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isn't it odd? (we were strangers, once)

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“Gods,” Wilbur had said one day, in the hours they’d spent watching the sun drop lower and lower in the sky, “are made, not born.”

 

He had looked at him then, watched his companion’s hair drop over one of his eyes, looking soft and fluffy in the light that the sun casted over the Earth, courtesy of the sun god and his many generous gifts. “What do you mean by that?”

 

“Do you remember being born, Dream?”

 

He hesitated. “No.”

 

“That is my point.” Wilbur smiled. “You,” he placed a gentle, firm hand on the other’s forehead. Dream allowed him to, breaths stilling and feeling that familiar warm tingle that came with the other God’s powers. Wilbur’s hand retracted, and after it followed a trail of dark blue essence, looking as if it had been cut right out of Sapnap’s night skies. Dream had watched in mute awe as Wilbur twirled it in the air, observing how the white particles glimmered and sparkled. “You, Moon God, happen to be made of many things. You were created with stardust, sewed together with needles dipped in Serenity’s rivers and melded by the most loving of hands. You, my friend,” he smiled again, “are lucky.”

 

“Lucky?” He asked.

 

“Why of course,” Wilbur hummed, and with one flick of his wrist the silk-like material detached from his fingers and floated back to Dream, twirling around the other God for a short moment before settling onto his skin, returning to its place, a faint tingling sensation washing over him before it faded into nothing. “You’ve heard the tale of the Battle God, haven’t you?”

 

“I have heard rumors,” he had admitted, and Wilbur strummed his harp softly, listening to the gentle sound fill the air. He looked as if he wanted to break out into song — as he so often did — but Dream knew that he’d refrain from doing so.

 

“The Battle God is not like you,” he said softly. “He is a mortal turned deity, experienced in death and bloodshed. He is made of ruthlessness, a will to survive, he is a god who was born with the leather of a blade under his fingers and listening to the screams of the suffering.” A pause, and Wilbur had looked at him, “The Ancient Ones rewarded his skill with powers, with godship.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

Wilbur did not answer. Dream, tactfully, did not press. “Do you know why they named you Dream?”

 

He had looked confused. “Why?”

 

“Dreams are created from hope, from longing.” Wilbur said faintly, watching the river ahead rush by, “To dream is to have hope.”

 

“Hope?” Dream asked.

 

“Hope.” Wilbur smiled, “You were made for hope.”

 

He frowned. “Hope for what?”

 

“Hell if I know,” he shrugged, and then laughed, “the Ancient Ones are just as confusing as I, sometimes.” Dream followed his gaze towards the sky, where the blue had already begun to darken and Sapnap had started to toss his stars into the skies, arranging some carefully and others not, filling the skies with his creations proudly.

 

“I must go,” he had said without thinking, already feeling the familiar pull of the moon, anxious to get up into the sky. He wondered if he’d see the sun god, retreating home for the night with that tired smile that he’d been greeted with so many times before, saying nothing but saying everything all at once. 

 

“Goodbye for now, my friend.” Wilbur waved goodbye with a bright smile, harp in his lap. “Till we meet again.”

 

“Till we meet again,” he echoed, feeling the grass soft under his feet. “Goodbye, Wilbur.”

 

Hope.

 

What is hope, anyway?



 

Dream meets him once, on a day where even the thickest of coats can’t protect him from the icy bite of winter.

 

Watered down sunlight filters through the gray clouds as they blot out the sky, giving the world a bleary feel. Dream’s breath appears in a cloud of white mist, and he tugs his coat tighter around himself, watches the snow drift lazily from the sky almost like falling stars. It doesn’t do much to block out the cold, but he does it anyway. He can see his destination ahead, a warm cafe where the smell of pastries and coffee is wafting into the outside air. 

 

He opens the door with a gloved hand, stepping inside the warmth with an almost relieved sigh, and is immediately drawn to the display of tantalizing pastries that sit behind warm glass. The building is busy, bustling with people rushing for something warm, and nearly all of the tables are filled. A short welcome is called out and Dream gives an awkward wave back, looking around as he moves towards the counter.

 

Someone bumps into him then, and he stumbles.

“Fuck,” he hears the person swear as the sound of something clattering to the floor fills the air. Dream blinks, eyes catching onto a pale face and sharp jawline. They glance up at him with multi-colored eyes, one red and one blue, that swirl like they had been made of countless stars. 

 

And suddenly, Dream feels breathless.



