Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I was very clear with where the line was,” the director shouts. “You’re splitting the 40 and 45, do you understand me?” 

George winces. “Yes,” he mutters.  

“Good. Mark your dot, then commit it to memory. You have to be there or else you won’t fit in with the rest of the band. It’s a straight line, the judges will be able to see clearly from the box if you’re out of place or not,” she rambles on. George tries his best to make it look like he’s paying attention. 

“I understand,” he repeats when the director has finished speaking, trying with all his heart not to cower in fear. She nods resolutely, moving on to speak with another section. 

George sighs. He drags his right hand down his face, the left one at his side holding his clarinet loosely. This whole thing is way out of his comfort zone, and he’s starting to regret joining the marching band at all. He’s heard many people say that band is like their family, that all of their friends they met from it, but as of right now he’s just tired. 

It’s weird being a senior but a band rookie. It feels like he’s supposed to know what he’s doing already, to be on par with the rest of the students that are his age, but he’s hopelessly bad at marching and it doesn’t look like he’s going to improve at all. He had only joined for the P.E. credits that he had neglected in his freshman year, and was expecting it to be an easy A. 

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t, and he’s just now realizing what a predicament it is. 

A tap on his shoulder makes George turn. It’s Karl, thank goodness. Karl was the only person in his section who actually made an effort to become friends with him, and he appreciated it even if the sophomore was a little too friendly sometimes. 

“Hey, we’re running from the top until here,” Karl says, pointing to where the rest of their section is gathered in a block ten yards away. George offers a half-hearted “yep,” trotting after Karl. As he arrives, the majority of the section pay him no mind. They all have their own little friend groups, George had noticed, even within the clarinets. He takes his position, and on the director’s cue, begins the show. 

After a minute or two, as the music swells and the drill approaches what they’ve recently learned, George’s mind hits a blank. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Karl moving forwards, and blindly tries to match his movements in a moment of panic. He’s so focused on watching Karl and copying him that he doesn’t notice the other person approaching to his right until he’s already falling, hands stretching out to his sides to shield both his body and his clarinet at the same time. 

It’s unsuccessful, though, as he skids on the warm turf of the field with a soft oof . 

At least his instrument is okay , he thinks wryly after giving it a once-over. And then oh , he remembers that someone has knocked him over, and whips his head over to his right to see a blond trumpet player rushing to stand back up and get back into his place in the drill. George catches a glimpse of green eyes as they meet his own for a split second, wide and concerned. 

The music continues, muted in the background, as George looks up in a sort of confused wonder. He can only glance up at the stranger for a moment, but time seems to slow; the other boy’s eyes speak for him, offering a silent “are you okay?” before he snaps his gaze back to the front of the field, and George is jostled out of his trance by a brass fanfare and the pounding of drums. 

Belatedly, George realizes that he’s laying on the ground in the middle of a bunch of people who would walk right over him if he didn’t get out of the way. He scrambles up and skims the crowd for Karl and the rest of the clarinets. By the time he finds them, though, the music has stopped and the director is speaking strictly to the pit about something or other, without a care in the world about the accident. 

He rubs his arm, trying to ease the lingering pain from the fall, when there’s a tap on his right shoulder. He turns, and lo and behold, it’s the same trumpet player that he had just knocked over. He cringes at the memory, but when he meets the other student’s eyes, there’s no malice there. 

“Hi,” the other boy says tentatively, but he sounds cheerful and friendly enough. George relaxes a bit, offering a greeting in return. 

“Are you okay? That was a pretty harsh fall,” the trumpet player says.

George nods. “I’m fine. What about you?” The other boy nods with a toothy grin. 

“Sorry, it was kind of my fault. I forgot where I was supposed to be going and I guess I was in the way,” George explains. 

The trumpet player shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. It happens. I’m Dream, by the way. I’m the trumpet section leader,” he says, running a hand through his hair. 

“George,” George responds, giving the other a glance. He’s wearing a t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts, and it probably should be unattractive given the glaring heat of the sun, but his hair shines gold in the light and George? Well, George is staring. 

At that, they’re interrupted by a shrill whistle tone as the director calls them all in again. George catches a muffled “from the top” before the band is clamoring back to their dots, preparing to start again. George glances towards the rest of his section, then back at Dream, who offers a smile. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you! Remember, you go backwards, and to the left,” he says with a cheeky wink. George flushes slightly. 

“Right. Sorry, again.” 

Dream waves a hand at him, before turning on his heel and jogging back to the opposite side of the field with his trumpet in hand. George sighs, rubbing the back of his neck before doing the same. 

-

The rest of rehearsal, he would say, goes fairly well. 

He manages to remember his drill the second time around; Dream’s voice filters through the music in his head with a “backwards and to the left,” and that’s enough. He can play his music from memory, of course, so he’s already better off than the majority of the band. 

The rest of rehearsal goes fairly well, except when it doesn’t. 

He misses a step-off once, twice, three times in a row, until the director is walking towards him and he cringes in anticipatory shame. 

“You,” she says while pointing a finger, “are stepping off too late. You have to push with your right foot on the pickup if you want to make it on time for beat one.” George nods. 

“Also, fix your posture. Straighten your back, relax your shoulders. You know the drill.”

He doesn’t, but that’s a different problem. 

Right now, as the harsh words of the director ring in his skull, he’s more concerned with the fact that the entire band is staring at him. 

Well, presumably. The rest of the clarinets are, at least, and he averts his gaze from Karl’s sympathetic one. He can practically feel the others’ eyes on his back, and he knows they heard him get yelled at. 

( Of course, the one time everyone decides to shut up and listen, he thinks bitterly.)

With another shouted command from the director, the rest of the band shuffles into their places and idle chatter starts up again. George sighs, shoulders drooping, and reluctantly joins them. 

