Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

By this point, it wasn’t even the fault of outsiders.

The nurse—George could blame. Sure, he had looked back to Dream as his name was called, and Dream had instantly stood, his hand a steady weight on his lower back. It felt nice, to have his comfort person with him, and if the nurse couldn’t understand that, he didn’t know how else to get it through their thick skull.

The mattress salesperson—George could somewhat understand. He knew they were being watched, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off Dream as he scolded George for stealing his mattress. Occasionally, George would throw in words just to fire him back up again, watching with a fond smile as Dream shifted his head from where it rested on the display bed to look at George. George was already watching first, but he would eventually look away, somehow shifting closer to Dream as his entire body shook with laughter.

Dream’s mom—yeah, George was somewhat to blame for that. It was his fault for introducing himself over text as her son’s boyfriend and future soulmate. It was all a joke, really. (Really.) But when he was officially introduced to her in person as one and not the other, she automatically assumed both. Still, it was Dream’s fault. He could’ve stopped her questions at any point, especially when George threw him side glances over the table at Christmas. 

It was normal. Every check was given to them undivided and dishes delivered with two forks, and that was when George started to realize that maybe, just maybe, other people weren’t the problem.

That was the most difficult part—the realization. 

Because it was one thing to know that it was his life completely intertwined with another’s. And it was something else entirely different for other people to notice.

And it was even worse when it was people who knew them. 

Like Karl, who elbowed George throughout the Antarctica trip, unsubtly nudging him closer to Dream like they were school children with first crushes. 

Or Quackity, who eventually gave up on their watch parties together, telling him to call when he was done talking about Dream. He was going to call back, really, but then Dream walked in and—

But Sapnap—

Sapnap was supposed to be the one who knew them the best. 

So George almost dropped his fork in the pot when Sapnap spoke from the other end of the kitchen. 

“Are you and Dream together?”

“Shit.” George caught the fork at the last second. His heart was racing, but he suspected it had more to do with the question than almost losing the utensil in boiling water. “What’d you say?”

“You and Dream.” Sapnap’s small smirk was audible. “Are you together?”

George put the fork down before he lost it again, but he didn’t turn around. “Define together.”

“Dating. Going out. Fucking.”

The steam from the boiling water had collected on the inside of his wrist, smudging the words written there. A small part of him mourned the lost words, but he could still picture them in his mind. 

Buy shampoo, written in large, almost illegible scrawl. 

Taking a deep breath, George turned, and for a moment, he and Sapnap both sized each other up. 

“Do you want an answer to one or all?” George asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. “Because I can definitely talk about the third.”

Sapnap’s nose twitched as he tried to keep his face emotionless, and George didn’t even attempt to hide his grin. 

“Well, I guess since you asked, Dream is really, really good at this one—“

“Stop. Fuck,” Sapnap said, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with laughter. 

George shrugged with a smile. “You asked.”

They existed in silence for a few more minutes, George stirring his pasta and Sapnap scrolling through his phone before Sapnap piped up once more. 

“No, but genuinely, dude,” Sapnap said. “Are you and Dream…”

His words hit George in stages. 

First, he realized Sapnap was being serious. His tone was bright but cautious, like he was approaching a terrified Patches. 

Second, he realized Sapnap thought George was being serious. George.

Third, he realized he could actually lie because Sapnap wouldn’t believe the truth—not with the way he was interrogating George. 

“Yes,” George said. “We’re together.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. They were together in the sense that all soulmates, whether platonic or romantic, were together. Their futures were indescribably linked. They were destined or inevitable or whatever other words held too much weight and too little unknown. 

All George knew was that Dream was his forever. Soulmates or not, George had always known this fact. 

“Finally,” Sapnap said, and George risked a peek to see his small smile. “I’m happy for you, man.”

George didn’t know how, but somehow those words hurt more than the truth. They felt like a knee to the stomach, all air leaving his lungs as he was forced to smile. 

“Thanks.”

It was at that unfortunate moment that Dream walked into the kitchen. He brightened when he saw them, but he only went straight to George. 

In their time together, Dream had gone from hovering to clingy, using every opportunity to mold himself into George’s side. Today was no different. Dream draped himself over George’s back, leaning down to place his chin in the crook of George’s neck. 

“What’re you making?” Dream asked. 

George held his breath as arms wrapped around his stomach, and he hoped Dream couldn’t feel the way he instinctively leaned closer, pressing himself to Dream’s chest. 

“Pasta,” George said. 

Dream hummed, his head knocking lightly against George’s. “It looks overcooked.”

It did. The noodles were floating on the water, losing their shape as they slowly bloated and expanded. 

“It looks fine,” George lied. He shook off Dream with a laugh to turn off the burner and move the pan. “It’s just the way I like it.”

(He blamed Sapnap entirely.)

Dream leaned against the counter next to him, always within reaching distance, always nearly there. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

All venomous and sarcastic words died the second they were born, and instead, George just shook his head, grinning like he always did when they talked about their future. 

Because Dream would remember the way he liked to cook his pasta, just to recreate it over and over again for the rest of their lives. 

“Don’t forget to buy your shampoo,” George said instead, holding his left wrist up, where the words had smudged. 

“Oh,” Dream said, and out of the corner of his eye, George watched him look down to his own wrist. “Right.”

George smiled to himself as he drained the noodles and transferred them back to the pot. 

“What time are we leaving Tuesday, Sap?” Dream asked. 

George continued making his food, only catching fragments of conversation. Dream would probably fill him in later or wake him up before he missed the flight. 

Because the only things he could concentrate on were the small notes appearing up his left arm. He watched them appear as Dream wrote them, butterflies in his stomach like the first day he had woken up in Florida with writing that wasn’t his on his arm. It had only taken him a second to realize they were notes for a face reveal video already released to millions of people, and then he was scrambling through his unpacked bags to find a pen, a marker—anything. 

George didn’t say anything as he left the kitchen, but the writing paused midword on his forearm, and when he glanced back, Dream was already staring at him. 

George couldn’t help but smile, even as he made it back to his room. 

-

Every morning, George would draw a crooked smile on the inside of his pinky, as a promise. 

Dream never said anything, so he kept it close to his chest. 

It’s for you, he wanted to scream. 

Foryouforyouforyou.

-

George had been kidnapped. 

One moment, he was sleeping peacefully in his bed, and the next, he was simultaneously pulled and pushed out the door, kicking and screaming. 

He sulked in the back of Sapnap’s Tesla, his jacket zipped all the way up and his face buried into it. He was laid out across the entire seat, smirking when occasionally conversation floated over the music and back to him. 

“You wake him,” Dream said. 

“No, what the hell?” Sapnap responded. “You’re the only one who won’t get their head bitten off.”

He grinned into his jacket. 

At some point, the car came to a complete stop, and George sat there, his eyes closed as he took in his final moments before the peace inevitably ended. 

And sure enough, Sapnap opened the door his feet were resting against, leaning in to look at him. 

“Hi, buddy…pal,” he said. 

George turned over, pressing his face to the seat. “No.”

From outside the car, George could hear the faint mumbling of an argument and then Sapnap stuck his head back in. 

“Do you want to go to Target?”

“Fuck off,” George mumbled. 

