Archive of Our Own

Half an hour. It takes half an hour to disappear in an apartment this full. George notes this and tucks it away somewhere in his brain for another day, should he find himself in this situation again, to which the answer is always undoubtedly yes. Half an hour of traipsing, five hellos to strangers, nine songs and Karl desperately begging him to dance, before George ultimately decides he's seen enough, and retreats upstairs in search of an empty room to hide in for the night, ignoring the way the time between his arrival and disappearance becomes slimmer each time he comes to one of these.

And the upstairs is larger than the downstairs, which seems to be a universal thing, George finds, as every house he has stepped into before this has been the same, even in England, a thought he pushes to the side as soon as it arises. The last thing he needs is that cloud on top of all the others already shadowing him.

Five doors line one long hallway, the first slightly ajar, the rest closed. George enters the fifth quietly, undisturbing, feeling too much like an intruder as he steps carefully into a large, overly white bedroom, closing the door behind him with a gentle click and leaving the light off before opening the shallow curtains and plopping himself onto the double bed in the centre of the room, but not without taking off his shoes.

It is one thing to help yourself to a stranger's bed, it is another to leave muddy foot tracks on their sheets, and George lays down against the pillows having convinced himself that one of those things is worse than the other, staring up at the sky through the window, at all of the yellow poking through all of the other windows across from this one, at all of the silhouettes in all of the apartments on Park Avenue.

They say New York is the city that never sleeps, something George has spent his whole life believing in, and, while true, he doesn't find as much comfort in it as he used to. Things are never what you expect them to be.

He stretches out as much as he can, toes pointed, arms high above his head, and the pull in his calves comforts him, feeling as though someone has wrapped their hands around both ends of his body and pulled him out like dough. It reminds him of being a kid, laying in his little red racer bed and stretching himself out as tall as he could go, because it felt like being hugged and it made his chest all warm inside.

He sits like this for a while, staring at the popcorn ceiling whilst Becky Hill blasts from somewhere down the stairs, thumping through the floor into this peaceless silence as George starts to wonder why he came at all.

He pulls up his phone and the time blares at him; half 8 already, and the question of why he came at all morphs into why he came so early, and then he feels a pang of guilt in his stomach over his friends as he's reminded once again that they're not at fault for his reluctance to ever join in. He should be grateful they still bother inviting him, but he isn't so sure he can bring himself to be.

It's funny how things change. George recalls a time he couldn't stand being alone, now he can't imagine anything worse than company. Maybe America has done that to him, or maybe not; maybe a plethora of other things all combined into one. It becomes harder and harder to tell each time he thinks about it, so he just doesn't.

The bed is soft, and he turns over into it, nestling into a corner of the duvet like a small animal, thinking about how easy it would be to fall asleep here.

Then there's a noise, footsteps uneven and loud down the hall, padding across the most shredded places of the carpet like whoever they belong to is stumbling on their feet, creeping closer by the second until eventually the sound stops outside the room, and there's a moment George sits up—eyes fixed to the door—and wonders will they won't they, before it becomes apparent that they will, and instead of praying that the door doesn't open, he prays that it is only one person, and not a couple connected by the tongue; he isn't sure he can handle that tonight.

There isn't time to wonder why the stranger doesn't knock, as the door is creaking open and the shape of a person comes shuffling into the dark, turning on the dim light and then stopping dead in his tracks as if he's just seen a ghost, sweeping brown hair out of his eyes like he's trying to properly take in the scene.

George watches him expectantly as the man trips over his words.

"Shit. Shit, I didn't know anyone was in here," he says, one hand on the door handle, thumb rubbing along its edge. The embarrassment on his face is evident, and George almost feels bad for not responding, just staring dumbfounded like the guy's some sort of wild animal that might attack him without a moment's notice. But then, as quickly as it was opened, the door closes again, and George is left to his silence, in a room much lighter than it was when he entered it.

And something must shift in those fifteen seconds, maybe the air quality, or the level of privacy which, at first, for some reason, George had thought was secure. Now he feels overexposed, watched almost. The only thing he finds a sliver of comfort in is that he's certain the same thought, at the same time, had shot through both their heads, he and the guy, the thought of 'thank God, it could have been worse.' For once George is grateful he has no one.

He doesn't know what else he'd been expecting, but he throws himself back against the pillows and laughs, covering his mouth with his hand, turning so that his cheek rests flush against the pillowcase.

Some four thousand miles from London—where his family will all be fast asleep by now beneath the safety of the same warm roof—George lets himself think of home, and for the first time since he left, he wants to be there. And it terrifies him. There is something so uncomfortable about the deep rooted aching for a thing you can't have. And it's even more uncomfortable when somewhere deep inside of yourself you know that want isn't quite right.

Maybe the sentiment of home had been lost in the war of growing up, instability will do that to a person, the harsh reality of never being rooted to one spot. Instead he'd found refuge in people, rather than places; in his friends, in the only teacher in all of secondary school that took George's life in his hands and promised him it was worth keeping, before he moved away with the promise of frequent visits only for George to never see him again.

