video finished, right?
George sighs, resting the side of his head on Dream’s thigh, and Dream can already tell this is going to be a problem. “I don’t care. Pay attention to me instead.”
Oh, this is definitely a problem. The logical half of Dream’s brain is telling him to shake George off, kick him out, or do anything that stops him from pushing Dream to the limit. The impulsive half is telling him to take George’s face in his hands, make eye contact, and—
“—What’s the magic word?”
George’s head is on Dream’s leg, his cheek is being cradled in one hand, his eyes are just so entrancing in the harsh light of his computer, and—
“—Please?”
Internally, Dream is falling apart. Externally: “Okay, I guess I’ll entertain you for now.”
He pouts. “For now? Why not forever? Do you not love me?”
It takes all of the willpower within Dream to sustain a calm and emotionless front despite the alarms blaring throughout his mind. “Don’t get greedy now, George.”
“You’re the worst, Dream,” he says jokingly, and with that George pushes himself up from the floor and out of Dream’s room entirely. It’s an odd interaction to say the least, and Dream doesn’t quite know if relief is the best way to describe how he feels once George is gone, but it’s the only word he’ll allow himself to linger on. Things between them are evolving in a way he doesn’t quite understand, and Dream would be a liar if he said he wasn’t downright terrified to ruin it.
Everything is so delicate now. Dream feels as if he’s walking on a glass table that’s bound to shatter at any second, but he wasn’t ever given a choice in the matter. When he could have George at arm’s length — ocean’s length — things weren’t like this. He’s so much closer now, though.
People always complain about being separated from those that they love. Dream wonders why nobody ever said anything about the pain of having them near instead. It was so much easier when he could convince himself that nothing would ever actually happen.
George’s lips are stained red from the strawberries he had with lunch, and all Dream can think about is how nice it would be to kiss him right now. If he notices Dream’s gaze lingering, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Things between them are already tense enough as-is.
Dream thinks he knows. He has never been a religious man, but the very idea makes him want to get down on his knees and pray, then and there, like a zealous fanatic.
It’s one thing to have an innocent crush, but this thing is much uglier. His longing might be easier to stomach if it was something gentle, Dream thinks, but he knows that it isn’t. Instead it’s cruel and unrelenting, threatening to destroy everything he has ever known for the smallest glimpses of hope. He wants to reach across the couch and ruin the most genuine friendship he’s ever known, because what if it’s all okay when the dust settles?
“Dream?”
George’s voice cuts through his clouded thoughts like a knife, his accent sharpening the edge to perfection. Dream knows that nothing matters if these moments together don’t.
“Hm?” he hums, eyes widening. To anyone else, it would look like he was just paying more attention. Dream knows that’s not true, that he just wants to drink in more of George’s radiance.
“Were you paying attention,” George asks, “or do I need to say that again?”
His words aren’t the kindest, most diluted, but Dream never wants them to be. This is one of the many things he loves about George: he has never been afraid to tell Dream exactly what he’s thinking. Sometimes it stings, but that’s not a bad thing. Don’t you need alcohol to clean off a cut, even if it makes you wince to just think about the sensation?
Shaking his head to clear his mind of wandering words that threaten to find a way out, Dream responds hesitantly: “I’m sorry, I totally zoned out. You know how I am.”
And George just nods, because he does know. Dream’s throat might very well close in on itself in that moment. It’s such a small thing, George’s understanding, but it’s everything.
He knows all there is to know about Dream.
But does he know?
The air between them falls stagnant, silent. Dream’s heartbeat pounds up through his ears until it’s the only thing he can hear. Blood pumps violently within his veins, rushing up to the surface of his skin and threatening to seep through. He blinks once, twice, and his eyelids have never felt heavier than they do right now. If he can’t see George, his eyes can’t get caught on strawberry lips and gently sloping cheekbones. Maybe, then, he will be able to pretend like this isn’t as terrifying as it is.
George clears his throat, and the whole world stops to listen.
“Did I do something?”
Dream’s nerve cells switch into overdrive immediately. “What do you mean?”
It seems as if his next exhale is almost painful by the way George drags it out slowly. “You’re acting all weird around me and I don’t like it. I want to know what I did.”
He speaks like a man who knows all of his secrets and is only waiting for Dream to come clean on his own. He can’t — he won’t — go down like this. And so Dream does the thing he wants to do the very least: tells the truth.
“You didn’t do anything, like, anything at all. Please don’t think you did,” he says, stumbling over his words with the sureness of a man whose life is on the line. “It’s my fault, don’t worry about it. I don’t want my shit to bother you.”
“I want to know.”
George’s hand finds his, holding it steady on the cushion between them.
No, Dream thinks, I don’t think you do.
“It’s not a big deal, just ignore it. My brain has been all weird lately anyways.”
His grip tightens the slightest bit, and it’s exponentially worse. “How? Tell me. I want to know.”
Dream feels like his skull is a second out from fracturing. That is, if his rapidly swelling heart doesn’t take him out before his brain gets an opportunity. How is it that even in his most stressful moments, he can’t stop thinking about how George’s icy fingertips would pair perfectly with his perpetually sweaty palms? When he looks back on the coming moments, he will blame it all on this simple fact: he cannot think about anything other than George, full stop.
The words fly out before he can do anything to stop them, really.
“I keep thinking about what Sapnap said the other night. About us.”
Oh, he’s fucked it all up now. George takes a moment to respond, but it feels like eternity before he slowly parts his lips and speaks, this time much more softly.
“Huh.” The pause between his words is haunting. “I have been too, actually.”
George’s frame was small to begin with, but Dream sees him shrink into himself even further still. He’s afraid — that’s the only explanation — but of what? The very thought makes Dream’s bones ache in a way that pulls him to George, closer still. Their shoulders are now brushing, and his blood boils as it rushes to the contact like a moth drawn to a flame. He’s faced with a choice that’s been haunting him for far too long.
Dream’s head is slow as it pivots, but eventually he faces George fully. His eyes shine in a way that’s indescribable, and if Dream was anyone else he’d say it’s a gaze of love. Instead he watches George blink slowly, eyelashes delicately casting a shadow upon porcelain skin stained in shades of purple. Their hands shake in unison, steadied only by the couch beneath them, and even that can’t help much.
George’s eyes break contact. They flit down to where Dream bites at his lip, a nervous habit he’s never been able to kick.
He never really had a choice at all, did he?
Dream surges forward, closing the gap that’s been growing between them for far too long. George’s other hand comes up to cup his face and pull him impossibly closer. His lips are warm in a way his hands never were, and Dream tries to tell him but kisses him harder instead. Somehow, he thinks the message was communicated regardless.
His heart still burns, but for all the right reasons this time. There are so many things Dream should be worried about right now.
If he keeps kissing George though, he thinks it’ll be alright.