Sapnap’s head went back out, and the arguing only grew louder. 

When something blocked the sun for a third time, George thought it was Sapnap again. He was prepared to punch, kick, and claw, but when the car shook as someone climbed in, George knew it was Dream, and he stopped, his heart in his throat. 

George finally opened his eyes, finding Dream already staring down at him. 

It was almost comical. Dream had to bend over so his head didn’t hit the ceiling and he had to somewhat sit on top of George. He looked a little like what George imagined an Enderman would look like if they were trapped in a short place. 

“You’re a nuisance,” Dream said, but the sharpness of the words was shaved down by his soft tone and the way his fingers rested near George’s face. 

“I can be worse,” George said. 

Dream’s smile was so soft, it nearly broke George’s heart in two. “I don’t doubt that.”

George tried not to light up at that. He really did, but he was pressed against Dream in a cramped space, and well…

“You never doubt me.”

Dream laughed, and finally, finally, his fingers moved from where they rested next to George’s cheek to move through his hair, twisting through newly-formed curls. 

“Do you want Starbucks?”

George groaned, pressing his face into the seat. “I don’t want to get up.”

“No Starbucks then,” Dream said. 

“Dream—“

“No,” Dream said with a laugh. “That won’t work. Fuck off.”

George couldn’t help but laugh at that, and he let Dream help him into a sitting position. Before, when he was laying down, he knew how close they were, pressed together in the back seat of a tiny car, but now, sitting, George was fully confronted with it. He could see Dream’s freckles and the small hints of smile lines and soft eyes staring back. 

“Starbucks?” George said. 

Dream brightened. “Starbucks.”

Sapnap complained the entire time they walked through Target that Dream paid for George’s drink and not his. 

George held it over his head (literally and metaphorically) while Sapnap glowered. 

Dream warned George that he would end up with a kicked out knee if he continued like that, but it was worth it to see the way Dream laughed at his jokes, even if he hid his smile when Sapnap turned to look at him. 

They traveled the aisles as a loud, obnoxious group, pushing a mostly empty cart and racing down the lanes while standing on the back. 

Wages, bets, and money were thrown around like nothing, because at the end of the day, it didn’t really matter. 

They raced down the aisles, Dream bought his shampoo, and George nearly fell climbing into the cart. 

These were just facts of life. 

“How fast do you want to go?” Dream had asked him once he’d settled into the basket of the cart.

George grinned up at him. “How fast can you go?”

Dream’s half scoffed, half smiled and took off with no other warning. A scream escaped George’s lips, his heart racing as aisles passed in a blur. When Dream jumped on the back, the cart nearly tipped. 

And the entire time, George was laughing, sitting in red plastic amidst the other signs of the three of their lives together.  

They left pretty quickly after that, giggling as they passed by workers and security on their way out. 

“I won,” Sapnap announced, swinging his bag by his feet. 

Both Dream and George snorted, sharing a look.

“I think I deserve some Starbucks.”

“You know what,” George said, putting his arm around Sapnap’s shoulders. “I do too.”

Dream rolled his eyes, and George’s grin only widened. Sapnap started walking, pulling George forward, and George glanced back to where Dream still stood near the entrance. 

“C’mon, Dreamie,” he called with a sharp whistle. 

Dream ran to catch up, pulling George’s wrist and extending both of their arms until they nearly took up the whole lane of the parking lot. They smiled at each other, and George couldn’t look away from Dream, even when they had to break apart for a car to pass. 

Because they would always come back together, ink touching ink-smudged fingers. 

-

They were in California—under golden sun and palm trees, with outdoor shops and patio seating. 

George had let Sapnap figure out the details, happy to tag along to support his NRG events, but also happy to be just that: support, not the main event. 

It was warm on the plane and when they touched down, but George knew he couldn’t take off his hoodie. Because if he rolled up his sleeve, he would see packing lists and reminders, his own and Dream’s blending together until they looked like one, separated only by two bags.

(Half of Dream’s space was taken up by George’s jackets, but that was beside the point, because half of George’s arm was taken up by Dream’s writing, and one of those was more permanent than the other.) 

And that was just something they never did—take off their long sleeves in public. George wasn’t even sure if anyone else knew they were soulmates other than Sapnap and Dream’s family. Others suspected, of course, but George had always been private and Dream was Dream.

The Airbnb was nice. It was small, but George couldn’t bring himself to care as they unloaded from the rental car. There was little conversation as they wandered in, taking in the minimal decorations and shared spaces. 

George set his bag down next to the door and stretched, his tired limbs aching from the several hour flight. 

A hand touched his lower back, and George turned. 

“You okay?” Dream asked. “Are your old bones crumbling?”

George snorted and pushed his weight against Dream’s hand. “I’m practically dust.”

Dream laughed and left George’s side to meet Sapnap in the kitchen. He clapped Sapnap on the shoulder, smiling at something he said, and George watched all of this from the entrance, his lower back burning from the ghost of a touch and a need for more. 

He kicked off his shoes and met his two friends in the kitchen just as Sapnap finished describing the house from a printout. 

“Two bedrooms and bathrooms upstairs…towels in the bathroom…throw them in the washer.”

“Two bedrooms upstairs?” George asked. “So there’s another on this floor?”

It was meant to be a joke, but he still glanced around doubtfully. The house was…cute. And small. They could maybe put their traveling stream setup in the corner of the eating area, but that would leave little room to do much else, unless they took over the living room. 

“Um,” Sapnap said, and George’s heart stopped. 

In front of him, Dream’s fingers grew still where they had been drumming against the counter. 

“That’s fine,” Dream said, throwing George a look. “We’ll figure out arrangements.”

“How—“ George struggled to breathe. “How do you find a place with only two bedrooms?”

Sapnap glanced between the two of them. “I mean it was such late notice and with all of our safety and other precautions there weren’t many options left and—“

“Sap,” Dream said. “It’s fine.”

George shifted his weight. His sweatshirt was too unbearably warm, but he refused to take it off—to expose the notes he held close like a promise. 

“We could probably find something else for the night or—“

Dream’s arm wrapped around George’s shoulders, pulling him into his chest. It was almost embarrassing the way George sank into it, finding his rightful place on Dream’s right side. 

“Don’t worry, Sap,” Dream said, and George could feel the way the words rumbled in his chest. “George and I can share. I’ll take one for the team.”

George’s words caught in his throat as his head snapped up. Dream watched him with a small smile, squeezing his shoulder lightly. 

“I’ll take the grump,” Dream said. 

“Grump?” George muttered. “You’re one to talk.”

Dream’s arm moved to cross George’s entire body, and like that, he started rocking them, trying to throw George off balance. And despite himself, George laughed, burying his smile in the crook of Dream’s arm, right where his own writing would be. 

“So it’s fine?” Sapnap asked. 

George could smell hints of detergent and pine on Dream’s sleeve. He felt dizzy just by this proximity, much less sharing a room.

But Sapnap was staring at them, rocking each other back and forth, and it hit George.

“You know, since you’re togeth—”

“It’s fine,” George cut in, trying to keep his voice even, despite the panic rising in his lungs. “As long as Dream doesn’t snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

Sapnap snorted. “Dream snores.”

