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“You always believed me. Wish you would
come back so we could talk about truth.
Miss you. Wish you would walk through my
door. Stare out from the mirror. Come through
the pipes.”
G. Calvocorresi, ‘Miss you. Would like to take a walk with you.’ (2021).
“And I used to think
you could hear the ocean in a seashell.
What a childish thing.”
P. Bridgers, ‘Sidelines’. (2022).
“When I get home,
I’m gonna love you so well.”
I. De Souza, ‘Sleep Talking’. (2016).
***
The stupid thing is, when he wakes up, he doesn’t even realize anything is wrong.
When he’s in that drowsy space, between asleep and awake, he’s like a confused animal. His sister had often called him as much, when she was asked to wake him to ensure he didn’t leave too late for school. But the animal that came out then, haphazard and swatting at his sister, is much different from the animal that comes out now.
He has the vague notion that someone is in the bed with him, but it strangely isn’t enough to stir him. Neither is a hand, even when it’s stroking through his hair, sending pleasant shivers down his spine.
He even nestles into the warmth, inhaling deeply and catching a masculine scent that seems comforting, even when he can’t place it. He sprawls across this second body, still not noticing the change. He breathes steadily into the chest underneath him. The hand sweeps up and down his back, needling into a knot of muscle under his shoulder blade. It feels so good he lets out a quiet groan of satisfaction, eyes still closed.
It’s the voice that finally gets him.
“Morning, sleepy,” says George, his voice low from disuse.
George.
He freezes.
“What,” he says, finding small relief when his voice is still his, “the fuck.”
George just laughs above him. “You okay?”
“How are you here,” Dream says, blankly, not daring to move from where he lays, face down in George’s chest. “Why are you here? Where are we?”
The laughter dies. “What?” He asks, incredulous. Dream imagines the scrunch of his nose easily. “What are you talking about?”
“Where are we?” Dream repeats, terror clinging at him now like something oily.
Despite George’s obvious confusion, he still answers the question. “In bed?”
Dream knows that he’s certainly asking the wrong questions -- focusing on the little details without letting himself expand into the big picture -- but he can’t bring himself to care. He spits the words as they come to him.
“Whose bed?”
“Dream.” George says his name like he’s putting his foot down, not looking to entertain it any longer.
“George,” Dream replies. There must be something in the way he says it, because George starts rubbing his back again, gently. It’s so gentle it makes Dream want to cry.
“Our bed,” George answers, finally. “Are you okay?”
Their bed. Dream inhales, a big shuddering breath.
“I don’t know,” he says, voice small. He’s so scared he daren’t look up.
“Okay,” George says patiently. “Can you look at me for a second? Or are you just gonna stay down there?” He brings his hand to Dream’s hair, scratching through it gently.
“Gonna stay here,” Dream says, into George’s sleep shirt. He lets himself inhale the masculine scent of the material -- it’s comforting, and the fact that it’s clearly allowed makes him want to do it for as long as he can get away with it.
“Okay,” George says, again. “Want to tell me why?”
“You don’t know what I look like,” Dream spills immediately. “Can’t show you, idiot.”
The hand in his hair stills.
“What?”
Dream doesn’t say anything.
“I know what you look like, Dream,” George says. The amusement has gone from his voice.
“No,” Dream says, ice in his veins. “No, you don’t.”
“I do,” George insists. “I don’t like this game anymore, Dream.”
“I’m not playing a game,” Dream says. At least George hasn’t pushed him away yet. “I’m not, I’m --”
“This isn’t funny,” George says, his upset obvious. “Stop being mean.”
“I’m not being mean,” Dream says, panic rising in him. He doesn’t want to make George sad. He rises from George’s chest, his own fear forgotten, and then fuck -- it’s George. George is right there, and he looks -- he looks --
Dream tries not to let himself react to the way George looks.
“I’m not being mean,” he says, being brave, and letting George look at him. “I think --” He shrugs, feeling frantic. “I think I might have forgotten something.”
“Forgotten what?” George says, his mouth still pulling down into a frown.
“I don’t know,” Dream says. He feels startlingly young, and more so when he realizes that George is old. Not gray -- but much older than he was when Dream first saw him a few months ago, young and shining on his monitor. “Maybe I hit my head, or --”
“What do you mean?” George pushes.
“How are you here?” Dream bursts forth with.
George backs away, slightly, and Dream feels woozy with his mistake. “What do you mean?” He says again, but this time, his mouth wobbles.
“I mean,” Dream explains, “either I’m in England, or you’re in America. How is that possible?”
“Why would that not be possible?”
Dream frowns. Maybe George is the crazy one. “Why would that not be possible?” He repeats, incredulous. “Uh, I don’t know, George, maybe because of coronavirus?”
George goes pale. “What,” he says, “the fuck?”
“You --” Dream frowns. “You do know what --”
“Yes,” George replies, emphatically. “I do know what coronavirus is. But that’s not been an issue for --” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what Dream is saying. “What year is it, Dream?”
