Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

George sleeps alone.

He doesn’t share his room, he barely lets people in, and he hates being unexpectedly woken up before getting a full night’s sleep. His best friends are usually very respectful of that rule, knowing first-hand that George isn’t exactly friendly when anyone breaks it.

So being woken up before the clock struck ten by an unexpected weight falling into his bed wasn’t his ideal way of starting off his birthday.

Victim of the vexing sunlight that falls warmly on his face, he groans and turns away from the intruder. As the sheets slide from his body, he buries his cheeks in a new spot on the cold pillow, sprawling out on the mattress. He’s about to ask them to leave when the delicious smell of eggs and bacon permeates the air.

Okay, so it’s definitely not Sapnap.

“Dream,” he acknowledges, voice husky after waking up. He gets an all too familiar giggle in response, as careful fingers tangle in his hair, clearing his forehead of a rebellious fringe.

When he finally and arduously opens his eyes, Dream is already looking down at him from where he sits with a soft smile on his face.

“Good morning, Georgie,” he whispers into the heaviness of George’s bedroom, and withdraws the hand in his hair with reluctance. “Happy birthday.”

George returns the smile before nudging even further into his pillow, grabbing a handful of blankets to hug. He purrs in contentment, and Dream giggles from above. “Thank you,” he says, words muffled against soft fabric. “What are you doing?”

“Brought you breakfast,” he explains, and the rustle of clothes lets George know that he’s pointing at it, but he doesn’t want to make the boundless effort of craning his neck to look. It doesn’t seem worth it.

“You brought me breakfast in bed?” he asks, teasing, and Dream rolls his eyes without losing his fond expression. “Why?”

“‘S your birthday.” He shrugs, and that’s it. A hand falls on George’s arm, long fingers warm against his skin. “C’mon, up.”

“Don’t wanna,” he drawls, closing his eyes and burying a hand under his pillow. Dream’s grip is slightly tighter on his forearm, and he wishes he could pull and make Dream lay with him.

(He doesn’t find himself thinking like that often. He’s just really sleepy.)

“It’s gonna be cold,” he insists, oblivious.

“Did you cook?” George asks, peeping through one eye. His friend nods coyly, fingers wrapping around his elbow and pulling to sit him up. George groans low. “Why?”

“If you sat up you’d know why,” he says, light and amused, as George turns around to be in a more comfortable position. “Or I can just go.”

“Yeah. Do that,” he tuts, and sprawls out on the bed again, letting go of a long yawn and a deep breath.

Dream peers. “No.”

“Ugh, fine,” he groans once more before sitting up, much to his regret, and leaning back on the headboard with a lopsided smile that his friend mimics. “Gimme.”

“Brat,” Dream mutters, causing the corners of George’s lips to curl up slightly higher, and he reaches out to grab a tray with a plate, silverware, and a glass of juice.

He puts it on his lap with a barely noticeable tremble and looks at him again, a fresh and lovely blush coating his porcelain cheeks.

George admires the way stark freckles seem to swim around in it, drawing figures on pale skin. It’s rather hypnotic.

“Is this my present?” he asks, eyebrow raised and a fond smile on his face, and Dream puckers his lips when the pink grows darker.

“Technically,” he mumbles.

George rolls his eyes. “You and your dumb technically,” he complains, and Dream giggles. “Just say yes or no.”

“Check under the plate.”

George squints but obliges, lifting the plate to find a carefully folded piece of yellow paper under it. He eyes Dream once more and sees the way his gaze nervously avoids him, shy and evasive as he picks up the note.

It has a little #1 written on the outside. When he unfolds it, he finds more words in black ink and Dream’s scratchy handwriting, along with a little smiley face on the top right corner.

george :) hope you enjoy your first present and also sorry for waking you up. i know how much you hate mornings. i’ll make up for it by giving you 26 presents, one for each year. happy birthday idiot!!!

- dream x

ps: yes i know im a simp. gotcha.

George blinks once and reads it again, feeling a shiny grin creeping into his face. When he looks back up at Dream, he’s staring at him with doe eyes and a wary look, like he’s waiting for a reaction.

George chortles.

“What— Why are you laughing?” Dream asks, grabbing a pillow and hitting him with it. George laughs harder, and his friend joins him. “Stop! Idiot. Come on.”

“Oh, my God. You’re so obsessed with me,” he sings, stealing the pillow from Dream’s hands and putting it back on the bed. He leans forward a little bit, as much as the tray on his lap allows him to, and pinches Dream’s flushed cheeks with his fingers.