After a few more run throughs, at the next water break, he sits apart from the rest of the clarinet players. Karl tries to talk to him a few times, but he brushes off the attempts in favor of sitting on his phone in self-pity. He scrolls through Twitter idly before a pair of sneakers appear over the top of his screen, stopping in front of him. 

George looks up, meeting the eyes of the same student before. 

“Hi,” Dream says with a tentative grin. “Can I sit here?” 

George stares. When Dream starts to look a little uncomfortable, playing with his hands with a fading smile, he shakes his head bewilderedly. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says belatedly, and Dream beams. He takes a seat on the bleachers to George’s left, placing his trumpet in his lap. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, leaving George utterly confused. Dream leans back on his hands, staring up at the sky. George coughs awkwardly, setting down his phone. 

“Did you need something?” He asks, and cringes at how unwelcoming it sounds. 

Dream startles. “What? Oh, right. Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” he says, sitting up and turning to face George. George mirrors the action, looking up from his shoes and at Dream’s face. He looks open and relaxed, but there’s a hint of something else hiding in his eyes. Apprehensiveness? Something similar, he can’t entirely tell. 

“Okay, yeah. Look, I’m sorry if this comes off the wrong way but you kinda suck at marching,” he blurts out finally. George can’t do anything but stare in shock. He wants to be offended, and a part of him is - getting told he’s bad at something by someone a few years younger than him is a little bit humiliating - but the more rational part of his brain knows that Dream’s right. 

At his blank expression, Dream waves his hands. “Sorry, that sounds so rude! Oh, God, I should not have said that. I’m so sorry,” he says hastily. “I’ll just go now, sorry again.”

George blinks as Dream stands up and begins to walk away, before his lips curl into a smile against his will. He lets out a small laugh, deciding to just embrace it. 

“No, come back, it’s fine. You’re right,” he says, beckoning to Dream as he turns around again. 

Dream stutters. “Okay. Sorry, again.” He cringes, reliving the moment, which only makes George chuckle again. 

“No, don’t worry. I know I’m bad,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I only really joined band because I need P.E. credits since I didn’t do it in my freshman year.” 

“Oh. Okay, that makes sense,” Dream responds after a moment. “Well, it looks like you’re having a hard time, especially because, you know, you knocked me over-”

At this, George flushes indignantly. Dream must notice, because he breaks off with a laugh. 

“-and I was wondering if you wanted some help?” He finishes. He meets George’s gaze again, and his eyes sparkle with mirth and friendliness. 

“Uh,” George says lamely. 

“Come on, it would be fun! I’m sure you would like band a lot more if you were actually good at it,” Dream says excitedly. “Once you get the hang of all the technique stuff, it’s so fun!” 

George has half a mind to say no. He isn’t in the marching band for the fun of it, just out of necessity, but something about Dream’s demeanor doesn’t let him refuse. 

He sighs resignedly. “Sure, I guess,” he replies, and Dream claps a few times in glee. His smile is endearing, George thinks, and contagious; he can’t help but offer a small grin in return. 

Dream pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to George. “Here, put your number in and I’ll text you later! We can arrange something soon,” he says. As George does so dutifully, he idly listens to Dream ramble about all of his plans. A smile plays at his face when he hands the phone back.

He opens his mouth to say something: a thank you, maybe, or a you're kinda cute when you’re excited like this, but he’s interrupted by a shout from the director. 

“Water break is over! Run it from the top, everyone!” She yells, and the band clamors around him. Amidst the rattling of the bleachers as everyone climbs down, he catches Dream’s last words. 

“I’ll message you!” He yells, before another student also holding a trumpet grabs his arm and tugs him unceremoniously towards the field. 

George can’t help the giggle that escapes him as he picks up his clarinet to join the rest of the students. 

Somehow, he thinks, things are starting to look up. 

When George gets out of the shower that night, he’s greeted with two new messages. One of them is Karl from their section group chat, reminding all the clarinets to mark up their music with the drill that they tend to forget. The other is from a string of numbers. 

Unknown number

hey! it’s dream from band :) 

are there any days/times that work well for you?

for the practice thing 

we can go to my house or just stay at school, whatever you prefer

George grins at his screen. Of course Dream is the kind of guy to quadruple text him instead of just sending everything in one message. 

Yeah! I kind of don’t have a life so I’m basically free whenever. After school would probably work best though because it’s easiest, he sends back. Almost immediately, the gray typing bubble appears and he’s getting another message. 

Unknown number

great okay

what about on friday? we don’t have practice that day

That works for me, George texts. He sighs after a few minutes with no response, setting his phone down while he towels off his hair and finishes up some homework. 

Hours later, when the light from his bedroom window has faded completely and his room is shrouded in shadow, there’s still no text back. 

This is stupid , he thinks with a sigh, plugging his phone in on his bedside table and getting under the covers. He doesn’t know why he’s so dead-set on getting a reply; the conversation ended hours ago, and there was nothing more to be said, but he finds himself wanting to learn more about Dream and his unspoken promise of friendship. 

For a while, the only sound is crickets, in a literal and metaphorical sense. Resignedly, George lets his eyes slip shut. 

In that strange headspace, when he isn’t awake, but he’s not entirely asleep, either, George thinks he hears the buzzing of his phone against the wood of his nightstand. Once, then twice - and then the room is quiet, and he falls asleep with a name on his lips and wondering whether he heard anything at all. 

Dream from band

sorry for late response! thats great, ill meet you in the music room after school

:)

Chapter Text

George slings his backpack over his shoulder as the final bell rings. The hallways are crowded with teenagers, a cacophony of sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floors, raucous voices, and the slamming of lockers echoing through the walls. George has never been particularly fond of the noise. 