 

“Your sunrises are pretty,” he had commented offhandedly, watching the yellow peek over the horizon and splash the sky with pink and orange. The Sun God had looked at him, unimpressed, and Dream tried not to focus on how gorgeous his eyes were, beautifully mismatched, fitting.

 

“I know,” he said, sounding bitter. “Everyone tells me that.”

 

Dream blinked. He opened his mouth, the guilt rippling through him, “Apologies.”

 

The Sun God laughed, though it wasn’t joyous. It was a tired laugh, one that suggested he had been through many of the same experiences before. “It’s alright,” he assured gently, “I get that a lot.” 

 

Dream nodded, the guilt easing a bit. “Why do you hate the sunrise?” He asked curiously, watching the God stare out into the distance, looking as if he was lost in thought. He had turned to him, dark hair glossy in the sunlight, and smiled ruefully.

 

“I can’t see the colors.” He said. “I’m colorblind.”

 

“..Oh,” Dream said numbly, not knowing how to respond. “That’s unfortunate.”

 

“Indeed,” he hummed, looking amused. They had settled on a tree, one large and big enough that they could both overlook the lands below, watch the animals roam about and see the people chatter, holding spears and fluttering in and out of their little shacks. “I’ve learned to accept it, though.”

 

They fell quiet.

 

“Is there a reason why you linger, Moon God?” He had asked after a few beats of silence, one eyebrow cocking curiously. Dream had shrugged, feeling a blush warm his face, and mumbled out a response that made the other blink bewilderedly. “Come again?”

 

“I wanted to talk to you,” he had admitted bashfully, watching the Sun God’s eyes widen slightly. “I find you intriguing.”

 

“We’ve never spoken before this,” the other pointed out, “I do my job and you do yours, Moon God. There is nothing interesting about me.”

 

“I beg to differ,” Dream tilted his head with a slight smile, “And my name is Dream, not Moon God.”

 

The Sun God blinked, but did not argue. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “my name is George, then.”

 

Dream frowned. “That doesn’t sound like-“

 

“It’s not,” George admitted, “I dislike the name that I was given, so I came up with my own.” He smiled, softly, “I think it rather suits me. Do you?”

 

“I suppose,” he mused thoughtfully, tasting the name on his tongue. It was a rather bland name for a God, the Ancient Ones had always enjoyed bestowing their creations with names of deep meaning, names that meant something. The name George is… simple. Dream thought it was nice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, George.”

 

George laughed, and it sounded like a million soft chimes in his ears. “The pleasure is all mine.”



 

“Sorry,” he startles, blinking rapidly as the stranger’s voice tugs him back into reality. “That was my fault.” In his hands, he holds a cup of coffee and a phone. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” 

 

Dream looks at him, taking in his facial features. It’s so familiar, the way those dark lashes brush softly against his upper cheekbones, the soft flush that colors his pale cheeks — whether from the cold or their collision, he doesn’t know. Something about it all makes recognition tingle throughout him, from a memory that he cannot grasp, one that feels as if it is teetering on the tips of his fingers yet evading him nonetheless.

 

He speaks. “Have we met before?”

 

The stranger stills, looking bewildered, “I don’t think so,” he replies, and Dream snaps his mouth shut, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember you.”

 

“It’s okay,” he assures, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, “I don’t either. I just — you feel familiar, to me.”

 

“You…” the stranger starts, and then shakes his head. Dream watches the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, as if wanting to say something but unsure. His fingers tighten around the plastic cup almost unnoticeably. “I don’t remember ever meeting you, even if I feel like I have.”

 

So it’s not just me? He wants to ask, relieved, but doesn’t. Instead he nods, storing the information away as something to think about when he is daydreaming, taking a breath. “I’m — My name is Dream,” and he holds out a hand, almost forgetting to pull off his glove in the process. The man takes it after a moment of hesitance. 

 

Dream inhales sharply when his slender palm slips into his, tingling warmth dancing up his skin as if he’d been electrified. He jolts back — the other does too, and clutches his arm to his chest as if he’d been burned.



 

Simple was a very good word to describe George, he discovered. 

 

George was a very simple God. 

 

He wasn’t extravagant, like others. In fact he was quite… ordinary. Humane, almost, which the Moon God supposed was an effort to not draw attention to oneself.

 

On the contrary, it just made Dream all the more interested.