“Hey,” Dream said, moving from George’s side to bat at Sapnap’s hat. “Don’t spread lies.”

George watched them fight over the hat with a small smile, but on the inside, he felt sick. It was too warm in the house and he’d been traveling all day and god, the smile Dream sent his way—

George couldn’t breathe. He excused himself with no other words, taking the stairs two at a time. Like the rest of the house, the hallway was small and thin, and the two bedrooms sat across from each other, nearly perfect mirror images. 

It was dizzying. 

George chose a random one, shrugging off his coat simultaneously too fast and too slow. His hands were still shaking as he curled up on the bed, holding himself tightly. 

It was there that he reminded himself to breathe as he listened to the faint laughter carrying from his two best friends downstairs. 

It could be worse, he told himself over and over again. He could be sharing with Sapnap or staying back in Florida alone or—the unthinkable—he could still be back in London, aimless and soulmate-less.

George pulled off his hoodie, pressing fingers to writing and drawings so harshly he thought he would bruise. The air was now slightly too cold against his bare arms, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he curled back down on the bed, holding his left arm like it was something precious. 

Clothes, charger, razor and on and on it read, a list of Dream and his habits. And here George was, laying in Dream’s bed with Dream’s handwriting on his own skin.

He fell asleep like that—laid bare with everything he had ever wanted openly written for anyone to read. During his nap, he woke up only once to a small laugh and the feeling of the mattress shifting, but it all felt like a world away. Instead, George fully woke up to a darkening sky and the small shuffling of another person sharing his space. 

He was still laying on the covers, his body wrapped in on itself, but by now, he had grown even colder. 

“I think you’re the one who snores.” The voice came from the other end of the bed. 

“Fuck off,” he responded, his voice cracking. 

“You also sleep directly in the middle. Like what is this?” A leg prodded his, and for a second, George debated leaving it there just to see what Dream would do. He didn’t, though. Instead, he moved closer to the side, still facing away from Dream. 

“Fuck off.”

“I–I have nowhere else to go, George,” Dream said. “You wouldn’t kick me out.”

“Fuck off.”

Dream laughed, and George didn’t know if it was his tired brain or the fact that he could barely see his own arm in front of his face, but it was one of the best sounds he had ever heard. Everything inside of him yearned to hear it again—to view the world through Dream’s golden laughter, every day for the rest of his life. 

He buried his face in the pillow like it would bury his thoughts. 

The laughter quieted too soon, and it was replaced by a heavy silence. 

“Is it okay that I have nowhere else to go?” Dream whispered. 

George finally turned. He could barely make out Dream’s shape in the darkness, but George’s hand still reached out and found him. It was only the edge of Dream’s flannel, but George’s fingers still tightened around it. 

Almost like he was reading George’s mind, the bed groaned as Dream moved from sitting to laying. Faintly, nearly imperceptibly, George could see the light reflecting off of Dream’s eyes. 

“You always have somewhere to go,” George whispered. “It’s like–it’s like impossible to have nowhere.”

Dream didn’t say anything, and for a brief second, George panicked, his heart rate spiking as he realized he might’ve said something wrong—that maybe he was being too obvious, but then Dream’s legs were intertwining with his and he was pulled forward, his face buried into a chest. 

George’s arms instinctively tightened around Dream, his breathing painful in his lungs. 

This was home—warmth and a heartbeat and matching lists filled with mundane items. 

George closed his eyes, burying his face deeper into Dream’s chest. He could smell pine and linen, and he nearly wanted to cry, his fist closing around Dream’s flannel. 

“I,” Dream said, and through his thin shirt, George could feel the way he struggled to speak. “I doubt it’s impossible.”

George could feel his every breath. He could map how Dream paused on certain words and barreled forward on others. He could spend forever tracing the rhythm of his heart, memorizing his veins like they, too, were the ones under his skin. 

“Like, to be fair, nothing is impossible,” Dream said. 

This feeling in George’s chest felt impossible. It was gaping and dark and maybe a little too hungry, especially with George’s ear pressed to Dream’s torso, hearing every thump of his heart. 

“Like, what if I was in space?” Dream said. “There’d be nowhere to go then.”

“Just floating in space?” George asked. 

“Yeah.”

“How’d you get there in the first place?” 

George heard Dream’s breath catch in his chest as he smiled, and he wanted to bottle the feeling—to see and hear it every day for the rest of his life. 

“Rockets,” Dream said. 

“Rockets,” George repeated. “Why would you shoot yourself into space with only rockets? That’s dumb.”

And George didn’t have to look up to know Dream was smiling. 

Because this was Dream. And he was George—the person who knew Dream in and out even before ink met skin. 

“Well, you’re dumb,” Dream fired back. “I’m not bringing you on my rocket then. I’ll bring like Skeppy or someone.”

“Skeppy,” George scoffed. “I’m bringing Skeppy. Find your own person.”

“Fine,” Dream said. He paused, and George didn’t even have to look to know Dream was wearing his god-awful smirk—the one that made him want to pick more stupid arguments, if only to see it grow larger. “I’ll bring your mom.”

George laughed into Dream’s chest. It was loud and maybe a little too energetic for just waking up, but it was always like this with Dream. 

“I wouldn’t want to be on your dumb rocket anyways. Your destination is literally the middle of nowhere.”

Dream’s palms squeezed George’s shoulder. “Exactly,” he said. “Nowhere.”

“You’re so dumb,” George said. 

It was a cop out. Even he knew it. But it was dark and he was completely surrounded by Dream’s embrace. 

And the word nowhere had lost all meaning the second Dream’s handwriting appeared on his forearm. 

-

Sapnap texted them that he had ordered food, and they didn’t even wait before they tore down the stairs. 

It became a hunt to be the quickest to find the plates and utensils in the cabinets, but George couldn’t help but notice how Dream kept close to him, always inches away, always nearly touching. 

The nearly almost felt worse than touching, somehow. It felt like energy, like static, like the absence of something that should be there. 

And when Sapnap was the one to find both the plates and the forks, George wasn’t too surprised, because his eyes hadn’t left Dream’s and Dream’s hadn’t left his. 

The entire time, he felt nervous, like he was seconds from being found out. 

Because he knew it was written across his face, a screaming billboard in bright neon lights: I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU.

It was so obvious Sapnap had clocked him only a few months into living together. It was so obvious complete strangers knew within seconds of meeting him. 

So, he let Sapnap win—let him boast around the kitchen, calling them slow and idiots, because George was scared that if he looked away, Dream could read the neon signs. 

And it’d be over. 

Sapnap, he could fool. George could make him look like an idiot, with an I got you, L, but Dream—

Dream knew his every lifeline and vein. And it was equally as terrifying as it was exhilarating. 

They ate on the floor of the living room. The couches weren’t big enough to hold all three of them, but there was something about knees clanking together and shoulders brushing and the ability to see both of the people he loved most in the world that made it better than any table or chair. 

The open containers of food sat in the middle, and George and Sapnap made a show of trying to stab each other with their forks every time the other reached for it. 

“Mine,” George said. 

Sapnap shoved his shoulder, nearly bowling him over. He had grabbed the entire container by the time George sat up. 

“Mine,” he said. 

Dream snorted, stealing a chicken finger from George’s plate. 