Most of the time it's impossible to miss England, when for so long he was its prisoner, but if there's anything George has learnt since moving to New York other than hold the only people you have close, it's that you can spend your whole life trying to outrun something that will never really leave you.

And sometimes when he closes his eyes for long enough, he's back there again, sixteen, overworked on Boxing Day with his break twenty minutes overdue and his supervisor screaming at him over a problem he didn't create, and he asks himself what all of that work has gotten him, all of that pushing towards something bigger, because still there's this feeling here tonight, burning in his chest, that he isn't where he belongs.

He itches with the desire to do it all again, resit school, relive all of those first experiences in the hopes of a better outcome than this: alone on New Year's Eve in a stranger's bedroom, scared of making himself known to the people that are supposed to love him most in this world.

Something clicks in the hallway beyond the door, and George is glaring at the handle in a way that hurts his neck, waiting for the next disturbance. Maybe this is karma for not socialising on the biggest day of the year, but what's the point in that?

He sits up with soft breaths, elbows pressed either side of him to the duvet, bracketing his waist, and listens for the soft footfalls of someone's approach—perhaps the guy from earlier, too drunk to have realised he's already checked this room, perhaps someone else—this time with the silent hope that the door never opens, but it does, because of course it does, however this time, George beats them to it.

"There's someone in here!" he says, cringing at the tone of his voice, but it seems to work, as the shuffling ebbs out slowly and the silence makes itself at home again. George takes this as his final sign to move, maybe not to join in with everyone else—he doesn't feel like drinking, worried he'll make a twat of himself in front of that many people—but to move, get out of this room, spare himself the awkwardness of anyone else walking in on him.

He stands with a stretch, pocketing his phone, knowing there's no chance of finding Sapnap and convincing him to leave, but then again, there's a chance that Sapnap has left already—though unlikely—in search of someplace better. George hopes that isn't the case. He doesn't feel like trying to hail a cab on Park Avenue on New Year's Eve.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and glances both ways, as if crossing a busy road, then traipses off in search of the doorway man to let him know the bedroom's free if he still wants it, prepared to make the disturbances somebody else's problem.

The living room is packed wall to wall with at least forty people, and out of everyone, only a handful stay in time with the music, a song George doesn't recognise by an artist he somehow recognises even less. He steps through the room quietly, desperate not to draw attention, thinking of a way he can remain unseen, unheard, in another place of the apartment.

Then he sees him, the doorway man, beyond the crowd and out of the way, and it's just like it is in the movies when the main character sees their love interest for the first time, only this isn't a movie, and George would rather be doing anything else than looking at this man, than standing in this room full of people he doesn't know.

He catches his eye from across the room in some awkward, glancing swoop over the kitchen, where the man sits reserved and playing with the sleeves of his jacket, looking like he doesn't belong. George doesn't stop to wonder why he's wearing a jacket in this heat—the room is full of bare arms and faint tan lines—because those aren't the sorts of questions you ask about people; sometimes the answers aren't very nice.

He makes to go over there, but suddenly his heart feels heavy in his chest and his tongue swells in his mouth, so he treads carefully across the living room instead, pushing mindlessly past the warm, heavy bodies of boys with jerseys and girls with manes for hair dancing shoeless on the coffee table. He senses a casualty but says nothing, and slips past the man in the kitchen without being caught, quietly looping back around again before slipping away.

Forget it, he thinks, head down, eyes trained to the floor, maybe mentioning it isn't in his best interest at all. He knows if he were in the man's position, he wouldn't want it brought up again; the fact he'd walked in on someone who could have been doing anything. Maybe he's already thought about it enough, and that's why he's sitting alone at a party. No one sits alone at parties.

Then again, he had been looking for somewhere quiet, empty, or maybe he'd had someone with him and George hadn't seen them. Maybe he'd been abandoned. He's over analysing this, he thinks, and leans against the wall by the stairs, back digging uncomfortably into a chalkboard which has 'Happy New Year!" sprawled all across it. When he glances back up to face the kitchen, the man's vanished.

George's stomach settles comfortably, but there's an awkwardness in his empty hands that irks him. He pulls out his phone and opens Twitter, ignoring all of the tweets from his friends, all of the screenshotted pages of their notes apps on how wonderful this year has been for them, and almost all of their pictures are void of his presence, which George supposes he isn't allowed to feel miserable about as it's mostly his fault. Maybe he'd be in at least half of these if he actually involved himself.

He stops on Sapnap's tweet, a whole thread—posted three hours ago—of pictures after pictures. And most of them are Karl, but George finds himself in a lot of them too, and he smiles softly down at his screen, screenshotting one he doesn't think he has: a picture of him, Sapnap, Karl and a woman they'd met at a bar one night who told them her life story, how she grew up in Chicago and ran away to tour with The Stooges in the 70s.