He shakes his way out. “Shut up, I’m being a good friend!”

George snickers before leaning back on the headboard, and looks sheepishly at his plate. “Yeah, you’re being so good, Dream,” he mutters, playing with the fork and biting back a sly grin.

Dream scoffs, and George looks up just in time to catch the abashed expression on his face. It makes him giggle.

“Shut up,” Dream chokes out, and steals a sip from George’s juice. “Just— eat. Stop being ungrateful.”

“‘M not,” he spits through a mouthful of egg, before swallowing it down and blowing Dream a raspberry.

“You are. Immature, too,” he jabs, but his smile is still fond. “So— behave, or I’m keeping all the presents.”

George snickers before taking another bite of his meal. “Oh, I’ll behave, alright.”

“Why are you being so difficult today?” Dream rolls his eyes and shifts like he’s about to get up. The fork clatters loudly against the plate when George suddenly drops it to wrap his hand around Dream’s wrist. His gaze falls tauntingly on it for a split second. “What?”

“I’m not having breakfast alone on my birthday. Stay here and don’t move,” he says pointedly, before going back to his meal like nothing happened.

“Yes, sir,” Dream ironizes, moving to lay back against the wall, feet falling off the edge of the mattress. “Can I at least eat with you?”

George raises an eyebrow in consideration. He peers, veering his gaze back to the plate, and again on Dream. After four or five seconds, a mischievous grin grows on his face. He lifts the fork along with some egg and a piece of bacon and aims it at Dream. He tries to grab it, but George moves it away.

“Give me it,” he complains, frowning. George’s smile grows. “What are you doing?”

“My fork,” he pushes it closer to his mouth, and nods at it with his head. Realization tints his skin crimson. “Eat.”

Dream’s eyes don’t leave his when he leans a few inches forward and wraps his lips around the silverware. George’s gaze drops down to the sluggish movement of his jaw while he chews, only for a moment, before he clears his throat and keeps eating.

He swears a corner of Dream’s mouth curls up, but he doesn’t comment on it then, or any of the other times he feeds him without question. Dream grants him the same courtesy every time he feels deep brown eyes settle on his lips for a second too long.

They share a lazy breakfast in bed, and George smiles until Dream leaves the room with the empty dishes in hand.

—

Dream said he was going to shower, so George doesn’t hear much of him until he texts him, a few minutes before noon.

Dream
I left something at ur door

Dream
presents

Dream
just open the door

George snickers before getting out of bed with a foaming feeling prodding at his stomach. He does as told, walking to his bedroom door and peeking through. He sees nothing at first, but when his eyes drop to the floor, he finds a box with numbers two, three, and four written on the lid.

Dream
open them

Dream
and you’re impossible

George bends down to grab the box with a fond smile creeping onto his face. He closes the door and puts the box on the bed, staring at it for a moment without opening it.

Dream
😏

Dream
and who said I want that

Dream
… no

Dream
shut up
open it

Dream
fine
less presents for u
I’m not going there

Dream
just open it

George throws the phone on the bed without replying and sits next to the box, pulling it onto his lap.

He eyes it anxiously, noticing how the numbers are just as carefully traced as they were on the letter he got this morning. The box is yellow. Or green. (Knowing Dream, it’s probably green.) It isn’t small, but it isn’t big, either. It’s not heavy, not too light. It’s just a box.

It really could be anything.

Anxiety holds his backbone hostage, making it impossible for him to just open it, in fear it will turn out like Pandora’s box. He decides he’ll shake it first, to try and get some clues.

Clear as day, he hears the rustle of paper.

Okay, baby steps.

He really wants Dream here.

He’d probably make fun of the confused look on his face, but George could keep joking about it getting too personal, and the air wouldn’t be so painfully still.

Somehow, now that he doesn’t have Dream’s eyes on him, he feels even more observed than before. His hands are a little sweaty, and he’s a little shaky, and he doesn’t know what’s going on.

He shouldn’t be nervous about opening a dumb present, or about Dream getting a little real. It wouldn’t even be the first time, not by a long shot.

The thing is, when it happens, they’re usually in the same room or on call, where George can call him an idiot, and turn it into a joke. Judging by Dream’s avoidance, he can only guess that he’s really done it this time. If Dream is embarrassed, George should be straight up terrified of the content of this box.

Well, maybe terrified is a little dramatic. But he sure as hell isn’t ready.

Because this whole present thing is sweet, but now that he’s a little more awake than he was when Dream ambushed him this morning, he can’t help but think that it might not be just that. It might be more.