“Dream,” George exclaimed. 

But Dream only smiled. “What?”

Dream’s hand found its way to George’s knee, and George tried to forget about it. 

He really did. 

But he also felt like he would burst from his skin. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at Dream, even if he found himself shifting closer and closer until they were pressed together. 

Sapnap sat across from them, unconcerned, as he discussed his plans for the next couple days. Dream added in his, but George sat there, thinking only of the hand on his knee and how it felt like it had always belonged there. 

George glanced up at Dream, and Dream gave him a smile. 

He smiled back, even if he hid it in Dream’s shoulder. 

-

They were back in their room. 

With the lights on, it was much more intimidating. Because they were faced not only with each other but also the knowledge of each other’s inner workings. 

George knew Dream put his hair back in a headband to wash his face. He knew Dream liked mint toothpaste but complained if it was too minty or not minty enough. He knew Dream’s favorite brands of shampoo and conditioner and had snagged some from Dream’s room when he said he wouldn’t need to pack them. 

But it paid off because Dream had only just left their room for a brief moment before he came back to complain about the hair products in the bathroom, and George pulled out Dream’s from his suitcase with rolling eyes. 

“I told you to pack them,” George said. 

Dream paused in the doorway, and it wasn’t until George shook the clear bag once more that Dream finally moved. 

“Thanks.” Dream accepted them with a shy smile, staring at them in his hands like he’d never seen the bottles before. 

“You wash your hair with them,” George said. “There’s instructions on the back.”

And Dream’s face finally twisted into an expression that George recognized as he scoffed. “I didn’t know that.”

“Well,” George said. “Now you do.”

Dream paused like he wanted to say something, but he only shook his head and smiled softly at George. George couldn’t help but melt, his cheeks burning. 

“Don’t get used to it,” George muttered. 

“I think I will,” Dream said. “I’m going to tweet that George is being nice.”

George bit back a grin and shook his head. “I just didn’t want you to complain for the next week. It’s annoying.”

Dream laughed, and George was captivated, even as Dream walked away, holding up the bottles to show George that he appreciated them. 

George was still staring out the door as the faint sound of water against tile started and roaring music followed. 

And it was like a gigantic flashing billboard: I AM HOPELESSLY IN LOVE WITH YOU.

George sat down on the end of the bed, his head in his hands. He let out a muffled scream. Because, god, he was fucked. 

He’d known it even before he woke up on his first full day in Florida with his best friend’s writing on his arm. Even before visas and new houses. 

Dream was his future. He always had been. 

Do you believe in soulmates? Dream had once asked him, the question too heavy for a sleepless gray London morning. 

No, George answered. Dream pressed him for a reason, but George refused. 

Still, the words rose to his lips, despite how much he bit them back. 

Because it’s not you, and if it’s not you, I don’t want it. Because there’s a less than one percent chance a person ever finds their soulmate, and I would rather live in denial than believe that you’d ever found your perfect person. Because I want to be it. I want you to choose me. Not fate. Not bonds. Love me and choose me in any way you can.

It’s dumb, he answered instead.

I think it’s cool, Dream said. Finding your perfect match.

George bit his tongue and swallowed his words, keeping silent in the years Dream would spend bringing it up. Because Dream thought it was cool. He thought it was magical and something to hold onto. 

And George would never be the one to break that image. 

George was in the middle of gathering his toiletries when Dream walked back into their room, his hair and the top of his shirt wet. It was one of the rare times George saw him in a t-shirt, his arms visible. Most of the ink had washed off in the shower (George had watched it slowly smudge on his own arms), but some of it still remained—a haphazard list of both of their lives, written and rewritten every day. 

George couldn’t help but stare at it, his eyes burning, and when he finally glanced up, Dream was already staring back at him. 

“I forgot to pack toothpaste,” Dream said. 

“Oh.” George startled. “Um, here.” He handed him the tube from his own bag. 

Dream screwed his face up at the label but accepted it with a small thanks.

George watched him leave, holding onto his own wrist. 

They shared the same skin—the same future. And George wanted more than he’d been given. That was always the problem—he wanted.

Breathe, George reminded himself. Fucking breathe.

When Dream returned once more, George forced his eyes to stay on Dream’s face instead of drifting to the ink, and it was like that that George left, spending too much time in the bathroom avoiding his own reflection. Because every time he looked, he saw echoes of Dream. 

George turned the lights off in their room, and Dream made fun of him for having to turn on his phone light to make his way across the space. He still somehow stubbed his toe on the end of the bed, and he fell into the bed, cursing out his soulmate through laughter as he held his toe. 

Dream tried to defend himself, but George threw his extra pillow at him as he climbed into his side of the bed. 

“Fuck you,” he said. 

Dream was still laughing as George turned off his phone light, and the darkness surrounded them. 

Breathe, he reminded himself.

His entire world was under one roof. 

Dream settled further into the bed, and their shared blanket pulled tighter around George’s shoulders. 

“You steal the blanket.”

Breathe.

His entire life was under one ceiling. 

Dream’s bare leg found a place against George’s, and it was so cold.

“What? How’re you so warm?”

Breathe.

His entire being was shattered and retaped together under one duvet. It didn’t look like him. It was an exact replica. 

Every time Dream moved, George could feel it. And somewhere between the space of sheets and silence, a hand found his wrist, fingers sliding down his veins like a whisper. 

Fuck.

George closed his eyes as he reached out, his own fingers brushing skin. 

Was it marked? he wondered. Was it his?

Something met his pinky, and it wasn’t until it moved that he realized it was another pinky, linking with his. 

The entire world quaked as George took in a shaky breath. It stuck in his chest, building in the form of a sob loud enough to bring the world to its knees. But he buried it, because there was something precious sharing the same air as him. 

Something precious with a pinky intertwined with his. A smile touching unmarked skin. 

George fell asleep like that—unseeing and cracked open, a leg against his and a pinky entwined. 

An unspoken promise, like writing on skin. 

-

Sapnap was the one to point it out. 

George had woken up to an empty bed, and refusing to feel any sort of emptiness, he walked downstairs to scavenge up a breakfast. 

Sapnap walked in on him as George was sorting through condiments and cracker boxes left by previous renters, and then he burst into laughter. 

It shocked George so much he nearly dropped the box in his hands. 

“Well, good morning,” Sapnap said with a snicker. 

And if George didn’t have a bad feeling before, he definitely had one now. 

He ran to the bathroom, nearly taking out an end table and a few decorations in his hurry. When he finally made it to the bathroom, adrenaline running through his veins, his suspicions were not only confirmed, but proved worse. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, and then louder, he shouted. “Dream.”

Sapnap was leaning against the staircase railing when George walked out of the bathroom, his lips pressed together as he attempted to smother his laughter. “Dream isn’t here.”

“You’re lying,” George said. “Dream!”

“George.”

George sighed, putting his head in his hands. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He texted me this morning asking what I wanted from McDonald’s.”

The gaping hole in George’s chest seemed to crumble even more at those words, but he refused to show it. Dream hated McDonald’s. But he knew George—

No, he was angry. Pissed. 

This wasn’t funny. 

“He went to McDonald’s with fucking dicks drawn on his face?” George said dryly. 