“What?”
“What year is it,” George repeats.
“Um,” Dream frowns. “It’s 2020?”
George just stares at him. “It’s 2027,” he says, finally. “2027.”
***
Even after George has talked him down, he doesn’t feel like he’s steady on his feet.
“I don’t understand,” he’s saying, pacing up and down their bedroom. Their bedroom. The room that they so clearly share, with the bed that he had been laying in, curled around George. “How can I be here? How can you?”
“It’s like I said,” George replies, calmly. “You’ve swapped with yourself. You get to see a bit of your future, he gets to remember what it was like to be you.”
“How do you even know that?” Dream says. He sits on the side of the bed, trying to steady himself. He rubs his palms together to soothe. He can’t help but fiddle with his ring finger. “Aren’t you just assuming?”
“I’m not assuming. I know because you told me,” George says, plainly.
“How can I trust that?” Dream pokes back, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.
“I don’t know,” George says, honestly. “I guess you can’t. But you told me, and I trust you. So I guess it’s just up to you to trust me.”
“I want to trust you,” Dream says. “I do but --”
“I get it,” George interjects. “It’s cool, I can’t expect you to just trust me.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “Not immediately, anyway. I guess there’s a kind of culture shock there, yeah? Like, past to present. Or present to future. For you, anyway.”
Dream cuts past his musings. “How can you just trust that? Implicitly?”
George smiles briefly. “Well,” he says, with meaning. He glances down at his left hand. “You don’t have to pretend you haven’t noticed. I figure it kind of speaks for itself.”
Dream stares down at his finger, twisting the ring with his other hand.
“I was kind of avoiding it,” he says. “I didn’t know if it was like, rude to ask.”
“Why would it be rude?” George asked, amused. “It’s literally a question about yourself.”
“My future self,” Dream insists. “I thought maybe he’d want privacy.”
George laughs, and Dream watches in wonder as it plays out on his face. He tips his head back to do it, and he catches the glint of his molars. “You’re so cute,” he says. “I wish you could see yourself, you’d get a kick out of this.”
“I can see myself,” Dream says, awkwardly avoiding the comment. “There’s a mirror right there.”
“I mean future you,” George explains, smiling still. “It’d kind of be like cloning, except your brain is young and smooth.”
“Smooth,” Dream replies.
“Yeah,” George answers. “Without wrinkles.”
“Right,” Dream says.
“And anyway,” he adds. “Don’t worry. You’ve already told me about this, and you’re happy it happens. You don’t have to worry about upsetting anyone.”
Dream is about to object -- about to say that he wasn’t worried about upsetting anyone in the first place, actually, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he realizes that that would be a lie.
From the look on George’s face, he knows it too. He likely knew the exact chain of events that led to the worry being planted in Dream’s head. It’s a little disconcerting, sharing space with someone who knows every inch of him -- especially when he doesn’t have the same knowledge.
He knows his George well enough, sure. Maybe not the same way a spouse would, but well enough. He knows the name of his year one teacher, his mother’s maiden name, the street he grew up on. He could get into every bank account he’ll ever have, just by virtue of his own curiosity, the questions he’s asked him throughout the time he’s known him.
But this George, the one in the room with him -- he’s had seven years of growing and changing to do. There are parts of him that Dream knows nothing about. It bothers him, more than he would have thought it would.
“So,” he says. “You were expecting me?”
“Yeah,” he says. “You told me on my thirtieth birthday, last year, like a weirdo.”
“Fuck,” Dream breathes. “You’re thirty.”
“Don’t rub it in,” George smiles. “I have to wear reading glasses now, how shit is that?”
“How is that shit?” Dream frowns. “Thirty is a good age. I feel like you’re more sure about yourself at that age.”
“Hm,” George says. “I guess so.”
“So I just know the future then?” Dream thrills at the possibility -- thinks vaguely about researching Youtube trends in this time, trying to work out the trajectory he could steer his channel on, how to use this to his advantage. “Like Marty McFly shit?
“Ha,” George says. “No. You told me you remember it gradually. It just comes to you slowly over time.”
“Oh,” Dream says, a little disappointed.
“Yeah,” George says. “But hey,” he adds. “Look at this way: you can ask me anything, and I don’t have to lie.”
Dream frowns, just at the idea that George would lie to him in any circumstance. “Why would you lie?”
“Well,” George says. “If I knew you would remember, I might not tell you. Because it could jeopardize my life. I could start dissolving like in Back to the Future.”
“George would --” he corrects himself, feeling guilty at the slip up, “you would just tell me anything anyway.”
George grins. “Maybe,” he says. “But I guess we’ll never know.” He lays his hands out, palms facing up. “Ask away,” he prompts.
Dream stares at the hands, flicking his gaze between them and George’s kind face. It’s strange -- he’s barely seen George in his time, but seeing him now -- it’s startling how undeniably handsome he is. He looks back at George’s hands, and the band catches his eye too much to not mention.