 

They’d talk some days, when Dream could resist the tiredness tugging at his being for a few hours, when the Moon was supposed to have already set and the Sun had already started its rise into the sky. George hadn’t seemed to mind all that much, often greeting him with a soft smile and a witty line that never failed to make him laugh. Dream liked George’s smile, it made even the brightest stars feel dim and was filled with so much meaning that he’d always inevitably find himself smiling too.

 

Sometimes, however, George was the one who lingered.

 

“Do you ever think about why we are here?” George asked once, and Dream had looked at him, feeling oddly reminded of his conversation with the God of Creativity, Wilbur.

 

“What do you mean by that?” He had asked.

 

George shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder why the Ancient Ones do anything,” he said faintly, staring out where Dream’s Moon has begun it’s ascent into Sapnap’s star-filled sky, “What’s the point of it all?”

 

“Boredom, I suppose,” Dream mumbled. “They aren’t very kind to us, are they?”

 

The Sun God laughed, “No, I suppose not,” and Dream observed the way that his gaze seemed to soften, staring out at the Moon in all its glory, eyes drifting over the craters and dips that are visible even from here. George hummed, “I think your moonrises are far more beautiful than the sun.”

 

Dream smiled bashfully, the compliment bringing a flush to his cheeks. “Thank you,” he stammered, stomach fluttering. George smiled again, looking almost ethereal in the moonlight — his moonlight — and Dream, for a second, felt breathless — winded, even. He wondered if it was normal to feel this way, to feel so giddy, to hang off of George’s every word as if it were a lifeline. To look at this god, the God of the Sun and therefore the God of Life — he wondered if it was normal to look at George and feel as if the Sun and the stars and everything in between that could vanish and yet he’d feel content, as long as George was by his side.

 

“Dream?”

 

He blinked, heart stuttering a little at the way George said his name, softly in that accented voice of his that Dream loved so much — sounding concerned. 

 

“Apologies,” He whispered, resisting the urge to wince at the raspiness of his own voice, “I was lost in thought.”

 

“What were you thinking about?” George had asked, inevitably. Dream paused, wondered whether it was really worth telling him, and felt his cheeks flush even more at the thought. 

 

He took a breath, “I was thinking about — about…” Christ, he thought to himself, cringing. This really shouldn’t be this hard.

 

George tilted his head, curiosity brimming in his mismatched eyes, “Thinking about me?” He laughed teasingly, swinging his legs absentmindedly.

 

Dream swallowed. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, and George’s eyes widened. “I was — was just thinking about how you look nice, in the light.”

 

“Do I?” George asked, sounding uncertain. Dream found it pretty, how his cheeks were flushed with a darker pink, the moonlight giving his pale skin a sort of glow. 

 

“Yeah,” he breathed, softly, feeling his heart stutter and skip when George turned away. He had looked embarrassed, the tint of red on his cheeks just barely visible, teeth tugging at his bottom lip and fingers playing with the hem of his robes endearingly. Dream exhaled, stomach fluttering with warmth, “You’re beautiful.”



 

Dream runs his fingers gently over the palm of his hand, feeling the tingling warmth that still lingers. What was that? He stares at the man in front of him, who looks equally as shocked.

 

“I’m… um.. I’m George,” he breathes after a moment. Someone shoves past them, and suddenly everything comes flooding back, all the outside noises that had melted away during their interaction suddenly loud in his ears. Dream had almost forgotten about their surroundings, the fact that they are in a public space had been completely lost to him as all he could think about now was this man, who feels so familiar for no reason, who only has to glance at him once to steal the breath from his lungs.

 

“Sorry,” Dream mumbles, shifting away. George does the same and they bundle to the side, close together. George’s hand brushes against his once more, and again Dream feels that electricity, the warmth that tingles and sparks and almost burns but doesn’t . He swallows, his throat feeling tight, and speaks again. “I…” George looks at him too, with the multi-colored eyes that swirl with shades of blue and red that he never even knew had existed before then, “I think… I’m — you feel like — you feel like home, ” He stammers. “Is that — is that normal?”

 

“I don’t know,” George admits, and he sounds just as confused as Dream does, “You feel like home too.” His voice sounding like a thousand soft bells in the latter’s ears. “This has never happened to me before.”



 

“Do you know what love is?” 

 

Dream stilled, turning his head to meet George’s gaze, mismatched eyes blinking up at him patiently. The sun’s light reflected off the swirling pools of red and blue, making them seem as if they were almost glittering. A breeze blew past, soft and gentle, ruffling through their hair and carrying with it the gentle chirps of songbirds. 