He swerves in between students, walking as fast as possible without hurting someone, until he’s finally able to swing open the door and exit the suffocating hallway. Outside is nearly as bad; it’s the beginning of September, but Floridian autumns are different than those in the U.K. The sun beats down on the back of his neck as he makes his way to the music building, and he’s already sweating after just a few moments. 

He has to nudge a few people to avoid barrelling through them. It’s a Friday afternoon, and school has officially ended, so students are clustered everywhere outside. They linger under the shade that the trees offer, probably discussing their weekend plans or something of the sort. 

George sighs. He doesn’t necessarily have weekend plans, but sitting at home on his computer is a more favorable option than staying late after school for tutoring in marching band, of all things. 

Dream is waiting for him when he arrives in the band room. He greets George with a grin and a wave. 

“Hi,” Dream says. 

“Hi,” George responds, in the most deadpan tone he can muster. He isn’t necessarily trying to be rude, but he doesn’t want to be here and he isn’t planning to sugarcoat that. Dream’s smile doesn’t falter, however, and he seemingly ignores the tension in the room in favor of waving George over. 

“I thought today we might start with marching basics. Technique, foot timing, all that. Sound good?” He asks, and it sounds like less of a proposal than an itinerary. George sighs internally, but agrees. 

“The football team is using the field right now, so we can just go out back or something. There’s no lines or anything, but I can help you out with that, so it will be fine,” Dream says, shooting a wink towards George and turning on his heel to exit. This time, George allows the sigh to escape lightly from his lips, inaudible to Dream but tangible in the air between them. It’s too hot to go outside, but Dream doesn’t seem to mind, and George thinks it to be another bad omen. 

Dream leads him to the field behind the music building, grass unkempt and overgrown. There’s a little patch of shade from a crooked tree, and George is grateful for that, at the very least. 

“It’s kind of messy, so this probably isn’t the best place to practice,” Dream says, walking backwards and gesturing. “It’s okay, though. We’ll figure it out.” 

George nods, shrugging off his bag in the corner of the shady area. Dream does the same, before straightening up and beckoning George over. 

“What time do you have to leave, by the way?” He asks. 

George hesitates for a moment. “I have plans in an hour and a half,” he lies. He doesn’t know how long Dream plans to keep him here, and he’d rather play it safe than get stuck at school for the rest of the day. 

Dream nods once, confidently. “Okay, that’s perfect,” he says. “First, I wanted to go over the basic technique. Rolling your feet, step size and all that.” 

He continues talking, rambling about rules and guidelines and the proper form. George catches something about “twenty two and a half inches'' before he zones out, Dream’s voice a muted lilt in the background. It’s kind of nice, in a way, and in his momentary lapse he can’t help but notice Dream’s demeanor. He carries himself with total confidence, hands waving as he talks. His tone holds layers of excitement, pride, and passion, and George would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little bit endeared. 

“George? Hello?” Dream’s voice brings him back to reality, waving at his face with furrowed brows and a concerned expression. 

“Yeah, sorry. What did you ask?” 

“I was wondering if you wanted to demonstrate? Just everything that you already know, maybe take a few steps, easy stuff,” Dream says, and George’s attention catches on his expressive hand motions and the welcoming honesty in his eyes. 

George shrugs in agreement. The request is a little embarrassing, and his limbs feel foreign and stiff as he tries to remember what he’d learned from band camp and the hours spent practicing so far. It’s made an even more intimidating task with Dream standing right there, the music prodigy that he is, and it feels like he’s being judged. 

He takes a few steps, careful to recall what he had been taught, and when he finishes, he looks cautiously to his left, where Dream’s standing. He rests his chin on a palm, and it looks like he’s staring into space, so George stands there awkwardly for a few moments before he speaks up. 

“Uh,” he says. “So?” 

Dream’s eyes snap up to meet his own. “That was... not bad?” he says, but his voice tips upwards at the end so it sounds more like a question than a statement. George’s shoulders slump. 

“But don’t worry! You’re here to learn, and I’m here to teach! It’ll be great,” Dream continues with a cheeky grin. 

As he relays information to George, sometimes paired with a demonstration, he looks so devoted to his task that it makes George want to pay attention, too. 

Dream gestures at the floor a lot. Whether it’s directed towards George’s feet or his own, at a specific location or the grass itself, George notices how his hair flops into his eyes. When Dream looks up at him from one of these moments, flipping his hair out of the way and gazing up through his lashes, George might be getting a little bit distracted.

(Those times are fleeting, though, and he remembers why he came here in the first place soon after.) 

As the sun makes its way across the sky, Dream crams information into his brain. Some of it might be useless statistics or dumb facts, but with the way Dream talks about it, George feels obligated to commit it to memory. Within the hour, he’s learned more than he ever did at the general lessons during band camp.

(He supposes he always has learned better one-on-one.) 

-

They sit together in the shrinking patch of shade, side by side, but far apart. George sips from his water bottle occasionally, while Dream scrolls through his phone. They’ve been silent for a minute or two, but the distant noise from the sports teams and the chirping of birds in the background more than makes up for it. 

“Hey, George?” Dream says, looking up from his phone. “What made you choose band, anyway?” 

George exhales. 

“Like, I know you need P.E. credits, but you don’t seem to like this very much. It’s kind of a team activity, you know? You have to put in effort, or else it kinda ruins it for everybody else,” Dream continues. 

“Yeah, I guess,” George says resignedly. Dream’s tone is curious, but there’s an edge of something else there: Judgement? Criticism? He can’t entirely tell, but he tries to ignore it. 

“I don’t dislike band. I’ve been in orchestra before, I love music. I’m good at music,” he replies. 

At this, Dream interrupts. “You are?” He asks, and George is a little offended at the incredulity of the question. 