George didn't really know who The Stooges were, and he still doesn't, but he doesn't have the time to think about this as the weighted force of a body shoves full force into his side, sending him a few feet across the hall, and his phone scattering along the tiles of the kitchen, face down. George jerks down to grab it, and thanks some greater being somewhere that it isn't smashed when he flips it around.

And a voice comes from where he was just standing, hurried and panicked, like he can't get his words out fast enough. "Holy shit," he says, "I'm so sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going at all there, I'm sorry."

George smooths down his t-shirt with a warm palm, he spares a glance at the man in front of him, and then it sinks in. Doorway man in all his glory, hands outstretched like he's soothing a child, worry in his eyebrows, and his hair isn't brown, it's more golden.

George laughs awkwardly. "It's okay," he says.

Then for a second the man falters, and George can almost see the cogs turning in his brain. "Wait," he says, "bedroom guy?"

George nods, a little bit anxious. "Yeah, uh, the bedroom's free now, by the way, if you wanted it."

"Oh! Uh, yeah, thanks. Sorry again for, you know, barging in like that. And for knocking your phone out of your hand."

George smiles back, the way you do at strangers when you pass them in the street or in the supermarket. "It's okay," he says.

Talking isn't necessarily important at parties—he'd learnt that at university—most of the time it is easier to stare at the ceiling, and sometimes that's something people don't mind. Tonight is not one of those times.

Just when George thinks they're finished, the man taps him on the arm. "Hey," he says. "You're British."

George scolds himself for not running quick enough. He nods once, firmly. "I am."

And it isn't something he notices until now, but the guy looks a little bit insane, eyes half lidded with sleep, bordered by a sweet, silky purple. If he'd have dropped to the floor in a pile of drawn out limbs, George wouldn't have been surprised, but instead he says "I'm Dream" with this quiet, reserved smile, no teeth bared.

What sort of name is that? George thinks, nodding despite it. "I'm George."

"What?"

"George," he says, leaning in if only slightly.

Dream smiles, then his eyes drop to George's hands, loosely balled at his sides, his phone still in one of them. "You're not drinking," Dream says.

George shakes his head, wondering where a stranger finds the courage to ask a question like that to someone they don't know. Maybe George has a problem with alcohol, maybe he has alcohol related trauma stemming from childhood. He doesn't, but Dream doesn't know that.

"I don't like drinking," George says, because it's partially the truth, and he doesn't feel like being a dickhead. He doesn't feel like being anything. The full truth would be that he actually doesn't mind drinking, but he stays sober for the same reasons his dad stays sober: because alcohol leads to problems that aren't always fixable the next day.

"I get stupid when I drink," George says. "I think I'm, like, invincible or something." He laughs and rubs his chin. "I start picking fights and stuff, and winding people up. Alcohol's just not good for me."

Dream nods. "I can respect that," he says. "I actually don't really drink either."

George hums. "Why are you drinking tonight?" he asks, like he cares, which he doesn't, but it's nice when people do.

"Special occasion."

"Special occasion?"

"It's New Year's Eve!" Dream says.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess."

"You guess? What the hell, George." And then he laughs, and there's something about the way he says his name like that, and the sound that follows: this deep, genuine whole belly giggle. George has never heard anything like it.

He looks up at him and smiles, and for the smallest moment everything falls away; it's just them, in this room, and it's the strangest thing in the world.

"Well," George says, the corners of his mouth upturned. "It's just New Year's Eve. It's just another year. And we'll have New Year's Eve again next year, and the year after that."

"Not if something happens," Dream says.

George starts walking, supposing Dream will follow. "What's gonna happen?" he asks.

Dream does follow. "I don't know," he says. George can't help but think he sounds nervous, kicking his need to soothe into override. "Maybe, like, an asteroid might hit or something. Then everyone'll be dead."

George hums. "Maybe." He pats down a couch in the corner of the room. He can't make out the colour in this light, it doesn't matter. "Not wet," George says, astonished, then throws himself down into its corner crease. Dream sits in the other.

His hair looks good in this light, George thinks, then immediately looks away, struggling to find that balance between appropriate and inappropriate; it isn't often he bumps into strangers and immediately doesn't mind their company, maybe this is just new.

There's silence between them as Dream drinks and George people watches, sniffing out his friends in the crowd.

"Who do you know?" Dream asks.

George turns to him. "What?"

"Who are you looking for?"

"Oh." He shakes his head. "No one. Some of my friends brought me here, but I can't see them," he says.

"Who brought you here?"

He shrugs. "Sapnap and Karl."

"Sapnap? He'll be here still. He's not really one to leave a party early."

For some reason George doesn't like the way he says that, in a way that insinuates that George knows nothing. "What qualifies as early?" George asks. It doesn't shock him that Dream knows him too; everyone knows Sapnap, he's one of those people that are so easy to like, so easy to know, one of those that even if you've never hung out with him, his name is probably somehow in your contacts.

"At a New Year's Eve party, you'd think leaving before midnight would be leaving early," Dream says. "Like, that'd qualify as leaving early, I'd say."

"Well, what time is it?"