He swallows, unsure of how to approach it. Even when he’s been outright given permission, it’s hard to say it properly.
“I --” He cuts himself off, fiddling with his own wedding band. “I mean --”
“You want to know how this happened?” George asks, gesturing meaningfully between them.
“Yeah,” Dream says. “I guess.”
George pats the bed next to him. “Sit down, yeah?”
Dream sits.
“I don’t know,” George says, which is a little ridiculous considering the fact he’s the only one in the room who definitely does know. “It feels weird to explain. It was all so… natural.”
It feels strange instructing this older man on how to talk, but he does. “Try at the beginning,” he says. He tries to make his voice as gentle as George’s, and by the kind smile that is flashed at him, he thinks he succeeds.
“Yeah,” George concedes. “Makes sense, it’s only that it doesn’t really feel like it had a beginning. It sort of just happened. On my end, anyway. Way before I got to Florida.”
“But,” Dream interrupts, frowning, “what about the face reveal? I face reveal before you get to Florida?”
George smiles, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, all coy. “No,” he says.
“So you didn’t know what I looked like?” Dream asks, confused. “George, that’s so dumb. What if I had been like, a serial killer? What if you had a crush on a serial killer? Do you not have any internet safety?”
George looks at him with a brow raised. “Are you serious, Dream?”
Something in him squirms at the way George’s gaze pins him, heavy and heated. “Well, I don’t know!” He defends, knowing, humiliatingly, that his cheeks are reddening. “Just saying that you should be careful, I don’t know,” he trails off.
“Well, I wasn’t,” George says, brusque but not unkind. “I like, fell in love with you or whatever, and then moved to Florida. Within six months we were dating, and within a year and a half we were engaged.”
“Oh,” he says. “Wow. That’s fast, huh.”
George smiles at him, and it strikes Dream them just how comfortable George is with him. It’s dizzying.
“Sorry,” he says. “I know it might be a lot.”
“It’s…” He thinks, fiddling with his ring. “It’s not a lot, exactly. It’s just that…” He shrugs. “I haven’t even told you I think I might like guys,” he whispers, feeling like confession has to be kept a secret from even the room they’re sitting in. “In my time, I mean. Like… it feels too scary.”
“I know,” George says, softly. “I know, Dream. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“Well, I am a little, I guess,” he shrugs. “It sucks to have to confront something before you’re ready.”
Dream nods, and he has the strange feeling that he’s about to cry.
“Can I say something,” he says, “if you promise you won’t get mad?”
George swallows, suddenly looking away. “I would never get mad at you,” he says. It’s clear he has to work to make his voice steady. He looks back at Dream.
“It doesn’t —“ Dream pauses, swallowing in the presence of George, here for real. “It doesn’t feel like we’re allowed,” he confesses.
“Oh,” George says, before looking away again and frowning. And then looking back. “We’re allowed,” he says, quietly. “Of course we’re allowed.”
“It feels like we’re doing something bad,” Dream says, and he feels heavy.
George’s expression collapses around his eyes and his mouth. He swallows. “We’re not doing anything bad,” he says.
“I know,” Dream rushes to say, worried that he’s fucked up already, that George is mad at him. “I know it’s not bad. But I still feel -“ He shrugs, finding it hard to put into words. “I still feel like I’ve never let myself consider…”
“Men?”
“You,” Dream corrects, to George’s widening eyes. “Or, well, I guess men too, by association.”
“That’s okay,” George says, more patient than Dream has ever known him to be. He raises his hand like he wants to rub Dream’s back, but he freezes halfway through the movement and returns it to his side. Florida has made him kind, Dream realizes. “We don’t have to — This isn’t something we need to talk about. Not right away, anyway.”
“Okay,” Dream says, mollified. He ducks his head down, rocking towards George. He wants nothing more than to seek comfort from him, and it’s thrilling to know that it’s something he might be given.
“Okay,” George echoes, gently. “Well, we can do something today if you want. ‘Cause you can go outside and shit, now.”
“Oh,” Dream says, eyes widening. He flicks his gaze to the window — watches the sun, the stretch of green that folds out into the horizon. “I haven’t gone out in months.”
“I know,” George says, patient. “We can go see your family? Or just go for a walk. Or like, go for lunch or something?”
All the ideas sound so achingly domestic, and Dream feels dizzyingly jealous of his twenty-seven year old self, who gets to be old and married with George. His own twenty feels so, so young.
“Is that what we do?” Dream asks.
“What do you mean?” George counters, amused.
“Like, is that what we do? Is that what a day in married life looks like?”
“You’re really hooked on the marriage thing, huh? I have thought it’d be the time travel that got you,” George wiggles his brows, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Y’know, because of science or whatever.”
“Science is cool,” Dream concedes, “but it’s you.”
“It’s me,” George repeats, eyebrows raised.
Dream can’t believe that they’re married in this time, and George still seems to not get it.