“I mean, yeah. I’ve played clarinet for basically my entire life,” he responds. He doesn’t try to sound cocky on purpose, but he delights in the look of confusion on Dream’s face. 

“Why didn’t you join band sooner?”

George sighs. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to, I guess. The whole ‘we’re like one big happy family’ kind of thing isn’t really for me.” 

Dream snorts. “Fair enough.”

“What about you? What’s your musical history like?” George counters, taking another sip of water. He’s doing his best to be nonchalant, but Dream’s presence is captivating, drawing him in like a moth to a flame, and a part of him wants to get to know him. Dream puts his arms behind him and leans back, gazing up at the cloudless sky while he answers. 

“Well, I’ve been playing trumpet since middle school. I joined band freshman year, and I’ve been here ever since. I’m a junior right now, though, so I still have a while left to go,” he answers with a toothy smile and a glance. 

George observes with a small nod, content to listen. 

“I dunno. I guess I always just knew that I wanted to do band. It wasn’t really a conscious decision sort of thing. My middle school director always talked about it, so I guess at one point it just clicked.” 

George stares, but he can’t help it. Dream’s words are so honest and heartfelt, and it’s such a different story to his own. He can’t imagine having that sort of passion towards music; it’s always been more of a hobby for the sake of it than an actual interest. 

“I love band, though,” Dream continues, smiling at the sky. “I met basically all of my friends from it. You know Karl, right? Yeah, him, and then my friend Sapnap is in the battery, and Quackity plays the trombone. I never would have met any of them if it wasn’t for this. I wouldn’t change it for the world,” he says, and his voice is layered with fondness. 

George admires his casual demeanor, his open adoration for his interest and his willingness to share it.

“I should introduce you sometime,” Dream says, a grin playing at his lips. He finally looks back at George, and his eyes gleam with affection. “I think you’d get along.”

George opens his mouth to speak, but the words take a minute to appear in the aftershock of Dream’s ramble. Even when they finally do, they tumble out of his mouth like a waterfall with no rhyme or reason, a rush of thoughtless noise. 

“Yeah,” George responds with the barest hint of a smile. “Maybe we would.”

Chapter Text

The second time Dream texts to ask if he wants to practice, he’s less apprehensive. 

It’s been a week since the last time they did this, a week for George to reflect, and he finds he’s actually rather looking forward to it. Learning to march properly to fit in with the rest of the band is a less daunting task now that he knows Dream will be there to help him out. 

They meet after school again, at the same place and the same time. This time, he arrives before Dream, opting to lean against the wall and look through his phone absently while he waits. 

It takes upwards of five minutes before he hears footsteps, echoing off the tile floors of the hallway outside. The noise precedes a slam of the door opening, as George looks up in slight surprise to see Dream in the doorway, hair tousled and breathing heavy. 

George furrows his eyebrows in silent confusion, to which Dream runs a hand through his hair and enters calmly, like nothing even happened. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, setting down his backpack. My science teacher kept me late after class and he was just rambling on and on and I couldn’t get away. I ran over here, but it’s all the way across campus, so. Sorry.”

George blinks a few times. “Okay,” he replies simply. He hadn’t really minded that much, nor asked for such an in-depth excuse, but he excuses it because it’s Dream. 

He’s been learning a lot about Dream, lately. 

Dream beckons with his hands for George to follow, leading him out to the same field as last time with his trumpet case in hand. On the way, he starts up an idle conversation, surface-level and friendly. 

“So,” Dream says over his shoulder, “what have you been up to?” 

“Nothing much. I don’t have much to do, ever, besides schoolwork.”

“Really? No hobbies? Extracurriculars?” 

George raises his eyebrows, although Dream can’t see it from his place a few steps in front. “Uh, not really. I play video games sometimes. That’s always fun,” he says blankly. 

“Oh, cool! Me too, actually. I’m teaching myself to code right now, because I probably want to do something with game production in the future,” Dream says, glancing back at George. The latter nods out of pleasant obligation. 

“I code things, too. I could probably help you out if you need any. As a thank-you for all this,” George offers, gesturing vaguely as they arrive at the grassy area. 

Dream stops, turns around, and he looks like a puppy who’s just heard the promise of a walk. 

“Really? That’s actually why I was late today! My comp-sci teacher got all upset because I haven’t turned in this project that was due last week, but I’ve kinda hit a block and I don’t know what to do to fix it,” he rambles excitedly. 

“Yeah, I’d be happy to help,” George says with a faint smile. 

Dream begins talking about his project in-depth. He’s info dumping a little, and George isn’t necessarily that interested, but it’s Dream, so he supposes it’s okay. 

“What about you? What are you working on?” He asks after a minute of speaking and a little breathlessly. 

George grins. “I’ve been doing mods for games. I’m trying to get a summer job, or an internship, or something, so I’ve been practicing.” 

“Oh, cool! What game?” 

George cringes. “It’s a little embarrassing, actually. It’s, uh. Minecraft.”

Dream stares, and then a grin breaks out across his face. “ Minecraft? ” He laughs, and George rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up,” he says, but he laughs light-heartedly at himself. “It’s really cool, actually. There’s a lot of things you can do, and it’s a sandbox, so there’s so much creative freedom you have with mods.”

He realizes that he’s rambling, but if Dream seems to be listening in rapture. 

“That’s really interesting,” he says, and George can’t detect even a bit of sarcasm in the words. He nods in response. 

Dream starts talking again, something about his computer science class, George responds with a story about his English class the other day, and before he knows it the sun has moved across the sky more than he was expecting. 

George brings it up at the next lull in conversation. “I think we got a little distracted,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the air. Dream checks his phone, widening his eyes when he sees the time. 

“Shit, I forgot,” he says, scrambling to gather his things. George watches in confusion. They’d been talking for a long time, but surely not nearly enough that they usually practice for.