Dream checks his phone, the first time George has seen him look at it all night. Given, he's been with him for fifteen minutes.

"Almost 10," Dream says.

George sneaks a glance at his lockscreen where a picture of Dream and Sapnap swallows every inch of it, Sapnap on Dream's back, Dream's hands around his legs, holding them around his waist. Thankfully, Dream doesn't mention the invasion of privacy, and he doesn't immediately lock his phone in a panic either, which arguably would have been worse.

"So, you know Sapnap?" George asks.

Dream nods. "We've been friends since we were kids. Like, 11, 12ish."

"No way," George says, fidgeting with his sleeves, stretching out like a cat. "That's crazy. I haven't known him that long."

"We used to live together," Dream says, smiling like he's reliving it. "Before he got with Karl."

"Hm." George says. "I met Karl first."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But he and Sapnap kind of come as a package deal."

Dream laughs. "That's true." He drinks the rest of his can in one swig, then leaves it on the side table. Observant as he is, George hadn't even noticed the side table, and he doesn't stop to wonder why that is, rearranging himself on the couch, pulling his knees away from his chest and crossing them, body facing Dream, who still sits upright with one wrist parallel to the arm of the couch, pale fingers dangling off of the edge, though drinkless now.

"I'm interested," Dream says suddenly, needlessly leaning forward to give George his undivided attention. "Does he mention me?" he asks.

George's mouth opens and closes like a fish. He was hoping this question wouldn't come. Truthfully, Sapnap hadn't mentioned him. George had never even heard his name before until tonight, and a name like Dream would have been hard to forget if he had done. But he can't find it in himself to tell Dream that. What he can find is the strength to lie, so he does.

"Sure," George says, nodding like he really believes it. "He talks about you a lot, actually."

This seems to shock Dream, and his eyebrows scrunch up all softly on his forehead. "Really?" he asks, but it's genuine confusion, and not in the 'me, really?' sort of way that might have made George swing for him if he'd had a few drinks in him. He could list a few things he'd do if he had a few drinks in him, actually, one being grabbing Dream by the shoulders and asking him why he has one of those annoying faces that make you never want to stop looking at it.

George wants to meet his parents. He wants to see the people who created this man and thank them, or maybe cry at their feet.

"I'm sure he's mentioned you," George says, a little tongue tied.

"You're lying," Dream says.

"How am I lying?"

"He mentions me all the time or you're sure he's mentioned me?"

George sighs, smiling at his lap, he feels the heat smudged over the tips of his ears. "Okay, I don't know who you are," he says. "I don't think he's ever mentioned you. If he has then I wasn't listening."

And Dream bursts out laughing at that, the same beautiful sound from earlier, and it gets so uncomfortably under George's skin, like he's been set on fire. "Wow," Dream says.

"Well, I bet he never mentions me either."

"Okay, well," Dream says, trailing off.

"I'm literally right."

"Literally?"

"Literally. I'm literally right. He doesn't mention either of us. What an L friend." He sits up a bit, hitting the back of the couch. "You're supposed to do everything for your friends. You're supposed to jump off bridges for your friends."

Dream's in tears from laughing so hard. The hand that had previously been on the arm now clutches at his chest, and the other sits in the vacant space between his right thigh and George's socked feet, rearing towards George's side, it's at this point George realises he's left his shoes in the bedroom, and he tries not to panic.

"It's true," George says. "Would you jump off a bridge for Sapnap? I wouldn't."

Dream folds like corrugated card, most of his body crumpled at the back of the couch. "George, stop," he says, struggling for breath. But he says his name like he's known George for years, and George can't get enough of it. And it's the strangest thing to feel like you've known someone your whole life, when you've only known them for a night.

Half an hour passes before George has had enough, suddenly standing up. "Come on," he says. "It's hot in here. I want a drink."

Dream looks up at him from his place on the couch, eyes glowing a little, a little bit delirious. "You don't drink," Dream says, puzzled, but his hand is reaching out for George's.

"It's New Year's Eve!" George says, and slots their hands together. He doesn't mention how his skin is itchy with heat, and that if he stays on that couch a moment longer he might miscalculate Dream's body language and do something he can't take back.

Dream is still laughing when he makes it to his feet, hand snugly in George's, fingers curled around each other's palms, and neither of them say a word about it.

George drags him back the way they'd come, through the hallway and into the barren kitchen, where the lights are on and everything hurts to look at, apart from Dream, or especially, George can't decide. He only lets go of Dream's hand when he remembers he's still holding it, and to yank open the fridge, everything sloshing into each other when the door bends back and hits the counter with a thud.

"Careful," Dream says, hand coming out across George's waist, right where it doesn't need to be.

George feels the drop in his stomach, suddenly overcome by the urge to wrap his hand around Dream's arm and hold it there. He doesn't turn to face him, but he senses their closeness, and Dream's breath on the back of his neck, and inhales shakily, hiding a smile.