“Yes,” he says, with urgency. “It’s you.”
George just smiles. “Sure,” he says. “It’s me.”
He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to press the issue, so he doesn’t.
“Okay,” he says, finally. “Let’s go for lunch.”
***
George lets Dream have the room to himself to get ready, and the first thing he does is head for the mirror.
He studies himself. His face is more defined, his shoulders more broad. He’s taller, he thinks, though he doesn’t know if that’s just the effect of his posture. Since he woke up in this new world, he’s been standing straighter, almost on instinct.
When he gets closer to the mirror, he notes smaller differences. There’s extra freckles he’s never seen, defined lines around the corners of his eyes. It’s like they’ve been indented in his face, creases from the way he smiles.
He half expects to be graying, but only catches the glimpse of a few gray hairs. He thinks of this thirty year old George, the way gray comes through in streaks at his hairline. There isn’t any part of him that wants to make fun of George for going gray so young. Instead, something lurches in him at the thought, and he glances instinctively down at the gold band around his left ring finger. He fiddles with it, his finger cooling at the touch.
He’s gotten older, and he was able to watch George grow old. In the future, there is some version of him that has been able to catalog the changes as they came. He’s certain this other Dream knows every divot of George’s skin, could tell him exactly when he started wearing glasses.
He wishes he could talk to his older self. He wants to ask every question imaginable, wants to know this George as well as he knows his own. He’s certain that George wouldn’t be receptive to the incessant questions he wants to drill him with. But he knows his future self would love an opportunity to talk about George -- besides, they’re the same person. He would know.
He wants to know everything.
He knows, also, with certainty, that even if he hadn’t woken up married to George, even seeing him in the flesh would have consolidated that he likes men.
George is startlingly handsome, gorgeous in a way that he’s never seen in real life. And the way he looks at Dream is overwhelming, making Dream feel nervous in a way he’s never been with George.
It’s a good kind of nervous, all shy and wanting his approval. He needs his attention like water.
***
Later, en route to the restaurant, George apologizes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes fixed firmly on the road. It’s strange to see George behind the wheel, but stranger things have happened. “I know this must be disorientating for you.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Dream says, awkwardly. “It’s not like you made me appear here. Besides,” he adds, shy. “It’s not like I’d be mad if you had.”
“Hm” George says, clearly disagreeing, but not pushing the issue.
“I’m sorry too,” Dream adds, ducking his head.
“What?” George frowns. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I’m not him,” Dream explains. “I’m not your Dream. That has to be scary, not knowing where he is.”
George keeps his eyes fixed ahead, his mouth tightening only a little. It’s like he’s trying to shield his hurt from Dream. It makes him feel young. “He can take care of himself,” George says, sounding remarkably certain. “He’ll make his way back to me.”
Dream watches his face, the solidness of his conviction, and finds he wants to cry. “He’s lucky,” he finds himself saying, “to be loved by you.”
George turns his gaze back on him in a glance, softening. “So are you,” he says, with overwhelming kindness.
“Me?”
“Lucky to be loved by me,” George says, eyes twinkling. “I’m a catch.”
“But,” Dream protests, immediately. “I’m not him.”
“That doesn’t matter,” George says, plainly. “I’ve spent a third of my life loving you. It doesn’t matter if you’re a bit different this time.”
He can’t help it — he feels himself choke up, swallowing the tears down as they climb up his throat. “George,” he says, hoping all he feels is in his voice.
“You, him,” George shrugs. “You’re both the same. I love you either way.”
Dream swallows, feeling uncomfortable suddenly. “I didn’t do anything to deserve it,” he says, awkwardly stilted. The words don’t encompass everything he means, but they get the message across well enough. “How can you love me when I have done any of the things that made you love me yet?”
“You didn’t earn my love,” George says, plainly. It’s strange, hearing these enormous words come out of George. His George would never hold himself so vulnerably. He must have done an age of growing in the short years between them. “I just give it to you. Stupid.”
“Okay,” Dream says, stupidly, not really sure what else to say.
“Oh my God,” George rolls his eyes, much to Dream’s chagrin. “I forgot how reluctant you were to all of this.”
“All of what?” Dream asks, unable to stop himself from jumping to the defensive.
“I don’t know,” George says, like it’s hard to explain. “Anything that isn’t logical.”
Dream frowns. “How is this not logical?”
“I don’t know,” George repeats. “Is love logical?”
“Yes,” Dream says, emphatically. It’s instinctual. “Of course love is logical. It makes sense to like, love someone. Like, evolutionarily it makes sense to love someone to keep them safe so you can reproduce or whatever.” He pauses, somehow realizing he might have trod incorrectly, to mention reproduction when he in the future is clearly married to a man. “Or not for reproduction, necessarily, but like -- socially. It makes sense to love.”
“Huh.” George is looking at him like he’s never seen him before. “You’ve never said that to me before.”
“Really?” Dream shrugs. “I don’t know. It just makes sense.”