The thought looms over him but there's no humor to hide behind, no jokes to mask his fears. Not when he’s alone; not when he doesn’t have to pretend not to care.

It aches.

It aches because he hates feeling ungrateful. Because God knows how long it took Dream to put all this together, but that just makes it even worse.

He wonders if Dream knows. He wonders if that is the reason why he didn’t want to come. He wonders if he’s struggling with scary feelings himself, and he didn’t want George to see the look on his face when he opens the present he so carefully prepared and decorated and chose for him.

He wonders if he’d be able to read love and change all over Dream’s face, too.

George takes a deep breath before putting his hands on either side of the box and lifting the lid.

The first thing he sees is a yellow paper, just like the one under his plate at breakfast. The rest of the content in the box is wrapped with different colors, in three separate packets, and there’s confetti at the bottom. George guesses that’s what the rustle was.

Dream really did make sure it looked pretty.

He grabs the note and opens it. It looks just like the previous one—black ink, Dream’s handwriting, and his trademark smiley face on the top right corner.

these are some things we didn’t include in your welcome home basket (and by we i mean i). thought it’d be cute. hope you like it :)

- dream x

ps: #3 is fanmade!

George furrows his brow, but smiles all the same.

He finds courage to grab the packet with the #2 on it, and turn it around to analyze it. It’s flat and rectangular, and it’s wrapped in blue paper. It’s solid and a bit heavy. Curiosity takes over his tremble and makes him open it carefully.

It’s a wooden picture frame, also painted blue. His, Dream’s, and Sapnap’s smiles shine bright on it. When he turns it around, there’s a little caption written sloppily.

first ever dteam pic!

love having you home :)

10.02.2022

George’s smile grows wider

They took it almost a month ago. It wasn’t the first one they posted after Dream’s face reveal, but a random one they took on the front porch right after George arrived. Sunlight falls warm on their faces, just like Dream’s hand on George’s shoulder, and they look happier than ever. George wants to etch that memory onto his mind forever.

It’s bright and it scares away his fears, giving him the strength to open the next present.

The box is light blue with his G on it, and the fan’s Twitter handle is written on the lid. Inside, there’s a crochet blob with cat ears, wearing goggles and dressed like his Minecraft skin.

George assumes Dream got it from the P.O. box at some point, and decided that it was cute and tiny enough to be a trinket on his desk, instead of in the Dream Team fanart room. Honestly, it was a good call.

He puts it next to him on the bed, and moves on to the next present.

It’s wrapped in a color he can’t really see, but his best guess is that it’s orange. He opens it without hesitation.

The first thing he sees is another yellow note.

a piece of london for you, in case you miss it :) i won’t say it’s sweet like you because i know you would cringe at that. so this is me not saying it. ha.

bone apple teeth!

- dream x

He scoffs fondly before looking at the present, when a shiny grin breaks his face in half.

It’s chocolate.

It’s chocolate from London.

Something starts prickling at his stomach, like before. Butterflies, maybe. Or moths. Or just annoying mosquitoes.

Yeah, that’s probably it. Disgusting Floridian mosquitoes.

A long forgotten memory starts making its way through his mind. Dream’s twentieth birthday, over three years ago; a wistful Discord call. He sent Dream a box of things from England; some sweets, candy, and stuff he knew they didn’t sell in Florida. He remembers adding a lot of these chocolates, his favorite ones, and told Dream he’d love them. Dream did, in fact, and made him promise he’d bring more over the next year, when he came to America.

George couldn’t keep that promise.

Months passed, and George forgot about them entirely. It was just chocolate, after all.

It will never be just chocolate again.

The fact that Dream even remembers the brand makes him feel warm inside, but he’ll have to ask him how on Earth he managed to get it here. How far out of his way did he have to go, and why?

Although, to be fair, that much is obvious. And he told him already. The man is a simp.

George removes the big box from his lap and gets up, leaving his room and making a beeline for Dream’s. The buzzing feeling in his stomach is strong and deafening, like an earthquake. He swears he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

He doesn’t think much of it before barging into his space, but every last ounce of sense comes rushing back when he takes the first step in. Now, he’s just standing in the middle of the room, Dream’s eyes shiny with a feeling he can’t quite place, looking up at him from his spot in the bed.

George takes a deep breath and gapes, but no words come out of his mouth.

“George?” Dream asks, a soft smile creeping into his face as he puts his phone down next to him.