He closes the door again, a Coors in hand he'd stolen from the middle shelf—he doesn't even drink beer, he doesn't even drink—and slips away, out of Dream's reach, saying nothing of it except a single, quiet demand. "Open this."

George studies the dip in Dream's throat as he takes it from him, cracks it open, and passes it back, wetting his lips with the trace of a smile. "You're not gonna fight me, are you?" he asks.

George shrugs. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe I might." He jumps up onto the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. "Probably not." He takes a long, cool gulp and swallows painful air building up in his chest.

Dream grabs a stool from the island and drags it over, sitting opposite George, though lower down; his eyes could stare right into George's heart if they wanted to. George isn't sure how he feels about that.

"Why don't you just get up here," George says, patting the space beside him on the counter.

Dream shrugs and doesn't reply, but he snatches George's drink straight from his hand and brings it to his lips with George watching on in awe, he's never felt so insane.

"What are you doing?"

"Thirsty," he says into the pit of the can.

"Drink water, idiot."

Dream shakes his head, eyes fixed to George's, soft and blinking, eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks. And George has to clamp his mouth shut to avoid saying something that will spoil the moment, something stupid like 'how are your eyelashes so long?' or 'how haven't I met you before?' or 'you're so pretty,' something incriminating. He presses his lips together.

"What was the point of that?" George asks, taking back the can, now almost empty, he watches Dream in pain, holding his chest, eyebrows furrowed. "You're stupid. You're literally stupid."

"Shut up," Dream says, but he's smiling so wide.

"What?" The can hits the counter, then slips and falls onto the tiles, pouring out over the floor, but George can't focus on anything but Dream, he's too scared of missing something.

"Shut up," Dream says again.

"You shut up. Look what you did."

Then Dream places his hands on George's calves, stilling him, and drops his head into George's lap, chin resting on bony knees.

George's mouth goes dry, and he laughs a little, then places a shaky hand into the mass of Dream's hair, brushing his fingers through the curls as Dream's eyes slip shut.

Who are you? He thinks. Where did you come from? George can't fathom the idea that they might have met before, or that they've been connected for so long and have never known it until tonight. What would have changed if Sapnap had introduced them? And what will change after this? After what? He asks himself, and he doesn't know; the weight of Dream's head in his lap and the overwhelming softness of his hair takes over, until it's all he can think about.

Not just worth cherishing, worth reinventing himself for, almost worth carving into his skin so that the connotation never leaves him, even if one day his mind might. And it's familiar too, in all of the ways it probably shouldn't be. He feels like lowering his face into Dream's hair and breathing him in, but he's far too scared to do that, maybe that would ruin things.

But then Dream looks at him, a slow, full-bodied look from lap to hair, this soft smile on his lips that barely reaches his eyes, worshipping him. George feels faint. He worries that the darkness can't hide him now. And he wonders if Dream even notices what he's doing and concludes that he probably doesn't and tries to forget about the twisting, nagging in his stomach, but it's impossible.

Adrenalin swallows him. He abandons everything. "What was that?" George asks.

Dream looks up starry-eyed, chin in George's lap, soft between his knees. "What was what?"

George nearly screams. He clears his throat and rephrases. "What are you thinking about?"

And Dream seems lost for a moment at that, the inside of his lip pulled between his teeth where George can't see. He rolls the cuff of his sleeve between his fingers; there are a lot of things like this that George notices he does, these soft self soothing things that help George build the image of a human being, rather than a stranger.

Sometimes when you meet people you know you'll never see again, it's easy to convince yourself that they're not really real, and that the moment isn't really happening. It's hard to do that with Dream, George finds, because he's so tactile, he's so different, he makes it so hard to believe that he's just a character in George's life or someone he can tell outrageous lies to because it's funny to look back on.

"You came to a New Year's Eve party just to sit alone," Dream says finally.

George shrugs. "I don't know. That's what I usually do at parties. Crowds aren't really my thing. But I like knowing that I'm not really alone, like, I know there are people nearby, but they don't need anything from me, and I don't need anything from them." He considers this healing, even if no one else does; there'd been nights as a teenager he'd been too scared to spend alone, so afraid of himself he needed someone there to watch him sleep because hiding the knives and locking the medicine cupboard just isn't enough when you're that depressed. "I don't know," he says, "I think it's actually nice to be alone and know that you're not really alone."

Their voices are quiet. "Hm. That makes sense," Dream says.

"Does it?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, people can be overwhelming, I guess, but that doesn't mean you don't wanna be around them. Like I'd say I'm an introvert, but I'm still social. I don't think I'd like being completely by myself, then it's not really alone, it's just lonely. Like, I like being around people, I just prefer to be in the corner or something."

"But that makes you weird, right? Like, that makes you the person nobody wants to hang out with."

"I guess. But my friends know that about me, so it's not really a big deal to them."

"Yeah. I guess my friends don't really care either."

Dream smiles. "That would make sense," he says. "We do have the same friends."

"You're so smart," George says.

"What? How am I being smart?"

"Hey, do you think that's why we've never met? Because they know we both actually have a burning hatred for social interaction."