“You’re such a kind person,” George says, like he can’t even comprehend it. “I don’t understand it sometimes.”
Dream frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” George says. “You’re just so good. I was never as good as you, not back then.”
Dream thinks of his George, how centered he makes him feel. How he knows exactly what Dream needs, always. “You’re always good to me,” he says, feeling defensive on his George’s behalf.
George just smiles. “That’s you, though,” he says. “That’s different.”
Dream feels greedy for a moment. “Is it?”
“Yeah,” George confirms. “I’m always better with you.”
Dream’s heart sings. He makes George better.
***
It’s funny -- the meal George has planned for them is at a sushi restaurant in town. It’s entirely George’s idea, but Dream can’t even bring himself to be mad at him -- not even a little bit.
“And it’s not gonna make me sick?” Dream says, carefully holding the chopsticks, trying his hardest to get it right.
George smiles. “Why would it make you sick?”
“I don’t know,” Dream shrugs. “Raw fish?”
“It’s been like,” George shrugs, “treated or whatever. Not gonna make you sick.”
“Okay,” Dream says, before taking a bite. It’s good. He says as much.
“I’m glad,” George says. He acknowledges the restaurant with a tilt of his shoulder. “We had our first date here,” he says.
“Oh,” Dream looks around. “Really?”
“Yeah,” George says. “You took me here ‘cause you knew I liked sushi. Oh my God,” he adds, his eyes going wide. “What if I gave you the idea, now. Like subconsciously you remember this exists because I took you here.”
“Well,” Dream says, feeling brave. “Maybe both our first dates are here.”
George laughs lightly. “You’re cute,” he says, for the second time. Dream feels stupidly giddy at the idea of George thinking that about him. And then George sighs, smiling. “You don’t have to use the chopsticks, by the way. You don’t use them in my time.”
“Sure,” Dream says, still holding onto them, wanting to prove himself. “But I’m sure I at least tried to use them, right?”
“Yeah,” George concedes. “You try them.”
“Then I’ll try them.”
The meal passes with casual conversation, and Dream thinks he’s getting a handle on everything -- until they’re recognised.
The fan at least waits until they’ve paid and are leaving the restaurant -- George tells him later that they sometimes don’t have that much foresight.
“Excuse me,” she says.
George turns, already smiling. Dream notices how it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. It’s not unkind, but he realizes that George has kindness for strangers, and an entirely different kindness for Dream.
“Hi,” he says, almost purposely making his body language welcoming.
Dream almost jumps when George slips a hand behind him to hold gently onto Dream’s arm -- whether it’s to steady himself or Dream, he’s not sure. But he lets himself be touched.
“Hi,” she says, brightly. “I was just wondering if I could get a photo? Totally cool if you’re too busy!”
George smiles at her again, before looking back at Dream. He doesn’t ask, but the question is clear on his face -- is this too much?
Dream just nods slightly, consenting to the photo.
“Yeah,” he says, taking the wheel. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I’ll just take it as a selfie so I don’t take up too much of your time.”
“Oh,” George says, but he’s already posing behind the fan, tugging Dream to stand next to him. “You’re good.”
“I really enjoyed your last video,” she says, as she takes the photo. “My girlfriend did too.”
The mention of the girlfriend is clearly pointed, and Dream’s heart suddenly aches with her. He knows what it’s like to long for that part of him to be acknowledged.
“How long have you two been together?” He asks. George glances at him, surprised.
“Just a few months,” she says, shuffling from foot to foot. “It’s very new,” she adds. “I only came out recently.”
“Congrats,” George says, completely earnestly.
“Yeah,” Dream adds. He doesn’t know how long Florida has come in seven years, but from the way she’s speaking, he can’t think it’s very far. “It takes a lot of courage.”
“Yeah,” the girl answers. She smiles at them both, clearly thankful. “It’s nice to talk to people who get it.” She nods to herself, and then says: “Well, I need to head off. It was really good to meet you.” As she leaves, she turns and adds with meaning: “Thank you. Really.”
Once she’s out of earshot, George turns towards him, and takes Dream’s hand in his.
“You okay?” He asks, carefully.
“Yeah,” he says. “Could we maybe take a breather, though?”
“Of course,” George says. “C’mon.”
He squeezes Dream’s hand and leads him out of the restaurant. They walk for a few minutes until they reach a park, and George takes him to a quiet spot, secluded among trees.
“Not many people here,” George explains. “And no bright lights. Or noise.”
Dream nods, his chest constricting at the thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” he says.
George sits on a bench, pats the space next to him.
“Is it okay,” he starts, almost nervously, “if I --” He makes to put his arm around Dream, not yet touching him.
Dream doesn’t answer, but just leans into him. When George puts his arm around him, something in him settles. George just rubs his hand up and down Dream’s shoulder, where it settles.
“This calms you down,” George explains. “Being touched like this.”
“Thanks,” Dream says, finding that it’s true. He breathes a little easier.