Dream seems to notice his bewilderment, because he stops for a moment. “Oh. I probably should have told you. Yeah, that’s my bad. I’m going to get lunch with some friends. Sorry,” he explains. George furrows his eyebrows, but shrugs. 

It’s kind of a dick move, but it isn’t like he’s cancelling on anything important, so George supposes he can let it go. 

The rustling from Dream’s side of the shade quiets, and George looks up to see Dream looking at him. His eyes are focused, but not on George’s face, and he thinks that Dream might be staring into space while he thinks. 

“Why don’t you just come with me?” Dream asks. George blinks. That was not what he was expecting to come out of his mouth. 

At his confusion, Dream elaborates. “It’s with all the people I was telling you about. They’re all in marching band, so it might be good for you to make a few friends,” he says. 

George scoffs lightheartedly. 

“Plus, you already know Karl. It’s the perfect plan!” Dream says. 

There it is again: that passion, that vivacity in his voice, the enthusiasm that George keeps noticing every time Dream talks about something he loves. It’s Dream’s excited tone and sparkling eyes that clouds his judgement, leads him towards a decision he normally wouldn’t make. 

With a roll of his eyes and feigned apathy, George says, “Sure.”

Dream grins that signature, toothy grin of his, and George can’t find it in his heart to bear a single regret. 

-

By “lunch,” Dream means ice cream.

Which is fine by him, he supposes. He wasn’t that hungry, anyways. 

He’s a bit wary of getting into Dream’s car, at first, because in all honesty he doesn’t think they’re nearly close enough for this. Dream, however, manages to ramble on about everything and nothing to the point where there isn’t a single awkward silence in their conversation, even when he’s driving.

As he pulls into the parking lot, George peers out the window at the store. It’s a horrendously obnoxious turquoise, the entire building is, and from what George can see of the inside it’s themed like a 50s diner. 

Which is stupid, he thinks, if they only serve ice cream, but he decides not to judge. 

Dream holds the door open for him, and George is blasted with a cold breeze from the air conditioning and the tinkling of the bell above the door to welcome him. His sneakers squeak on the checkered-tile floors as he walks in, matched by Dream’s from behind him. Just as he turns to look up at the other in confusion, there’s a muffled shout from a booth to their left, and he whips his head to see three high school boys grinning and laughing at each other. 

The raucous noise puts him on edge; they’re clamoring around the table enough so that even the cashier behind the bar has looked over at them, but a quick glance around reveals only one more table occupied at the other side of the diner, and those people don’t seem to pay any mind to the disruption. 

The cashier rolls her eyes, and George catches a faint smile on her face before she looks down and her face is obscured again. 

Dream pokes him in the shoulder. “George, come on. Don’t be shy,” he says. His words are teasing, but there’s at least a little bit of genuinity in his tone, and that alone is enough to quell George’s uneasiness. 

“Hi, guys,” Dream shouts as they walk towards the booth. Three faces look up in unison, one familiar and two vaguely so. They’re met with a chorus of greetings, and George begins to relax into the atmosphere that they’ve created. 

“George!” Karl says excitedly. George waves. 

“Right. George, this is Sapnap and Quackity, and you already know Karl. Everyone, this is George, the one I’ve been telling you about. ” 

George’s blinks at that, but Dream breezes past it like it was nothing. As he shoves Quackity to the side of the bench seat, to a chorus of laughter as the former pushes back, George allows a small smile to form on his lips. It doesn’t dissipate as Dream looks up at him from where he’s now seated at the table to pat the open space next to him in welcome. 

George slides into the booth, on the edge of the seat and across from Karl, who smiles warmly at him. It isn’t silent for a moment longer, as Quackity and Sapnap immediately start arguing about something or other relating to ice cream, and George finds it easy to melt into the background. 

Occasionally, he’ll laugh at a joke or a bit with the rest of them, but for the most part, he’s content to sit on the sidelines and listen. 

By the time they order their dessert, his cheeks hurt from smiling. 

It’s only after the conversation finally hits its natural lull, softening to a gentle and content type of quiet, that he realizes the rest of his ice cream is melted. 

The sun sets on the five of them as they walk out of the diner side by side. George stays closest to Dream’s side, of course, but he doesn’t seem to mind. As they walk their separate ways in the parking lot, waving to each other blindly, George feels like today was a success. 

He hears a distant “Bye, Gogy!” from Sapnap, and although he doesn’t know how or where he had gotten that nickname, it makes him grin widely nonetheless. 

He hears the door shut on Dream’s car from behind him, engine starting moments after, and spins on his heel to approach it. As he opens the passenger door and takes a seat, Dream looks over the center console. 

“Have fun?” He asks. His grin suggests that he already knows the answer. His words are punctuated by the gentle thud of the passenger side door closing. 

George smiles to himself. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.” 

Chapter Text

When Dream had texted him earlier that day, George was asleep. 

By the time he saw the message, it was 11 AM on a Sunday morning, and Dream was panic-spamming his iMessage for help on his coding project that was due tomorrow morning. 

George had sighed, but he had offered to help, so he texted back regardless of the wisps of sleep still lingering at the edges of his consciousness. 

Unfortunately, Dream had needed serious assistance, and that’s how George finds himself standing outside of a nice suburban house, laptop in hand, at 11:45 on a Sunday morning. 

After he knocks, he only has to wait a few moments before he hears rhythmic thudding from behind the door, feet padding heavily on carpeted floors, and the door opens in his face with a whoosh of air. 

He looks up at Dream in the doorway, neutral brown eyes meeting frantic green ones. Dream ushers him into the house, but he doesn’t give George a moment to look around or observe before he’s dragging him upstairs by the wrist. 