And that’s what made Sapnap finally break down, clutching his stomach in laughter. 

George watched him, trying to control his breathing before he, too, broke. He could already feel his poker face failing. 

“Don’t–don’t shoot the messenger.” Sapnap said. “Besides there’s only a few dicks. There’re definitely more smiley faces than penises.”

George couldn’t hold it back anymore. His eyes were burning from it, so he gave in, his laughter so loud it almost seemed to shake the house. He buried his face in his hands. 

When he finally looked up, Sapnap was grinning at him. “Does that say dnf?”

George started laughing again. He had to crouch down to support himself, his entire body shaking. 

“Oh my god,” he said. “Dream just left like this.”

Across from him, Sapnap snorted, joining in on his giggles. 

“I’m surprised he hasn’t before,” Sapnap said eventually, and George’s confusion must’ve given him away because Sapnap continued, “like shown you off and everything. I think he was just waiting.”

George stayed in the foyer even after Sapnap wandered away, dumbfounded. Because, yeah, to Sapnap that would make sense—showing George off. 

But to George, who knew there was nothing to show off, it was perplexing. 

Still, he couldn’t help but smile to himself as he pressed his fingers to his cheeks. 

-

They had both migrated to the couches by the time Dream arrived, bags in hand and face covered in writing and crude drawings. 

Sapnap started laughing just like he did before, and this time, George couldn’t help but join in after seeing how sheepish and embarrassed Dream looked. 

“Hi,” he said, placing the bags on the kitchen island. 

“I think you have something on your face,” Sapnap said, joining Dream in the kitchen. 

“No, I can’t see it,” George said, bumping his shoulder against Sapnap’s. “Where is it?”

“Stop, guys,” Dream said, laughing as he batted them both away. “You’re not making fun of George’s.”

“To be clear, I did,” Sapnap said. 

“To be clear, you’re an easier target,” George said. “Besides, you deserve it.”

“I–how do I deserve it?” Dream muttered, unpacking the bags. 

George snorted, reaching to take whatever food he could get his hands on. 

Dream’s hands stopped him, pressing lightly on George’s fingers. Next to him, George felt and watched Sapnap leave out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t fully turn to look. Instead, he stared down at fingers, both with a matching smiley face on the inside. It was barely visible, but it was there—a bright blue against their skin. 

It was almost too much to take in. 

“The bed was cold,” George said. He didn’t know why he said it, but as soon as it left his lips, he couldn’t take it back. “Um, when I woke up.”

“Oh,” Dream said softly, and if he closed his eyes, George could almost imagine he was back in a shared bedroom, pinkies linked. 

It felt crushing—oh.

George let out a shaky exhale. “Yeah. It was freezing.”

“Did you want me to be there?” Dream asked. 

And George had to bite back all of the anger and desire that rose from the center of his chest. It tasted like takeout food eaten on floors and felt like nails dragging against skin so lightly they felt like pen. 

“Yeah,” George said, taking the sandwich under his palm almost like there wasn’t another person stopping him. “You’re warm.”

He left and sat on the living room couch, ignoring the looks Sapnap sent his way as he ate in silence. 

“Did you grab me anything?” Sapnap asked eventually. 

“No,” George said through a mouthful. “Get your own.”

“Bitch.”

Sapnap left with no other ceremony, leaving just George, sitting with his legs tucked into each other. 

Did you want me to be there?

George sighed, setting down his sandwich for the first time since picking it up. 

Yes, he should’ve screamed, as if there could ever be any answer other than yes.

“Stupid,” he muttered. He didn’t know if he meant himself or Dream, but maybe it qualified for both. Because it was always both for them, wasn’t it? 

George felt like screaming.

-

Dream found him in the bathroom a little while later. George was in front of the mirror, a towel in his hand and his face a bright red. 

“Hey,” Dream said, knocking on the doorframe. 

“This is entirely your fault,” George muttered. 

“To be fair, it was kind of funny,” Dream said. 

George glared at Dream’s reflection, watching as he drew closer. The mirror seemed to amplify every second of hesitation, every inch of distance. George was hyper aware of Dream standing behind him. It felt like static—like the seconds before lightning struck. 

“I want a warm bed,” George said. 

In the white fluorescent lights, with scrubbed cheeks and the man he loved too close yet too far, George felt exposed. He hadn’t fixed his hair since waking up this morning or brushed his teeth yet or changed out of his t-shirt into something that would hide his arms. 

Instead, this was George laid bare—open and completely honest, with everything he’d ever wanted literally written on his face—and Dream watched him the entire time. 

“Is there–is there anything else you want?” Dream asked. 

It was a dangerous question. 

Because George had only ever wanted. 

First, he wanted to be Dream’s soulmate, but when that proved to not be enough, he wanted promises of forever. Dream was happy to give those (he was always happy to give those to George), but George wanted something tangible. He wanted Dream. 

He wanted to build a home inside his chest, to prevent Dream from ever wanting like George did because it only ever ate and ate and ate. 

“Stay,” George said. 

Dream’s hand closed over his, pulling the towel from his fingers. George watched this all in the mirror, like a man waiting to be lightning-struck. It was his fault he was in the field. He had seen the tree across the way fall in a pile of sparks and limbs, but there was a comfort in the light—in knowing that the world, too, screamed. 

Dream’s arm around his waist was a comforting weight as Dream guided him to sit on the edge of the bathtub. 

“You don’t like my gift,” Dream said.

“Can I return it and get a refund?” George asked, staring down at his hands. 

Dream hummed. “No, no refunds.”

George looked up and smiled at him, the smile only widening when Dream brought the towel to his face, his movements gentle. George’s eyes fluttered closed, and he let himself have this comfort. Almost like he read George’s mind, Dream’s left hand cupped his chin. 

He could feel Dream’s breath on his lips. It hitched every time he moved George’s face, and George wanted him to press more more more. 

How would Dream’s breath feel against his own skin? To make him so breathless George needed to breathe for them both. 

“Is there anything for you?” George murmured, trying to stay as still as he could as if that would prevent Dream from startling. “Like, that you want.”

Dream was quiet, but the towel still continued in small, soothing circles. 

George opened his eyes when Dream didn’t answer, and if he felt bare earlier, he now felt completely and entirely exposed. His bare calves were pressed against cold tile, and he was afraid he had morning breath, but despite it all, the most handsome man in the universe stood above him, bracketing him in with his body. 

And Dream held him like he didn’t know George was shattering in his hands. 

“No,” Dream said. “Well, like, okay.” He took a deep breath, and George couldn’t help but smile. “Technically we all want something. Like–like I could really go for a burger right now, and I’d really like for you to finish editing your videos because it’s been a fucking year, George—“

George laughed, shoving Dream lightly as Dream beamed down at him. 

“—and, okay, so my mom makes these amazing cookies but only during birthdays, so I’d like that recipe, but I–I don’t really–I don’t really know.”

George’s hands found their way around Dream’s hips, and when he wasn’t reprimanded, he kept them there. 

“You don’t know what you want.”

Dream shook his head. “No, no, I do. I just know that I also have to wait.”

“What’re you waiting for?” George asked. 

Dream shook his head, and George could feel it through where his fingers rested on George’s chin. “You think I’m telling you?”

“Dream.”