George lets him have the silence for a while, and then he asks quietly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know,” Dream answers, honestly. “It’s kind of overwhelming, I can’t exactly explain.”
“You can try,” George says, kindly. “I can put the pieces together if it’s too messy.”
It’s so tricky to articulate. All he can think to say is: “I didn’t know the world could get this big.”
“Yeah,” George smiles at him, a gentle thing. “We don’t have to stay out if it’s too much. Just go home if you want.”
“No,” Dream says. “It’s not that I want to leave. But my world is my bedroom, right now.”
“I know,” George says, softly.
“I haven’t even been grocery shopping in months,” he adds. “I just send lists to my mom and she picks it up.”
“Yeah,” George says. “Fuck,” he adds, briefly closing his eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” George repeats. “Sorry, it’s just --” He shrugs, and his next words are fierce. “I hate to think of you in that apartment all by yourself.”
Even being held by George, a great loneliness curdles in him at the thought of having to return. Still, he hates the idea of George worrying about him. “It’s okay,” he says, putting it out of his mind. “It’s not so bad.”
George looks at him, unimpressed. “You don’t have to lie to me, Dream.”
“So, it’s not the best,” Dream concedes. “But it’s not the worst, either.”
“Hm,” George says.
“I have it handled,” Dream says. “I promise.”
George smiles briefly, but it’s without amusement. “You shouldn’t have to,” he says. “But I see your point.”
“Yeah,” Dream says. “It’s manageable.”
“Hm,” George says again. “Hey,” he adds. “Do you want to go grocery shopping?”
***
George takes them to a Whole Foods that Dream doesn’t remember being there. It’s strange, having George in the place he’s lived his whole life, and him knowing this new version better than Dream.
George guides them around the store, acting more adult than Dream has ever known him to. He makes Dream push the shopping cart, and occasionally asks him questions about his preferences.
“Do you like almond milk yet?” George asks.
“I have never had almond milk in my life,” Dream says, honestly.
“That’s fine,” George says, picking up a carton of semi-skimmed along with the almond milk. “I’ll get one for you and one for when future you comes back.”
He also asks him if he’s currently on his mac and cheese kick (he is) and whether he’s in the midst of his spinach obsession (not yet). It’s incredible how well George remembers the Dream of seven years ago, how well he must have charted his likes and dislikes.
The cart is almost full when George stops in front of the leafy greens -- all lucious and curling out of the aisle towards them, beckoning to be bought with their green fingers.
“You okay?” Dream asks, shuffling from toe to toe.
“Yeah,” George says, shaking himself. “Sorry,” he turns back to his list. “You were gonna buy bok choy. You kept talking about some new recipe you wanted to make tonight.”
“Oh,” Dream says, feeling a sort of guilty sadness.
“Sorry,” George says, still caught up in his own head. “I missed you for a moment,” he looks at Dream, smiling, like it’s a joke they’re both sharing. “Isn’t that weird? You’re right there.”
“Do you not spend a lot of time apart?”
George grabs some lettuce, like he’s just looking to occupy his hands. He glances at Dream.
“Is it that obvious?” He asks, wryly.
“I don’t know,” Dream shrugs. “You just seem a little sad when you remember he’s not really here.”
“I suppose that’s probably true,” George concedes. “Well, you’re right. We haven’t spent more than four days apart in three years.”
Dream whistles. “That’s a little insane,” he says.
“Hm,” George says, like it’s nothing. “Maybe. We used to spend a lot more time apart when I first got here. Traveling and stuff. But since we’ve been married we haven’t as much.”
“Huh,” Dream ponders aloud. “Is there any reason?”
George laughs to himself. “Well,” he says, meaningfully. “A couple years ago you had to go out of the country for this big creator event. I couldn’t come ‘cause I got sick, but the event insisted on you coming out and you felt bad enough that you couldn’t say no.”
“I left you when you were sick?” Dream frowns.
“I pushed you to,” George says. “Trust me, you weren’t happy about it. But then I got… I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I got sicker, and you were so worried you drove yourself crazy. It wasn’t that bad, but you know how you get. Ever since then,” he gestures, vaguely. “No more traveling without each other.”
“That must have been scary,” Dream says, thinking back to whenever they’ve been ill -- whenever his George has been ill, and the creeping worry he’d had, the unease at not being able to do anything from across the ocean.
“Yeah,” George says. “You said it reminded you too much of before --” He stops himself, looking sheepishly at Dream. “Well, you said it reminded you of before we lived with each other. When I was still in England.”
“You can say it was shit,” Dream says, plainly. “I can’t imagine having to go back to that after it’s finally over.” He pauses, realizing suddenly that he will have to go back to it. “It’s not like I’m looking forward to it.”
“Sorry,” George says, awkwardly. “I don’t want to make you dwell on it too much. Let’s just have a nice evening.”
“Wait,” Dream says. His world shrinks. “I only have this evening?”