“Wh- Dream,” George sputters, tripping on the bottom step and landing with a thud vertically on the stairs. 

“ Shit, I’m so sorry,” Dream says, leaning over George in concern. “Are you okay?” 

George groans. “Yeah, it’s carpet, don’t worry. But what’s the rush? Like, I know it’s due tomorrow, but how much have you finished?”

Dream looks away, and that can’t be a good sign. 

“Dream,” George warns, and it sounds like he’s scolding a child, or even a puppy. 

“The first part,” Dream says quietly, not meeting his eyes. George is sure he’s playing it up for sympathy, but he’d be lying if he says it wasn’t working. 

He sighs. “Alright, then. Let’s go.” He stands up, brushing off his pants, before following Dream (more slowly, this time) up the stairs. 

The rest of the morning passes by in a blur. Dream’s project wasn’t too complicated, at least for him, but it was time-consuming. Every time he glanced at the clock in the bottom corner of his computer screen, another half hour had passed by. 

He doesn’t really mind too much, spending hours of his weekend helping a friend with a project for a class that he isn’t even taking. That’s a fact that surprises even himself.

Maybe, though, it comes from the fact that they’re sitting far too close for far too long. Their legs are constantly pressed together as they sit side by side in front of their computers. When George points at something on Dream’s screen, sometimes his hand will brush the other’s on his keyboard as he draws it away. 

Sometimes, when Dream leans in to get a closer look at an example on George’s screen, his face is probably closer than it should be to George’s, and he swears that Dream could hear his heart pounding. 

When they finally finish, Dream wraps him in an impulsive hug, and George is frozen at the sensation of it. 

When Dream waves him off with a warm and cheerful “goodbye!” from the doorway, George laughs. 

When Dream makes a heart with two fingers, shouting “thank you again!” from across the street, George lets himself mirror the action. 

When he shuts the door and George turns away, he wills the heat on his cheeks to die down. 

-

He puts a hand over his face to cover his blush as he flops down on his bed. 

Even though he’s alone in his room, he still feels like he needs to hide it, in some way: he doesn’t want to let even himself admit it, but in all honesty, it had taken him long enough.

He’s dwelled on today’s events for far too long already, overanalyzed every accidental touch and electric air between them as they sat too close together. 

He wonders what it would be like to have that, but for real. 

He is George, and Dream is Dream. 

And George is only human. 

So maybe, just maybe, if he has a little bit of a crush, he thinks that it will be alright. 

Chapter Text

The third time Dream asks him if they want to practice, it sounds like less of a request. 

Sure, George has been improving, but he’s nowhere near perfect; with their competition in a week, and more disappointed shouting from their director every day, Dream had decided to take action. 

So when the final school bell rings on a Thursday afternoon, and George nearly runs into another, taller human when he’s walking out of class, he isn’t even surprised. 

“Oh, Dream,” he says, looking up. “What are you doing here?”

“We have to get to the stadium,” he says, which clears up nothing. George nods and pretends he understands. 

“Okay. Why?” He asks as they start walking. He has to jog occasionally to keep up with Dream, who’s weaving through the crowd with a purpose. Curse his short legs. 

“The football team-” He fake gags, earning a snort out of George- “is practicing in, like, half an hour. So if we go fast we can make the most out of the time that we have,” Dream says over his shoulder. George thinks that it’s kind of a waste. 

“Okay,” he replies anyway. He isn’t in any position to complain. 

They walk in comfortable silence to the football field, shrugging their way through the crowd of teenagers with relative ease. The turf of the field sinks familiarly under George’s feet as they make their way to the 50-yard line, dropping their bags nearby. 

“Okay!” Dream says assertively, clapping his hands. “I’m just gonna call out commands, and you can do them. Sounds good?” George nods in response. 

The session proceeds as per usual, with very little small talk between phrases as Dream’s inner drum major starts to show and he’s stating commands left and right. It’s all fairly simple, though; everything like this had been taught at band camp during the summer, and with the whole season to practice, George thinks he’d gotten pretty good at it. 

And then he hears a disappointed tut from his left as Dream clicks his tongue, followed by two footsteps crunching on the field. 

“It’s parade rest, George. Come on, this one’s easy,” he teases. George rolls his eyes, turning to look at him. 

“Pray tell, what do you think I’m doing wrong?” He asks, tone mocking and lighthearted all at once. 

Dream narrows his eyes. “Well, first of all, don’t move. That’s kind of the whole point,” he snaps, raising a hand to flick George’s cheek. 

“Ow,” George mutters. Dream snorts out a laugh. 

“Also…” he trails off, and George’s eyes follow his figure as he walks in front slowly to George’s right side. The shorter feels his heartbeat thumping rhythmically in his chest, louder than all his thoughts, as Dream’s eyes rake over him. His distracted state is interrupted by a pressure on his foot. 

“Put your feet further apart. Shoulder width,” Dream instructs. He’s nudging the inside of George’s right foot with one of his own, gently pushing them apart, and George tries his hardest not to sputter and flush as he slides his foot to the side on his own. 

Dream makes a noise of approval. “Good. Next, horns up.” 

George shifts his weight to the center, clasping his hands together and drawing them up in front of his face. It’s quiet, for a moment, as Dream presumably examines his stance from somewhere out the side of his vision. 

Then, there’s a faint pressure on his lower back, feather-light and fleeting, and he jumps. At his reaction, Dream pulls away. 

“Sorry,” he says shortly. 

“No! No, it’s fine,” George says hurriedly, albeit a little breathless. “I was just startled. That’s all.” 

A beat. The hand on his back returns, tentatively, like he could shatter at any moment. 

“Try to pull your shoulders back a little bit,” Dream says in a hushed tone while pushing gently on his back. His hand is a grounding presence amongst the cacophony of George’s thoughts, a lifeline against the tumultuous sea of his brain. 