George turns at the door with a tempting plan forming inside his brain. He could just run. He could run to the countryside, disappear from the face of the Earth. He could become best friends with a coyote instead, or—

“George,” he says again, a lot closer to his ear this time, and it startles him. He looks at Dream, who got up at some point and walked to stand right next to him, and remains silent. “Are you okay?”

He hums, taking a little step back and bracing himself to just run and vanish, leaving nothing behind. Nothing, except maybe a little cloud of smoke, just like the cartoons.

Dream’s gaze is dauntless when it drops down to the motion of his leg, and then back up at his eyes with an arched brow. His demeanor relaxes before he lifts both his hands, and places them carefully on his shoulders.

“Are you here, Georgie?” he asks, soft and warm, and squeezing lightly. The caring touch causes George to deflate.

“Yes.” He nods coyly, throwing his head backwards for a second or two. He grabs onto the flimsy sliver of stability he has left. “Why didn’t you come?”

Dream’s hands leave his shoulders all too quickly, and he’s shifting in place like he’s resisting the urge to go back to his bed and hide. The tension is more than George can handle, so he breaks the ice by sitting on the mattress first. Dream hesitates, but follows. The air seems to be moving again—slowly but surely.

“You were right,” Dream admits, fixing his gaze on the floor.

“You were embarrassed?” George guesses.

Dream shrugs. “Maybe,” he whispers. Low, so low George wouldn’t have caught it if he was sitting a little bit farther.

He doesn’t really know what to answer, so he nudges Dream’s thigh with his knee. Dream looks up at him, wary. Then, a corner of his mouth curls up, and George’s shoulders melt down. Dream scoots closer.

“I didn’t know if you’d like it,” he admits, gaze dropping back down, to where his hands were clasped in his lap. He plays with his fingers. George just looks at him as discreetly as he can manage, biting back a vulnerable smile.

“I liked it,” he says, bumping their shoulders. A request for more touching, he translates, but Dream doesn’t get the message so clearly. He scoots a little more.

“Yeah?” he whispers, smile starting to grow. He still shrinks into himself, but his neck is craned now, and he’s actually looking at him.

He looks tiny like this. It’s funny that George, of all people, thinks that about him, but he does. He looks like a kid who knows they’ve made a mistake and doesn’t want their mother to find out. He looks like he’s about to ask for something crazy, something George will be nonplussed by.

He unlinks his own hands and places one next to his thigh, in the little space between him and George. George smiles at it, and then at him, but doesn’t take it. He turns to face him.

“You’re a very big idiot, did you know that?” he tells him, voice sweet and warm like melted caramel and hot chocolate. Dream looks up at him like he just told him he loves him.

In a way, he did.

Dream giggles bashfully before throwing himself backwards onto the mattress and covering his face with his hands.

George groans. He wants to kick him.

Or kiss him, which sounds awfully similar.

He shakes his head clear of the thought, in a playful manner, and he swats Dream’s arm like Patches does when she’s annoyed. Dream flinches away, but the smile doesn’t drop from his face.

“You’re an idiot,” he retorts weakly, and looks up at the ceiling.

George knows Dream knows he’s looking at him, but he won’t shy away from it. Hell, the man will be opening up his heart for him the whole day, and it’s his birthday, so he’s entitled to a little staring.

The curve of his jaw looks funny from this angle, but he hadn’t noticed how long and delicate his eyelashes are until now. He feels the impulse to reach out and trace his face with a finger, but he doesn’t. Something rational deep down his stomach tells him that’s not what friends do.

He lays back as well, flexing his arm to rest the weight of his body on his elbow. He has to crane his neck a little bit to keep looking at him. Dream looks back.

His cheeks are dark. George knows he can’t see red, but he swears that’s what it feels like. It feels red. He bets it’d taste red, as well. It darkens under his eye, and he can tell Dream is fighting the impulse to look away again.

George finally—finally—reaches out a hand to brush a stray curl of dark blond hair off Dream’s forehead. When he withdraws the hand, he’s too lazy to move it past his bicep, so he just lets it rest there. Dream looks at it, but doesn’t mention it.

“Did you like the picture?” he asks, like he’s trying to break the silence. George doesn’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t have to; they’re fine like this. It’s real already—too much for George’s liking.

“Yes, Dream,” George answers, voice spent and hushed. He taps a finger on Dream’s arm.

“And the blob?” he asks again, turning slightly to face him better. George drops his head to the side.

“Yes,” he nods, pursing his lips. Before Dream can ask about the third present, if he was ever going to, George brings it up. “How’d you get that damn chocolate?”