Dream laughs, slipping his hands up and folding them for a place to rest his chin. George wonders if he knows how his eyes crease in the corners every time he laughs like this. "I wouldn't call it a burning hatred," Dream says.

"Really? I would. I actually can't stand you right now. I actually wish I'd stayed in that room."

"That's not true," Dream says.

"It is. It's actually a fact."

"Okay, now you're just lying."

"How is that a lie?"

"Tell me you wish you'd never met me."

George can't. His mouth twists in and out of a smile and he looks off into the room, and he knows he's at least a single shade pinker by the way his face suddenly feels hot.

"See?" Dream says, leaning up and pointing like he's won a prize. "I'm right."

"You're not even right. I'm just looking for an escape route."

"That's not even funny, you're just mean. You're mean, George, has anyone ever told you that?"

He smiles. "They haven't. You're actually the first."

"Good," he says. "I'm glad I could be that for you."

George's tongue itches. Dream could be anything, he thinks, anything from anywhere and George would still feel this way, like he's trapped in some intimate embrace, suffocating in heavy, comforting arms.

"I hate you," George says, and Dream laughs with his chest this time, wheezing a little, he pats it down with the ball of his palm.

"You don't hate me," he says. "You don't even know me."

And for a second George feels hurt, until he realises that Dream's right, George doesn't know him at all. "Okay," he says, "so let me get to know you. Then I can decide if I hate you or not."

It's a quiet sort of back and forth, filled with questions about childhood and families. George learns that Dream's mother is an author, and upon interrogation, Dream backs down on the question of which sort of books she writes, which feels slightly suspicious, but Dream assures him it isn't, and George supposes that maybe, if there is anything beyond tonight, he'll get the answer another time.

Dream kneads the sides of George's thighs gently, and George is almost tempted to tell him to stop—he's scared what might come of it—but he doesn't, instead he places his hands on Dream's neck and draws circles, smoothing his thumbs over the curves and massaging his shoulder blades, itching to pull him closer.

He feels too vulnerable here, too exposed, too public, even if he knows two people in this whole apartment, there's always the chance that Dream knows them all. He seems like that type of person, similar to Sapnap, George supposes, where even if you don't know him, you probably know someone that does, you've probably seen his face before. Really thinking about it, George is astonished that he hasn't.

"What brought you to New York," Dream asks, dragging his fingers up and down the seams of George's jeans.

George shrugs. "I've always wanted to move to America, I guess, ever since I was little."

Dream hums.

"Have you ever been to the UK?" George asks.

He shakes his head, and his stubble scratches George's knees through the fabric where his chin is still nestled between them. "I haven't," he says. "Sapnap has."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I think he studied abroad for a year before he dropped out of college."

"What a coincidence. I studied here for a year before I graduated."

"You graduated?"

"Yeah. I have a degree," he says. "I'm so smart."

Dream laughs against his legs, and his breath fans over them like a soft, warm blizzard. George has never welcomed something so much. "Shut up," Dream says.

George just smiles.

"Do you like it here?" Dream asks, hiding his face again in George's lap, like he's scared for the answer.

"Honestly? I don't know." He sighs and smooths a hand over the top of Dream's back. "I loved it when I first came here, and I loved it when I first moved, but, I don't know. I guess the novelty's kind of worn off now. But I don't want to go back to England, like, I'm pretty certain about that. And I don't want to leave the friends I have here either, so I guess it's just been easier to stay."

Dream hums quietly. It rattles beneath George's skin. "I'm glad."

"About what?"

"That you stayed."

George's heart hurts, he studies the back of Dream's head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're like the main character or something. You have main character energy."

George laughs and surges forward, holding onto Dream for support. "The main character of New York?"

"Yeah."

"That's a pretty hard role to fill, Dream," he says.

"You're like Emily In Paris or something."

"Have you ever seen Emily In Paris, Dream?"

"No," he says, like it's obvious. "Have you?"

"No. Probably for the best, actually; I've heard it's pretty messed up."

Dream looks back up at him. "Okay, not Emily In Paris. You're like..."

"George In New York."

"Yeah! Exactly."

And they smile. "You're such an idiot," George says.

Dream watches him with half lidded eyes, full of sleep and awe, saying nothing for what feels like hours. And then, finally, he seems to cave, outer shell crumbling to reveal this beautiful vignetted layer of vulnerability. He's twisting his ring again and smiling into his lap, all teeth and eyes before coyness takes over, and it's like he's ashamed of himself, embarrassed by what he's about to say. 'Look at me,' George wants to say, 'look at me and don't look away,' because being looked at by Dream, more so the look he gives George—he's learned over the last couple of hours—is a privilege.

Then it comes, with such a heaviness, but somehow still so gentle. Dream has that ability, the ability to craft such perfect, telling tone.

"I don't usually do this," Dream says. "I mean, it isn't like this with other people."