“George.”

They stared at each other, with hands and arms wrapped, small smiles, and no distance between them. It was all at once intimate and normal—a day in the bathroom, getting ready, like they always did separate, now together. 

Maybe that would be George’s answer if he were asked what he really wanted—the intimacy of knowing another person’s routines. But, no, it couldn’t be another person. It could only ever be Dream.

George wanted to be part of Dream’s routines. To know the face he made while using George’s not-minty-enough toothpaste. To feel Dream’s nose buried into the back of his neck during early mornings. To run the same shower, with no more secrets and weight between them. Just soap. Soap and skin and laughter. 

Finally, Dream sighed. “I don't think the marker is coming off.”

George’s nose wrinkled at Dream changing the subject, but he let him do it anyways. “What marker did you use?”

Dream backed up, and George’s hands fell as he pulled out of reach. Everything was instantly colder, like all the warmth had been sucked out of the room. 

“I could only find sharpie.”

“What?” George said. 

Dream gave a small, nervous chuckle. “I could only find sharpie.”

“What the fuck?” George rose, and Dream instantly started backing up, his back hitting the doorframe leading back to their bedroom. 

“I thought it’d be funny.”

“Dream.”

“Admit it,” Dream said. “It was a little funny.”

George gathered up the other towels on the side of the bathtub and threw them at Dream. Dream caught them all with a laugh, and despite everything, George joined in. 

“See—you think it’s funny.”

“Get out,” George said. He tried to shut the door on Dream, but Dream held it open, grinning as George struggled to win against him. “Dream.”

“Admit it,” Dream said, smiling down at George. 

“Admit what? That you’re dumb? Fine.”

Dream finally moved enough for George to close the door, and George leaned against it, his palm to his face as he heard Dream’s laughter echo around the house. 

“Stop,” George yelled through the door. 

The laughter only grew louder. 

And the hole in George’s chest only grew wider. 

-

The sharpie on his face wore off later that night. Presumably, Dream had spent his day trying to clear it off, and a small part of George warmed at that thought—to be thought of. 

When he woke up the next day, there was a small heart on the inside of his wrist, and he couldn’t stop smiling when he saw it. 

He was still smiling when Dream’s head popped up from blankets and pillows, his hair a tangle of curls. 

“Morning,” Dream said, his voice muffled. 

George’s heart pounded as he stared at his soulmate—at tired, blinking eyes; at a wide, sweet smile; at his future. 

Dream pulled him back down into bed, laughing as George shoved against him. 

“You’re heavy,” George complained. 

But, the entire time, he was still smiling. 

He and Sapnap were already on the way out to eat before Sapnap brought it up. 

“You’re smiley today,” he said over the pounding music. 

George, his head leaning against the window, debated. He could ignore it, pretend that he didn’t hear Sapnap over the bass and vibrations of his music, but when George looked down at his sleeve and the heart it barely concealed, he felt like he couldn’t contain it. 

“So what?” he said. 

Sapnap’s fingers danced over the wheel. “You’ve just never been this happy before. I’m proud of you, man.”

George straightened, his fingers absentmindedly playing with the sleeve. 

He had a chance to deceive here—to see exactly how far he could push it, but his heart was pounding and his fingers were stained with ink both his and not, and not for the first time, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

“Thanks,” he said thickly. 

Sapnap glanced at him briefly. He reached across the space and shook George’s shoulder until he laughed. 

George pushed him back into his own space. “You stink.”

Sapnap laughed at that, and for the rest of the time, they sat in comfortable silence, occasionally screaming lyrics when they knew the song. 

It was easy, even if George’s chest burned and his fingers kept returning to his wrist. 

It was easy. 

-

Like all things to do with Dream and George, they fell into a pattern. 

Waking up with giggles and pillows shoved in faces, smiles pressed to sheets and bare skin; cafes and coffee shops, small drawings and insults barely hidden from coats or collars; meetings and meet ups, interviews and videos; dinner at fancy restaurants in hoodies and to-go containers on the ground. 

Most of the time it was just them, with Sapnap having more important meetings and videos to oversee, but when he did join them, they spent as much time together as they could, playing dumb mini games on the Airbnb’s Switch or trying to find an old arcade George googled. 

And every night, without fail, Dream and George would go to bed, sometimes fighting for space or the blanket, but always falling asleep touching in some way or another. It began with legs and fingers and morphed into heads on chests or backs pressed together. On those days, they would wake up with skin stuck together from sweat and humidity. They would push and shove against each other as they unstuck, calling the other gross and sweaty, but they still returned night after night. 

And every night, without fail, the pain in George’s chest was worth it to be the one running his hands through Dream’s hair, pressing his fingers to the small heart he had left on the back of Dream’s ear earlier in the day. 

With Dream’s long curls and his favorite cat beanie, it would be impossible for anyone but him to see, but Dream didn’t question him as he drew it on him. Instead, Dream only closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. 

And every night, George would fall asleep staring at the little heart and wonder how it would feel to kiss Dream there—in a place no one else could see but him. 

-

George had once taken a TikTok of Dream driving. Dream through the George gaze, he saw fans caption afterwards. They had both laughed at that, but the more George sat in the passenger seat while Dream drove, the more he couldn’t help but think of how beautiful Dream looked illuminated only by the navigation panel and the occasional street lamp. 

The only difference between the Dream of the TikTok and his Dream was the presence of ink. It was everywhere, like they were two kids discovering their soulmate for the first time. It probably looked like that to outsiders, too. (That was, if they had left the house and seen people at all the past couple days. Instead, they had spent the time together, in their own secret space.)

They were driving for the sake of driving—something George never had a chance to do in London. 

But Dream had looked at him with a smile, drawings on display, and asked if he wanted to leave everything behind. 

George said yes. 

They rode with the windows down and the music almost maxed. They had bought an aux cord earlier in the day, George looking at Dream in confusion, but he only shrugged and said, wait and see. 

George was a little bit in love with west coast air and the wind in his hair and music with too much drum, but really, he was just a little bit in love with Dream. 

Because this Dream didn’t hide anything. He smiled and complimented George and spoke with such a softness that George didn’t care if he was breaking his own heart—he held onto every moment like it was his last. 

Dream pulled off the road only when it met the coast—sand and water stretching off endlessly in the distance. 

And maybe they really were like children as they ran through the sand, nearly falling every time their feet stuck. 

“This isn’t like Minecraft,” George shouted the first time he fell, and Dream stopped to laugh at him. 

When Dream eventually fell, George tackled him to the ground. 

“Take the L,” he called. 

They laughed into each other’s necks, until Dream pushed George off and they were both giggling into the night sky. There was sand everywhere, and his ribs ached from laughing, but Dream looked so gorgeous framed in the moonlight. 

It almost didn’t seem real, not when Dream was smiling at him like that.

“What’s that smile?” George asked. 

Dream snorted, elbowing his side. “I’m not allowed to smile?”

“No,” George said. “What’s that smile?”

Dream rolled his eyes, and George grinned at getting a reaction out of him. 

“You’re so dumb.”

George took Dream’s help in getting up. This time, they were more careful on their way to the ocean, even if they still pushed and shoved against each other. 

