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There’s an innocence in the touch of a friend. Something calming; grounding. Dream tends to lean into it, embrace it, while George skitters away from it. Touch—specifically Dream’s touch—intimidates him to the point of terror.
Even now, his thigh is flexed to pull away from the lean of Dream’s. The bench is too small; it used to fit them both just fine, but then they grew up and hit middle school. Now they’re almost in high school, and life has almost started.
And Dream’s knee is touching his.
He shifts. The touch is lost. He almost mourns it, but the anxiety is washed clean. He breathes slowly, rubbing his hands together in his lap.
“Why are we out here?” he asks. His voice wobbles slightly from the chatter of his jaw. For a Florida night in April, it’s dropped to 50 degrees (10 in Celcius, but no one ever listens when George uses the correct form of measurement) and George didn’t have time to dress for the weather. Dream dragged him out the front door of his house before he could get a word in edgewise, and now he’s here.
“What do you mean?”
Dream asks like it’s obvious they’d be at their elementary school playground at 11 at night on a weeknight. George gives a playful scoff and rolls his eyes, tilting his head away. “Idiot, why did you drag me out of bed to sit here in silence?”
Dream just smiles and turns away. George gives a quick shake of his head and looks on towards the playground. A single swing squeaks quietly in the breeze. A dog barks distantly, likely a few streets over. George kicks at the pebbles under his feet, scratching them along the ground.
A shiver runs up his bare arms and he unconsciously lifts his hands to rub at the goosebumps trailing along his skin. Dream must notice, because his sweater is unzipped and slung over his shoulders before George can argue. He turns away, leaving George with the warm cloth draping over his arms, and a flutter in his chest.
“I’m scared,” Dream admits softly.
George looks over at him. His head is cast down, staring either at his knees or the wooden border of the playground. He frowns slightly, kicking rocks at Dream’s ankle to prompt the rest of his story.
Dream gives him a brief look. “Aren’t you?” he asks. He watches a large rock he kicks sail into the boundaries of the park. “We’re about to be in high school, which means we’ll be prepping for college soon, so we’re basically adults.”
George doesn’t say a word about how much of a stretch Dream’s statement is. He only nods and tugs Dream’s sweater around his arms and chest.
“Isn’t that scary?” Finally, Dream turns to look at him. His eyes, usually beautiful and full of light, are still beautiful, but dim. Saddened, heavy. It makes George ache in places he didn’t know existed. He doesn’t usually see his friend so sad, and it shakes him up to see it.
He takes a deep breath in, letting the cool air fill his lungs. “It’s certainly intimidating,” he says slowly. “But we have four years of high school, right? It won’t go that fast. We’ll be together the whole time, you have nothing to stress over yet.” He knocks their knees together, and the touch sparks electricity under his skin. “We’re just switching schools.”
Dream scoffs softly and shakes his head. His back straightens and he looks back up at George with a little smile on his face. “You’re right,” he says.
“Well, duh,” George says. “I always am. Have you just not noticed it before?”
Dream laughs, leaning in on himself with the weight of it. He sits back up, smile wide, and holds out a hand. It’s an offer, barely anything. Something squeezes George’s heart at the idea, but before he can read into whether it’s nerves or the thing he doesn’t think about, he takes Dream’s hand. He squeezes gently as he tilts his head away.
Despite the cool of the air, he can feel his face sting with warmth. His pulse throbs, racing through his ears. He can swear the thump within his chest is loud enough to fill the silence between them, but he says nothing of it. Dream doesn’t either, simply squeezes three times in return. It says everything the both of them can’t.
—
Touch still scares George. Only for different reasons and in different ways.
It’s so intimate in a way kissing, or even sex, isn’t. There’s the casual touch between friends, but once friends become more, the touch feels dangerous. Fingertips along the skin of forearms, a brush of a thumb across George’s lower lip, gentle hands pulling at a bare waist or shoulders. It feels like too much.
And yet, even having experienced endless naked skin pressed against naked skin, sweat and condensation of heavy breathing mingling, the simple action of holding hands is what makes George clam up. His palms sweat and his breath quickens when Dream’s fingers slide between his own.
It’s childish—both the action and his reaction—yet he loves it. It feels claiming, Dream’s hand in his as they walk down a backstreet in downtown Florida. Even with his racing heart, his smile falls as Dream steps away from him upon approaching a crowd.
But it’s also something simple for just them, as Dream’s hand covers his in the darkness of their shared home, something playing on the TV, volume muted. They share soft kisses as Dream’s fingers trace the lines of George’s palm. It’s quiet, wrapped in love and innocence.
It’s the touch that terrifies George. Something so sweet, yet devastating as that. At the same time, however, he can't get enough of it. He nudges their feet together under the table at dinner, or stands close enough to push their arms together as they stand side by side at the bus stop. They link fingers in the line at the grocery store, or intentionally touch fingers as they pass each other their dry cleaning.
It’s domestic. Peaceful.
George loves it. He also loves Dream. Only naturally.