George drops his hands to the sides of Dream's jaw, smoothing over the bone with soft thumbs. "Like what?" he asks, this easy smile on his face. He's tempted to ask Dream to put it in writing so that he can't blink it away or convince himself he hasn't just imagined all this.

Dream rolls his eyes. "How it is," he says, and it isn't enough.

"Okay, and how is it?" George brushes Dream's hair back away from his forehead. "You have such a good hairline."

"Oh, come on."

He laughs. "Okay, then how is it with other people?"

Dream has to think about that for a second or two. "I don't know," he says. "I mean, usually I'm done for the night after introductions."

"What? So, you just like, rock up and go 'hi, I'm Dream' and then leave again?"

And his giggles are muffled by George's jeans when he lays his cheek flat on his thigh. "You're an idiot. You know what I mean, you're just trying to force me to say it."

"Say what?" George's cheeks hurt from smiling, and the urge to bury himself in Dream's hair is stronger now than it was earlier.

"George, shut up."

George watches him expectantly.

"Like, I couldn't walk up to anyone else and do this. You know what I'm trying to say here. Like, I feel comfortable. Like, you're just inviting, I don't know. I feel invited, and I don't feel, like, weird or something. I don't feel like this is a problem, and I don't feel, like, anxious. I just like being with you. I don't know. Stop making me look like an idiot, just shut up." He hides his face in George's lap.

"You are an idiot. I didn't even say anything."

And Dream does a poor imitation. "I didn't even say anything."

"Are you drunk, Dream?"

Dream sighs, eyes closing in pleasant tiredness. "I like the way you say my name."

"Hm."

"I'm not drunk," he says.

"You know, drunk words are sober thoughts, Dream." He works through a matt in the back of Dream's hair, gently coming it through with both hands.

"Well, not really." Dream shifts, but ultimately doesn't look at him. "I think it's more that the things we do when we're drunk are the things we maybe want to do when we're sober, we just don't really have the confidence to do them."

George smiles, and he doesn't know what to do with all this warmth inside his chest, he feels like throwing his head back and crying, he feels like kissing someone. He feels like kissing Dream. And he wonders if Dream would want to kiss him. And he wonders—briefly, ridiculously—if Dream might be his soulmate. And he thinks about all the other people that are meeting their soulmates tonight.

"That's what I just said," George says. "Drunk words are sober thoughts." He tugs on Dream's hair slightly, pulling him up so that their eyes might meet, and he whispers, smiling. "I know it isn't like this with other people." George can't even remember who he was before this, and he feels ridiculous for it, but it's true. He doesn't tell Dream this, however. Instead he asks, "should we move?"

And Dream is so quiet. "I don't know," he says, "should we?"

So they migrate to the stairs where everything is a little bit louder, the music more echoed, like it's coming through a big metal tube, something by Dizzee Rascal that belongs ten years ago. George has never even met an American who knows who Dizzee Rascal is, and it's clear that holds as it's abruptly changed to Katy Perry.

And there's not as much space to breathe here, but George doesn't really mind. Dream lays down on the little square of landing and pulls George's back to his chest, propping them both up against the wall. George is warm between Dream's thighs, and sits comfortably with his head stretched up below his throat, staring up at the ceiling where a blue LED strip pours down over them.

For once, George can't help himself. "I might not have met you tonight," he says, washing it down with, "like, I could've just not met you. Think about that."

Dream strokes the hair behind George's ear with his thumb. "You could've met me sooner."

"Okay," he says, all drawn out, "but that's not my fault." He turns and breathes in Dream's neck, and his aftershave makes him dizzy. "Where are you going after this?"

Dream shrugs. "I don't know. It's funny, actually," he says, but really it's more of a whisper. "I'm not even supposed to be here. My flight got cancelled because of the storm so I kind of just got stuck."

George looks up. "No way. My flight got cancelled too."

He looks down at him and smiles. "Looks like neither of us belong."

And George holds him a little bit tighter at that, turning so he's on his stomach. He thinks about Oxford Street and wonders if he belongs anywhere at all. "I guess not."

"Where are you going?" Dream asks.

"Back to Karl's. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"If they don't forget about me."

Dream giggles softly. "They won't forget about you," he says, and places his hands on George's shoulders, an invitation for George to sit in his lap, legs around his waist. He does. And they're eye to eye.

"You blink so softly," George says, tracing a line on Dream's cheek.

Dream smiles. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. You just blink softly. You know when people blink, and it's like, harsh or something? Like, it's heavy. And it makes a clicking noise."

Dream blinks. George copies.

"You just blink softly. Like you're always tired. I don't know, maybe it's just because you're drunk."

He drops a kiss to the top of George's head, and George nearly whines and says thank you, thank you, thank you for telling me I'm more than what I am.

"Probably," Dream says.

George hides his face in Dream's neck and his arms draw him closer, he feels so small like this, like he could disappear into Dream's body if he really tried to, but he feels so strange too, so out of place, like what if this is really stupid? And he's reminded of all those people in university that would draw him in just for a night before parting in the early morning with the promise of something more; they'd message for a while, but he'd never see them again, and then they'd drop off of the face of the earth and spring up a year or two later having gotten someone pregnant, or having fallen into drugs, or having died. It's more common than you'd think.