The water was cold against their feet. The first time, Dream jumped back with a laugh, and George nearly fell into him as he made fun of him. 

“You go first, then,” Dream responded, shoving George first. 

It was cold, but he made a show of not flinching. 

“Some of us aren’t babies,” George said. He offered Dream a hand, and they ran through the water, kicking it up as high as they could. 

“Is this like Minecraft?” Dream shouted over the waves. 

George stared at him—at Dream under moonlight on the coast of an ocean that hadn’t separated them. “No,” he said. It’s better.

The words died on his lips, but Dream drew closer like he knew. 

His hands wrapped around George’s waist, pulling him even deeper into the water. They were getting dangerously close to the line where he had rolled up his sweatpants. 

“George,” Dream said. It sounded like a prayer. 

“Dream,” George said. It sounded like a promise. 

Dream looked down, and George’s eyes followed his to where they rested on George’s arms. Like Dream, he chose to wear only a t-shirt on their drive. 

Dream’s fingers ran along the lines of their handwriting. It felt like static, like the hint of lightning before it hit. 

It felt like destruction. 

George watched Dream, taking in his awe, and he reached up, curling his fingers through Dream’s hair. Dream looked up at the touch, finally making eye contact with George, and they both stayed there for a moment or ten. 

The air was cold and the water was even colder, but George felt like his skin was burning everywhere Dream touched it. 

“Close your eyes,” Dream whispered. 

George swallowed nervously, but he did, moving his arms so that now they wrapped around Dream’s hips as Dream moved in his grasp. 

“What’re you doing?” George breathed. 

George heard him uncap the sharpie before he felt it against the cheek. Dream’s left hand cupped his face so, so softly George felt like he was going to shatter. 

“Dream.”

“Don’t–don’t move,” Dream said with a slight laugh. 

George’s eyes opened on instinct. This was always one of his favorite moments with Dream—seeing his face scrunch up as he laughed. Dream always laughed like he’d never laughed before, and George always prided himself on being the one to cause it. 

“What’re you doing?” George repeated. 

Dream’s fingers squeezed his jaw lightly, and their eyes finally met. 

“I told you not to move.”

George couldn’t help but smile, and Dream returned it. “But what’re you doing?”

“Just–just close your eyes, idiot,” Dream said. 

“And if I don’t?” George asked. 

“I’ll throw you into this ocean.”

George laughed, his face instinctively falling forward into Dream like it belonged there, right in between his collarbones. 

“Stop moving,” Dream said. 

George pressed his lips together to smother his smile, and he closed his eyes. 

The marker felt odd against his skin when he wasn’t the one controlling it. Dream pressed lightly, and George almost mourned this fact. Maybe if Dream pressed harder it would stick forever, and George would be his his 

his.

George counted his breaths as Dream drew. His feet and ankles were growing numb and every intake of air felt sharp, but Dream didn’t complain as George’s hands made their way under Dream’s shirt, making patterns on his lower back. 

He reached seventeen before Dream moved back. 

“Open,” Dream said on the nineteenth breath. 

It was dark but the moon was bright enough to illuminate the small filled in heart on Dream’s right cheek. It was lopsided and a little uneven, but George’s eyes still burned. 

“What do you think?” Dream sounded nervous, twirling the sharpie between his fingers. 

“You–“

You’re terrible at drawing hearts. You made it lopsided. You suck. 

“I know it’s not the best,” Dream said. 

“No,” George interrupted, the words sticking in his throat. “It’s perfect.”

Dream brightened at that, but he hid his expression in the crook of George’s neck. “Well, it’s definitely not perfect—“

Dream’s lips were pressed to George’s collarbone and his breath was warm against his neck and god, George had never wanted more. He wore Dream’s heart on his cheek and his own heart on his arms, and something about that made him feel unsteady—like the current pulling at his feet. 

They stayed there until they couldn’t take the cold anymore, and as they walked back, Dream’s arm around George’s shoulders and sand coating them entirely, George couldn’t help but think if this really was Dream through the George gaze—because Dream had never been so breathtaking, and George had never fallen quite as much. 

They were loud and bright as they made their way back to the Airbnb, the sun rising with them as they finally turned into the gated neighborhood. 

But it paid them no mind as they tracked sand into a house an hour away from the closest beach and fell into a shared bed. And they paid it no mind as George fell asleep pressed against Dream with a heart on his cheek. 

-

It was on their last night in California that Dream went to bed early. 

Both George and Sapnap exchanged a look, but Dream was already leaving, the dim light of the tv illuminating his way. 

“What’d you do?” Sapnap snorted when Dream was gone. 

“Why'd you assume it was me? You probably stank up the place,” George muttered back, pretending that the words didn’t hurt as much as they actually did. 

Because Dream had never left so abruptly—not during any of their movie nights or even during any of George and Sapnap’s arguments. 

He had always just been there. 

The room felt empty without him, and George’s legs felt cold from where he normally pressed them against Dream.

Stuck in the heavy silence, George suddenly wanted to go home, but he had no clue what home actually meant. Sure, Florida was nice, but he’d never been as happy as he was here, with Dream. 

George waited ten minutes before leaving. The hallway and bedroom were both dark when he entered, shutting the door behind him quietly. 

“Dream?” he whispered. He didn’t turn on his phone flashlight for fear of waking him, but he also couldn’t see. 

Dream’s side of the bed was the closest, so he went there first, arms outstretched until they met a lump under the blanket. 

“Dream,” George breathed. 

The lump moved, and from next to him, Dream let out a small sigh. 

“What’s wrong?” George asked. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Dream immediately answered. 

But if George knew anything about Dream, it was his voice. He knew when it strained, when Dream was close to tears—when he was overthinking so much he couldn’t speak. 

“What’s right then?” George asked. 

Dream sighed again. “That’s my thing.”

George couldn’t help but smile softly. 

Everything’s wrong, Dream. The–the code won’t work and the game keeps crashing and I–I don’t know how but—

Well, what’s right then?

“What’s right then?”

As his eyes adjusted, George could make out more and more of Dream. Dream, with his hands pressed to his eyes. Dream, with his shirt riding up, exposing a sliver of his stomach. Dream.

“You,” Dream whispered. 

It wasn’t the answer George was expecting, and he had to pause for a second to think, everything leaving his mind but the image of a heart in a place no one else could ever reach. 

“Okay,” George said, trying to keep his voice even. “So, um, trace what went wrong from what went right.”

A hand found his in the darkness. It kept its touches light, trailing nails across veins and skin. 

George had to close his eyes and count the time between his breaths. He felt like he was on fire, but he couldn’t move away. 

“Do you ever think about how, out of anyone in the world, we were soulmates? Like, statistically, it has to be a nightmare.”

Almost against his will, George smiled. Because only Dream would be talking about statistics right now. 

“Only a small percentage,” George whispered. 

Dream started laughing so hard he buried himself into George, his body curling in on itself like his happiness was something he couldn’t contain. 

“God,” he said between laughter. “God.”

George stared down at Dream’s smile in the darkness. “How many of our viewers are soulmates?”

Dream snorted, poking the side of George’s thigh. “A large percentage.”