 

“A human concept,” he had answered, listening to the way George had laughed and holding back the smile that threatened to surface. “Sapnap talks about it a lot.”

 

The Sun God giggled, “That’s not what I meant,” and Dream shrugged, shifting a little on the soft grass where they sat.

 

“What did you mean, then?” He asked. “Human concepts are confusing.” Humans are confusing. Dream chose not to add that on.

 

“I don’t really know,” George had confessed after a moment, smiling sheepishly, “I just — I wonder what it feels like, to love. I wonder why the humans are so… why they treasure it so much.”

 

“It’s…” Dream paused, trying to recall what the God of the Stars had told him once. Sapnap had always been captivated by the concept of love, whereas Dream never bothered with it. Until now. “I suppose… it’s when you appreciate something a lot, when you would do anything to have it with you. When you would give up the world just to protect it from harm,” he had begun to ramble now, hands twisting into the dark blue of his robes, “When it makes you feel happy, warm inside, when all you have to do is catch sight of it in order to smile.” He paused, finishing quietly, “I think that’s love, at least, that’s how I see it.”

 

George did not speak.

 

Dream took a breath, “Sorry,” he mumbled out, “I got — sorry, I ramble, um, sometimes.”

 

“It’s okay,” the other assured, sounding oddly quiet. “I think that’s a rather good interpretation of it.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, and then there were fingers brushing over Dream’s arms, ghosting over his skin and skimming past his robes to settle on the hands that sit in his lap. George threaded their fingers together, looking amused at the way Dream was blushing then, the pink on his cheeks stark against tanned skin. George’s palms were soft, warm, and his touch was like fire licking up his skin. “Would you like to try it with me, then?”

 

“Try what?” He asked, breathless, head spinning and his heart thumping uncomfortably fast against his chest.

 

“Love,” George answered simply, lips pulling up into a soft smile. “Would you like to find out what it is, together?” 

 

Dream‘s heartbeat stuttered, his mouth opening and closing in a vain attempt to form words that refused, even as George giggled patiently and shifted closer. “Are you — is this… George?”

 

“Is that a no?” He cocked an eyebrow, smile dimming if only for a second.

 

“No, it’s — I’m..” Dream blinked, shaking his head furiously in an attempt to straighten his thoughts. He took a breath, hoping to calm the frantic beat of his heart, and tried again. “You want to love me?”

 

“I had assumed it was rather clear,” George tilted his head, palms still pressed against his. 

 

“It was — I was just,” Dream cursed under his breath at his lack of coherency, “You don’t — I’ve never, you know…”

 

“You talk too much,” George had said, with a lighthearted roll of his eyes, and leaned forward to kiss him.

 

Dream had wondered then if kissing was supposed to feel so wonderful.

 

George’s lips were soft, unbelievably so, and he tasted of sweet honey and cinnamon. Dream felt his eyes flutter shut instantly, leaning forward into the kiss and reveling in the way George had hummed, moved closer to him until his hands had reached the silky softness of the Moon God’s hair. His chest felt warm, so incredibly warm, and he couldn’t help the way his hands had moved on their own, dragging up the silk of George’s robes until they’d settled on his hot cheeks. He had wondered, distantly, pulling back for a moment to take in a shallow breath before leaning in again like a moth to a flame, if he was blushing just as much as the other God was.

 

The way they pressed together was almost addicting. Dream had been wholly convinced that George was made for him, the way his lips seemed to fit so perfectly against his was an indicator of this. George hummed again, his hands leaving a fiery trail on Dream’s skin as he kissed back with just as much fervor as the other God. Everything about this felt right; Dream wondered why they hadn’t done this before. His thumbs traced small circles on the Sun God’s cheeks, allowed him to pull back with a gaze half-lidded and press soft kisses to his cheeks and nose and everywhere, before eventually bringing their lips together again.

 

“Dream,” George muttered softly, breaths coming out in pants. Unlike the Moon God, one of his hands had settled on the nape of his neck, fingers playing with soft blond hair, and the other had fisted into his robes, gripping the fabric tightly as if it were a lifeline. “Dream,” he repeated, in that same soft tone that never failed to make the Moon God feel as if he was plummeting from the sky, wingless.

 

“George,” he had breathed in return, cupping the Sun God’s face in his cheeks and pressing their foreheads together. Distantly, it registered in his mind that all the light that would usually have come from George’s sunrise had disappeared, the world seemingly bathed in darkness, but Dream found that the only thing he could do then was stare into George’s eyes, red and blue and perfect, and listen to the way he repeated his name, over and over and over again like a mantra. 