Maybe he can't be doing things like this at his age, but maybe he doesn't feel his age. Someone could tell him he was still 18 and have him convinced it was the truth.

"How old are you," George asks, pulling away from him.

And Dream's all confused and smiley and warm looking. "23," he says. "How old are you?"

"26. You're 23?"

"Yeah?" He loops his arms around George's neck.

"Hm. Interesting."

"What? Why is that interesting?"

"I don't know," George says. "Just is."

"Okay," Dream says. And that's that. He holds George against him to fish his phone out of his pocket, and his eyes widen slightly. "Holy shit," he says.

George's stomach sinks. "What?"

He pockets his phone again, smiling. "Here, come with me." And then he's on his feet and holding George's hand, pulling him through the strays passing through to the kitchen and into the bulk of the crowd in the living room, all crowded around the TV like cattle crammed into a pen that doesn't fit their limbs.

"Two minutes to midnight," Dream says. He lets go of George's hand and pulls him into his side instead, one arm loose around his shoulder, like they've known each other years and this is the way it's always been. If George was a stranger he might believe that. He would believe that.

He watches Dream watching the TV, so excited, so full of happiness, and he almost has a bone to pick with himself for saying how New Year's Eve was just New Year's Eve: the ending of one year and the beginning of another. He never really stopped to think about how important it might be to Dream, and he wishes he had done, he wishes he'd cared more and maybe asked why, why it meant so much to him, what made it so special. And it's insane to him, he knows it's insane, but he's so happy, and he thinks he could know everything there is to know about Dream and still want to know more.

The chanting of numbers starts from the furthest side of the room—where a few people rush in with drinks in their hands, some a little tipsy, others a lot—and spreads easily through the crowd in a soft wave until it finally reaches them.

Fade Into You by Mazzy Star plays softly between the silences. Somewhere in the room he hears Karl giggle maniacally, and the faint cries of a girl, and then there's only Dream. Watching Dream. Listening to Dream's voice as he counts down, brighter than the moon pouring through the window behind them. Someone sleeps on the couch beneath it. How could anyone miss this?

And to think he could have spent it alone, wallowing in homesickness for a home that never really felt like home when he was in it. Dream was right; nothing is all that bad when you're not living it alone.

George leans his head on Dream's shoulder, swaying with him at ten seconds to midnight, and the cheering of the room almost deafens him when the hour hits, every arm in the room in the air, and a plethora of orange and red splashes behind them where a thousand fireworks ignite, burning the city's skyline into a sunset coloured midnight, a celebration just for them.

He sees each colour reflected in Dream's eyes, the flashes of blue and purple, the deep, honeyed yellow melting into the green of his irises, pupils so small in the light. And everything is so loud, and so beautiful, and it takes George a moment of soaking it all in before it hits him that this is real, this is happening.

He finds Dream's hand and holds it tightly and says, "I actually think I'd rather be here than anywhere else."

And Dream looks at him like he's mad.

George cups his hands around his mouth. "I think I'd rather be here than anywhere else," he says, but it's lost on him.

He shakes his head. "I can't hear you."

George huffs and pulls him down by the collar, their noses touch. "I'd rather be here than anywhere else!" He screams it, he has to. And then Dream's lips are on his, and George suddenly forgets every second that led them to this moment.

Dream's arms snake around his waist, rocking him like they're the last two on earth, and George clings to him: his lifeline, exhaling softly into Dream's mouth and wondering if he'll be the same person tomorrow. Contentment finds an ocean in him and inhabits every part of it.

And one fact towers over the others: Dream is a good kisser, and though George can't recall anyone necessarily bad at kissing, Dream sits comfortably at the top of the list. It's in the way his mouth moulds to his, in the way George feels just the tip of Dream's tongue touch his lips, soft and velvety.

George threads his fingers through the back of Dream's hair, dragging through his curls, pulling him closer. He kisses Dream until he can't breathe anymore, and he can't help but think that suffocating here would be a lovely way to die.

Dream's nose bumps George's when he pulls away, eyes gentle and warm, familiar, glowing in the light of the television, and when he smiles it's like draining every negative thought George has ever had about the world, about his life, pulling them all into some void beneath the surface of the earth where he'll never have to approach them again.

George kisses him again, because he can, once, twice, on the third time it feels like Dream is pulling him into his soul, and George lets himself be taken there, a place where the noise in this room doesn't exist, and the sky is pale blue and the air is English summer warm and everything is so simple.

Outside in the real world, a couple walk home uneasy on their feet with linked arms, perhaps from this apartment, perhaps from another, and two teenagers share their first kiss in someone's basement, and somewhere an ambulance siren blares and somewhere a baby is born, but here in this room, Dream is kissing George, and it feels a little bit like falling in love for the first time.

London is satisfied, Paris is resigned, but New York is always hopeful.