“We could be matchmakers, Dream,” George said. He knew he was just rambling now, but Dream was finally smiling and laughing, and god, maybe this was home—this darkness filled with grins and subtle touches. “If you ever get bored of beating everyone and being the best, I think we could start a matchmaking business.”

Dream’s hand returned to his. 

“And when I’m the best at that?”

George swallowed unevenly, his attention on the nail dragging up his forearm. “We start again.”

Dream hummed quietly. “I think I’d like that.”

George let himself reach out, to intertwine his fingers with Dream’s. “Me too.”

-

When George woke up, it was to a smiley face on his opposite hand, drawn in the exact same place as the one he made every morning. 

He thought Dream had never noticed because he’d never commented on it, but now…

Now, he pressed his lips to it, his smile somehow growing. 

-

It was easy to grow into Dream. They shared the same house and the same future and the same skin, after all. 

It was easy to hold him close, for George’s nose and lips to press into the crook of Dream’s neck in uncomfortable airplane seats.

It was easy. 

Because while Dream talked to him softly or gave him an earbud to share, he could forget it was all not real for a second. 

And instead, they were two beings growing into one. 

When the wheels of their plane touched down in Orlando and Sapnap left them to pee, George waited for Dream to drop his hand. Instead, Dream only ran his thumb over the smile George drew there earlier in the day, a small grin on his face. 

Sapnap returned and called them gross, and the entire time, George held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

But it never did. 

Well, okay, maybe that was a lie, because George couldn’t sleep. 

It was the Orlando humidity and the fan of his AC and Sapnap’s super loud noises next door and—

Fuck, he missed Dream. 

Once, he had missed Dream an ocean and worlds apart, with quiet voices over hours-long calls. That had felt like the end of the world—like anger and depression and void. It felt like the End. 

Now, he missed Dream in a way he had never let himself feel. 

And he was sinking, with nowhere left to go. 

Or, rather, one place to go. 

Patches was the one to greet him outside of Dream’s door, standing from where she had been laying with a small meow. 

George picked her up and cradled her, speaking to her in a soft voice as he nudged open Dream’s cracked door. 

“George?” Dream was visible in the blue light of his phone. 

He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and George nearly backed out at this first glimpse. Maybe drowning was a better alternative. But Patches was struggling in his arms, pushing closer to Dream, and George understood exactly how she felt. 

“Patchington wanted you,” George said. 

“Hey, Patchy,” Dream said softly, extending his arms forward. 

Patches jumped from his arms to the bed and tore back out the door. They both started laughing, only growing louder when they heard the sound of her claws tearing across the floorboards in another part of the house. 

“So,” Dream said, and George’s heart sank at his tone of voice. “Patches wanted me?”

A hand reached out and clasped his wrist, pulling him closer to the bed. 

“We, uh, we’re actually plotting against you,” George said, allowing himself to be pulled until his legs hit the mattress. 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” George said. He couldn’t take the way Dream was staring up at him with a small, heartbreaking smile. “I can’t say the details. Sworn to secrecy.”

“With Patches?” Dream’s tone of voice hadn’t changed from when he called for Patches the first time. 

George felt lightheaded. “Yeah.”

“I think I can get you to talk,” Dream said. 

George was about to dig in his heels, but he didn’t get a chance before he was pulled forward. His stomach dropped as he fell, and he let out a small shout that was cut short by his awkward landing on top of a body. It was shaking with laughter, and George couldn’t help but join in, even as he pinched Dream’s sides. 

“What was that scream?”

“Shut up,” George said through deep breaths, but then he was back to laughing because Dream sounded so ridiculous. “Shut up. I wasn’t ready.”

Dream mocked his scream, only stopping when George pressed his hands over Dream’s mouth. 

“Stop.”

Dream raised his eyebrows, widening his eyes to make a silly face. George snorted, sliding off of Dream and settling next to him in the bed. 

“You’re so—“ he trailed off. He didn’t even know where he was going with the thought. 

“I’m so?”

Dream’s arm brushed against his and there it stayed, ink pressed to ink. They were mirrored images, tapping against glass. 

They were soulmates. 

George smiled at the ceiling. 

“What?” Dream’s head shifted on their shared pillow, and George turned to meet his eyes. 

“You’re my soulmate.” He felt giddy, like his chest had just expanded. 

“Yeah,” Dream said. “You’re mine.”

You’re mine. 

George couldn’t help it, not when Dream looked at him like that. He leaned in and kissed the corner of Dream’s mouth, where smooth skin and stubble met. 

They were both staring at each other when George leaned back, his heart pounding out of his chest. 

“Sorry,” George gasped, kicking off blankets and covers as quickly as he could. “I didn’t mean—“

“George—“

“It was all”—a bit—“I didn’t”—mean it—“I wanted”—to mess with you—“Fuck.”

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. Blankets trapped him and a soft voice called his name. 

“George.”

He needed out, but out was just an empty bed and strange noises. And so maybe he truly didn’t want out.

Two hands curled around his shoulders, and George stopped. 

“You’re okay,” Dream whispered. 

George looked up. There was barely any space between them. He could close the distance. He could wrap them together, skin to shirt and imagine it was skin to skin. 

They shared the same future. The same skin. 

George’s head dropped forward, resting on Dream’s shoulder. 

“Breathe,” Dream whispered, his thumbs rubbing circles on George’s collarbones. 

He counted his breaths by the way Dream breathed, only inhaling and exhaling when he did. 

“I crossed the line,” George said eventually, his voice cracking. 

Dream didn’t comment on it, but George felt Dream’s fingers tighten around his shoulders. 

“Well, to be fair, there was never a line.”

George’s head shot up, and though Dream’s motions paused, both of his hands remained on George’s shoulders. 

“What?”

“There was no boundary, not to me, at least,” Dream said. He shifted on the bed until their knees knocked together. “There is no boundary.”

George shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No, I–I—“

Dream pulled his wrist down and moved closer, closing the distance. 

“George.”

It felt reverent. 

Like a prayer—or a drawing done and redone every day. 

Or a heart in a place no one else could touch. 

George closed his eyes as Dream pressed his lips to his temple, trailing down his cheek and along his jawline. 

The kisses were softer than pen but more permanent. George would live the rest of his life knowing how Dream’s stubble felt against his skin, how his fingers felt in George’s hair. 

When Dream leaned back, his breathing uneven, George was already leaning in, starting at the corner of his mouth and kissing down his neck and bare shoulders. 

Hours and a lifetime passed like that—like reverence and warmth—but the entire time, their lips never met. 

It was like static, creating marks on each other that wouldn’t cross between shared skin for the first time ever—like lightning seconds before it struck. 

Breathe.

George’s breath hitched, sticking in his throat as Dream’s teeth grazed his neck. 

Once, on one of his deep dives of the internet, George had seen pictures of lichtenberg figures, scars left by lightning in the shape of the strike itself. 

And now, laying in Dream’s bed, his shirt crumpled somewhere and mixed into Dream’s other piles of unwashed clothes, he thought he finally understood why people stood in fields during storms. 

Maybe it was the same reason he drew a smile on the inside of his finger every single day. 

A flash. (A smile. A laugh.) Then—

Boom.

And just as the earth couldn’t help but tremble in the wake of nature’s scream, George’s hands shook as he trailed Dream’s ribcage, molding a home from skin and bone.