George looks caught. “Yeah,” he says, looking down at the floor. “You get sent back at the end of the day. I’m sorry I didn’t --”
“No, no, don’t apologize, it's okay --”
“-- it’s only that I didn’t want to upset you. I wanted you to have a good day.”
“I did have a good day,” Dream says. “It’s okay, I get it. I did have a really good day. And it’s not over yet!”
“Yeah,” George nods. “I suppose that’s true.”
“You still have to make me dinner,” Dream smiles, teasing.
“That’s true,” George says, consulting his list. “Hey -- it’s your birthday next week. Do you want me to make your birthday dinner for you tonight?”
Dream feels an ocean of emotion surge in him. “Yeah,” he says, “that would be really nice.”
“I always make you the same thing,” George says. “Steak dinner and wine. And then --” He cuts himself off, flushing. “Well, we don’t have to repeat the entire tradition, but I’ll make you the meal. You can tell me what you think.”
Dream avoids George’s misstep. “I would love that,” he says, “but --”
“You don’t drink,” George surmises. “That’s okay,” he says. “You can just have it with water if you’d prefer.”
“Thank you,” Dream says. The words don’t carry the weight of how much George’s foresight means to him.
***
Dream watches George cook from a stool at the kitchen counter. George slices vegetables, seasons the steak, with his sleeves rolled up and a towel draped over his shoulder. He looks so dizzyingly attractive that he can’t do anything but stare. It’s thrilling, not only to admit to himself that he finds a man attractive, but to have it happen in an environment where he knows it’s permitted. More than that, it’s welcomed.
“You’re very handsome,” he says, the words falling out of his mouth. He doesn’t even care. It’s allowed.
George laughs, startled. He turns towards Dream, grinning. “Thank you,” he says, genuinely. “You’re not too bad yourself.”
Dream looks down at his twenty-seven year old body, and makes it into a joke. “Oh, this old thing,” he says, feeling a little goofy as he does so.
“Of course,” George says, completely serious. “You always look good.”
“Oh,” Dream says, a little flustered. “Thank you,” he adds, shy.
“Well,” George says, turning it back into a joke. “I married you for your good looks, after all.”
They’re flirting, Dream realizes.
“Not for my incredible personality?”
“That too,” George grins.
“You’re so cringe, George,” Dream says, grinning back at him. “You’re never like this with me.”
“Yeah,” he says, his smile softening. “Because I’m shy back then. Don’t realize this is something I can have yet.”
“I’ll tell you,” Dream says. “When I get back.”
“You do that,” George says, turning back to the cooking. “As soon as you remember.”
***
George lights the candle on the dining table, and they eat with their chairs close enough that their legs touch.
The steak is good, and so are the vegetables. He compliments George on both, and asks where he got the recipe. Under duress, he admits Dream’s mom helped him the first time he made it, but refuses to tell the story that led him to asking for help.
“Not a chance,” he says, “I’ve got to leave at least some things as mysteries.”
Dream just suspects he’s too embarrassed to tell the story.
Afterwards, George asks if he can hold Dream on the couch.
Dream lets him, tucking himself under George’s arms, leaning heavily into his side. They just sit there for a few long moments, Dream closing his eyes and letting himself enjoy being held. He breathes in George’s comforting scent, and sighs when George starts threading his hand through the hairs at the base of his neck.
“I’m guessing,” he says, finally, “that I’m going to be taken away soon.”
George exhales heavily. “Yeah,” he says. “I just want --” He tightens his hold. “I just want to make you feel as loved as I can.”
“You have,” Dream says. “This whole day has been --” He can’t even explain it properly. “I can’t imagine anything you could have done better. You’ve made me feel safe, welcomed… I’ve never had anything like this.”
“I wish I could come with you,” George whispers.
“What about your Dream?”
“That’s true,” George says. “But still.”
They sit quietly for a while longer, until Dream just can’t stand it.
“George,” he says, the fear rising like a tidal wave. “I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to forget.”
“Hey,” George soothes him. “It’s okay.”
“George,” he says, turning in his arms, pinning him down with his gaze. “Tell me I won’t forget.”
The corner of George’s mouth twitches unpleasantly. “You know I won’t say that,” he says.
Dream’s stomach lurches “Just lie to me,” he says.
“I don’t want to lie to you,” George says, plainly. He sighs. “Listen,” he says.
“What?”
George has the grace not to roll his eyes. “You already have this,” he says, gently.
“What do you mean?”
“Your George,” he explains. “In your time? He already loves you.”
“He —“ Dream frowns, his stomach swooping. “What?”
“I started loving you like, a decade ago. I love you now. I loved you then.”
And then, suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, Dream can’t think of anything but his George’s face, bright and buoyant on his monitor back in 2020. “He loves me?” He asks. It feels impossible. “How can he love me?”
“Don’t be stupid,” George says, amused. “How does anyone love anything, love anyone?”
“Stop being old and wise,” Dream pokes back.
“Sorry,” George retorts. “I forgot you were a baby.”