 

Dream had decided then, that instead of hope, he was made for that, for love. To love. 



 

“This has never happened to me either,” he confesses softly, quietly so that no one else could hear them. He wonders for a moment if this is what a soulmate is supposed to make him feel like, but the thought is brushed off quickly. 

 

“Okay,” George mutters, fumbling a little and managing to slip his phone into his back pocket, “What do we do, then? I don’t want to,” he cuts himself off, but one raise of his eyebrow from Dream prompts him to continue, “I don’t want to just… never talk again. Being with you feels…” A blush colors his cheeks, and he glances away, trailing off timidly.

 

“Right?” Dream offers, feeling much the same way. George nods wordlessly. “I get it, I guess we can,” he pats his pockets a few times, pulling out his phone, “here, you can have my — can I give you my number? I want to get to know you, I think we’re…” Soulmates, he doesn’t say. 

 

“Yeah,” the other breathes, “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” the cup of coffee is set down on the windowsill and George pulls out his phone again, tapping the dark screen a few times and watching it light up. Dream resists the urge to smile, feeling oddly warm every time George so much as glances at him. It doesn’t take long, so now Dream has a new contact in his phone labeled ‘George’ and nothing else. 

 

Faintly, he wonders if it’s weird to feel this happy about having a single new contact in his phone.



 

They saw each other once every century.

 

Dream had found out quickly after their kiss exactly why particular Gods never interacted with each other. It all made sense, after he’d watched the Earth be plunged into darkness, watched the humans erupt into chaos and panic, all because he and George had kissed. It would have been almost funny if not for the fact that the Ancient Ones had been very displeased. So displeased, in fact, that they had dictated the two Gods would never see each other again. Or they would have, if not for a few of the other Gods stepping in. A compromise had formed because of that, and Dream knew that he should have been happy — seeing George once every century was better than nothing — and yet he still felt bitter about it.

 

He felt George’s presence long before his voice followed, excited and loud, unchanged despite the decades that have passed. “Dream!”

 

“George!” He yelled in return, and then he saw him, wearing his usual white robes and staring at him with the same mismatched eyes that he had found himself getting lost in so many times before. He blinked, and then George was there and in his arms and laughing, and Dream had lifted him up and swung the smaller God in a circle, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. A smile found its way to his face, inevitably, and Dream laughed, George’s hands cupping his cheeks as they twirled in the open field like children.

 

“Dream, put me down!” George had laughed, almost on the verge of shrieking, “You’re an idiot, you’re gonna drop me!”

 

“I would never,” he gasped dramatically, setting his lover down despite that and backing away to finally get a good look at him. George smiled bashfully up at him, fidgeting, and Dream hadn’t failed to notice how his eyes would always catch onto the earrings he wore, a gift from the Sun God just before they had been separated. He never took them off. “What are you doing?” He had laughed, spreading his arms, “Come here.”

 

George never needed to be told twice. His small body settled against Dream’s when he accepted the hug, arms sliding around his back to hold him closer, and Dream sighed happily, squeezing the other tightly. It was a few moments of content silence, then George pulled back and he barely needed to breathe out Dream’s name before they were kissing, gentle and soft, exchanging the silent ‘I missed you’s’ that never needed to be said. Kissing George never felt any different no matter how many times he did it, it always filled him with the same tingling warmth that would engulf him from head to toe. It never failed to make his heart stutter and skip and feel as if it were going to stop altogether. 

 

The world, again, was plunged into darkness. An eclipse, he recalled the humans naming it. He never knew why they had named it such, but found that he didn’t care. All he cared about were these moments , these moments where he was able to hold George in his arms and kiss the God until their lips were bruised and he was laughing at him to stop, face flushed delightfully red. 

 

When the giddiness that always arrived with their reunions eventually calmed, Dream had asked George, sitting on the spot he had picked out for them decades ago, “Do you dream of me?”

 

George had smiled at him then, eyes soft, squeezing his hand gently. “I do,” he answered, “You’re all I dream about.” Dream blushed, and George only giggled, leaning forward to place a gentle kiss on the bridge of his nose where Dream knew that a freckle would form. “Do you dream of me too?”