Dream snickers, letting his arm melt into the mattress. George hadn’t noticed how tense it was under his fingertips.

“I’m serious. That stuff is impossible to get here!” he insists, and Dream laughs harder. Feeling a similar giggle trying to take over him, George fully drops down next to Dream and brings his own hands together on his chest. He feels Dream’s shoulder pressed against him and decides he won’t make even the flimsiest effort to move.

“It’s not impossible,” he emphasizes, laughing knowingly. George hates him when he gets cocky and mysterious. “I have contacts,” he adds, if only to spite him even more.

“You have a chocolate dealer or something?” he jabs, playfully ironic, and feels Dream’s chortle vibrate inside his chest. Dream shifts to lay on his side, face perfectly aligned with George’s side profile. He doesn’t want to mirror it.

“No, I’m just very good at finding stuff you like,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. George’s heart starts knocking on his ribcage; he has to swallow to try to drown it.

He catches Dream’s smile from the corner of his eye and feels his cheeks grow slightly warmer.

He scoffs. “Whatever.”

Dream laughs. Loud and bright, and so unbearably annoying.

George groans before reaching out for a pillow and hitting him with it. It only makes him grow more hysterical.

“George,” he croaks out, trying and failing to grab the pillow. George keeps hitting him with it. “Stop! You idiot.”

“Oh, I’m the idiot?” He scoffs, hitting him one more time before dropping the thing on his chest, and sitting up. His legs hang off the edge of the mattress.

“Don’t go,” Dream drawls as his laugh dies out, following George’s motion and sitting right by his side. George notices how flushed his cheeks are, probably from the exertion of the one-sided pillow fight they just had. It makes him flutter.

“Why not?” He shrugs, looking away as Dream punches him lightly on his arm. “Idiot.”

“You’re the idiot, idiot.” Dream smiles—George can tell from the lilt of his voice. For the third time, he tries to poke him with his feet, but Dream is quicker now, pressing his leg to George’s and trapping him against it and the bed. George scoffs again.

“Let me go,” he asks, light and effortless, just so he can say he tried when Dream doesn’t do it. He bites back with words now. “What should I expect from the twenty presents I have left?”

“Twenty-two,” Dream corrects, moving closer until his thigh is also pressed against George’s.

“That answers my question.” George moves his arm back a little to bump his elbow against Dream’s ribs.

“Okay, no,” Dream tries, as a cute giggle manages to set free from his mouth. George goes along with it. “Shut up. Fine, I quit. I’m not giving you the rest of the presents. See if I care.”

He tries to retrieve his leg, but it’s George’s turn to be fast and trap it with his other one. When he looks up at him with a smile, Dream’s loving grin hits him like a truck.

George never understood what people meant when they said someone was glowing. It didn’t make sense to him—how anyone could describe another person’s face as bright, shiny, or anything similar.

He does, now. Dream is incandescent, like that tiny, meaningless gesture shot straight to his heart like a bullet. George might look just as taken aback as he feels, because Dream makes the hurtful effort to tone it down. It doesn’t really work, though, but something in George’s heart pleads for that smile to stay on his face forever.

“For the record—” George starts, voice low, and leans a bit closer. Dream is grinning again. “—I’m getting all my presents.”

Dream isn’t quick enough to stop him from getting up. George looks down at him with a smug attitude, piercing brown eyes on shiny green, savoring every second like the sweetest candy he’s ever tasted. It doesn’t take long for Dream to pull himself together again, gazing up with his brow arched and his lips pressed in a taunting smile.

“You’re a brat, did you know that?” Dream says, his tone indecipherable, and leans back on the bed. He rests his weight on both his elbows, and a dangerous thought runs through George’s head and tongue when he sees him in that position, uttering those words.

He licks his lips, but doesn’t comment on it. “You’ve said that already. Like, two hours ago.”

“Yeah, well, it’s true,” Dream insists, cocking his head, and George shakes his.

“Maybe you shouldn’t spoil me so much, then,” George shrugs with a sharp look, and turns around without expecting an answer. He bites his bottom lip before he even gets to the door.

“George,” Dream calls again from behind, and George gives him an exaggerated eye roll when he looks back.

“What, Dream?” He sighs, pulling the cockiest grin he’s ever seen.

“Get ready,” he says, and George swears he eyes him, top to bottom. “We’re going out with Nick.”

George squints, trying his best to seem blasé. When he turns back around to finally leave the room, he feels warmth flooding his face, trying to push him back in.

He swallows it down and keeps on walking.