“I’m not a baby,” Dream says. “I’m literally twenty.”
“Oh my fucking God,” George says, like he’s been slapped in the face. “It’s insane that you don’t realize how young that is.”
“I’m scared to leave,” Dream says. It’s funny, -- George is the only person he could imagine admitting this to. “George. I don’t want to leave.”
“You’ll come back,” George says, kindly. “You’ll grow into my Dream, and you’ll come back.”
“And I’ll be happy, right?” Dream asks, feeling vulnerable. “I’m happy here. Right?”
George smiles sadly, and Dream catches the glint of tears in his eyes. “So happy,” he says. “You’re so happy here.”
“I’m sorry,” Dream says, needing to make things better. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“Don’t apologize,” George says, laughing wetly. “Fuck. Yes. We’re happy here. And you’ll get that too.”
“In six years,” Dream says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“I know,” George nods. “I know, it’s long. But it’s worth it.”
“That’s lonely, George,” he says. “That’s a long time.” He feels like a child, asking for George to turn on all the lights and chase away the darkness.
“I know, baby,” George says, gently. His mouth turns down on instinct as he says it, like he knows it’s a mistake to call Dream that -- but still thinking it’s something he needs to hear. “I know.”
“I know you probably don’t think,” Dream starts, looking down at the floor, “that you should kiss me. But could we hug? Properly? Before I go?”
“Of course,” George says, easily, and then he’s leaning to hug Dream, taking him in his arms.
Dream clutches at him, leaning down and tucking his face into George’s neck. George rubs his hand up and down his back, and Dream takes a deep breath and shudders through the exhale.
“I’m not going to touch you again for years,” Dream whispers, and his heart breaks in two when the truth of it settles in his stomach.
“Dream,” George says, clearly emotional. “I love you so much. It’s gonna be okay.”
“Okay,” Dream agrees, quietly.
“And for the record,” he adds, “I don’t think I shouldn’t kiss you.”
“Oh.”
“Do you want that?” George asks. He pulls back to look up at him, taking Dream’s face between his hands. He rubs his cheeks with his thumbs, and Dream leans into the comforting touch. “I won’t kiss you unless you know it’s something you want. I don’t want you to kiss me just because you feel like you have to. I know we’re married, but you’re not there yet.”
Dream exhales slowly. “I want it,” he says. “I want to kiss you.”
“Okay,” George says, gently, and then he’s tugging Dream’s face down softly. And he’s kissing him.
It’s not really that Dream has spent much time imagining how George would kiss. But he would have never imagined this.
George is gentle. And kind. He threads a hand through Dream’s hair, coaxes out pleasant sensations from the nape of his neck. He realizes that George must know exactly what he wants, before he does.
Dream smiles into the kiss, awkwardly placing a hand on George’s side. George laughs back, a soft sound that passes between their mouths. He puts his own hand on Dream’s, guiding it to a more natural position on his waist. George is so patient, so ready to teach Dream, that he feels himself welling up again. Never in his life has he been kissed like this, with so much tenderness and care.
Even when he pulls away, it’s with kindness.
“George,” Dream whispers, into the space between them. “I think I love you.”
“I don’t think you do yet,” George replies, quietly. It’s not unkind. “But that’s okay.”
“I really think I do,” Dream pushes. “Nobody’s ever kissed me like that,” he adds, afterwards.
George looks genuinely surprised. “Really?” He recovers quickly. “Not even that girl in tenth grade,” he teases, grinning a little. “You know, behind the --”
“How do you know about that!” Dream interjects, feeling himself redden. “Why would I tell you that,” he mopes, more to himself than to George.
“We’re married, honey,” George says, smiling. “I know everything.”
He warms at the pet name -- it’s incredible how shy this George makes him feel, even now.
“I don’t think you do,” he says, echoing George’s earlier words. He thinks of thoughts that he keeps to himself, now. “There are things about me that I haven’t told George.”
“You tell me everything eventually,” George says easily, and Dream finds that he believes him.
“That’s so scary,” he says, darting his gaze to the floor. “There are some things -- I don’t know if I could tell anyone.”
“I know,” George says plainly. “You’re the bravest person I know.”
There’s something about George’s expression that worries him. He can feel the room start to close in, like it’s time for him to leave. But he has to ask.
“George,” he says, needing more of this honesty. “Does it get worse before it gets better?”
George’s face cracks. “Don’t ask me that,” he says, almost a plea.
“George,” he reaches out, but he’s already being pulled away. “I can’t do it alone again,” he swallows, every inch of his resolve threatening to crack. “I need you with me.”
“I am,” George promises. His bottom lip trembles for a moment before he schools himself. “I promise I am. Just call. Listen to me,” He brushes his hand against Dream’s -- one final touch
before they’re torn apart. “Just call.”
***
He wakes at noon, the sun streaming in through blinds he half forgot to shut.
He rolls over, and picks up his phone. Pulls up Discord.
George is alone in a call, waiting for him.
He joins.