 

“All the time,” the Moon God admitted, his thumb tracing circles on the back of the other’s hand, “I dream of seeing you again, of being able to hold you in my arms and kiss you.” He paused, swallowing, “I dream of being able to look at you like this,” and when George blushed he had chuckled quietly, “I never dream about anything else but you.”

 

“How sweet,” George said teasingly, cheeks still red yet his lips quirking into a mischievous smirk despite that, “Sapnap says that all you talk about is me.”

 

He had glanced away, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. “It’s hard to talk about anything else,” he mumbled quietly, “I miss you.”

 

George laughed, the soft sound making his stomach flutter and his chest tighten in delight, “Well,” he began, holding up their hands — fingers intertwined — so that Dream could see the way their palms slotted perfectly together, like they were made for each other. “I’m here now, and you have yet to tell me about the adventures you’ve had since we were last together.” And the Moon God smiled a smile that he knew only George could pull out of him, deciding not to waste another precious second.



 

They never have long together.

 

“When will I see you again?” He asked, as he always did, and George looked at him with a loving, sad smile that he always hated seeing on the other God. They both knew the answer. There’s never any point in asking, yet he did so anyway. Dream pulled him closer, already beginning to feel the tug of the curse on his core — a feeling that he had already gotten used to long ago. “I don’t want to leave you.”

 

“Neither do I,” George said softly, staring up at him. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “the time will pass quickly.”

 

“It never does,” the Moon God mumbled bitterly, hating the way the tears had already begun to sting his eyes, “Every second without you is too long and every minute with you isn’t long enough.” 

 

George smiled again, though it was watery. “I know, darling.”

 

“I hate not being with you.” He choked out, burying his face into the crook of George’s neck. “Everything is so much more dull without you by my side.” Please don’t leave, he wanted to say, but it was useless. They always parted in the end, no matter how many tears were shed. The pull on his core grew stronger.

 

“I know,” the Sun God muttered quietly, “trust me, I know, Dream, I know.” He inhaled shakily, taking in his lover’s scent, savoring it. George’s arms tightened around him, “It’s only a century longer. Be strong for me, okay?” And then he had slipped away, and the hollow feeling that arrived with George’s departure has already begun to return. A gentle kiss is pressed to his forehead, cool palms cupping his cheeks for a few measly seconds before they were gone again. Dream shook his head, pulling George back to kiss him again — it’s the last kiss they shared for the next one hundred years — and it tasted of salt and honey and longing.

 

George pulled away again, more firmly this time, allowing the curse to tug him away. He donned a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, which brimmed with unshed tears. The Sun God tilted his head, lifting a hand in a small  wave.

 

“This isn’t the last time,” he promised. Dream nodded, inhaled shakily and tried his best to smile, to be strong and understanding, and he could tell George was doing the same. 

 

“It isn’t the last time,” he repeated numbly, the words easing his pain only slightly. George smiled brighter and nodded, tears that glistened with stardust streaming down his cheeks.

 

“We’ll meet again, my love.”

 

And then he was gone.

 

That night, the Moon shone dull.



 

George smiles at him, albeit a bit awkwardly, and tucks his phone back into his pocket. “Okay,” he breathes, “nice. I’m gonna — I have to go now, so — text me, okay? Or I can text you,” he offers, picking his cup back up, and suddenly Dream is reminded of why he even came here in the first place.

 

“Whatever works for you,” He answers, shoving his hands back into his pockets and trying to keep the bright smile off his face. “Nice to meet you, George.” The name rolls easily off his tongue; for a moment he thinks that it feels nice, half tempted to say it again, but refrains from doing so. George smiles, softer this time, more meaningful.

 

“Nice to meet you, Dream.” He returns the sentiment, “Okay, um, talk to you later, then.”

 

“Talk to you later,” he hears himself saying, and then George has nudged past him and left, returning to the freezing outdoors. Dream exhales, feeling winded, and looks down at his phone again. ‘George’ stares up at him in big white letters, making him grin in the process, and Dream feels his heart skip a beat just thinking about the interaction. There’s something about George that feels right , that feels like they were meant for each other and meant to meet. Is this what having a soulmate is like?

 

He shakes his head, discards the thought and moves towards the counter. The bustle has calmed, if only slightly, and less people wait in line now. It’s odd how great he feels now, when all George had done was smile at him and talk to him and brush against him. Everything about George feels so unbearably familiar. It feels like home. George feels like home, and strangely enough, Dream finds that he doesn’t mind it all that much.

 

conversation started with George

 

are you free for lunch?

 

George is typing. . . 

 

yea :]