He thinks his heart might be beating loud enough for the both of them to hear it. 

“Yeah, good,” Dream affirms. George allows himself a shaky exhale. 

“Alright. Uh, we don’t have much more time, so maybe just a few more?” Dream suggests, and the remaining few moments are normal. The pounding of his heart slows, he shakes his head a few times, and everything is fine. 

That is, until Dream pulls the move that nearly knocks the air fully out of his lungs so he feels like he’s drowning, drowning in the fluttering swirl in his chest and all of the saccharine sweet. 

“Head to the box, remember? You have to look confident,” he says, and George is just about to correct it himself when there’s a finger lifting his chin up, tilting his head toward the visitor’s stands. 

Coincidentally, it also puts him in a position so that he’s looking up into gold-green eyes, and a freckled face with a shark-toothed grin. 

George’s eyes widen as Dream drops his hand, leaving him with just a flicker of air and the ghost of feeling. They stand still, for just a moment longer, and Dream’s smirk fades into something softer, more private and affectionate and George is falling, falling, falling , through the warm turf beneath his feet and into a dazed state of wonder. 

He doesn’t look away, though, and George thinks that with the look of pride and affection that shines on Dream’s face, he might just be falling a little bit in love. 

He clears his throat. Dream laughs, taking a step to the side and breaking the gaze. 

“I think the football team is gonna come yell at us if we don’t leave soon,” he says nonchalantly, as if he doesn’t know just what he was doing. 

“Right,” George says dazedly. He blinks to try to clear his head, but his thoughts are filled with fleeting memories and a single, warm image of Dream staring right back at him. 

“Come on,” Dream says, slinging his bag over his left shoulder and offering George’s up to him. Then, after a beat: “Good work today. You’re improving. A lot.”

And George can’t help the way pink dusts his cheeks at the praise, after weeks of practice and time spent together. 

Because really, it’s Dream , so how could he not be a little bit endeared?

Chapter Text

The fourth time Dream asks him to practice -

Well, actually.

He doesn’t.

The fourth time they practice together, it’s spontaneous, a spur-of-the-moment decision made at ten P.M. after a few hours of hanging out as friends.

George thinks he might be drunk on laughter, on light, affectionate touches and not-so-subtle glances flashed from the corner of his eye. That’s the only explanation, he reasons, for why he’s letting Dream drag him all the way to the school from his house, late on a Wednesday night, just so they can sneak onto the football field for marching band practice , of all things.

“I think this is breaking and entering,” he mentions offhandedly as Dream tries at the handle of the stadium gate. “You know, like a crime. I’m pretty sure the school can arrest you for that.” Dream stares back at him, grinning innocently. 

“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” he says with a sly smirk. George rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the way his heart thunders in his ears with excitement. He’s never been a spontaneous person, so all of this - the trespassing, the quick decisions, the potential law-breaking - is new. 

It isn’t an unwelcome change, though, as long as Dream is there.

The lock on the gate jingles as it collides with the chain-link metal after Dream lets it fall.

“Locked,” he says by way of explanation. 

“Yeah, obviously. What, did you think they would just leave it open for anyone?” George snorts. Dream reaches over and ruffles his hair in admonishment. 

“I was just testing our options,” he chides, teasing smile on his face. 

“Okay, well, what’s the next option?” George asks, squinting at him. He sighs, stepping back and surveying the area. The entire field is surrounded by a tall fence, except where the bleachers are. Lamps are scattered around the area outside, speckling the ground with patches of gold amidst the shadows. 

George watches Dream’s eyes as they scan their surroundings, finally settling on the away bleachers to their left. 

“Do you think you can climb that if I boost you up?”

George sighs lightly. “This does not seem like a good idea.”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Dream asks again, grin spreading.

A beat. “I mean. Yeah, probably. If I go on the side.”

Their stadium isn’t nice , by any definition. Sure, the field is turf and painted cleanly, but the bleachers are maybe 10 rows high. Nothing compared to some of the other nearby schools. 

“Great!” Dream says, clapping his hands with finality. “Let’s go.” 

And then he takes off running.

“Wh- Dream !” George laughs, shouting his name after him with no regard to the time of night. He sprints to catch up, and as he pulls up next to Dream, he meets a fiercely competitive gaze and a confident smirk. 

“Catch me if you can,” Dream says. The words are barely audible over the pounding of two pairs of shoes on the concrete, but it has George laughing in disbelief as he runs. 

By the time he makes it to the side of the bleachers, Dream is already waiting for him, out of breath and eyes sparkling.

“Idiot. We literally could have walked,” he says, leaning down and putting his hands on his knees. Dream just laughs softly from somewhere above him. 

The following few minutes are a flurry of giggles and disorienting positions as they try to figure out the best way to essentially break into their school. 

“Lace your hands together like cheerleaders do,” George suggests through his laughter. “Then I’ll step on them and you can lift me.” 

They follow the plan, and George stretches his arms up to the railing on the side of the bleachers and grabs it. Through a combination of his own arm strength and Dream pushing up his foot, he’s able to slide over the top of the railing and onto the metal bleachers. 

He looks down, only about eight feet, to where Dream is standing helplessly and staring up at him.

“Wait,” George says, but he doesn’t finish before they’re both breaking down into laughter again. 

“Here, lean over the edge and grab my hand,” Dream says, standing on his tiptoes and reaching into the air. George hisses as they make contact. 

“Your hands are so cold,” he complains, and Dream scoffs. 

“Shut up. Don’t fall,” he says, and that’s the only warning George gets before he’s being tugged downwards as Dream jumps. 

“Dude,” he says, reaching down with his other hand so they’re both holding Dream, who just laughs. 

“Hurry! Pull me up, like, one more foot.” 

George groans. “You’re so annoying. You should have gone up first, it would be easier to pull me.”

“George!” He whines, laughing. 

Eventually, George brings him high enough that he can grab the floor of the bleachers with his free hand and drag himself the rest of the way. 

They sit quietly for a moment, both breathing hard, before Dream stands up and brushes off his pants. Silently, he offers a hand to George, who takes it to stand up. Dream doesn’t let go, tugging him lightly down the stadium steps and onto the field. 

“Finally,” George says. 

“It’s not about the destination, Georgie,” Dream says in response. He’s smiling slightly, not looking at George, who huffs in response. 

All plans for marching practice fly out the window as soon as they make it onto the football field, and George gets lost in Dream’s excited chatter about everything in the world. This is how it always is, between them, and he consistently finds himself content to listen to the way Dream’s voice washes over the syllables falling out of his mouth as he gushes over anything, chiming in occasionally whenever the time calls. 

They walk around while they talk, shoes squishing in the turf, and soon enough they’re laying on their backs in the middle of the field, staring up at the stadium lights above them. 

“Remember when we said we were gonna practice for marching band,” George whispers. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering, but it seems fitting to break the comfortable silence that had fallen over them.

Dream chuckles in response. “We still could, if you want.”

“Why not,” he says, standing up. 

The next few minutes pass as normal. He’s gotten used to Dream’s critical stare as he calls out commands, eyes raking over him for something to correct.

What he isn’t used to, though, is the way Dream’s eyes shine in the flourescence of the night on the field, gaze bathed in moonlight and something soft and directed purely towards him.

He swallows. 

“So?” he asks after the silence has lingered for too long. He’s standing at attention position, and Dream is yet to correct him for anything. 

“Hm,” is all he says. 

“Hm?” 

“I mean, you look perfect. All your technique is great, so much better than when we started doing this. You know how to play, too…” he trails off on his feedback to watch George’s face.  His breath catches in his throat under the force of his stare. 

After a moment, he continues. “The only thing you’re missing is that air of confidence, y’know? It’s all about the presence. And you seem distracted.” 

George doesn’t know how to tell him, doesn’t know if he’ll tell him, that Dream is the reason he’s distracted. Dream and his low tone as he gently corrects George’s form. Dream and his feather-light touches that show he cares, lingering even after he leaves. 

Dream’s lovely, curious green eyes, and the weight of those eyes on him.

“I-“ he starts, but then Dream is leaning in and his words stutter alongside his heart. 

His eyes flutter shut, but he can still feel the other’s presence close in front of him. He opens them after it’s been a moment too long with no contact, to see bright green ones watching him carefully. 

“Can I?” Dream whispers, and he’s so close that George feels the shape of the words as they leave his lips with a puff of air. 

He swallows, and Dream must take his silence as a negative reaction because he leans back and no, that’s not what he wants at all, so George reaches forward and pulls him in and kisses him himself. 

It isn’t perfect, by all means, because it’s inexperienced and unexpected and their teeth might have knocked once or twice, but somehow, it’s everything that he’s ever wanted and more. 

As they pull back, Dream leans forward to rest his forehead against George’s own. 

When he opens his eyes again, he meets a familiar gaze, twinkling with open affection. The air between them is electric, sending sparks down George’s spine and stretching all the way out to where his hands link around the back of Dream’s neck. 

Tentatively, with all the weight of uncertainty and innocent hope, he smiles.

Chapter Text

Their first competition goes about as well as he could have hoped for. 

He finds himself consumed by nerves before it begins, shifting his weight between his feet as they stand near the end zone and wait for the group before them to finish performing. (He doesn’t really understand why all the band veterans are so adamant that they don’t watch, but he listens obediently and faces away from the field. It makes it more intimidating, though, that all he can hear is their music, and he doesn’t know what they’re going up against.) 

As they march onto the field, he thinks his heart might beat out of his chest with the amount of nerves bundled up inside it. The steady cadence of the drums echoes in his ears, and he focuses on the beat rather than the chatter of the crowd. 

And then the announcer is speaking over the PA system, introducing their school and their show, and then the drum major is stepping up on the podium and it’s starting and - 

Oh. 

He doesn’t know why he was so worried. 

As soon as the brass section plays the first note, he falls into the familiar rhythms and steps with ease. The stadium lights illuminate the field, the rays that catch on the silver of their shakos and plumes dancing across their performance. 

Everything that Dream had taught him had become muscle memory, and George thinks it's wonderful how he finally feels like a part of the group, moving in unison, in waves of silver and blue.

In perfect tandem, with all his friends, and an air of confidence to top it all off. He remembers that from Dream’s lessons, at the very least. 

-

“And in first place, with a score of 76.65…”

George doesn’t get the chance to hear the rest of the announcement, because as soon as the first syllable of their school name is mentioned, the bleachers around him burst into noise. He can distinguish Sapnap’s and Karl’s shouts above the rest, and he can see Quackity a few rows in front of him cheering and laughing with some of the members of his section. Before he knows it, he’s jumping up in his seat to join them, whooping and hollering and unable to wipe the massive grin off his face. 

When things calm after a few more moments and everyone sits back down, all wearing marching smiles, there’s a hand ruffling his hair, already mussed from wearing his shako. He turns and sees Dream, in the row behind him and a little to the left, pulling his hand back surreptitiously. 

He flashes a grin. Dream returns the action, and his eyes are shining with pride and a little bit of something more. 

His hand slides down to grasp George’s own, warm and grounding among the chaos of the rest of the band. 

(Crazy and chaotic as it may be, he decides that he wouldn’t trade it for the world.) 

George sighs contentedly. He squeezes Dream’s hand, smiles warmly at Karl and Quackity and Sapnap, and under the stadium lights, everything is perfect.